lovely baby was laid out in its white shroud, and, in the same
hour, another's eyes first opened on the light. There were two
persons watching in the chamber of death--the father, who gazed on
the smiling lips and smooth fair brow of his first-born son, till
with tears he blessed the pitying hand which had stilled the little
voice of agony, and obliterated for ever the traces of pain; and
the nurse, a young and tender-hearted Irish woman, who had borne
the infant sufferer through his brief life of torment, and now with
Christian love hung over the placid features, that the sinless spirit
beautified in death; till the coffin closed over the transient light,
which the departing soul had left, and the empty cradle received a
new birth. It was long before Eva could observe, in this unconscious
subject of her daily comparison, any charms to equal those that were
buried with the earlier object of her care; and she never could avoid
contrasting "the tender blue of those loving eyes," shaded by their
silken lashes, which seemed opening upon her from the tomb, every
time she looked at the full large orbs, that stared out of the meagre
long face of his unadmired successor; and she never tired talking of
the glossy ringlets, that she used to twist round the comb, with such
elaborate care, when she was adorning her little Henry for company;
as soon as she saw Alfred's "ugly bare head," without a lace cap.
This young gentleman, however, paid no attention to such discourse,
so unfavourable to himself, but continued to live on, very well
satisfied with his own share of beauty; and it was not before two
or three years had passed over his head, and made him vain, that he
discovered any pride in his appearance. But then, when his figure
rounded into perfect shape, when the lace cap was exchanged for
golden ringlets, and the rose and the lily were blended in his lovely
face, he would exhibit, with great delight, his red shoes, and worked
slip, and coral clasps, which his mother had bought in the pride of
her maternal fondness, to correspond with the beauty of her son. Mr.
Perceval had a country seat, a short walk from Baltimore, where he
resided with his family during the summer months. The guns from Fort
M'Henry announced our annual festival--the soldiers were assembling
in the city--Alfred heard the drums and the trumpets,--and the little
hero must go to town, to see the parade. With many charges to Eva
(who was now in the habit of bringing forward the beauties of her
two nurslings, not "in opposition but in compare") the reluctant
mother consented to expose her son for a short time, in the close
air of the city, from a natural wish to gratify his infant taste for
"all the pomp and circumstance of war." I would not like to say,
how many poor children are dragged over the scorching pavements and
burning roads of our town, during the great national feast, without
any refreshment themselves, except perhaps a glass of heated beer, or
a dusted cake. Alfred Perceval was more fortunate--supported in the
arms of his careful, tender nurse, from a window on the shady side of
Market street, he saw the long military line extend from the western
extremity to the bridge. His head moves to the sound of the music, he
springs in Mary's arms, as the horsemen gallop past; his eyes sparkle
at the flashing swords; and his brave little heart recoils not at the
sound of the guns. When the show was over, Eva brought him home, and
made him a cap of blue paper, and put a red feather in it. With this
on his head, he strutted about the house, to the music of a cocoanut
shell he had for a kettledrum, which his mother preferred to that
of a tin canister, which the young musician would have preferred
himself. Nothing could exceed the glow of delight which made Alfred
so beautiful that day, and the parents exulted in the health of their
son. Oh! what a sad reverse, to sink at once the current of this
joy,--before midnight their little soldier was raging with fever, and
when the restlessness of the disease was over, it settled with a
fatal stillness on the brain; and during six weeks he lay insensible
to all that was done to save him.
