CHAPTER I.
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As slow our ship her foamy track,
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pendant still look'd back
To that dear isle 'twas leaving;
So loth we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us,
So turn our hearts where'er we rove,
To those we've left behind us!
Moore
Let melancholy spirits talk as they please concerning
the degeneracy and increasing miseries of
mankind, I will not believe them. They have
been speaking ill of themselves, and predicting
worse of their posterity, from time immemorial;
and yet, in the present year, 1823, when, if the
one hundreth part of their gloomy forebodings
had been realized, the earth must have become
a Pandemonium, and men something worse than
devils, (for devils they have been long ago,
in the opinion of these charitable denunciators,)
I am free to assert, that we have as many honest
men, pretty women, healthy children, cultivated
fields, convenient houses, elegant kinds of furniture,
and comfortable clothes, as any generation
of our ancestors ever possessed.
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This notion of mine, be it right or wrong, has
not resulted from any course of abstract syllogizing
upon the nature of things, a mode of discovering
truth in which I never had much confidence.
It has arisen from that more certain source of acquiring
opinions, vulgarly called “ocular demonstration”—
having lately had a view of part of that
portion of the American hemisphere, which extends
from the South Mountain in Pennsylvania,
over the Alleghany ridge, to the head of the Ohio
river; a country which, in the recollection of
many yet living, was long the scene of want, hunger,
desolation, terror, and savage warfare; where
the traveller had not a path to guide his course,
nor, in a journey of many days, could find a hut
in which to repose his frame; where the hardy
white man, who ventured to make a settlement,
had not a neighbour within many a league, and
where he seldom retired for the night, without
fearing that, before the morning, both his family
and himself might become the victims of the tomahawk
and the scalping-knife.
As a remedy for the unhappy malady under
which the misanthropic believers in the deteriorating
condition of mankind labour, I think, that
an attentive ramble, at the present day, over this
extensive region, making, at the same time, a
careful comparison between what it now is, and
what it was about fifty years ago, would be effectual.
Wild and giigantic mountains are, indeed,
still there; but beautiful and well cultivated valleys,
lying on the bosom of peace, and in the lap
of plenty, are spread beside them. At the distance
of every two or three hours' ride, a flourishing
town or village, inhabited by sober Christians
and industrious freemen, salutes the eye of the
traveller; while people of all ages, sexes, tastes,
and tempers, enliven the road as they pass along,
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either on foot or on horseback, or in vehicles,
which are here to be met with of every description,
from the light sulky, which scarcely presses
upon its springs, to the heavy, cumbersome waggon,
dragged slowly along by six horses. In this
region, there is now neither want, nor fear of
want; neither enemy, nor fear of enemy; but
every man earns his bread in comfort, and eats it
in safety, in the midst of his family and friends,
without fear of molestation from either civilized
tyrants or savage marauders.
Far different was the situation of things in this
fair region of the earth, when Gilbert Frazier first
erected his log-house on the bank of the Monongahela.
Then, indeed, might a misanthropic
grumbler have had reason to complain of the condition
of men, at least of those men whose fate it
was to be planted like Gilbert, in a savage “Wilderness.”
It was fate, indeed, and not choice, as
may well be supposed, that had, at first, planted
him there; but notwithstanding his residence was
exposed to numerous inconveniences, and constant
dangers, a stout heart, (for he had a good conscience
and feared nothing,) combined with a feeling
of generosity, the source of which will be
hereafter explained, to bind him to it, and Providence
had hitherto preserved him in safety. Nay,
in process of time, habit had so reconciled him to
his situation, that he scarcely looked upon the
misfortune that had brought him there as an evil.
Years had mellowed its impression upon his mind;
and, sitting by his winter fireside, he would often
relate the story to his family with much the same
feeling that a sailor, snug on shore, recounts the
dangers he has undergone at sea.
He had entered the world nearly about the same
time with the century in which he lived, and
somewhere between Colerain and Londonderry,
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in Ireland. Whether his father or mother was
forty-second cousin, or no cousin at all, to some
nobleman or squire, is of no consequence, merely
because he thought it of none, or rather because
he never thought any thing about it. A far more
important matter of recollection with him, was his
marriage, which took place in his twenty-first
year, with Nelly M`Clean, a pretty rosy-cheeked,
fair-skinned Irish girl, with dark eyes and black
hair, who was about a couple of years younger
than himself, and whose heart, although it was as
light and as tender as a linnet's, had stood nearly
a twelvemonth's siege before it surrendered to his
attacks. When it did surrender, however, it was
at absolute discretion, and Gilbert ever after found
it as faithful and fond as a hearty lover like himself
could wish.
As Gilbert wished to make his dear Nelly a lady,
but was unable, from a cause very prevalent
among his countrymen, the want of funds, nothing
would now satisfy him but a trip to America, in
order to make his fortune. Not that he intended
to leave his own country for ever, for with all its
poverty, he still thought it was a dear and sweet
country, but he supposed that a residence of seven
years at the farthest, in a land so far off as America,
must make him rich enough to return home,
and live the remainder of his days like a gentleman.
“What fine times will it then be for Nelly,
(thought he,) when, dressed in her silks and laces,
she visits her poor cousins, the Burrels and the
Blairs, and gives each of them every year, on
Hansel Monday, some handsome present for a
New-year's gift. Faith, it will be happy times for
us then!”
To America, therefore, it was settled that he
should go; but think not, that he separated from
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his Nelly—no; he would as soon have thought of
separating his head from his shoulders. They set
sail together from fair Londonderry, one bright
morning in April, 1723; and Gilbert felt, as many
an Irishman has since felt, on taking the last look
of his native country, that it required all his courage
to prevent him from betraying his sorrow;
for notwithstanding the prosperity that he supposed
awaited him abroad, he felt that he was about
to purchase it dear by forsaking the land of his
nativity. He looked at his wife, as she stood beside
him gazing at the fast retiring promontory of
Inishowen, which was the last vestige of dear Ireland
that she was to see. He perceived that her
eyes were swollen with the moisture of grief; and
although his own heart was filled from the same
cause, he thought it his duty to comfort her, as he
tried to comfort himself, by half whispering and
half singing in her ear,
“We need not grieve now, our friends to leave now,
For Erin's fields we again shall see;
But first a lady in Pennsylvania,
My dear, remember thou art to be.”
Whether this promise of her becoming a Pennsylvanian
lady, had the consolatory effect upon his wife
that Gilbert intended, I cannot say; but it is certain,
that except about three weeks, during which
she laboured under the tortures of sea-sickness,
she endured a boisterous passage of nearly three
months with considerable liveliness and good humour.
At length, if we may believe Gilbert's own
account of the matter, one Sunday morning—(as
good luck would have it)—he had the happiness to
land on the wharf at Philadelphia, with his Nelly
in his arm, and twenty gold guineas in his pocket.
Gilbert was now in the Land of Promise, the
bright Eldorado of his imagination, where every
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thing he did was to be so richly remunerated, that
his very scratching of the ground would cause it
to teem with wealth, and his spreading his hands
to heaven would bring down a shower of gold.
During the first week after his arrival, he was in
ecstasy. Although none of the expected riches
had yet made their appearance, he very reasonably
ascribed this to his not having made any of the
exertions necessary to attract them; for he was not
such a fool as to suppose that they were to be gained
without exertions of some kind. But these exertions
he could make when he needed them; and,
like a true Irishman, he considered his twenty
guineas sufficient for all present purposes. He
therefore thought that it could not be wrong to
enjoy himself a little in a new country; and, as
Nelly, who was rejoiced to have her foot once
more on Terra Firma, was unusually cheerful and
engaging, he could do no less than spend a couple
of weeks in showing the dear girl the novelties of
the place.
At length his twenty guineas were reduced to
ten; and he began to think, for he had a mixture
of Scotch blood in him, that he should do something
to prevent their farther reduction. He expressed
his wishes to several of the natives, expecting
that they would make him acquainted with
the plan of getting rich which suited their country.
They told him to “work.”
“Work!” ejaculated Gilbert to himself; for he
had the prudence to perceive that it would not do
to affront the natives, by expressing audibly any
feelings of disappointment respecting their country—
“work! an' was it for that, after a', that I
left the snug toonlan' o' Maughrygowan, an' cam'
owre the ocean, whan I thoucht I wad become a
gentleman on my very landin! Work! why what
waur could I hae done at hame, than to hae
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laboured for my daily bread? But I was hae quite at
that need either. Eh! sirs—Nelly, puir lass! is
as little likely to become a “lady in Pennsylvania,”
as the sang we used to sing, says, than she
was in her ain country!”
However, Gilbert was not of a temper to be
cast down by trifles; and, as his eyes were now
pretty much opened to the real circumstances of
the country, and his funds were every day diminishing,
he thought at last of seriously betaking
himself to work, as he had been advised. He was
healthy, young, and active, and, as far as respected
himself, had no other objection to a life of labour,
than the slowness with which it brought in
that affluence which had been the great object of
his emigration. His Nelly, however, was more
affected at the thought of his being obliged to earn
their sustenance by the sweat of his brow; and
her sorrow galled his feelings far more sensibly
than the necessity which occasioned them. She
became home-sick, as it is termed, and for several
months internally pined after the oat-cakes, the
hedge-rows, the genial zephyrs, the warbling
groves, the fairy haunts, and the rural sports of
her native land. But her mind, naturally cheerful
and elastic, soon recovered its tone, and, becoming
resigned to her situation, she not only encouraged
her husband in his industry, but assisted
him by her own.
In a short time Gilbert's diligence and good
conduct became noted among his neighbours, and
several gentlemen of property were heard to
speak in his commendation. It may be here observed,
that the manners of the Philadelphians
towards strangers on first settling among them,
seem, at this day, to be much the same as our
friend Gilbert found them to be a hundred years
ago, that is, reserved, discouraging, and forbidding,
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until some species of merit shall appear to justify
attention and kindness, which will then be afforded
exactly in such proportion as the merit deserves,
but in no more. In other words, the Philadelphians
appear to be the most punctual in rendering
justice, but the most backward in displaying
generosity, of any people in the world.
Gilbert Frazier's merit was also pretty much of
the kind that has always been in highest estimation
with the inhabitants of Philadelphia—for
“sobriety and perseverance” seem to be their characteristics,
and might, without much impropriety,
be adopted as the motto of the city. It is true,
that the warmth of his Irish blood prevented his
manners and conduct from being so rigidly regular,
tamed, and disciplined in all things, as those of
the older citizens; but, for his levities and indiscretions,
as they called them, his neighbours had
the good nature to make a suitable allowance, on
account of his being an Irishman, and also to give
him the greater credit for that unexpected degree
of steadiness and attention to his employment that
he exhibited.
But, although resolute and determined to do
what he could to earn a comfortable and honest
living, the income of his occupation, which was
only that of a common labourer, was by far too
inconsiderable to satisfy his wishes. He was also,
on account of having received, when he was about
five months in the city, from his Nelly, the interesting
present of a fine son, to whom, although he
was no catholic, he gave the name of Patrick, in
honour of his native tutelary saint, the more solicitous
to change his employment for one more lucrative.
He had been bred to no mechanical
trade, and he had neither inclination nor talents
for traffic. The management of a farm was, therefore,
what best suited him; and it was not long
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after the interesting event just mentioned, that he
agreed with a gentleman, who passessed some land
on the Juniata river, a short distance above its junction
with the Susquehannah, to remove there, and
cultivate a certain number of acres on the shares.
On this place Gilbert had resided about ten
years, and had thriven so much, that he felt himself
able to make to its owner such proposals for
purchasing it, as he had every reason to believe
would be accepted; when, unfortunately, a formidable
party of Indians made a furious irruption
into the settlement, and after pillaging or
destroying whatever articles of value came in their
way, they carried off, as prisoners, upwards of
twenty families, among whom was that of the unhappy
Gilbert. He was, at this time, the father
of three children, two sons and a daughter,
who, with their mother and himself, were carried
rapidly, for more than two hundred miles, over a
pathless and interminable wilderness of thick,
lonely, and gloomy forest, corresponding in its
state of wild and dismal savageness with the nature
of the ferocious and vengeful prowlers, on
whose barbarous caprice their very existence now
depended.
To expend a quantity of elaborate tropes and
sounding superlatives in describing the woful contrast
produced by this disaster upon Gilbert's affairs,
would not, I am convinced, in the slightest
degree, strengthen that vivid conception of it with
which the reader must be already impressed.
The threats, the barbarities and exultation of the
savages; the terrors, the tears, the lamentations
and the actual sufferings of the captives, many of
whom, during their rapid and cruel march, died of
their wounds or their ill-treatment, might require
description if they were not already present to
every imagination. The party at length arrived
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at an Indian town, on the banks of the Alleghany
river, called Catanyan, on the scite of which the
present Kittaning is built. Here a council of the
chiefs and other great men of the several tribes
in the neighbourhood met, in order to deliberate
on the fate of the prisoners. Among these, Gilbert
was surprised to observe five or six white
men in military dress, but different in its decorations
and construction from any he had ever before
seen. He was nevertheless strongly inclined to
conceive them Europeans, and the only thing that
caused him to doubt on the subject, was their
speaking neither English, Irish, nor Dutch, the
only European languages of which he had any
knowledge. His doubts were, however, soon
removed by some of his fellow-prisoners, whose
information was more extensive than his own,
from whom he learned that these military men
were French officers, who were now exploring
the country, and forming alliances with the Indian
tribes. He was also given to expect that their
presence might be advantageous to the prisoners,
as they would no doubt make exertions to save
as many as they could from that cruel fate, which
the Indians, if left to themselves, would not fail,
according to their custom, to inflict.
Accordingly it so happened; for out of about
seventy prisoners, there were only five selected to
be burned, and about twenty to run the gauntlet.
It was Gilbert's fate, however, to be one of the
latter; but he underwent it courageously, and being
“brave an' supple,” as he himself phrased it,
he reached the goal with the infliction only of a
few bruise, which broke neither bone nor blood-vessel.
A few days afterwards the greater number
of the prisoners were marched off, as Gilbert
was informed to Canada. With respect to himself
he, together with his family, were permitted to
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remain at the Catanyan town, even after all the
other families were sent off, some of them
separated from each other, to different directions.
This was a favour for which he could not account,
but which gave him the greater joy, as it was unexpected.
Nelly, whose mind had been greatly shaken by
her misfortunes, soon began to recover her serenity
after the departure of the other prisoners; and
permitted as she was to enjoy the society of her
children and her Gilbert, she thought it ungrateful
to repine at that providence which had been
so much kinder to her than to so many others of
her companions in misfortune. Gilbert's mind,
also, on this occasion took a pious turn, so that
both husband and wife felt in their adversity, a disposition
to religious exercises, to which, during the
period of their prosperity they had been strangers.
Such feelings are natural, and could be easily
accounted for, but it is not the province of a
novelist to do so. His duty obliges him only to
state the fact, and leave it to the philosopher, or
rather, perhaps, the divine, to discover the cause.
Although Gilbert and his family had been exempted
from many of the severities which they
saw inflicted upon their unfortunate fellow-prisoners,
their minds were still much agitated with apprehension;
for they knew not how soon so capricious
a people as the Indians, would take it into
their heads to torment, and perhaps, destroy them.
But the same religious feelings which made them
thankful to heaven for the reprieve they had obtained,
inspired them also with hopes of continued
protection and final deliverance.
But Gilbert's mind was not so entirely engrossed
with his own concerns, as to spare no feelings
of sympathy for the more disastrous fate of his
neighbours; and he was considerably puzzled to
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account for some who had been more rigid, at
least in the externals of religion, and full as attentive
to moral appearances as himself, coming
off so much worse than he did.
“Ah! it is a wonnerfu' thing,” said he to Nelly,
“to think how they were permitted to burn that
holy man, Matthew Morrison, that they say never
missed makin' family worship three times a day
since he began hoose-keepin', an' yet to owre-look
a caulrife member o' the kirk like me, an'
no sæ muckle as brak' a bane in my body!”
“Matthew Morrison was fit for heaven, an' the
Lord took him,” was Nelly's reply; “but he has
gien ye time to repent—”
“An' oh! that he would gie grace wi't!” returned
Gilbert, “baith to make me thankfu' for't,
an' to use it richt.”
“Ay, ay, Gilbert,” she observed—“we
should aye be constant in prayin' for his grace,
baith to pardon us an' to guide us, for ye ken
they're weel guided, that He guides.”
In this manner did Gilbert and his wife frequently
converse and encourage each other, on this
occasion; and although their minds were naturally
much agitated with fears and doubts, they were
still supported by the kindly influence of piety and
hope.
It was not long, however, before Gilbert discovered
the agent to whom, under providence, he
was indebted for the favour he had experienced
from the Indians. A French officer came one day
into his tent and, to his great surprise, addressed
him in English.
“I have been the means,” said he, “of preventing
you and your family from being sent to Canada,
and I wish from you a favour in return.”
“A favour! your honour!” replied Gilbert, who
instantly felt the workings of gratitude in his heart,
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“A favour—ay! that you shall—only tell me how
I maun do it, an' I'll rin owre the worl' to oblige
you.”
“I do not wish to send you quite so far,” returned
the officer, “but, if you would have no objection
to part with your wife for a few weeks,
I have occasion for her services.”
At this Gilbert bent his head, and looked somewhat
glum, which the officer observing, corrected
his phraseology, by saying—“But no—I will not
separate you from her. I'll obtain permission for
you also to go; and your children—you will all
be as secure there as here.”
“An' whar do you want us to gang?—and what
want ye wi' Nelly?” asked Gilbert in a tone half
angry, and half fearful.
The officer perceived the state of his feelings,
and with a smile observed—“I shall answer your
last question first, as I believe you consider it the
most important. It is a female, and to be plain
with you, my own wife, who wishes at present for
the society and attendance of a white woman.
She is far advanced in pregnancy, and is unfortunately
surrounded altogether with Indians, for the
presence of whose females, on the occasion she so
soon expects, she has the utmost aversion. When
I perceived your wife among the prisoners, a married
woman, the mother of children, and of decent,
respectable appearance and demeanour, I at
once conceived that she would make a suitable
companion for mine under present circumstances;
and, therefore, I successfully exerted myself to
prevent your being sent away with the other prisoners.
As to your first question—where I wish to
send you?—My wife is at present under the protection
of an Indian Queen, who resides on the
bank of the Monongahela, a large river about forty
miles distant.”
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During this statement, the countenances of both
Gilbert and his wife brightened into an expression
of delight, which perfectly satisfied the
officer that they would cheerfully and thankfully
comply with his wishes.
“We will attend ye, sir”—replied Gilbert—
instinctively reaching for his hat, of which the Indians
had not deprived him, and which now
lay on a short log that was used inside of the tent
for a seat—“yes—your honour”—said he, clapping
it on his head, and making a motion to march
forward—“we will attend you, or your sweet wife,
by nicht or by day, in a' weathers, an' whare'er
ye like to send us.”
Nelly also assured him of the care and zeal with
which she would serve his wife, in order to make
some return for what he had done for them.
The next morning, therefore, the officer
accompanied them to the residence of Queen
Alliquippa, a short distance above Turtle Creek,
near the Monongahela river.
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CHAPTER II.
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— Now to yon mourner go,
Mark the hot tears that from his eyelids flow,
And smothered sighs that all his breast dilate—
Speak not—for comfort doth on silence wait—
But thou poor widow'd bird that quivering seest,
At one fell swoop thy dwelling desolate,
Oh! what shall comfort thee, thou o'er thy nest,
In vain may'st chirp and call for thy lost mate—
Bromiey.
In a reasonable time our party arrived at the
royal wigwam of Alliquippa. Reader! startle not
at the word royal—for why should not a wigwam
be royal as well as a palace, when it is the residence
of a queen? If we believe those who conceive
that royalty altogether consists in a fair, uncorrupted
descent of legitimate blood from enthroned
ancestors, or in the title given by a
blood thirsty sword, to the supreme authority of a
conquered country, then it has nothing more to do
with a mansion built of marble and covered with
gold, than with a hut constructed of oak bark, and
covered with rush mats, except this, that whenever
it can, for it is a very selfish principle, it secures
to itself residences of the former kind. But setting
abstract reasoning aside, for I hate it in a novel,
we hear of royal gardens, royal forests, royal
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theatres, royal baths, royal fish-ponds, royal stables,
and royal hog-sties—and surely, dear reader, you
will tolerate a far more decent and respectable
phrase than some of these—a royal wigwam. Alliquippa's
royal residence, when Gilbert visited it on
this occasion, was not, indeed, so costly and magnificent
a building, as the good people of New-York
and Philadelphia have, no doubt, hitherto
fancied a royal residence to be; for their ideas on
this subject are full as elevated as those of the Londoners,
Dubliners, or Edinburghers themselves,
who are every day blest with the sight of royal fabrics
in abundance. But I would have the New-Yorkers
and Philadelphians to know, what in their republican
ignorance they, perhaps, do not, but
what the Londoners, Dubliners, and Edinburghers,
know well, that the presence of a royal personage
has the virtue, not indeed of the philosopher's stone,
to transmute every thing into gold—but of Adam's
seeds and animals, to produce every thing after its
own kind, and consequently to make all things
royal. Hence Alliquippa, whose blood is stated
by the ancient chronicles lately fished up from
the bottom of the Monongahela, to have been as
purely royal as a descent of upwards of forty generations
could make it, was undoubtedly capable
of making the wigwam that had the honour of
holding her royal person, a royal wigwam.
Having settled this important point, we shall introduce
Gilbert and his family to her majesty,
who received them graciously, and presented each
of them with a string of beads made of red berries,
in token of her royal favour. She was seated on a
conveniently formed block of wood, about eighteen
inches high, covered with a neat mat, in the
outer apartment of the wigwam,—for this edifice,
although the generality of its species contain only
one apartment, happened to contain two, the
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additional one having been constructed at the request
of the French officer for the accommodation of his
wife, of whom we shall directly take notice. But we
must first finish our respects to her majesty. She
was a widow, and still young, and considerably
handsome. Her manner united dignity with affability,
and her personal attractions had lately induced
several chiefs and great men to solicit her
in marriage. At the present time, her most encouraged
lover was king Shingiss, a young warrior
whose residence was on the south bank of the
Ohio, about two miles below the confluence of
the Alleghany and the Monongahela—and it was
so confidently believed that he would succeed in
obtaining her, that almost all her other lovers had
relinquished in his favour. Being, however,
somewhat like the British queen Elizabeth in her
disposition, fond of being admired, but fonder of
being obeyed, she acted much in the same manner,
by encouraging lovers, but keeping free from
a husband. Her tribe, which was called the Shannoahs,
was in complete and satisfied subjection to
her authority, and that authority she was resolved
neither to depute nor divide with any one. As,
however, Shingiss was much devoted to her, she
contrived to keep alive his hopes so long, that he
never sought any other for a wife, and after a
courtship of nearly thirty years, he died a bachelor.
She was dressed, when Gilbert first saw her, in
rather a showy costume. A kind of diadem
made of the red feathers of the flamingo plaited
together, encircled her brows, and, in some parts,
seemed to be fancifully enwreathed with her hair,
which was very plentiful, and of a brilliant jet colour.
A large splendid crystal hung pendent
from each ear; and from her neck, which, as well
as a considerable part of her breast, was bare,
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hung a glittering chain of variegated beads. Her
elbows and wrists were surrounded with scarlet
bands made of dyed skins, and ornamented with
beads. A kind of gown, or wrapper fabricated
from a large silk shawl, of which the French officer's
lady had made her a present, covered her
body from the breast downwards, being suspended
to the shoulders by straps of beaver skin, so formed
as to have the fur on both sides. This garment
was also fastened round her waist by a
beautiful fur belt of various colours secured with
silver clasps. Light coloured moccasins of deer skin
covered her feet, and completed an arrangement
of dress, of which Alliquippa was as proud as ever
queen Elizabeth was of her court-day robes.
The ceremony of introducing the strangers to
her Shannoah majesty being over, she addressed
the French officer as follows.
