CHAPTER I.

THE IRIS.

[Illustration: PRESENTED To

C. Schuessele del. Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.]

[Illustration:

C. Schuessele del. Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.

LANDING OF WILLIAM PENN.]

[Illustration: The IRIS

Souvenir

C. Schuessele del. Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.]

THE IRIS:

An Illuminated Souvenir,

FOR

MDCCCLII.

EDITED BY

JOHN S. HART, LL. D.

PHILADELPHIA:

PUBLISHED BY LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.

SUCCESSORS TO GRIGG, ELLIOT & CO.

1852.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851,

BY LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of

Pennsylvania.

C. SHERMAN, PRINTER.

PREFACE.

Captain Eastman, of the United States Topographical Corps, having

been stationed for nine years on our northwestern frontier, among the

Indian tribes, at and around Fort Snelling, made a series of drawings

of some of the most striking and remarkable objects connected with the

Indian traditions. His accomplished lady, who was with him seven years

of this time, collected the traditions themselves, and wove them into

tales and poems that let us into the very heart of Indian life. The

whole of this valuable and original collection has been secured for the

Iris, and gives to the volume for 1852 its distinguishing feature. To

make the illustrations conform more to the character of the subjects,

they have all been printed in colours, in the style now so deservedly

popular. Last year the publishers gave only four of these gorgeous

illuminated pages. The present volume contains no less than twelve, all

from original designs, and all printed in ten different colours. The

happy blending of the colours in these pictures, the disposition of the

light and shade, and the skill with which they are printed, give them

the appearance of paintings rather than of prints. Such a collection

of gems of art in one volume, could not be made without a heavy

expense. But the publishers were desirous of making the Iris, as to the

splendour of its appearance, not unworthy of the celestial visitant

from which it has been named, and of the very marked favour with which

its predecessor of the last season was received.

The literary matter, like that of the former volume, is entirely

original, and with the exception of the beautiful poem by Miss Bremer,

entirely American, both as to subjects and authorship. Though there are

various shades of thought and feeling in these effusions of genius,

each subject being coloured according to the mental constitution of the

writer, yet, as in the divine bow of promise, all colours are blended

and harmonized in the one aim to place before the beholder a new token

of hope and gladness.

[Illustration: ILLUSTRATIONS

C. Schuessele del. Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.]

CONTENTS.

SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGE

PROEM. SARAH ROBERTS. 19

THE LANDING OF WILLIAM PENN. THE EDITOR. 21

DIFFERENT IMPRESSIONS. FREDRIKA BREMER. 26

WE-HAR-KA, OR THE RIVAL CLANS. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 29

THE LAUGHING WATERS. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 69

O-KO-PEE, A HUNTER OF THE SIOUX. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 72

CHEQUERED CLOUD, THE AGED SIOUX WOMAN. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 80

FIRE-FACE. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 84

DEATH-SONG OF AN INDIAN PRISONER. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 91

THE FALSE ALARM. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 95

INDIAN COURTSHIP. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 101

THE SACRIFICE. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 104

AN INDIAN LULLABY. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 113

SOUNDING WIND, THE CHIPPEWAY BRAVE. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 117

AN INDIAN BALLAD. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 124

OLD JOHN, THE MEDICINE-MAN. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 127

A REMONSTRANCE. ELIZA L. SPROAT. 136

A FINE ART DISREGARDED. ELIZABETH WETHERELL. 139

MISSION CHURCH OF SAN JOSÉ. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 151

HAWKING. EDITH MAY. 155

HILLSIDE COTTAGE. MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR. 156

SUNSET ON THE DELAWARE. J. I. PEASE. 177

FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY. S. A. H. 178

CASTLE-BUILDING. JAMES T. MITCHELL. 180

THE LOVER'S LEAP, OR WENONA'S ROCK. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 185

THE INDIAN MOTHER. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 191

THE WOOD SPIRITS AND THE MAIDEN. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 194

ALICE HILL. MRS. M. E. W. ALEXANDER. 196

DR. VANDORSEN AND THE YOUNG WIDOW. ANN E. PORTER. 206

A CENOTAPH. A BALLAD OF NATHAN HALE. ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH. 225

THE DREAMER. MARY E. HEWITT. 244

WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 245

THE RAIN-DROP. MISS E. W. BARNES. 276

A PLEA FOR A CHOICE PICTURE. MISS L. S. HALL. 279

LOST AND WON. CAROLINE EUSTIS. 281

THE MISTRUSTED GUIDE. A WESTERN MISSIONARY. 283

A NIGHT IN NAZARETH. MARY YOUNG. 290

TEARS. CHARLES D. GARDETTE, M.D. 293

INCONSTANCY. E. M. 295

CROSSING THE TIDE. MISS PHŒBE CAREY. 297

THE IRIS.

PROEM.

BY SARAH ROBERTS.

They have christened me Iris; and why? oh, why?

Because, like the rainbow so bright,

I bring my own welcome, and tell my own tale,

And am hailed by all hearts with delight:

And this, this is why

I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.

The rainbow, it cometh 'mid sunlight and tears,--

The tears it soon chaseth away;

I banish all sighs for the year that is passed,

And the future in sunlight array:

And this, this is why

I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.

The rainbow, it telleth of promise and love,

Of hope, with its gay, golden wing;

It whispers of peacefulness, purity, heaven,--

Of these lofty themes do I sing:

And this, this is why

I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.

The rainbow is painted in colours most fair,

By the hand of the Father of love;

So the genius and talent my pages bespeak,

Are inspired by the Great Mind above:

And this, this is why

I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.

THE LANDING OF WILLIAM PENN.

BY THE EDITOR.

(See the Frontispiece.)

The first landing of William Penn at Newcastle, in 1682, is one

of those striking historical events that are peculiarly suited

for pictorial illustration. The late Mr. Duponceau, in one of his

discourses, first suggested the idea of making it the subject of an

historical painting. This idea is seized with avidity by Mr. Dixon, the

most recent biographer of the great Quaker, and the circumstances of

the landing are given accordingly, with much minuteness. The artist who

designed the picture that forms the frontispiece to the present volume

has had this description in view. I cannot do better, therefore, than

to quote the words of Mr. Dixon as the best possible commentary upon

the picture.

"On the 27th of October, nine weeks after the departure from Deal, the

_Welcome_ moored off Newcastle, in the territories lately ceded by the

Duke of York, and William Penn first set foot in the New World.[1] His

landing made a general holiday in the town; young and old, Welsh,

Dutch, English, Swedes, and Germans, crowded down to the landing-place,

each eager to catch a glimpse of the great man who had come amongst

them, less as their lord and governor than as their friend. In the

centre of the foreground, only distinguished from the few companions

of his voyage who have yet landed, by the nobleness of his mien, and a

light blue silken sash tied round his waist, stands William Penn; erect

in stature, every motion indicating courtly grace, his countenance

lighted up with hope and honest pride,--in every limb and feature

the expression of a serene and manly beauty.[2] The young officer

before him, dressed in the gay costume of the English service, is his

lieutenant, Markham, come to welcome his relative to the new land, and

to give an account of his own stewardship. On the right stand the chief

settlers of the district, arrayed in their national costumes, the light

hair and quick eye of the Swede finding a good foil in the stolid look

of the heavy Dutchman, who doffs his cap, but doubts whether he shall

take the pipe out of his mouth even to say welcome to the new governor.

A little apart, as if studying with the intense eagerness of Indian

skill the physiognomy of the ruler who has come with his children to

occupy their hunting-grounds, stands the wise and noble leader of the

Red Men, Taminent, and a party of the Lenni Lenapé in their picturesque

paints and costume. Behind the central figure are grouped the principal

companions of his voyage; and on the dancing waters of the Delaware

rides the stately ship, while between her and the shore a multitude of

light canoes dart to and fro, bringing the passengers and merchandise

to land. Part of the background shows an irregular line of streets and

houses, the latter with the pointed roofs and fantastic gables which

still delight the artist's eye in the streets of Leyden or Rotterdam;

and further on the view is lost in one of those grand old pine and

cedar forests which belong essentially to an American scene."

I take much pleasure in quoting also, in this connexion, another scene

of somewhat similar character, though greatly misrepresented in the

ordinary pictures of it heretofore given. Penn's personal appearance

has been even more misapprehended than his character. He was, indeed,

one of the most handsome men of his age, and at the time of his first

coming to America he was in the very prime of life. West makes him an

ugly, fat old fellow, in a costume half a century out of date. So says

Mr. Dixon. The passage referred to, and about to be quoted, is from a

description of the celebrated Treaty with the Indians at Shackamaxon.

"This conference has become one of the most striking scenes in history.

Artists have painted, poets have sung, philosophers have applauded

it; but it is nevertheless clear, that in words and colours it has

been equally and generally misrepresented, because painters, poets,

and historians have chosen to draw on their own imaginations for the

features of a scene, every marking line of which they might have

recovered from authentic sources.

"The great outlines of nature are easily obtained. There, the dense

masses of cedar, pine, and chestnut, stretching far away into the

interior of the land; here, the noble river rolling its waters down

to the Atlantic Ocean; along its surface rose the purple smoke of the

settlers' homestead; on the opposite shores lay the fertile and settled

country of New Jersey. Here stood the gigantic elm which was to become

immortal from that day forward,--and there lay the verdant council

chamber formed by nature on the surface of the soil. In the centre

stood William Penn, in costume undistinguished from the surrounding

group, save by the silken sash. His costume was simple, but not

pedantic or ungainly: an outer coat, reaching to the knees, and covered

with buttons, a vest of other materials, but equally ample, trousers

extremely full, slashed at the sides, and tied with strings or ribbons,

a profusion of shirt sleeves and ruffles, with a hat of the cavalier

shape (wanting only the feather), from beneath the brim of which

escaped the curls of a new peruke, were the chief and not ungraceful

ingredients.[3] At his right hand stood Colonel Markham, who had met

the Indians in council more than once on that identical spot, and was

regarded by them as a firm and faithful friend; on his left Pearson,

the intrepid companion of his voyage; and near his person, but a little

backward, a band of his most attached adherents. When the Indians

approached in their old forest costume, their bright feathers sparkling

in the sun, and their bodies painted in the most gorgeous manner, the

governor received them with the easy dignity of one accustomed to mix

with European courts. As soon as the reception was over, the sachems

retired to a short distance, and after a brief consultation among

themselves, Taminent, the chief sachem or king, a man whose virtues

are still remembered by the sons of the forest, advanced again a few

paces, and put upon his own head a chaplet, into which was twisted a

small horn: this chaplet was his symbol of power; and in the customs of

the Lenni Lenapé, whenever the chief placed it upon his brows the spot

became at once sacred, and the person of every one present inviolable.

The venerable Indian king then seated himself on the ground, with the

older sachems on his right and left, the middle-aged warriors ranged

themselves in the form of a crescent or half-moon round them, and the

younger men formed a third and outer semicircle. All being seated in

this striking and picturesque order, the old monarch announced to the

governor that the natives were prepared to hear and consider his words.

Penn then rose to address them, his countenance beaming with all the

pride of manhood. He was at this time thirty-eight years old; light and

graceful in form; the handsomest, best-looking, most lively gentleman

she had ever seen, wrote a lady who was an eyewitness of the ceremony."

[Footnote 1: "Watson, 16; Day, 299. The landing of Penn in America

is commemorated on the 24th of October, that being the date given by

Clarkson; but the diligent antiquary, Mr. J. F. Watson, has found in

the records of Newcastle the original entry of his arrival."]

[Footnote 2: "The portrait by West is utterly spurious and unlike.

Granville Penn, MSS."]

[Footnote 3: "Penn. Hist. Soc. Mem., iii. part ii. 76."]

DIFFERENT IMPRESSIONS.

BY FREDRIKA BREMER.

I was in company

With men and women,

And heard small talk

Of little things,

Of poor pursuits

And narrow views

Of narrow minds.

I rushed out

To breathe more freely,

To look on nature.

The evening star

Rose grave and bright,

The western sky

Was warm with light,

And the young moon

Shone softly down

Among the shadows

Of the town,

Where whispering trees

And fragrant flowers

Stood hushed in silent,

Balmy bowers.

All was romance,

All loveliness,

Wrapped in a trance

Of mystic bliss.

I looked on

In bitterness,

And sighed and asked,

Why the great Lord

Made so rich beauty

For such a race

Of little men?

I was in company

With men and women,

Heard noble talk

Of noble things,

Of noble doings,

And manly suffering

And man's heart beating

For all mankind.

The evening star

Seemed now less bright,

The western sky

Of paler light,

All nature's beauty

And romance,

So lovely

To gaze upon,

Retired at once,

A shadow but to that of man!

[Illustration:

C. Schuessele del. Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.

Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.

WE-HAR-KA.]

WE-HAR-KA,

OR, THE RIVAL CLANS.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

The Indian settlement, the opening scene of our story, presented a

different appearance from what we call an Indian village at the present

day. The lodges were far more numerous, and the Indians were not

drooping about, without energy, and apparently without occupation. The

long line of hills did not echo the revels of the drunkard, nor were

the faces of the people marked with anxiety and care. The untaught and

untamed dispositions of the red men were as yet unaffected by the evil

influences of the degenerate white man.

The Sioux[4] were in their summer-houses, and the village stretched

along the bank of the river for a quarter of a mile. It reached back,

too, to the foot of a high hill, and some of the lodges were shaded by

the overhanging branches of the elm and maple. Above the homes of the

living might be seen the burial-place of the dead; for, on the summit

of the hill the enveloped forms of the departed were receiving the last

red beams of the retiring sun, whose rising and repose were now for

ever unnoticed by them.

The long, warm day was closing in, and the Indians were enjoying

themselves in the cool breezes that were stirring the waves of the

river and the wild flowers that swept over its banks. They were

collected in groups in every direction, but the largest party might be

found surrounding a mat, on which was seated the old war-chief of the

band, who had long dragged a tedious existence, a care to others and

a burden to himself. The mat was placed near the wigwam, so that the

sides of the wigwam supported the back of the aged and infirm warrior.

His hair was cut straight over his forehead, but behind it hung in long

locks over his neck.

Warm as was the season, the buffalo robe was wrapped around him, the

fur side next to him, while on the outside, in Indian hieroglyphics,

might be read many an event of his life. Around the edge of the robe

was a row of hands painted in different colours, representing the

number of enemies he had killed in battle. In the centre of the robe

were drawn the sun and morning star, objects of worship among the

Sioux, and placed on the robe as a remedy for a severe sickness which

once prostrated his vital powers, but was conquered by the efficacious

charm contained in the representation. Ornaments of different kinds

adorned his person; but his limbs were shrunken to the bone with age,

and the time had long since come to him when even the grasshopper was

a burden.

The features of the Sioux were still expressive, though the eyes

were closed and the lips thin and compressed; he was encircled with

a dignity, which, in all ages and climes, attaches itself to an

honourable old age.

Close by his side, and contrasting strongly with the war-chief, was one

of his nearest relations. She was his granddaughter, the orphan girl of

his favourite son. She was at once his companion, attendant, and idol.

They were never separated, that old man and young girl; for a long time

he had been fed by her hands, and now he never saw the light of the sun

he worshipped except when she raised and held open the eyelids which

weakness had closed over his eyes. She had just assisted his tottering

steps, and seated him on the mat, where he might enjoy the pleasant

evening-time and the society of those who delighted in the strange

stories his memory called up, or who were willing to receive the advice

which the aged are ever privileged to pour into the hearts of the young.

The evening meal of the warrior had been a light one, for We-har-ka

still held in her small and beautiful hand a bark dish, which contained

venison cut up in small pieces, occasionally pressing him to eat again.

It was evident there was something unusual agitating his thoughts, for

he impatiently put aside the hand that fed him, and taking his pipe,

the handle of which was elaborately adorned, he held it to have it

lighted, then dreamily and quietly placed it in his mouth.

He had long been an object of reverence to his people; though

superseded as a warrior and a leader, yet his influence was still

acknowledged in the band which he had so long controlled. He had kept

this alive in a great measure by the oft-repeated stories of his

achievements, and above all, by the many personal encounters he had

had, not only with his enemies, but with the gods, the objects of their

devotion and fear.

The pipe was soon laid aside, and his low and murmuring words could not

be understood by the group, that, attracted by the unusual excitement

that showed itself in the war-chief's manner, had pressed near him.

After a short communing with himself he placed his hand upon the head

of the girl, who was watching every change in his expressive face. "My

daughter," he said, "you will not be alone--the Eagle Eye will not

again see the form of his warrior son: he would have charged him to

care for his sister, even as the small birds watch and guard around the

home of the forest god.

"The children of the Great Spirit must submit to his will. My heart

would laugh could I again see the tall form of my grandson. I would see

once more the fleetness of his step and the strength of his arm; but

it is not to be. Before he shall return, crying, 'It is for my father,

the scalp of his enemy,' I shall be roaming over the hunting-grounds of

the Great Spirit. Do not weep, my daughter; you will be happy in your

husband's wigwam, and you will tell your children how the Eagle Eye

loved you, even till his feet started on the warrior's journey.

"Your brother will return," he continued, "and it is for him that I lay

aside the pipe, which I shall never smoke again; the drum that I have

used since I have been a medicine-man, I wish laid near my side when I

shall be dead, and wrapped in the buffalo robe which will cover me.

"You, my braves, shall know whence I obtained this drum. It has often

brought back life to the dying man, and its sound has secured us

success in battle. I have often told you that I had seen the God of the

Great Deep in my dreams, and from him I obtained power to strike terror

to the hearts of my enemies. Who has shouted the death-cry oftener

than I? Look at the feathers[5] of honour in my head! What enemy ever

heard the name of Eagle Eye without trembling? But I, terrible as I

have been to my enemies, must grow weak like a woman, and die like a

child. The waters of the rivers rush on; you may hear them and trace

their way, but soon they join the waves of the great deep, and we see

them no more--so I am about to join the company in the house of the

Great Spirit, and when your children say, 'Where is Eagle Eye?' you may

answer, 'The Great Spirit has called him, we cannot go where he is.'

"It was from Unk-ta-he, the god of the great deep, that I received that

drum. Before I was born of woman I lived in the dark waters. Unk-ta-he

rose up with his terrible eyes, and took me to his home. I lived with

him and the other gods of the sea. I cannot to you all repeat the

lessons of wisdom he has taught me; it is a part of the great medicine

words that women should never hear.

"There, in the home of the god of the sea, I saw many wonders--the

large doors through which the water gods passed when they visited the

earth, the giant trees lying in the water higher than our mountains.

They had lightning too, the weapons of the thunder birds;[6] when the

winds arose, and the sea waved, then did Unk-ta-he hurl the streaked

fire to the earth through the waters.

"The god of the great deep gave me this drum, and I wish it buried with

me; he told me when I struck the drum my will should be obeyed, and it

has been so.

"When my son returns, tell him to let his name be terrible like his

grandfather's. Tell him that my arm was like a child's because of the

winters I had seen, but that he must revenge his brother's death; then

will he be like the brave men who have gone before him, and his deeds

will be remembered as long as the Dacotas hate their enemies. The

shadows grow deeper on the hills, and the long night will soon rest

upon the head of the war-chief. I am old, yet my death-song shall call

back the spirits of the dead. Where are the Chippeways, my enemies? See

their red scalps scorching in the sun! I am a great warrior; tell me,

where is the enemy who fears me not!"

While the voice of the old man now rose with the excitement that was

influencing, now fell with the exhaustion, which brought big drops of

perspiration on his face, the Indians were collecting in a crowd around

him.

It was, indeed, a glorious evening for the war-chief to die. The

horizon was a mass of crimson clouds, their gorgeous tints were

reflected on the river; the rocky bluffs rose up like castle walls

around the village, while on the opposite shore the deer were parting

the foliage with their graceful heads and drinking from the low banks.

We-har-ka wiped the forehead and brow of her grandfather. There was

something of more than ordinary interest about the appearance of this

young person: her features were regularly formed, their expression

mild; her figure light and yielding as a young tree; her hair was

neatly parted and gathered in small braids over her neck; her dress

well calculated to display the grace of her figure; a heavy necklace of

wampum[7] covered her throat and neck, and on her bosom was suspended

the holy cross!

Her complexion was lighter than usual for an Indian girl, owing to the

confinement occasioned by the charge of her infirm relative; a subdued

melancholy pervaded her features, and even the tone of her voice.

There was a pause, for the warrior slept a few moments, and again

his voice was heard. Death was making him mindful of the glorious

achievements of his life. Again he was brandishing his tomahawk

in circles round the head of his fallen foe; again he taunted his

prisoner, whose life he had spared that he might enjoy his sufferings

under the torment; again, with a voice as strong as in early manhood,

he shouted the death-cry--it was his own, for not another sound, not

even a sigh escaped him.

* * * * *

Gently they moved him into the wigwam. We-har-ka stood by his head.

There was no loud wailing, for he had outlived almost all who were

bound to him by near ties.

Those who stood around heaped their most cherished possessions on his

feet: the knife, the pipe, and the robe were freely and affectionately

offered to the dead.

We-har-ka gazed earnestly upon him: large tears fell on her bosom and

on the old man's brow. Some one drew near and respectfully covered his

venerable face: the drum was placed, as he requested, at his side.

One of the men said, "Eagle Eye takes proud steps as he travels towards

the land of souls. His heart has long been where warriors chase the

buffalo on the prairies of the Great Spirit." We-har-ka drew from her

belt her knife, and cut long, deep gashes on her round arms; then, not

heeding the wounds,[8] she severed the braids of her glossy hair, and

cutting them off with the knife, red with her own blood, she threw them

at her feet.

How did the holy cross find its way to the wilds of a new country?

A savage, yet powerful nation, idolaters at heart and in practice,

bending to the sun, the forests, and the sea--how was it that the sign

of the disciple of Jesus lay glittering on the bosom of one of the

women of this heathen race?

Did the Christian hymn of praise ever rise with the soft and silvery

vapours of morning to the heavens? Had the low and earnest Christian's

prayer ever sounded among the bluffs that towered and the islands that

slept? Never, and yet the emblem of their faith was there.

But, to what region did not the Jesuit penetrate? Hardly were the

resources of our country discovered, before they were upon its shores.

They were there, with their promises and penances, their soft words and

their Latin prayers, with purposes not to be subdued in accomplishing

the mission for which they were sent. Was it a mission of faith, or

of gain? Was it to extend the hopes and triumphs of the cross, or to

aggrandize a Society always overflowing with means and with power?

Witness the result.

Yet they poured like rain into the rich and beautiful country of

Acadie.[9] See them passing through forests where the dark trees bent

to and fro "like giants possessing fearful secrets," enduring hunger,

privation, and fatigue. See them again in their frail barks bounding

over the angry waters of Huron, riding upon its mountain waves, and

often cast upon its inhospitable rocks.

Follow them as they tread the paths where the moccasin-step alone had

ever been heard, regardless of danger and of death, planting the cross

even in the midst of a Dacota village. Could this be for aught save the

love of the Saviour? Those who know the history of the Society founded

by Loyola, best can tell.

Among the ranks of the Jesuit were found the Christian and the martyr,

as, among the priesthood of Rome, in her darkest days, were here and

there those whose robes have, no doubt, been washed in the blood of the

Lamb.

Those hearts that were really touched with the truth divine, drew

nearer to the path of duty by the solemn spectacle of man, standing on

the earth, gay and beautiful as if light had just been created, yet not

even knowing of the existence of his great Creator.

Not far from the wigwam of the dead chief, Father Blanc knelt before

the altar which he had erected. He wore the black robe of his order,

and as he knelt, the strange words he uttered sounded stranger still

here. On the altar were the crucifix and many of the usual ornaments

carried by the wandering Romish priests.

Flowers too were strewn on the altar, flowers large and beautiful, such

as he had never seen even in _la belle France_. He chaunted the vespers

alone, and had but just risen from his devotions when the dying cry of

the war-chief rung through the village.

The priest walked slowly to the scene of death. Why was he not

there before with the cross and the holy oil? Ah! the war-chief

was no subject for the Jesuit faith--he had worshipped too long

Wakinyan-Unk-ta-he to listen to the words of the black robe. There were

no baptisms, no chauntings of the mass here; there was no interest at

stake to induce the haughty Sioux to the necessity of yielding up his

household gods. They were not a weaker party warring with the French,

and obliged from motives of policy to taste the consecrated wafer.

Contrasted with the Indian's ignorance was his native dignity. When

Father Blanc told them there was but one religion and that was the

Roman Catholic, and that the time would come when all would be subject

to the man who was in God's place upon the earth, who lived at Rome,

then would the Sioux laugh, and say, "As long as the sun shines, the

Dacotas will keep the medicine feast."

In vain were the pictured prayer-book and the holy relics exhibited.

What were they to the tracks of Haokah the giant, or the gods' house,

under the hill which reared itself even to the clouds, under which the

gods rested themselves from their battles.

The priest wept when he thought of the useless sacrifice he had made:

he could not even gain the love of the strange beings for whose sake he

had endured so much. They were not like the Abnakis, "those men of the

east," who so loved and obeyed the fathers who sojourned among them.

And the useless life he was leading, how long might it last?

Restrained, as the Sioux were, only by the laws of hospitality and the

promise they had made to the Indians who conducted him hither, how soon

might these influences cease to affect them?

We-har-ka alone spoke gently and kindly to him. She knew that his

heart, like hers, vibrated beneath a load of care; she found too a

strange interest in his stories,--the woman's love of the marvellous

was roused; the miracles of the saints delighted her as did the feats

of the gods.

But only so far was she a Christian; though she wore a gift from the

Jesuit, the consecrated sign. Perhaps in the after accounts of his

converts she was reckoned among them. We are told by one of the Jesuit

fathers of the true conversion and Christian death of a Canada Indian.

"While I related to him," said he, "the scene of the crucifixion, 'Oh!

that I had been there,' exclaimed the Indian, 'I would have brought

away the scalps of those Jews.'"

The war-chief was arrayed in his choicest clothing; and, but for

the silence in the wigwam, and the desolate appearance of the young

person who was alone with her dead, one would have supposed that he

slept as usual. The charms were still to be left about his person

for protection. The body was wrapped in skins: they were as yet laid

but loosely about him, ready for their final arrangement, when, with

the face towards the rising sun, the warrior should be laid upon the

scaffolding, to enjoy undisturbed repose.

But a few hours had elapsed since he sat and talked among them; but

now each of the group had returned to his usual occupation. Even his

daughter sat with her face drooping over her hands, forgetting for the

moment her grief at his loss, and endeavouring to anticipate her own

fate. The twilight had not yet given way to night, but the sudden death

that had occurred had hushed all their usual noisy amusements. Nothing

was heard but the subdued voices of the warriors as they dwelt on the

exploits of Eagle Eye, or speculated on the employments that engaged

him, now that their tie with him was sundered. Sometimes the subject

was changed for another of more exciting interest. A party that had

gone in search of the Chippeways,[10] who had been hovering near their

village, was expected to return, and there was some little anxiety

occasioned by their prolonged stay. Among the most noted of the party

was the brother of We-har-ka and a young brave called the Beaver. These

two young men, aspirants for glory and the preference which, among the

Indians, is awarded to bravery, cunning, and the virtues, so considered

among them, belonged to different clans. The rivalry and hatred between

these clans raged high, more so at this time than for some years

previous.

The Indian lives only for revenge; he has neither arts nor learning to

occupy his mind, and his religion encourages rather than condemns this

passion.

The daring showed by the Chippeways had only stimulated them to greater

acts of bravery; they were determined that the tree of peace, now torn

up by the roots, should never be planted again on the boundaries of the

two countries.

We-har-ka had arisen from her recumbent attitude, and stood by the side

of her dead relative. She had not time to reflect on the loneliness of

her position.

She had only laid her hand on the cold forehead where Death had so

recently set his seal, when the well-known triumphant voice of her

brother echoed through the village.

Hardly had she turned towards the door when another yell of triumph,

sounding even louder than the first, was heard. She knew that voice

too, for the colour mounted to her cheeks, and her breath came short

and quickly.

A chorus of yells now rent the air, answered by the Indians who had

joyfully started up to meet the party. How every eye shone with

delight, every feature working with convulsive excitement; all the

fierce passions of their nature were aroused. Those prolonged and

triumphant shouts had prepared them for what was to come. Already they

longed to see the blood-dyed scalps, and, it might be, the face of some

prisoner in whose sufferings they were to revel.

The figures of the successful war-party soon made themselves visible in

the moonlight. One by one they turned the winding trail that led to the

village. Over their heads they bore the fresh scalps; and as they came

in view, a piercing universal shout arose from all. The eagerness of

the women induced them to press forward, and when it was impossible to

gain a view, from the great crowd in advance, they ascended the nearest

rock, where they could distinctly see the approaching procession.

After the scalps and their bearers were recognised, another deafening

shout arose. The prisoners were descried as they neared: it was seen

there were two men and a woman. The arms of the men were pinioned back

between their shoulders. Nearer still they come, but the shouting is

over: intense curiosity and anxiety have succeeded this eager delight.

The prisoners and scalps were their enemies, but over every heart the

question passed, Have they all returned? Has each husband been restored

to his family, each child to the parent? But not long did these softer

feelings influence the conduct of the Sioux. They had now nearly met,

and the war-party, with the prisoners, had reached the outskirts of

the village. Here the confusion had returned and attained its greatest

height; welcomes had been said, and the crowd pressed around the scalps

to feast their eyes on the precious sight. There were but four, and

they had been taken in the hurry of flight: they were round pieces,

torn from the top of the head, and from one of them fell the long,

glossy hair of a woman.

There was nothing in the carriage of the prisoners to denote their

condition, their attitude and demeanour proclaiming the conqueror

instead of the conquered--the haughty determination of their looks,

the bold freedom of their steps, their gait as erect as possible, with

their hands bound behind them. Even the insolence of their language,

in reply to the taunts of their victors, showed they were prepared for

what was inevitable.

The calm, pale face of the young Chippeway girl showed that she had

determined to brave the blood-loving Sioux, and let them see that a

woman could meet death as well as a warrior.

The procession stopped, and one of the Sioux women called for her

husband. "Where is he, warriors? give me back my husband."

"You will not weep," said one of the men; "here is the Chippeway who

killed him," pointing to the younger of the male prisoners. "You may

stone him, and then you may sing while the fire is burning under his

feet."

A loud laugh of defiance was heard from the prisoner. "The Sioux are

dogs," he said; "let them hurry; I am in haste to go to the land of

souls." The words were not uttered ere a dozen spears pricked his body.

There was no cry of pain; he only laughed at the anger he had excited.

The attention of the Indians was now withdrawn from their prisoners,

for We-har-ka was rapidly walking towards them. Even the arrangement

of her dress was distinctly visible as she approached them: her long

and glossy hair disarranged purposely, to mark the intensity of her

grief; the blood was still trickling from her arms; her pale face

looking even paler than it was, by the moonlight and its broad shadows.

She was hastening to meet her brother, yet she did not offer him one

congratulation on his safe return. "My brother," she cried, "your

grandfather is dead. He lies cold and still, as the large buffalo when

he has ceased to struggle with our hunters. Go to his lodge and tell

him of your prisoners, and your scalps. For me, I will go myself to

shed tears. I will follow the fresh tracks of the deer, and by the

wakeen-stone,[11] in the prairie, I will sit and weep where no eye can

see me but the Great Spirit's. While the moon walks through the sky,

the spirits shall hear my voice."

She was listened to in silence, for the Indians always showed respect

to We-har-ka; her being constantly with the war-chief had made them

look upon her almost with reverence, as if she might have obtained from

him some supernatural power.

"The Sioux listen to the words of a woman," said the old prisoner,

as We-har-ka turned towards the prairie. "Why do they not make her a

war-chief, and let her take them to battle?"

"We will," answered her brother, "when we go again to bring home old

men. I would not have been troubled with your old carrion, but I thought

to let my father return the kind treatment you once gave him; and I

would kill you now, but that I would rather the women would do it."

"The Sioux are brave when their prisoners are bound," again taunted the

prisoner; "let them do their will: the Chippeway fears neither fire nor

death."