I will not attempt to describe the misery of the parents, for my
story is to be a brief one; but it pleased the Power of Mercy to
abate their hopeless grief, through the instrumentality of medical
skill; and Alfred once more opened his eyes to a new existence,
and stared around him as he did before. A cap supplied the place
of the beautiful fair curls, that were all cut away, and the child
was placed in Eva's arms, as helpless and nearly as unconscious
then, as when he first received the precarious gift of life. But
Eva carried him to the garden, and the woods, where the leaves, now
dyed with all the rich tints of our splendid autumn, presented so
many colours to his sight; and while she called his attention to the
various objects around him, his slow remembrance returned, and he
would smile at all the creatures that he used to love--"the beasts
of the field and the fowls of the air." And then she would make him
smell the flowers she culled for him, and listen to the music of the
birds; till at last every sense was restored to its natural power,
and his mind awoke from its long deep sleep, but the weakness of his
frame continued, and many months passed away, before he was able
to put his feet to the ground; and by that time, a little brother
overtook his steps, and they both began to walk together; while each
had his nurse, and his eulogist, who praised her own charge,--and
no wonder, for Alfred's mind (strengthened, it would seem, after so
long a rest) exhibited, from day to day, powers of observation and
reflection, much beyond his age. And his happy parents would often
call him their "baby philosopher," while they smiled with delight at
his sage remarks. And Charles was the prettiest little puppet ever
seen; his dancing steps, always keeping time to the music of his own
thoughts, which were scarcely ever out of tune; and so fond was he
of the exercise of life, that they never laid him down in his bed,
for necessary rest, without his having a playful struggle against the
advances of sleep; but after kicking his feet against the posts of
his crib, as long as he was able, and singing "by, by baby"--after
slapping his pillow till he was tired, he was usually found by his
mother asleep, when she went to bed, with his pocket handkerchief
rolled into a rag baby, and his head lying where his feet ought to
be. But before any one else was stirring in the morning, he was awake
again, when he would stoop over his low crib, and take his boots in,
and while he was trying to put them on, but succeeded neither by
the heels nor the toes, he would talk to them about their conduct,
or tell himself stories of cats and dogs, with shawls and bonnets;
and pigeons, with yellow shoes, walking down Market street. Yet with
all this imagination himself, he had so little inclination to profit
by the thoughts of others, that his mother could with difficulty
teach him the alphabet, before he was sent to his first school;
though his brother (who never told a story that I remember, except
one that had "seventeen foxes" in it) could read perfectly. With a
foreign teacher, however, Charles seemed very suddenly to make great
advances; and, at four years of age, he was always head or next to
head in his lessons; to the surprise of his attentive parents, who
could not themselves perceive so great a progress in learning as this
seemed to indicate; but upon investigating the matter thoroughly,
they found out, that there was only Charles and another little
urchin in the class; which little urchin was to occasion them more
distress, than they ever could have anticipated. One Sunday, dressed
in his finest clothes, he found Charles at the door of his father's
town-house (for it was early in the spring,) and persuaded him to
take a walk. Accordingly, the two young travellers set off together,
but no sooner had they reached the confines of the town and point,
than they quarrelled about their future destination; when Master
Jacky left Charles to steer his own course, and ran home as fast as
he could. The poor little fellow scorned to cry, but wandered about,
more and more bewildered, till he reached one of the wharves, where a
Spanish vessel was about to spread its sails to a fair wind, and put
to sea. Such a strange prospect, opening at once upon the frightened
child, when he thought he was so many steps nearer home, occasioned
an instant defeat of all his self-confidence; and he burst out
into a loud and continued cry, which arrested the attention of a
gentleman, who was just at that moment hurrying to reach the vessel.
The little boy was in distress, and he was compassionate; but what
was to be done? The wharf contained no individual, but themselves and
the sailors; the wind was fair, and the captain would not delay. The
stranger could not speak the language of the child, but he smiled
while he took his hand, and smoothed his little brow, and Charles
understood him as well as if he had spoken to him in English; for
he was accustomed to the sight of foreigners in his father's house,
and in a similar manner he always held discourse with them. So he
stopped crying, and smiled in return; and the gentleman, delighted
with his pleasant looks, gave the child his watch to carry, while he
carried him; for the captain, in a passion, had ordered the vessel
from the shore, and the stranger was obliged to take Charles on
board, or leave him on the wharf to cry, and perhaps be drowned.