“My Brother,
“I am glad you are come back so soon.—
My sister—your wife—was cast down in your absence.
But I could not blame her—for I remember
when Shanalow, my husband, went first to
hunt, after our marriage, I was disconsolate, and
dreamed every night of evil till he returned. He
is now gone to his fathers, and shall never more
return. But he died of a breast-wound fighting
the Otawas, and our whole tribe has praised
him.
“Brother! you did well to bring these people—
your wife will be better pleased with a woman of
the east, than with my squaws. You will tell me
at another time, why the rising sun gives a fairer
skin than the setting.
“Brother! I shall order provisions for your
people. But your wife wishes for your conversation.
I shall detain you no longer than to request,
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that until the Great Spirit makes you a father, you
will be free to tell me your wants, and use my
wigwam and my people as your own.”
The officer made a suitable reply, and the conversation,
descending from the stateliness of ceremony,
became promiscuous and familiar.
Nelly soon became much attached to the officer's
lady, who was, indeed, as sweet and lovely
a woman as the sun ever beheld. They had, at
first, some difficulty in understanding each other's
discourse, for the lady, who was a French woman,
spoke but imperfect English; and with respect to
Nelly's English, she scarcely knew one word in
ten. But minds that are disposed to accommodate
each other soon overcome difficulties of this
kind; and Nelly and her mistress, in less than
twenty four hours' acquaintance, contrived not only
to be mutually intelligible, but mutually agreeable
and interesting.
As to Gilbert, his habits of industry while he
resided on the Juniata, rendered his present prospect
of idleness irksome, and perceiving at the
junction of Turtle Creek with the Monongahela,
a short distance from the wigwam, a suitable place
for building a log cabin, which he thought would
be a more convenient residence for the French
lady on the approaching occasion, he proposed to
her husband to erect one, which, with the aid of a
few axes and a few Indians, he said he could do,
so as to make it considerably more commodious
than the wigwam, in a single week. The officer
gladly acceded to the proposal, and procured from
Alliquippa, not only permission for Gilbert to
build the house, but also a grant to him of several
hundred acres of the land around it.
Gilbert knew too well how to appreciate this
unexpected piece of good fortune, not to turn it
to advantage. He immediately commenced
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building his house, and as the queen directed a number
of her Indians to assist him, it was completed in a
more comfortable style, and in a shorter time,
than the officer had conceived to be possible.
His lady was conveyed into it; but in a few days,
her husband's joy at finding her so conveniently
lodged, was turned into grief—into distraction—
by her death in giving birth to a daughter!
On the first intelligence of this event, he sunk to
the earth overpowered with anguish; but, recovering
his muscular energy he suddenly arose, hastened
to the beloved corpse, and pressed it to his bosom
in an agony of sorrow. Tears now gushed
from his eyes, and to all appearance he became
somewhat calmed. He asked to see his infant.
Nelly brought it forward. He kissed it with an
almost convulsive fervour, and burst again into
tears. He then withdrew to a bench on which,
with his throbbing temples pressed between his
hands, he sat in silent anguish for a short time.
He then started to his feet.
“Mrs. Frazier,” said he, “dreadful, dreadful
has been my loss! and dreadful has it been to that
infant! I have lost—but oh! I need not now recount
her virtues, her loveliness, her tenderness!
The world now has nothing for me!—But what
will become of this—Oh! God!—God! support
me! Oh! protect this tender plant! Nelly,
I conjure you to be its mother, for it has now none
else. And you, my friend!” he here caught Gilbert
by the hand, “be you in place of that unhappy
father, who is now unfit to look after it—here,
here!” So saying, he ran to one of his wife's
trunks,—“here, take this,” and he cast a purse of
gold upon a table, “and whatever else these
trunks contain—support my child—bury my wife
decently. Oh, God! her grave will be here in
the wilderness, but her soul is with thee in
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heaven!” He again ran hastily to the corpse, and
embracing it for several minutes,—“Farewell,
farewell!” he at length exclaimed, and hurried
out of the house.
Gilbert, after a moment's deliberation, followed
him, for he saw him in a fit of frenzy, and dreaded
his committing some rash and fatal deed. But he
had disappeared, and Gilbert perceiving from the
thickness and intricacy of the woods, that pursuit
would be fruitless, soon returned to console and
assist his wife, whom grief had rendered almost
unable to attend to her domestic duties.
Alliquippa, who was much affected with these
distressing occurrences, attended herself, and ordered
a number of her tribe to assist at the funeral
of her deceased friend, which they readily did;
so that Gilbert had the satisfaction to see the remains
of this unfortunate lady deposited in the
earth in as decent and respectable a manner as the
circumstances of the time and the place would
admit.
As to the infant whom Providence had thus
thrown upon his care, he was resolved both to do
for it a father's duty, and cherish for it a father's
feelings; and on conversing with his wife, he found
her not only ready to approve, but solicitous to
perform, every benevolent wish he had conceived
in its favour. The little orphan, therefore, whom
they named Maria, as its mother had been so called,
they resolved to esteem as their own offspring,
and provide for it accordingly.
It was now a matter of much deliberation with
Gilbert and his wife, whether they should determine
to make a permanent residence on the spot
where Providence had placed them, or endeavour
to obtain permission from the Indians to return to
their former habitation on the Juniata.
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“I canna weel tell, Nelly,” said he, “what's
best to be done. Gin we stay here, we may ne'er
see the face o' a gospel Christian again, unless it
may be some blackguard trader, drappin' ance or
twice a year doon the river, to cheat the Indians
o' their furs. I ne'er liked them traders—it's their
cheatery that mak's the Indians sae wicked against
the white people—”
“An' what's the warst o't,” observed Nelly, “if
we stay here, we'll no see a worshippin' congregation
in a hale lifetime.”
“But we can worship as the bible directs in oor
ain family,” he replied; “for Joshua said, that he
an' his hoose should serve the Lord: an' ye remember
what oor minister at the Juniata himsel'
has aften said, that if we seek the Lord sincerely
at oor ain fireside, he will be fan' there as readily
as in a temple, by whilk he meant a church or a
meetin-hoose; for, I tak' it, that he could na
think o' Solomon's temple, that was burnt lang syne
in the days o' the Jews. Besides, I fear muckle
whether the savages will gie us leave to gang back;
an' ye ken it's an unco road.”
“Ah! I weel ken that,” said she; “it's na road
ava. In Ireland, we had better anes through the
peat bogs.”
“Ah! dinna talk o' Ireland,” he replied, drawing
a deep sigh; “it mak's my heart sair ilka time
it's named. But we maun e'en bend to Providence—
an' it's late in the year: gin we had liberty,
I doot muckle, whether we could mak'
oor way hame withoot a road to guide us in frosty
weather, and four helpless weans wi' us. Think
o't, Nelly!—”
“I do think o't,” she replied; “I doot muckle
we maun bide here for yen season at ony rate. We
canna think o' the road just noo, an' we hae a
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decent biggin owre oor heads to shelter us till the
simmer comes—”
“An' I'm thinkin' beside,” observed Gilbert,
“that we hae a chance gin we bide, to hear frae,
or may be see, oor wee helpless Mary's father, gin
he be in the lan' o' the leevin', whilk may be o'
mair use to the puir bairn than ony thing we can
do for it.”
“Ye're quite richt, Gilbert—puir wee Mary!”
Here Nelly lifted the object of her condolence in
her arms, and kissed it: “Puir wee thing!” she
continued, “we'll bide here; ye're father's, may
be, to the fore yet, an' may come back in search
o' ye. Gilbert! I think it wad, indeed, be wrang
to gang aff. The gentleman's mind may come to
him again, an' he may want his dochter, an' wadna
ken whar to find her if we were gane.”
“It's a' true,” replied Gilbert; “an' ye ken
the place at the Juniata was nae oor ain either;
an' the pleneshin' has been a' ruined; an' so, on
the puir bairn's accoont, I think we had as gude
content oorsels. I'll e'en try to fence awee, an'
chap wood, an' put some things in order to mak'
us leevin'-like through the winter; an', wi' the
blessin' o' God, we'll try to be content an'
thankfu'.”
It was now that Gilbert began, in the midst of
the desert, that course of industry which, in a short
time, created a smiling and comfortable farm round
him, and which, in a few years, attached him so
much to the place, that he abandoned all thoughts
of ever leaving it.
Alliquippa and her Indians continued friendly to
him, and occasionally assisted him in the heavier
exertions which his improvements required; but
their habits were too unsteady and uncalculating,
ever to imitate him by making any of their own.
Besides, they were now almost entirely occupied in
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either planning or executing predatory and bloody
incursions upon the frontier settlements of the
British colonists, who, with wonderful hardihood,
were every year encroaching more and more upon
those mountainous regions that form the great barrier
between the eastern and western portions of
the continent, and to the eastern portion of which
the Indians were resolved, if possible, to confine
them.
History informs us, that the French, who, at this
time, claimed the whole of Western America, from
Quebec to New Orleans, were now very industrious
in urging the Indians to restrain the rapid
progress that the British settlements were making
in that direction. The savage warriors had, besides
these, other inducements of a powerful nature
to urge them in lifting the hatchet against the
adventurous frontier settlers. These settlers, instead
of attempting to soothe and conciliate a people
whose heritage they were thus gradually, but
rapidly, engrossing to themselves, treated them,
often unnecessarily, as enemies, and always repaid
blood with blood, and outrage with outrage.
In the savage state the feeling of revenge is,
perhaps, the strongest and most inveterate that
actuates the minds, especially of a warlike people;
and, heaven knows, the unfortunate Indians were
never allowed to remain long without suffering
abundance of injuries to excite this feeling;—a
feeling which not only their natural propensities,
but their religious opinions taught them to believe
that it was meritorious to gratify. It is reasonable
also to suppose, that a taste for pillage must
have had its influence upon numbers of those improvident
and homeless warriors, who were engaged
in the sanguinary depredations so frequently
committed on the white inhabitants of the frontier
settlements in Pennsylvania and Virginia
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
during the middle times of the last century; and, at
the present day, when we reflect that these inhabitants
must have expected such depredations, it
cannot but astonish us how they could possess
hardihood and boldness enough to expose both
themselves and their families, by their perpetual
advances to the dangerous vicinity of their barbarous
foes, to such imminent hazard of destruction.
But, in times of danger, there is an excitement
often produced in the minds of men, which enables
them to encounter, nay sometimes to court
hazards and hardships, from the bare idea of which
they would be apt in ordinary times to shrink with
horror and dismay; and there have been instances—
but a truce with philosophizing!—I must go
on with my story, and shall, for that purpose, open
another chapter.
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CHAPTER III.
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
The sculptor's art can mould the form,
Can give its shape a mein and grace,
Yet cannot give that godlike charm,
The music breathing from the face.
The form Prometheus' hand had wrought,
Remained a lump of lifeless clay,
Until the gleaming heaven he sought,
And fir'd the clod with heavenly ray.
Anonymous.
Although separated from the world of Christians,
as he conceived himself, Gilbert Frazier felt
that amidst his seclusion, he possessed many comforts,
and he was thankful for them. His farm advanced
yearly in improvement, and its produce in
value; for being long the only cultivator of the soil
for many days' journey around him, and living convenient
to a navigable river, which was, even then,
a considerable thoroughfare to those adventurous
spirits who traded with the Indians, he could always
without difficulty, make a ready and profitable
sale of his surplus produce. With respect to security,
in either life or property, he felt perfectly
at ease. He knew that Alliquippa and her lover
Shingiss, were both his friends and declared protectors;
besides which, his own inoffensive conduct,
not to speak of his useful industry and occupation,
from which all classes of the neighbouring Indians
had, at one time or other, derived some benefit,
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[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
had interested them in his prosperity, and excited
for him such a feeling of attachment that they
would have been ready to avenge his cause, had
any one, even of themselves, attempted to injure
him.
With respect to his children, they increased in
years and in strength, but not in number, for Nelly
had given him none since her settling in “The
Wilderness.” His eldest son, Patrick, the Philadelphian,
we have before mentioned, was soon
able to assist him in farming, which he did pretty
attentively until he became seventeen or eighteen
years old, when, being of a temper far more restless,
daring, and shrewd than his father, he manifested
a disposition for traffic rather than labour;
and, contrary to his father's wishes, spent a great
portion of his time in rambling over the country,
and dealing with both Indians and white people,
as chance afforded an opportunity. By this time,
however, his younger brother, who was called
Archy, was able to fill his place on the farm, so
that the old man's industry suffered but little inconvenience
from the defection of his first-born.
His daughter, whose name was Nancy, was the
youngest of his three children, and but one year
older than the little orphan Maria, whom Providence,
as we have seen, had thrown upon his care
and affections under circumstances so well calculated
to excite them. Nancy grew up to be a
pretty young woman, the picture of health and
good humour, with well-rounded regular features,
glancing eyes, smiling aspect, and rosy complexion.
She was an open-hearted, honest creature,
with little penetration, and less suspicion; one,
who, had she lived in what is called the “civilized
world,” would have been better calculated to enjoy
it, than to thrive in it; but for that description
of world where her lot was cast, she was well
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adapted. There she might roam the woods in
safety without fear of a betrayer, and indulge her
thoughtless gayety without giving offence. Her
affections were warm, but her sensibility not extremely
acute, for although she may have been
said to have loved almost every one with whom
she had become acquainted, yet their misfortunes,
though they might cloud, could not obliterate her
bias to mirth and hilarity. In short, she was like
many of her sex, more fitted for love than for hatred,
and for joy than for sorrow.
Such was the young female who had been from
her infancy, the companion of Maria Frazier, for
so we must at present call the little orphan who
had been taught to call our friend Gilbert, father,
since by that name every body knew her so far as
she was known. During her childhood, Maria was
of a very playful disposition, partaking much of
the vivacity of her sister—for the two girls long
conceived themselves to be really sisters—but she
was too timid to join in many of her freaks; and,
although she was the younger, her superior prudence
and discernment had imperceptibly acquired
for her a degree of control over the other, to
which Nancy had become so habituated, and
which, indeed, was always exerted with so much
good-nature and kindness, that it never caused her
any soreness of feeling, while it had often the
effect of preserving her from indiscretions.
Although in their persons these two young women
were both highly attractive, their attractions
differed much both in kind and degree. Nancy
was, if any thing, rather robust and stout in her
appearance to suit the general idea of symmetrical
beauty; yet, to many tastes, that firmness and
solidity of frame which was the consequence of
this slight variation to the side of plumpness and
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vigour, was rather pleasing than otherwise. Her
countenance, like her person, was also, perhaps,
too much rounded and full to entitle her to the
character of a finished beauty; but from its regularity
in its individual features, and its healthy
complexion, together with the perpetual expression
of content and gayety that it exhibited, it never
failed to please the beholder. Her manners
sometimes possessed a little too much forwardness
and familiarity to be strictly correct and agreeable;
but these, most people would think, were
fully atoned for by her innocence, archness, and
vivacity.
As to Maria's manners, if modesty without
coldness, delicacy without affectation, affability
without obtrusiveness, liveliness without pertness—
if easy dignity and attentive complaisance
can be pleasing, hers were eminently so. Her
person was elegantly proportioned, inclining, as
some perhaps would think, rather much to the
slender form of nymphlike beauty, but, at the
same time, displaying solidity and fulness enough
to indicate a healthy and sound constitution. Her
motions and gestures were natural, flowing, and
harmonious. As to the charms of her countenance,
they were so full of that magical attraction
which I have heard called the “inexpressible
somewhat,” and the impression of which no iciness
of heart can resist, that it is impossible for
words to depict them justly. A mere delineation
of her exquisitely-formed features, and beautiful
complexion, when she reached the interesting age
of seventeen—an account of the bright expression
of her black eyes, shaded with their thick
silken eye-lashes, and surmounted with her white
and polished forehead—of the damask bloom of her
cheeks, of the coral of her lips, and the shading of
her dark ringlets profusely flowing round her fair
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temples and snowy neck—would afford but a faint
idea of the striking loveliness, which, no doubt,
partly emanated from these, but which had their
principal source in that soul-speaking intelligence,
that living lustre of mind, that glow of sensibility
and benevolence, which characterized her looks to
an unrivalled degree, and made her the delight, as
well as the admiration, of every beholder.
Such were the distinguishing traits in the manners
and appearance of these two flowers of “The
Wilderness,” that had grown up and flourished
into full and beauteous bloom under the diligent
care of Gilbert Frazier, and his attentive and managing
wife. But they differed more in the extent
of their information, and in their natural aptitude
and relish for acquiring knowledge, than in
either their persons or their manners. To Nancy
the labour of study was always rather an irksome
task, while Maria ever courted it as her chief delight.
It will be naturally supposed that her means
of gratifying this inclination for learning must
have been necessarily very limited; but Providence
furnished her with them to a greater extent than
could have been expected. A singular old man,
named Tonnaleuka, whom the Indians regarded as
a prophet, frequently made his residence in the vicinity
of Gilbert's for several months together,
and, on these occasions, took great delight in teaching
his children, and seemed particularly interested
in giving instruction to Maria, perhaps because
he found her so capable and solicitous to receive
it.
He informed Gilbert, who, on their first acquaintance,
expressed his astonishment to find
such a variety and extent of information possessed
by an Indian, that he had, in his early youth, imbibed
a great thirst for knowledge; in consequence
of which he had run off from his tribe, who
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
opposed his desires in this particular, and travelled,
for several years, through the towns of New-England,
where he studied the English language, and
became acquainted with various sciences. “From
thence,” said he, “I visited Canada, for the purpose
of acquiring whatever useful knowledge the
French could give me. When in Quebec, the governor,
at his own expense, placed me at a seminary,
with the intention of qualifying me to act as
an emissary among the Indian tribes, whom he
wished to secure to the interests of his country.
While there, I acquired a knowledge of the French
language, and of the histories, institutions, and political
views of the principal European nations. I
then returned to my own people, that I might gratify
the wishes of my benefactor, the governor, to
whom I felt very grateful. My friends received
me well, and forgave my leaving them, as they
said it was the Great Spirit that put it into my
head, that I might acquire knowledge to direct
them in the management of their affairs with the
white people. But they would not permit me to
teach any of their young men or young women
the sciences I had learned. “For,” said they,
“if it were useful for us to know these things, the
Great Spirit would have communicated them to
our fathers, and they would have taught us.”
However, they gave me credit for my knowledge;
and whenever I am among them, or any of their
kindred tribes, they consult me concerning all
their undertakings, and generally follow my directions.
But I do not wish my knowledge to be
useless—I am desirous to communicate it—and
since the children of my own people will not hear
my lessons, I am glad that yours will.”
The reader may wish to know, how an event so
fortunate for the little Maria, as Tonnaleuka's introduction
to her father's, (for she naturally
-- 036 --
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considered Gilbert as such,) took place. It happened
about two years after Gilbert's first settlement on
the Monongahela, and under the following circumstances.
His son Patrick, or Paddy, as he was
usually called, who was then about twelve years
old, had gone one day into a deep glen, or defile,
about a mile from home, to search for some cows
that had been missing, where, not finding them, he
amused himself by climbing the rocks that walled
up the sides of the glen, when happening to slip, he
fell from a considerable height, and broke one of his
legs. His cries occasioned the appearance of Tonnaleuka
who immediately placed the boy on his
shoulders, and carried him home. Gilbert had
several times of late heard of this Tonnaleuka,
and on one occasion, a few weeks before, had seen
him, but had never spoken to him. Grateful now
for the service he had rendered his son, he invited
him to frequent his house, and enjoy his hospitality,
whenever he should visit the neighbourhood.
“We'll, maybe no' treat you in your ain way,
wi' roasted venison, an' sic like, although we
kill a deer noo an' then; for we ha' leev'd unco
muckle in the Indian fashion, thir twa year back—
but, howsomever, come an' see us, my freen,
an' we'll aye mak' ye welcome to a share o' what's
gaun.”
“My brother, said Tonnaleuka, think not that
I dislike your offer—whenever I have occasion, I
will accept of it; but I want you to know that I
do not accept of it as wages for carrying home
your wounded son. A virtuous Indian will receive
no return from men for an act like this. If he did,
the Great Spirit might refuse to give him that reward
which he expects when he dies—for he rewards
every good deed that is not rewarded here,
a hundred fold better than either Indian or white
man can.”
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“But, brother, hearken to me, I will tell you
what I will do. I will take you for my friend, and
because you are my friend, I will eat at your table;
and when I am hungry, if I happen to be near you,
I will come and tell you, and you will prepare for
me, and I will eat as you eat—for I have been
among white people, and have been taught to sup
from various dishes, and also to use the instruments
of eating, employed by the nations of the
cast.
“Brother, hearken to me, I know something of
the art of bone-setting, for I have studied it under
the great Maralooma—and, if you permit me, I
shall now set your son's leg.”
As this was an operation of which Gilbert himself
was entirely ignorant, and as there was no professed
surgeon within perhaps a hundred miles of
him, this request was readily granted, and the service
speedily and dexterously performed. The operator
daily waited on his pationt for several weeks
until a cure was perfectly accomplished.
It was during these visits that this Indian sage
appeared to become so much attached to Gilbert's
little girls, that he resolved to commence their tutor.
He also extended his benevolent instructions
to the boys; but the chief object of his care, as
we have before observed, was the little Maria,
who, although the youngest of the females, soon
shewed herself the most capable and willing to
profit by his instructions. As she advanced in
years, he drew up for her use a book which he entitled
“Wisdom for a Young Lady,” in which he
laid down maxims for the regulation of her conduct
in both a state of seclusion and society, but
particularly the latter. “For, said he, fortune may
yet place you there, among white people like yourself.
While I lived among them, I found it was
difficult for men, but far more so for women to act
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[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
properly. Their manner of life is not like ours.
Propriety and duty call for a thousand things to be
done among them, which they do not require
among us, and the best informed of their people,
whether male or female, cannot at all times remember,
and attend to every thing that the multiplicity
of their institutions, customs, and ceremonies,
renders incumbent upon the person who
would in all respects act well. Hence it is, as I
perceived while with them, that no one either expects
perfection from another, or aims at it himself,
and this may be the chief cause why they
have never known any instance of complete happiness.
But although I do not expect, my child,
that if ever you live among them, my lessons will
enable you to behave better than any of them, yet
I hope they will qualify you for behaving better
than the most of them.”
There was another copious source of information
within Maria's reach, of which the instructions
of her friendly preceptor enabled her to avail
herself. This was a small but well selected collection
of books of both English and French literature,
that was contained in one of the trunks belonging
to her mother, which the reader will remember
her father to have mentioned in his address
to Gilbert on the melancholy day of his
wife's death. She was soon taught by her instructor
to read and understand the French authors almost
as easily as the English, and to comprehend
whatever was difficult or obscure in either. Thus
a fund of great enjoyment, as well as of improvement,
to which she could, at all times, have recourse,
was in her possession, and altogether under
her control. She valued this the more, as
the sage Tonnaleuka, whom she now esteemed as
her second father, was often called away on the
business of the tribes with whom he was
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
connected; for the fame of his wisdom and foresight had
spread widely amongst them, and they never wished
to undertake any important enterprise without
consulting him, and obtaining his advice and direction
how to conduct it. On such occasions, he
was often obliged to be absent for many months
together, during which she generally felt as much
solicitude for his safety, as if he had been some
near and dear relative.
Next to Tonnaleuka, and the members of her
own family, Maria's greatest favourite, and most
agreeable associate, was queen Alliquippa. This
Indian lady had always manifested for her a great
affection, to which the melancholy circumstances
of her birth, perhaps, at first gave rise; but which
her own endearing sweetness, loveliness, and good
nature, afterwards strengthened and confirmed into
a sincere and permanent attachment. In consequence
of this intimacy with Alliquippa, Maria
obtained a tolerable knowledge of the language
spoken by the queen, and a considerable acquaintance
with the manners, customs, and traditions of
various Indian tribes.