The rage of the Sioux was unbounded; the cold unconcern of their

prisoner almost destroyed the pleasure of victory. The women

clamorously demanded that he might be delivered over to them. They

seized him, and moved forward to a large tree, whose massive trunk

indicated its strength. Here they bound him with strong sinews and

pieces of skin. His hands were tied in front, and a strong cord was

passed about his waist, and with it he was fastened to the tree.

This was all the work of the women, and they evinced by their

expedition and hideous laughs the pleasure they found in their

employment.

The Sioux then went to see the body of their venerated chief; on their

return they found their victim firmly secured to the tree. The son was

bound at some little distance from the father, while the daughter was

sitting, hiding her face between her hands, weeping for her father's

situation. Pride had all gone, only affection occupied her heart. The

old Chippeway was convinced now of his immediate sufferings; he had

been tranquil and unmoved until the return of the warriors. Suddenly he

shouted, in a loud voice, the wild notes of his death-song.

There was no failing in his voice; even his daughter turned towards

him with satisfaction as he extolled his life, and expressed pleasure

at the prospect of seeing the hunting-grounds of the Great Spirit.

As he ceased, Chashé told him he must rest from his journey ere he

commenced his long way to the land of souls. "A great many winters

ago," said the young Sioux, "my father was in your country; you took

him prisoner, you bound him, and you told him what a good warm fire he

was to have to die by.

"You said you loved him too well to let him be cold; but while you

were binding him he was too strong for you. Unk-ta-he had made him

brave; he bounded from your grasp in sight of your warriors. He flew;

your bravest men chased him in vain. He came home and lived to an age

greater than yours.

"The old war-chief is gone, or he would tell you how welcome you are

to his village. He was always hospitable and loved to treat brave men

well. But we must eat first, or we cannot enjoy ourselves while you are

so comfortable with your old limbs burning."

Expressions of approbation followed this speech on the part of the

Sioux, but there was no notice taken of it by the Chippeway, who was

now occupied in contemplating his daughter. He had before seemed to be

unconscious of her presence.

No bodily torture could equal the pang of the father, who saw the

utterly helpless and unhappy situation of his child. His own fate was

fixed--that caused him no uneasiness. There was even a feeling of

enthusiasm in the prospect of showing his enemies how slight was their

power over him; how little he cared for any tortures they might inflict.

But his young daughter, who would have been safe now among her own

people, but for her affection for him, which induced her to remain by

his side, refusing the opportunity of escape.

The Sioux saw his concern and rejoiced that this pang was added to the

torture: not only his own fate to bear, but the consciousness that he

had caused the destruction of both his children. His son was surrounded

while endeavouring to protect his father.

Thus will nature assert her right in the hearts of all her children;

but the Chippeway closed his eyes to all, save the effort of appearing

indifferent to his sufferings. Again he sung his death-song, while the

Sioux stretched themselves upon the grass, eating the tender venison

which had been prepared for them, occasionally offering some to the

Chippeway, advising him to eat and be strong, that he might bravely

walk on his journey to the land of souls.

While the Dacotas were eating and resting themselves, the Chippeway

chaunted his death-song; his son, apparently, was unmoved by his own

and his father's desperate situation, but the daughter no longer

endeavoured to restrain her grief. Exhausted from fatigue and fasting,

she would gladly have known her own fate, even if death were to be her

mode of release from her distressing position.

The Indians frequently offered her food. Chashé tried to persuade her

to eat: she indignantly rejected the attention, her whole soul absorbed

in her father's painful situation.

She saw there was no hope: even had she not understood their language,

she could have read all in the fierce glaring eyes of her enemies,

the impatient gestures of the men, and the eager, energetic movements

of the women. The latter were not idle: they were making arrangements

for the burning of the prisoner. Under his feet they piled small round

pieces of wood, with brush conveniently placed, so as to kindle it at

a moment's warning when all should be ready. To their frequent taunts

their victim paid no attention: this only increased their anxiety to

hasten his sufferings, young and old uniting their strength.

One woman struck him with the wood she was about to lay at his feet,

another pierced him with the large thorn she had taken from the branch

she held; but the loudest cries of merriment and applause greeted the

appearance of an old creature, almost bowed together with the weight of

a load she was carrying, large pieces of fat and skin, which she was to

throw in the blaze at different times when it should be kindled.

The glare of day could not have made more perceptible the horrid faces

of the savages than did the brilliant moonlight. Every sound that was

uttered was more distinct, from the intense quiet that pervaded all

nature. The face of the victim, now turned to the sky, now bent in

scorn over his enemies; that of his son, pale, proud, and indifferent;

the unrestrained grief of the girl, who only raised her head to gaze at

her father, then trembling, with sobs, hid it deeper in her bosom; the

malignant triumph of the Sioux men, the excitement and delight of the

women;--all these were distinctly visible in the glowing brightness of

the night.

Was there no hope for the aged and weary old man? no chance that

these stern, revengeful spirits might relent? Will not woman, with her

kind heart and gentle voice, ask that his life may be spared? Alas!

it is woman's work that we are witnessing: they bound his limbs, they

have beaten him, and even now are they disputing for the privilege of

lighting the fire which is to consume him. Loud cries arise, but the

contention is soon quelled, for the deep bass voice of the medicine-man

is heard above theirs, and he says that the newly made widow, and she

alone, shall start the blaze, and then all may join in adding fuel to

the fire, and insult to the present disgrace of the Chippeway warrior.

And now the brush is piled round the wood and touches the victim's feet,

and the men lie still on the grass, knowing their work will be well

done, and the women who are crowded together make a way for the widow to

advance. See her! the tears are on her cheek, yet there is a smile of

exultation too--the blood is streaming from her bosom and her arms.

With her left hand she leads her young son forward. In her right she

holds a large and flaming torch of pine. The red light of the burning

wood contrasts strangely with the white light of the moon; the black

smoke rises and is lost in the fleecy clouds that are flying through

the air.

The silence is broken only by the heart-breaking sobs of the Chippeway

girl. The Sioux woman kneels, and carefully holds the torch under the

brush and kindling-wood. She withdraws her hand, and soon there is

something beside sobs breaking the stillness. The dry branches snap,

and the women shout and laugh as they hear the crackling sound. The men

join in a derisive laugh; but above all is heard the loud, full voice

of the victim. His death-chaunt drowns all other sounds, yet there

is not a tone of pain or impatience in the voice; it is solemn and

dignified; there is even a note of rapture as he shouts defiance to his

enemies and their cruelty.

The dry twigs snap apart, and the smoke curls around the limbs of the

prisoner: now the bright red flames embrace his form.

The warrior is still; he is collecting his energies and challenging his

powers of endurance.

Chashé stood up. "My father," said he, "fled from the fire of the

Chippeways; but you like the fire of the Dacotas, for you stand still."

"The Sioux are great warriors," replied the Chippeway, "when they fight

old men and children," looking at the same time towards his daughter.

"But, is he an old man or a girl?" asked Chashé, pointing to the

younger Chippeway.

"He is a great warrior," said the father, "but he was one against many.

He could not see his father and sister scalped before his eyes. Had

he fought man to man he would have showed you the sharp edge of his

tomahawk; but he is a Chippeway, and knows how to suffer and to die."

The noise of the fire drowned the old man's words, for the women were

amusing themselves by throwing on small pieces of dry wood and portions

of deer-fat, which, crackling as it burned, rapidly consumed the body

of the unfortunate man.

No suffering had, as yet, forced from him any cry of pain; it was

evident that nature would soon relieve him of his agony. His heart had

nigh ceased "beating its funeral march." Even he, an untutored savage,

felt that

"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul."

His fortitude to endure was increased by the thought that soon the

brilliant but mysterious future would be opened to him.

The Sioux were disappointed at his courage, and longed to have their

gratification completed by some acknowledgment of his agony. An old and

fierce-looking woman drew her knife from her belt, and springing upon

the high roots of the tree, cut a deep gash between the shoulders of

the prisoner, then stooping, she raised in her hand a flaming torch,

which she applied to the fresh wound she had just made. This agony was

unendurable: a deathlike struggle convulsed the heroic countenance

of the sufferer; he uttered a sharp and piercing cry; then, as if

apologizing for his want of firmness, exclaimed, "Fire is strong!"

This sufficed for his enemies, and shouts of joy echoed through the

village, while the agonized daughter, unable longer to endure the

dreadful sight, sunk insensible on the grass at her brother's feet.

It was not long ere another shout announced the relief of the

Chippeway. The sweet hours of night had passed away while they watched

his noble firmness, and awaited his last breath. During the last hour,

long, low, black clouds had been deepening in the far west; now and

then a distant murmur was heard, and faint flashes gleamed athwart the

water. A slight murmuring of the waves witnessed the rising of the

wind, and the Sioux separated to take a rest, which they all needed.

Seeing that their other prisoner was securely bound, they left him

to face the storm and the hideous spectacle of his father's remains.

Chashé raised the lifeless form of the girl and carried her to his

sister's wigwam.

We-har-ka had taken no interest in the scene that had been enacting;

she slept soundly, fatigued with her wanderings on the prairie and the

indulgence of her grief. Chashé laid his unconscious burden by the side

of his sister. Enemies as they were, the looker-on might observe a

strong bond of sympathy between them. Their young faces were shadowed

by grief,--that link which should unite, heart to heart, every child of

earth.

* * * * *

The low sigh with which the Chippeway girl awoke from her deathlike

trance, did not awaken We-har-ka. Starting up, she in a moment recalled

the sad tragedy which had just been enacted before her eyes, yet she

could not account for her being where she was. The wigwam was dark,

except when illuminated by vivid flashes of lightning, which showed

her the few articles of furniture and comfort that adorned an Indian

woman's home.

The occasional pealing of the thunder, and We-har-ka's breathing, were

the only sounds she heard. A thousand painful thoughts drove slumber

from her eyelids. Her father she knew was gone: she pressed her hand

before her eyes to recall, and then to chase away, the dreadful memory

that tortured her. She was spared; it might be for a slave, or to be the

wife of some one of her enemies. Her brother, she had no doubt, was still

living: he had been reserved for protracted tortures. Overcome by these

thoughts she sank again upon the ground, but not to sleep.

Could nothing be suggested to give her comfort? She cautiously raised

the door of the wigwam, and by the red lightning she saw her brother

bound as she had left him. Despair had nearly overpowered her once

more, but the natural energy of her mind returning, she looked again to

her own heart, to see if there was any hope. Should she never see again

the home so dear to her! Were she and her bold brother to die by the

hands of her father's murderers! Oh! that she possessed a sharp knife,

to sever the thongs that bound him, how soon would they flee away as

the birds do when winter's winds are heard from the north!

The idea once prominent in her mind, there was hope. Another flash

showed her the most minute objects in the wigwam. Another directed her

to the knife of We-har-ka, which lay glittering by her breast. A few

moments of intense thought decided her: nerved by a sense of her own

and her brother's danger, she no longer hesitated. What horrors could

be greater than those by which she was surrounded! What if she were

detected and murdered at once! Far better than to witness her brother's

fate, and endure her own.

She placed herself near We-har-ka, then gently endeavoured to remove

the knife she coveted. The young heart throbbed against her hand. Again

she endeavoured to slide the knife from its place. We-har-ka turned

upon her side as if disturbed. After a few moments had elapsed she

once more made the effort; and now, as it is clasped in her hand, her

senses have well-nigh left her, for this time she is successful.

But, well she knew there was no time for delay, nor even for

consideration. The deepest darkness of night was now upon them; before

long the morning twilight would be again resting over the earth.

The perfect and unusual repose of the Sioux was in her favour; and,

excited even to desperation, she determined to endeavour to free her

brother, and secure his and her own escape.

She first endeavoured to recall the situation of the principal objects

in the village. She did not, however, require any effort of memory, for

she could see distinctly where her brother was bound, and the path that

led to this point. The storm's spirits were her friends: without the

lightning she could have accomplished nothing.

There was a turn in the path that led through the village, and once

or twice she was at a loss how to proceed. She would not be dismayed,

though at times she feared her enemies would hear the loud beatings of

her heart. Guided by the lightning, and resting for a moment when she

feared her footfall would give the alarm, she at length reached the

spot.

There had been no rest for the younger Chippeway. With the

heart-crushing spectacle before his eyes, he had only given way to a

horror at his father's sufferings, far more dreadful to witness than to

endure. There was, besides, the anticipation of his own.

Again and again he looked at the strong cords that bound him. Could he

for a short time possess the knife his enemies had wrested from him!

Useless, indeed, to him, without assistance!

Softer feelings, too, came in turn. His wife had been murdered before

his eyes, his young son crushed under the feet of those who now lay

sleeping tranquilly around him.

The weary night was wearing on. There would be no breaking of the

day to him. There was no hope, but that which pointed to the unknown

future; no light but that which glimmered from the silent land.

A slight noise arouses his acute senses, and he turns his head to that

part of the village where were the greatest number of lodges. It might

be that the footstep was that of some one of his foes, determined

alone to enjoy the sight of his death. Oh! what joy thus to be saved

the reproaches of his enemies, the laughing of the women, the sneers

of all. Eagerly he peers through the darkness, and the first brilliant

flash shows him the pale face of his sister, as she advances towards him.

Very near him slept, in a wigwam, two warriors who had the charge of

him. They might awake: this thought made the very pulses of his life

stand still.

For at once he understood his sister's intention. He knew her courage;

he also knew that without an object she would not be thus incurring the

risk of arousing their enemies.

Another flash, and she stood close by his side--her hand was upon

his, as she felt for the thongs that bound him. One by one they were

cautiously severed--slowly, for the slightest noise might be fatal.

It was hard work, too, for the maiden, for the sinews were like iron,

and her strength failed her under the repeated efforts she was obliged

to make. There was no word uttered,--their hearts silently conversed

with each other. Time passed, and he was almost free; he was himself

severing the last bond that detained him.

It yielded. Once more he could stretch out his muscular arm. Grasping

his sister to his side, covered by the darkness and the thunder, and

the heavily commencing rain, they made their way under the edges of the

bluffs. The young Chippeway knew the route: a short peace had existed

between the tribes, and he had more than once passed through the

village.

At first their progress was slow and deliberate. There was no

faltering, though. They were without weapons, with the exception of

We-har-ka's knife. Hunger and faintness were oppressing them, but the

danger they were in braced their hearts. As they began to leave the

Sioux village in the distance, hope gave vigour to their frames.

After the day broke, the clouds were scattering, and the sunbeams were

dotting the hills that lay between them and their foes. Still they

could not rest. The wild plum was their only nourishment; nor was it

until night had again shrouded the earth, and the young man laid his

sister in the hospitable lodge of a Chippeway village, that he realized

that he had been a prisoner and was again free.

It were impossible to describe the rage of the Sioux on ascertaining

the escape of their prisoners. Chashé went soon after their flight

to his sister's wigwam. His sleep had been restless, he thought of

his dead relative, but he thought more of the Chippeway girl, whom he

had resolved to adopt[12] in place of his young wife, who had died

recently. Seeing his sister alone, he anxiously inquired of her what

had become of the girl. What was his surprise when she told him there

had been no one there; that when she arose, the storm was passing

over, but it was still dark, but that no one had been in the lodge

since then. Her brother, much irritated, contradicted her, using the

most violent language; yet it was evident to him that his sister was

unconscious of his having laid the girl by her side.

He turned away, and sought the scene of the last night's torture. There

were the burnt fagots, and the ghastly remains. The smoke still curled

and slowly rose from the ashes, but neither of the prisoners was to be

seen. The thongs with which he had been bound lay on the ground.

There was no room for doubt: brother and sister had fled; and they

lived so near the borders of the Chippeway country that there was every

reason to believe they were beyond the reach of recovery.

Disappointment and rage overspread his features. He threw up the door

of the lodge where the sentinels still slept calmly. Pushing the

foremost over with his foot, "Where is your prisoner?" said he. "You

are brave men, that cannot take care of one Chippeway!"

Starting to their feet, the sentinels at once became aware of what had

occurred. "Where is the girl?" they asked of Chashé.

"They are both gone," said he, "and they must both have passed near you."

"And where were you when the girl went?" replied one of the sentinels.

"You took her off with you, and if we could not keep the man, you could

not keep the woman."

The inmates of the different lodges came forward to learn what had

happened. Here advances a brave, followed by his young sons. The women

throw down their bundles of sticks, to feast themselves with a sight

of the Chippeways ere they commenced their usual avocations; but they

only expressed their sorrow by groans of disappointment. It was decided

that the fugitives should be pursued. A party of the younger men set

out without delay; they were warned, however, not to go too near their

enemy's country.

Glowing with the expectation of recapturing the prisoners, and, it

might be, of bringing home more scalps, they were anxious to set out.

The old medicine-men reminded them of their duty, gave them advice

suitable to the occasion, and then, with uplifted hands, called upon

Wakeen Tonca, Great Spirit, Father, to help them against their enemies.

The close of another evening found the Sioux quiet, and busy in drying

venison, and the usual occupations of the season. With the day, however,

were closing their labours. Often a cry of lamentation was heard from

the lodge of the Sioux who had recently been killed in battle.

The body of Eagle Eye was deposited upon a high scaffolding. His two

children were still engaged at the burial-ground. All cries of sorrow,

usual at such times, were hushed. The sides of the high hills were

tinged with gold and crimson. Some of these "mountains rose high, high

up, until they could look into the heavens and hear God in the storm."

The river was as calm as if no scene of cruelty had ever been enacted

on its banks.

Round the frame where Eagle Eye's form was laid hung his medicine-bag.

Chashé placed a vessel of water near the body. We-har-ka lightly lifted

the bark dish of buffalo-meat[13] and wild rice, where the soul of the

departed warrior could take it, and be refreshed when tired and hungry.

Very near him was buried his wife. Her bones had been gathered and

buried under the ground; branches of trees and solid pieces of wood had

been placed crosswise over her grave, to protect it from the wolves.

The graves and scaffolds were continued to the very edge of the

bluff, while flowers of the most brilliant hue sprung up at the feet

of the mourners, and clung to the low small bushes that grew on the

hilltop. The brother and sister were preparing to come down, when

We-har-ka perceived the priest seated by one of the graves, apparently

unconscious of all that was passing around him. She approached him, and

softly laid her hand upon his shoulder. He turned to her slowly, as

if aroused from a dream of long past years, and followed them to the

village.

His lodge was near hers, and she listened to his full rich voice as he

chaunted the vespers. Totally ignorant of what he said, she was yet

soothed by the sweet sounds, and after they had ceased, unobserved by

others, she sought him in his lodge, and night was closing over the

earth as the voices of the two mingled in earnest conversation.

* * * * *

The Jesuit had long been anxious to take advantage of the first

opportunity that offered to return to Canada. Here, his time was wasted

and his health impaired to no purpose. He had succeeded in learning the

language of the savages, so as to converse with them tolerably; but his

mission was as useless here as it would have been among the wild beasts

of Africa.

Constantly exposed to danger, without the means of living, except what

he received from We-har-ka, and occasionally from others, his time

unoccupied, his life was a burden. His health was not strong enough to

enable him to join in the hardy exercises and sports of the red men.

How anxiously, then, did he await the means of deliverance.

There was an occasional intercourse with the tribes that lived in the

region of the great lakes: in this way he had come among the Sioux,

and he hoped thus to return to Acadie. He passed hour after hour

watching the approach of canoes, hoping to recognise the tall, gaunt

forms of the Hurons, or some of those with whom the Sioux were on

friendly terms. Over but one human being, We-har-ka, had he acquired

the slightest influence. We have before alluded to the rivalry of the

two young men, Chashé and the Beaver, for the disputed honour of being

the war-chief of the band. They belonged to opposite clans, which were

almost equally divided. It appeared evident that it could only be

decided by some act of bravery performed by one of the parties.

The aspirants had equal claims. They were each daring in the greatest

degree. Young, athletic, inured to fatigue and hardships, thirsting

like the war-horse for the battle. Chashé owed his reputation in some

degree to the reputation of his grandfather, while on the other hand

the Beaver's courage made him feared by his own and the opposite clan.

The long-continued feud between the two clans had been more violent

than ever since the death of the younger brother of Chashé. His

sickness was attributed to a spell having been cast upon him by some

one of the other clan. Eagle Eye attributed his death to the family

of the Beaver; and so great was the hatred of the two clans[14] that

murder after murder occurred, and every sickness and disaster was

charged upon some individual, and thus revenge was constantly sought.

Especially was Eagle Eye dreaded; his powers as a medicine-man

were rated so high, that in passing by him many avoided his

observation--they dreaded lest he should, by an undefined power, bring

upon them the wrath of an evil spirit. And each warrior wore beneath

his richly embroidered hunting-dress a charm, to protect him from a

machination that he feared.

Yet did the Beaver love the sister of his rival, and he had induced

her to defy her brother's hot temper, and promise him all her young

affection. Love had made him eloquent, and he persuaded her out of all

the opinions she had imbibed from the time she was capable of forming

one; while he, blind to the attractions of all others, could only see

grace in her person.

It was not likely his life would be safe should he marry her, and

remain among his own people; and could he yield the chances of his

high position among the braves with whom he had grown up to the love

of woman? He knew that We-har-ka would leave all for him. The only

question was, could he make the sacrifice?

They had closely kept their secret. We-har-ka had been promised to a

young man of her grandfather's clan. She had from time to time delayed

the marriage, by her influence over the old man. The husband they had

chosen for her was the tried friend of her brother, styled among the

Indians, a comrade. Well did We-har-ka know how determined was her

brother's temper, and that he would force her into the marriage after

her grandfather's death, and that, unless by some great effort, there

was no hope.

On the night of the return of the party, and the burning of the

prisoner, she had, indeed, gone to the prairies to weep; but it was

as much over the difficulties of her position as the death of her

relative. It was not without an object that she had come forward to

meet the war-party, and told them her intention. When the excitement of

the burning of the Chippeway was at its height, her lover had left the

group of young men, and a short time brought him to We-har-ka's side.

After a few moments passed in the joy of reunion, We-har-ka told him

that her fate must soon be decided, and implored him to take her away

from their home, as their only chance of happiness. They could go, she

said, among the Sioux who lived on the Missouri, and there live free

from care.

The young man did not answer her at first, and We-har-ka, startled with

the boldness of her own proposal, awaited his answer, standing. Her

arms were clasped over her breast, and her eyes bent to the ground: the

moonlight glittered on the wampum which lay on her bosom, and flashed

from the silver cross suspended from her neck.

At length the Indian broke out into angry abuse of her brother and all

connected with her. The colour varied in her cheek, and her lips were

more firmly compressed when he charged them with cowardice, but still

she spoke not. She had counted the cost of his love, and knew, that to

retain it, she must resign even the natural impulses of her heart.

She waited until the torrent of his passion had ceased, then pointing

to the dark clouds that were gathering in the west, reminded him that

they would be missed. The shout that came from the village warned them

too of the necessity of separation. He then marked the agitation of her

manner, bade her return home, telling her that, after her father was

buried, he would come to the lodge of the Jesuit: at what time he could

not say, but not until some amusements should engage the Sioux: then he

would tell her his determination. We-har-ka, overpowered with fatigue

on her return to her lodge, slept soundly, even with the Chippeway girl

by her side.

* * * * *

We-har-ka sat in the wigwam of the Jesuit, listening to the accounts

of the grandeur of the churches and the magnificence of the altars in

the country where Father Blanc had passed his youth. He pointed to

the small figure of Christ, on the altar of cedar wood, which he had

constructed, then told her of the large one of gold which he had often

knelt before in assisting in the ceremonies of the church. We-har-ka,

whose thoughts had been wandering in quest of her lover, asked him

again of the ever interesting story of the death and sufferings of

the Saviour. Like those who witnessed the crucifixion, she wondered

that that Great Being should submit to such indignities. Her religion

would have justified resenting them. Yet she did not believe it was

true, loving still to hear it told over and over again; especially

was it agreeable to her now to while away the hour until her lover,

under pretence of speaking to the priest, should find a chance of

acquainting her with the plans he had formed. She looked again at the

familiar objects on the altar. Again, as ever, she told the priest he

was good and kind, but that she knew the Great Spirit was the father

of all. Father Blanc's insinuating eloquence touched her feelings, but

her heart was unaffected: yet the father, glad of a listener, even in

the untutored Indian girl, dwelt on scenes long past, and it might be

forgotten by all but him.

When the moon rose they sat outside the lodge on a mat. They were now

both silent. The thoughts of the Jesuit wandered far and wide: memory

transported him to the forests of Languedoc.

There he pursued his studies, full of high hope and youthful happiness.

He wandered through the most beautiful scenes of nature, and there was

one by his side; her smile was bent upon him, as she parted the long

ringlets from her brow. He gazed again as he was wont when he bade her

good night, and wondered if angels smiled so sweetly when they bore the

dead to the regions of Paradise. Memory changes the scene. Death and

desolation are met; darkness and beauty are blended strangely. Those

angel eyes are closed, but the sweet smile is there.

Hushed lips bend over the bier where roses are lavishly strewed.

Echoes of grief are heard along the halls, as they pass on with their

beautiful burden to the house of death. Then come the long nights

of sorrow, the vigils of despair, the renouncing of the hopes and

pleasures of life: then the morbid restlessness, the wish for death

and forgetfulness. Afterwards, the solitary life of the student, then

the seclusion of the cloister, and the longing to wear out life under

a different sky. He traced again his course, until he sat here, a

wanderer, by the side of the Indian girl.

Her eyes were wandering over the brilliant scenes. The stars seemed

almost to rest on the body of her relative, as she looked towards the

burial-ground where she had passed the day.

The branches of the large trees were in perfect repose: there was no

wind to disturb them; and the gorgeous reflection of the moon on the

river seemed almost to illuminate the village.

Richly endowed with the poetry of nature, the anxious girl felt calmed

by the beauty and tranquillity of the scene. The evening was passing

away, and he had not come. Confident of his affection, she determined

to be patient. Sometimes her friends would pass along and converse with

her; but they knew her heart was sad, deprived of the affectionate

caresses of her relative. Her brother she had not seen since they had

returned together from the burial-ground, but she supposed he was in

one of the groups which were enjoying the lovely quiet of the evening.

Suddenly a wild and piercing cry arrests her attention. Starting to her

feet, almost frantic for a moment, she recognised her brother's voice.

Again it fell in one long, rich, full cry on her ear.

There was something unusual in that sound. There was no defiance, no

fear, no excitement in the voice. It was as if the bald eagle, long

watching and hovering over its prey, had at length planted her talons

in its side, and was fleeing away far from human hope or protection.

So clear was the sound, so long its echo, that some doubted if it were

indeed a human voice.

Not so with We-har-ka: pressing her clasped hands tightly over her

heart, turning her marble face to the heavens, she knew it all. That

was not the cry indicating the presence of enemies; her heart would

not have quailed before it as it did now: it was the announcement of

the gratification of a long-cherished revenge. Her lover's absence was

explained. Only a moment, however, was given to conflicting thoughts.

The young girl moved forward, and, as it were, pioneered the others to

the quarter from whence the sound proceeded. There was no shrinking in

her slight form: she might have been taken for some spirit returned to

earth to accomplish some high purpose, unconscious of aught save its

own mission.

Passing on to a rock, whence you could see the beautiful valley that

spread out before them, the whole story was told in a moment.

Chashé stood as if expecting witnesses; in his bearing there was a

frightful exultation that ill accorded with the other circumstances of

his position. In his hand he held the knife, from which drops of blood

were slowly falling on his dress. He watched them with a savage laugh

of delight. His figure seemed taller, by half, in the moonlight, its

long shadow fell so darkly over the grass. He was not alone, for easily

could all recognise the manly and noble form of the man he hated, at

his feet. Well they know that it was death alone that could keep him

there. The blood was oozing from his heart: and they could, even at

the distance from whence they first saw him, distinguish the marble

paleness of his features.

A loud shout now arose from the Indians as they pressed forward. They

were divided as to the interest in this scene. The friends of Chashé

exulted with him, and those of the other clan called for revenge. It

seemed uncertain how the excitement of the crowd would show itself,

when it was diverted for a moment by the appearance of We-har-ka. She

rapidly slid down the rocks, which it was necessary to pass, in order

to reach the two young men. None of them could keep up with her, so

quick and shadowy were her movements.

Throwing herself on the ground beside her lover, she made the most

frantic efforts to staunch the flowing of the wound. She tore up the

grass, and pressing it together, placed it against the wound; but the

blood continued to flow in spite of all her efforts. Her bearing, calm

and collected at first, now changed with the evident hopelessness of

the case; her wild and frantic screams pierced the air as she threw

herself upon his body. Her brother seized her roughly by the arm,

indignant at this show of affection; but she shrank from his touch, and

again springing to his side, before he could divine her purpose, she

had wrested the knife from his grasp and pierced it deep in her own

breast. Chashé caught it from her ere she could a second time bury it

in her bosom; but she glided from him and ascended the bluff over which

she had passed to reach the dreadful spot. A stream of blood follows in

her path. Now she has reached the edge of the precipice: she springs,

and the noise of the dashing waves mingles with the cry of horror that

arises from the witnesses of her self-destruction.

The Indians were obliged to return to their village in order to arrive

at the place where were their canoes. Every effort was made, but in

vain, to recover the body of the unfortunate girl. She was never seen

again.

Father Blanc soon after returned to Acadie with a party who were going

that route. He was thankful to leave the scene of such accumulated

horrors. He had become warmly attached to the young Sioux maiden, whose

early sorrows had been impressed on his memory. The horrors of that

night were written in characters of blood: nor did he ever relate the

incident without trembling at the recollection. He found in the Canada

Indians more tractable scholars,--at least, when they feared the cannon

of the French.

There is reason to conclude that the efforts of the Jesuits among the

aborigines of our country left no abiding impression of good: but, like

the waters which the tall ships have passed over, they were agitated

for a while from their usual course, then returned to their restless

surging as before.

[Footnote 4: The names Sioux and Dacota are applied to the same nation;

the Indians themselves recognising and preferring the latter name. The

little that is known of them is given in the introduction to Dacota,

or Legends of the Sioux. They have, for many years, been considered a

powerful, warlike, and interesting people. They formerly possessed the

knowledge of many things of which they are now totally ignorant. They

retain the greatest attachment to their country and their religion.]

[Footnote 5: For every scalp taken by a Sioux in battle he is entitled

to wear a feather of the War Eagle. This is an ornament greatly

esteemed among them.]

[Footnote 6: The Dacotas believe thunder to be a bird. It would be

impossible to enumerate their gods, they are so numerous; but the

thunder is much feared as being one of the most powerful. In living

among them you constantly see representations of these gods, drawn and

carved on the various articles that are used among them.]

[Footnote 7: Wampum is a long bead made of the inside of a shell, white

and of dark purple colour; it is very much valued by the Indians, used

as necklaces; the women esteem nothing more highly than a string or two

of wampum. It has frequently been used as currency among the different

tribes; but in making treaties it is strung and made into a belt, and

at the close of a speech is presented to the other party as a pledge of

good faith.]

[Footnote 8: Among the Sioux it is customary to inflict wounds,

sometimes deep and severe ones, upon themselves on the occasion of the

death of a friend. The arms of aged people are frequently seamed with

scars.]

[Footnote 9: Acadia, or Acadie, was the ancient name for what is

now called Nova Scotia. Before the latter name was used in the act

of incorporation by the British Parliament, Acadie was within the

jurisdiction of Lower Canada.]

[Footnote 10: The Sioux and Chippeways seem to be natural enemies.

Peace has been declared between the two nations time and again, but

never has it been sustained, although the United States Government

has made every effort to and even compel them to forego their ancient

enmity.]

[Footnote 11: Wakeen-stone. The Sioux choose stones as objects of

worship. We find them frequently on their thoroughfares; they never

pass these without stopping to smoke, or to make some slight offering,

such as tobacco, a feather, an arrow, or a trinket.]

[Footnote 12: Young persons taken prisoners in battle are often

adopted, in the place of some lost relative. They are then treated with

the kindness usually shown towards a dear and valued friend.]