While the novelty of his situation amused his mind, Charles continued
quiet; but after that, when he thought of his nurse, his tender
parents, and his kind brother, at home, his little heart seemed
ready to break; and, only for the constant tenderness of his unknown
friend, I believe he would have died. But by degrees his grief
became subdued, and before the vessel reached Cuba, he was the pet
of all the sailors, and the delight of his kind protector; who,
after this, could not bear to part with him, but having no children
of his own, he adopted him, and had him educated as his son: and
upon his approaching death, which happened about six years after, he
left Charles his little property, under the guardianship of a Boston
merchant, with whom he had been transacting business many years: and
upon whom he now relied, for the discovery of the parents of the
child; which he had been only anxious to avoid before.
This gentleman went to receive his charge very willingly; and, on
his return to Boston, he placed Charles in a celebrated school,
to which Alfred Perceval had been sent by his considerate parents
when they found that grief for the loss of his little brother, had
settled too much in studious habits, and aversion to companionship.
Charles's guardian then went to Baltimore. He was introduced to Mr.
Perceval, and invited to dine at his house. There he told the story
of his little ward; when he was shocked to observe, what an effect
it produced on Mrs. Perceval; for years had scarcely mitigated the
agony she first felt, at the strange loss of her infant; to which the
death of her eldest son, and the long torpor of his brother, were
supportable distresses; since they were not aggravated by the power
of imagination. But Mr. Perceval (more collected than she was) could
not avoid seeing, in a similar circumstance, something to awaken his
own hopes; he therefore acquainted the gentleman with their loss;
and asked him if the child he spoke of, had ever told his name. "If
he did, sir, my friend, not understanding the rest of his language,
must have forgotten it; but he kept a little handkerchief, that had
been pinned to his robe, and which I have now in my pocket-book." He
drew it out, and gave it to Mrs. Perceval, who had been relieved by
tears from her first emotion; but when she saw the initials, C. P.,
marked by her own hands, she screamed out--"Oh! my dear husband, it
is our own son"--and instantly fainted away. Eva, who was still in
the house, and now attending two fine little girls, was loudly called
by the alarmed Mr. Perceval. She came directly, and his lady soon
recovered by their united assistance.
The parents then proposed to write instantly for their sons; but
before the letter was sent, they received one from Alfred, requesting
permission to bring a little Spanish boy home with him, for whom
he had become greatly interested, owing to a circumstance which
happened in school, soon after Charles was placed there. A large
boy, of greater bulk than manners, took a fancy one day to insult
the feelings of the little foreigner, in a manner he could not bear;
and he flew at his tormentor, who would instantly have struck him
down, had not Alfred Perceval that moment appeared; who, stepping
between them, pushed the elder boy aside, and then detaining the
other, he said--"For shame! Roscoe, how can you, such a big boy,
try the temper of a little stranger like this, who cannot answer us
in our own language? I thought you had more feeling." "Now, for one
cent I could knock you down, Perceval; but I don't know how it is,
you get the better of us all--masters and scholars. However, you'll
be going to college soon," continued the rough boy, dashing away a
tear--"and, that you may go off with flying colours, as a peace-maker
and a peace-keeper, here's my hand, little tawney coat, and thank
him that you did not get a good drubbing." But Charles, perhaps
misconceiving the intention of this action, or thinking that he ought
to have the pride of a Spaniard, turned from Roscoe with disdain, and
throwing himself into the arms of Alfred, he wept with such a gush
of feeling, that it completely overcame the nerves of that sensitive
boy, who struggled in vain against his own tears, which then flowed
at one thought, and that was of his little brother. But what was
his joy afterward, when his father's letter arrived, and told him
that "the lost was found?" I will pass over the joy of Mr. and Mrs.
Perceval, upon the first arrival of their sons, for every one can
imagine it; but I must say, that their happiness increased every day;
as they observed, that Charles's Spanish education had taught him to
pursue every thing that was honourable in principle and practice.