Thus, notwithstanding this beautiful young woman
was reared by strangers, in the heart of a vast
and barbarous “Wilderness,” and in the midst of
savage tribes, yet providence had not only protected
her childhood from injury, but had, almost miraculously
afforded her such means of cultivating
her mind as, with the aid of her own excellent understanding,
in a great measure, supplied the want
of a more regular and finished education. When,
therefore, she had arrived at the age of womanhood,
whether we consider the endowments of her
mind, or the charms of her person, she was eminently
qualified to adorn and delight the most polished
society in civilized life.
-- 040 --
CHAPTER IV.
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
If thou art parentless, my daughter, hear me;
Childless I live, and never can have offspring;
But in my heart for thee a parent's love
I long have cherish'd—for a mother then,
Oh! do thou take me, and thou never shalt,
While beats this heart that loves thy gentleness,
Know what it is to feel a mother's loss.
Saveladour.
Thus until about her sixteenth year, did the life
of Maria Frazier pass along in an unruffled, undisturbed
stream of contentment and satisfaction.
No misfortune had occurred either to herself or
her friends of such importance as to occasion any
lasting impression of grief upon her mind. It is
true, that the prevalent quietude of the most secluded
and tranquil life will be sometimes interrupted
by small domestic cares, crosses, inconveniences,
and ungratified wishes; and she was, no
doubt, like every one else in the world, occasionally
annoyed with such unaccommodating occurrences.
But compared with the general serenity
of her life, these were only like the touch of a
fly upon the cheek, soon obliterated and soon forgotten.
She was about the age before mentioned, when
the first uneasy impression of a durable nature, was
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
made upon her mind. Of the history of her birth
she had hitherto been kept in ignorance, and never
entertained the least suspicion but that Gilbert
and his wife,(who had always treated her with
the most affectionate indulgence,) were her parents.
Alliquippa's attachment to her was the
cause of her now becoming acquainted with the
truth. This Indian princess, who was now advancing
in years, was childless, and had, therefore,
for some time past, unknown to Maria, cherished a
strong desire to adopt her for a daughter. She
had once or twice expressed her wish to Gilbert,
but could not procure his consent. She thought,
however, that her favourite was now sufficiently
old to act for herself. She, therefore, one day as
they conversed together in her wigwam, unexpectedly
addressed her as follows: “My daughter,
hear me! and think seriously upon what I am going
to say. Nature has not made me thy mother,
but affection for you has long ago told me that it
would have been well had she done so, for had
you been formed of my own body, I could not
have loved you more strongly than I do, or felt
more interested in your welfare.
“Daughter; our customs enable me, in this
case, to correct nature. You are already the
child of my heart. I wish to make you the child
of my adoption. If you consent, I shall call the
heads of my tribe together that they may confirm
my wish.”
This unexpected proposal both astonished and
confused Maria so much, that for some moments
she could not reply. Alliquippa, therefore continued:
“My child, listen again! I see your perplexity.
It may be, you do not approve of my proposal.
Perhaps you do not love me so much as I thought;
or, perhaps you may be unwilling to live in this
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
wigwam, after our manner. Here we have not
so many utensils for cooking, and preparing luxuries
for the table, as where you have been accustomed
to live. But if we have not, look to it, my
daughter! have we not more ease?—have we not
less annoyance to endure from fire-side labour?
And yet we are nourished and have flesh and blood
upon our bones, as well as the white people.
Look at me, my child! I have seen forty two
summers, and am I impaired in strength? Are my
bones drier, or is my flesh more shrivelled than if
I had been fed at a white man's table?
“My child, listen to me! If you become my
daughter, you will become accustomed and reconciled
to our mode of living.—You will be honoured
by our tribe. Kings and Sachems will desire you
in marriage. You will, if you choose, have the
pleasure to resist them, and yet keep them in subjection,
as I did. Or, as Shannalow, the eagle of
his tribe, gained me in marriage, so may some
great warrior gain you, and make you happy in
his love, and joyful in his renown. You have
heard me, my child! Will you become my daughter?”
Maria was still much perplexed for a reply.—
She was resolved to refuse, but she feared to offend.
She found now, however, that she must say
something; and she endeavoured to express her
refusal in terms as little offensive as she could.
“Mother,” said she,—for so she had been always
accustomed to address Alliquippa—“I have
heard your proposal which is the result of kindness
for me. It excites gratitude in my heart, and
although I cannot become your daughter, for I
have parents to whom I owe a child's affection and
duty—yet I love you as much as if I could.—
Think not, therefore, that my refusal springs from
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
my not loving you, for how can I but love one who
has been so kind to me?”
“My child! hear me!” returned Alliquippa—
“I believe you love me. But hearken to a truth.
It is right you should hear it. What parent have
you in the world nearer to you than I am? None.
Or is there one in it that loves you better? None.
Gilbert Frazier is not your father, as you have
supposed—nor is his wife your mother—she did
not bear you more than I did. Alas, she who
bore you, died in doing so. What, my child! be
not surprised. Oh, do not tremble! I wished not
to frighten you—Oh! Spirit of Maneto! save my
child!”
Here Alliquippa caught Maria, for she appeared
to be falling from her seat. Her countenance
had turned deadly pale, her lips quivered, and sensation
for a moment forsook her. She recovered
gradually, but it was several minutes before she
could sufficiently collect her senses to speak distinctly
concerning the strange and distressing intelligence
she had just received.
“Ah!” said she, without recollecting Alliquippa's
presence—“what has she told me? Some
strange thing. Alas! it was this—that I have not a
mother—and she died in giving me birth! Merciful
Providence! and am I so bereaved!” Here
she melted into tears, and her agitation somewhat
subsided, when perceiving Alliquippa to be much
affected, she addressed her calmly.
“My mother! be not so disturbed on my account.
I have, indeed, heard what distresses me.
I will not ask you to tell me the whole story. I
will ask it of my father. But, I think you said I
had no father. Ah! say, was I dreaming? or am
I really a bereaved orphan?”
“My child!” replied the queen, “I am rejoiced
to hear you again. I feared you were gone
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
for ever, and I blamed myself for what I told you.
But, listen, child! Alliquippa never told lies—
what I said was truth. The Great Father is your
only parent—but he is a good one; and he has
given you friends who love you, and you have
never wanted for any thing. Then, child, listen
to me, it is not right for you to grieve so much.
It is as if you distrusted the good will of your
Great Father towards you. But let me not find
fault with what I have done myself. I grieved
when Shannalow was killed, although it was in
battle against our enemies, and he has been
much praised. But I was to blame. And I have
since thanked the Great Spirit, that my husband
died a hero!
“Hearken further! I wished you for my daughter,
because I have no child, and you have no parent,
and because I love you, and believe that you
love me. But my brother, Gilbert Frazier, and
my sister, his wife, love you also, and have been
good to you. They are of your own kind, and
you may not wish to leave them for a mother of a
red colour. Child! I speak plainly! Follow your
own inclinations. If you become my daughter, I
shall be glad. If not, you can still be my friend,
and I shall be satisfied.”
For these generous sentiments Maria felt, and
expressed a sincere gratitude; and taking leave
of the queen, she returned home, with a mind
more disturbed and oppressed with melancholy
reflections, than she had ever before experienced.
“And is it thus—thought she—am I really thus
alone in the world—without any being attached
to me by the indissoluble ties of nature and kindred!
Forlorn, helpless, and destitute, must I still depend
upon the charitable support of the hard-working,
generous people that have hitherto supplied my
wants! Alas! that I have been so long in a
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
state of dependence! But I knew it not—Perhaps
it would have been better that I had never
known it. Then would this proud heart have felt no
pangs at living the unintentional object of compassion
and charity. But—God forgive me!
thou hast ordered it so. Enable me to humble
my spirit, and submit to thy dispensations. Ah!
it was thy pleasure to take my mother from me,
ere I could enjoy a mother's tenderness!—And
my father, alas! what was his fate? Oh, God
of the fatherless! enable me to listen to the story
of his sorrows.—Oh! point out to me what I
should do, for I feel now as if on thee alone I had
any natural claim for support.”
There was something of a comfortable feeling
connected with the last reflection. It was a feeling,
as if, on account of her being destitute of all
claims to any other natural support, she felt assured
that she had something like a greater claim upon
her Heavenly Parent, the supporter of all his
creatures, and the only friend of the destitute and
the helpless. This assurance tended to calm her
agitation, and throwing her whole dependence upon
her Maker, and resolving never to distrust his
providence, she reached home in a far more composed
state of mind than when she left Alliquippa's.
Her agitation, however, was too apparent not
to be at once observed by the affectionate Nelly,
who felt for her well-being all the solicitude of a
real parent.
“What ails you Maria?” said she—“I doot
something's wrang, my bairn—are you no weel?”
“No—my kind mother!” she replied, “I am not
well, but it is my heart alone that is sick. Alas!
that heart feels that it owes you a debt of gratitude,
which it never will be able to repay.”
“Why, my child,” said Nelly, surprised at such
an observation—“Why, what's come owre ye?
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
That's strange talk, indeed! I doobt some o' thir
books ye're aye readin hae put ye crazy. I aften
tauld ye it was wrang to study sae muckle. Tak'
mair diversion, an' sport yoursel', like Nancy, for
it vexes your puir mother to see you sae.”
“My mother, do you say!” cried Maria, almost
unconsciously—“Ah! would to heaven that
you were my mother—then, you would not see me
now unhappy.”
“Would I were your mother!” repeated the
alarmed Nelly. “Did ony body ever hear the
like o' that? Why ye ken, I hae aye been your mother—
ay, an' I aye will be your mother, for ye hae
aye been a gude bairn to me. Dinna cry noo, my
bonny jewel—dinna cry sae—some yen—foul fa'
their tongues! maun hae tauld ye some ill story to
vex you. But dinna mind them, my bairn—ye hae
aye been my ain, an' aye will be my ain!”
So saying, she kissed Maria, who was weeping
bitterly, on the cheek, and wiped the tears from it
with a handkerchief, while at the same time the
moisture was breaking from her own eyes.
“Tell me,” she said, “my bonny lamb! what
vexes ye sae! for I canna bear to see ye cryin' this
way.”
Maria grasped her hand; she looked in her
countenance and saw that her heart was full, and
she could not resolve to increase its sorrow by
disclaiming that tender relationship she had hitherto
conceived herself to bear to the affectionate
guardian and cherisher of her childhood.
“Yes! I feel it,” she exclaimed, “you are my
mother—my best of mothers, and shall still, still
be so—though I have been told you were not.”
“An wha was sae hard-hearted as to tell you
sae, my bairn?—shame fa' their ill tongues! could
they no hae been better employed than to blab oot
what can noo do naebody gude to hear?”
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
“Ah! then the tale is true, my mother—Oh!
I will still call you so, though I fear I have no
right.”
“Nae richt! Maria! my ain! sae lang my ain
wean! Wha dare tak the richt frae ye to ca' me
mother? Sair, sair, to me will be the day when
ye cease to do sae.”
“I never will cease to do so, while I live,” said
Maria; “and now, mother! I am better.”—And
she here endeavoured to appear more cheerful—
for she perceived that her sorrow had produced a
violent agitation in Nelly's mind. “Be comforted,
my dear mother,” she continued, “I will not
again permit this story to vex me. Only do not
let it vex you, and we shall again be happy together.”
“God bless you, my gude bairn—you were aye
a gude lass, a gude dauchter to me. An' though I
did na bear ye, I bred ye, an' watch'd owre ye,
an' nursed ye in my lap, an' fondled ye in my
arms, an' ye lay in my bosom.—Oh Maria! Maria!
indeed ye are my ain as muckle as if God had
made ye sae. Oh! dinna think o' aucht else, for
I canna bear it.”
“Yes—you, who have been the tender protector
of my infancy, and the affectionate supporter of
my childhood, from whom I never experienced any
thing but kindness, I never can, and never shall,
think of you in any other light than that of a parent,
whose duties you have with so much care
and solicitude fulfilled towards me. Gratitude for
these—ah! that is but a cold word for what I feel—
a daughter's love you deserve from me, and warmly
and truly do I feel it, and for ever shall I cherish
it for you.”
They now embraced, and felt a confidence and
comfort springing up in their hearts, that soon restored
them to tranquillity and cheerfulness.
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
Maria now informed her mother of Queen Alliquippa's
proposal to adopt her as a daughter, and
the account she had given her of the loss of her
parents.
Nelly, in return, acquainted her with all the
circumstances connected with her birth, of which
the reader is already informed. She ended her
relation by observing—“Your father an' I would
hae tauld you thir things lang syne, but, no likin'
to disturb you wi' a bad story, an' no likin' eether,
it may be, that you should nae think us your father
an' mother, wha like you as weel as we do them
that are oor ain flesh an' bluid, we aye put it aff
frae day to day. We feared it wad be an unco
trial, an' ye micht hae thoucht we did it frae unkindness.
But you canna think sae noo. The
trial's owre; I'm glad o't, an' I hope in God, the
Great Parent o' us a', that he'll keep us a' happy
lang tighether.”
Fortitude, reflection, and piety, soon restored
Maria's mind to such a state of serenity, that, if it
was not quite so undisturbed with uneasy sensations
as formerly, it was sufficient at least to prevent
either Gilbert or his wife from thinking her
unhappy. It was, indeed, reluctance to give that
uneasiness to this good couple, which she knew
any apparent affliction of hers would occasion, that
induced her to make exertions to conceal from
their view many a long hour's mental anxiety,
which, in spite of all her efforts to resist it, would,
from this time forward, frequently obtrude upon
her. She could not, at any time, totally divest
her mind of the recollection that she was dependent
on their goodness and bounty, and that she
was fortuitously cast upon the world, without possessing
any natural claim to the protection and
support of any fellow-being. “Alas!” she would
often involuntarily say to herself, “if I knew any
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
human being, whose blood could claim affinity
with mine, how comfortable I should feel. But,
alas! there is none!”
But this sense of forlornness never interrupted,
for one moment, her gratitude to God, for the manifold
blessings she had hitherto enjoyed, nor her
affection and duty towards those kind people, who
had been the instruments of his bounty.
Her preceptor, Tonnaleuka, had been for several
months absent at the time she received the intelligence
of her state of orphanage; and her tranquillity
of mind had been considerably restored
before his return. His acute penetration, however,
soon discovered that something had taken
place, since he last saw her, to disturb that cheerfulness
and vivacity of disposition which she had
hitherto displayed, and which he knew was her
natural bent of mind. He mentioned his suspicion,
and without hesitation she told him the truth.
“My daughter,” said he, “you do wrong to
grieve for events which you cannot recall, and
which no fault of your own has produced. A wise
person will only grieve for sin; and even then his
grief will not be lasting, since grief for sin is repentance,
and repentance reconciles him to both
God and man, and should, therefore, reconcile him
to himself.
“My daughter—you say you have no kindred;
but you only mean such kindred as have been called
so by the customs of the world. These it may
sometimes be a comfort to have, but it is not always
a misfortune to want; for the faults of a man's
kindred often reflect upon him their evil consequences,
when he himself is blameless. But,
daughter, you have kindred. The Father of the
world has given us all a common origin: we have
all sprung from himself. Every one you see is,
therefore, your relative, whether white man or
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[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
Indian. Such is the unchangeable law of nature!—
and so long as you act justly towards these your
relatives, they are bound, by that unchangeable
law, to support and protect you.
“But, my child, I speak thus, not to chide, but
to advise you, not blame, but to comfort you; for
although it is hurtful for you to grieve, yet, for
such a cause as yours, it is natural, and, therefore,
cannot be offensive to your Great Father. Nay,
my daughter, hear me! I am glad to see that you
possess those fine feelings of the heart, that sweet
and amiable sensibility, which is the true source of
affection and tenderness, and which, when it can
be controlled by religion and reason, is a great ornament
to your sex. But, for your own sake, I
wish you to restrain its impulses within due bounds.
Its possession is often a great augmentation to happiness,
but, unless under proper control, it is almost
constantly a great source of misery, and the
origin of misfortune.
“And now, daughter, I must say, that you have
reason, considering all things, to be satisfied with
your lot. God has given you kind and steady protectors
in my brother Frazier and his wife; and,
have I not been to you the father of instruction,
and can you think me less than a father in affection,
or that I shall ever see you in misfortune, and
not step forth to relieve you?
“Daughter, be of good cheer—your blessings
are many. You have health, and understanding,
and knowledge, and on earth many friends, and
God in heaven!”
-- 051 --
CHAPTER V.
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
Lo! to the desert bend their venturous way,
A daring band, regardless of each toil;
Beneath a youthful leader's valiant away,
To rear their standard in a distant soil,
And open out an empire which might tame
The lawless wild to cultur'd arts of peace,
Bid the bleak waste the boon of plenty claim,
And cause th' accursed reign of savage times to cease!
Savelabour.
About two years after Maria became acquainted
with her state of orphanage, an event took
place, which, as it had the most important influence
upon her destiny, it is our business to relate.
Shortly after the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle,
which left the boundaries between the British and
French dominions in America altogether undefined,
the British government, which claimed an unlimited
extent of country westward, on a parallel
with their eastern settlements, granted a large
portion of land, situated about the head of the
Ohio river, to a number of noblemen and opulent
merchants, who associated together under the title
of “The Ohio Company.” This company, which
was formed some time in the year 1750, contemplated
territorial as well as commercial advantages,
and employed several adventurous individuals
to explore the country, with a view to its
settlement. It was soon understood, however,
that the French, who also made pretensions to this
country, would resist any British establishment
that should be made there. But the company determined
to persist in their designs; and, for the
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
purpose of giving effect to their operations, in the
year 1752, it was resolved to send a party of men
to take formal possession, and erect a fort on the
southeast side of the Ohio, near Chartier's creek,
about three miles below where Pittsburgh now
stands.
Thomas Adderly, Esq. a wealthy merchant of
Philadelphia, and a leading member and a director
of the company, was one of the chief promoters
of this enterprise. He was a native of Ireland,
and of the same neighbourhood with our friend
Gilbert Frazier; a few years after whose arrival
in America, having offended his father, who was
a man of large property, by marrying a portionless
young lady of extreme beauty and fine accomplishments,
he also emigrated to the same country,
where, in a short time, his success in mercantile
business amply remunerated him, in point of fortune,
for what he had lost by his father's displeasure.
This gentleman had an only son, named Charles,
who was born shortly after his arrival in Philadelphia,
which was in the year 1730. Being very
solicitous for this young man's education, he had,
when about fifteen years of age, sent him to Europe,
where he studied for five years at Trinity
College in Dublin, and spent another in travelling
over the British islands, and several parts of the
European continent. After an absence of about
six years, he returned to Philadelphia, only a few
months previous to the fitting out of the abovementioned
expedition to the Ohio.
Being a young man of an enterprising disposition
and inquiring mind, he felt a strong desire to
explore the western Wilderness, and get acquainted
with the languages and customs of the Indian
tribes. He communicated his wishes to his father,
and requested permission to avail himself of the
favourable opportunity now offered of gratifying
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
them, by accompanying the intended expedition.
His father conceiving, at once, that such an excursion
would afford a valuable addition to the already
extensive stock of general knowledge that he
possessed, and might tend ultimately to the obtaining
of vast commercial advantages with the Indians,
after some little deliberation on account of
the perils of the undertaking, yielded to his request;
and as Charles's education, talents, and
courage were well known, he had no difficulty in
getting him placed at the head of the expedition.
At the time that Charles Adderly undertook the
management of this enterprise, which was one, in
those days, somewhat novel in its nature, he was
in his twenty second year, and as accomplished,
active, handsome and gallant a young man as any
lady could wish to behold. His stature wanted
but one inch of six feet. His features were well
formed and expressive; glowing with benevolence,
and animated with good nature. His eyes
were dark, intelligent and penetrating. His hair
was black and somewhat curled—while the complexion
of his countenance was altogether Irish,
consisting of a happily blended union of white and
red. His limbs were well modeled, firmly knit,
and justly proportioned. In short, for I must be
brief, his manners and gestures united an air of
intrepidity and dignity with conciliation and kindness.
A journey from Philadelphia to the Ohio river,
at the period about which we are writing, was a
quite different thing from what it is now—At the
present day there is nothing to obstruct the traveller,
except those numerous annoyances to badly
supplied purses and avaricious tempers, the turnpike
gates; but when Charles Adderly set out
with his party, for more than two thirds of the way,
there was not a path nor a track to direct them
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
onwards. Instead of the numerous houses of entertainment,
and the constant and cheerful concourse
of travellers that are now to be met with
every where in the whole distance, there was then
nothing to be seen but an unceasing and monotonous
continuation of gloomy, thick, and, in many
places, impenetrable forests, covering vast and
awful mountains and wild and gloomy glens and
valleys; concealing lonely rivers and impassable
swamps; and yielding inaccessible retreats to numerous
races of wild animals and beasts of prey,
and human savages, the most dreaded and dangerous
of all the obstacles our adventurers feared
to encounter.
The party started about the latter end of August.
It consisted of twenty persons. They had
about a couple dozen of pack horses laden with
luggage, consisting of provisions, amunitions, labourer's
tools, and merchandise for the Indians.
They were all hardy, courageous, able-bodied men,
regardless alike of fatigue, hardship, or hazard.
The majority were men accustomed to work, such
as labourers, masons, and carpenters; but they
were all able and willing to assist in case of need
in the performance of any duty. Charles himself;
a half-pay military captain, who had once
fought in the New England wars against the Indians,
and understood several of their languages;
an engineer; a young surgeon who was employed
not merely as such, but as secretary to the expedition;
and two young men of mercantile knowledge,
who had been bred merchant's clerks, were
the only individuals, not professionally workmen;
unless we exclude from this class, Charles's body
servant, Peter M'Fall, who had followed his dear
master from the sweet city of Dublin—Och! long
life to it!—Over all England and Scotland, and
Germany and Italy, and France, and now to
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
America; and was ready besides to follow him all
the world over, and Ireland into the bargain, if he
should ever go back to it.
Every man of this stout-hearted and stout-bodied
party was well armed, and well prepared to
encounter either the natural obstacles of the way,
or the attacks of an enemy, should they meet with
any, whether French or Indians.
They left Philadelphia laden with the prayers
and good wishes of the citizens, and the fourth
day afterwards crossed the Susquehannah in a flat,
amidst the cheers and acclamations of the people
then resident upon its banks. As they proceeded,
however, the obstacles to their progress increased,
and it was the eighth day from their starting
before they reached the South Mountain.
They had great difficulty in passing this mountain.
Their axes and mattocks were put in frequent requisition.
On the eleventh day of their journey,
however, they reached the plain near where
Chambersburg is now situated. They here
pitched their tents and halted for a couple of
days, in order to shoot game, and give those
who were fatigued an oportunity of resting.
They set forward again on the tenth day, and
arrived at the eastern foot of the North, or, as it is
sometimes called, the Cove Mountain, that night.
The crossing this stupendeous mountain was one of
the most laborious tasks they encountered on the
whole rout. They set their bodies to it, however,
with great vigour, and hewed their way manfully,
through the almost impervious thickets that incumbered
the numerous rocks and precipices over
which they had to pass into the valley on the western
side, in about four days. Here, on the scite
of the present M'Connelstown, they again halted
for two days, for the sake of rest and recreation.
In this manner, they proceeded over the vast
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
and mountainous wilderness, not unaptly called
the Backbone of America, with infinite labour securing
footing for their horses, by sometimes filling
up, and sometimes bridging over, ravines,
runs, creeks, rivers, and morasses, and levelling
impenetrable woods and rocks, as they tottered
dizzily along the sides of fearful precipices, on
the edges of which trunks of trees had frequently
to be fixed to afford a passage for their
trembling horses, until, about the latter end of the
sixth week of their journey, they reached Shanapins,
a small Indian village at the head of the
Ohio, where fort Du Quesne was built about eighteen
months afterwards, and where Pittsburgh
now boasts her cheap markets, her noisy manufacturers,
and her industrious ten thousand inhabitants.