[Footnote 13: The Sioux believe in the duality of the soul,--one going

to the land of spirits, while one hovers round the grave, requiring

nourishment. Some few of their wise people believe that each body

claims more than two souls, assigning an occupation for each; but this

is not the prevailing opinion.]

[Footnote 14: In a Sioux village there are different clans, known by

the peculiar medicine that each uses, each clan claiming superior

power, resting in a spell, which the medicine man or woman can throw

upon those of the opposite party.]

[Illustration:

C. Schuessele del. Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.

Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.

THE LAUGHING WATERS,

Three miles below The Falls of S^{t.} Anthony.]

THE LAUGHING WATERS.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

A few miles from the Falls of St. Anthony are The Little Falls, or, as

the Sioux call them, The Laughing Waters.

Do you know where the waters laugh?

Have you seen where they playfully fall?

Hid from the sun by the forest trees green,

(Though its rays do pierce the vines between,)

Dancing with joy, till, night-like, a screen

Comes down from the heavens at the whippoorwill's call.

Come with me, then, we will tread

On a carpet of long grass and flowers.

The wild lady's slipper we'll pluck as it droops,

We will watch the proud eagle, as from heaven she stoops,

A seat we will take by the dark leafy nooks,

Where a fairy might while away summer's bright hours.

From on high, the gay waters come!

At first, how they lazily creep

O'er embedded rocks, while agates so bright

Here and there greet the sun, by noonday's strong light,

And again dimly glance when stars come at night,

To watch where the Father of Waters' waves sleep.

How mildly they laugh as they haste!

Now they near the spot where they will spring,

Lightly clearing the distance to the pebbles below,

Where, tired with the effort, more calmly they flow,

While the glistening spray, and the foam white as snow,

Their light o'er the rocks and the dancing waves fling.

At evening how often will come

The wild deer to drink and to rest;

Till frightened away by the nighthawk's loud scream,

They flee to the shades where the wood spirits dream,

And sink to repose by the moonlight's fair beam,

Like the babe by its mother's soft smile lulled to rest.

And here does the tall warrior stand,

With the maiden he loves by his side!

He tells her to list while the fairies do quaff

Their cupful, and shout, and then wildly laugh,

For they know that she leans on his love like a staff,

Which will ever support her in life's changing tide.

'Twould be well, did ye weep, waters bright!

Soon no more to thy banks will they come,--

The maiden who loves, or the warrior so brave,

The wild deer at eve, in thy waters to lave,

The song-bird to dip its bright wing in thy wave,

When the shadows that fall with the night are all gone.

The Indian's reproach ye might hear,

Did ye listen, fair waves, to the sound!

Are you gay, when you know of the tears we have shed,

When profaned are the graves of our fathers long dead,

When haunted our lands, by the white man's proud tread,

As he passes o'er rock and o'er prairie and mound?

For ages we've loved thy fair stream!

No more can we claim thee, no more

Will the warrior sing his war-song in thy ears,

Will the mother who comes for her child to shed tears,

Will the maiden who prays to the spirit she fears,

Gaze on thy bright waves, or rest by thy shore?

O-KO-PEE.

A MIGHTY HUNTER OF THE SIOUX.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

It is impossible for one possessed of kind and generous feelings to

pass a grave without mournful reflections. Though a stately monument

rise over it, it covers the work of death. The mouldering form was

once as full of joy and care, of tears and rejoicings, as we;--a being

who performed his part in the theatre of life, but who has now, for

ever, taken his place behind the closed curtain. And if it be the

resting-place of the poor and unknown, we must feel too: the rude

stone at the head, the weeds springing up, the indifference of the

merry children as they play around it, do not take from the claim that

was once possessed by the form that is fast mingling with its native

earth, to have been one of the many toilers after a happiness never

obtained, a rest never enjoyed on earth! How have passed away many of

the nations of the earth. Some have noble monuments. Egypt, Greece,

Rome, Palmyra, and the Aztecs, who flourished upon our own shores--gems

of wealth and learning are heaped upon their graves; the undying wreath

of fame crowns their memory. The older the world, the better they will

be known. As time advances, so will increase our knowledge of their

history and laws--their hieroglyphics will be understood, throwing

light upon things hitherto a mystery to us.

But not so with our Indian nations; they must depart with hardly a

memorial of their existence. Few now care to learn aught that one day

may be spoken in memory of a noble people passed away; few now reflect

that the soul of this people stands winged for its flight.

* * * * *

Some recollections of the time passed among the Northwestern Indians

are very delightful to me, but many are equally sad--none more so than

the history of a poor idiot creature with whom we were well acquainted.

O-ko-pee, "The Nest." I have often reflected upon his eventful life,

and melancholy death--his patience and humility, the muscular strength

of his form, and the passionless expression of his features. The

mortal tenement was able and healthful when I first knew him, but the

spiritual no longer animated it; indeed, as a companion he was no

better than the game he hunted, for his mind was gone.

When overcome with hunger he would tell us how very long it was since

he had eaten. He knew, too, when he was cold, for he would direct our

attention to his threadbare clothing. Like the prairie deer or buffalo,

he would seek shelter from the storm or burning sun; but though he

might once have reflected upon the occupations of a disembodied spirit,

when it should be released from the shackles of earth, he had long

since ceased to do so. His mind floated on the stormy waves of life,

like the wreck at sea, far alike from light, hope, or help.

His life was an eventful one for an Indian's. Born when the Sioux were

not dependent upon white people, he trod his native earth with the

consciousness of owning it. He routed up the timid grouse from the

prairies, and brought down the red-head and wood-duck on the wing,

never fearing that they and he would be chased from the haunts they

loved. Often, when a small boy, would he kill the plover and woodcock

in numbers, carrying them to his mother as trophies of his skill. How

gaily he laughed as for the first time he stayed the fleet course of

the wild deer, and watched her panting, as she lay beside the brook,

looking for the last time at her own image in its clear waters, longing

to suage the thirst of death with its refreshing coolness.

His bones were still tender and his frame small when he sped his wild

horse among the buffalo, sending his lance into their sides, and

shouting as they tore up the earth, roaring in their agony. Was he in

danger from the restiveness of his horse? he knew he had only to fix

his black eye upon the revengeful buffalo, and, by the power of the

soul speaking there, subdue his rage. The eye of man meeting the eye of

beast, never turning or yielding its glance, would quell the passions

of the animal, and he would be safe.

He could not stay in the wigwam, even for an hour: child of the woods

and prairies, he needed only their companionship. The streams, the

rocks, and hills were the friends whose society he loved. Among them he

could "commune with his own heart, and be still."

Threading the passes among the hills, or stepping from point to point

on the dangerous rocks by the shore, he ever took the lead in the

chase, and early gained the reputation of being the most famous hunter

among the Sioux. How he obtained the soubriquet of "The Nest"[15] I

know not, but he retained it through all the varying events of his life

on earth, and it has followed him to the Indian's unhallowed grave,

over which hovers no spirit of hope, but the dark and fallen angels of

ignorance and superstition.

As O-ko-pee approached to manhood, the English claimed and obtained

jurisdiction over the Sioux. But the hunter, well acquainted with his

own laws, showed no inclination to meddle with those of another nation,

who showed the might of right.

Perhaps he did not feel with the many, who were more sensitive and less

happy, the soul-destroying anticipation of slavery. So long as he had

his lance and bow and arrow, what cared he for innovation? and he was

too ignorant of the economy of nations to recognise the fact that when

a people loses the right of self-government, it yields for ever the

power of advancing in strength or happiness.

Living in his own world, turning his eyes in adoration to the sun he

worshipped, he believed the Great Spirit would not interfere with his

concerns farther than to punish him should he neglect to celebrate

the feasts and customs of his nation, or turn from the faith of his

ancestors. Never was he happier than when listening to the flapping of

the wings of the mischievous thunder-birds, the gods of his nation, as

they roused themselves at the bright and forked streaks in the heavy

clouds.

There were many, however, among the Sioux who would not willingly yield

to the oppressions of the English, as they now would gladly resent,

had they the power to do so, the encroachments of the people of the

United States. Thus, a Dacota, who had received a personal injury from

an Englishman, determined to take an opportunity of resenting it; he

did so, according to Indian rules of strategy. He watched when his

victim was unawares, and took aim successfully, then plunging into

the thick forests, was lost to the search of his foes, as was the

dead Englishman, to the distress of his family. The English pursued

a system then which has since been adopted by our own countrymen; a

system sometimes productive of great injustice, yet, under the peculiar

circumstances, the best one that could be fixed on. I allude to that of

taking hostages, and retaining them until the offender should be given

up.

O-ko-pee, who had dreamed away his childhood among the most beautiful

scenes of nature, found himself a prisoner, torn from the objects which

were dear to him as life; nay, they were his life, for deprived of them

he sunk to the level of the beasts of the forests.

Immured in a prison, far from the refreshing air of his native hills,

shut in by the bars he vainly strove to loosen or to break, seeing

no more the bear, the buffalo, the otter, or the deer, his heart was

broken.

After many years of imprisonment, useless, for the real murderer

never was found, he was turned loose, like an animal from whence the

owner can no longer derive either amusement or profit: he returned

mechanically to his former occupation. Once again free in the woods, he

was soon a laughing-stock for the Sioux. "He has no heart since he was

prisoner to the white man!" they cried, as he passed to the prairies,

with his vacant look and humbled demeanour. Where was the proud glance

and the free step? Ask those who with the iron arm of power punished

the innocent for the guilty.

Still, as ever, he followed the chase--thirteen deer did he kill in

one day, and never tired of hunting, even as age advanced seemed to

increase his passion for roaming.

Often has he come to us with every variety of game, never breaking

his word, whatever might be the state of the weather. But in coming

or going, giving or receiving, his demeanour and countenance never

changed; his eyes were wandering in vacancy, save when the fire-water,

given by the white man in exchange for the soft furs he brought him,

would tinge his sallow cheeks with the flush of madness, and lighten

his eye with the glances of a fiend, and change from the sober quiet

and calmness of the unhappy idiot to the noisy, reeling, hellish

figure, which seemed a visitant from the world of darkness rather than

a suffering inhabitant of earth.

O-ko-pee is dead. It is not mine to say whether or not, in another

state of existence, he enjoys happiness sufficient in degree to make up

for the heavy trials of life: I have only to do with him here; and as

I have said he lived a sacrifice to the all-conquering and indomitable

spirit of the Saxon race, so did he die.

Some years ago, a band of Sioux, distant from Fort Snelling, attacked a

party of Winnebagoes, taking fourteen scalps. Hearing that the scalps

were carried from village to village, and danced round day after day,

there was a party sent from the Fort to take these scalps from the

Indians, as there was a fear lest the hot blood of the young warriors

should be roused, and serious difficulties would then occur between the

two tribes. So the scalps were brought into the Fort; the affair was

reported at Washington. The Winnebagoes asked for indemnity for the

injuries they had received, and the authorities at Washington decided

that four thousand dollars should be paid to the Winnebagoes out of the

annuities received by the Sioux from our own government. It was in the

summer: the Indian potato, hard and indigestible, was just ripening:

the corn was green. The Sioux were without flour and other provisions;

even if game had been abundant, they had neither powder nor shot.

They pined away by fever and weakness; death stalked among them like

a giant, laughing as he crushed to earth men who were like children

beside him.

Was there no help for them? the mandate had gone forth. The children

fell to the ground dying for want of nourishment; the strong man clung

to the trees for support, and the gray-haired leaned against the

insensible rocks. Few there were who could bring down the game with

their bows and arrows as did their forefathers, and the white people

were crowding in their country and driving the game back where they

were too feeble to pursue it.

Then came forward the kind missionaries to the aid of their unhappy

friends. How liberally they shared with them all that they possessed,

striving too to quiet their minds, agitated by burning fever. They gave

them medicine and food, supporting the dying mother and taking charge

of the infant and the aged. They sought to assuage the agonies of

exhausted nature, directing in its flight the restless spirit standing

upon the borders of life to that happy place where hunger and sickness

are unknown.

It was on one of the warmest days of summer when my little children,

with their father, crossed the St. Peter's, and advanced towards the

trading establishment at Mendota. On the shores of the river one wigwam

was placed, and, attracted by the groans of anguish which proceeded

from it, they entered. It was O-ko-pee dying; yes, dying as he had

lived, a sacrifice to the white man's rule--dying as he had lived,

alone.

No friend supported his aching head, which was burning with fever, or

chafed the cold limbs covered with ashes. Indeed, his head was pillowed

on a bed of ashes. He recognised his visiters, and seeing their young

faces solemnized by what they had never before witnessed, the presence

of death, he spoke to them by name, said he was sick, and asked them

for medicine. It was too late for medicine or sympathy; in another hour

O-ko-pee, the hunter of the Sioux, was gone for ever from the earth.

[Footnote 15: It is customary, when an Indian advances towards manhood,

for him to lose the name bestowed upon him in childhood, obtaining

another by some peculiarity of appearance or conduct, some daring

action or violent passion; thus, Sleepy Eyes, is the name of a chief

among the Sioux, from the drowsy expression of his countenance.]

CHEQUERED CLOUD.

THE AGED SIOUX WOMAN.

I would tell you of a friend of mine:

She's neither rich nor fair;

The snows of many winters

Have bleached her raven hair.

The brightness of her large black eye

Has been dimmed for many years;

And the furrows in her cheek were made

By time and shedding tears.

She is an Indian woman,

And me has often told

Traditions of her native land,

And legends sung of old;

Of battles fiercely fought and won,

Of the warrior as he fell,

While he tried to shield from a fearful death

The wife he loved so well.

Ask her whence her nation came:

With a smile she will reply,

"The Dacotas aye have owned this land,

Where the eagle soars so high;

Where Mississippi's waters flow,

Through bluffs and prairies wide;

Where by Minesota's sandy shore

The wild rice grows beside."

Ask her of her warrior sons,

Who rose up by her side--

Enah! in the fearful battle,

And by sickness they have died--

And of her gentle daughter:

See the tear steals lowly down,

As the memory of the slaughter

Of that frightful night comes on.

Many have been her sorrows,

While ever to her breast

Sickness or want or suffering came,

Like a familiar guest.

Yet, she says there was a time

When her step was light and free,

And her voice as joyous as the bird

That sings in the forest tree.

I said she was my friend:--

I am not one of those,

Who from the wealthy or the great

Companionship would choose.

The soul that animates her frame

Is as gifted and as free,

And will live for ever,--like the one

That God has given me.

She worships the Great Spirit,

Yet often does she tell

Of the fairies that inhabit

Mountain, river, rock, and dell.

She will say to kill a foe

Of religion is a part;

Yet underneath her bosom beats

A kind and noble heart.

She has ever loved to listen

To the savage shout and dance;

To see the red knife glisten

O'er the dying Chippeway's glance.

To watch the prisoner, burning,

Confronting at the stake

His enemies, who vainly strive

His spirit proud to break.

Judge her kindly,--and remember,

She was not taught in youth

To bend the knee and lift the heart

To the God of love and truth.

"Love ye your foes," said He who brought

To us the golden rule;

But "eye for eye," was the maxim taught

In the ancient Jewish school.

We know it was a beggar

Who in Abraham's bosom slept,--

And, haply, her ancestors

By Babylon's waters wept.

While poor, like Lazarus, it may be,

From Israel's stock has come

The red man, tracing out on earth

His God-forgotten doom.

Well I knew, when last we parted,

That, if ever we met more,

'Twould be when life's sweet sympathies

And painful cares are o'er.

She said, while down her aged face

The tears coursed rapidly,

"Many a white woman have I known,

But you were kind to me."

Not half as dear to the miser

Is the yellow gold he saves,--

Or the pearl, to the venturous diver,

Which he seeks beneath the waves,

Or the summer breeze, to the drooping flower,

Fresh from the balmy South,

As those grateful words which slowly came

From the Indian woman's mouth.

She has struggled with the ills of life;

For her no parent's prayers

Have risen to the throne of God,

To sanctify life's cares.

But God will judge her kindly:

He sees the sparrow fall;

And, through his Son's atoning blood,

May he mercy show to all!

FIRE-FACE.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Fire-face was willing to die, he said, but not until he had killed

another white man. He was sincere in acknowledging hatred towards the

people of the United States. There was no doubt but he had stained

his hands with the blood of one white man; but this did not satisfy

him: let him take the life of another, and he was willing to be made

prisoner, and to meet what punishment might be designed for him. The

mantle of Cain had indeed fallen upon him; his heart was turned even

from his own people, and angry threatenings were ever upon his lips,

against those with whom he had grown up side by side. Wabashaw, chief

of one of the bands of Sioux on the Mississippi, left his home, where

the prairies stretch out to the distance, without even a hill to

relieve the level sameness, or trees to shelter them from the short

but intense heat of the summer, to encamp, by permission, on the St.

Peter's River, opposite Fort Snelling. Fire-face, one of the band, was

with them, accompanied by his two wives.

He was feared by all of the band; even the brave chief Wabashaw, whose

life he had threatened, turned from the fierce gaze of the man, over

whom had been cast a spell from the spirits of evil, for he frowned

alike upon friend and foe. Only his wives seemed easy when he was

near, and they not only feared but loved the strange being, whose hand

was against every man's.

He passed the most of his time seated near his lodge, with his

medicine-bag hanging near; his implements of war and hunting glistening

in the light, and his loaded gun ever by his side.

Many efforts had been made to apprehend this desperate man, yet he had

always eluded the pursuit of the soldiers; and now, although aware of

the danger he was in, when living so near the garrison, he appeared

to be perfectly unconcerned, saying, he knew the soldiers would make

every effort to arrest him; but that he would never be taken until

another of the pale faces had fallen by his arm. Wabashaw, the chief,

frequently visited the Fort, always accompanied by his late friend Many

Lightnings, and on every occasion he pressed the necessity of taking

Fire-face prisoner. "He was a bad Indian," said Wabashaw, "who loved to

see blood; and, if allowed to go at liberty, some one would be murdered

by him."

The chief said that he did not sleep at night in his own lodge, but

went for safety to the near village of Mendoto, where he remained until

the sun was high in the heavens the next day. In consequence of these

representations, a party of soldiers was sent to arrest him, and the

Indians were to assist in the capture.

Fire-face was on the lookout: he appeared to show himself in the way

of danger for the pleasure of overcoming it. He would remain at ease

until the party was near him; and then, like an arrow from the bow,

he would fly through the village, no man daring to stay him: and you

might as well have attempted to catch the sunbeam on the waters as the

hunted man. Pursuit was unavailing, and the soldiers each time returned

disappointed to the Fort.

He would soon come back to the encampment. What a courage was his,

thus purposely throwing himself in the way of danger, knowing too that

he had not one friend to whom he could turn. His frightened, helpless

family alone cared for him. It was evidently a pleasure to him to be in

a situation of peril, to show his adroitness in extricating himself.

About ten o'clock one night he sat in his lodge, gloomily meditating on

his position. Could he eventually escape the pursuit of his enemies?

Was he not a doomed man, when the bands of friendship were severed

between him and those with whom he had fought, and whose lives had been

tracing an even course with his?

The children's heavy breathing was the only sound that could be heard.

His wives sat mute in the lodge. He had been hunted to the death, and

now sleep was overcoming him, and his watchfulness was yielding to his

fatigue; while he thought to lay his tomahawk beside him, and seek

repose, the door of his lodge was turned aside, and the long-knives (as

the soldiers were called) were upon him.

Their exulting looks were met by his calmest demeanour: he offered no

resistance; but when the soldiers placed their hands upon his wrists to

secure the captive, he glided from their grasp as easily as a serpent

might pass from the touch of a child; he bounded from their sight, and

again they vainly sought the strange man: the protecting shades of

night were about him, and he knew full well the hiding-places of the

neighbourhood. When out of their reach he laughed as he looked at his

oiled hands and arms, for _there_ was the secret of his escape.

Morning found him again in his lodge, calm, fearless as ever. The Sioux

thought he must wear a charmed life, and they kept from the reach of

his arm: and the children, even his own, played where they could not

see his dark face as he watched their amusements.

There is a spell, however, that few Indians can resist; it is to them

an unfailing quietus for care: they can fancy they are free when

fire-water quickens the coursing of their veins. They curse the white

man from the heart, and hope and look forward to the time when the red

man shall have his own again. They then forget that the outstretched

arms of desolation are ready to clasp them, and that destruction,

like the night-bird, is hovering over their heads with its hoarse cry

sounding to their hearts.

Fire-face could not refuse the charm. The Indians pressed it upon

him, and then informed the soldiers that they were going out with the

intention of hunting, as Fire-face thought, that on this occasion he

might be followed and taken.

The party went on their route, stopping occasionally to drink and to

smoke. Fire-face, overcome by the liquor he had drank, could hardly

keep up with them. His gun swung carelessly from his shoulder, and his

usual gravity was changed for a loud and boisterous cheerfulness.

"The white people fear me," he said, laughing; "well they may, for my

arm is strong, and before I die I will kill another of them. I have

already murdered a white man, and should be satisfied if one of their

women died by my tomahawk. I should like to take her scalp with the

long light hair hanging from it."

The Indians still encouraged him to drink, and as the morning advanced

he became the more unfitted to pursue his way. From a state of passion

and excitement he had passed into one of stupor: at length he rested

himself against a tree, and alternately muttered and dozed.

In the mean time soldiers were following him up. Wabashaw gave

information of the path Fire-face had taken, and they were soon upon

him.

He was a prisoner at last, and that consciousness sobered him. His

hands were bound. One of the Sioux, indignant at this proceeding,

attempted to cut the straps, but was pushed off. After a slight delay,

the soldiers returned with him to the garrison.

He continually reproached himself with his own unwatchfulness, telling

the soldiers that he had always intended killing one of them ere he

should be in their power. He mournfully said it was too late now to

accomplish his purpose.

At about six o'clock in the afternoon he was brought into the Fort.

The news of his capture had reached the encampment of Wabashaw on the

opposite side of the river, and as he approached the guard at the gate

of the Fort, a number of Sioux wore seen watching him. His two wives

stood there, and as their husband's figure passed, guarded and bound,

they literally lifted up their voices and wept.

Fire-face, in the mean time, was turned over to the tender mercies of

the guard, and he was soon seated at the grated window of his cell. I

had heard a great deal of the man, and thought that one who combined

so many terrible traits of character must show it in his countenance:

in order to see this singular being, I determined to visit him in his

cell. We passed the guard-room and entered his dark and dreary-looking

place of confinement. His back was to us, as he was looking through

the bars of his window towards his home. Hearing some one approach,

he turned to us with an expression of face entirely mild; there was

neither passion nor murder portrayed in his features, not even a

restlessness in his manner--only a quiet dignity, a calm unconcern.

He begged of the commanding officer to be shot at once, deprecating the

thought of imprisonment--only let him die or be free. It was in vain to

remind him of his offences: the laws of the white man were not for him.

He then said that he wished to see his wives. The request was granted:

they were sent for, and after a little while they, trembling with fear,

passed the terrible-looking guard and entered their husband's cell,

with their faces covered with their blankets.

The next day a council was held at the council-house, and I could not

resist the wish I had to be present. I longed to see the aborigines

of my country presiding as it were in their own halls of legislature.

There was always a charm and freshness in listening to their unstudied

eloquence.

When I reached the council-house the speaking was nearly over, but the

scene repaid me for the trouble I had taken to witness it.

The warriors were seated in rows round the room on the floor, with the

exception of Wabashaw, Many Lightnings, and a few of the principal

men,--these occupied a bench.

Their dresses were very rich; their fans were of large feathers,

stained in many colours. "The Owl" was looking grave, for he had been

reproved for interfering with the soldiers, by attempting to cut

the prisoner's straps. One old man was in mourning, and he looked

particularly _en dishabille_, his clothing (and there was little of

it) was dirty in the extreme. His face he had painted perfectly black;

his hair he had purposely disarranged, to the greatest degree. Thus

he presented a striking contrast to the elaborately adorned warriors

around him.

Many Lightnings was dressed with scrupulous care. He had been presented

with an old uniform-coat, which he wore with the utmost complacency.

We noticed the warriors were almost all young: we asked where were

all their old men. Wabashaw said, they were all carried off by the

small-pox, which had nearly destroyed their band some years before.

Several of them, besides the chief, were deeply marked from this

disease.

When we left Fort Snelling, Fire-face was still in confinement, but

was soon to go to Dubuque for trial. I learned some months after, that

he had escaped: I thought then, his long-cherished wish might still be

gratified.

DEATH-SONG

OF AN INDIAN PRISONER, FOR A LONG TIME CONFINED AT FORT SNELLING.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Here, in these hated walls

A prisoner I;

Vainly my young wife calls,

As night-winds sigh.

Brightly the white stars shine:

Upwards I gaze,

Seeking this soul of mine

From earth to raise.

Strong Wind, my comrade brave,

Looks sternly by,

Watching the death-film dim

His brother's eye.

Chained are these useless hands;

Cold is my heart;

Soon to the spirits' land

Must I depart.

Pacing my prison dark,

Arms do I see,--

While measured the sentry's step,--

Glance gleamingly.

Once, like the wild deer,

Or eagle, as free,--

Now, closely guarded here,

Prisoners we!

When has the red man felt

Woman's weak fears?

But from these wearied eyes

Fall warriors' tears.

Father of Waters, I

Ne'er shall see more,--

List to its waves pass by,

Beating the shore.

Sleeps my brave comrade now?--

Dreams he of home?

See, o'er his haughty brow

Dark shadows come.

Like me, he fain would be

Where, from the bow,

Piercing the wild deer's side,

Swift arrows go.

When from the waters bright

Fades the red sun,

Following the evening light,

Darkness comes on.

So has my spirit drooped,

Since from my home

Traced I my weary steps,

Ne'er to return.

Hark! in the evening air

Low voices come,--

Bring they to this sad heart

Breathings of home.

Now do the whispers rise,

Mighty the sound,

Like the thunder-bird,[16] from the skies

Hurled to the ground.

"Come to our hunting-lands!

Proudly we roam

Here, where the white man

Never may come.

From our forests on earth

Oft driven back,

We are free now, and follow

The buffalo's track.

"Here is the bright glance,

From maiden's dark eye;

While the song of the feast and dance

Rings through the sky.

Here do we wait thy step,

While soon, for thee,

Bursted the prison bars,

The warrior free!"

[Footnote 16: This is an allusion to the battles of the gods of the

Dacotas. The Thunder (believed to be a bird) is sometimes conquered and

cast to the earth by the god of the woods or the god of the waters.]

THE FALSE ALARM.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

"Yes," said We-har-ka, who had outlived children and grandchildren, whose

face and neck were covered with wrinkles, but who still could walk with

the youngest and strongest, "the old woman must pick up what she can

get to eat. I hate the white people. Have I forgotten the death of my

son? Do I not see him now as he fell dead by the gate of the Fort? What

if the Dacotas had killed some Chippeways! The Dacotas have a right

to kill their enemies. Enah! I hate the Chippeways too. If I were a

warrior, I would ever be tracking them and shooting them down, and I

would laugh when I saw their blood flow."

"The white people caused the death of your son," said Harpen.

"I hate them both," replied We-har-ka. "My son and two others killed some

Chippeways, and they were taken, prisoners, to the Fort, because the

long-knives had said we must not kill our enemies. Then the Chippeways

wanted the Dacotas who murdered their friends, that their women might

cut them in pieces. So the long-knives told the Dacotas they might

start from the gate of the Fort, and run for their lives; but they told

the Chippeways to be there too, and they might fire at them and kill

them if they could. The Chippeways fired, and the three Dacotas fell.

The Chippeways shouted and were glad, and the Dacota women wept. I lay

on the ground many days, with my limbs bleeding. See the scars on my

arms! With this very knife did I make these wounds. I, a widow, and

childless, who has there been to give me food since?

"When Beloved Hail was killed," continued the old woman, "the white men

would not let our warriors go to war against the Chippeways. Red-boy,

too, was wounded by the Chippeways, and even he could not go out to

fight them. Our warriors are like children before the white men."

"Red-boy was badly wounded," said Harpen.

"Yes, he was badly wounded: I saw him at the time. If I were Red-boy,

I would only live to revenge myself on those who had tried to take my

life."

While the woman talked, little Wanska sat by them, playing with her

wooden doll. "Grandmother," said she, "may I take your canoe and go

over to the village? You can come home with the others. I want to talk

to my mother about Red-boy."

"Go, go," said We-har-ka, "our brave men may no longer do brave deeds,

and by the time that you are a woman, there will be no more warriors.

It has been five winters since Beloved Hail was killed and Red-boy

wounded, and no one has avenged them yet."

The child entered the canoe and paddled towards the village, thinking

all the while of what she had heard. "Grandmother says, by the time I

am a woman, there will be no more warriors: what will I do then for a

husband?" and thus divided between the disgrace of not being married,

and the remembrance of Red-boy's wound, which she thought had occurred

recently, she entered the village in a state of trepidation, which

was yet exceeded by the condition in which her mother was thrown,

on hearing the announcement that Red-boy was badly wounded by the

Chippeways; that We-har-ka had seen the wound; that all the old women

were very angry with the Chippeways and white people; then, bursting

into tears, the girl of ten years added: "Mother, the Chippeways and

white men are going to kill all the Dacota warriors, so that, when I am

a woman, I can never have a husband!"

Up rose the eyes and hands of the mother, and down went the moccasins

she was making to the ground; and up and down she made her way

through the village, giving the alarm, that Red-boy was killed by the

Chippeways!

Shall I tell of the scene that followed? Oh! for a pen of magic, to

describe how Red-boy's relations cried, and how everybody's relations

cried with them; how the children ran to their mothers, sheltering

themselves under their _okendokendas_.[17] How the dogs yelped and

howled, and sprung on the children's backs, ready to go wherever

prudence might dictate. How the old men started from sleeping in the

lazy summer's sun, and held their tomahawks as firmly as if time were

made to be laughed at, and the young men throwing away the pebbles with

which they were playing a game of chance, walked swiftly on, bent on

avenging Red-boy.

How the wind all at once began to rise, and the very fish leaped out of

the water, as if they would like to fight too; while already, Indian

runners were far on their way to tell the news at Man-in-the-cloud's

and Good-road's villages, and to give the word to those whom they might

meet, who would take up the cry, and rush forward with revenge on their

lips, and murder in their hearts.

On they went, until they reached the house of the Interpreter, near

Fort Snelling, and then he went with them, to report to the officers at

the Fort of the outrage; that Red-boy was killed, and that the Dacota

warriors wished to go and avenge the death of their friend.

This was, of course, considered an infringement of the treaty of peace

then existing between the two tribes; and the Chippeways had showed

their daring by committing a murder so near the walls of the Fort. It

was immediately determined to send a detachment of soldiers to arrest

the offenders.

In ten minutes a number of men were on the parade-ground, ready to

march, looking as fiercely at the officers' quarters as if they were

about to enter into mortal combat with the doors and windows; obeying

the word of command as quickly as it was reiterated, while the ringing

noise of their ramrods sounded through the garrison.

The Dacotas were perfectly satisfied with the promise made them,

that the Chippeways should be punished in a manner satisfactory to

themselves, for the death of Red-boy.

We women felt quite solemn in the Fort. The Chippeways might resist:

in fact, there was no saying what they might, or what they might not

do. The command in garrison was very small: we felt as if we had been

"through seven wars, and this was the worst of all."

Retreat, the assembling of the command at sundown, came--the evening

gun was fired, and the flag was lowered--and nothing was heard of the

war-party, white or Indian. Tattoo had come, the soldier's bedtime,

and our anxieties were not at rest. Towards twelve o'clock the men

returned with their officer, without having had even a show of fight.

To their intense mortification and disappointment, Red-boy had been

seen, and talked with, large as life. He had eaten a saddle of venison

that day, without any assistance, and was, accordingly, in a good state

of preservation, having received no wound since the one of five years'

standing, the scar of which he showed.