He soon adopted his newly discovered kindred with a strength of
attachment which seemed almost to have some early recollection for
its foundation. And when Eva brought his nurse, Sarah, to see him,
(who was now living with her husband in comfortable circumstances,)
he smiled as if he really remembered her, and Sarah was sure that
he did. Mr. and Mrs. Perceval, considering maturely on the subject,
at length agreed, that it would be better to keep their sons at
home, with proper instructors, until Charles understood English
sufficiently to understand them; when he could return to school with
greater advantage; and his guardian willingly gave up the future
direction of the person and fortune of his ward to his most natural
directors. Before the vacation ended then, all Alfred's school
companions were invited to a farewell party, which was prepared
with great taste by his mother. The company assembled--all the
most distinguished little people of the city; and when the carpets
were thrown aside, and the lamps blazed, their light young feet
gave little rest to the music. But, though the refreshments were
numerous, and handed round constantly, I believe no young person
was disgraced by an immoderate use of them. Indeed, I understand
that a resolution has been formed by the most promising youth of our
city, to "be temperate in all things," as republicans ought to be;
and especially to stand always armed against every device of that
treacherous spirit, which entering alone into the secret folds of
inward depravity, or assailing, with the combined powers of evil
example, the outward avenues to sin, saps the foundation of the soul,
till man becomes a tottering ruin, and a blighting shade, over his
own household; and a nation is darkened with the wreck of her sons.
C. M. B.
CHILD LEFT ON THE SEA-SHORE.
ADAPTED TO A PICTURE BY SULLY.
Why dost thou sport amid those swelling waves,
Child of the frolic brow? The billows rush
Foaming and vexing with a maniac's wrath,
To do unuttered deeds, and the wild clouds
Muster and frown, as if bold midnight rear'd
Her throne at noon-day. Hear'st thou not the winds
Uttering their ruffian threats? Is this a time
To lave that snowy foot? Away! away!
----What!--have all fled?--and art thou left alone?--
By those who wandered with thee on the beach,
In the fair sun-light of a summer's morn,
Forgotten thus! Had'st thou a mother, sweet?
Oh, no--no--no! _She_ had not turn'd away,
Though the strong tempest rose to tenfold wrath,--
She had not fled without thee,--had not breath'd
In safety or at ease save when she heard
Thy murmur'd tone beside her,--had not slept
Until thy drench'd and drooping curls were dried
In her fond bosom. _Nature never made
A mother to forget._ Why, she had dared
Yon fiercest surge to save thee, or had plung'd,
Clasping thee close and closer, down,--down,--down,--
Where thou art going. Lo! the breakers rush
Bellowing, to demand thee. Shrink not, child!
Innocence need not fear. Sweet shalt thou sleep
'Mid ocean's sunless flowers. The lullaby
Of the mermaiden shall thy requiem be,
And the white coral thou didst love to mix
Among thy pencill'd shells, shall lightly rear
A canopy above thee. Amber drops
Shall gem thy clustering tresses, and thy ear
No more the echoes of the wavering main
Appall'd shall hear. Thy God shall guard thy rest.
L. H. S.
_Hartford._
[Illustration: Painted by T. Scully. Engraved by J.W. Steel.
CHILD ON THE SEA BEACH.]
THE EAGLE OF THE WEST.
"It is the spot I came to seek,
My father's ancient burial place,
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,
Withdrew our wasted race.
It is the spot--I know it well--
Of which our old traditions tell.
"This bank, in which the dead were laid,
Was sacred when its soil was ours;
Hither the artless Indian maid
Brought wreaths of buds and flowers;
And the gay chief and gifted seer
Worshipped the God of thunders here.
"But now the wheat is green and high
On clods that hid the warrior's breast,
And scattered in the furrows lie
The weapons of his rest,
And there, in the loose sand, is thrown,
Of his large arm the mouldering bone."--BRYANT.
You have read, said General Lawrence to his children, of the numerous
ancient forts and mounds found in different parts of the now populous
state of Ohio. Some incidents which I shall relate, have rendered
most of them, to me, subjects of great interest.
I was subordinate to General Rufus Putnam, when he gave directions
for the first settlement of Marietta, by a colony from New-England,
in 1788. Ohio, you know, at that time was called a district,
including the present territories of Michigan, Illinois, and Indiana,
and owned by the general government--Virginia having ceded it, seven
years before, to the United States, reserving only some tracts of
land as military bounties for such officers and soldiers as had been
distinguished in the reduction of the British forts on the Ohio river.