They here remained several days, trafficking
with the Indians, from whom they had not as yet
met with any molestation. Nay; several of their
kings and chief men who visited them, seemed
to be rather friendly disposed. Among others,
our friend Shingiss, king of the Delawares, Alliquippa's
lover, treated them with great attention, and
ordered his people to furnish them with provisions
and furs in exchange for their goods, whenever
they wanted them. His residence being
near the place where they had instructions to
erect their fort, Charles took care to secure his
acquiescence and assistance in the undertaking,
by a splendid present of rings, pen-knives, small
looking-glasses, tobacco-boxes, glass beads, and
other trinkets. In managing these matters the
half-pay captain before noticed, whose name was
Ridgely, acted as interpreter; and the whole affair
was settled so much to the satisfaction of all
concerned, that a few days after their arrival at
Shanapins, Charles thought proper to remove the
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party to Chartier's creek and take formal possession
of the ground he intended to fortify.
He soon marked out the place best adapted
for a fortification. It was a high bank near the
creek on the south side of the Ohio river, commanding
its channel, but sloping towards the land,
so as to render its approach from that direction,
easily susceptible of being made difficult. Here
he resolved without delay to raise a small entrenchment,
and erect a block-house for a temporary defence,
for he was informed that the French commander
at the fort of Le Beuf, about twenty miles
distant, had expressed great displeasure at the report
of his incursion to this country, and it was
probable that he would not even refrain from violence
in order to drive him off.
Charles thought that it was not likely the French
would use force for such a purpose, as it was then
a time of peace between France and England;
but, at all events, he conceived it prudent to erect
some species of defence, for if the French commandant
should not venture openly to attack him,
he might secretly spur on some of the Indian
tribes to do so.
His men were immediately set to work; some
in preparing timber for the block-house, and some
in digging the trench. They had been two or
three days employed at this business, when Peter
M`Fall, who had been hewing timber at some distance
from the rest, perceiving a deer, threw down
his axe, and seizing his gun, (for, to guard as much as
possible against any hostile surprise, each man was
ordered to have his charged musket convenient to
him while at work,) proceeded after it for a short
distance. It had stopped, and in a crouching posture,
among some thick undergrowth of hazels and
spicewood, he silently and slowly approached it,
when, all at once, he heard the sound of human
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voices, as if talking together. He thought no more
of the deer, for he was altogether attracted by the
sounds, in which he believed there was something
not absolutely unknown to him. He drew near
them with as much silence and circumspection as
he could, and soon distinguished the words to be
French, a language of which he had acquired some
knowledge while attending his master on his European
travels. He still continued cautiously approaching
until he obtained a stolen view of the
speakers. They were white men, and he had no
hesitation in believing them to be French, although
they had on no uniform that could distinguish them
as such. Each of them wore a plain round hat, a
short gray coloured hunting roundabout, and gray
pantaloons. They were standing leaning upon
their guns beneath a brush-covered bank that over-looked
a small run, and from which bank, concealed
by the brush, he saw them only four or five
yards below him. After listening to their discourse
for about fifteen or twenty minutes, he became impatient
to communicate it to his master, it being
of such a nature as to show that there was mischief
to be soon expected; but happening to withdraw
from his skulking-place rather incautiously,
they espied him, and immediately fired at him.—
One of their balls passed through his hat, and another
through the skirt of his coat, without injuring
him. He speedily returned their favour, and
saw one of them fall, but did not wait to ascertain
whether he was killed or merely wounded. He
hastened through the wood with the swiftness of
an Asahel, and was, in a few minutes, breathless
before his master.
“Oh! holy Bridget! master!” cried he in a
great flurry—“I am wounded both in the head
and the tail!”
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“Wounded! how?” exclaimed Charles. “Why,
what has happened, Peter?”
“Ogh, nothing, your honour,” replied Peter,
somewhat recovering his respiration; “but I shot
a Frenchman as neat, your honour, as neat as a
pigeon, through the—”
“Then, Peter, I dare say it is the Frenchman,
and not you, that is wounded.”
“Ogh! now, master, sure didn't I tell you the
truth? Look at the ball they shot through my
head—I heard it whistling like a pipe-staple —
You'll see it there in both sides of my hat, your
honour. Ogh! it flew like the wind through a
barn door—”
“But it has not cracked your skull for you, I
hope, Peter. Let me see. Why! you blunderpate,
there is not so much as a scratch here—”
“Agh! your honour, let Peter alone for that.
The devil never yet made the bullet that broke my
head, although he sent one through my tail too.
By my sowl, it was tight going, to be shot through
at both ends, master!”
“And yet to be injured in neither,” observed
Charles, who was now satisfied that Peter had received
no hurt. “But tell me how this affair has
happened. Where did you see the Frenchman,
and what was he about?”
“By my sowl, sir, it wasn't one, but two of them
I saw, skulking, like thieves from a Kilmainham
twist, behind a hay-stack. It was just, your honour,
under the brow of the big ditch yonder
where the little river runs, that I spied them, as
snug as a pig, from among the bushes. They were
speaking French treason, when I listened like a
lark, and heard every word of it.”
“Well! and they discovered, and shot at you,
did they?”
“O! it was when I got up to run, that they did
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it. But, faith, I left my mark in one of them—
and if there had been only another ball in my gun,
I would have killed them both, for sure they
disarved it, master.”
“Well, but tell me, Peter, what conversation
did they hold? Did you hear it distinctly?”
“Ay, faith, that's the news for you—Hear it!
your honour—why, my mother never heard me
squalling plainer.”
“But what did they say? Peter—tell me, and
be quick—”
“Why! they just said, that they would take
every soul of us prisoners, if them Indians, the—
the—hang their name!—”
“Go on, sir—what about them?—never mind
their name.”
“The Ch—Chipys—I think they called them.
When they would come on, they said, they could
take us all at our work. But I thought it a devil
of a lie, master; for sure didn't I know we could
shoot every soul of them if they touched us?”
“But, Peter, did they say when they expected
these Chippeways, as I suppose was their name?”
“By the holy Derg! but you're right, your honour—
How did you hear them? You know the
whole matter better than I do. Ogh! what it is
to be larned now!—”
“Peace, Peter! and tell me if you heard when
these Indians are expected?”
“Ogh! in faith, then, I believe they expect
them already, for they cursed them for not having
come yet.”
“Haste, Peter!—sound the bugle, and call in
the men immediately.”
Peter did as he was directed—and in a few minutes
the whole party was assembled.
Charles communicated to them Peter's account
of the danger that threatened them, and desired
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them to keep a good look out, and not to separate
until further orders. He then conferred privately
with Captain Ridgely on the best measures to be
adopted.
It was agreed that the men should at once be
employed in constructing a hasty parapet for immediate
defence, of the materials they had already
prepared, so that if attacked they might have some
shelter from the enemy. At the same time a messenger
was sent to king Shingiss, acquainting him
with the state of affairs, and requesting his assistance
as an ally in repelling any attack.
Shingiss with five or six warriors soon waited upon
Charles, and addressed him in the following
manner:
“Brother! I will speak freely—your people
and the French dislike each other, and many of us
dislike you both. Your two nations disagree about
this country which belongs to neither of you. It
is a hundred generations since the Great Spirit
who made it, first gave it to our fathers, and to
their sons for hunting ground. They and we have
possessed it ever since. Is it not strange that you
white nations should quarrel more fiercely about
our property than we ourselves?
“Brother! I will speak truth, and you will hear.
We have no objection to your lodging among us,
and trading with us, so long as you trade fairly,
and behave peaceably, and make no attempt to
engross our land.
“Brother, be attentive! I do not say that you
have yet cheated us, nor that you intend it. But
we have heard of some traders from the rising sun
who did so. This has affronted our people. They
see that the children of your nation can be dishonest,
and they distrust you.
“Brother, hear the truth! I gave you permission
to build here, because I know that you
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cannot, as we do, live in wigwams, and I wanted you
to be comfortable that you might have no cause of
complaint, and that you might trade with us the
longer.
“Brother! I tell you these things that you may
know how to please the Indians. If you attend to
them, they will, when you are distressed, lend you
assistance. If you despise them, they will sit still
when you need them, or it may be they will lift
the hatchet against you.
“Brother! Let me now say, that you have not
yet displeased me, but the French have; and if my
warriors were at home I would now help you, for
you have my permission to live here, and the
French have no right to forbid you. I will call
upon the Shannoahs. Their warriors will come
when they hear my story, and with those of my
own tribe that are with me, I will join them; but
there will be a whole day before we can assemble.
“Brother! Look to it! If you are delivered
from this danger, do not become proud, and say
it was your own strength that did it; and that the
Indians should be despised, and may be treated
unjustly. If you do, think you that they will again
relieve you? For you may again be distressed,
nay, if you act unjustly you will be so. I have
done, my brother! I go to call the Shannoahs—
Let what you have to answer be brief.”
“Brother!” replied Charles, “I am aware that
our people have not always acted right towards
you, and I am sorry for it. But we are a very numerous
people, and have no doubt some bad men
amongst us, for we are much diversified in our
dispositions. But you are too just to visit upon
the innocent the punishment due to the guilty.—
You acknowledge we have hitherto acted justly.
It is our intention always to do so. Nay,
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more, if you assist us on this occasion, we shall
feel bound to act generously, and shall not soon
forget your kindness.”
Shingiss now took his leave; and it was scarcely
an hour afterwards, when two warriors of his tribe
came running towards Charles's tent. While yet
at some distance, they were heard to imitate the
screeching of the owl, the signal by which they inform
each other that there is a foe approaching.
When they reached Charles, they informed him that
there was a large party of the Chippeways within
a short distance advancing to attack him, and that
their king was very sorry he had no force at hand
to assist in repelling them.
They had hardly delivered their message, when
the terrific war-whoop was heard to rise from different
quarters of the woods at once; and Charles
had hardly time to form his men into a posture of
defence, ere a continued peal of musketry began
to rattle all around, and a shower of bullets sent
by foes, as yet invisible, rushed through the interstices
and other openings in the scarcely half finished
breast-work they had been hastily attempting
to throw up.
Charles did all in his power to encourage his
men, and they, indeed, fought gallantly. But
their situation was extremely disheartening. They
knew not the exact strength of the enemy, but
they had reason to believe that it was beyond comparison
superior to theirs. Nor did they know to
what particular point to direct their efforts, for
every part of the surrounding wood seemed to
pour forth upon them its destructive thunder,
while their ill-constructed rampart afforded them
little or no protection.
At length the savages becoming bolder, drew
near, and necessarily exposing themselves, as they
advanced, to the shot of the English, a
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number of them was killed. But they continued to
approach, sheltering themselves as much as possible,
behind trees, until Charles perceiving that
there was no chance of keeping them off much
longer, determined to make a charge upon them
with the bayonet, in order, if possible, to cut a passage
through them, by which means he hoped, that
at least a remnant of his men might escape. He gave
orders to this effect, and led the way himself, armed
with a case of pistols, and a large broadsword. His
men followed with great intrepidity, and soon
drove off all the savages that were before them.—
But they were suddenly closed upon by a host
from behind, and every man was seized by five or
six Indians, and either killed or taken prisoner,
and bound on the spot. Charles placing his back
to a large tree, defended himself for a considerable
time, even after he saw that all was lost; for he
determined to die fighting, and to make his death
costly to his assailants, rather than become their
prisoner, and endure the tortures to which he
knew he would in that case be subjected. He
had expended the contents of his pistols with
deadly effect among them, and now his broadsword
alone remained to him for the infliction of his vengeance.
He had laid several of them bleeding at his feet
with mortal wounds, when he perceived one of
more than ordinary strength, stateliness, valour,
and fierceness, approaching with the utmost fury
in his countenance. When within a few yards of
Charles he stopped, and called in a loud and
commanding voice to those who were fighting with
him. They immediately ceased, and withdrew to
a distance. Charles stood firm and collected, waiting
the attack of this formidable savage, for the latter
had paused in his approach, as if to scrutinize
the appearance of his antagonist, and meditate his
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
mode of attack upon one so worthy of his valour—
so apparently well calculated to call forth its
whole extent, and prove its invincibility. Charles
on his part, perceived that the struggle was likely
to be a hard one, and he felt a sense of self-congratulation
that it was so, because if he conquered,
he should rid the world of one who, if he lived,
was likely to be a scourge to his countrymen,
and if he himself died, he should die by the hands
of a hero.
These thoughts had the duration only of a moment,
for the savage was soon at the attack. Having
observed the kind of weapon possessed by
Charles, as if disdaining to use what he supposed
gave him an advantage over an opponent whom
he wished to fight only on equal terms—he threw
the battle-axe, with which he had often turned the
tide of victory against his enemies, away, and occupied
but a moment in snatching, from the dying
grasp of Captain Ridgely who had fallen near him,
his sword, which was nearly of the same size and
formation with that of his antagonist.
At this instant, Charles paid a tacit, but high
compliment to the magnanimity of his opponent,
by relinquishing his station at the tree, and coming
forward to meet him in the open space; for
he instinctively felt that the followers of a brave
man, although they should be savages, would not
dare to disgrace, both him and themselves, by
using unfair means, in the moment of combat, to
secure him the victory.
The combatants now met, and fierce and terrible
was the encounter. For, although they respected
each other's bravery, each was determined
to destroy or die. The Indian managed his
unusual weapon with wonderful address; and it
required all Charles's skill, (and he was an educated
swordsman,) to ward off the fiery, the rapid—
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
almost invisibly rapid, and nearly overwhelming
thrusts, strokes, and movements of his antagonist.
And when at the beginning of the contest he tried
on his part to strike, or thrust, he was always baffled
by some unexpected, and unaccountable turn
of his opponent's weapon or bodily position. The
savage, however, could make no impression upon
him. He was too well acquainted with every manoeuvre
of parrying for that. Both were beginning
to be wearied, and provoked at such an unavailing
contest, when Charles reflected that even if he
should in the end conquer, there was no possibility
of escaping the terrible tortures destined to
one captured by such foes, hundreds of whom
stood around, ready to seize and carry him bound
to torment and death, the moment his victory
should be declared. This idea rendered him desperate;
and, almost careless of conquest, he made a
spring like lightning for suddenness, upon the Indian's
sword, the blade of which he caught firmly,
but most unexpectedly, in his left hand, (for the
Indian, who had hitherto beheld him fight rather
cautiously, had not calculated on a movement of
so much rashness) and thrusting it aside with uncontrolable
force, he dashed his own into his opponent's
heart.
The Indian fell, and expired without a groan, a
fate which, at that instant, the conqueror ardently
wished had been his own; for as many savage
hands as could lay hold of him, had now seized
him, and he was carried away bound, along with
eleven of his company, who were also prisoners,
(the remainder having been killed on the field,) to
the Chippaway encampment, to undergo the investigation
and judgment of the victorious chiefs.
All the way to the encampment, which was on
the north side of the Ohio, about two miles from
the field of battle, the Indians continued shouting
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and dancing, and singing songs of triumph, in a
manner so wild and frantic, that to their unfortunate
prisoners their conduct appeared tainted with
actual madness. It was wearing near the evening
when they arrived at the camp, which was composed
of a number of rude and hastily erected tents
and wigwams, in one of which the chiefs assembled,
and having approved of an appropriate Song
of Victory, ordered two of their best singers to
chant it in the hearing of all the warriors, many
of whom joined in the chorus. As one of the prisoners
happened to preserve a copy of this song,
it has come into our possession, and we beg leave
to offer the following translation of it to our readers.
An Indian Song of Victory.
CHORUS.
Now the storm of battle's o'er,
Victory the brave has crown'd;
Heroes! we exult once more,
O'er the hard contested ground,
Raise the voice of triumph high!
Let it loudly pierce the sky,
And to our father's spirits tell,
How their sons have fought so well!
How they crushed the daring foe!
How they laid the white man low!
And how their haughty souls to tame,
They bound them on the field of fame!
Now the storm, &c.
From climes towards the rising day,
The intruders hither bent their way:
They loved the country we possess'd,
Our native region of the west;
They came with murderous fire and brand,
To drive us from our father's land;
But warriors! we have let them know,
The land is ours, and shall be so!
Now the storm, &c.
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The praises of the brave who fell,
Our songs shall never cease to tell;
Our sons shall hear their deeds of fame,
And warmly glow to do the same;
Our daughters shall fond trophies weave,
Such as true heroes should receive,
To crown the memory of the dead,
Who gloriously in battle bled.
Now the storm of battle's o'er, &c.
After this song, the whole savage party, which
consisted of nearly three hundred, spent the remainder
of the evening in feasting, dancing, and
every species of exhibition they could contrive to
display their feelings of triumph and exultation.
The prisoners were exposed to view during the
whole of these revels, in order to stimulate the
joy of the revellers, by keeping in their minds a perpetual
recollection of their victory, as well as to
mortify their enemies, by reminding them of their
vanquished condition, and the degraded and deplorable
state to which the vengeance and valour
of their conquerors had reduced them. At length
the hour of repose arrived, and the wretched prisoners,
relieved from the painful situation where
they had performed the part of public spectacles,
were huddled together in a wigwam, and left there
to endure the intolerable agony of their own rereflections
until the morning. They were all
securely tied by both their arms and legs, and a
sufficient guard of Indians stationed round the wigwam,
to render their escape impossible.
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CHAPTER VI.
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
Mark yonder the captive! his doom is decreed,
His merciless foes to the faggot have bound him:
No pity they give; the poor white man must bleed,
While they raise the wild chorus of triumph around him—
But who speaks his freedom? What strange one is he?
Who bursts from the mountain-top down to his side?
'Tis the mocker of fortune, the fearless and free,
Whose deep-piercing ken through its mazes can see.—
Basket of Scraps.
The reflections of Charles Adderly during this
melancholy night, experienced but one short hour's
intermission by means of a frightful slumber a little
before daybreak, when his unreposing imagination
tormented him with ideas incomparably more
painful, and more horrible, than his waking
thoughts. A confused, unconnected, and unintelligible,
but terrifying crowd of ideas, unqualified
and unmitigated by any suggestions of hope, or effort
of fortitude, gave to his feelings during this short
sleep more the character of agonized madness
than of uneasy dreaming, and when he awoke, he
felt in his real affliction a considerable relief from
the intolerable pangs inflicted by the creations of
his imagination.
He was not, indeed, without hopes that some of
his companions might be saved from the Indian
cruelties that threatened them, by the efforts of
two or three French officers, whom he had seen
among the victors during their revels the preceding
evening. One of them had also humanely addressed
to him a few words of condolence, but
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[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
without conveying any precise hope of deliverance.
At length the sun arose—and the victorious Indians
starting from repose, the noise and bustle of
life again animated the camp, and broke in upon
that monotonous and tedious dulness which had
been so oppressive to Charles during the night.
Two Indians soon entered his wigwam, and ascertaining
that none of the prisoners had escaped,
distributed refreshments among them, of which the
harassed and desponding feelings of the majority
prevented them from partaking.
Shortly after this, a council of the chiefs met to
deliberate concerning the prisoners, who were
ordered to be present, that they might receive
their doom. This consultation took place in the
open air, in a small glade that skirted the banks of
a rivulet, or run, as such streams in America are
usually called, and beside which the encampment
was situated. Here the prisoners, tied in pairs to
each other, were seated on the ground, near the
centre of a circle formed by all the warriors, armed
with guns in their hands, and axes and tomahawks
in their belts. Beneath a large chesnuttree,
near the centre of the circle, sat seven chiefs
and three Frenchmen, upon logs apparently placed
there for their accommodation. To these seven
chiefs had been entrusted the determination of the
fate of the prisoners.
When they commenced their deliberations, they
spoke separately, each, when he had any thing to
say, standing up, and generally, but not always,
addressing himself to an elderly warrior, who appeared
to be their principal sachem, or king, but
who had nothing in his dress to distinguish him
from the rest. What each man said, was communicated
to the French by an interpreter; by which
means Charles became acquainted with their
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[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
various sentiments, and the progress and management
of the consultation.
The first proposal made was to sacrifice half of
the prisoners according to their customs, and to
give the others to the French; the division to be
made by lot.
To this the French refused to assent; and one
of them standing up, addressed them to the following
purpose: “Brothers! you say it is to
please your departed warriors, that you would
sacrifice these men. Where are those warriors
now! Are they not in heaven! Are they not
happy, having done their duty, and having died
bravely? If they are then already happy, can
you suppose, that they require the tortures of these
men to make them more so? Will they not rather
be angry with you, seeing these prisoners fought
bravely, and heroes always esteem brave men, and
wish them well?
“But do you think that the English will never
take any of your people prisoners? They are a
warlike nation.—Have you not often heard of
them gaining victories? Were they not successful
in king Philip's wars? Think you then that
they will never have any of you prisoners? And
think you that, if you now destroy these, their
brethren, they will not destroy your people in return,
when any of them fall into their hands.
Think of this, brothers!”
One of the chiefs replied: “Brother, Hear my
answer to your speech.—Our departed friends
we know to be happy, nor do we think that it will
make them more so to burn these prisoners on
their account. But it will shew them our affection,
and they will say to each other: “Our brothers
love us so that they cannot endure the people
by whom we fell. See how they consume
them from the earth!
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“Brother! If the English do not burn us when
they make us prisoners, it is not because they love
us, but because they respect their customs; and the
reason why we burn them is not because we hate
them, but because we revere the ways of our fathers,
and walk in them.
“Brother! Let the English adopt our customs
if they please. It will not dissatisfy or alarm us.
Our people have been often burned by our enemies.
It was their fate, and we submitted.
“But, brother; I wish to please you, for your
people are our allies and friends. I will propose,
therfore, that, since for your share you are to have
six prisoners, of the six that shall remain to us,
we shall save one half by adopting them for our
sons. With the other half, we shall support the
customs of our fathers, and sacrifice them to the
memory of our slain warriors.
“Brother! Will this satisfy you?”
The French still remained unsatisfied; but they
despaired of making any better terms with their
savage allies, and were about to give up the contest,
when one of them, who had, by examining
the prisoners, found that there were four so badly
wounded that they were not likely to survive many
hours, conversed a few minutes with his companions,
and then addressed the chief of the council
as follows: “Brother! Our nation and yours
have been long friends. We have been often
useful to each other. We wish not now to disturb
our harmony. No seeds of strife shall be
sown by us. If you grant us one thing, we will,
therefore, oppose you no further. We wish you
to choose now those you will adopt as sons, and
then permit us when the sun goes down this evening
to select, without lot, the number that falls to
our share. The others will be those you will offer
according to your customs.”
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To this proposal the council appeared willing
to accede. There was one chief alone, who had
not yet expressed his assent. This man, indeed,
had during the whole proceedings hitherto said
nothing; but he had manifested great earnestness
and attention to all that passed. His countenance
was grave and mournful, and he was
somewhat elderly, although still healthy, strong,
and active in his appearance. He now rose in
considerable agitation and addressed them as follows.
“Warriors! Behold me! I here stand alone,
like an old oak that his its branches cut from
around it.
“Brothers! I know you grieve for me. It was but
yesterday that I was sheltered by a sapling that
grew from my own roots stronger and more comely
than myself. That noble sapling, the pride of the
whole forest of our tribe, has been hewn down by
a white man, and I see that white man—mine eye
pierces his soul,”—here he fixed such an intense
and fierce look upon Charles as he could scarcely
endure.—“he is now before me!
“Brothers, I disagree to the proposal made by
our French brother, unless you will except from
the number to be saved, the slayer of my son.
Ye knew Carrawissa. Were not ye proud of him?
Was he not an example to your warriors? Was
he not wise and valliant? Your oracle in peace,
and your thunder-bolt in war? It is true he was
but young, and had not the gray hairs of a sage.
But had he not the wisdom of one?
“Warriors! what he would have been had he
lived 'till his brow had been wrinkled like mine,
you may conjecture by what he was ere his beard
required pulling.
“Brothers, attend to me! Do you not grieve for
him? I look at your faces, and they tell me that
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you grieve from your very hearts. Then let me
ask, how can you save his distroyer? But, hear
me! if you can consent to it, I cannot.