Now, we know that among white people, as well as Indians, women have

the credit of raising all the false reports, and circulating all the

scandal that is going the rounds. Most unjust charge! and all men, red

skins and pale faces, are defied to prove it. Among the Indians women

have no chance whatever. Is an Indian charged with stealing pork from

the traders? It was not the warrior who did it, but his wife. Has a

party of Indians been admitted into the Fort, and some loaves of bread

and pieces of meat been abstracted? Somehow or other the women are sure

to be in fault. Has the garrison been alarmed, and a party of soldiers

sent out uselessly? As usual, the women made the trouble.

Yet, with a sigh from my heart, I must confess that appearances are

against the sex.

There were many threats of vengeance made against We-har-ka in the

present instance, for the trouble which her longings for vengeance had

occasioned; but she was not afraid: she had taken care of herself for

nearly a hundred years, and would be apt to do so during the short

remnant of her life.

Indian women will talk of their wrongs as long as they feel them, and

that will be until the heart has ceased to beat, and the tongue is

silent for ever.

We-har-ka lives on the memory of her sorrows. She holds them to her

heart, as does the mother her child of a day old. They are dear to her

as would be the hope of vengeance.

I say she lives, but I know not. Seasons have gone since I bade adieu

to her home, and it may be, she is all unconscious that winter is gone,

and that summer's breath is waving the green boughs of the forest trees

as they lift up their branches to the heavens.

It must be soon, if not now, that her form, covered with garments of

poverty and misery, and perhaps shielded from the gaze of passers-by by

the tattered blanket of some friend poor as she, reposes quietly near

the river bank.

Would you not like to have heard her talk of her amusements as a

child, and her happiness when a maiden--of the scenes of pleasure she

remembers, and of terror from which she has fled--of the pains, the

hunger, the watchings she has endured--of the storms and sunshine of a

life passed away?

[Footnote 17: An Okendokenda is a part of an Indian woman's dress,

somewhat resembling the sack worn by ladies at the present time,

more open, displaying the throat and chest. It is generally made of

bright-coloured calico.]

[Illustration:

C. Schuessele del. Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.

Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.

INDIAN COURTSHIP]

INDIAN COURTSHIP.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Show me a brighter scene

On our beautiful earth, or where fairies dream!

* * * * *

Tell me where, rocked by the billows high,

The sea-bird pierces the gorgeous sky,

Where the moonbeams rest on the ocean wave--

Where dies the sun o'er the crystal cave.

Where the bell sounds sweet o'er the desert sand,

Like matins that ring in a far-off land.

Where the mountain heaves with its angry voice,

And the lava speeds with its fiercest course;

Where the glaciers glance by the sunbeam's ray,

And the avalanche bursts with resistless sway.

Yet show me a brighter, a fairer scene

On our beautiful earth, or where spirits dream,

Than here! where the leaves of the large trees lave,

As their boughs are bent to the river's wave;

Than here! where night and the white stars come,

Their watch to keep o'er the Indian's home.

Now o'er the waters bright

Glides his canoe,

Throbbing his warrior heart,

Maiden! for you.

Roused from your dreamy sleep,

Bend low and list;

Not once has his well-known tread

Your loving heart missed.

Not far from the wigwam door

Rests he awhile--

But from far has he journeyed

To meet your bright smile.

He speaks to your heart

By the flute's slightest sound,

And its low notes are echoed

By that heart's wildest bound.

He knows if you love him

You'll surely come forth,

And modestly plight him

A maiden's pure troth.

Then come! he will talk

Of his sweet forest home,

Which you will make brighter;

Come! maiden, come!

You move not. Ah! woman,

He will not despair:

He has medicine tied

In the braids of his hair.

Love-medicine, bound

In the white deer's soft breast,

'Twill charm you at last

On his bosom to rest.

Should he wait for your coming

This fair night in vain,

No faint heart has he--

He will charm you again.

A spell he will cast

On your slight graceful form;

Then, wrapped in your blanket-robe,

Maiden, you'll come.

To your parents he'll presents give:

Bright things and new--

Ah! young wives are bought and sold

Among Indians too.

Then, from the mother's side

You will go forth,

The star of a warrior's home,

The light of his hearth.

Come! ere the morning star

Lures him away;

He must meet with the wise men

When breaks the blue day.

Your soft voice must greet him

Ere homeward he turn,

Then close to his throbbing heart

Come, maiden, come!

THE SACRIFICE.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Far away in one of the fair valleys of the West, where dark forests

frown alike in summer, when the richly clad boughs wave to the passing

breeze, and in winter, when the bare maple and thick evergreens are

covered with snow,--far away, just on the borders of the valley, close

by the huge rocks which rear their heads above the bluffs that hang

over the water,--an Indian village, with its many-sized lodges rising

here and there, reposed, as it were, without fear from storm, or the

sun's heat, or the aggressions of enemies. Sometimes, indeed, the

mighty thunder rolled angrily towards it, and the streaked lightning

called over and over again, to the many hills around, to rouse up the

tardy storm-spirits; but they loved not to linger here. Their voices

could be heard in angry murmurs, then they would pass on in the river's

course, with many a wild shout, to seek some spot less lovely on which

to spend their wrath.

A very few miles below the village, an Indian might be seen, slowly

paddling his canoe over the placid waters. The dark lines of his face

were fixed in deep thought. His countenance was pale, though the hue of

his race was there; his nostrils large, and quivering with the remains

of passion; his eyes bright and lustrous, as if with fever; but around

his mouth might be traced an expression which seemed to indicate

that grief as well as passion was struggling with him. As he slowly

touched with his paddle the passive waters, he looked around him with a

bewildered air.

Suddenly, he started, as his eye fell upon something that lay in the

bottom of the canoe; he raised it: 'twas the arrow of his child. How

came it there? and why should the father, forgetting all, as he dropped

unconsciously the paddle into the waters, cover his face with both his

hands, and while the tears forced their way through his fingers, tremble

with remembrances too strong even for him, the Iron Heart, to bear?

All was quiet and peace. Not a voice was heard; even nature's was

still. No human eye looked upon the warrior as he wept. Silence and

solitude surrounded him. The vast prairie that stretched abroad might

have recalled to his mind the unending future, which he was to spend in

the society of the honoured dead. The soft vapoury clouds of evening

that hung over him, might have told him, as they have told many, that

it is not far from the wretched to the land of spirits. The waters,

on which his canoe rested almost motionless, might have called to his

remembrance, that life was a sea, sometimes troubled and sometimes

calm, over which the mortal must pass to reach immortality.

But no such tranquillizing thoughts calmed the tempest which was raging

in his bosom; his bare chest heaved with emotion; but at length he

raised his head, and taking another paddle from the bottom of his canoe

in his right hand, with the other he threw the small arrow that had

occasioned him so many painful thoughts, and watching till the waters

closed over it, he made his way towards the bend in the river, where

lowlands and prairies were no more to be seen, and an hour's time

brought him in sight of the village, and soon he was clambering over

the rocks towards it.

When he met his friends, there was a stern coldness in his manner, and

he replied fiercely to the greeting salutations of his younger wives,

and called for his daughter Wenona, whose mother had long since been

dead, to prepare him some food.

Wenona obeyed with alacrity her father's commands, at the same time

glancing uneasily towards her two step-mothers, whose smothered wrath

she knew would break forth at some future time. They sat silent on the

ground in seeming submission to the will that wrested from them their

rights, in favour of the child of a dead rival; but those accustomed

to read the writing on a woman's countenance, could see they were

rebelliously inclined, but were forced to conceal their vexation under

a calm demeanour.

It was in August, "the moon that corn is gathered." Wenona had during

the long day paid the penalty of her father's love; she had toiled

unceasingly, though the sun scorched her face and bosom; the watchful

eyes of her father's wives were upon her, and when he was absent, they

hardly allowed her a moment's rest. Her young companions wondered

at the little spirit she showed; but Wenona was of a peace-making

disposition, and preferred submission to contention. The large bundles

of corn she had gathered during the day were hanging outside the

wigwam to dry. Not even had she allowed herself time to join the other

girls, who were diving at noon in the cool waters, and raising their

heads up to call Wenona, looking like mermaids as the water flowed from

their long, unbraided hair.

It was not long before she placed before Iron Heart his evening meal,

venison and boiled corn--while her face was so good-humoured, and her

motions so easy and graceful, that one would suppose the wrath of the

evil spirits themselves would have been disarmed, much less the anger

of those to whose children she so often sung sweet lullabies. Iron

Heart did not relish his food; but tasting the venison, then lighting

his pipe, he appeared lost to what passed before him: he often looked

in Wenona's face, with a strange repentant look, as if he had done her

an injury, but sought to conceal it in his own bosom.

After a while he rose, and joined a group of warriors, who were seated

without the wigwam, Wenona following in his protecting shadow, out of

the reach of complaint or reproof.

The group that Iron Heart joined was composed of the principal men of

the band, who were listening to the words of one of their wisest men.

No one interrupted him, as he boasted of the feathers he had won, as

he told of the bears and buffaloes he had destroyed; no one showed

impatience as he dwelt upon the time when he was young, and all admired

his feats of valour and strength. Respect and attention were on every

countenance, as the white hair of the old man was lifted from his brow

by the evening breeze.

He told them they had long been at peace with the Chippeways;

their young men were becoming like women, without the ennobling and

exciting employment of war. That the edge of the tomahawk was blunted

for want of use. He said the Chippeways had again intruded on their

hunting-grounds, and it was time that the war-cry of the Dacotas should

be heard, to show their enemies their power.

The old man, who had lived nearly a century, ceased speaking, and The

Buffalo, who leaned against a tree near the others, turned towards

them, as if he, too, would speak.

"My words are not good, like the words of the aged; my voice is low,

like the sound of the waters in a small stream, but the wise speak, and

the sound of the Father of many Waters is in your ears. But our brave

men say they are at peace with the Chippeways: they promised they would

bury the hatchet deeper than the roots of our tallest trees; they said

we would live together like friends, and that the war-cry only should

be heard when we joined together against our enemies."

The old man prepared to answer him: his limbs shook with rage and

excitement; he raised his finger, and pointed towards The Buffalo,

then, when the crimson blood dyed his cheeks, he said, "Shame on the

coward who fears his enemies: go gather corn with the women, and the

old and feeble man will die with his tomahawk raised against those who

hate his nation."

In vain The Buffalo essayed to speak: they would not hear him; and he

left the council amid the sneers of all.

War was decided upon; and night was fast approaching when Wenona, with

pale and agitated looks, pressed forward among the warriors. "My

father," said she, "where is my brother?"

Iron Heart started; but recovering himself, he replied, "I know not.

Seek him yourself, if you would find him."

"I have sought him," she said, "but the old woman, Flying Cloud, tells

me I may seek him no more, for she saw his body floating down the

river, as she came up in her canoe. She laughed, too, and said I would

see him one day in the land of spirits."

All looked towards Iron Heart, but he made his way among them, and

returned to the wigwam. In vain Wenona wept, and besought him to go in

search of her brother; not even would he inquire of Flying Cloud.

"I will go, then, and look for him myself," said the girl. "Is he not

my brother, my mother's son?"

"Cease your noise," said her father, sternly. "If the Great Spirit

have called my son, is he not already a brave warrior in the city of

spirits?"

Wenona was quiet at her father's rebuke, but her heart was ill at ease.

She hoped he would return in the night. She remembered that Flying

Cloud was always bitter and ill-tempered; and besides, was not her

brother at home on the water? Could he not swim as easily as he could

tread down the grass on the prairie? She reasoned herself into the hope

that Chaské had been tired, and had laid down to rest; and she fell

asleep with the expectation that his merry voice would arouse her at

break of day.

And how did he sleep in whose heart lay the secret of the death of his

son? in whose ear was sounding the voice of that son's blood?

* * * * *

In vain might we seek to follow Wenona in her untiring search for her

brother--she knew all his accustomed haunts--at one time making her way

over rock and crag, to find out the eagle's home; at another, pushing

her small canoe up the stream, where the beavers made their houses;

weeping, yet hoping too.

Day after day passed thus: and ever as she returned to the village

would Flying Cloud tell her she must go beyond the clouds to seek him.

Iron Heart neither assisted in the search for the boy, nor spoke of his

loss. He was calm as usual: yet in the last four days he seemed to have

lived as many years.

He employed himself sharpening the instruments he was soon to use

against the Chippeways, while hanging near the medicine-sack, which was

attached to a pole outside the wigwam, was a knife which glittered in

the sun, which was only touched or moved by himself.

Days and weeks passed by: Wenona ceased to look for her brother, or

hope for his return; yet still she wept. The heart of the motherless

girl clung ever in thought to him who had been not only her companion,

but her charge from his birth. She had taken him from her mother's

bosom when dying; she had watched his childish sports, and sung to him

the legends of her people. Could she have closed his eyes, and wept at

his feet, her grief would not have been so hopeless. It often occurred

to her that her father was not unacquainted with the circumstances of

his death.

* * * * *

Strange and solemn was the secret of the death of the Indian boy.

Dearly loved by his father, they stood together one day by the river's

side. "Did you not say, my father," said the boy, "that we would go to

the forest for the deer? Let us go now; my arrows are swift and strong,

and to-morrow the girls will come and help us drag them in. Come, my

father, your looks have been sad for many days, but you will laugh when

you see the red deer fall as we strike them. The old woman, Flying

Cloud," continued the boy, "says she knows what is going to happen to

me. She says I will never go to war against the Chippeways; that my

knife shall never sever the scalps from the head of my enemy; that my

voice shall not be heard in the council, nor shall my wife ever stand

at the door of her lodge to wait my coming. But I laughed at her: she

is old and poor; she loves not the young and happy. See her now, my

father, as she stands upon that high rock, waving her arms to me. What

have you done to her that she hates you so? She says she has cast a

spell upon our race."

"Flying Cloud is not of our clan, my son," replied Iron Heart; "her son

died, and she says my mother caused his death. She says she cannot die

till my mother is childless like herself. But come, before the night we

must kill many deer."

"Is your knife sharp?" said the boy; "you know we must draw the skins

off while they are warm. My sister will work our moccasins and leggins.

She says she is never so happy as when she is sewing for me."

Shall we follow them--shall we penetrate the deep forests to see the

father raise his knife to pierce from side to side the strong, healthy

frame of his son!

Not in anger did he take the life that was dearer to him than his own.

Was the burden of his sins lying heavily against his heart? Who shall

tell his agony when he saw the blood flow! Who shall say how his soul

was wrung with grief as the reproachful face of his much-loved child

was turned towards him in death!

The wild deer flew past, but he saw them not. The serpent glided by as

it did in Paradise, but its stealthy motion was unobserved. The sweet

song-birds raised their notes to the sky, but they all fell unheeded on

the ear of the father who had taken the life of his son.

Raising the form of the boy in his arms, he bore it carefully to the

shore, and casting it where the current hurried impetuously on, the

dead boy was borne along to share the lot of many who will rest in their

ocean grave, till the land and the sea shall alike give up their dead.

When I reflect on the tradition of the Sioux, that once only has human

life been offered in sacrifice, and then a father took the life of his

son--when in the quiet night I mind me of those whose destiny seems now

to be in our power for good or evil, I remember that when the world

was new, Abraham, in holy faith, yet with a breaking heart, led his

much-loved child--the child of hope and promise, to sacrifice his life

in obedience to the command of God. Can you not see his lip quiver and

his cheek turn pale as he lays him on the altar? Can you not hear the

throbbings of his heart as he binds him to the wood?

Abraham's son was spared, but I mind me of another sacrifice, where

God spared not his own Son, but yielded him, the pure and sinless, a

sacrifice for the guilt of all.

A LULLABY.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Lo! by the river-shore Wenona weeping,

Lashed to its cradle-bed her young child sleeping,

While 'neath the forest trees the dead leaves lying,

Mournful, and sad, and low, the autumn winds are sighing.

Lists she to hear his footstep proud advancing?

Gazes, to see his tomahawk brightly glancing?

Watching the tossing waves, weary and lonely,

Faithful her breaking heart, loving him only.

Raising her drooping form, hearing her infant cry,

Pressing him to her breast, sings she a lullaby.

Sleep on, my warrior son!

Ne'er to his childhood's home,

Waiting our greeting smile,

Will thy brave father come.

Shouting the loud death-cry

With the grim warrior band,

Singing the giant's songs,

Dwells he in spirit land.

Turning from brave to brave,

See his keen eye

As he glances around him,

And smiles scornfully.

I knew when he left me,

(The strawberries grew

On the prairies green,

And the wild pigeon flew

Swift o'er the spirit lakes,)

Then o'er my heart

Came a dark shadow

Ne'er to depart.

I watched, from the door

Of my tupee,[18] the band

As they turned from their home

To the Chippeways' land.

I watched and I wept,

As thy father, the last

Of the many tall braves,

From my tearful gaze passed.

Wake not, my young son,

For thy father sleeps sound,

And his stiffened corse lies

On his enemy's ground.

Wake not, my brave child,

Thou wilt wrestle, too soon,

With the miseries of life,--

'Tis the red man's dark doom.

O'er the fate of the Indian

The Great Spirit has cast

The spell of the white man--

His glory is past.

Like the day that is dying

As fades the bright sun,

Like the warrior expiring

When the battle is done.

Soon no more will our warriors

Meet side by side,

To talk of their nation,

Its power and pride.

'Tis the white man who rules us

And tramples us down;

We are slaves, and must crouch

When our enemies frown.

Sleep on, my young son,

I'd fain have thee know

As the warrior departs

Did thy brave father go.

He feared not the white man,

While the Chippeway knew

He could boast when he scalped

The Dacota he slew.

Sleep on, to our desolate

Tupee we go;

Soon the winter winds come,

And the cold and the snow.

He is gone who would bring

To us covering warm,

Would supply us with food,

And would shield us from harm.

I have listened full oft,

As the white woman told

Of the city of life,

Where the bright waters rolled;

Where tears never come,

Where the night turns to day,--

I gladly would go there,

But know not the way.

Ah! ye who have taken

From the red man his lands,

Who have crushed his proud spirit,

And bound his strong hands;

If ye see our sad race

In ignorance bowed down,

And care not to see it,

Ye have hearts made of stone.

Sleep on, my young son,

For soon will we know

If to the heaven of the white man

The Dacota may go.

We are children of earth,

We must meekly toil on

'Till the Great Spirit call us,

My warrior son!

[Footnote 18: Tupee is the Dacota word for house or wigwam.]

[Illustration:

C. Schuessele del. Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.

Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph^{a.}

SOUNDING WIND.

The Chippewa Brave.]

SOUNDING WIND;

OR, THE CHIPPEWAY BRAVE.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Hast thou mourned! oh mourn no longer:

Death is strong, but love is stronger.

The amnesties that have been made between the Sioux and Chippeways for

many years have been of short duration: it appears now that the two

nations will be friendly only when the lion and the lamb shall lie down

together, should the two nations exist at that happy period. The sight

of each other's blood is as precious to a Chippeway or Sioux as would

be the secret of perpetual youth to an octogenarian, who eagerly grasps

his tenure for life, loving, and fearing to lose it to the last. At the

time of my story, a longer peace than usual had existed between the

two nations. They hunted and danced, and even married together. Many

a child, that had never trembled at hearing the war-whoop, wondered

at the old men's stories, that invariably closed with the triumph of

the Dacota tomahawk over the weaker blade of the enemy: but that child

grew to be a man only to hate a Chippeway, as his father had done in

youth; one offence had brought on another, and the slumbering spirit

of vengeance that had reposed in the hearts of the red men was roused

up, and with a double vengeance foe sought foe. In vain were the women

and children hidden in the holes of the earth at night for safety;

they were hunted out, as the starving wolf scents its prey: after the

desperate fight was over, when the strong were laid low, then were the

aged and the infants dragged from their hiding-places.

The red morning sun, parting the sullen clouds, hid again from the

sight of the blood that was covering the ground, and dyeing the very

stream where but yesterday the village belle, seated by its fair banks,

listened to the words that every maiden loves to hear.

A sad scene was presented at the village of Gray Eyes: the old chief

lay helpless among those who had obeyed his slightest word, the glaze

of death dimming an eye that for more than eighty winters had watched

the snow, as it drifted from vale to vale. Life had not yet departed:

you could feel the pulse still flutter, and the heart faintly beat, but

the thoughts of the chief were in spirit-land, and his soul hasted to

burst its prison bars, that it might renew the combat where the Dacotas

would aye be the victors.

A gleam of life and consciousness passed over his faded features, as an

Indian girl advanced towards him: it was a child he dearly loved, soon

to be left without a protector.

"My daughter," said the old man feebly, as the maiden threw herself on

the ground beside him, and covered with her tears his cold hands; then

raising herself, as she saw the wound still bleeding, she tore a piece

from her okendokenda, and endeavoured to staunch it. "It is too late,

my child; the soul of your father longs to join the warriors who live

in the land of spirits. Where are your brothers?"

"There!" said the weeping girl, pointing to the dead bodies that lay

across each other.

"And your mother?"

"There too," she answered; "all are gone, my father, but you and me.

I knew how the rocks lay, and where I could hide myself, and there I

stayed, hearing my mother's cries, and my brothers' shouts, as they

died. I saw, too, the Chippeways, as they carried away the scalps. When

you are gone what will become of me? Who will care for Wenona?"

"Not Wenona," said her father, "but 'The Lonely One.' That will be your

name when you will have neither father nor brother left. But see,"

continued the old man, "our enemies' blood! Your brothers fought well:

they have already passed the warriors' road to the City of Spirits."

His breath came quickly--big drops stood on his forehead--another

struggle--a last sigh--and Wenona was indeed "the lonely one."

The attack of the night before had not been unexpected. The Sioux had

placed pickets around their village, and a guard had been kept; but

their enemies were too wily for them. The violent storm that raged

during the battle was favourable to the Chippeways; they were upon the

Sioux ere the watches had heard the slightest sound, except the wind,

and the peals of thunder that shook the earth. Some escaped with their

families from the lower end of the village, but almost all who remained

to fight for their families were massacred with them.

While Wenona awaited the struggle, she was overcome with fear and

excitement; but now she was as one without hope. The blow had been

struck. Chippeway and Sioux had fallen in the death-struggle, locked in

the embrace which bound foe to foe. She had given her heart's devoted

love to one whom she must now consider as her enemy. Sounding Wind, a

noble young Chippeway, handsome in person, and already favoured among

his own people, had promised to take her to his wigwam when the two

nations were at peace, though there were many then who foreboded the

strife that would rend the ties of friendship between the nations. Even

after hostilities had commenced, Sounding Wind had sworn to himself the

woman he loved should be his wife, though every brave in the nation

might stand between him and the accomplishment of his vow.

Wenona, as she rose from her father's body, gazing upon the scene of

terror before her, looked like the flower beside her, which still

reared its head, though its fair companions were all crushed to the

earth by the storm of the night. Silence and death reigned here--nature

was as tranquil as the hearts of her children. Near by swept the lake

of the thousand isles: undisturbed were its waters; there was no

requiem for the dead, even in the passing breeze.

"My heart weeps," murmured the girl; "but shall the bodies of my

friends remain until night brings the wolves and hungry birds? Sounding

Wind has forgotten the maiden who loves him. He told me our village

should be safe; that he would talk like a wise man; that he would lead

the Chippeways far away from us: that, as the little islands sleep

peacefully in the lake through the long summer's day, so might I rest

from fear for myself and for my friends.

"I will go alone and find our people, that they may come and help me

bury our dead. Why should I fear, when all who have loved me are gone,

and he who once loved me would take my life as he would pierce the deer

on the prairie?"

Wearily she turned her steps, intending to go to the nearest village,

avoiding the dead bodies at every step: yet her moccasins were red with

blood, which, as she pursued her way, crimsoned the earth at her feet.

The reverence that every Indian woman feels for all things connected

with death, gave her courage to undertake the task before her. Every

change in the scene brought with it some reminiscence: grief for the

dead were connected with each, but there were thoughts of the living

hard to bear.

_Here_ had she sat with her mother, working with porcupine quills gay

garments for her brothers. _Here_ had she stood and watched the canoe

of her lover; here had he given her the charm which she still wore

about her neck: it was to secure her from any accident till she had

left her friends, and until the gods that the Chippeways worshipped

were hers.

She pursued her way; but as the waters became bright with the warm rays

of the sun, and the pleasant breezes were wafted to the shore, a sense

of oppression and fatigue overcame her.

In vain she essayed to rouse herself to the task before her: it was,

indeed, in vain, for at last she threw herself under a large tree, and

yielded to the repose which exhausted nature demanded. She slept on for

hours as calmly as if she could only remember and look forward to joy.

Bright eyes were glancing before her--laughter greeted her ears, she

was a child again in her dreams, and passing over the gay waters with

her boy lover by her side.

Sounding Wind, we have said, was already a man of consequence in his

tribe; but he had refused to accompany the war-party of the preceding

night, nor did he seek to hide his reasons. They had lived peaceably

with the band that lived near the Lake of the Thousand Isles. While he

was willing to resent the aggressions of the band that by treacherous

acts had broken their faith, he would not assail those who had given

them no cause of offence.

A better reason was in his heart: the love he bore to Wenona was

strong, even stronger than death; and could he raise a murderous

tomahawk against her family? He was anxious to know the result of the

attack on the Sioux. He met the Chippeways as, taking the trail by the

river, they were on their way home.

Shortly after he joined them, they seated themselves by the great tree

whose branches sheltered Wenona. They were resting and eating. Sounding

Wind stood by them: no one interfered with his gloomy mood--there was

that in him that kept them in control. They were all silent, when

suddenly a sigh of grief and fatigue was uttered near them. Startled by

it, each warrior rose to his feet and grasped his knife and tomahawk.

Sounding Wind sprung over the bushes that were between them and the

spot from whence the sigh issued.

At his feet, just rousing from slumber, was the girl who was dearer

to him than home or friends. One gleam of joy at seeing her again,

one shade of terror at her probable fate, and the young man, placing

himself between her and the Chippeways who had followed him, showed

himself ready to protect her so long as his arm could wield the

tomahawk that glistened in the sun.

"Come not towards her," he said to them, for they had recognised her by

her dress, "she is my prisoner. I first touched her--I claim her before

you all. I am your chief. I have led you against the Sacs and Foxes,

and I will lead you against the Dacotas, who have become our enemies,

but this girl's life shall be spared, for she is to be my wife.

"I have taken her prisoner: I shall spare her life. Am I not a

Chippeway? and shall I forget my promise to her, to make her my wife?"

Wenona had covered her face with her hands, every moment expecting the

blow that would terminate her sorrows; but no one offered to touch her.

They were many and strong in the love of revenge. Sounding Wind was

but one; but stronger than a host was the love that made him brave the

stern spirits before him.

She arose at the bidding of her lover. She eat of their food, and

pursued, without fear of harm, her journey to her new home. There,

amid the struggles of the Sioux and Chippeways, she was ever safe.

And happy, too, save when the remembrance of the fate of her family

came between her and the bright visions that cheer and gladden even an

Indian woman's home, when the love of her husband and children hallow

it.

AN INDIAN BALLAD.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

"Take me away," said one they called the "Drooping Eye,"

"Bear me where stoops the deer to drink at eve."

She would behold the clouds of heaven float gently by,

And hear the birds' sweet song ere earth to leave.

Close is the wigwam,--oh! give her light and air;

Say, can her spirit wing itself for flight,

Losing the perfume borne from flowers fair,

As comes on them and her the gloom of night?

On them and her,--but they will bloom again,

When breaks the day on earth, by sleep spellbound,--

Refreshed by morning winds, or summer's rain,

Gilding with colours bright the dewy ground.

Oh! bear her gently; lay her feeble form

Close by the lake, where beam the waters bright:

Oft has she watched from here the coming storm,

And oft, as now, the glow of evening's light.

Why weep her friends that fails her parting breath,

That cold the pressure of her powerless hand!

List!--Ye may hear from far the voice of death,

Calling from earth her soul to spirits' land.

Well do they know the fairies of the lake,

That with its waves have mingled oft her tears,

Here would she nature's solemn silence break

With the death-song of woman's hopes and fears.

I go,--I go,

Where is heard no more

The cry of sorrow or pain;

I will wait for you there,

Where skies are fair,

But I come not to earth again.

Mother, you weep!

Yet my body will sleep

Right near you, by night and by day:

And, when comes the white snow,

You will still weep, I know,

That the summer and I've passed away.

When the storm-spirit scowls,

When the winter-wind howls,

Oh! crouch not in cowardly fear.

Not unwatched, then, the form

That with life once was warm,--

My spirit will ever be near.

My sisters! full well

A dark tale I could tell,

How my lover in death slumbers sound:

My brother's strong arm,

Made the life-blood flow warm:

And he laughed as it covered the ground.

I heard his deep sigh,

I saw his closed eye,

I knew that life's struggle was past.

When his heart ceased to beat,

Then I wept at his feet,--

My first love, my only, my last.

Well my proud brother knew

That my heart was as true

To my love as the bird to its mate.

I go to him there,

Where flowers bloom fair:

Will his spirit the Drooping Eye wait?

Comes quickly my breath!

The dampness of death,

Oh! wipe from my brow with thy hand.

Earth's sorrows are o'er,

I may weep never more,--

Tears are not in that bright spirits' land.

OLD JOHN.

THE MEDICINE-MAN.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

If ever "life was a fitful fever," it was with Old John, the

Medicine-Man.

Coming to the Fort at times when you would not suppose any human

being would expose himself to the elements,--always laughing, always

hungry--seating himself before the fire to sleep, and starting up the

moment his eyelids closed over his restless, twinkling eyes--talking

for ever and singing in the same breath--troublesome and intrusive,

yet always contriving to be of use. And useful he often was to an

artist who was with us; for he would stand, sit, or lean, assuming and

retaining the most painful attitudes, looking good-humoured all the

time, and telling of his many wonderful adventures and hairbreadth

escapes.

He came to us one day in the middle of winter, for the picture of the

medicine-feast was in progress, and he had promised to show how the

priest was to be represented, that the white people might know in very

truth how were conducted the sacred ceremonies of the Dacotas.

While he warms himself, and eats, and smokes, he has as usual a great

deal to say, and this in a half-muttered tone; for he is a little

drowsy from the effect of the fire on his chilled limbs.

He takes from his head the three-cornered cloth hood which is worn by

the men in severe weather, and throws his blanket a little from his

shoulders, displaying his handsomely embroidered coat.

There is the strongest odour of smoke and stale tobacco from his dress,

and he laughs heartily as we throw open the doors and windows for the

benefit of the fresh air.

How many strange stories he has of the different medicine-feasts,

and in each he figures largely. About some portions of the dance he

is silent; you may question him closely, but you get no satisfactory

answer.

He tells that the feast commences when there is no sun in the heavens;

at midnight, when often even the moon and stars are hiding their light.

He cannot tell white people what occurs then, nay, even the uninitiated

Indians would not dare intrude themselves upon the scene; only the

medicine-men and women are allowed to be present. Neither entreaties

nor bribes have any effect: he will not intrust to your keeping the

solemn secret. All we may know of this part of it is, that the feast

is given in honour of some departed friend, and these ceremonies are

taking place near where lies the body. A conversation is carried on

with the dead, and food is placed near, that the spirit may eat.

"Bury my dead out of my sight." This is not the sentiment of the Dacota

mourner. The mother wants her child to rest on the boughs of the tree,

under which she has sat and lulled it to sleep in her arms. Here,

while she works, she can see its form swayed by the branches, rocked

by the summer winds: its innocent spirit, according to her faith, must

still guard the decaying frame. She feels not the separation so keenly,

when she fancies the soul of her first-born is hovering round her. She

steals away from the noisy revelling in the wigwam to weep. She can

hardly recall the bright eye and healthy glow, which once belonged to

the lost one, but the suffering countenance and wasting frame are ever

before her; and in the loud call of the night-bird, she often fancies

she hears again the cry with which her young child yielded up its life.

Old John is telling of the medicine-feast. He shows us the medicine-bag

which he uses: it is an otter skin, though sometimes a mink, a swan, or

even a snake, is used, and often has he performed wonderful cures, or

executed terrible vengeance, by the power of this medicine-bag.