The Chippewas, Miamis, Wyandots,[1] and other native tribes, looked,
as they well might, with jealous eyes on the annual encroachments
of the whites upon their hunting-grounds. It is true that they
reluctantly receded as we advanced, but it was under the stern
law of necessity, not a free-will abdication. I cannot, and do
not, pretend to excuse the selfish rapacity with which many of our
ancestors, throughout the whole country, seized on the soil of the
aborigines;[2] that is an account which it is not our business to
settle, though we cannot read the true page of our history without a
crimsoning blush of shame.
[1] Grimshaw's History, p. 213.
[2] Those who think the relations of such facts (for they are
many) exaggerated, are referred to the 1st and 2d volumes of
American Annals, and Belknap's Biography, where they will find
ample proof of their truth. Other authentic works might be cited,
but these are all-sufficient.
I remember an act of cold-blooded wickedness, perpetrated by our
people in Ohio about this period, which I never could either
palliate or forgive. There was a small encampment of the Wyandots a
few miles from where some of our emigrants had settled. They were
soon apprised of the neighbourhood of the new residents, and came
over to view their works, sometimes three, four, or more, together.
For some time all things went on well;--and I have thought, with
the excellent Heckewelder,[3] that they need never have done
otherwise, had the whites been just and true to their duty. "They are
remarkable," says he, "for their _domestic_ and _social_ virtues,
and know how to _practice_ that precept which we so well teach in
_theory_, viz. '_To love their neighbour as themselves_.'"
[3] See Heckewelder's Account of the North American Indians.
"The Indians," says one of our early and most respectable historians,
"on their first acquaintance with the whites, proved themselves kind,
generous, and hospitable, so long as they were treated with justice
and humanity. But so they were not long, and the consequences are
well known to all. In the particular case of the Wyandots I was
unfortunately witness--first to the imprudence, and then to the
wickedness of my countrymen."
Evident symptoms of dissatisfaction appeared whenever they afterward
met. Our company began seriously to fear an attack, (no wonder, they
had given provocation,) and accordingly laid a plan for cutting off
the Indians at once, instead of attempting a reconciliation, though I
own the latter would not have been easily effected. The great fault
of the Indian is his thirst for _revenge_, which, when injured, he
will always seek.
The purpose of the whites was carried into effect one night, after
they had freely supplied the unfortunate Wyandots with rum. All fell
of this portion of the tribe, save two or three children, who were
saved by one of the party, more humane than his companions, and an
Indian youth, of about fifteen years of age, called Tecumsoit, and
also often known by the proud appellation of "the Eagle of the West,"
for thus early did he discover traits of remarkable strength and
courage. He fought boldly and long, when his people were sacrificed
almost unresistingly around him, and fled only when so wounded that
he could do no more. He fled--but in the hope of returning in power,
and making perfect his dreadful vengeance. His purpose was frustrated
but by the constant watchfulness of the military force which we were
compelled to station wherever there were any white settlements.
Near Marietta, as I have told you, are remains of ancient
fortifications and mounds, in which the Indians deposited their dead.
Many such mounds, in different parts of the country, were laid open
by these Indians as the whites advanced; and the bones of their
ancestors, wrapt in skins, were carried with them as they retired
farther into the vast forests of the west, where these remains were
sacredly preserved, and guarded with holy care. Some, however, were
left untouched.
I have often examined these very singular sepulchral monuments, both
in the vicinity of Marietta, and those at Circleville, and I own that
I have never seen one of them demolished without pain.
There was one, near the broken up settlement of the Wyandots, which
offered peculiar interest; it appeared to have been raised with
greater care than the others, and was evidently of more ancient
origin. This pyramid was in the midst of a grove of noble forest
trees, and brought to mind the solemn Druidical times of England.
When we first discovered it, it was at an hour when the young Indian
girls were performing round it some religious rites; fruits of the
forest, skins, and flowers, were deposited in profusion on the
pyramidal summit; and the wild notes of their songs echoed through
the grove, giving back those peculiar strains, softened, but not
lost. I often resorted thither, and when I was summoned to New-York,
that was the last spot which I visited.