“Warriors, and brothers! I request that you
will deliver him who bereaved you of a hero, and
me of a son, into my hands, that he may be made
an offering to the memory of that hero, that he
may glut the vengeance of the father who lost
that son. The man that slew Carrawissa must be
destroyed by me, or else my sorrows will never
cease. I will not yield to the proposal of our
French brother, because it might deprive me of
my victim.
“Brothers, and warriors, you have heard me.”
The whole party of the Indians seemed much
affected with this address, and remained indulging
a deep melancholy silence for some minutes after
the speaker sat down. At length one of the
counsellors arose, and in a solemn tone, addressed
the assembly. “I have heard Carrawoona, and I
am affected. What he said is true. His son was
a hero, greater than his fellows, as the noble eagle
is greater and more generous than the buzzard, or
the hawk. We were proud of him, for he was a
Chippeway, and no other tribe could shew his
equal. It was but yesterday when we said, “now
we will gain the victory, for Carrawissa leads us.”
But when shall we say so again? Never!
“Warriors! Carrawoona has asked what is
right. He has asked that we shall honour his son
as he deserved, by sacrificing a foe to his memory;
and who so fit—who so acceptable a sacrifice as
he who slew him? Can we refuse so just a demand?
Can we say, “Carrawoona, we grieve
for your son's death, but we will not avenge it!
We admired him, but we will not honour him;
we loved him but we will let his memory pass
away from our feelings as the shade vanishes when
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the substance is no more. We cannot say so,
Chippeways. A hero is dead; we were proud of
that hero. Our foes often fled before him—nay,
they have trembled at his very name. He has fallen
in his youth, in the midst of his glory, when
he had many years to be useful. His destroyer
is in our hands, and shall we spare him? Our
brothers, the French, will not ask so hard a matter.
But should they insist on it, I will not consent.
Carrawissa was a hero whom we loved. Is it
much that we desire to sacrifice to his memory
the foe who killed him?
“Brothers, and warriors! To please our allies,
I will propose that all the prisoners except the
slayer of our hero be theirs. Let them save them
if they wish it, but him I will not consent to save.
We must give him to Carrawoona, to avenge his
son.
“Brothers, you have heard my opinion.”
This opinion, so inimical to our hero, was embraced
by the whole of the seven chiefs, and after
several unavailing attempts on the part of the
French to procure its reversal, they had at length,
to yield.
Charles was then sentenced to the flames; and
his execution was ordered to take place under the
direction of Carrawoona, “before the sun of that
day,” as the chief sachem expressed it, when pronouncing
the decision of the council, “should
conceal himself behind the trees that overshadowed
the hills of the West.” The chief sachem
had finished the awful annunciation, and all the
prisoners, except the devoted Charles, had been
given over to the French, when some straggling
Indians, at a distance, were heard to give a peculiar
shout, denoting both joy and admiration, by
which was indicated the approach of some distinguished
and respected visitor.
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The sounds of “Tonnaleuka! Tonnaleuka!”
were soon heard from numbers of the assembly;
and Charles perceived a man rapidly descending
amidst the woods from an abrupt rising ground,
which bounded to the northward the low glade
where the council was held. He stopped a few
yards from the warriors, when the counsellors all
rising up, saluted him with a sound, denoting “welcome,
thou messenger of God!” and the chief sachem
invited him to come forward.
He was venerable, grave, and majestic in his
appearance, and in his manner there was something
wonderfully awful. His head was bare, for,
when he stopped, he had taken off a cap of buffalo
skin, which he held in his left hand, and had
lifted his countenance towards heaven, in the attitude
of devotion. That countenance displayed
an uncommon degree of fervour, dignity, and intelligence.
His nose was of the aquiline form, and
his cheek-bones slightly prominent, but well turned,
and proportioned so as to give an oval, rather
than a broad outline of countenance. His forehead
was high and round, imperceptibly rising
backwards into a broad, smooth, and shining
crown, altogether bald, but from the sides of which,
and from behind, abundance of long black hair,
mixed with gray, streamed down upon his shoulders,
and was arranged so as to cover part of his
cheeks, and hang on each side upon his breast for
several inches beneath his chin. From his dark
piercing eyes, there issued an expression of authority
almost overpowering to the beholder, but
which excited a feeling of reverential awe rather
than personal peril.
His dress was simple, consisting of a long flannel
garment, like a shirt, with short sleeves, the skirts
of which reached down to the calves of his legs.
Above this, a wide mantle of bison-skin, thrown
-- 077 --
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round his shoulders, flowed loosely over his arms
and down his back, in the manner of a short cloak.
His moccasins and leggins of half-tanned deer-skin,
were of the usual construction, and completed
every thing observable in his dress, except a leathern
belt round his waist, to which was attached
a deer-skin pouch, for containing, as the Indians
asserted, some mystical books, in which were recorded
the communications he received from the
Great Spirit, whose prophet they believed him to
be. In his right hand he held a long rod, around
which were entwined a variety of feathers taken
from birds of different colours, which rod the Indians
looked upon as sacred, and gave it the name
of the “prophet's wand.”
When he approached the council, he held,
stretched out, this wand towards the chief sachem,
and addressed him as follows:
“My brother—I am sent to talk with you. The
Great Spirit, whom you worship, knows all things—
he knows what you have decided upon to-day.
It was he who sent me.
“Then hearken to me, and let all these warriors
hearken, for my words are dictated from above. I
was not of your council. No one saw me here.
But Maneto sent a good spirit, who has declared
to me your proceedings. I will, therefore, speak
freely. You have offended the Great Spirit by
your sentence against that prisoner; and, if you
execute it, you will offend him still more. Maneto
loves you. He has given you a great victory.
He has cast down your enemies before you; and
he now warns you, lest you sin too much against
him, and provoke him to consume you more than
he has consumed them. Take warning, therefore,
and sin not!
“Hearken to my voice! Maneto wishes you
to spare this young warrior. You know he made
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[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
the white people as well as the red, and can govern
both in any manner he pleases. He has services
for this young man to perform, which he
communicated to me. He, therefore, calls upon
you to spare him, and give him into my possession.
“Brothers and counsellors! you have heard.
Will you obey the voice of the Good Spirit, and
preserve his love, or will you disobey him, and
provoke his vengeance?
“Brother! say, what is your choice?”
The chief sachem arose, and replied:
“Prophet! I will give my own opinion. The
Great Spirit should be obeyed. We are the workmanship
of his hands, and he has a right to our
submission. What are we without him? Were
it not for him, we should have neither deer, nor
buffalo, nor bear's flesh to cat, nor air to breathe,
nor water to drink, nor weapons to destroy our
enemies.
“Prophet! you say he has use for this prisoner,
whom we were going to burn. Why were we going
to burn him, but to please the spirit of Carrawissa,
which yesterday left its body? But it is better
that we should please the Great Spirit who has
existed for ever, and can easily recompense Carrawissa,
if we do him an injury.
“Brothers and warriors! I think none of you
will refuse to give our prisoner to the prophet,
Tonnaleuka, as the Great Spirit commands us. If
any one refuses, we will hear him. If none speaks,
I shall order the prisoner to be loosened, and given
to the prophet.”
He here paused for some one to reply—but all
continuing silent, he was about to command the
giving up of the prisoner, when Carrawoona rose
in great agitation.
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“What! brothers!” said he, “have you so soon
forgot my son? Will no one speak in his behalf?
Has he no friend here, who will ask justice for
him? I cannot believe this story of Tonnaleuka.
Prophets have sometimes spoken falsely, or they
may have mistaken dreams for the orders of the
Great Spirit.
“Listen to me. The Great Spirit loved Carrawissa,
and made him a hero. Think ye then, that
he could thus command us to defraud his memory
of the accustomed sacrifice? I, for one, cannot
think it—I, for one, will not consent to spare the
prisoner. If Carrawissa has a friend in this council,
let him now speak.”
When he sat down, the same chief that had so
warmly espoused his cause in the former part of
the deliberations, now rose and addressed him.
“Brother! I am the friend of your son's memory;
but I am a worshipper of the Great Spirit, and
wish more to obey him, than to please any friend.
I spoke for your son to-day;—you heard me. I
spoke sincerely—but I did not then know the will
of Maneto. He wishes for the victim we intended
for your son. That victim, your son, and all
of us, are his already. He only asks for his own.
We cannot refuse him—and your son cannot be
offended. Carrawissa is too just, to ask from us
what is not ours to give, and too generous, to be
angry for our not doing what we can not. He saw,
from our decision to-day, that our hearts were
with him, that our desires were to please him, and
that it delighted us to do him honour. He will
not, therefore, blame us for surrendering to the
prophet of Maneto what we had devoted to him,
but what Maneto claims as his own. Nay, hearken
to me;—he loved Maneto so well, that he will rejoice
in yielding his offering to him; and Maneto
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
will reward him, for he returns every service ten-fold.
“Brothers and warriors! we must give up the
prisoner.”
Carrawoona again rose, and in a hasty and impassioned
manner exclaimed—
“Brothers! hear me again! I am but one
among hundreds, and my voice is nothing. But,
were I only one among thousands, I would let you
hear it. I say, the man who slew my son, shall
die! I will hunt him over the earth, till he be sacrificed.
My heart must have revenge! Maneto
could never forbid it. I do not believe what the
prophet says. He says that Maneto wants this
white man. What can he want with him? Are
there not plenty of Indians to perform his errands,
and to worship him? And are they not more faithful
to him, and more beloved by him, than the superstitious
white men, who have so many different
creeds? If it be true, that Maneto wants some
one, would he not prefer an Indian? If the service
he wishes to be done requires honesty, are
not Indians more honest than the Whites? What
Indian defrauds his neighbour?—If it requires
bravery, are we not brave? Think of our last
battle.—If it requires wisdom, think of our sages,
and our old men, endowed with prudence.
“Hear me, brothers!—I will not believe that
for any purpose the Great Spirit would prefer a
white man to an Indian. Has Tonnaleuka said
what Maneto wants with the prisoner? If Maneto
wanted him, he would have told for what purpose.
But he has not, or we would have heard
it, if Tonnaleuka be his prophet.
“Brothers! you percieve there is something
wrong in this matter. Be not, like children, ready
to believe every story; nor upon such a slight
pretence, deprive my son of his right. Act
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
wisely. Comply with the customs of your fathers, or
refrain from them only when you have some sufficient
cause.
“Warriors! I only ask justice for my son, and
the Great Spirit never yet opposed justice.”
He sat down, and Tonnaleuka again advanced—
He pointed his sacred wand, the very motion of
which had power to strike awe into the minds of
the savages, three times towards heaven, and
three times towards each member of the council.
He then raised it, and streching his arms upwards
with his eyes directed to heaven, exclaimed:
“Oh, Great Spirit! what is man, that he should
question thy will! Didst thou not make him!
Dost thou not sustain him! Is not the ground he
treads on, thine! Is not the light he sees, thine!
Is not every step he takes, and every breath he
breathes, dependent on thy will! And he presumes
to dispute thy right to thy creatures—He dares to
ask for what purpose thou layest claim to thine own!
Glory be to thee, that thou dost not consume
him in the instant of his presumption!—Thou art
merciful—infinitely more merciful than he is.
Thou acquittest when he would condemn; thou
forgivest when he would revenge; thou sparest
when he would destroy. Happy is it for him,
that thou art not like him!
“Oh Maneto, hear me! wilt thou now indulge
the vain questions of him who disputeth thy will?
Oh, wilt thou answer his sinful inquiries?”
He here paused for about a minute, during
which he seemed to mutter something in a super-natural
language, and displayed so much the impressive,
sublime, and entranced appearance of
one holding communication with superior beings,
that all present gazed silently upon him with spell-hound
attention and astonishment.
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
At length he was heard to say:—“Thanks!
thanks!—It is good in thee!” Then turning abruptly
to Carrawoona, he touched him with his
wand, and with an energy and a fervour which
made even that hardy savage tremble, he exclaimed:
“Son of presumption! Thou who would
thwart the wishes of God; instead of blasting
thee on the spot, I am permitted to tell thee what
in thy daring wickedness thou hadst the hardihood
to ask. Listen to me now, and ask no more.
That man in bonds, whose flesh thou wouldst roast
in the fire kindled by thy vengeance, is in the favour
and under the protection of the Great Spirit;
and, listen farther, I am commanded by the
power who moveth all minds, to open to him the
sacred fount of inspiration, to lay before him the
oracles of the Great Father contained in this holy
book, which profane hands should never touch, into
which profane eyes should never look—and which
none but the favoured of Heaven can understand.
This is the destiny allotted to this youth—let man
resist it if he dare!
“Brother,” said he, turning to the chief sachem,
“I claim that prisoner in the name of the Great
Spirit;—I claim him as the successor to my gifts.
Order him to be unbound!”
The chief sachem instantly complied. Charles
was unbound—and Tonnaleuka advancing towards
him,
“Follow me, my son!” said he; “we go to
worship our Great Father!”
Charles followed his conductor, who, with his
eyes steadily fixed upon heaven, in an attitude of
deep and solemn devotion, walked slowly from
amidst the assembly towards the east, leaving every
individual who beheld him, not excepting Carrawoona
himself, awe-struck, and fixed
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
immoveably to his place, as if by the effects of enchantment.
It was several minutes before any of the Indians
recovered from the spell that was over them, sufficiently
to speak Carrawoona, whose thirst for
revenge against the conqueror of his son was still
the leading passion of his soul, was the first to recover
from that temporary entrancement which
had produced a suspension of all passion, so irresistibly
thrown over the whole assembly by the
wonder-working power of Tonnaleuka's energy
of manner, and preternatural and awful appearance.
With the return of his faculties, this thirst
of revenge, heightened now by the irritation of
opposition and the vexation of disappointment, returned
with all the force and rancour with which
such a feeling can fire a savage breast.
He started up, with all the wildness of ungovernable
rage agitating every feature, and addressed
the assembly.
“Warriors! hear me! I am bereaved—I am
defrauded—I am used ill! Did my son deserve
such treatment? Would Carrawissa have acted
so to the memory of any one here?
“Warriors! What have you done? Think of
it. You have permitted the destroyer of a Chippeway
and hero, to walk free from his bonds, and
to escape that fire through which his soul should
have been sent as a grief-offering to comfort th
soul of your hero.
“Chippeways! It is useless now to argue. It
is useless to rage. It is useless to complain. I
will act. Is there any man here who will act with
me? I will have my vengeance. Has Carrawissa
here any friend who will assist me? You condemned
the white man. By your sentence he
was mine. You gave him to be sacrificed to
my wrath. Your own act made him mine. You
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
could not take him from me. I will yet have him,
and execute your sentence.
“Warriors! I again ask, is there one who will
assist me?”
He sat down, and no one offering to reply, the
chief sachem addressed him.
“Brother! None speaks to you. I will. Hear
me patiently, and let the madness of your passion
yield to reason. We all grieve for you. Look
round, is there a countenance but has grief upon
it!
“Brother! Do not fight against the Great Spirit.
Do not resist the will of Maneto! He, who is the
author of all things, should be permitted to regulate
all things as he pleases. It was he, and not
we, who deprived you of vengeance. He had a
right to do so. The prisoner was his property,
before he belonged to either us or you. I am
sorry you oppose him. It is awful, Brother!—For
our parts we would offer ourselves to the sacrifice
first.
“Brother! we love you—but if you fight against
Maneto, we must resist you. Your madness grieves
us. We fear it will lead you to wickedness, and
to ruin—for in contending with the Great Spirit
you must be overcome. Persist not, or your fate
will be awful!”
Carrawoona started to his feet, and, in a tone
of rage, bordering upon absolute frenzy, exclaimed,
“Chippeways! Have I no friend, then! Am I
alone in my wish for justice! Do you want to
frighten me from my purpose! You should have
known long since, that Carrawoona cannot be
frightened. My revenge you call madness. But
I call it justice. You advise me to desist from
seeking it. Bid the rocks of the mountains skip
like the squirrels of the tree. Will they obey you?
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[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
No. Bid the roar of Niagara resemble the purling
of that brook. Will it listen to you? No.
Neither will I. But I will talk no more. I will
pursue the destroyer of my son. My weapon shall
find his heart, if it should be through the heart of
Tonnaleuka—nay, the bosom of Maneto will not
protect him. Maneto protects no one from justice.
But should his lightning shrivel me on the instant,
if I only obtain vengeance on my enemy, I shall
be satisfied.”
He here gave a sudden yell, and made a leap to
the eastward, as if he intended immediately to
pursue the object of his resentment. The chief
Sachem ordered him to be stopped, when a warrior
rising, called out—
“Brother! Let Carrawoona take his way. We
have nothing more to do with the business. We
have given up the prisoner as the Great Spirit
ordered. He has not ordered us to restrain Carrawoona's
madness. We should not take the protection
of the white man out of the hands of Maneto.
Let Carrawoona go. We have done our
duty.”
The furious and untractable savage was accordingly
allowed to take his course as he pleased, and
the assembly broke up.
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CHAPTER VII.
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
A merry day, my boys, we'll have,
And form a happy quorum:
Confound the dog who would be grave,
While he can swig the jorum!
While grog inspires we'll frisk it out,
Just as the whim may please us;
And daddy Care will kick about,
Till he no more can teaze us.
Savelabour.
It will be readily supposed, that the French officers
were much pleased with this fortunate termination
of an affair in which they had so much
interested themselves. During the time that their
feelings alone influenced their minds, they were,
indeed, heartily rejoiced. But when they reflected
on the political consequences that might arise
from the escape of any of the English prisoners,
especially of the leader of the enterprise, which
had, as every one of the prisoners now knew, been
defeated by their secret instrumentality, they
began to feel uneasy, and heartily to wish Charles
Adderly in perdition, rather than in Philadelphia,
or any other place where he could inform the
world of what they had done. They felt a strong
repugnance to have any human being sacrificed in
the cruel manner in which the Indians often sacrifice
their captives; but they, at the same time,
dreaded the results which they had a right to suppose
must take place if the government of Great
Britain should hear of the part they had taken in
the attack upon their subjects in the time of
peace. Either a national war might be the consequence,
or their own government might disavow
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
their conduct, and deliver them up to the vengeance
of the British. As men they rejoiced in
the safety of Charles Adderly, but as politicians,
and servants of a European power, which might
not, in the end, sanction and defend their conduct,
they feared the evils that would most probably result
from the information which, in the event of
his safe arrival among his friends, he would not
fail to give to the political world.
The contingency, however, suggested by this
political consideration, was more remote and uncertain,
than that produced by the splendid and unexpected
triumph of humanity they had just witnessed;
and we must do them the justice to state,
that they, for some time at least, gave way to the
amiable impulse of feeling, rather than to the selfish
influence of policy. The more, however,
they considered the matter, the influence of the
political consideration increased; and rather than
be brought to an account for their conduct, by
their own government, or be the occasion of a
European war, of which they could not foresee the
consequence, they became the more heartily inclined
to wish that the prisoner, for whom they
had felt so much, and pleaded so strenuously, had
been, by some means or other, put out of the way,
as it was from his information alone, they believed
they had any thing to fear.
It must not be supposed, however, that the steps
they had taken to defeat the designs of the British
Ohio Company, were altogether unauthorized by
their government. The French ministry had given
instructions to their Canadian servants, the
spirit of which, at least, sufficiently warranted all
they had done. But the agents in this affair knew
too well the degree of reliance to place upon such
instructions, especially when they are at all vague
and indefinite in their particular application, as
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
these happened to be, when it suits the interests of
cabinet ministers to disclaim them, to feel altogether
easy under the idea that the British government
might hear of their conduct, and make it a national
concern. It would, indeed, they were aware, be
soon known that the Ohio Company's party had
been attacked and defeated by the Indians; but,
without some specific information, they themselves,
although they might be suspected, could not be
convicted of participating in the deed.
Had Charles, like the other prisoners, been in
their custodym every thing would then have gone
to their satisfaction; since their prisoners they
could hold an indefinite time, and liberate only
when other national concerns occurred to render
what they had done of too little importance to occasion
inquiry.
It was partly under the influence of these considerations,
and partly, we would fondly hope,
with a view to save Charles's life, that after the
breaking up of the Indian council, one of them offerred
to Carrawoona a large reward if he should
bring Charles a living prisoner to them at the fort
of Le Bœuf within six months from that time.
To this offer the chief replied,
“Brother! what do you mean? Do you think
I will give up my son's right for a hire? Will I
let him remain unavenged for the sake of presents?
No. I will pursue this white warrior from
no such motive. I would not move my finger at
him, to injure him for the paltry object of gain.
And, listen to it—had I him now in my power, all
the wealth of your great king would not save him
from being sacrificed to the departed spirit of my
son.
“Brother, I would be angry with you but for
this reason—I know that the customs of your country
prevent you from thinking your offer an insult.
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[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
This, and your ignorance of our customs, excuse
you. But, as every Indian may not make this consideration,
that I now do, I would advise you never
again to offer any of our warriors a bribe to act
contrary to his feelings. If you do, he will be apt
to turn upon you as the bear turns upon those who
wound him.
“Brother! I leave you—I pursue our released
prisoner, but it is to destroy him, for he who
killed my son must not walk abroad upon the
earth.”
So saying, he left the Frenchman with a look
of high disdain, and set off on his revengeful errand.
The day after the council was held, the French
proceeded with their prisoners for fort Le Bœuf,
which was situated on French Creek, near where
the present village of Waterford stands. It was the
commander of this fort, who, in conformity both
to his official instructions, and to the general policy
of his government, to prevent any English settlement
from being made west of the Alleghany
mountains, had excited the Chippeways to attack
our hero's party, and thereby laid the foundation
of that memorable war, which, although it began
disastrously for the British arms, yet resulted, under
the energetic auspices of the elder Pitt, in the
total expulsion of the French authority from this
extensive region of America, and in their discomfiture
in the East and West Indies and several
other parts of the world, raising the power and influence
of the British nation to the highest pinnacle
of strength and glory.
It was during the disastrous period of this war,
that the celebrated but unfortunate expedition of
Braddock to this wilderness, the most impressively
disastrous of all its events, took place, and perhaps,
had more the effect of drawing the attention
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
of mankind towards these remote regions, and
their savage inhabitants, than any other transaction
recorded in history. This noted expedition,
which is still referred to as an epoch in the annals
of Western America, will, on account of the influence
it had upon the fortunes of those persons whose
adventures we have undertaken to relate, come
again under our notice during the course of this
work, when, we trust, it will be in our power to
give the reader some more circumstantial details,
concerning it, than he can procure from any public
history at present extant. We may here observe,
however, that it is not our intention to
dwell more minutely upon those matters that are
already known to the world, than will be necessary
to afford a clear and satisfactory view of their
connexion, with the individuals in whose affairs
we are more immediately concerned. We, therefore,
beg leave respectfully to refer those who may
wish for more extended information, of a public
character, concerning “Braddock's Times,” to the
numerous, well-written, and copious histories of
that interesting period, which the world already
possesses, and which we can assure the reader
are, generally speaking, almost as authentic and
worthy of credit as our own.
The French officers, who, as we have seen,
were both glad and sorry at the escape of Charles
Adderly, finding that they could make no better of
it, like true Frenchmen cast care aside, and the
next day set out with those prisoners which remained
to them for Fort Le Bœuf, in order to have
them there secured, as soon as possible, from any
accident, whether of escape or of Indian violence.
The prisoners were now only seven in number,
four having died of their wounds the preceding
night. Of those who survived, three also were
slightly wounded, among whom was our
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acquaintance Peter M'Fall, whose left arm had been broken
by the stroke of an Indian battle-axe before
he submitted to be bound. Thus, of those twenty
gallant fellows that had so lately crossed the Alleghany
mountains, only eight were now living;
and but five, one of whom was Charles Adderly
himself, had escaped from their savage foes without
personal injury.
The French were assisted by a dozen of Chippeway
warriors, in escorting the prisoners to their
destination, the remainder of the savages having
agreed to continue their excursion into the Virginian
settlements, for the sake of additional plunder
and scalps.