He will not say what is the medicine which the skin contains; whether

it is a root, or the leaf of a tree, a precious gum, a mineral

substance, or the bone of some animal which has been preserved for

centuries. He says that he breathed into the nostrils of the dead

animal, and thus imparted to it qualities which made it sacred. Thus

has he often restored to life the dying man, and by the same power has

he cast the spell of misfortune, disease, and even death, upon one he

hated. This is why he is so much feared.

Feared by all, but most by the women, Old John's eyes twinkled until

you could only see a black line, when he told how he could frighten the

women in the dance, by holding towards them the skin which contained

the medicine of his clan.

As if to afford him an opportunity of proving the truth of his

statements, two or three squaws had just brought venison to the

kitchen, and we sent for them to pay them, and, at the same time, to

give them the chance of talking a little--a privilege of which all

women are glad to avail themselves.

The picture was half done; the medicine-man was to be represented

jumping towards the women, with his dreaded medicine-bag; and Old John

assured us it was invariably the case that the person he selected from

the crowd fell down as if in a fit. This, he insisted, was purely the

effect of his medicine. He offered to prove this by exercising his

prerogative as a medicine-man upon the women who had just entered the

room. The women were much fatigued, and glad of a chance to rest. They

little expected to see any part of a medicine-feast celebrated in a

white man's house.

The artist seated himself before his easel, and commenced sketching the

figure of the medicine-man. Old John stoops, and holds the bag with

both hands, as if ready to dart it towards some person. You wonder how

he can retain his painful position so long a time. The veins in his

temple swell, and his hands tremble, yet he does not offer to move

until the sketch is made. Then, when told he is at liberty to sit down,

he gives a merry, mischievous look towards us, and commences going

round the room, singing with a loud voice, holding the bag as if about

to avenge on some one present a long-remembered injury.

The women were taken completely by surprise. From the moment Old John

commenced his performance in earnest, they showed every symptom of

terror, now covering their faces with their hands, and crying "Enah!

Enah!" and again, as the medicine-man passed round the room, looking

after him as if he were something supernatural, instead of being

a compound of art and wickedness. He was now going to embrace the

opportunity that had presented itself to convince us of the ease with

which he could excite the superstitious fears of these women.

He continued going round the room in measured time, and it was

impossible not to observe the increasing awe which was stealing upon

the women. He kept perfect time to his own music, stopping the while,

as if absorbed in the thoughts attendant on the celebration of a

religious ceremony--when suddenly he sprang towards the women, holding

the bag close in the face of one of them.

The woman sank to the ground: a severe and stunning blow could not have

had a more immediate effect on her system than the terror into which

she had been thrown. She lay on the ground motionless, with her hands

pressed over her eyes. Old John, perfectly satisfied with the result of

his experiment, laid down his medicine-bag, and seated himself on the

carpet.

We spoke to the woman, and endeavoured to rouse her. For some minutes

she appeared not to hear; but, after arising, she looked as pale and

ill as if she had indeed been in the presence of an evil spirit; and

she was at that very time, for I doubt if in the Sioux or any other

country a more determined and hopeless reprobate could be found than

Old John.

I wondered to observe the trepidation into which a female of so strong

and healthy a frame could be thrown. To what could it be ascribed, but

to the influence of an all-powerful superstition on a mind chained by

ignorance to its natural estate of dark degradation?

Among the most curious ideas of the Sioux are those concerning the

Aurora Borealis, which is considered a kind of goddess of war. Old John

will tell you all about her; for not only is he skilled in all that

relates to the mysteries of his religion, but, if you will take his

word for it, he has seen all kinds of visions. He will tell you how the

gods look--for he has seen them at different times--and to no better

person could you apply for information about the Aurora (as they call

her, Waken-kedan, the old woman). He will tell you that she is one of

their chief objects of worship; that her favour and protection are

invoked as a necessary preparation for going to war.

Old John declares he has had several visions of the goddess. When she

has appeared to him, she has given him the most minute directions as to

the hiding-places of the enemy. Sometimes she insures success to the

party;--if, however, she predicts misfortune, it is sure to occur.

The goddess, he says, wears little hoops on her arms. When she appears

to the war-chief, if they are to be successful, she throws as many

of these hoops on the ground as they are to take scalps. These hoops

resemble the hoops that the Indians use in stretching the scalps of

their enemies, when they are preparing for the scalp dance. But,

should the goddess throw broken arrows on the ground, woe to the

war-party! for this tells the chief how many of his comrades are to be

scalped, an arrow for a scalp.

Sometimes, when the successful party is on its return, it is made more

triumphant by the appearance of the goddess. She does not then take

the form of a woman, but quietly enfolds the heavens with her robe of

light. This they interpret as a favourable omen. The heavens, they say,

are rejoicing on their account; the stars shine out brighter in honour

of their victory; while, to use the Indian warrior's own words, it is

as if their goddess said to them, "Rejoice and dance, my grandchildren,

for I have given you victory." "The old woman," he says, wore a cap,

on the top of which were little balls or knots, of the same kind

with which warriors adorn themselves after having killed an enemy.

She held in her hand an axe, with a fringe fastened to the handle:

this represents an axe that has killed an enemy, as it is a universal

custom among the Sioux to attach a strip of some kind of animal to the

implement that was used in battle.

The Aurora appears and disappears at the pleasure of the goddess, or

as she is sometimes called, "the old woman who sits in the north."

It is not to be wondered at that the minds of this people should be

thus impressed with the brilliant flashing of the Aurora, in their far

northern home.

Her appearance is not always considered a favourable omen. Sometimes

it is a warning of coming danger. The mind, overwhelmed with ignorance

and superstition, is apt to read darkly the signs of nature; while a

prospect of success in any contemplated undertaking will change the

interpretation.

* * * * *

Old John loves to tell of another of his gods, the meteor; of this god

they stand in great awe, calling him Waken-ne-ken-dah, or man of fire.

He strides through the air to punish recreant Indians, who forget the

claims of the Great Spirit upon them. Around this god is ever a circle

of fire, while small meteors flow from this "great fiery man." In each

hand he holds a war-club of bone, and every blow is fatal to that Sioux

who deserves his condemnation. He is said to be very wily, attacking

the Indians when they are asleep.

On this account Sioux are often timid about sleeping out of doors; they

have traditions of Indians having been carried off by these errant

meteors.

Old John thinks the "great fiery man" does not deserve a reputation for

bravery, as he never attacks a waking foe. He says there was once a

Sioux who, tired and sleepy, laid down, rolling himself in his blanket,

though the weather was hot, for the musquitoes were biting him, and

rendering it impossible that he should obtain any rest. The first thing

of which he was conscious was the sensation of being whirled through

the air, passing over miles of prairies and forests with the speed of

light.

All at once they approached a small pond, which was full of mallard

duck. The appearance of the meteor threw the inhabitants of the lake

into the greatest trepidation, and in consequence a most unearthly

quacking took place. The fiery man not being aware of the cause of this

commotion, never having seen a duck, dropped his affrighted burden,

gladly making his way back to the regions of space.

But it will be impossible to get anything more from Old John to-day:

the savoury fumes of the kitchen have reached our sitting-room. He has

done with the arts and with religion; he is enough of a philosopher to

take the goods "the gods provide:" and the hearty dinner that he ate

showed that the mystical attributes of a medicine-man did not prohibit

him from the indulgence of his appetite; while the Sioux women were

well repaid for their venison and their fright by some gaudy calico,

for okendokendas, and a few needles, thread, and some other "notions,"

of great value among them.

A REMONSTRANCE.

BY ELIZA L. SPROAT.

While the warm, sweet earth rejoices,

And the forests, old and dim,

Populous with little voices,

Raise their trilling hymn,--

Chime _our_ notes in joyous pleading

With the million-tonéd day;

We are young, and Time is speeding--

Sweet Time, stay!

We would hold the hasty hours,

Ope them to the glowing core,

Leaf by leaf, like folded flowers,

Till they glow no more.

We are mated with the Present,

Bosom friends with dear To-day:

Loving best the latest minute,

Sweet Time, stay!

Sovereign Youth! all dainty spirits

Wait on us from earth and air;

From the common life distilling

But its essence rare.

Golden sounds, to Age so leaden,

Eden sights, to Age so drear:

Sweet illusions, subtle feelings,

Age would smile to hear.

Happy Youth! when fearless bosoms

With their wealth of follies rare,

Loose their thoughts, like summer blossoms,

To the generous air,

When we sit and mock at sorrow,

Looking in each other's eyes;

Greeting every new to-morrow

With a new surprise.

Father Time, if thou wert longing

For a luxury of rest,

I know where the moss is greenest,

Over toward the west:

I would hide thee where the shadows

Cheat the curious eye of day;

I would bury thee in blossoms--

Sweet Time, stay!

Where the bees are ever prosing,

Lulling all the air profound;

Where the wanton poppies, dozing,

Hang their heads around;

Where the rill is tripping ever,

Trilling ever on its way,

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

All the happy day.

I would keep thee softly dreaming,

Dreaming of eternity,

Till the birds forget their sleeping

In the general glee;

Till the stars would lean from heaven

In the very face of day,

Looking vainly for the even--

Sweet Time, stay!

Hope is with us, chaunting ever

Of some fair untried to be;

Lurking Love hath prisoned never

Hearts so glad and free:

Yet, unseen, a fairy splendour

O'er the prosing world he flings;

Everywhere we hear the rushing

Of his rising wings.

As the tender crescent holdeth

All the moon within its rim,

So the silver present foldeth

All the future dim:

Oh! the _prophet_ moon is sweetest,

And the life is best to-day;

Life is best when Time is fleetest--

Sweet Time, stay!

A FINE ART DISREGARDED.

BY ELIZABETH WETHERELL,

AUTHOR OF "THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD."

"A man that looks on glass

On it may stay his eye;

Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass:

And then the heaven espy."

I took a walk with my father last evening. Now the pleasure of this

walk was so great that I will even jot down some notes of its history.

It was just the pretty time of a summer's day,--the sun's "parting

smile," when he has a mind to leave a pleasant impression behind him:

the hot hours were past; the remnant of a sweet north wind, which had

been blowing all day, just filled the sails of one or two sloops, and

carried them lazily down the bay; and the sun, having taken up his old

trade of a painter, coloured their white canvass for the very spots it

filled in the picture: the same witching pencil was upon a magnificent

rose-bush at the foot of the lawn, tinting its flowers for fairy-land;

and had laid little stripes of fairy light across the lately-mown

grass; and, through a slight haze of the delicious atmosphere, the

hills were mellowed to a painter's wish.

My father and I strolled down the walk, and took one or two turns

almost in silence, tasting all this too keenly at first to say much

about it. There were beauties near hand too. The rose-trees had shaken

out all their luxuriance, and defied the eye to admire aught else.

Yet, but for them, there was enough to be admired. The pure Campanulas

looked modestly confident of attractions; little Gilias filled their

place in the world passing well; the sweet double pinks gave us a most

good-humoured face as we went by; the tall white lily-buds showed

beautiful indications; and some rare geraniums, and my splendid English

heart's-ease quietly disdained or declined competition. And in that

evening-light, even the flowers of humbler name and lower pretension,

looked as if they cared not for it. Sprawling bachelor's-buttons, and

stiff sweet-williams, and pert chrysanthemums, all were pretty under

the sun's blessing; I think none were overlooked.

"How much pleasure we take in at the eye!" said my father.

"Where the eye has been opened," said I.

"Ay. How many people go through the world with their eyes tight

shut;--not certainly to every matter of practical utility, but shut to

all beautiful ends."

"Oh, those practical eyes!--the eyes that have no vision but for the

_useful_,--what wearisome things they are!"

"It is but a moderate portion of the useful that they see," said my

father;--"it was not an empty gratuity that things were made 'pleasant

to the eyes.'"

"But how the eye needs to be educated," said I.

"Rather the mind, Cary," said my father. "Let the mind be educated to

bring its faculty and taste into full play, and it will train its own

spies fast enough."

"It was that I meant, papa,--that cultivation of taste;--I was

thinking, before you spoke what a blessing it is."

"Why, yes," said my father; "with that piece to bring down game, one is

in less danger of mental starvation. But hush; here comes somebody that

won't understand you."

And as he spoke, I saw the trim little figure of Mrs. Roberts, one of

our neighbours, come in sight round a turn in the shrubbery.

"What a lovely evening, Mrs. Roberts," said I, as we met.

"Delicious!--such charming weather for the grass and the dairy, and

everything. It was so fine, I told Mr. Roberts I would just run down

and see your mamma for a minute; I wanted to ask her a question. I

shall find her at home, shan't I?"

I satisfied Mrs. Roberts on that point, and my father and I turned to

walk back to the house with her, thinking that our pleasure was over.

"The roses are in great beauty now," I remarked.

"Beautiful!--and what an immense quantity of them you have. I don't

know what ails our roses, but we can't make them do, somehow. They seem

to get a kind of blight when they're about half open, and what are not

blighted are full of bugs. What do you do with the bugs? I don't see

that you have any."

I suggested the effectiveness of daily hand-picking.

"Oh, but bless me! it's so much trouble. Mr. Roberts would never let

the time be taken for it. How stout your grass is! It's a great deal

stouter than ours. There's half as much again of it, I'm sure. And

you're cutting it! We haven't begun to cut yet; Mr. Roberts thought

he'd let it stand as long as he could, to give it a chance; but I'm

sure it's time. What do you do with all your roses?--make rose-water?"

I said no.

"I never saw such a quantity! I'll tell you what--if you'll send me a

basket or two of 'em, _I'll_ make some rose-water, and you shall have

half of it. Oh, what beautiful heart's-ease! My dear Caroline, you must

just give me one of those for my girls, for a pattern; you know they

are making artificial flowers, and they want some of these for their

bonnets. Really, they are quite equal to the French ones, _I_ think,

and--thank you!--that is superb. Now, my dear Caroline, one more--that

one with so much yellow in it;--want a little variety, you know. They

will be delighted. You know it is just the fashion."

"I did not, indeed, Mrs. Roberts."

"Didn't you? They wear little open bonnets of some light straw--rice is

the prettiest, or some kind of open-work--and here, at the side, just

here, a bunch of heart's-ease, right against the side of the head;--it

is very elegant."

"Caroline has bad taste," said my father gravely; "she never wears

heart's-ease in a bonnet."

"O no, of course, not these,--she is too careful of them--but you know

false heart's-ease, I mean. No, go on with your walk--you shall not

come in--I am not going to stay a minute."

And my father and I quietly turned about and went down the walk again.

"False heart's-ease!" said my father.

"What a different thing all this scene is to those eyes, and to ours,

papa."

"Yes," said my father. "Poor woman!--she carries a portable kitchen and

store-closet in her head, I believe, and everything she sees goes into

the one or the other."

"Poor Mrs. Roberts!" said I, laughing. "Now that is the want of

cultivation, papa."

"Not entirely, perhaps. There must be soil first to cultivate, Cary."

"Well, her want is the same. And how much is lost for that want!"

"Lost?--what is lost?" said another voice behind us; and turning, we

welcomed another and a very different neighbour, in our old friend Mr.

Ricardo.

"What is lost?"

"Happiness," said I.

"For the want of what?"

"For the want of a cultivated taste."

"Pshaw!" said Mr. Ricardo, letting go my hand. "_That_ has nothing to

do with happiness."

"Do you think so, sir?"

"Certainly. What can a cultivated taste do for you, but create

imaginary wants, that you would do just as well without?"

"If you have not them, you have not the exquisite pleasure of

gratifying them."

"Well, and what if you haven't? How are you the worse off? The want

that is not known is not felt."

"But the range of pleasure is a very different thing without them,"

said I.

"And character is a very different thing," said my father.

"Character?" said Mr. Ricardo.

"Yes," said my father.

"I should like to hear you make that out."

"And so should I," said I. "I was arguing only for enjoyment--I did not

venture so far as that."

"Well, enjoyment," said Mr. Ricardo. "Do you think you have more

enjoyment here now, than one of the plain sons of the soil, who would

see nothing in roses but roses, and who would call 'Viola tricolor' a

'Johnny-jump-up?'"

"In the first place, learning is not taste; and, in the second place,

you do not mean what you say, Mr. Ricardo. You know what Dr. Johnson

says of the quart pot and the pint pot--both may be equally full, but

the one holds twice as much as the other."

"Ah, Dr. Johnson!" said Mr. Ricardo, with an odd little flourishing

wave of his hand; "you delude yourself! The quart pot is twice as

likely to be spilled. If you have some pleasures that other people

haven't, you have pains of your own, too, that they are exempt

from. Now I suppose a little mal-adjustment of proportions--a

little deviating from the exquisite line of correctness in men or

things--would overturn your whole cup of enjoyment, while his or mine

would stand as firm as ever."

"But perhaps a sip of mine would be worth his entire cupful."

"Now," said Mr. Ricardo, not minding me, "I fell in with a family

once--it was at the West, when I was travelling there. They were good,

plain, sensible, excellent people, happy in each other, and contented

with the rest of the world. They had everything within themselves, and

lived in the greatest comfort, and harmony, and plenty. I was with them

several days, and it occurred to me that people could not be happier

than they were."

"But for your bringing them up as instances, I suppose their having

'everything within themselves' did not include the pleasures of a

cultivated intelligence?"

"Well, I don't suppose they would have quoted Dr. Johnson to me. But

now of what use to them would be all that extra cultivation?"

"Of what use to you," said my father, "is that window you had cut in

your library this spring, that looks to the west?"

"Of very little use," said Mr. Ricardo, "for my wife sits in it all the

time."

"Ah, Mr. Ricardo!" said I, laughing.

"Well, now," said he, but his face gave way a little, "how are you any

better off than those people?"

"I don't wish to make myself an example, sir; but put them down here

this evening, and what would they see in all this that we have been

enjoying?"

"They would see what you see, I suppose. They had reasonably good

eyes--they were not microscopes or telescopes."

"Precisely," said my father. "They would see what mere ordinary vision

could take in, _without_ the quick discernment of finely trained

sensibilities, and without the far-reaching and wide views of a mind

rich in knowledge and associations. Where cultivated senses find a

rare mingling of flavours, theirs would at best only perceive the

difference of stronger or fainter--of more or less sweet."

"Senses literal or figurative, do you mean?"

"Both," said my father. "You rarely find the one cultivated without the

other."

"You may find the other without the one," said Mr. Ricardo. "I knew a

man once who had no aptness for anything but judging of wines, and he

was curious at that. He did it mostly by the sense of smell, too. All

the mind the man had seemed to reside in his nose."

"That is an instance of morbid development," said my father, smiling,

"not in point."

"You would have thought it was in point, if you had seen him," said Mr.

Ricardo, glancing at my father.

"But the pleasures of a cultivated taste, Mr. Ricardo," said I, "may

be constantly enjoyed; and they are some of the purest, and most

satisfying, and most unmixed that we have."

"And, I maintain, of the most useful," said my father.

"To the character," said Mr. Ricardo. "But I do not believe that, where

they most prevail, are to be found in general the strongest minds or

the most hopeful class of our population."

"My good sir," said my father, "do not confound things that have

nothing to do with each other. That may be true, and it may be equally

true of sundry other matters, such as correct pronunciation and the

usages of polite society, Mocha coffee and fine broadcloth,--none of

which, I hope, have any deleterious effect upon mind."

"Well, go on," said Mr. Ricardo, without looking at him, "let us hear

how you make out your case."

"Learning to draw nice distinctions, to feel shades of difference,

becoming alive to the perception and enjoyment of most fine and

delicate influences, the mind acquires a _habit of being_ which will

discover itself in other matters than those of pure taste. This faculty

of nice discrimination and quick feeling cannot be in high exercise in

one department alone, without being applied more or less generally to

other subjects. It will develope itself in the ordinary intercourse

and relations of social and domestic life, and the _tendency_ will be

to the producing or perfecting of that nice sense of proprieties, that

quick feeling of what is due to or from others, which we call tact."

"But tact cannot be given, papa," said I.

"And how is it useful if it could?" said Mr. Ricardo.

"Useful?" said my father, meditating--"why, sir, the want of it is a

death-blow to I know not what proportion of the efforts that are made

after usefulness. How many an appeal from the pulpit has been ruined,

simply by bringing in a coarse or unhappy figure, which the speaker's

want of cultivation did not allow him to appreciate! How many a word,

intended for counsel or kindness, has fallen to the ground, because the

kindly person did not know how to work out his intentions!"

"But, you cannot give tact, father," I repeated.

"No, Cary--that is true--tact cannot be _given_; it is the growth

only of minds endowed with peculiarly fine sensibilities; but the

mind trained to nice judging in one set of matters can exercise the

same acumen upon others, so soon as its attention is fairly called

out to them. Taste is a thing of particular growth and cultivation in

each separate branch; but certainly the mind that has attained high

excellence in one is finely prepared to take lessons in another."

"There may be something in that," said Mr. Ricardo, as if he thought

there wasn't much.

"But, beyond that," said my father, "the cultivation of taste opens

truly a new world of enjoyment utterly closed to every one destitute

of it. Nature's stores of beauty and wonder, the fine analogies of

moral truth that lie hidden under them, the new setting forth of nature

which is Art's beautiful work,--how numberless, how measureless the

sources of pleasure to the mind once quickened to see and taste them!

Once quickened, it will not cease to rejoice in them, and more and

more. And as the mind always assimilates itself to those objects with

which it is very conversant, and as these sources of pleasure are all

pure, it follows, that not only a refined but a purifying influence

also is at work in all this; and the result should be, if nothing

untoward counteract, that everything gross, everything _improper_, in

the strict sense of the word, everything unseemly, unlovely, impure,

becomes disgustful, and more and more. And whatever is the reverse of

these meets with a juster appreciation, a keener relish, a truer love

than could be felt for them by a mind not so cultivated. This refining

and purifying effect will be seen in the whole character. It will make

those solid qualities, which are, indeed, more worth in themselves,

show with yet new lustre and tell with higher effect, and not the

outward attire only, but the very inward graces of the mind will be

worn with a more perfect adjustment."

"Hum--well," said Mr. Ricardo, about a minute after my father had done

speaking, "you have made a pretty fair case of it."

My father smiled, and we all three paced up and down the walk in

silence. I thought we had done with the subject.

"That's a beautiful sky!" said Mr. Ricardo, coming to a stand, with his

face to the west.

"Look down yonder," said my father.

In the southwestern quarter lay a beautiful fleecy mass of cloud: the

under edges touched with exquisite rose-colour, sailing slowly down the

sky--pushed by that same faint north wind. Just over it--just over it,

sat a little star, shining at us with its unchanging ray.

"Would your Tennessee friends see enough there to hold their thoughts

for half a minute?" said I, when we had looked as long; but Mr. Ricardo

did not answer me.

"That painted cloud," said my father, "is like the pleasures of

earth--catching the eye with fair hues; the star, like the better

pleasures, that have their source above the earth. That light fills,

indeed, it may be, a much smaller space in our eye, or our fancy, than

the colours on the cloud; but mark,--it is pure, bright, and undying,

while the other is a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then

vanisheth away."

I looked at the star, and I looked at my father, and my heart was full.

I thought Mr. Ricardo had got enough, and I think he thought so too,

for when we reached the far end of the walk, he left us, with a very

hearty shake of the hand, indeed.

My father and I walked then, without talking any more, till glow after

glow passed away and night had set in. The little cloud had lost all

its fair colours, and had drifted far down into the southern sky,

a soft rack of gray vapour, and the star was shining steadily and

brightly as ever in the deepening blue.

[Illustration:

C. Schuessele del. Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.

Chromolith of P. S. Duval Phil.

MISSION CHAPEL OF SAN JOSE, NEAR SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS.]

THE MISSION CHURCH OF SAN JOSÉ.[19]

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Not far from San Antonio,

Stands the Church of San José;

Brightly its walls are gilded

With the sun's departing ray.

The long grass twines the arches through,

And, stirred by evening air,

Wave gracefully the vine's dark leaves,

And bends the prickly pear.

High, from its broken, mouldering top,

The holy cross looks down,

While round the open portals stand

Figures of saints in stone.

And round its ancient spires,

In the turrets wide and high,

While you watch the night-birds flap their wings,

You hear their piercing cry.

And ever and anon the bats,

In clusters, seek their homes,

As night, with shrouding mantle,

On the Mission Chapel comes.

Oh! 'twas not thus, when Jesuit priests

Their chaunt at evening sung,

As, echoing o'er the river's shores,

The vesper bells were rung.

Now, while we linger round its walls,

Its history would we learn?--

How San José's walls and spires rose up?--

To its legends we must turn.

In learning high, and cunning deep,

With wealth and numbers, come--

Christians to make the red men all--

These haughty priests of Rome.

Did they tell them they were brothers?

That every human heart

Was a link in love's great chain--

Of salvation's scheme a part?

Not they: they bade them hew the stone,

And bear its heavy weight;

And, while they used the Indian's strength,

They gained his fiercest hate.

But towers, and spires, and steeples rise,

And the Church of San José

Arrests the traveller, who kneels,

Then passes on his way.

Turning once more, to bend before

The Virgin and her Son,

The Cherubim and Seraphim

From his strained gaze are gone.

No converts from the red men

Made these haughty priests of Rome;

But still on ignorance and vice

The holy cross looked down,

Though Jesus, with the crown of thorns,

The offering made for sin,

And the vase of holy water,

Borne by angels, stood within.

Rich tapestries, and gilded signs,

And images stood forth,

And the patron saint, San José--

Were all these nothing worth?

"The red man's heart is adamant,"

Thus do the Jesuits say;

"Unmoved they see these splendours--

Unchanged they turn away."

Not under stern and unjust rule

The red man's heart will melt,

But by such gentle, sorrowing love,

As Christ for mortals felt.

Oh! that the star might shine for them,

That unto us is given,

To cheer our dreary path on earth,

And guide our steps to heaven.

Let the ruins of her glory stand,

A monument to art;

But the temple of the Living God

Should be the human heart;

While mouldering in tower and wall,

And bending in decay,

Do we gaze upon this chapel fair,

The Church of San José.

[Footnote 19: San José is the most interesting of the ruins of the

mission chapels in Texas. There are five of them,--the chapel of

the Alamo, at San Antonio; Chapel of Conception, two miles from San

Antonio; Chapel of San José, five miles from San Antonio; Chapel of San

Juan, ten miles from the same place; and one other near Goliad. These

chapels were built by the Jesuits, at the time when they contemplated

Christianizing the Indians of Mexico. The Indians were obliged to

assist in the labour. The chapels are all in a state of ruin. On the

top of San José, near the large cross at its foot, a peach tree grows.

Occasionally there is some sort of service performed in them. There is

a great deal of carving about them, and remains of former splendour;

but they have become refuges for the bats and owls, which are for ever

flying in and about them.]

HAWKING.

BY EDITH MAY.

She had drawn rein within the castle court

Under its arching gateway, and there stood,

Curbing the hot steed that, with upreared hoofs,

Bearing upon the gilded bit, pressed forward.

Her eyes had measured distance, and her lips,

Parted and eager, seemed to drink the air

Now fresh with morning, and her light form kept

Its throne exultingly. A single plume

Waved from her hunting-cap, and the quick wind

Close to the floating ringlets of her hair

Pressed down its snowy fringes. But the folds

Of her rich dress hung motionless, and its hem

Swept to the shaven turf. Near by, a page

Held in a leash of greyhounds, and a hawk

Sat hooded on the bend of her gloved wrist.

HILLSIDE COTTAGE.

BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.

There was no spot in all Elmwood that we children so dearly loved

to visit as Hillside Cottage. No matter where our wanderings

began--whether we started for the meadow, in pursuit of the rich

strawberry--for the thick woods, where the wild flowers bloomed so

luxuriantly, and the bright scarlet clusters of the partridge-berry,

contrasting beautifully with its dark green leaves, sprang up at our

feet--for the brook, to gather the shining pebbles, or to watch the

speckled trout, as they darted swiftly through the water--no matter

where our wanderings began, it was a strange thing if they did not

terminate somewhere about the sweet wild place where Aunt Mary lived.

Now, prythee, gentle reader, do not picture to your "mind's eye" a

stately mansion with an unpretending name, when you read of Hillside

Cottage. Neither was it a cottage _ornée_, with piazzas, and columns,

and Venetian blinds. It was a low-roofed dwelling, and its walls had

never been visited by a single touch of the painter's brush: but the

wild vines had sprung up around it, until their interlacing tendrils

formed a beautiful network nearly all over the little building; and

the moss upon the roof had been gathering there for many years,

growing thicker and greener after the snows of each succeeding winter

had rested upon it. It stood, as the name given it by the villagers

indicated, upon the hillside, just in the edge of the woods that nearly

covered the rounded summit of the hill; a little rivulet danced along,

almost beneath the very windows, and at a short distance below fell

over a ledge of rocks, forming a small but beautiful cascade, then,

tired of its gambols, it flowed onwards as demurely as if it had never

leaped gaily in the sunlight, or frolicked, like a child at play, with

every flower that bent to kiss its bright waters. We thought there was

no place where the birds sang half so sweetly, or where the air was so

laden with fragrance; and sure am I there was no place where we were

more cordially welcomed than in Aunt Mary's cottage.

I well remember Aunt Mary's first arrival in Elmwood. For two or three

weeks it had been rumoured that the cottage on the hill was to receive

a new tenant. Some slight repairs were going on, and some one had seen

a wagon, loaded with furniture, unladen at the door. This was enough to

excite village curiosity; and when we assembled in the church, the next

Sabbath, I fear that more than one eye wandered from the pulpit to the

door, to catch the first glimpse of our new neighbour. Just as our old

pastor was commencing the morning service, a lady, entirely unattended,

came slowly up the aisle, and entered the pew designated by the sexton.

Her tall and graceful figure was robed in deepest black, and it was

evident that grief, rather than years, had dimmed the brightness of her

eye, and driven the rich colouring of youth and health from her cheek.

But there was something in the quiet, subdued glance of those large,

thoughtful eyes, in the intellect that seemed throned upon her lofty

forehead, and in the sweet and tender expression that played around

her small and delicately formed mouth, that more than compensated for

the absence of youthful bloom and freshness. I did not think of these

things then; but, child that I was, after one glance I shrank back in

my seat, awe-struck and abashed by the dignity of her bearing. Yet when

she rose from her knees, and I caught another glimpse of her pale face,

my little heart seemed drawn towards her by some powerful spell; and

after service was concluded, as we passed down the aisle side by side,

I timidly placed in her hand a wild rose I had gathered on my way to

church. She took it with a smile, and in a sweet low voice thanked me

for the simple gift. Our homes lay in the same direction, and ere we

reached my father's gate I imagined myself well acquainted with Miss

Atherton.

From that hour my visits to Hillside Cottage were neither "few" nor

"far between." My parents laughed at my enthusiastic praises of my new

friend; but they soon became assured that they were well grounded:

and it was not long before the answer, "Oh, she has only gone to see

Aunt Mary," was the most satisfactory one that could be given to the

oft-repeated query, "Where in the world _has_ Jessie gone now?"

She lived almost the life of a recluse; seldom mingling with the

villagers, save in the services of the sanctuary, or when, like a

ministering angel, she hovered around the couch of the dying. Formed to

be an ornament to any circle, and to attract admiration and attention

wherever she moved, she yet shrank from public notice, and was rarely

seen, except by those who sought her society in her own little cottage.

To those few it was evident that her love of seclusion was rather the

effect of some deep grief, that had in early life cast its shadow over

her pathway, than the constitutional tendency of her mind. Hers was

a character singularly lovely and symmetrical. With a mind strong,

clear, and discriminating, she yet possessed all those finer shades of

fancy and feeling, all that confiding tenderness, all those womanly

sympathies, and all that delicacy and refinement of thought and manner

which, in the opinion of many, can rarely be found _in woman_, combined

with a high degree of talent. Love of the beautiful and sublime was

with her almost a passion, and conversing with her, when animated by

her favourite theme, was like reading a page of rare poetry, or gazing

upon a series of paintings, the work of a well-skilled hand.

Years passed on. The little village of Elmwood had increased in

size, if not in comeliness: the old church had given place to one

of statelier mien and prouder vestments, and the winding lane, with

its primroses and violets, had become a busy street, with tall rows

of brick bordering it on either side. But still the cottage on the

hill remained quiet and peaceful as ever, undisturbed by the changes

that were at work beneath it. A silver thread might now and then be

traced amid the abundant raven tresses that were parted on Aunt Mary's

forehead; and my childish curls had grown darker, and were arranged

with more precision than of yore. Yet still the friendship of earlier

years remained unbroken, and a week seldom passed without finding me at

Hillside Cottage. My visits had of late been more frequent than ever,

for the time was drawing near when our intimacy must be interrupted. I

was soon to leave my father's roof, for a new home in a far-off clime,

and to exchange the love and tenderness that had ever been lavished

upon me there for a nearer and more engrossing attachment.

It was the evening before my bridal. I had stolen away unperceived, for

I could not resist the temptation of one more quiet chat with Aunt Mary.

"I scarcely expected you to-night, my dear Jessie," said she, as I

entered, "but you are none the less welcome. Do you know I am very

selfish to-night? When I ought to be rejoicing in your happiness, my

heart is heavy, because I feel that I can no longer be to you what

I have been, chief friend and confidant. Oh! I shall indeed miss my

little Jessie."

"You will always be to me just what you have been, Aunt Mary," I

replied, and tears filled my eyes, as I threw myself upon a low seat

at her feet. "You must not think that because I am a wife, I shall

love my old friends any the less: and you of all others, you who have

been to me as a dear, dear elder sister,--you who have instructed and

counselled me, and have shared all my thoughts and feelings since I was

a little child; oh! do you think any one can come between our hearts?

We may not meet as frequently as we have done, but you will ever find

me just the same, and I shall tell you all my thoughts, and all my

cares and sorrows, and all my joys too, just as I always have done."

"No, no, Jessie, say not so. That may not be. You may love me just as

well, but you will love another more. Your heart _cannot_ be open to

me as it has been, for it will belong to another. Its hopes, its fears,

its joys, its sorrows, its cares, its love, will all be so intimately

blended with those of another, that they cannot be separated. No wife,

provided the relations existing between her husband and herself are

what they should be, can be to _any_ other friend exactly what she was

before her marriage."

"Why, Aunt Mary!--you surely do not mean to say that a wife should

never have any confidential friends?"

"The history of woman, dear Jessie, is generally simply a record of

the workings of her own heart; in ordinary cases, she has little else

to consider. 'The world of the affections is her world,' and there

finds she her appropriate sphere of action. What I mean to say is,--not

that a wife should have no friend save her husband,--but that, if the

hearts of the twain are as closely linked together as they should

be, if they always beat in perfect unison, and if their thoughts and

feelings harmonize as they ought to do, it will be difficult for her

to draw aside the veil from her own heart, and lay it open to the gaze

of any other being, without, in some degree, betraying the confidence

reposed in her by him who should be nearer and dearer than all the

world beside. The heart is like a temple, Jessie. It has its outer and

its inner court, and it has also its holy of holies. The outer court

is full: common acquaintances,--those that we call friends, merely

because they are not enemies,--are gathered there. The inner court but

few may enter,--the few who we feel love us, and to whom we are united

by the strong bonds of sympathy; but the sanctum sanctorum, the holy

of holies, that must never be profaned by alien footsteps, or by the

tread of any, save him to whom the wife hath said, 'Whither thou goest

I will go, thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.'"

The deepening twilight hung over us, wrapping all things in its sombre

mantle, and its solemn stillness fell with soft, subduing power upon

our hearts, as we sat, for many moments, each lost in reverie, ere I

spoke again.

"Aunt Mary, why were you never married?"

"Rather an abrupt question that, my love. What if I say, in the words

of the old song, because 'nobody ever came wooing me?'"

"Nay, nay, Aunt Mary, I know you have never passed through life

unloved, and I have sometimes fancied not unloving either. But pardon

me, I fear my obtrusive curiosity has given you pain," I added quickly,

as in the dim light I saw that her pale cheek was growing still

paler, and that deep, though subdued, anguish was stamped in legible

characters upon her brow.

"I have nought to pardon, my child, for our long familiarity has given

you a right to ask the question; and I wonder that you have never made

the inquiry before, rather than that you make it now. The history of my

early life is a sad one, but you shall hear it, and know why I am now

such a lone and isolated being.

"Upon the early part of my life it will be necessary for me to dwell

but slightly. My childhood passed dreamily away, marked by no event of

sufficient importance to leave a very deep impression upon my mind.

An only child, I was my father's idol, and he loved me none the less

tenderly, because the destroying angel had snatched his young wife

from his bosom, and I was all that was left to him of her. I was very

young when my mother died--too young to appreciate the magnitude of

my loss, or to feel that I was motherless. Yet I have an indistinct

recollection of a sweet, girlish face, that used to bend over my couch,

and of a melodious voice that was wont to lull me to my baby slumbers.

The remembrance is a very faint one, but I have never thought of angels

in my dreams, or in my waking hours, when the vision did not wear the

semblance of my mother's face, nor of angel voices without in fancy

hearing again my mother's low, soft tones.

"As I grew older, the best instructors in the country were procured for

me, and I was taught all the accomplishments of the day, while, at the

same time, I was not allowed to neglect any of the plainer, but equally

important branches of female education. At last my education was

completed, and 'I came out' under auspices as flattering as those under

which any young girl ever made her debut upon the stage of life. The

harsh fingers of Time have wrought such changes upon my face and form,

that you may find it difficult to believe that in my youth I was called

beautiful. Yet so it was, and this, together with my father's station

in society and reputation for wealth, drew a crowd of admirers around

me. One of my father's chief sources of delight, was the exercise of

an almost prodigal hospitality, and he dearly loved to see me, attired

with all the elegance that his ample means could afford, presiding at

his table, or moving among our guests, in his fond eyes 'the star of

the goodly companie.'

"It was by the bedside of his dying sister, that I first met Walter

Elmore. Effie had been a schoolmate of mine, and an intimate friendship

had sprung up between us. Sisterless as I was, I had learned to cherish

for her almost a sister's love. Soon after we left school, her father

removed his residence from a distant part of the country to the city

near which mine resided, and our girlish attachment was cemented

and strengthened, as we entered, hand in hand, upon the duties and

pleasures of early womanhood.

"Effie's constitution was naturally weak, and she had been subject from

her childhood to a slight cough; but her friends gave little heed to

it, as the buoyancy of her spirits and her unchanged demeanour seemed

to preclude the idea of any seated complaint. But the destroyer came,

and disease had made fearful havoc before we awoke to a sense of her

danger. I was with her day and night for a few weeks, and then Effie

Elmore, in her youth and loveliness, slept the 'sleep that knows no

waking.'

"Her brother, of whom I had often heard her speak in terms of

enthusiastic fondness, had been abroad, completing his studies, and I

never met him until we stood, side by side, gazing upon the calm, still

face of the beautiful being whom we both so tenderly loved.

"It is needless for me to say that from that hour we met often. At my

father's house he became a frequent and a welcome guest; and we met

too, at no distant intervals, by Effie's grave, in her favourite walks,

and in every nook that had been made sacred by her presence. We thought

that it was our mutual love for the departed that drew us together; we

thought it was her memory, and the recollection of the hour when first

we met, that made us seek each other's society, and that rendered the

moments we spent together so dear to us both; but ah me! but few months

had rolled over our heads before we found that it was even a stronger

tie; that it was the mystic chain that binds heart to heart, the deep

love of congenial spirits.

"And Walter Elmore was indeed one that any maiden might be proud of

loving. His face and figure were cast in nature's finest mould. But

that were nothing--it is of the nobleness of his character of which

I would speak. Proud and high-spirited even to a fault, he could not

stoop to a mean or unworthy action. Generous and confiding, his soul

was filled with all true and noble impulses, and his heart was the home

of pure and elevated affections. His intellectual powers were such as

to win the admiration and esteem of all who knew him, and he possessed

also the rare gift of eloquence,--a gift that seldom fails to find its

way to a woman's heart. What wonder was it then that I yielded mine

to him wholly and unreservedly, and soon learned to listen for his

footstep, as I listened for no other? My father smiled upon his suit,

and gave it his unqualified approbation. Elmore was not wealthy, but

his family was one of the first in the country, and my father was proud

of his brilliant talents and untarnished name. I had wealth enough for

both, and it was decided that upon my twentieth birthday our nuptials

should be celebrated.

"Alas! how little know we of the future! Ere that day came, I was

penniless--I had almost said a penniless orphan. My father's capital

was all invested in the business transactions of two of the oldest,

and, it was supposed, the wealthiest houses in New York. Two successive

weeks brought news of the failure of both firms, and he found himself,

when far advanced in life, stripped of the fortune he had acquired by

his own hard exertions in earlier years, and utterly destitute. He sank

beneath the blow, and for weeks I hung over his couch, fearing each

night that the next rising sun would see me an orphan.

"He rose at length from that bed of suffering, but oh, how changed!

His hair, which had before but lightly felt the touch of time, was

white as snow; his once erect form was bent and trembling; his eye had

lost its lustre, and what was far more sad than all, his mental vigour

had departed, and he was as imbecile and feeble as a little child.

Accustomed as I had ever been to lean upon his strong arm for support,

to look to him for guidance and direction in all things, I was now

obliged to summon all my fortitude, and be to him in turn protector and

guardian.

"The whole of our property was gone, our ruin was complete, and for a

time I was overwhelmed by the new and strange cares that were pressing

so heavily upon me. But I soon found that it was time for me to _act_

rather than mourn, and I began to look around me for some means by

which to obtain a comfortable livelihood for my poor father. I might

have obtained a situation as governess, where the labour would be

light, and the salary more than sufficient for my wants; but in that

case I must be separated from my parent, and leave him to the tender

mercies of strangers. The same objection arose in my mind in connexion

with almost every course that presented itself, and I finally concluded

upon renting a small house in a pleasant little village not far from

the city, where I could obtain a few pupils, and still be able to watch

over my feeble charge.

"It was in the 'merry, merry month of May,' that the news of our

reverses came, but it was late in October before we left our home, that

home rendered sacred by so many hallowed associations. The intervening

months had been spent by me in watching over the sick couch of my aged

parent, in striving to compose my own agitated spirits, and to gain

sufficient courage to gaze unshrinkingly upon the new and strange

pathway I was about to tread.

"Slowly and wearily passed they away, and the day at length dawned

that was to witness our departure. All was bright and joyous in the

outer world. The air was soft and balmy as a morning in June. The trees

were just changing their green summer robes for the gorgeous attire of

autumn, with its rich colouring and brilliant dyes; and the sky was

as cloudless as if the storm-king had been dethroned, and his banners

furled for ever. The house, and everything around it, presented much

the same appearance as in happier days; for the gentleman who had

purchased it had bought the furniture also, with the exception of a few

indispensable articles, that the kindness of the creditors allowed us

to retain for our new dwelling.

"But oh, the darkness of the inner world! the gloom in which my own

soul was wrapped, when I awoke from a short and troubled sleep, and

the thought fell as a dull, sickening weight upon my heart, that I

had slept for the last time in that quiet chamber! I passed from room

to room, and every step but added to my grief. Here was the nursery

and the little crib, where I could just remember sleeping in my very

babyhood; here the retired study, with its perfect stillness, and the

light coming in so stealthily through the stained glass; here the

library, my father's favourite apartment, and there, in the recess

with its bay window, the arm-chair that had ever been his chosen

resting-place; and here the room where my mother had lain, in her quiet

beauty, ere the coffin-lid was closed, and she was borne hence for ever.

"In a distant part of the grounds, where the forest-trees had not yet

fallen, and where the hand of art had done little more than to clear

away the tangled underbrush, there was a small plot enclosed by a stone

wall, over which wild vines and running mosses had been trained until

the gray stones were almost entirely hidden. The grass in the enclosure

was of the deepest green, and shaded though it was by the overhanging

trees, there had not a faded leaf or a withered branch been suffered to

rest upon it. In the centre was a mound of earth, and over it a slab

of white marble, upon which lay the sculptured image of a woman, young

and of surpassing loveliness. She lay as if in sleep, one rounded arm

thrown over her head, and the other dropping by her side; while from

the half-opened hand a white rose-bud had seemingly just fallen. It was

my mother's burial-place, and I bent my steps thitherward that I might

cast one farewell look upon it, before it passed into the possession of

strangers. A tide of softening recollections swept over me as I stood

by the grave, and falling upon my knees, I poured out my full heart in

prayer.

"'Oh, when the heart is sad--when bitter thoughts

Are crowding thickly up for utterance,

And the poor, common words of courtesy

Are such a bitter mocking--how much

The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!'

I rose from my knees calmer than I had been for many weeks. I was sad,

but not despairing,--and felt again, what in my despondency I had

well-nigh forgotten, that I was in the hands of One who careth for His

children.

"When I returned to the house, I found the vehicle that was to convey

us away waiting at the door. My father was already in his seat, and I

sprang quickly in, not trusting myself to cast another look around me.

He--thanks to his weakness and imbecility--had partaken little of my

dread or agony. Provided his daily wants were supplied, it mattered

little to him where his lot was cast."

"But, Aunt Mary, where was Walter Elmore all this time?"

"I should have told you, my love, that business of vital importance

called him to a distant part of the country a short time previous to

our misfortunes, and there detained him. He was kept apprised by my

letters, however, of all that had befallen us, and hastened to my side

as soon as he returned. He vehemently opposed my pursuance of the

course I had marked out for myself, and with all the eloquence and

earnestness of love, besought me to become his wife at once, and give

him a right to protect and guard me.

"But fervently as he prayed, and strongly as my own heart seconded

his entreaties, I could not yield. I had thought that it was to be my

blessed privilege to aid and assist him I loved; to place him where

it would no longer be necessary for him to confine his noble mind to

close and ceaseless drudgery, and constant toil for his daily bread.

And how could I now consent to be a drawback upon his efforts, and to

burden him with the care of my helpless parent?

"'No, no, Walter,' said I, in reply to his oft-repeated solicitations;

'urge me no longer. For the present our paths must be separated. Your

task will be hard enough, while you are taking the first steps towards

acquiring a name and a competence, even if you have no interests but

your own to regard. Were I alone in the world, I would joyfully link my

fate with yours, and we would toil together, side by side. But as it

is, it may not be. My father cannot understand why he need be deprived

of any of his accustomed luxuries. Be it my care that he misses them

not. I will labour for his sustenance and my own, until you are so

circumstanced that, without detriment to your own prospects, you can

relieve me of the charge. _Then_ come to me, and the hand pledged to

you in brighter days shall be yours!'

"A year passed not unhappily away in the earnest and faithful discharge

of the new duties devolving upon me. My school flourished beyond my

expectations. I had gained the esteem and confidence of those around

me, and I found no difficulty in supplying our daily wants. Elmore was

in an adjacent city, in the office of an eminent lawyer, who, it was

imagined, would ere long make him a partner in his business. During the

last few months his visits had been less frequent than of yore. Rumour

told strange tales of a young and exceedingly beautiful girl, the

sister of his employer, who was playing the mischief with the hearts

and brains of half the young men in M----, and more than hinted that

my lover was among the number of her admirers. Things went on thus for

some time. I fancied that, when we met, which was rarely, his manner

was cold and reserved, and that he seemed to shrink from my presence. I

now know that my own jealous fancies threw a false colouring over all

his actions, and that, if there was any coldness in his demeanour, it

sprang from the unusual, and, in fact, unintended reserve of mine.

"At last I heard, from the lips of one whose veracity and friendship

I thought I could not question, that his leisure hours were all spent

in the society of my supposed rival, and that, when rallied by some of

his associates with regard to myself, he had denied our engagement, and

spoken lightly and contemptuously of the 'school-mistress.'

"A thousand contending passions were striving for the mastery in my

breast, when, upon the evening of that day, after its weary labours

were over, I threw myself upon a low seat in the room that served

alike as school-room and parlour. Woman's pride--and who does not know

that 'there is not a high thing out of heaven her pride o'er-mastereth

not?'--was all aroused. Memory was wide awake, bringing back the

recollection of by-gone days, when my hand had been sought by the

proudest in the land. Then came thoughts of our early love--of the

exquisite happiness that had filled my heart, when I had so rejoiced

that wealth was at my command, and that I could place it all at the

feet of one whom I deemed so noble and so pure--and of a later period,

when, rather than place the slightest barrier in his way to fame and

fortune, I had resisted all his entreaties, and confined myself to

close and unremitting toil. It was at this very moment when I was half

maddened by the retrospect, that the door opened, and Walter Elmore

entered.

"Hastily rising, with every appearance of calmness, I received him with

a cold and stately courtesy, surprising even to myself.

"'What means this, Mary?' said he; and I could see that his lip

quivered, and the hand he had extended trembled. 'Why do you greet me

thus coldly?'

"'Let your own heart answer the question, Mr. Elmore. To that and

to your own words I refer you for reasons why we must henceforth be

strangers.'

"'You speak enigmas to-night, my dear Mary. My heart tells me no tale

that can enable me to comprehend this unlooked-for change in you. It

will take more than your simple assertion that we are strangers, to

render us such; and he again attempted to take my hand.

"I drew back more haughtily than before, and words that I cannot now

repeat burst from my lips. I can only tell you that they were harsh,

stinging words--words fraught with contempt and bitterness--words that

a proud spirit like Elmore's could not brook.

"He sought no farther explanation. 'Be it as you will,' he said, and

his manner was as stern as my own; 'I have asked you to account for

this change, and you refuse compliance, couching that refusal in terms

that I can hear twice from no one, not even from yourself. We meet no

more; but remember, Mary Atherton, the words you have this day uttered

will ring in your ear until it is closed to all earthly sounds. You

have given heed to some idle tale of calumny, and have wantonly flung

away a heart that was filled but with your image--a heart that had

centred upon you its every dream and wish for the far future--that

lived but in the hope of one day calling you its own--and that looked

forward to that period as to the commencement of a better and a happier

existence. The hour will come when you will feel that this is true, and

then will you bewail the step you have now taken!'--and without one

farewell look he rushed from the room.

"This prophecy was fulfilled almost before the echo of his departing

footsteps had died away. I felt that I was labouring under some strange

delusion, and bursting into tears, I wept long and bitterly. I would

have given worlds to recall him; but his fleet steed was bearing him

from me, as on the wings of the wind. Yet, hope whispered: 'We shall

surely meet again. My harsh words angered him; but he has loved me so

long and so fondly, that he will not resign me thus easily. All will

yet be explained.'

"But day after day passed and he came not; and my heart was as if

an iron hand was resting upon it, pressing it downward to the very

earth. The excitement of passion had died away, and I could now see

how greatly I had erred, in not telling him frankly the tale that

had reached my ears, and thus giving him an opportunity to exculpate

himself from the charge. Alas! for pride and anger, how often does the

shadow of one unguarded moment darken our life-paths for ever!

"Two weeks had elapsed; and one night, after vain attempts to sleep, I

rose from my couch and threw open the lattice. The glare of daylight

was wanting; but the moon poured forth such a flood of radiance that

the minutest object was distinctly visible. All heaven and earth were

still; the very leaves upon the trees hung motionless as those painted

upon canvass. The perfect silence was becoming painfully oppressive,

when a low sound, like distant footsteps, fell upon my ear. Nearer and

still nearer it came, and I could distinguish a faint murmur, as of

half-suppressed voices. Then a group of men approached. They walked

slowly and heavily, and as they drew near I perceived that they bore a

dark object. Soon, by their reverential mien, and by the unyielding,

uneven nature of their burden, the stiff outlines of which were

discernible beneath the mantle thrown over it, I knew they were bearing

the dead.

"They were passing directly beneath my window, when a sudden movement

of the bearers disarranged the pall, and the moonbeams fell clear and

soft upon the uncovered features. I leaned forward, and--oh, God! it

was the face of Walter Elmore!

"With a shriek that rang out fearfully upon the night-air, I rushed

forth, and threw myself upon the motionless form. The men paused in

astonishment; but I heeded them not; I lifted the wet, dark locks from

his forehead: more than living beauty rested upon it; but it was cold,

icy cold,--so cold that the touch chilled my very life-blood. I placed

my hand upon his heart: but it beat no longer. I kissed his pale lips

again and again, and wildly called him by name, and prayed that he

would speak to me once, _only once_ more; but he answered not. They

thought I was mad, and attempted to raise me, and bear the body on;

but I clung to it with a frenzied clasp, exclaiming: 'You shall not

separate us,--he is mine,--he is mine!' Then, suddenly, in thunder

tones, a voice from the depths of my own spirit sounded in my ears: 'He

is not yours: your own hand severed the ties that bound you. What dost

thou here?' and I fell senseless to the ground.

"When I next awoke to consciousness, the snow had rested for many weeks

upon the grave of Walter Elmore.

"I cannot dwell longer upon this theme. Years have fled since that name

has passed my lips, until this evening; but my brain whirls, even now,

when I recall the agony of that moment. Elmore had been crossing a

narrow bridge, when his foot slipped, and he was precipitated into the

water beneath. The current was strong; and his body was found, by some

travellers, washed on shore some distance below.

"I learned, before many months had passed, that the tale to which I

had given credence was an entire fabrication, having its origin solely

in jealousy and malice. He had never swerved from his fidelity, even

for one moment; but I,--oh! would to God that my spirit might but for

once hold communion with his, that I might humble myself before him,

and implore forgiveness for the injustice and coldness of our last

interview!

"Little more remains to be told. Shortly after, my father sank to his

rest; and the death of a distant relative placed me in possession of a

small annuity, which enabled me to purchase this cottage. Here I shall

probably live until called to rejoin my loved ones in a happier clime."

Aunt Mary's story was ended. My heart was too full for utterance, and

silently I pressed my lips upon her pale forehead, and wended my way

homewards.

The next morning I left Elmwood. When I again revisited my early home, a

plain slab of marble in the churchyard bore the name of Mary Atherton.

SUNSET ON THE RIVER DELAWARE.

A SONNET, TO "SIBYL."

BY J. I. PEASE.

A day of storms!--But, at its latest close,

_Beyond_ the cloud, comes forth the glowing sun,

Kissing the waves to dimples, one by one,

O'er which our homeward bark serenely goes.

The blue expanse with tremulous lustre glows,

As the warm hues of evening fade to dun;

And the still twilight hour comes softly down,

Like blessed, eyelids, for the day's repose.

And thus _our_ day!--The heavy clouds rolled past,

The dark eclipse of doubt and fear is o'er;

The tides of life flow calmly as before,

And love's pure tranquil moon shines clear at last.

Oh, may this hour of beauty and of rest

Bring peace undreaming to thy troubled breast.

FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY.

BY S. A. H.

I saw a noble bark upon the angry main--

The foamy billows pressed upon her track;

Now high, now low, I saw her timbers strain,

As forth she bounded o'er the waters black.

But ever, as a deeper plunge she gave,

Phosphoric brightness gleamed along the wave:

And thus, I said, wide o'er Life's stormy sea,

Glances the light of Faith, so pure and free.

I marked a threatening cloud hang o'er the western sky,

And throw its blackness o'er the landscape fair,

Whence lightnings flashed, whence pealed the thunder high,

And wide re-echoed through the trembling air.

The sun broke forth, and all its dark array

Was gilded with the hues of parting day:

And thus, I said, can Hope's bright rays illume,

And richly paint the darkest days of gloom.

I saw, at twilight eve, a snowy flower--

It closed its leaves and drooped its tender bud;

Cold came the dew, and blightingly the shower

Swept o'er the plant in swift destructive flood.

But, bending o'er its tender charge its leaves,[20]

Bows the strong branch, and needed shelter gives:

And thus, I said, does Charity descend,

And proves to every drooping one a friend.

[Footnote 20: The tamarind plant, which closes its leaves over its

young fruit and flowers.]

CASTLE-BUILDING.

BY JAMES T. MITCHELL.

At twilight, when the deepening shades

Of humid night are closing fast,

When o'er bright fields and green arcades

The dazzling beams of gold are cast,

Another day its weary round

Of mingled joys and pains has run,

And clouds, with golden fringes bound,

In beauty veil the setting sun,--

A silence, pleasing, calm, profound,

Falls soothing on the raptured brain;

The hum of busy life is drowned,

On crowded street and lonely plain;

The soul, in dreamy reveries lost,

To shadowy realms far distant roves,

In stormy waves of ether tost,

Then wandering wild in heavenly groves.

And cloud-built castles, towering high,

O'er gorgeous scenes that fancy rears,

Where laughing orbs illume the sky,

Seem mansions for our future years;

And, while the spirit gazing stands,

Enwrapt with pleasure at the scenes

Which fill Imagination's lands

With palaces for fairy queens,

The view is changing--all is gone--

The castles, fading slow away,

As misty shapes at early dawn,

Vanish before the coming day;

And storm-clouds now are lowering round;

Wild demon shapes are flitting by;

Fierce flames are rising from the ground,

And lurid lightnings cleave the sky.

Bleak snow-capped mountains o'er us frown,

While, gray and grim, through darkened air,

Towers and turrets, looking down

From rocky heights o'erhanging there,

Seem prisons for the wandering brain,

Within whose deep and caverned walls

'Tis doomed for ever to remain,

'Mid shrieks as from demoniac halls.

But pyramids above these rise,

Whose summits, gleaming gaily bright,

Inspire with hope the fainting eyes,

As bathed they stand in golden light,

Lifting their peaks high o'er the dark,

Like shining spots, that on the breast

Of darkened Luna, seem to mark

Some towering Etna's blazing crest.

Perched on these lofty granite piles,

Rise adamantine domes of power,

Secure from treachery, force, or wiles,

Reared in Ambition's happy hour,

When, having left the storm behind,

Of raging battles, fears, and hates,

He spurns their threats as empty wind,

Himself the guardian of the gates.

Here in these grand, but lonely halls,--

Unmingling with the crowd below,

And all unharmed by what befalls

Poor wanderers in this world of woe,--

Ambition, well-directed, dwells,

While songs of sorrow, care, and grief,

Give place to martial music's swells,

Which proudly hail the victor chief.

Yet not alone--without a friend

To share his toil-bought honours great,

And by congenial spirit lend

New splendour to his regal state--

Celestial Hope dwells ever near,

And Happiness, her sister gay;

And thus they live, while year on year

With rapid pinions rolls away.

But gazing from these lofty walls,

A landscape rises bright and fair,

Where happy light serenely falls

On scenes of gorgeous beauty there.

Here crystal founts, 'mid orient flowers,

Which radiant shine in varied hues,

Flow joyous through an Eden's bowers,

Where perfume loads the falling dews;

While here and there, these laughing streams,

Dimpling and eddying ever gay,

Rippling o'er golden sand, that gleams

Like the Golcondian diamond's ray,

Leap headlong down a rocky dell,

And o'er the heaven's ethereal azure

Cast many a rainbow's glittering spell,

That chains the heart in silent pleasure.

And 'neath the heaven's o'erarching bow,

Bloom laurels proud, and violets low,

In fragrance sweet, and beauty rare,

With graceful rose, and lily fair;

The mirthful grape, and crocus glad,

Yet here and there, geranium sad,

With hawthorn, and ambrosia kind,

And 'mongst them all is ivy twined.

Amid these blooming spirit-lands,

Mid chaplets wreathed by Love's own hands,

The glowing flowers of Love are found

With which his shining locks are crowned;

He sings a song, through all the day long,

Of joy, and of gladness, and glee,

And he sits so light, on his throne so bright,

Oh ever a conquering king is he!

But when the sunset's golden dyes

Have faded away from the western skies;

And these fairy gardens are seen by night.

Over their moonlit waters bright,

On which, as they're merrily flowing and dancing,

The light of the stars is twinkling and glancing,

There's a charm in that silent midnight hour,

They only can tell who have felt its power.

There's a mystic spell in its silence sweet,

And a magic thrill through all who meet,

Where kindred thoughts together stray,

Whispering beneath pale Luna's ray;

Then is the time for poet's song,

When his voice on the zephyr is borne along,

And slumbering echo, like fairy fay,

Murmurs the words of his wakening lay.

But the rosy beams of the coming morn

Tell us how fast the night has worn,

How far and free the soul has strayed,

Wandering 'mong scenes in fancy laid;

And the heathcock's note, or the matin bell,

As the morning breeze brings its pealing swell,

Recalls the soul from its musings there,

To find its "Castles"--built in air.

[Illustration:

C. Schuessele del. Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.

Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph^{a.}

WENONA'S LEAP. LAKE PEPIN, MISS. RIVER.]

THE LOVER'S LEAP:

OR, WENONA'S ROCK.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Love, which "rules the court, the camp, the grove," is not without a

share of influence in the wigwam.

It is true that in a polished and refined society, woman is more likely

to receive a just appreciation, than where the intellect of man is

like the one talent rolled in a napkin, useless, because neglected and

unimproved. In an enlightened country, woman is not considered as being

only created to perform the household duties of a wife and mother. She

is a companion, in the highest sense of the word. Her aim, like his,

may be towards the great purposes of life.

Not unmindful of her first duties, those which lie in her province

alone, she can go on towards that exalted state of perfection of which

the soul is capable, though not to be attained here. Religion, that

teaches her "that the price of a virtuous woman is far above rubies,"

also commends her that "she openeth her mouth with wisdom." We find

her in the sacred history not only the friend, the mother, and the

wife, but the poet, the heroine, the prophetess, and even the judge.

But among Indian nations we find her position more than equivocal.

Her influence is undoubted in the domestic relations, but she is still

a slave. She was born to labour--what merit then in her strongest

efforts! She is an inferior--how then can she hope for justice?

Among the Sioux, the men appear indeed to be a superior class of

beings. They are noble-looking, while the women are often repelling in

appearance. The difficulties with which they must contend in the harsh

climate of their country; their poverty increasing year after year;

their frequent and long fastings: these all make the men more hardy,

more capable of a continued struggle, but they have a different effect

upon the women. They are compelled to remain in the lodge; the care of

their children obliges them to forego the excitement of seeking for

food, and thus sickness and even death is often brought upon them that

could otherwise have been avoided. They are often found buried in the

snow in winter, prevented by sickness from making such efforts as saved

the lives of their husbands and brothers.

But their noble courage, where the emotions of the heart are concerned,

gives them the first place in the romantic traditions of their country.

The Sioux will soon have taken a farewell look of the lands which the

Great Spirit gave them in the olden time. The lodge and its occupants

are vanishing away. The occasional war-whoop will soon be forgotten

where it has been heard in unrecorded ages. The scenes of many a

romantic tradition will be forgotten by those who succeed the valiant

but doomed people, who must look upon them no more. The hunter and his

wild steed depart, and the white man, the axe, the plough, and the

powder-horn take their place.[21] The fairy-rings[22] on the prairie

must be trodden down. Spirits will no more assemble where are heard the

noise and excitement of advancing civilization. The same sun gilds the

hills, the same breezes play upon the waters--but the red man must go.

He must, with his heart full of patriotism and sorrow, find another

site for his lodge, another country for his hunting-grounds. The

wakeen-stone to which he was sacrificed is no longer his. The graves of

his ancestors reproach him as he departs.

The illustration of Wenona's Rock presents one of the most striking

and beautiful scenes in Indian country. Even were there no tradition

connected with it, its wonderful beauty must give it interest. One must

indeed feel that God made it. That huge rock with its worn and broken

sides--the lake that reflects it in her placid bosom--the everlasting

hills stretching out before the eye,--these would show the Creator's

handiwork.

But there is an additional interest in viewing it when we recall the

tale of sorrow and passion connected with it. When we recollect that

_here_ a young heart throbbed its last emotions--that from that high

eminence the sweet notes of woman's voice pealed forth their last

music. That _here_ her arms were raised to heaven, appealing for that

justice which earth had denied her.

[Illustration:

C. S. Schuessele del. Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.

Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph^{a.}

MARRIAGE CUSTOM OF THE INDIANS.]