When the escort with the prisoners had proceeded
about five miles on their way, they came
to a tent situated at the foot of a hill, near a small
brook, at which they halted. In this tent there
were three or four squaws, and two Frenchmen,
one of whom was lying on a tolerably comfortable
bed made of buffalo skins and some blankets
spread upon dried leaves, which, as it was now
considerably advanced in the fall, were scattered
in great abundance all through the woods. This
man was labouring under a bad wound from a
musket ball he had received in the groin, which
still remained there. His appearance, as well as
that of his companion, immediately suggested to
Peter M`Fall that these were the men he had overheard
conversing previous to the attack of the Indians,
one of whom he knew he had wounded. He
heard this man moan once or twice from the pain
he endured, and his heart smote him from a consciousness
of having been its cause.
He went forward to the patient, and taking him
by the hand, “Now, honey,” said he, “did you
ever see me before?”
The man looked at him, and answered “No.”
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“By my sowl, then,” he continued, “your eyes
were not so good as mine. And it is lucky for my
head they were not, or else a bullet might now
have been lying as snug in my brain as in your
kidney, my jewel!”
The man stared at him—when, as if struck with
some happy idea, he continued—
“Arrah now! I have it as nate as my nail. Be
asy, now—You'll be cured as stout as a peat-stack
in a jiffy, my dear. I'll have the doctor at you at
once, with his tongs and pincers, and he'll soon
whisk out the fellow that tazes you, smack into
your fist, like the toss of a ha'penny.”
He here called out to the young Philadelphia
surgeon we have before mentioned, whose name
was Killbreath.
“By my sowl, doctor! here's one of the natest
jobs for you, you ever did in your life. Och, now!
if Doctor M`Faddyen was only here, he wouldn't
be after asking the second bidding to do it, when
he knew it was an ould friend of mine. But, God
bless the mother's son of you, you can do it as nate
as a hair—for you spliced my arm, long life to you,
as firm as a whip handle.”
By this time the surgeon had approached, and
offered his service in extracting the ball which
tormented the patient; and the French having secured
the instruments he had brought with him
from Philadelphia, being a part of the plunder,
of which they knew the value better than the Indians,
they were soon produced, and the operation
performed.
When Peter got the bullet in his hand, he examined
it closely, and perceiving that it was perforated
with a small hole, he commenced flinging
it into the air, and catching it again, exclaiming as
he continued this operation—
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“By Saint Columb! I have you again, my boy!
But the devil a bit of Billy Binder will ever hang
a string of pig's byrses to you again, my honey—
He's snug in the moulds now, under the rotten
leaves yonder, where we left him yesterday. Jasus
be with him!—But when I again send you scampering
after a Frenchman, don't stick in his hip,
my honey, to torment him, but blow his brains out
at once, or don't touch him at all, at all, my
boy!—”
Peter was here interrunted in his apostrophe to
the bullet, by one of the Frenchmen accosting him
rather abruptly, in an unintelligible mixture of
French and English, to repeat which verbatim,
would be as difficult as to read it would be uninteresting.
It merely contained an exclamation,
par le diable! that Peter looked as if he were the
man who had wounded the patient. Either the
suddenness of the address, or the awkwardness of
the language, prevented Peter from at once comprehending
its meaning; and after staring a little
in some surprise at the Frenchman, he replied—
“Look how, master? But ogh, in troth, my
jewel, it's your own self that looks like a gentleman,
every inch of you. Arrah! blessings on the
swate mother who bore you!”
The Frenchman, impatient at not receiving a
direct answer, chattered something still more unintelligible,
and completely beyond Peter's comprehension,
which occasioned him to exclaim—
“By the holy Derg! master, if I can make either
top or bottom of what you mane, I'll be
hanged.”
The Frenchman catching at the word hanged, of
which he knew the full meaning, repeated it several
times, with so many significant gestures, as
well as sounds, that Peter began very distinctly to
perceive the alarming purport of the uncouth
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jargon addressed to him. He knew some French,
as we have before observed; but this man had
spoken neither French nor English. Hence Peter
either did not, or he perhaps wished not, at
first, to understand him. His meaning, however,
was now too plain for misconception, and Peter
replied—
“Why, master, sure now, your honour, you'll
be asy—You wouldn't be after hanging me for
shooting a man through the griskin, after he had
shot me through the head? By Jasus! it wouldn't
be law, your honour.”
“Shoot vous troo de head!” exclaimed the
Frenchman in astonishment.
But Peter continued, without noticing his exclamation—
“And didn't I tell you besides, your honour,
that the doctor would cure him as nate as a
leek?—and faith and troth, you see (here he tossed
up the bullet, and caught it again) he has half
done it already. My blessing on the swate mother's
son of him, and the jewel of a smith that
made his long tongs for catching bullets, into the
bargain.”
The wounded man now understanding the nature
of the discussion between his countryman and
Peter, explained to the former the circumstances
of the case, acknowledging himself and his companion
to be the aggressors, not only on account
of acting, as they were then doing, in the character
of spies, but on account of having shot first at
Peter.
Peter, finding that the patient had exculpated
him, seized his hand, and cried out, “Arrah!
long life to you, for yourself is a gentleman; and
I wouldn't send my ball any where but into your
kidney, my honey, where it lay snug among the
fat, like a little pig in a gutter, and the devil a bit
of harm I knew it would do you, my jewel. Och!
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the blessing of Saint Bridget be on you, for you
have saved poor Peter's neck from the twist, master—
and the doctor will cure you in a week, as
sound as a church bell—Only now take a little of
the swate stingo to warm your stomach, dear.—
Sure, don't I know from experience, that whiskey—”
Here the surgeon interrupted Peter, desiring
him to leave the patient, for that quietness and
repose were absolutely necessary to him after the
operation he had undergone. “As to whiskey or
brandy, or any such liquor, it would,” he observed,
“be extremely detrimental to him in his present
situation.”
Peter complied, observing, “Sure, doctor, you
know better than I do. But, by my sowl, I always
found a drop of the cratur good for myself—
and sure you know I couldn't think it bad
for another.”
The performing of this operation, and the enjoying
of a plentiful repast, consisting of venison,
wild fowl, Indian-corn bread, biscuit, and various
other luxuries supplied from the French stores,
and which the squaws, assisted by one of the
Frenchmen, who was fond of good eating, had set
about preparing for the party immediately on its
arrival, consumed so much of the day, that it was
proposed to pitch a few more tents, and spend the
remainder of it in this place in jollity and enjoyment.
This agreeable proposal was relished by
the whole company; and the French, during the
evening, got into such good humour with the prisoners,
that they permitted them to join in their
revels, ordering the Indians, however, to keep a
good look out, lest any of them should escape.
As to the surgeon, whose manners, education, and
good sense, indicated the gentleman, he had, immediately
after the operation, obtained, on his
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parole of not attempting to leave them until they
should arrive at Le Bœuf, the indulgence of being
master of his own motions, with the command of
a rifle, for the purpose of hunting and fowling.
There are, perhaps, no people in the world better
qualified to enjoy the passing moment than
the French. They have the happy faculty of
dismissing care whenever it becomes troublesome
to their feelings, or unnecessary for their purposes;
and on this evening they exerted that faculty
in a most commanding and masterly manner.
We have seen that they had brought themselves
into a predicament calculated to make the most
serious impression on their minds, and that they
were fully aware of the circumstance; and yet,
when they had got their bodies replenished with
a reasonable portion of substantial fare, and had
warmed their minds with a sufficient dose of brandy
punch, or, as on this occasion they were not
over nice, with whiskey grog, they bade for the
time adieu to all uneasy reflections, and absolutely
set the power of fortune at defiance, except the
power she had of making them happy for the present.
Random catches, songs, jests, glees, dances, and
loud laughing, were all that they now either could
or would think of. In vain did the affairs of to-morrow
venture to intrude. Out they were hurled—
there was no room for them in bosoms where
hilarity, mirth, and pleasure possessed every corner
that could be spared.
If the French are noted for unthinking frivolity,
the Irish are no less so for a fervency of feeling,
by which they are enabled to suppress the suggestions
of care, as effectually as the French can dismiss
them. Hence, when opportunity tempts,
they are ever ready to yield with their whole heart
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and soul to the full tide of enjoyment, and swim
away on its stream, regardless of consequences.
On this occasion, therefore, there was none who
entered with more spirit into the humours of the
evening, than Peter M`Fall.
On a green level sward, by the edge of the rivulet,
the party formed a circle; but it was for a
very different purpose from that formed the preceding
day by the Indian council. Here were no
life and death matters to be discussed—here were
no serious and vehement calls for the destruction
and burning of a fellow-being—no loud and sorrowful
manifestations of grief—no fierce and reiterated
imprecations of vengeance upon an unfortunate
captive. Grief, vengeance, and every other
uncomfortable feeling, were banished as unwelcome
guests; while good humour, sprightliness,
cordiality, and joy, were invited to be present, and
inspire the revels of the evening by the merry
strains of a Frenchman's flute, and the jolly sounds
of an Irishman's voice; for, in the intervals of the
flute player's performance, Peter, with great spirit,
industriously exerted himself, to prevent the company
from wanting music, by singing the merry lilts
of his native country.
At the commencement of the supple-heeled sport,
the Indians had entertained the party by exhibiting
the various dances of their nation. The war
dance, the hunting dance, the courtship dance, the
marriage dance, and the birth dance, had each its
characteristic gestures and manœuvres—some of
which were, to the eyes of the Europeans, so grotesque,
wild, and ludicrous, that they were kept in
an almost continued roar of laughter.
Peter was particularly tickled with the romping
and capering of the squaws, who were tolerably
handsome women, and had been nothing loth to
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exhibit their personal attractions in the various
attitudes of their native dances.
“By the holy Patrick! but it's yourselves can
do it in style, my girls!” would Peter every now
and then exclaim, while he snapped his fingers and
beat time with his feet, in the high glee of admiration
at their extraordinary and laughable performance.
His fancy was particularly taken with the gracefulness
and agility of the youngest of the squaws,
who made really an interesting figure among the
groupe; and at every remarkable bound she gave,
smack went Peter's fingers in the air, dash went
his heel upon the ground, and loud rose his obstreperous
cheers of applause.
“Well done, by the powers of Barnaby! Och!
kape it up, you swate little soul, ye! There
goes mettle for you!”—he thus kept vociferating,
while the company kept laughing, almost as much
at his extravagancies, as at the singularities of the
dancers. At length his heels itched so much to
bear a part in the boisterous amusement, that he
could keep his seat no longer, but springing up,
and with his sound arm, hooking in with the
squaw, who had pleased him so much, he leaped,
and bounded, and capered among the Indians with
all his might, imitating as well as he could, their
gestures and behaviour, to the great admiration
and delight of all present.
When the Indians and Peter had finished, the
French felt inclined to succeed them in the exhilarating
pastime; but as their musician was desirous
to join them, and it was impossible for him
to both dance and play the flute at the same time,
it was determined that Peter should either whistle
or sing to them, as he best could, to keep them in
time. But he knew none of the airs to which
they were accustomed, and after several
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ineffectual attempts to learn some of them, the French
were at last obliged to accommodate themselves to
those he did know. They accordingly set off
with “Nancy Dawson,” to which they tripped airily
and nimbly along in measured movements, with
great art, sprightliness, and vivacity. Now, (for
every ten or fifteen minutes they changed their
mood, and Peter had as often to change his tune,)
the light corant, the gay cotillion, the merry riggadoon,
the measured waltz, and the sprightly jig;
succeeded to each other, and were rattled off to
the successive tunes of the Irish Washerwoman,
the Soldier's Joy, the White Cockade, Patrick's
Day, and Morgan Rattler. Through these various
measures the nimble-toed Frenchmen tript gaily
and smilingly without much noise, so that their
easy but busy exertions were, in comparison to
the violent romping, jumping, and tearing which
had just preceded them, what the rippling of a
gentle river is to the roaring billows of the stormy
ocean.
Becoming at length somewhat wearied with this
species of pastime, the party sat down to an evening
repast, rudely enough served up, no doubt,
but plentiful and substantial. This was succeeded
by the singing of some jovial songs, of which, only
the two following have come into our possession.
The first was sung by one of the Frenchmen, and the
other by our friend Peter. Each sung in his
own language. Of the Frenchman's performance
we of course can only give a translation.
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The Frenchman's Song.
Let philosophers prate, and discuss as they will,
The maxims of knowledge, the sources ofbliss;
The true fount of knowledge and pleasure is still
To be found in a free-flowing bottle like this.
Ah! look where it sparkles so brilliant and gay,
To enlighten our minds and our sorrows to cheat,
Ah! think of what virtues the soul can display,
When 'tis warm'd into bliss by a cordial so sweet,
Though scorn'd by the world, and deserted by friends,
Each evil in life I will bravely despise,
If only this cordial that energy lends,
Which to each jovial fellow it freely supplies:—
When in debt, I will care not for bailiff or dun,
If this heart-cheering cordial sticks close to my side,
For in life, as in war, half the battle is won,
When the foe is met boldly, and boldly defied.
Then, hear me, ye sons of true wisdom and mirth,
For mirth and true wisdom are always combined,
The wisest of things we can do upon earth,
Is like true-hearty souls to give care to the wind.
Then drink from this bottle, the draught of delight,
That can banish each harassing care from the soul,
Round and round let us drink, and experience to night,
The best cordial of life is a free flowing bowl!
Peter M'Fall's Song.
In Ireland so frisky,
With girls and with whiskey,
How happy was I when a strapping young lad:
Every market and fair,
To be sure I was there,
With my breeches and boots like a gentleman clad.
And then as to money,
Och! sure it was funny,
To hear the dear shillings and sixpences clink,
And the lasses so sweet,
Arrah, faith! when we'd meet,
By the powers I could bring them along with a wink
Then so snug in the fashion,
We'd take up our station,
In a tent that was covered with blankets and sheets;
“Arrah, landlord! be quicker,
And bring us that liquor!”
I would cry—and he'd skip like a cat in the streets.
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So snugly thus fix'd up,
The punch I soon mix'd up,
Then handed it round so genteely and neat,
That the girls, the dear creatures,
With sweet smiling features,
Said—“punch in a tent was an elegant treat!”
Och! the punch was so cheery,
That soon we got merry,
And the lass I lov'd best sat so snug in my arms;
That I courted and kiss'd her,
And teaz'd her and bless'd her,
'Till she blushed like the moon with a million of charms!
I was then in my glory;—
But to cut short my story,
The best thing—och! conscience, I tell you the truth,
On the girls to be trying,
To make them complying,
Is a jug of good punch and a neat strapping youth.
The next morning the party re-commenced
their journey to fort Le Bœuf, leaving the wounded
Frenchman, who was unable to endure removal,
under the care of one of his countrymen, and two
squaws. They arrived at the fort on the fourth day
of their journey, without meeting with any accident
worth recording. Here the escort of Indians
received presents for the services they had performed,
and were dismissed.
As for the prisoners, they were all strictly confined
within the ramparts, except the surgeon, who
was occasionally permitted on his parole, to recreate
himself in the adjacent country. Our friend Peter
had it in his power, very shortly after his arrival,
on account of his understanding a little French,
to have exchanged his situation of a prisoner, for
that of a servant to one of the officers—but he
promptly refused it, from a motive whimsical
enough, perhaps, but certainly honourable to his
fidelity—which was his resolution not to serve any
one in a menial capacity except Charles Adderly,
to be again with whom, soon became the leading
feeling of his mind. He was, indeed, treated
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tolerably well as a prisoner, and the gay sprightly
manners of the garrison were perfectly congenial
to his disposition; but still he was a prisoner, and
consequently under the control of certain regulations
which he did not relish; and what was
worse, he was absent from his beloved master,
who might be so circumstanced as greatly to require
his services. He, therefore, jolly, gay, and
thoughtless as his disposition was, had sufficient
reason for feeling uneasy in his captivity.
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CHAPTER VIII.
[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
Creation's God! with thought slate,
Thy hand divine I see
Impressed on seenes where all is great,
Where all is full of thee!
In every scene, where every hour
Sheds some terrific grace,
In nature's vast o'erwhelming power,
Thee, thee, my God! I trace.
Helena Maria Williams.
Although Tonnaleuka and his protegee had retired
in a slow and unhurried manner, while in
view of the Indians, yet they were no sooner removed
from their observation than the former,
who was aware of Carrawoona's implacable and
rancorous temper, thought proper to hasten onwards
with the utmost speed. He conceived it
prudent also to change his direction, so that if the
unappeasable savage should pursue them, he might
not be on the proper track. He accordingly
turned towards the northward, in which course
he kept for about two miles, then turning again towards
the east, in about two hours after he left the
savages, he reached the Alleghany river nearly six
miles above the Shanapin's town. Here they entered
the wigwam of an Indian, who received them
with great reverence and respect. Tonnaleuka desired
this man to prepare some refreshments, and
while this was doing, he beckoned to Charles, to
whom he had not yet, since their leaving the Chippeways,
spoken a single word, to follow him. He
led the way into a narrow dingle at a short
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distance from the wigwam, and to Charles's surprise
addressed him in English.
“My son,” said he, “let us here worship the
Great Father of all, and thank him for thy deliverance.”
They fell on their knees, and the prophet lifting
his eyes, and spreading his hands to heaven, addressed
the Supreme Origin of all things as follows.
“Almighty Spirit! We kneel here to adore
thee, and to thank thee. We adore thee for thy
incomprehensible greatness, for thy illimitable
power, and thy everlasting purity. We thank thee
for thy inexhaustible goodness, thy readiness to
forgive, and thy forbearance to punish. Thy
greatness fills us with wonder, thy power with awe,
and thy purity with admiration. Thy goodness
inspires our love, thy readiness to forgive, our
hope, and thy forbearance to punish, our gratitude.
“Almighty and good Spirit! We humbly adore
thee and thank thee, at this time in particular, for
the manifestation of thy goodness in delivering this
youth, as thou hast this day done, from the hands
of an unpitying and cruel enemy, who had determined
on his destruction. He is on his knees
and I am on mine. Look at us, merciful Spirit!
look into our hearts—thou wilt see them truly
thankful for this signal instance of thy protecting
and kind providence. He thanks thee because
thou hast, in this manner, assured him of thy friendship,
and I thank thee, both because thou hast
saved him, and because, in doing it, thou hast made
me thy humble instrument.
“Almighty Spirit! Hear us yet! We entreat
thee to be always our protector from evil, our deliverer
from distress, and our director and conductor
through all the snares and intricacies of
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life, so that we may act pleasingly to thee, and be
worthy to be called thy children, and deserving of
thy favour.
“Almighty Spirit! we have done, and we hope
thou hast been graciously attentive to what we
have said. Amen.”
When they arose, Charles caught the prophet
by the hand.
“Father,” said he, “permit me to ask, who
thou art, whom that holy God we have been worshipping,
has made the means of rescuing me from
a cruel death?”
“My son,” replied Tonnaleuka, “I am a man
like thyself. I have borne trials, perhaps more
severe than thou hast, and yet survived them; for
our Great Father was good to me. He has sustained
me, and thanks be to his goodness, he has not left
me without some comfort in the world. In return
for his mercies, I wish to serve him in that way,
which of all others, is the most pleasing to him,
the doing good to his creatures.
“My brothers, the Indians, wage often bloody
and cruel wars against each other, and, as I know,
that the Great Father is always displeased at any
cruelties inflicted upon his children, I think it my
duty, and I make it my business to go from tribe
to tribe, endeavouring to reconcile them when
they quarrel, or if they will fight and destroy each
other, trying all in my power to mitigate their mutual
ferocity, and to soften and restrain their revengeful
feelings, or when I cannot succeed in this,
to disappoint them, if possible, in the execution of
their barbarous designs.
“I may have other cares and employments on
hand. But, my son, I wish you to inquire no further
concerning me. Tonnaleuka cannot now tell
all he knows to the world, and I should not wish
inquiries to be made, that I must refuse to answer.
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“My son, you are now in a vast wilderness, far
from the habitations of your people, without friends
or resources. Something must be done for you,
and as our common father has thrown you upon
my care, I shall try to do something. May I ask
what would best suit you to be done?”
Charles now stated to him the name and residence
of his father, and gave him a concise account
of the expedition which he had commanded,
and which had ended so disastrously. He concluded
by observing, that he now saw nothing left for
him but to make his way back to Philadelphia as
speedily as he could.
“My son,” said the Prophet, “you speak wisely.
To return to your friends is the most prudent
thing you can do. But the journey is long; and
considering the state of the country, to a single individual,
especially a white man, bred up in cities
it must be impracticable. You will find no provisions
on the way, and there is scarcely a path to
guide you, for more than two hundred miles. It
will not be easy to overcome these difficulties.
But I shall try to assist you, and, perhaps, it
may be done. In this country you are not safe,
I acknowledge it, my son. My brothers of the
different tribes will distrust you, for they have
had reason to both distrust and dislike white
people. But from Carrawoona your greatest perils
will arise. Beware of him, for I know he is
implacable, and will destroy you if he can.
“My son, until we can prepare matters for
your return to the east, I will tell you where to
reside, and where I hope Carrawoona will not find
you. About fifteen miles from us on the bank of
the Monongahela, lives the only man of your nation
in our country. His name is Frazier. He is
my friend. He will entertain you till I meet you
there, which will not be many days. I would go
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with you now, but I must watch the motions of
the Chippeways, and especially of Carrawoona,
that I may frustrate, if possible, any attempt against
you.
“My son, we will now partake of the refreshments
prepared for us in this wigwam. Its owner
will supply you with arms for your protection,
for he is my friend; but as the day is now advanced
you had better lodge with him to-night. In the
morning you will proceed to the house of my
white brother, Frazier, where you will remain till
I see you.”
They accordingly partook together of a tolerable
comfortable repast of some wild-fowl, and a
preparation of Indian corn called homony; after
which Tonnaluka departed, having first given
Charles particular directions how to find the way
to Gilbert Frazier's residence. It is as needless to
repeat the expressions of gratitude poured out by
Charles to his deliverer, when they separated, as
to describe the profound feeling of pious awe and
thankfulness to the Deity with which, when left to
his own reflections, he felt his mind impressed.—
The reader who knows the circumstances we have
detailed, will give him credit for both, as readily,
and to as great an extent, as if they were painted
with all the accuracy and force that the colouring
of language could give them.
There is no feeling whatever so conducive to
sound repose as the impression of being in the
favour and under the protection of a supreme providence.
The wonderful deliverance which
Charles had obtained from an awful and apparently
inevitable fate, naturally produced upon his
mind this evening such an impression; and with
feelings of a most comfortable, although still much
excited description,—such feelings as the mariner
who, after the extinction of all hope, has been
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just rescued from the power of the raging main,
experiences on laying his exhausted frame upon
the kindly-spread couch of some hospitable cottager—
he laid himself down upon the bed of dry
leaves and buffalo skins prepared for him in one
corner of the wigwam by its friendly owner, and
enjoyed a sound and refreshing sleep, which continued
till the morning.
When he arose, his friendly host supplied him
with a gun and a war axe; and with the former
upon his shoulder, and the latter, together with
some ammunition and provisions girt to his side, he
set forward on his journey to Gilbert Frazier's.
The reader may smile at the care with which a
young fellow like him took to equip himself for so
short a ramble as fifteen miles; an excursion which
a smart young man of his age would in our day
think no hardship to perform in two or three hours.
But although I have, on careful inquiry, satisfactorily
ascertained that the young men in “Braddock's
Times” were in all respects as courageous,
spirited, and active, as they are even in ours, and
that Charles Adderly was one of the most eminent
of them in all these particulars; yet he expected
and found the performing of that same
journey of fifteen miles in about seven hours, to be
no despicable task. But it was the difficulty of
the road, and not the incapacity of the man, that
made it so; and I can assure any of our modern
heroes, who may imagine themselves fit to make as
good a figure in a novel as Charles Adderly, that
they would have considered the journey of which
we are speaking as difficult, and found it as tedious
as he did.