But it is not only on Wenona's Rock that the devotion of an Indian

woman's love is recorded. Go among them and hear the traditions of

each band; how many have loved and died. Learn of the sacrifices that

only woman can make--of the devotion that only woman can feel--of the

sorrows that only woman can endure.

You may see one, who, though past her youth, still attracts you by the

full and expressive glances of her dark and brilliant eyes. Her hair

(a marvel among Indians), waves along her forehead--and when damp from

heat or bathing, divides itself into locks, that would with any pains

be formed into ringlets. Her smile lights up her countenance, for her

white teeth shine, and her mouth, though large, is expressive. She will

not open her heart to a stranger, but to one she loves, she told all.

She had seen but fourteen summers when she left her mother to go to her

husband's lodge. She loved to dwell upon that time, for no bride ever

boasted greater adornment, and her marriage was celebrated according to

the old and venerated customs.[23]

She was a whole morning preparing herself, for her mother loved her,

and was proud of her. She had obtained from the traders gay beads of

every colour, and brooches in numbers, too.

Her father was a favourite of the traders. He carried them so many

beautiful furs--for he was a great hunter--that they gave him trinkets

for her in abundance. They gave him, besides, fire-water; and then she

and her mother used to leave the wigwam and hide, for fear he would

kill her.

When she was ready to go to her husband's lodge, her father and two of

her brothers attended her. Her cousin, Whistling Wind, came to meet

her, and, taking her upon his back, carried her in and placed her by

her husband's side.

She was very happy at first, for her husband loved her; but many moons

passed away, and she had no child.

Her husband reproached her, and she could only weep--and no infant's

voice was heard in their lodge.

At last her husband brought home another wife, and she was forgotten.

Soon she watched him as he carved the thunder-bird on his son's cradle;

and the second wife laughed at her, because she could not be a happy

mother like herself.

He has beaten her sometimes--for he drinks fire-water too.

She might return to her mother, for her family is a powerful one, but

she cannot leave her husband. She cannot forget the love of her early

youth. She stays by him, for he is often sick, and she can take better

care of him than his other wife, who has many young children.

Wherever is man, with his proud, exacting spirit, there is woman, with

her devoted and enduring love. There are many instances of heroic

affection, not recorded in the traditionary annals of the Sioux; but

Wenona's Rock will stand, as long as the world lasts, a monument in

memory of woman's love.

[Footnote 21: The Seal of Minesota, adopted in 1850, represents an

Indian warrior departing on his steed: while a husbandman is in the

foreground, surrounded by the implements of civilization,--the plough,

axe, and rifle. The scene is located at Anthony's Falls.]

[Footnote 22: On the prairies we frequently observe what the Sioux

call Fairy-rings. These are circles, occasioned by the grass growing

in this form, higher and of a darker colour than that around it.

Medicine-Bottle, an inferior chief, living now about twenty miles from

Fort Snelling, says that "they are the paths in which their ancestors

danced their war-dances;" the Indians at Lac qui Parle say the same

thing. In confirmation of this opinion, it may be stated, that these

circles of dark grass vary about as much from true circles as do the

paths in which the Sioux dance at the present time. Chequered Cloud, a

medicine-woman, much esteemed among the Sioux, says "that these circles

were made, in the first instance, by one of their gods, Unk tomi sapa

tonka, the large black spider, for the warriors to dance in." I will

observe that Dr. Williamson, a missionary among the Sioux, requested

from the two Indians mentioned their opinion on this subject, telling

them I had asked it. Dr. Williamson gives his own opinion, or rather

observation, thus:--"It seems to me, from the appearance of these

circles, that they enlarge every year: and I have thought it probable

that they originated from the death of some large animal, or other like

cause, destroying the common grass of the prairie and enriching the

ground, thus starting grass of another kind, or weeds which grow rankly

in this manner, and overshadowing, and to some extent destroying the

surrounding grass, the next year taking possession of the ground from

which the common grass has been destroyed, &c."

"On mentioning this and your letter to Mr. G. H. Pond," Dr. W.

continues, "he said, Lieut. Mather, the geologist, who visited this

country (Minesota) with Featherstonhaugh, many years ago, had advanced

the same opinion. In confirmation of it, I would observe, that in the

large prairies up the St. Peter's River, I have often seen buffalo

bones in these circles." Mr. Pond, the Doctor adds, did not think

these circles originated in this way: saying, some supposed they were

caused by a mineral in the soil, and that he had observed, that when

cattle came on or near these circles, they always eat the dark grass in

the ring close to the ground, neglecting or passing over that growing

elsewhere.]

[Footnote 23: The marriage custom of the Sioux is given in "Dacota,

or Legends of the Sioux." The ancient form, as represented in the

illustration, is still venerated, and frequently, though not always

celebrated.]

THE INDIAN MOTHER,

AND THE SONG OF THE WIND.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Softly the Indian mother[24] sings--

"Woman's heart is strong,

When she works for those she loves,

Through the summer's day so long.

Hark! to the wind's wild voice, my babe--

What may its story be,

Stirring thy cradle-bed, securely laid

In the arms of the forest tree?"

"We have travelled afar, but we come again;

We have passed o'er the couch of weakness and pain;

We have seen the gifted from earth depart;

We have fanned the brow of the broken heart;

We have fled from the shrieks of the mighty in death,

From the battle's rage and the victor's breath;

We have been at the grave--at the infant's birth;

We know all the cares of the children of earth.

"Our wail is heard o'er the mighty deep,

In whose breast the loved and lost ones sleep,

When, sweeping in rage, the hurricane blast

Tosses to heaven the waters vast.

When we bear o'er the foaming and dashing main

The voices that ne'er will be heard again;

Yet we come and go at His will, who said

To the sea 'Be still!' and its waves obeyed.

"The air was still as we stayed our breath,

While the mother wept o'er her young child's death--

A fatherless child; 'twas peacefully laid,

So placid and calm, 'neath the curtain's shade.

Yet, pressing the clay to her throbbing breast,

'Oh! when,' she cried, 'will I be at rest?'

We sang for the child a requiem low,

And the mother's to sing on our way we go.

"But why should we chaunt of sorrow and gloom,

Of night and the tempest, of tears and the tomb?

Those who are parted shall meet again--

The sea yield her victims, the earth her slain;

Our mission we haste o'er ocean to bear;

We tell of his glory whose servants we are.

We quell with our tidings the idol's dark power,

That the cries of its victims be heard never more.

"We raise from the earth the spirit crushed;

At the sight of the cross its murmurs are hushed.

Our voice is heard, and the wandering son

In spirit turns to his long-left home.

He remembers his father's voice in prayer,

And he kneels by the side of his mother there;

And he cries, while his steps are homeward trod,

'Oh! be thou mine, my father's God!'

"Alike is the charge and the mission given

To the faithful heart and the winds of heaven,

To tell how the Saviour came to earth,

How poor he was from the hour of his birth:

His own griefs unheeded, for others he sighed;

Of the life that he lived, of the death that he died.

To earth's farthest shore these tidings we bear--

All glory to Him whose servants we are."

Again the Indian mother sings--

"Woman's heart is strong,

When she works for those she loves,

Through the summer's day so long.

I would know what the wild winds said, my babe--

What could their story be,

Stirring thy cradle-bed, securely laid

In the arms of the forest tree?"

[Footnote 24: Indian women take great interest in listening to

instruction connected with religious subjects. They often deplore the

difference in their position from that of the white woman, desiring for

themselves and their children the thousand comforts and advantages they

observe the wives and children of the white man possess. Only can they

ever hope to enjoy them when their nation becomes a Christian one.]

THE WOOD SPIRITS AND THE MAIDEN.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Those who have lived among the Indians are accustomed to their faith

in the protecting power of the Spirits of Nature. Especially powerful

is the god of the woods and forests.

Day with its gorgeous light passes away,

Shadows of coming night darken the way.

Who is the wanderer

With the long braided hair?

'Mid the tall evergreens,

She like a fairy seems;

Know ye the maiden young,

Wood Spirits, say?

Know we the maiden young--mark well her form,

Like the tall pine tree, when rages the storm.

How like the dark bird's wing

Glistens her braided hair.

When watching o'er her birth,

Sang we a song of earth,

We were her guardians made,

She was our child.

Soon o'er her body cold, chaunt we her funeral hymn,

Wild branches, torn and old, timing the requiem.

Why does she wander here,

With the long braided hair?

Why is the maiden pale--

Why does her breathing fail?

Now, by the moonbeams fair,

See her dimmed eye.

She loved as maiden loves, she wept as woman weeps.

Soon will her restless frame sleep where her lover sleeps.

Then to our far-off groves

Will we her spirit hear.

When heaves her parting sigh,

When closed her lustrous eye,

We will her guardians be,--

She is our child.

ALICE HILL.

BY MRS. M. E. W. ALEXANDER.

Fast by a brook, whose murmuring streams

Reflected heaven in angel dreams,

Embosomed in a quiet wood,

An old and storm-rent school-house stood.

All brown with age and worn by rains,

Rude winter shook the shattered panes,

That shivered in their casements light,

Like goblins' teeth on windy night.

But when the sun shone down the hill,

On smiling field and gushing rill,

And by the school-house danced the brook,

Through hidden course or leafy nook,

On shattered panes in casement light

Its summer rays streamed clear and bright.

Of pleasant ways and knowledge fair,

Blithe Alice Hill reigned mistress there,--

Nor birchen rod nor oaken rule

In terror held this woodland school;

Love awed the spirits bold and wild,

Love won the most rebellious child,--

O, Alice Hill! just sweet sixteen,

Of pleasant ways and courteous mien,

With glowing cheeks and eyes of blue,

And glossy hair of golden hue,

O God! that I should ever live,

Such sad account of thee to give!

In Moreland vale brown Autumn's tilth,

Impatient waits the reaper's scythe:

Where, scattered with a bounteous hand,

Luxuriant harvests thickly stand.

The sunlight bathes the waving grain,

That sweetly smiles to sun again;

The landscape lies in green and gold,

And purple clouds in ether rolled,

Or gentle blue now smile above

This earthly scene of Eden love.

With dashing wheels and flying steed,

Nor whip nor spur to urge their speed,

To view his land Fitch Moreland came,

The eldest of his honoured name,

And heir of all, the green-crowned wood,

In which the low-roofed school-house stood,

The wide-spread fields, the meadows broad,

The fruitful land and grassy sward,

And near embraced with roses wild

The old brown house that through them smiled,

Where Alice Hill had passed her days

Unnoticed by a flatterer's gaze;

And Rudolph Hill, a farmer skilled,

The fields had reaped, the lands had tilled,

Fitch Moreland's tenant, prompt to pay

His rent and taxes gathering day.

Just free from school, with shout and song,

Fitch Moreland met a joyous throng,

And joined their sports, with heart as gay,

As boyhood had not passed away;

Till seated in a fairy glade,

Beneath an elm tree's grateful shade,

Sweet Alice Hill fell on his sight,

With glowing cheeks and eyes of light:

Around her neck, her hair unbound,

In floating tresses swept the ground,

And pupils kneeling at her side,

Wild flowers in graceful garlands tied,

A coronal as fresh and gay

As ever crowned "the Queen of May."

With courteous words and city mien,

Fitch Moreland joined the rustic scene.

Quick beat the heart of Alice Hill,

Her pulses woke a music thrill:

Her glowing cheek with crimson flushed,

And in her heart tumultuous gushed

A spring of thought, so sweet and rare,

It might have claimed the name of air,

Its unseen visions came so bright,

To shed on life a holier light.

O ye who wear love's gentle spell,

And bless the bondage, can ye tell

Blithe Alice Hill if this was Love,--

That like a homeless, wandering dove,

Beat at her fluttering heart, and sought

An altar for his blissful thought?

No longer now, like placid streams,

Life passes by in quiet dreams;

But hurried, feverish pulses shake

The beating heart they may not break,--

Hope, fear, desire, and all that stored

The spring of life, hung on his word:

There was no life without his smile,

Nor dreamed she that a heart of guile

Beat in so fair and smooth a shrine,

That other eyes for him might shine,

And softer voices breathe his name!

O, Alice Hill, love's vestal flame

Hath many a false, misguiding light,

To cheat young hearts, with promise bright.

And strew life's shores with dearer wrecks

Than perish from our wave-washed decks.

The fowler laid a cunning snare:

The timid bird was fluttering there,

And paused on half-suspended wing,

To hear the subtle charmer sing;

Close to the brink, with dizzy sense,

She hung upon his eloquence;

Lured by the magic of his eye,

She quite forgot her power to fly,

Till reeling, powerless with the spell,

She lost her fragile hold and fell.

The fowler saw his lovely spoil

Entangled in the dazzling toil,

A few frail threads of woven gauze,

But deadly as the lion's jaws.

Not till her golden wings were shorn,

The timid bird escaped forlorn--

To soar with flocks of grosser mould,

An alien from the heavenly fold,

The timid bird, a human heart--

The snare, a smooth seducer's art--

How can my pitying pen rehearse

The burden of its mournful verse,

Since he who triumphed in his power

To crush so meek and low a flower,

Contemptuous spurned it from his path,

To die a lone neglected death,

And to the winds his bauble tost--

Left Alice Hill, betrayed and lost.

And, Alice Hill, his haughty name

Will never hide thy maiden shame--

And though he swear it on his life,

Thou'lt never be Fitch Moreland's wife!

"Farewell, my own, my waiting bride!

Though I am wandering from thy side,

And from these favourite haunts afar,

I see thine eyes in every star,

I hear thy voice in every breeze,

That floats through summer's radiant trees;

And thou shalt wear our bridal ring,

And wear it as a holy thing,

Till, to the sacred altar led,

It be the seal by which we wed."

Years rolled down Time's resistless tides

Where Time, Eternity divides;

Fitch Moreland, high in hall and state,

Cared not that by the elm tree sate

Poor Alice Hill, to reason lost,

Like oarless bark on ocean tost;

Not wildly crazed to tear her hair,

But mute and sad, as if despair

Had worn away life's tuneful strings,

And sealed to Thought its gushing springs.

But on that ring mute Alice Hill

For ever looks, as if a thrill

Of reason shot across her brain,

And darted gleams of mental pain.

Bold Winter lay on Moreland Vale.

His bearded crown of ice and hail,

And columns wreathed in feathery snow,

How childhood dreams of glory show.

Fast by these piles, on reeking steed,

A post-boy checked his furious speed,

And whispered to a gaping wight,

"Fitch Moreland takes a wife to-night."

Mute Alice Hill the echo caught,--

With stealthy steps the town she sought,

That three leagues off in beauty lay

Along Wamphassock's lovely bay--

With hair arranged and graceful dress,

None would have dreamed such loveliness

Concealed a heart to reason lost,

Like oarless bark on ocean tost.

Light, glorious light, streamed clear and wide,

Through the proud dome of Moreland's bride,

And mirth and music chid the hours

Lost in a maze of thornless flowers.

His eye erect in manly pride,

Fitch Moreland stood beside his bride,

Nor dreamed he that his Eden bough

Hung on a false and perjured vow.

The holy priest in scarf and bands

With holy words had joined their hands,

And as to make more strong an oath,

When each had pledged their plighted troth,

A gleaming ring in diamonds set,

That hid a lock of glossy jet,

The fragile finger graceful pressed,

As sunlight lies on ocean's crest.

A maddened brain, a spirit strong,

Has pressed aside that startled throng.

With glaring eyes and purple cheeks,

Fitch Moreland's side a woman seeks,

While o'er her half-ethereal frame

The altar sheds its holy flame.

The grasp on Moreland's arm was light,

But those wild eyes, so wildly bright,

His craven soul with terror fill,

For now he knows crazed Alice Hill.

A ring she from her finger drew,

And held it forth to Moreland's view,

And murmured low, in tones that thrilled

His thickly throbbing pulse, and stilled

The awe-struck guests, as if a breath

Had touched them from the wing of death:

"Four times twelve months have quickly fled--

This be the seal by which we wed,

And in this light empyreal bow,

To consecrate, our bridal vow!

I sit beneath the elm alone

Since thou, my own, my love, art gone.

Where hast thou trifled on the way,

Like truant-boy forbid to stay?

But hush, my heart, thou needst not chide:

Fitch Moreland claims his waiting bride!

My beating heart, what raptures thrill,

Tumultuous heart, be still! be still!"

A sturdy arm grasped Alice Hill,

Who struggling fiercely, shrieking shrill,

Out from the door was rudely cast,

Though storms were out and tide and blast.

There shivering on the pavement cold

Sat Alice Hill, with spirit bold,

Roused by a blow, revenge to claim

For reason lost and peace and name.

The holy priest completes his task,

And bride and groom his blessing ask.

What benediction can reverse

A wronged and ruined woman's curse?

With fettered hands and ringlets shorn,

Poor Alice Hill, a maniac, borne

On to the mad-house's gloomy walls,

For ever on Fitch Moreland calls,--

"I am not mad! Unloose these bands!

See here my tortured, bleeding hands!

On Moreland's ring a crimson stain:

It shall not plead my wrongs in vain;

For in my heart revenge lies deep--

Its glassy eyes shall never sleep,

Till at the altar, live or dead,

This be the seal by which we wed!"

A pallet, undisturbed by night,

Fell on the careful matron's sight.

And Alice Hill from thence had fled,

With shoeless feet and naked head.

Long was the search, and every track

Pursued to bring crazed Alice back.

But vain pursuit, reward in vain,

To bring crazed Alice back again.

Wrapped in a cloak of faded red,

With shoeless feet and naked head,

And ringlets shorn, a woman stood

Half muttering, in a crazy mood,

And watched with glazed and jealous eye

A gorgeous equipage move by.

Reined in the light of glaring lamps

The restless steed his bridle champs.

A form alights with agile bound,

But reeling, totters to the ground.

They said, who passed, a weapon's gleam

Danced in the moonlight's silvery beam.

Crowds gathered round, a crimson tide

Was slowly ebbing from his side,

When on their sight a weapon flashed,

And feet that living current plashed,

Till bending o'er his shivering frame

A woman wildly shrieked his name.

"Turn on me now your treacherous eyes!

Speak, lying lips, while perjury dies,

See what a work a falsehood wrought,

My love with life were dearly bought,

But peace and reason with it fled--

Eternal curses on your head!

You stole my love, an artless child

By sacred promises beguiled,

Then left me to a blighted name,

To add new laurels to your fame;--

To death's avenging altar led,

This be the seal by which we wed."

Upraised, the weapon gleamed again

On coward hearts and awe-struck men:

Beside Fitch Moreland, fainting, dead,

Lay Alice Hill, their spirits wed

In that eternal, dreamless sleep,

Where souls their solemn bridals keep.

DR. VANDORSEN AND THE YOUNG WIDOW.

BY ANN E. PORTER.

To assure my readers that I am telling them what is truth, and

not drawing upon the treasury of fancy for a sketch, I will first

relate to them in what manner I became acquainted with the Doctor

and the Widow. I was once a teacher: yes, for seven years I held

sway in the school-room, and learned by severe discipline the art

of self-government, and to bear in secret many a sorrow of which

the cherished daughter in the domestic circle remains in blissful

ignorance. Whenever I see a young lady, at the close of school-hours,

turning with a weary step to her solitary room in some boarding-house,

my first impulse is to go and ask her to share my own fireside, sit

down at my table, and forget for a while, in my little family circle,

that she is away from the loved ones of her own home.

I shall never forget my first preparations for leaving home. I was

to go eight hundred miles,--a long journey in the days of stages and

canal-boats. My little purse grew thin and lank under the unusual

exertion. I had a trunk and a large bandbox (the latter article I have

since learned to dispense with): in this was placed all the "varieties"

of my wardrobe, as Parson Milton would call them; or the accessories to

strengthen the arsenal, as Bonaparte termed the feminine requisites

to the toilet. My little store of collarets, ribbons, and cravats, my

lace capes and fancy handkerchiefs were all folded in one box, and

placed inside the larger one. They were few in number; but what girl

of eighteen does not cherish her own small hoard of treasures? I was

to go as far as Pittsburg in the company of a lady and her brother,

a boy of sixteen. Three days and nights we were to travel by stage,

stopping only for meals, and occasionally an hour for rest, besides the

intervals caused by changing horses. Two strangers, young gentlemen

from Philadelphia, joined us at the latter city, and remained with the

party to Pittsburg. Nothing, perhaps, makes people better acquainted

with the disposition of their companions, than the old-fashioned mode

of coach-travelling; the petty troubles and peculiar annoyances excite

the mirth of some, but elicit only the grumbling of others, so that for

days together we are entertained by the fun of laughter-loving girls,

and gallant young gentlemen, with growling interludes from some gouty

old man, or the groans of an epicure, who talks only to condemn the

dinner, and curse the cooks.

I had never spent a whole night out of my bed before, and though the

excitement kept me up at first, I found myself so exhausted by the

middle of the second night, that it was with difficulty I could retain

my seat.

One of the passengers, perceiving my situation, and alarmed by my

almost deadly paleness, requested the driver to stop, and ordered a

cup of tea. This, and a resting-place for my poor head, relieved me a

little; but with what joy did we hail, the next day at evening, the

smoky city of Pittsburg.

"Ladies, shall we have the pleasure of meeting all our little party

together in the parlour this evening?" said one of the gentlemen. The

next morning we were to separate, taking three different routes. We

therefore cheerfully acquiesced, and Miss S. and myself repaired to our

rooms to dress. What was my astonishment to find my treasures gone, and

with them a valuable breastpin, the gift of my grandfather, shortly

before his death! I was weary, sick, and sad; but at the earnest

request of my companion, I put on a black silk dress, and felt not a

little refreshed by my bath, and the privilege of using thoroughly the

brush and comb, which, denied me for two days and nights, had given

to my head, with its exuberance of hair, a most moppish appearance on

the outside, while the brain within seemed to share the entanglement

without.

But the efforts of my companions could not chase away the homesickness

of the heart. The morning would find me alone in the world. Sixty miles

of my journey were yet to be travelled: and, wearied in body and faint

in spirit, I longed to see my dear father, and be at home again under

his protection. I shrunk, too, from the duties before me: they seemed

more arduous and difficult as I approached them; and with a sad feeling

of my own incompetency and the lack of personal charms, which might

prepossess my employers, I laid my head upon my pillow that night and

watered it with my tears. Sleep! blessed, blessed Sleep! Thou dost take

the burdens from the weary and fling them into the waters of oblivion;

the infant, in its guileless rest, is pillowed on thy lap, and the

aged lean lovingly on thy shoulder. Merciful was the great Father of

all, that he did permit thee to follow Adam from Paradise, and travel

with his children in this world of guilt,--thus are we permitted to

forget, for a while, at least, our sorrows and our sins. Early the next

morning I went on board a steamboat for Wheeling, and though shrinking

and timid, I still found protection and kindness when needed; but when

we arrived, at midnight, in the village of P., and I found myself alone

in a large, desolate-looking room of the hotel, all the former feeling

of sadness came over me, and with them an indefinable dread of the

future.

I must send word to the patrons of the school that I had arrived:

and fearful that their expectations would be disappointed, I could

not sleep. The next morning I despatched a messenger, and two of the

trustees called. They were polite, but said little, excepting what

related to business; but when they left me, remarked, "We will procure

a more agreeable home for you than this." I thanked them with my lips,

but they little comprehended how earnestly the heart craved for a home

again. The day passed, and I saw no one till the twilight shadows were

creeping into that lonely room, and with them also dim visions of home

and friends, bringing with them that sad heart-longing which the young

feel during their first absence from home, when I was startled from

my reverie by a gentle knock at my door. I opened it, and an old lady

stood before me, so kind, so motherly in her appearance, and so plainly

yet tastefully dressed, that my heart clung to her at first sight. If

my Father in heaven had sent an angel to me, I should certainly have

chosen just such a face and garb, in my present condition, rather than

the white robes and bright-winged cherubs of Raphael's glorious fancy.

"Why, my dear child," said she, as if struck at once by my girlish

figure and pallid face, "you must have been lonely here to-day, and you

need a mother to nurse and take care of you after your long journey.

My name is Warner, and I am going to take you home with me, if you

will go. My brother called this morning, and my husband would have

accompanied me, but he was very busy; and I was so fearful that you

would be homesick, that I thought I would come and introduce myself."

My heart bounded with delight, and I could hardly speak for gratitude;

and I said so little, and that in such a blundering way, that I was

afraid she would not know how much relief she had brought me.

"Come, my dear, get your bonnet," said she pleasantly, "and I will send

for your baggage."

I obeyed, and in a few minutes we stopped at a large but neat

residence, almost hid in a profusion of shrubbery. The climbing

multiflora rose covered one side of the house, and, with welcome

intrusiveness, peeped into the chamber windows, while a honeysuckle and

woodbine threw their mantle of green over the door, and mingled their

blossoms with those of a tall snowball tree, which had grown high, and,

clinging to the house, showered a white welcome upon every corner. A

few steps from the house, on the right side, but in the same enclosure,

was a small brick office;--on the other side a cottage, shaded by two

large beech trees, children of the forest, spared by some merciful

woodman when the land was cleared. Such was the outward appearance of

my new home--a word as to its inmates. My companion ushered me into a

small sitting-room, prettily furnished, and occupied at the time by two

persons,--one a tall, white-haired old gentleman, with spectacles on

nose, reading the newspaper--the other Mrs. Travis, a young widow, the

daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Warner, who had returned again to the home of

her youth. She was sewing as we entered, but, laying aside her work,

rose to greet us. Her countenance was plain, but a pair of sparkling

black eyes gave animation and expression to her features; and, as I

returned her salutation, I thought her welcome not quite so cordial as

her mother's. It seemed to express this--"Whether you and I like each

other will depend on circumstances." But the old gentleman looked at

me for an instant over his spectacles; then, laying them aside with

his paper, rose, and taking my hand, welcomed me to the West with a

hearty greeting; then, placing a chair near to his own, begged me to be

seated. His whole countenance was expressive of goodness; and, as I sat

down by his side in all the timidity of a girlish stranger, I felt, for

the first time since leaving home, a delicious sense of security and

peace. It seemed as if the wing of some guardian angel was over me, and

a refuge opened in time of sorrow.

And here, _en passant_, I must add, those first impressions never

changed; and, from that hour till the day when that blessed spirit

was carried by angels to its own pure home in heaven, I always found

consolation in trouble, advice in perplexity, and gentle reproof in

error, by the side of the good old man. How sweet was the fragrance

of his daily life, and how precious the kiss he imprinted upon my

forehead, and the blessing he implored upon my head when I bade him

farewell! Oh! the hopeless darkness of atheism, which draws the veil

of oblivion between us and all further intercourse with such spirits!

No, no!--let us rather say with St. Paul, "I _know_ in whom I have

believed;" and with Job, "I _shall_ live again."

But my limits forbid any extended notice of the members of the family,

though the years I spent under that charmed roof are marked in my life

with a white stone. There I emerged from the bashful, timid girl, into

the more active, energetic woman; and under the blessed influence of

love I trust I grew wiser and happier.

When, at nine o'clock, the family Bible was opened, and father

"Read a portion with judicious care,

And 'Let us worship God,' he said with solemn air;"

and all knelt at the family altar in prayer, my own heart was full,

and I was thankful that no eye could see my face. Soon afterwards the

old lady said, "You look tired, and must retire; I will show you to

your room." Then, leading me through a small entry, she opened the door

of a commodious room, saying, as she did so, "This will be yours." It

was carpeted, a centre-table was in the middle of the room, an open

stove with its grate, ready at any chilly hour for coal, and a nice,

cosy-looking bed in one corner of the apartment. The old lady lighted

a candle, and bade me good night. Did she, or did she not, think I was

a cold-hearted little thing, that I said good night in such a low,

tremulous tone? I know not; but this I do know, that, as soon as she

had left the room, I sat down, and, laying my head on the table, burst

into tears.

They were tears of thankfulness and joy, and they refreshed the heart,

as a summer shower the parched earth.

I seemed a child again, and, with my childhood's prayer upon my lips, I

dropped to sleep that night. I would love to sit and write till night

about my after-life there, but I have limited myself to one little

episode, and to that I will proceed. I had been there some months;

Elizabeth had learned that we were so unlike that we could love, and

neither be enemies nor rivals. Her high, ambitious, buoyant spirit had

nothing to fear from the timid, yielding, sensitive girl who was to

be her companion. Not a single trait in the character of each came in

collision. One was self-reliant, could keep her own secrets, extricate

herself from her own difficulties, feared none but God, cared little

for the opinion of others, loved deeply, hated cordially. The other

had an inordinate "love of approbation," lacked hope and courage, but,

supported by a stronger arm, could endure the bitterest trial even to

the end. The one was proud to uphold, the other loved to trust.

And thus we moved on, loved and loving, whereas, had we resembled each

other more closely, bitter heart-burnings and jealousies might have

been the result. One day we sat together in the little sitting-room.

We were reading "Deerbrook," by Miss Martineau, and wondering that

such want of trust and faith should ever take place between sisters,

when the door-bell rang, and a young gentleman, a total stranger to

us, was ushered in. He was a tall young man, with a fresh countenance,

a somewhat diffident manner, and gray eyes, which had a downcast

expression. It was difficult for him to observe that simple rule of

politeness, "Look directly at the person to whom you speak." Mr. Warner

endeavoured to make him more at his ease by casual remarks upon the

weather, and other topics of the day; but he elicited little besides

"Yes, sir," "No, sir," "I agree with you perfectly, sir," and suchlike

replies. At last he drew a card from his pocket, and handed it to Mr.

Warner, saying, "I have been in town some days, and am looking out for

an office. Learning that the one near your house is unoccupied, I have

made an early application."

"I will think of it," said the old gentleman. "This is Dr. Vandorsen,

ladies, come to take up his residence in our village." This somewhat

awkward introduction over, I took the opportunity to slip out of the

room, just as they commenced talking upon the terms of rent and other

business matters.

"Well, now," said Elizabeth, as she came hastily into my room, an hour

afterwards; "what do you think of the Doctor?"

"Why, I haven't thought of him since I left the room; I have been

preparing my lesson in Butler's Analogy, and I assure you it requires

all the strength of my feeble brain to grasp his arguments and make

them clear to my class."

"A truce to such work! I thought you had been studying the young

stranger's physiognomy, and were prepared to give me an analysis of his

character."

"Let me see," I said; "I cannot give you his character, but I believe

his personal appearance I can remember; cheeks like your rusty-coat

apples, rusty brown with a touch of red, foxy eyes, slick, _very_

slick hair, as the Yankees say, an inflexible spine, and in one respect

only like St. Paul."

"Pray what is that?"

"Brethren, I came unto you in much _weakness of speech_."

Lizzy's eyes snapped, and she looked, for a moment, almost angry.

"Then," said she, "I really thought you had some penetration of

character, but I must be mistaken. Did you not see the evidence of

fine feelings beneath that bashful exterior? And then he was so modest

and unassuming; why I no sooner heard his errand than my fancy drew a

beautiful picture in perspective. He seemed so much like yourself,--you

that we are beginning to love so much, that I thought it would be love

at first sight. Father will let him have the office, and then here's

the cottage: a nice, snug place it would be for you, and we could have

you always with us, and a doctor handy to cure 'the ills to which flesh

is heir.'"

"You have a vivid imagination, truly; but let me tell you that you are

right in supposing that I have very little penetration of character.

I have none; but sometimes, though I cannot account for it, I have a

strong aversion to a person on the first meeting; and when it is so, I

never overcome it."

"Nonsense," said Lizzy, "that is all imagination; a belief without

reason, but it cannot be so in this case."

"We will leave this for the present," I said; "and I will take more

particular notice of the Doctor the next time. If you like him, I have

no doubt I shall also. But why so disinterested? why not take the good

Doctor yourself, and then the office and cottage will follow as a life

possession for him?"

"Why, don't you know, my dear child, he is not the man for me? I should

be the death of so amiable a personage in two years. If I marry again,

it must be a man of boldness and spirit. I care not if he have the

temper of Bonaparte, if he have his courage and spirit."

"And could you endure like Josephine? You forget the broken vows and

crushed hopes."

A shade passed over her countenance a moment.

"Let us not talk about marriage now," said she.

"Agreed," I replied. "I must study, and bury all other aspirations for

the present in my school."

The next day the Doctor took possession of the office, and long rows

of vials and boxes of bones usurped the place of law books and deeds.

The boy pounded medicines in the morning, and the Doctor played on his

flute at night.

He was neighbourly, and very attentive to both the young ladies,

evidently studying to make no difference in his attentions. To be sure,

he talked most with myself, and I noticed whenever an opportunity

occurred, Lizzy would direct the conversation to some subject in

which I was especially interested. Every Wednesday evening we went to

a lecture, and he was usually present to accompany the family. The

whole family seemed interested in him, and good old Mr. Warner too,

especially as he now spoke of his intention to join the church. When

that event did take place, I found some excuse for staying at home. The

more I tried to overcome it, the stronger my aversion became. I thought

it must be groundless--the rest of the family had more experience

and wisdom than myself,--why then should I feel such an unaccountable

prejudice towards an innocent young gentleman who had done me no harm?

I determined to overcome it, and most severely did I blame myself for

suspecting that any other than holy motives led to this public act

of consecration. The next evening, when he proposed to me that we

should take a short walk, I cheerfully consented. As we passed a large

flouring mill, he said, "This, I believe, is Mr. Warner's?"

"Yes," I replied.

"It seems, to be a very valuable one."

"One of the most so in the region. The old gentleman came to this

country many years ago. Like Abraham, he went forth, not knowing

whither he went, and like him has he been prospered. He has flocks and

herds, houses and lands, and, what shall I call _those_?" I asked, as a

drove of swine marked by him came grunting along with their snub noses

in the gutter.

"Oh, that is but one species of property," he remarked, "and has its

value. The good old man seems to be very worthy."

"Worthy!" I repeated to myself--what harm in that, and yet I didn't

like the question, or rather the tone of the remark.

"He is one of the excellent of the earth--belonging to that species of

salt which never loses its savour."

"They seem to be a very affectionate family, no wonder they feel almost

idolatry for their interesting daughter. Did you know her husband?"

"Not at all," I replied, and by my silence indicated that I had no wish

to continue this conversation.

The very next morning I had occasion to go into the private room or

study of the old gentleman, to deposit in his hands a sum of money,

the proceeds of my labour, and for which he gave me good interest

and security. I found the old lady there, and as I opened the door

she remarked, "Oh yes, husband, lend him freely if he needs; he is

young, and a hundred dollars may aid him greatly now; I have perfect

confidence in the Doctor."

I bit my lip, for I found myself inclined to smile, and did not wish

to be observed. But the old gentleman remarked the expression of my

face, and looking over his spectacles archly said, "Ay, ay, my little

schoolma'am! and so you don't think so highly of the Doctor as the rest

of us, or do you sail under false colours just now?"

"I have no cause for that," I replied, "and if I had, your penetration

would find it out; so honesty is really my best policy, for no other

reason than because I can have no other."

"Well, time works wonders; I only desire that you settle among us, and

I must say, prudence would hardly advise the Doctor at present; so

take good care of yourself and all will come right," so giving me my

receipt and a kiss on the cheek, I left the good couple in the act of

counting out a hundred dollars for the Doctor. Weeks passed, and Lizzy,

delighted at every new patient the Doctor had and at the increasing

reputation she thought he was gaining, always had some interesting fact

to relate to me when I returned from school at night. At one time he

had refused all pay from a sick old woman, one of Lizzy's protégés,

whom he visited daily. At another time, he had spent half a day in

the garden with her good mother, budding, trimming, and tying up her

bushes; again, he had gone into the field and mowed for three hours, to

help her father, when there was a prospect of rain. "And wouldn't he

make a good husband, Sissy dear?" she said.

"Yes, love, if he was only a little more fiery, like Bonaparte, and had

the courage and spirit of a hero."

Lizzy looked annoyed. In the mean time, common report had, to my great

vexation, coupled the Doctor's name with mine; but to attempt to stem

the current of village gossip is like using Dame Partington's broom

to sweep the sea. Firmness and patience are the only salves for such

annoyances. Happily, a vacation of a week occurred, and I was to spend

it with one of my pupils.

On my return, it was a pleasant summer's evening, the doors were open,

and the same vines and trees which the year before looked so inviting

to the little homesick girl, were again loaded with blossoms. The old

folks sat just inside the door enjoying the mild air, and Lizzy on an

ottoman, which stood on the broad step. The Doctor, with a hideous

black patch on the side of his forehead, and one arm in a sling, stood

leaning in a picturesque attitude by her side. Lizzy's eyes looked

milder than I ever saw them before, and when she turned them upon the

Doctor, there was an expression of interest and sympathy which I had

never noticed before. "The victory is won," I said to myself, and then,

like a shadow on my heart, came those first impressions, which no after

acquaintance had removed. Mr. Warner came forward to welcome me, and

wait upon me into the house, saying to the Doctor, with a smile, "We

will excuse all want of gallantry this evening."

"And excuse me, also," he replied, "I will do myself the pleasure of

calling on Miss Porter to-morrow," he said.

"What in the name of wonder has happened?" I said to Lizzy, who had

flown to my side as the Doctor left.

"Oh, it is quite a story, I assure you; but I ought not to tell you,

for I shall spoil it for the Doctor to-morrow. He tells it so well;

you'll find that your stammering St. Paul can speak with the tongue of

an angel sometimes."

But my curiosity would not allow me to wait: and in truth, neither

would Lizzy's enthusiasm permit her to do the same; so she gave the

outlines, promising that the Doctor should fill them up in the morning.

"Would you believe it," she commenced, "the Doctor has been robbed and

shot at, and"--

"Shot at, and then robbed, Sis," said the old gentleman.

"There, I knew I should spoil the story."

"Never mind, do go on," I said, "where, pray?"

"Why, on the turnpike road to McConnelsville; don't you remember a

piece of woods there?"

"Why, yes; but honest black Gassoway's house is near about half way as

you pass the woods. I came from there on horseback, at eight o'clock in

the evening, only two weeks ago."

"You must never go there again, my child," said Mrs. Warner, in a sort

of sepulchral tone; "it may be the death of you."

"Just as the Doctor came to where the woods commenced, two

horrible-looking ruffians with masks came out of the woods, and while

one seized the horse's bridle, the other pointed a pistol to his heart,

and demanded his money. He had two hundred dollars by him, which he was

then taking to a man he owed. It was all the spare money he had; you

know the Doctor is just commencing his profession, and he does not wish

to urge his debtors too hard at present. But he was too brave to yield

at once; he knocked the pistol aside, but it went off, grazing his arm;

but after a hard fight with his opponents, he found they were too much

for him, and after resigning all his money he came back home. Isn't it

too bad, so industrious and prudent as he seems to be?"

"It is a hard case surely; but for the life of me I cannot imagine how

robbers dared come so near the town; the pistol-shot must have been

heard at Gassoway's."

"No, it was midnight, and they were sound asleep, probably. I wish they

had heard and gone in pursuit."

The next day was Sunday, and, as usual, I went to meeting in the

evening. Lizzy complained of slight indisposition, and did not

accompany us; but when we returned we found the two invalids together,

and one at least looking very agreeable, though Lizzy's face expressed

embarrassment whenever she caught my eye.

The next morning the good old lady called me into her room a little

while before the hour of school, and, bidding me sit down by her side,

said affectionately, but seriously,

"My child, do you love the Doctor?"

Though not naturally mirthful, I could scarce refrain from laughing

in the old lady's face. Respect forbade, and I answered, with all the

seriousness I could command,

"Dear Aunty, because you and Lizzy wished it, I have tried hard to do

so; but I do not love him, and I am convinced I never can."

The good woman looked relieved, and said, "I am glad it is so; you are

far away from home and friends, and I should be sorry to have you in

trouble while with us. Come to me at all times with your sorrows, and I

will try and be a mother to you."

The smiles were now exchanged for tears. What in the world does any one

wish to cry for, when they are grateful? But some seem to have that

unfortunate propensity.

"I was only to add," said the old lady, "that the Doctor loves Lizzy;

and I feared," she said, "it might make one heart sad. We fancied you

felt more interest in the Doctor than you are willing to acknowledge."

"I now give you a solemn promise," I said, and it was sealed with a

kiss, "that I will always speak the truth to yourself."

This conversation only gave me new cause for regret. I could not see my

dear Lizzy married to the Doctor, so long as I was unable to shake off

my own dislike to him, and my own mouth was fettered by the suspicions

concerning myself. For two days I was pondering in my own mind what

could be done; and learning that Mr. Warner would permit no engagement

to take place at present, concluded that time and patience would bring

all right.

Thus I mused, with my book open, but my mind wandering, when Lizzy

burst into the room.

"Heigh-ho! my little hypocrite, you never can keep a secret, you say.

Is that the truth?" And she held a card towards me.

"I never had any secrets to keep, Lizzy, so I don't know how much

strength I possess."

"Well here, then--'Joseph Dushey, St. Louis, Mo.'"

"Upon my word, Lizzy, I know no more about this gentleman than

yourself. Does he wish to see me?"

"That he does, and is waiting your ladyship's presence in the parlour."

"Some business relating to the school," I said. "I must not keep him

waiting."

So to the parlour I went, and soon found myself in the presence of a

gentleman upon whom nature had put her unmistakeable sign of nobility.

His address and manner were those of one accustomed to refined

society, and his ease and suavity quite overcame my own timidity. But,

after a few minutes' general conversation, it was his turn to become

embarrassed; and, after apologizing for interference in my private

affairs, he said that, hearing that an engagement of marriage existed

between myself and Dr. Vandorsen, he had felt it his duty to expose the

character of the Doctor. It was painful, but it seemed to him an act of

justice and mercy. He then related the history of this adventurer--a

reckless swindler, ingratiating himself into the favour of others,

and then repaying kindness with black ingratitude. "I have often," he

said, "from regard to his father, helped him to money. He is owing me

now; and, learning that I was in the vicinity, he invented the account

of the sham robbery, which he says took place on Saturday evening."

He then placed in my hands the papers containing proofs of that which

he had asserted, and again, with much delicacy, apologized for his

intrusion.

I thanked him most sincerely for what he had done, and assuring him

that no such engagement existed between us, yet these papers were

valuable as guarding against future trouble for others.

He allowed me to retain them. On going to my room I sat down and

examined them carefully, and blessed God that I had it in my power to

save Lizzy from a dreadful sacrifice. I laid them aside, determined to

place them in the hands of Mr. Warner in the morning.

When morning came, the Doctor's office was found deserted; the key hung

upon the outside, his valuables were removed, and from that time to

this I have heard nothing from Dr. Vandorsen, nor has my good mother

Warner or her family. Neither have the two hundred dollars, which they

at different times loaned him, ever been returned.

Lizzy is most delightfully situated, and I know of but one drawback

to her perfect happiness, viz., that her husband is one of the most

amiable of men, never allowing his temper to conquer his reason, and

never likely to allow ambition to overpower the deep affection he bears

his wife.

A CENOTAPH.

AUGUST, 1776.

BY ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH.

"It was a notion of the ancients, that if one perished at sea, or

where his body could not be found, the only way to procure repose

for him was to build an empty tomb, and by certain rites and

invocations, call his spirit to the habitation prepared for it."

ESCHENBURG.

I.

1.

The memory of Nathan Hale,

Who, in the days of strife,

For freedom of our native land,

Laid down his noble life.

Lord Howe, Cornwallis, Percy earl

Were come in wide array,

And from Long Island to New York

Had pushed our guns away.

Our Father looked across the Sound,

Disaster groaned behind,

And many dubious, anxious thoughts

Were labouring in his mind.

"Knowlton," said he, "I need a man,

Such as is hard to meet,

A trusty, brave, and loyal man,

And skilful in deceit.

"The British, now in Brooklyn lodged,

May divers plans pursue:

Find me a man to go and spy

What Howe intends to do."

Said Knowlton, "Sir, I make no doubt

Many apt men have we."

He went. At nightfall he returned

With Hale in company.

2.

"Young friend," said Washington to Hale,

"It much imports to know

What mischief Howe is brooding on;

Which way intends to go.

"But though you might, with help of Grace,

Unmask his schemes of ill,

I will not risk your generous blood

Without your perfect will."

"Grave Sir," said Hale, "I left my home,

Not for the love of strife,

But for my country's cause resolved,

Knowing I risked my life.

"Between my duty and my will,

In service light or sore,

It is not now for me to choose,

For that was done before.

"Let not your Excellency poise

What may to me ensue;

But weigh the service to be done,

And judge my power to do."

"Well said; then briefly thus:--Put on

Some other self-disguise--

And by to-morrow morning be

Among our enemies.

"Go safely curious how you will,

And spy whate'er you may,

Of how their troops have borne the bruise

They gave us yesterday.

"And deeper else--our chief concern,

And study at this hour--

Find if their guns are hither aimed;

Or, with divided power,

"Cleft from the rearward of their force,

While we stand here attent;

Or farther south, or farther north,

They mean to make descent.

"Brooklyn to them is vantage-ground.

Find what you can. To know

The mischief in a foeman's thought

Is half to foil a foe.

"The moon goes down"--"By nine," said Hale.

Said Knowlton: "Nay, at ten."

"Can you be off so soon as that?"

"I hardly think by then:

"Nor would--for let me plead that I,

Herein, may yield my breath;

And mine affairs I would devise

As if before my death.

"God knows what hearts may crack for this.

But failure, or no fail,

To-morrow morning I'll be there,

As I am Nathan Hale."

"Bravely, my boy! Such soul as this

Is better than a host.

To dare is little, if to dare

Unmindful of the cost."

3.

The night was broadly overcast,

And the scant moon and stars,

From the dim dungeons of the clouds,

Looked through their iron bars.

"My worthy lad," said Washington,

"We seek without despair,

Although we find, in all yon arch,

No sign of morning there."

"And know whose gracious hand it is

That times the darkest sky,"

Said Hale. "Adieu!" said Washington,

"God keep you,--go,--good-bye!"

II.

1.

The flitting Hours, with golden brands

Once more adorned with flame,

Beheld our land in busy act,

Where war was all the game.

Out of his cups of deep carouse,

That reeled till morning shine,

The Provost of the Lion camp

Came forth the tented line.

An ugly man,--a tiger soul,

Lodged in a human house,--

With whiskey fuming from his hide,

And hair about his brows.

And Hale had hid his skiff, and now

Was coming by the shore,

Thinking of many serious things

He never thought before.

He mused of all the hard assays

Of this our mortal state;

The bitter bruise, and bloody blows

Of Virtue matched with Fate.

He heard the larks and robins sing,

And tears came in his eyes,

To think how man, and man alone,

Was cast from Paradise.

2.

"Well Hodge, how's turnips? What's in this?"

"Now who be you?" said Hale,

"I aint no Hodge,--taint turnips,--stop,--

Let go,--this here's for sale."

"Powder and grog! be quiet, lad.

Tobacco! by my soul!

Rebel, we've come to take the land,--

Hands off!--I seize the whole."

The Provost wheeled towards the camp.

Hale followed with a cry:

"Give me my pack--now--come--you sir!"

"Clod-shoes, get home!--not I."

But epaulettes were on the road.--

The trick was getting worse.

The Provost dumped the pack aside,

With a substantial curse.

"Wa'al, mister, that's the han'some thing!

That are tobaker's prime.

I knowed you didn't mean to grab,--

I knowed it all the time.

"I'm goin' to peddle, up to camp,

And if you only would

Go snacks, and help me sell, you might.

Come, I should say you could."

"Yorky, pick up your pack, hook on,

Hook on, we'll make it even."

The lines were passed, the countersign,--

"Whither away,"--was given.

"I see," said Hale, within himself,

"This man's internal shape,--

The Devil can do a gracious turn,

To shy a graceless scrape."

3.

Gay was the camp with liveried men;

Some trimmed the gun and blade,

Some chatted in the morning sun,

Some slept along the shade.

And some bore out the soldier dead

On his unfollowed bier--

The soldier dead, the hapless dead,

Who died without a tear.

So lately wept from England's shore,

And winged with prayers afar,

To feel the piercing thunder-shock,

Gored by the horns of War.

4.

Cried Hale, "Who buys? who buys? who buys?

Hearts! Boys! My lads! Hooraw!

Thrippence a junk, Britannia rule--

Don't any of you chaw?"

And all the while his wily eye

Was taking curious notes

Of men, and arms, and sheeted carts,

And guns with stoppered throats.

"Boys, what you goin' to doin' on?

Hello!--this way that beer.

You goin' to captivate New York?

Pine-shillin' piece--look here--"

"Sing us a song." "'Bout what?" said Hale.

"Sing us 'All in the Doons'--

'Britannia Rule'--'God save the King'"--

Said Hale, "Don't know the tunes."

Cornwallis now came walking by,--

"The Capting, hey?" "It is."

Hale folded up an ample slice:

"D'ye s'pose he'd 'xcept of this?"

Mad with the thought, to see the clown

Break his own pate with fun,

"Do it," said they. Said Hale, "I will."

"Jerry's respects"--'twas done.

And back he came with open grin;

"Took it like ile!" said he.

"I swow! I done the handsome thing--

He done it, too, to me."

III.

1.

Sins are like waters in a gap;

Like flames to leap a check;

If cable Conscience crack a strand,

A man may go to wreck.

Sins never shut the doors of hearts

That give good cheer to sin,

But always leave them open wide,

For others to come in.

Disdaining ours, for England's camp,

There lurked a man about,

Who, flushed with shame and rage of heart,

Like Judas, had gone out.

He left us, and he swore revenge,

And vengeance did not fail.

The courteous fiend, who led his steps,

Conducted him to Hale--

His kinsman--one whose generous hand,

Impelled by bold desire,

Had saved him once, and still endured

The seal of it in fire.

He met him coming from the camp;

He saw--he knew the hand--

He saw the whole--and in the road

He made a sudden stand.

"Hum! ha!--It's Captain Hale, I think.

Nathan, how do you do?

Sorry I am to see you here--

Sorry I am for you."

Off from the sudden heart of Hale

All his disguises fell:

"Cousin! good God!--go back with me.

And all shall yet be well."

"It cannot be. You came to dare,

And you must take the rod."

Said Hale, "This hand, at Judgment day,

Will fan the wrath of God."

"Speak not of God," the traitor said;

"A good French faith have I--

'No man hath seen Him,' Scripture saith,

And 'all is vanity.'"

Hale, finding how the scoundrel feared

Nor God's nor man's award,

Looked for a handy stick or stone,

To quicken his regard.

But, tiger-soon, the renegade

Had gripped his arms around:

"Ah, ha!--yes, yes--help! help!" he cried,

And crushed him to the ground.

2.

Fettered on straw, with soldier guards,

The tent-lamp trembling low,

The morrow was his day of doom,

That night a night of woe.

And half the night the gallows sound

Of hammers filled his ears,

Like strokes upon a passing-bell,

Telling his numbered years.

His numbered years--alas! how brief!

And Memory searched them back,

Like one who searches, with a light,

Upon a midnight track.

The fields, the woods, the humming school,

The idly-pondered lore,

And the fair-fingered girl that shared

His dinner at the door;

His room, beneath the homestead eaves,

Wherein he laid his head;

His mother, come to take the light,

And see him warm in bed.

These, and their like, distinct and bright,

Came back, and fired his brain

With visions, all whose sweetness now

Was but exalted pain.

IV.

1.

Ere silence droops her fluttering wing,

The pang may all be past;

And oft, of good men's latter hours,

The easiest is their last.

The morn was up, the flickering morn

Of summer, towards the fall.

"Bravely is all," the guardsman said;

Said Hale, "God's grace is all."

And now the Provost-Marshal came

With soldiers--all was ripe;

But out of Hale's tobacco, first,

He filled and smoked a pipe.

Forth passed the man, through all disguise,

With look so sweet and high;

He showed no sort of dread, at all,

Of what it was to die.

Come to the cart, whose doleful planks

Beneath his feet did creak,

He bowed, and looked about, and stood

In attitude to speak.

"Holloa! hoa! drummer, bring your drum,

Play Yankee Doodle here--

Play, while we crack the rebel's neck."

Earl Percy then drew near:

"Provost," said he, "I shame at this.

Let the lad have his say,

Or you shall find who rules the camp;"

And so he walked away.

2.

"Soldiers," said Hale, "you see a man

Whom Death must have and keep;

And things there are, if I should think,

I could not help but weep.

"But since in darkness, evermore,

God's providences hide,

The bravely good, in every age,

By faith have bravely died.

"That man who scorns his present case,

For glorious things to be,

I hold that in his scorn he shows

His soul's nobility.

"Though George the Third completely scourge

Our groaning lives away,

It cannot, shall not be in vain

That I stand here to-day.

"Oh take the wings of noble thought!

Run out the shapes of Time,

To where these clouds shall lift, nor leave

A stain upon the clime.

"Behold the crown of ages gone,

Sublime and self-possessed;

In empire of the floods and shores

None so completely blest.

"This land shall come to vast estate,

In freedom vastly grow,

And I shall have a name to live,

Who helped to build it so.

"Ye patriots, true and sorely tried,

When the dark days assail,

I seem to see what tears ye shed,

At thought of Nathan Hale.

"Where is that man among ye all,

Who come to see me die,

That would not glory in his soul,

If he had done as I?

"Judge, then, how I have wrecked my life.

And in what cause begun.

I sorrow but in one regret,

That I can lose but one.

"In Thee, O Christ! I now repose--

Thou art my All to me;

And unto Thee, thou Triune God--

Oh make my country free!"

Then turning to a guard, who wept

Like sudden April rain,

And scattered from his generous eyes

The drops of holy pain.

"Unto your honest tears I trust

These letters to convey."

Then, to the Provost-Marshal, Hale

Did mildly turn, and say:

"Before from underneath my feet

The fatal cart is gone,

I fain would hear the chaplain pray;

Sir Provost have you none?"

As when a dreadful lion roams

The torrid sands, and sees

A fawn among the valleys drink,

Beneath the tuneful trees;

If, 'chance, he sees the tender hind

Just move behind an oak,

He snaps his teeth, and snaps his tail,

And makes the desert smoke.

So, when the Provost witnessed Hale

To softer hands convey

His parting love, and heard him ask

To hear the chaplain pray,

He jumped like mad, he danced about,

Did dance, and roar, and swear--

The furies in his furnace eyes,

And in his rampant hair.

"Dog of a thief! ere you shall have

Priest, book, or passing-bell,

Your rebel hide shall rot in air,

Your soul shall roast in hell!"

"God's will be done!" said Nathan Hale:

"Farewell to life and light!"

They pulled the cloth about his eyes,

And the slack cord was tight.

V.

1.

Once more the rack, along the Sound,

Curled to the mounting sun,

That kissed, with mercy's beams, a world

Where such strange things are done.

Along our lines the sentry walked;

The dew was on his hair;

He felt the night in every limb,

But kept his station there;

And watched the shimmering spires, and saw

The swallows slide away;

When, o'er the fields, there came a man,

Rough, and in rough array.

"Holla, you Yankee scout!" said he,

"They've caught your Captain Hale,

And choked him for a traitor spy,

Dead as a dead door-nail.

"Run--use your rebel soldier legs--

Tell General Washington.

Don't wait--you'll be promoted for't--

I'll stand and hold your gun."

Out spake the guard--"You British crow,

Curse on your croaking head!

Move off, or else, I swear, you'll get

The cartridge and the lead."

2.

Full of his news, the sentry soon

To Knowlton told the same.

Knowlton, with tears in either eye,

To the head-quarters came,

And told to General Washington

Poor Hale's unhappy case.

Nought answered he, but bowed awhile,

With hands upon his face.

Then rising, steadfast and serene,

The same great master still--

Curbing a noble sorrow down

With a more noble will--

"Bring me," said he, "my writing-desk,

And maps last night begun;

Send hither Putnam, Lee, and Greene,

For much is to be done."

So perished Nathan Hale. God grant

Us not to die as he;

But, for the glorious Stripes and Stars,

Such iron loyalty.

NOTE.--Nathan Hale was a native of the town of Coventry, in

Connecticut; and graduated at Yale College, in 1773. He entered the

army of the Revolution at an early period, as a captain in a light

infantry regiment, under command of Colonel Knowlton. After the

defeat of the 27th August, 1776, and the retreat of the Americans

from Long Island, Washington became exceedingly desirous to gain

some information respecting the future operations of the enemy, and

applied to Colonel Knowlton, through whom Hale was introduced, and

volunteered his services.

He disguised himself, crossed to Long Island, procured admission to

the British camp, obtained the information desired, and was about

leaving the Island, when a refugee and a relative recognised, and

betrayed him.

The case was clear. Hale confessed; and Sir William Howe ordered

him hung the next morning. He suffered like a patriot and a

Christian. "I lament," said he, "that I have but one life to

lose for my country." The provost-marshal, who superintended the

execution, was a savage-hearted man, and refused him the attendance

of a clergyman, and the use of a Bible, and destroyed letters which

he had written to his mother, and other friends, making the remark,

that "the rebels should not know that they had a man in their army

who could die with so much firmness."

An aged physician, recently deceased, was accustomed to relate an

anecdote that is worthy of preservation. The Doctor, when a small

boy, attended a school taught by Hale in the town of East Windsor,

Connecticut. One day Hale was standing at his desk, in a deep

study, when certain wide-awake boys began to take advantage of his

inattention.

The narrator thereupon went softly to his side, touched him, and

pointed to the scene of mischief. Hale, without turning his head,

dropped a look[25] upon the little informer--a mild look, but full

of rebuke,--"Go back to your seat," said he. The boy slunk away,

and neither misunderstood nor forgot this rebuke of the ungenerous

and disloyal, from his true-hearted teacher; and associated as the

incident became with the subsequent fate of Hale, it made a deep

and affecting impression upon his memory.

[Footnote 25: The Doctor described Hale as having had remarkably fine

and expressive blue eyes.]

THE DREAMER.

BY MARY E. HEWITT.

Last night he kissed me,--kissed me in my dream!

He unto whom I with pure flame aspire,--

His eyes poured down on mine love's kindling beam,--

Through all my being ran the immortal fire,

I felt cold doubt within my breast expire,--

I felt his clasp, as gently he enwound me;

I felt his heart beat, as he closer bound me;

He kissed me! measure of my soul's desire;

He kissed my down-drooped eyelids,--kissed my brow;

Felt he no thrill, my well beloved one,

While passed the vision that enchains me now?

Ah, no! the ecstasy was mine alone;

And, while the memory on my spirit lies,

I fear, lest he should read my dream within my eyes.

[Illustration:

C. Schuessele del. Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.

Chromolith of P. S. Duval Phil.

FALLS OF S^{T.} ANTHONY]

WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.

A LEGEND OF THE FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

CHAPTER I.

The glowing noonday's sun was resting over the rocks that lay and the

waters that dashed in the region of St. Anthony's Falls. The long row

of hills in the distance was tinged with gold, which mixed gaudily

with their purple hues. The dark green of the trees that grew on the

opposite shore interposed between the brightness of the hills beyond

and the white glare of the foaming waters.

Above the Falls, large trees lay fixed in the river, notwithstanding

the efforts the waves appeared to be making to remove every obstacle

that lay in their way, which led to the edge of the precipice, where

they threw themselves into the abyss below.

Large and small fragments of rocks dotted the water in every direction,

and in the centre of the Falls lay a number of rocks reposing against

each other, with rich, luxuriant shrubs and trees rising from among

them.

Notwithstanding the noise of the falling waters, and the roaring of the

boiling waves below, there was great beauty mingled with the grandeur

of the scene. The width of the river at this point made the height of

the Falls appear less than it really was. The association connected

with the death of Wenona,[26] the injured, but loving wife, gave a

romantic cast to the red man's thoughts, as he rested from the toils of

the chase near this beautiful scene. He could identify the very spot

where she raised her arms, while the notes of her death-song pealed

above all other sounds, as her slight canoe bent towards her child's

and her own grave. He marvelled that the boiling of the waters did not

appal her, or that the voice of her husband did not rouse her from her

fatal purpose.

But now there is no person near, to take from the solitary beauty of

the scene. If the screaming of the loon were heard, it was immediately

followed by the flapping of her wings, as she passed to the spirit

lakes, over whose quiet surface she loved better to rest. The deer were

all far distant;--the shade of the forest trees was more acceptable now

than the rays of the summer's sun. Whatever might be the burden of the

song of the waters, it was unheard, save by the spirits that are ever

assembled in numbers around this hallowed spot.

When the intense heat had passed away, a fresh, invigorating wind was

felt among the rocks and waves. Evening was unfolding her mantle, and

her breath was playing over the bright flowers that even here enjoy

their short season of life. The flitting clouds were gathering towards

the horizon, constantly changing their hues, and resting in golden

lines above the hills. Large fish, the bass, and the pike, moved at

their ease in the restless waters, as if there were no fear of being

bearded in this their stronghold. The beautiful red deer, too, has

been tempted to come and be refreshed,--ever on their guard, though,

as might be seen by the tossing of their heads when the winds rose and

whispered over the earth.

Now they start and flee like lightning, for the light sound of woman's

step is heard; and in the very spot where one of them rested, looking

over the waves, stands a slight figure, bearing in her face and form

the marks of youth, while her short and richly embroidered skirt, and

the crimson okendokenda, that partly covered her arms and chest, showed

her to belong to a family at least not unimportant among her people.

She stood still for some moments in a listening attitude, her face

pale, and every feature fixed in intense thought. She carried a bundle

of small size: this she seemed to think of value, for she grasped it as

if her life depended on the preservation of what it contained.

Turning towards the course of the rocks by the river's edge, she

surveyed their way; then, bending where she stood, she looked

unappalled at the waters becoming dark by the shadows of evening.

There was but little current where she stood, for the position of the

rocks prevented this, though quite near them the impetuous stream

hurried on like one tired of existence, eager only to reach and be

lost in the great ocean of forgetfulness.

There was evidently some great difficulty in her position, for her

colour flushed and left her, and she pressed her hands across her

bosom, without quelling its tumult: yet it was equally evident her

object was self-preservation. Life was dear to the young and active

blood that animated her veins. There was too much brightness in the

depths of those dark eyes to be quenched by death. She looked all

around her; and well might she have asked if the red man's heaven

boasted a more beautiful picture than the one now before her.

The sound of voices has recalled her from her meditations. Loud, stern

voices, speaking in tones of anger and disappointment. They were not

yet very near, but she knew them well. The language was her own, but

the lips that spoke it were threatening death to her. She recognised

his voice--her husband's--he was the pursuer. And she smiled a bitter

smile as she listened to the harsh sounds. Notwithstanding the perils

that surrounded her, she was as calm as when she sat by her mother's

door, in the far-off home of the Indians, who live by "Le Lac qui

Parle." All her terror, all her restlessness was forgotten. She raised

her arm to its greatest height, and elevating her lithe frame too, she

threw her bundle as far as her strength enabled her; listening till

the voices sounded nearer, and the steps could be distinguished in the

dead leaves that lay in their path, she swayed her form to and fro, and

sprung, laughing as she did so, from the rocks. Then swimming round

them, disappeared, concealed by the overhanging precipices, as well as

by the thick foliage that grew close to the water's edge.

Hardly was she out of sight when her place was again occupied. A large,

fierce-looking Sioux stood where she had been standing. He looked round

as if the object of his search might be hid among the rocks and bushes.

The waters laughed just as she had, as he complained of fatigue and

disappointment. He looked like a fiend who had forced himself where

but a moment ago some gentle spirit had been resting. The passions in

their prime worked in his haughty face. Stripes of different-coloured

paint lay across his cheeks and around his eyes. His broad chest and

brawny arms were uncovered--he raised his hand, and moving it in a half

circle, as he turned towards his companions, "I have looked for her

until I am tired," he said; "perhaps she has killed herself; if she is

living, my vengeance shall yet reach her,--I will tear her heart from

her breast."

Then turning, wearied and angered beyond endurance, he strode back

towards his home. His giant figure rose far above his companions. His

eye flashed like the lion's deprived of his prey. Well might they call

him the Fiery Man.