To have a proper idea of his situation, and
what he had to encounter, let any reasonable reader
lay down this book for a moment, and figure to
himself a young man of sociable habits,
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accustomed during all his past life, to the animation and
refinement of cities, colleges, and churches, to
paved roads, flagged pathways, and graveled walks,
now dropped, by one of fortune's capricious freaks
into the midst of a barbarous and pathless wilderness,
a close grown forest of heavy timber of all
sorts, oak, hiccory, maple, chesnut, walnut, birch,
dogwood, poplar, &c. &c. the small spaces between
which were completely choked up by a luxuriant
growth of underwood, wild grasses of innumerable
descriptions, not to mention the trunks of large
trees that had fallen from the decrepitude of age, or
were overthrown by the fury of storms, and which
were perpetually presenting impassable obstructions
to the progress of the traveller. And this
too, in an extremely hilly country, intersected by
deep ravines, glens, and dingles, without number
or regularity, and out of some of which it was impossible
for a'stranger to disentangle himself without
incredible labour and dexterity.
Such was the country through which Charles
Adderly, to whom any savage path that might be
in it was totally unknown, undertook, in the year
1752, without guide or companion, to traverse, for
a short distance indeed, but over ground so difficult,
and amidst impediments so intricate, that it
would be easier now to traverse the same space
in two hours than it was then in seven.
The directions, however, which Charles had received
from the prophet, were plain, and he set
forward fearing nothing, although it was the first
time he had ever been altogether alone amidst the
woods. But this very circumstance, instead of rendering
his excursion disagreeable, threw over it a
peculiar charm of novelty and romance, which, to
a mind constituted and circumstanced as his then
was, was inexpressibly attractive.
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“Here I am,” he would say to himself, as he
often paused to reflect, on arriving at a height from
whence he could look for some short distance
a round him; “here am I, in the midst of this immense
forest, cut off from that busy world of civilization
with which alone I am acquainted—Here
am I, with God alone for my companion! Oh,
what a sublime and awful thought! Yet, why
tremble at its vastness! It cannot be presumptuous,
for it is true;
“For He is always present; ever felt
In the void waste as in the city full!”
“Oh, adorable Being! thou hast placed me here,
where I feel the true independence and dignity of
my nature, for here I am only dependent on thee.
In this place society claims nothing from me, nor
I any thing from it. Were all my fellow-men extinguished
from the earth, and I left alone here, dependent,
just as I now almost feel myself to be, solely
on my own exertions and thy blessing, how awful,
how solemn, but how ennobling, how elevating
would be the thought! O! let me for a moment
enjoy the magnificence of the idea, for it will only
last a moment. There are yet men in the
world with whom I must unite, and to whose institutions
and forms, I must bend—and this soulexalting
illusion of my God and myself, being all
my concern, will soon vanish. But it is thy will,
and I submit.”
At other times the recollection of Carrawoona's
malignancy towards him, would occur to his mind,
and he would, especially in passing ravines, glens,
and rivulets, instinctively exert all his faculties of
hearing and seeing, lest an enemy should attack
him unawares. At length, having exerted both
mind and body, with intense energy for a number
of hours, he reached the Monongahela; but he
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was uncertain from not seeing the marks referred
to in his directions, whether Gilbert Frazier's
house was, in respect to the river, above or below
him. In this state of incertitude respecting
his course, he reclined himself beneath a large
maple tree that grew upon the bank, amidst a
thicket of sassafras, elders, and hazels, in order
to reflect a little before he should determine on
which way to proceed. Here his mind soon wandered
from its original object, and turned towards
the waste and barbarous state of the country
where he was then seated, a forlorn, solitary being,
amidst ferocious savages, and the object of intense
hatred to some of them.
Among other subjects of reflection, the strange
circumstance of a white man enjoying a permanent
and unmolested residence, in such a country,
and amidst such inhabitants, drew his attention,
and excited his surprise. What could induce a
single individual of European origin to settle
among such a people, and in such an unpromising
region, he could not understand; and if it had not
been that he considered it almost profane to doubt
the word of Tonnaleuka, he should have conceived
the tale of a white man being in that vicinity,
as altogether fabulous. To believe it, however,
he was resolved, since his deliverer had
said it—and believe it he did; but he conceived
that this man must be some adopted son of a savage,
perhaps married to a squaw, and in point of
manners, disposition, and understanding, in all
probability, nothing superior to his wild brothers
of the forest.
Having come to this charitable estimate of Gilbert's
character, he rose to pursue his course up
the river, almost careless whether or not it should
bring him to the residence of one of whom he had
formed so indifferent an opinion. Since
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Tonnaleuka had agreed to meet him there, he, indeed,
was desirous to find the place; but that he believed
he could easily do without at present giving
himself much trouble about it, before Tonnaleuka
could be expected to reach it. In the meantime,
the falling in with any Indian wigwam might
afford him for the night, as hospitable, and perhaps
as comfortable a lodging. With these ideas
revolving in his mind, as he was advancing from
his thicket, he perceived to his utter astonishment,
two white and decently attired females, approaching
towards him down the bank of the
river. He suddenly drew back into his concealment,
struck, not with fear, but with awe; for as
he could not suppose civilized white women to be
in such a place, and, at the first glance, he saw they
were not squaws, he for an instant concluded them
to be nothing less than supernatural beings, sent
for some divine purpose, to visit him in his present
extraordinary situation. His philosophy,
however, instantaneously arose in arms against
this conclusion; yet he thought fit to remain concealed
for a few minutes, until he had discovered
something more satisfactory concerning objects
that had struck his excited fancy as being almost
too lovely to be earthly.
When they drew near enough, however, to be
more minutely distinguished, he became satisfied
that they were of kindred clay, real flesh and
blood like himself; and he was delighted to hear
their language to be English, for not perceiving
him, their discourse was not interrupted as they
passed.
“It was indeed, a noble, a holy proceeding,
worthy of Tonnaleuka, whose whole pleasure is
in doing good,” said she, whom he perceived to be
by far the most beautiful of the two, and whose loveliness
had, indeed, rivetted his attention so much
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as to make him almost overlook her companion,
who replied—
“And Paddy says that the prisoner was one of
the best looking young men he has ever seen. I
hope Carrawoona will not find him.”
“A good providence will protect him!” said
the first. “That God who afforded him such a
timely rescue is able, and I trust that he will still
be willing to extend over him his shield of safety.”
Charles, who at once, knew himself to be the
subject of this conversation, felt something inexpressibly
sweet in the tones of that voice which
had uttered this wish for his safety; and he was
only prevented from rushing forward to express his
gratitude, by that profound feeling of awe he had
imbibed at their first appearance, and which was
now kept alive, not by an impression of their being
unearthly, but by a conviction that one of them
surpassed all of her sex he had ever seen, in loveliness
and excellence. He came forward, gradually,
out of his concealment, as they moved from
him, with his eyes steadily fixed upon them, or
rather upon her who had charmed him more than
ever woman had before. At length, descending
into a valley, they were hidden from his sight.
“I will follow her,” thought he, “although it be
not the course I intended—such a being can lead
no where but to safety—to happiness.”
He accordingly hastened after them; but, on
coming to the point at which they had disappeared,
he was surprised to behold, in a romantic vallcy
beneath him, through which a meandering rivulet
sought and obtained a union with the Monongahela,
a neat and prosperous looking farm,
with its worm fences, it orchards, its meadow-ground,
and its fields of maize, and its stacks of
grain, surrounding a large, substantial log
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dwelling house, of comfortable appearance, having the
necessary establishment of barn, stable, cowhouse,
hog-pens, &c.; not, indeed, all under one
tremendous roof, as is the present Pennsylvania
fashion—but separated from each other, and erected
at different, but convenient distances; giving
the whole as much the air and character of a small
village, as many a one whose name may every day
be seen honoured as such, with a place in the maps
of the American states.
He paused for a moment, at the unexpected sight,
and experienced such a sensation of home-felt
comfort glowing in his heart, as the long wandering
exile on returning home, feels at the first sight
of his native village. He felt something congenial
to his very existence, in the appearance of the
sheep, cows, and horses, that were browsing in
the meadows; nay, the very cackling of the geese,
and dung-hill fowls, had on this occasion, the power
to warm his heart, and give him pleasure.
The fair object that had attracted him hither,
had been for about a minute concealed from his
view, by the intervention of some trees. But he
now again perceived her, with her companion,
advancing along a short lane towards the dwelling
house. He hastened after them, when, through
an opening in the wood to his left, he suddenly
perceived two men hoeing out potatoes in a field,
which here spread itself to view between him and
the river.
He approached them and perceived—but I also
perceive that I must cut short this chapter. A
dull performance ought never to be a long one; it
is so exhausting upon the reader's patience, of
which I am desirous that he should retain a sufficient
stock to accompany me through the whole
work. I therefore make it a rule when I feel myself
beginning to write heavily, to cease writing;
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and, if possible, to cease at a place where it will
be convenient for the reader to cease reading. By
this means we have both an opportunity of recovering
our spirits, and of recommencing our
respective tasks with renewed vigor and animation.
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CHAPTER IX.
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'Tis the nobility of nature, which
Survives through all vicissitude of time
And fall of states; that pure and innate love
Of human kind, which prompts the generous soul
To hospitable deeds, which bids it ask
The lone and friendless for its welcome guest.
Basket of Scraps.
I may, at once, inform the reader, for I hate a
round-about way of telling a story, that the two
men whom we at the termination of the last
chapter, left Charles Adderly in the act of approaching,
were Gilbert Frazier, and his son Archy.
They were so busily employed in hoeing
out their potatoes, that they did not observe him
till he had advanced almost close to them, when
Archy called out—
“Father! look about! I purtest there's a white
man comin' to us!”
Gilbert turned round, and with an evident emotion
both of surprise and respect, moved his hat,
and then standing stock still with his hoe in his
hand, gazed intensely at the stranger until he
spoke.
“My good friend,” said he, “I am an unfortunate
wanderer in this wilderness, where I am both
surprised and rejoiced to meet with a white man.
May I ask a few night's lodging from your kind
ness?”
“Lodgin'! yes—wia' my heart—a white man!
an' a gentleman! wia' my heart! But, may I ask
your name, sir?”
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“My name is Adderly.”
“Adderly—Adderly!—you cam' wi' the Ohio
settlers, I doot na, sir, ye hae been unfortunate.—
But we'll gang to the hoose, sir. Ye'll be needin'
something to eat an' drink, na doot—for there's
no muckle to be had that's guid for ony thing in
thir woods.”
So saying, he moved forward a few steps—then
turning suddenly, he muttered—“Wha kens! wha
kens—it may be sae”—and turning to Charles, he
asked—
“Adderly, ye say they ca' ye?”
“Yes—”
“An' canna ye mind to hae ever heard o' yen
Thomas Adderly, wha, when I leev'd on the Junaita,
I was tauld had come frae Ireland to Philadelphia?”
“That Thomas Adderly is my father.”
“Thomas Adderly! your father!” Gilbert exclaimed,
staring earnestly in Charles's face—
Thomas Adderly your father! my auld frien'!”—
here he threw away the hoe which he had till now
retained in his hand, by way of a walking stick—
and catching Charles eagerly by both hands, he
continued his exclamations—“Why! why! the
sin o' my auld frien', Thomas Adderly o' Maughrygowan!
come to ask lodgin' frae me—ay,
that ye'll hae, the best that I can gi' ye—the best
bed, the best meat, the best drink, the best o' every
thing that Gilbert Frazier can gie you. The
sin o' my auld frien' frae Maughrygowan—Archy!
Archy! rin fast, my braw lad! rin fast, and tell
your mother that the sin o' my auld frien', the sin
o' Thomas Adderly o' Maughrygowan, is come to
see us. An' haste ye, Archy! get the white-faced
calf killed, it's the fattest—an' be na langsome,
noo—that's a braw lad! An' the sin o' my auld
frien' o' Mauhgrygowan! (here he again eagerly
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shook both Charles's hands) the sin o' Thomas Adderly,
has cam' a' the way owre the Alleghany
Mountain, an' the Laurel Hill, an' the Chesnut
Ridge, to ask lodgin' frae me. Guid bless ye,
man! ye'll hae lodgin' and leevin' frae me baith,
as lang as ye like wi' a guid-wullie heart, an a'
thoosan' welcomes. An' the auld squire, yere
gran'father, (mony a funny day I had sportin' wi'
the youngsters roon the shrubberies an' the park
wa's) I wonner if he's to the fore yet?”
Charles informed him that according to the latest
accounts, the old man was alive.
“I'se warrant ye for it,” replied Gilbert; “he
was aye a douse body, an' will, dootless, wear
weel. But come in, come into the hoose. Nelly,
puir Nelly! hoo glad she'll be to see the sin o' her
auld acquaintance! Ye were na born in Maughrygowan,
were ye?”
“No; Philadelphia is my birth-place.”
“Ah! weel, it's na difference—ye're the sin,
an' the gran'-sin o' Maughrygowan men—an' na
doot a true Irishman in your heart.”
Charles assured him, evidently very much to his
satisfaction, that he had a great partiality for that
country; for, independent of its being the land of
his fathers, he had there received the chief part
of his education, and spent the happiest portion
of his life.
“Then ye hae been in Ireland, sir?”
“Yes; within these last six months I sailed from
Londonderry.”
“Frae Derry! frae Derry!—an' hoo did the
auld country, and the auld city look?—An' ye
were at Maughrygowan too, dootless?”
“Yes, I spent part of the last winter there.”
“An' was every thing the same? Ah! I doot
na, there are mony changes there syne I saw it. But
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I need na ask sae fool a question frae you, that
was na then in the lan' o' the leevin'.”
They had by this time arrived at the door of
Gilbert's dwelling, where Nelly, in consequence of
Archy's information, was waiting in a state of
great impatience to meet them. Recollecting
Maughrygowan, and the days of her youth, she had
just taken time to make herself decent, as she
phrased it, by putting on a clean cap and a shawl,
in which, although she was now verging towards
the pale days of fifty, she still exhibited some remains
of those blooming graces which thirty years
before had captivated Gilbert; and if report spoke
truth, had drawn some eulogies, which had come
to her ears, and now returned to her recollection,
from the then young squire, Thomas Adderly,
himself.
“Nelly! Nelly!” exclaimed Gilbert, as they
approached where she stood in the door; “here,
here is the sin o' young squire Adderly, oor auld
acquaintance, an' the gran'-sin o' the auld squire,
just cam frae Derry owre the sea, an' a' the way
owre the Alleghany mountain, an' the Laurel Hill,
an' the Chesnut Ridge, to ask lodgin' frae us! Did
you ever think o' seeing sitch a day?”
Nelly made a courtesy, and Charles holding out
his hand, she caught it, and, while the tears were
perceptibly swelling in her eyes, she bade him
welcome, adding,
“Ah! sir, indeed ye pit me in min' o' auld
times, ye hae sae muckle o' the braw looks o' your
father. Glad I am truly, to hae yen frae the place
un'er my roof. In thir wild woods, I ne'er expected
to be sae christianlike on this side o' the grave.
I kenned your father weel in Maughrygowan—
Ye hae muckle o' his looks! But come in—we
maun get something ready to mak' ye comfortable—
for ye maun hae had a hard time o't through the
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woods. I wonner in the wide warl hoo ye could
guide yoursel' amang them.”
She had by this time led Charles to the door of
a decent but small apartment, in which the furniture,
although it was rough, was convenient, and
extremely clean in its appearance. It had been,
as the greater portion of the furniture in the house
was, of Paddy Frazier's workmanship, whose industry,
when he would be industrious, inclined
more to matters of this kind than to cultivating the
soil. It was well for the respectability, at least in
point of appearance, of Gilbert's household concerns,
that Paddy did possess ingenuity of this nature;
for he himself possessed little or none, and
as to Archy, he was totally destitute of any thing
like it. We may here mention, that Paddy had
procured tools, and other necessaries for making
furniture, from several of the Indian traders, and
that he had, in consequence, frequently tried his
hand in manufacturing chairs, tables, bedsteads,
chests, &c. which, although, as we have already
said, they were coarse, yet were convenient, and
gave the whole habitation an air of considerable
comfort. The floors, doors, partitions, and shelves
of the house, were also placed and kept by him in
a tolerably neat condition; so that if, upon the
whole, Gilbert's residence had no splendour to
exhibit, nor much display of taste to boast, it was
at least clean, commodious, and comfortable.
It was two stories high, built of large logs hewn
square, with a long platform or porch in the front,
made of logs squared on the upper side, and solidly
fixed together, like a wooden pavement, on which
were constructed seats for enjoying the luxurious
atmosphere of a summer's evening. The front door
was in the centre of the building, from whence an
entry or hall, of about five feet wide, extended
through the house, leading out of the back door
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into a secondary or inferior house of round or unhewn
logs attached to the other, which served for
a kitchen. The stairs, or rather steps, for they
were nothing but a broad-stepped ladder, boarded
behind, arose from the back part of the entry.
Both floors consisted of four rooms, of nearly
equal size and construction, but not equally well
furnished; the one into which Charles was now introduced
by Mrs. Frazier being by far the most favoured
in this particular.
But this room contained what would, in Charles's
eyes, had it been ten times more rustic than it was,
have given it the superiority, in point of attraction,
to the most splendid apartment in any of the
king of England's palaces. After saying this, we
need scarcely add, that it contained the beautiful
being whose charms had lately, as we have related,
so strongly riveted his attention, and attracted him
hither, and whom the reader has no doubt already
conjectured, and conjectured with truth, to be
Maria Frazier.
She arose at his entrance, and was introduced to
him as Gilbert's youngest daughter; and Nancy,
who had been in another apartment, at that instant
appearing, she was introduced as the eldest.
The manner in which these two buds of the forest
received Charles, was considerably different,
and, considering the circumstances of their respective
minds and education, somewhat surprising.
From Archy's report, which had been faithfully
made to his mother, they knew that some extraordinary
visiter, and a white-man, was approaching
them. When they received this report, they were
both in a plain, but neat dishabille. But with this
Nancy was not content. She hastily retired to
improve her appearance, and exhorted Maria to
do the same, which she declined. It must not,
however, be supposed that she did so from any
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affectation of humility, much less from any unwillingness
to show the stranger a proper degree of respect.
Neither was she quite indifferent as to the
effect of her appearance upon him; nay, it must
be confessed, that before she decided against
changing her apparel, she had taken a sly stolen
glance or two at a mirror, (for Gilbert had been
supplied by the river traders with several of these
articles,) which hung conveniently for such a purpose,
upon the wooden wall of the apartment.
The result of this examining glance was, that she
should be content with her present condition; for,
although not gaudily, she was neatly apparelled,
and having no desire particularly to attract the
stranger, she did not think it necessary studiously
to adorn her person.
When she first saw Charles Adderly, however,
a feeling of an undefinable nature, such as she had
never before experienced, seized upon her mind,
which caused her, in a certain degree, to repent
her not having followed Nancy's advice: and when
this feeling became considerably heightened, by his
name suggesting to her, that this must be the same
interesting youth who had been so lately rescued
from the cruel vengeance of the savages by her
revered Tonnaleuka, she, in spite of herself, felt
uneasy and embarrassed, from the idea that it had
been in her power to have made a better appearance
in his presence. The reception she gave
him, therefore, was cordial, but a little constrained,
and her salutation, although kind and sincere,
was diffident and timid, and her manner was rendered
the more embarrassed from her dissatisfaction
with it.
On the other hand Nancy, prepared for the
occasion, with all her rural grandeur on her,
addressed him with an ease, gaiety, and self-possession
partaking somewhat of familiarity, which
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Charles would have felt rather disagreeable and
unbecoming, but for the apparent candour and innocency
with which it was accompanied. In short,
the manners of the uninformed, and, comparatively
speaking uncultivated Nancy on this occasion,
displayed all the undaunted and unblushing ease of
the fashionable lady, while the intelligent and enlightened
Maria exhibited the bashfulness, diffidence,
and confusion of the rural maid.
But, strange to tell, Charles Adderly gave unhesitatingly
the preference to the manner of his
reception by Maria. In her he either saw, or fancied
he saw, the effects of artless nature, genuine
modesty, and refined sensibility; and these he preferred
infinitely to any effort of cultured manner,
or disciplined conduct. In his view, nothing in
the world could exceed in elegance, tastefulness,
and propriety, the dress and behaviour of Maria,
while every thing he had ever seen, or believed he
ever could see, fell infinitely short of the charms of
her expressive countenance, and the witchery of
the thousand nameless graces that he was every
moment discovering more and more to adorn both
her person and manners. But at this time, it must
be confessed, that he was in a state of mind which
disqualified him from being an impartial judge of
any thing relating to this young woman. He was,
although, perhaps, not quite aware himself of the
circumstance, getting fast in love with her, and,
consequently, was unfit to conceive of any thing
but perfection in all she either thought, did, or said.
“Thir twa lasses o' mine,” said Gilbert, after
all the party were seated, except his wife, who,
placing some bread and cheese before them, withdrew
for the purpose of getting ready refreshments
of a more elaborate description for her guest—
“Thir twa lasses o' mine, ye maun ken, hae been
broucht up like deers amang the woods here, an'
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it maun be a treat for them to see ony thing like a
ceevilized white man. Lasses, haud up your heeds,
an' dinna be shy—Mr. Adderly's a gentleman born,
the sin o' my auld acqua'ntance, young squire
Adderly, o' Maughrygowan. Agh! I kenned
your father weel thirty year syne—there wasna a
brisker an' bonnier young fellow in a' the parish.
I hope he's douse yet, an' wears weel?”
Charles assured him that he was still healthy,
and very little altered in his appearance since he
first knew him.
“Glad o't, glad o't, sir,” replied Gilbert; “I wad
gie the best horse ere put leg in my stable to hae
yae shake o' his auld hand, just for the sake o'
Maughrygowan an' oor daffin days. But, sir,
Paddy tells us, ye hae had an unco escape frae
them wicked Indians, the Chippeways. But Tonnaleuka
can manage them when naebody else can—
he's a wonnerfu' man that.”
Charles now informed him, that it was by Tonnaleuka's
directions that he had obtruded himself
upon his hospitality.
“Obtrude, sir!” interrupted Gilbert, “obtrude!
I'm no' very muckle learned, sir, but I think that
word means comin' to whar yen's no' weelcom'.—
Noo, sir, gin ye were na as weelcom' here as in
your father's parlour, this hoose shouldna belong
to Gilbert Frazier.”
“I am sensible of your kindness,” observed
Charles; “and to tell you the truth, I in reality
feel happier just now under your roof than ever I
remember to have felt under my father's, or I believe
that of any other person whatever.”
“Thank ye, sir, I'm glad o't—an' I wish hoo
lang ye may bide wi' us, gin it will answer ye.
Ye'll no' think o' ganging hame this six months, at
ony rate. The winter's sae near-han', it wadna'
be possible.”
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Charles replied, that his duty required that he
should carry or send speedy intelligence of his late
disasters to Philadelphia; but that with respect to
the measures he should adopt concerning his return,
he had thoughts of being regulated altogether
by the advice of Tonnaleuka, on whose knowledge
of the circumstances and nature of the country, and
on whose prudence, candour, and friendship for
himself, he had every reason to rely.
“Ye're richt, my frien',” said Gilbert, “'an ye're
wise too in that—Tonnaleuka kens ever thing
aboot this country, an' I may say aboot every ither
country in the warl', better than ony man leevin'.
I'll no' except Sir Isaac Newton the Englishman,
wha they say is the greatest philosopher, an' the
wisest man, except Solomon, that was ever known.
Ye wad wonner, sir, to hear Tonnaleuka sometimes
talking. He's sae learned, an' has sae
muckle knowledge, that nane o' oor family can
after comprehend him, except Maria there, that he
has made amaist as wise as himsel'.—Dinna think
shame, Maria! it's na affront. I wad rather than
my hale stackyard fu' o' corn that I could un'erstan'
sitch things sae weel as you do. That
glaiket lassie, yere sister—feggs, Nancy, I maun
tell on you, ne'er could master a single lesson for
a' the pains he took wi' her.”
“Father,” replied Maria, who perceived that
Nancy felt uneasy at this exposure of her ignorance,
“you draw too unjust a comparison between
us. Nancy has in many things profited
much by Tonnaleuka's instructions. And as to
myself, considering the remote and secluded situation
in which I am doomed to pass my life, the gratifying
my desire for knowledge may have been
rather disadvantageous than otherwise; it may
have occupied that time which would have been
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employed with more advantage to both you and
myself in personal labour.”
“Personal labour, my bairn! why think ye,
that gin ye had never sae muckle as learned the
alphabet, that I wad hae let you work in the cornfields
or meadows, or in grubbing roots, or makin'
rails?—Na, na, faith! I wad hae done a' thir
things on my knees first. But hae na ye been
aye busy, Maria? Why Nelly has aften said that
ye hae doon mair sewin', an' spinin', an' knitten
in yen week than Nancy, wi' a' her disregard to
learnin', has done in a month.”
“My dear father,” said Maria, seeing that Nancy
was extremely hurt at this invidious comparison,
“do not be so unjust towards my sister. I
cannot bear to be complimented so much at her
expense. She is far from being so ignorant as you
suppose; and Tonnaleuka, whose judgment you
will not dispute, has often borne testimony to the
goodness of her heart, and the amiability of her
disposition. As to industry, does she not perform
thrice the labour that I do in dairy matters, and in
kitchen concerns? From which of us does our
mother receive the greatest assistance in the preparation
of your food? Is it not from her? Yes, father,
she has often, when she supposed I was too
busily employed in these matters, desired me to
leave their performance to her, lest I should fatigue
myself. I cannot bear that so much kindness
should not receive justice.”
Here Nancy, whose feelings were more touched
with her sister's generous defence than they had
been with her father's accusation, caught her by
the hand, (for she sat next to her,) and with a
heart evidently as full at least of gratitude as of
vexation, said—
“I must confess that my father speaks truth; for
you hae obtained far more benefit than I ever
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could from Tonnalenka's lessons. And as to heavy
working, you are always as willing as I am, but
as you are not so strong, you are more easily fatigued,
and on that account I do not like to see you
much at it. You are better and more usefully employed
at quilting and darning, and figuring, and
knitting, and such things that keep the house trig
and comfortable, than I could be, for I couldna like
you confine myself closely at them, as they sometimes
require.”
Here Gilbert, pleased with this generosity of
Nancy, as if his heart misgave him for having said
any thing to hurt her feelings, arose and, catching
both her and Maria by the hand, said—
“Ye are baith my bairns—gude lasses to yere
father, an' I hae na' fan't to find wi' ye. I dinna
prefer the tane to the tither; I like ye baith alike,
an' I'm muckle pleased that ye hae aye liked yen
anither sae weel. Indeed ye hae aye been a comfort
to baith me an' yere mither in this wild wilderness.
Withoot ye, I think we wad hae brak'
oor hearts. But God has gien ye to us, an' ye hae
made the desert smile on us. An' oh! may he
lang preserve ye to us, my bairns, baith gude, an'
innocent, an' contented as ye noo are.”
So saying, he kissed them both upon the cheek,
and turning to Charles, asked him if he would walk
out with him upon the porch for a few minutes,
until supper should be ready. Charles readily assented,
for he perceived that the old man wished to
relieve his daughters of their presence, in order
that Nancy might the sooner recover her serenity
and cheerfulness.
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X.
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Around the bowl of vanished years,
We talk of joyous seeming;
And smiles that might as well be tears,
So soft, so sad's their beaming;
Till memory brings us back again,
Each early tie that twin'd us,
How sweet's the cup that circles then,
To those we've left behind us!
Moore.
As Nancy's mind was not the most susceptible
in the world of lasting impressions, especially of a
disagreeable kind, a short time was sufficient to restore
her usual vivacity and good humour; and as
both she and Maria now assisted their mother, supper
was soon got forward, and Charles and his host
were without delay summoned from their perambulation
on the porch.
When Charles saw the plentiful, and even luxurious
table that was spread before him, and the
good-hearted and contented family, whose own industry,
under the blessing of Providence, had thus
procured it for them in a wilderness, sitting down
to partake of it, his heart was filled with sensations
of pride for his species, arising from this proof before
his eyes of what their own efforts, if properly
directed, can do to supply their wants, and make
them happy in this world, under even the most unpromising
circumstances. What a contrast, thought
he, is what I now behold, to that scene of savage
wrath and vengeful feelings to which I was yesterday
so nearly becoming the victim!
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Impressed with these ideas, his heart was in a fit
state to join fervently and thankfully in that simple
but sincere address to the Giver of all good, which
Gilbert who, ever since he had been cut off from
all opportunity of enjoying public worship, had
been careful always to pronounce, not in set words,
but in the spontaneous expressions dictated by his
feelings at the moment, before partaking of the
bounty of his Maker. Sometimes this address,
being the only species of religious worship strictly
attended to by Gilbert, was extended through the
duration of several minutes. On the present occasion,
it was not so long, but it was still longer
than any fashionable clergyman would ever think
of making a grace. As it was, notwithstanding its
illiterate and unharmonious phraseology, at the
time, highly gratifying to Charles Adderly, I presume
it will not be unacceptable to the reader, and
shall, therefore, submit it to his perusal, as follows:
“Great God! oor Maker, an' the maker o' a'
things whilk are in the heavens or on the yearth,
an' the ruler o' baith the city an' the desert! thou
hast gien us these gude things oot o' the bountifu'
stores o' thy providence, that we may nourish oorsels
wi' them.—Albeit we are na' worthy o' the
sma'est morsel o' thy favour, an' could na' mak'
the grun' produce a single ear o' corn, or a koo
bring forth a single calf without thy ordering!—
yet thou hast gien us plenty o' baith, an' mair nor
that, thou hast gien us this e'ening, un'er oor roof,
what we hae na' had for near-han' thirty year, a
visiter, an Irishman's son, o' oor ain kind, frae
Maughrygowan. Oh! bless him, an' bless us a',
so that we may be nourished by this temporal food,
an' also, or a' be owre, wi' the spiritual food o'
grace an' glory in heaven. But thou kens better
what fits us than we do oorsels—we, therefore,
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lippen every thing to thy mercy, whilk we earnestly
pray for, through Christ our Redeemer—Amen.”
Many a more splendid supper than Gilbert Frazier,
the only cultivator of the ground, at this time
within, perhaps, a hundred miles of him, could afford,
has been more splendidly described than I
could describe it. No entertainment could, therefore,
be expected from a middling description of
what, at the table of a great man, would scarcely
be accounted a middling supper. I will, therefore,
be excused from not entering into tedious particulars
concerning it. I shall merely state, that at
the one end of the table, (the end where our hero
himself was stationed,) was placed an elegant roast-joint
of the fatted calf which Archy had speedily
sacrificed for this joyful occasion. By special request,
Charles had undertaken to carve and distribute
this, which I can assure any gay lady or gentleman,
who wishes to be informed on the subject,
that he did with exceeding good grace and gentility.
Mrs. Frazier and her son, Archy, had each
under their jurisdiction a large barn-door fowl,
elegantly and sumptuously stuffed with the most
sapid and agreeable ingredients the good hostess
could command; the very smell of which when
opened out would, in less than a quarter of an hour
after a full meal, have restored to original vigour
and voracity, the appetite of any hundred thousand
pound alderman in existence. Gilbert himself had
charge of a large dish of excellent potatoes, which
although he said they were as gude as he ever
could raise here, yet were naething like the rich,
laughing, mellow, an' meally jeanachies he used
to raise in Maughrygowan. Still wi' a' their fau'ts
they were aye a favourite dish wi' baith him him
an' Nelly.
When a reasonable havoc was made among
these substantials, Maria and Nancy distributed to
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the company and to themselves dainty and enticing
slices of apple pies, custards, or egg puddings, just
as the appetite of each desired. After the disappearance
of these, Gilbert returned thanks, and the
cloth being removed, (for, dear reader, Mrs. Frazier
had several table cloths,) he produced from a
cupboard, which was in one corner of the room, a
bottle of brandy; and soon the fragrant and inspiring
vapours of the punch-pitcher curled swately
and nately as Peter M`Fall would have said, over
the table, which was now lit with a flaming candle
of Gilbert's own mana acture.
On this occasion the social bowl did not frighten
away the ladies as it mostly does within the circles
of ultra civilization and high refinement. But in
Gilbert Frazier's house the superb customs of the
haut `on were unknown, or rather uncared for; and
as no excess from spiritous liquors was feared by
the ladies, for neither Gilbert nor Archy were
drunkards, and they had no reason to suppose
Charles Adderly one, they conceived that they
could spend the evening as comfortably and as
creditably in their society as any where else.—
Nay, they did not disdain, for the sake of complaisance
and good humour, to use a moderate portion
of the exhilarating fluid themselves, and to
pledge in its socializing draught their good wishes
for their visiter's health and prosperity. But the
degree of their complaisance, I can assure the
world of sobriety, was both as moderate and modest
as the most rigid could wish, and extended no
farther than the most precise-mannered and delicately-nerved
lady in Christendom might have
carried it, without risk to either her reputation or
her morals.
Neither did the gentlemen indulge too heartily
in the use of the fascinating liquor. They only
drank as much as tended to expel vapours and
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enliven conversation, thereby showing themselves
to be real men, whose strength of resolution enabled
them to stop at any assigned point in the path
of enjoyment. But we must confess that, although
the ladies only tasted a little for the sake of complaisance,
yet the gentlemen used a sufficiency of
the cordial fluid to render their situation comfortable,
and their conversation free. It was now that
Gilbert communicated to Charles the history of his
life from his leaving his native country till the present
time, excepting that passage which related to
Maria's birth. He explained, at the same time, in
his own homely language, the feelings that the
passing events had excited in his mind. In return,
Charles detailed to him the history of the expedition
that he had lately commanded, its unfortunate
result, and his own adventures with, and providential
deliverance from the Indians. Maria listened
to his recital with great interest, and seemed to be
particularly affected with his hair breadth escape.
She hung upon his story with fervid and enthusiastic
intensity, and when he had finished she could
not help exclaiming—
“Happy, happy Tonnaleuka, who has had it in
his power to do so much good!”
“Heaven bless ye, my bairn,” said Gilbert, “for
that gude-hearted sayin'. Oh! Mr. Adderly! gin
Tonnaleuka could only teach the Indians humanity
to their prisoners, I think he wad be amaist as
great an' usefu' a man as Moses, wha taucht the
Jews the sixth commandment, “Thou shalt not
kill!” Gin the savages only knew that commandment,
and feared to break it, I'm thinkin' I micht
soon hae white neighboors plenty roon me, and
may be some Irish families—an' its no' likely that
Nelly an' I wad then break oor hearts sae muckle
aboot Maughrygowan.”
“Alack!” cried Nelly, “bonny Maughrygowan
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will ne'er be oot o' my head gin a' the Irish in
America were to settle beside us. Its bonny green
meadows, an' its hawthorn hedges, wi' their sweet
smelling blossoms, an' its saft dimplin' burns, wi'
the yellow primroses an' speckled daisies on their
banks, an' the sweet pretty larks an' the thrushes,
an' the lads an' the lasses, an' the sports o' a simmer
evening, an' the jokes an' mirth o' a lang winter's
nicht—ah! I canna think o' them withoot a
sair heart—for—for I'll ne'er see them again!”
Here Nelly's heart filled, and she was wiping
away a tear that annoyed her, when Gilbert addressed
her—
“Dinna fret—dinna fret, Nelly, at misfortunes.
It micht hae been waur wi' us—God didna forsake
us a' thegither. We are aye leevin' examples o' his
gudeness, an' hae oor weans aboot us. We hae
mony comforts. Nelly, gin we should ne'er see Ireland
again. Dinna think think o't noo—it maks
ye greeve owre muckle.”
“Ah! ye may bid me no grieve, gin ye like,”
replied Nelly—“but dinna Gilbert, dinna bid me
no think o't, for I canna obey ye in that. I maun
aye think o't, though my heart should bleed for't—
though it should break for't, as it's sometimes like
to do. It would noo please me, Gilbert, to hear
Maria sing the sang she learned frae ye, an' which
ye're sae fond to hear yeresel, that was made by
Tam Beggs, oor neighboor on the Juniata, whom
the savages burned on that awfu' day at Catanyan.
He made it on leavin' Larne, an' I ne'er hear it
but it does my heart gude, its sae melancholy, an'
it shews that there were ither folk that grieved for
ither places as muckle as I do for Maughrygowan.
An' Maria aye sings it so sweetly, that it makes my
heart baith pleased and sorrowfu'. Ah! it's a
warm-hearted, comforting sang!”
“Weel, Nelly,” observed Gilbert, “if it will
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comfort ye ony thing, an' Mr. Adderly has nae
objection, I'm sure Maria will please ye. That sang
aye pleases me, though it aye mak's me mournfu'.”
Charles signified his desire to hear the song, and
Maria, knowing that it would yield satisfaction to
both her father and mother, required no further
solicitation, but sang as follows, with a voice, every
tone of which thrilled through Charles' heart, and
awakened all his feelings of sympathy, tenderness,
and admiration.
The Haunts of Larne.
Oft as I think on other days,
When with a blithe light heart I rov'd,
Those haunts which lovely Larne surveys,
Where first I felt, and first I lov'd;
What sorrows pierce my bosom's core,
Since I must sigh,
Farewell to joy!
Ah! lovely Larne! must I ne'er see, ne'er see thee more?
By Curran's shore I often stray'd,
And scenes of purest rapture knew,
When there I met the sweetest maid
That ever blest a lover's view;
But ah! these joyful scenes are o'er,
And I must sigh,
Farewell to joy!
Ah! lovely Larne! must I ne'er see, ne'er see thee more?
By Inver's banks, so green and gay,
I join'd each little warbler's song,
And tun'd to love the blithesome lay,
The fragrant hawthorn shades among.
Fate ne'er can scenes like these restore,
For I must sigh,
Farewell to joy!
Ah! lovely Larne! must I ne'er see, ne'er see thee more?
Oh! mem'ry, cease! it gives me pain
Such recollections dear to wake;
Yet I will think them o'er again,
Although my tortur'd heart should break.
Yes; still I'll think, and still deplore,
How I must sigh,
Farewell to joy!
Ah! lovely Larne! must I ne'er see, ne'er see thee more?
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When Maria had done singing, so deep was the
impression which her melodious voice and affecting
manner had made upon her auditors, that they
all, for a minute or two, sat silent, as if for the
purpose of prolonging that luxury of sorrow which
she had thus so strongly excited in their bosoms.
At length Nelly, whose feelings had become so
acute as evidently to require relief from weeping,
retired, that she might indulge her grief more privately.
Her daughters withdrew also, and as
Charles arose to bid them good-night, he was irresistibly
impelled to say to Maria. “This has
been my happiest night. I shall never, never forget
it!” He then checked himself as if he felt
that he had taken too much freedom, and resumed
his seat considerably embarrassed, with his eyes
fixed steadily upon the door through which she had
passed, as if still beholding the lovely image that
had there left them.
His meditations were soon interrupted by Gilbert
exclaiming, “Poor Tam Beggs! his story was a
mournfu' yen! But grievin's a folly, an' we maun
e'en just tak' the warl' as it comes—the sweet wi'
the soor. I yence ran through the gauntlet wi' the
savages mysel'. That was na to be sure sae bad
as being burnt. But there's na gude in complainin'—
what's gane past is done, an' canna be help't.
We'll e'en, Mr. Adderly, talk o' something else,
an' no' torment oorsel's this way wi' sorrow. Ye
hae na seen my son Paddy yet. I christened him
for oor auld Irish saint—he's a through-gaun chap—
winna min' the farm, an's awee owre fand o' the
drap by times. Ye hae na seen him yet, Mr. Adderly?”
“No,” replied Charles, who had by this time
thrown off his reverie, “no—but I have understood
that you had a son of that name.”
“Ay; but he's a quite different chap frae Archy.
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He's a smart fellow, sir, an' a wee crafty in his disposition,
that is, when he's dealin' wi' the Indians.
I'm no' pleased at it, for I dinna like them cunning
tricks, it's so much like cheatery. Though Paddy
winna cheat either, I'll no say that o' him—but
he'll no' gie the Indians fair play an' he can help
it. He palms on them shells, an' beads, an' brass
rings, an' ither things, no' worth a button, for
whilk they sometimes gie him hale back-burdens
o' skins o' musk-rat, an' beaver, an' buffalo, that
he sells to the traders comin' doon the river for
fifty times as muckle as they cost him I canna
think it a' thegither fair—forbye I canna see the
gude o' him tradin' this way. I'm sure that a' the
skins an' trumpery he has gathered thegither this
six year past wouldna get us a comfortable dinner
in thir woods. I kenna what they're gude for here,
but to look at.”
“Father,” observed Archy, who had just come in
from disposing of the cattle for the night, as Gilbert
commenced this complimentary picture of Paddy's
character and employment, `father, I maun say
you speak owre hard o' Paddy. He disna cheat
the Indians half so muckle as some o' the ither traders.
They aye say he deals fair, though he maks
hard bargains; but the men that come doon the
river often cheat them ootricht. The gentleman
maunna think Paddy sae bad as ye ca' him.”
“I hae na ca'd him a downricht cheat, Archy,
I canna think that badly o' him; but I think it
wad be a mair honest employment, forbye being
mair usefu', to stick by the lan', an' help us to raise
something that we can eat an' wear; for, atweel, I
can see nae gude in them wild beast's skins, an'
bits o' glass, an' auld brass rings that he's so fand
o'. They can neither be made into cakes nor
puddin', Archy; an' as to wearin' them—troth, a
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coat o' the coarest sacking that was ever made into
a beggar-man's poke, wad be mair comfortable.”
“I perceive,” said Charles, “that it is not with
your approbation that your son has devoted himself
to traffic rather than agriculture. But you
seem to get on with the latter tolerably well without
him; and, perhaps, the furs you speak of him
having amassed, may yet turn out much to his
benefit. They are very valuable in the eastern
cities. As to his obtaining them for articles of
such little real value, if the Indians attach an imaginary
importance to these articles, they have a
right to please themselves, as much as the white
people have to attach a value to gold and silver,
which are in themselves as intrinsically useless for
either sustenance or apparel, as any of the trinkets
you mention. Your son cannot be said, at least in
the common meaning of the word, to cheat the Indians,
when he makes them such a return for their
goods as renders them content to part with them.”
“It may be sae,” replied Gilbert, “I dinna dive
sae deeply into sitch arguments as to ken a' aboot
them; but I aye think, that Paddy wad hae mair
ease o' min', an' lieve happier, helpin' us here on
the farm, than in rinnin' after the tails o' the
savages to spy farlies, or to catch a chance o' a
bargain. Forbye, I'm awee flyed that he may
sometime or ither fa' in wi' some slut o' a squaw,
an' turn Indian himsel!”
“For aught I know,” observed Charles, “there
may be some danger in that respect, especially as
he never sees any other females except those of his
own family. A trip to the eastward might remove
this danger.”
“I hae aften thought sae,” returned Gilbert;
“an' sometimes whan I think o' my twa boys, I
canna help comparin' mysel to auld Isaac, wi' his
Esau and his Jacob. The auldest is the Esau, an'
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the youngest is the Jacob; the yen wilfu' an' stubborn,
an' the ither obedient an' gude-natured; an'
wi' respect to baith, I aften feel as if I could apply
to mysel' the words o' Rebekah: `I am weary of
my life because of the daughters of Heth: if Jacob
take a wife of the daughters of Heth, such as these
which are the daughters of the land, what good shall
my life do me?”'
“An' what wad ye hae yen to do,” said Archy,
who felt himself interested in the cause of his father's
uneasiness. “What wad ye hae yen to do,
whar' there are na ither women to be had? Ye
wad na surely ask yen to leeve a' his days withoot
a wife?”
“It's a hard matter, I acknowledge,” said his father;
“an' gin I could spare ye, Archy, I wad send
ye, wi' my blessing, owre the mountains eastward,
as Isaac did Jacob, to get a wife amang the daughters
o' yere ain kind.”
“But wad it no' be neest thing to impossible,”
said Archy, “to coax ony o' them white lasses at
the ither side o' the mountains, to come back here
to lieve in thir savage woods? An' ye ken, father,
ye wad na be pleased gin I staid awa frae ye
a' the gither. Trouth, I canna' tell weel hoo ye
could work the lan', and mind things right withoot
me, noo when ye're getting auld, an' hae sae
muckle mair cleared than ye had no mony years
ago. I think, Mr. Adderly,” said he, turning to
Charles, “that it wad be better for the auld man
that I should bide wi' him, an' gin I should tak' a
fancy to marry, to tak' a squaw, than gang twa or
three hundred miles owre the Alleghany mountains,
for a wife, or else ha nane ava. Want, ye
ken, is an unco bare word, sir.”
Charles acknowledged that the dilemma was
rather of a perplexing nature. All he could counsel
him to, was to stay with his father, and have
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patience; as fortune, by some unforeseen occurrence,
might throw a white woman in his way; in which
case, if he were too hastily to unite himself with a
squaw, he might feel inclined to regret his precipitancy.
“Oh! sir,” said Archy, “I'm na just yet sae
madrife for a wife as that comes to. I'm no' just
gaun to marry the first Indian woman I meet wi'.
I'm thinking that I'll gie fortune the opportunity
o' half a dozen o' years yet to bring me a white
wife; after that, I think the auld man canna say
muckle gin I should bring a red daughter-in-law
ben the hoose to him.”
“Guid forbid! Guid forbid! ye should do sae,
Archy!” exclaimed Gilbert, shaking his hand, “But
we'll no' talk mair aboot it noo. Gin ye only keep
your word, an' gie us six years to come an' go on, I
doot na but Providence will consider your case, and
provide some yen for you that we may a' like,
before that time. But as to Paddy, I dinna ken
but it wad be wiser in me.—”
Here Gilbert was interrupted by the door opening
without ceremony, and Paddy himself entered,
and Gilbert, in a kind of continuation of his discourse,
addressed him; “An' there ye are, my lad.
We were just talking o' ye, an' I was telling this
frien' o' mine.—Paddy, ye maun ken that's a frien'
o' mine, a sin o' my auld acquaintance, Thamas
Adderly, the young squire o' Maughrygown. Ye
didna ken the squire, Paddy, but your mither
kenned them a' weel; an' sair she grat this vera
nicht wi' joy to see the sin o' her auld frien' un'er
her roof in this wild wilderness.”
Paddy had by this time approached Charles,
and cordially shaked him by the hand, expressing
great pleasure to see him here so far safe from the
savages.
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This young man was rather below the middle
size, and of a slender, but very firm make, indicating
great agility and endurance of fatigue, rather
than muscular strength. He was not, however,
deficient in the latter respect, his want of sufficient
weight alone preventing him from being remarkably
powerful. His countenance was keen, smart,
and intelligent; expressive, however, of ingenuity
rather than deep thought, and of cunning rather
than caution. He was slightly pockpitted, and so
much sun-burnt as to be almost of that Indian hue
which he sometimes affected, when he wished to
flatter the native tribes. He also often dressed in
their fashion, and, on such occasions, as he had
learned several of their languages, and spoke them
fluently, he could not easily be distinguished from
any of his red brethren. He had been present, as
a spectator, at the Chippeway council, which had
so nearly sacrificed Charles, in his Indian costume,
on which account, as his dress was now more of a
European than of an Indian fashion, he was not recognised
by Charles, who had not, indeed, paid
much attention on that occasion, to the appearance
of the individuals forming the mass of the assembly.
He was at this time attired in a rudely formed white
flannel jacket, or rather long vest, with sleeves attached
to it, being put on in the manner of a shirt,
with that part of the front, usually permitted to open,
tied with tapes. A pair of long canvas drawers
came up to his waist, round which, outside of his
vest or shirt, they were bound with leathern thongs,
instead of buttons, and kept in their place by a
broad leathern strap carried over each shoulder in a
crossing direction, like modern suspenders. The
common Indian gaiters, and moccasins of half
tanned deer skin, and a bear skin cap, constituted
the residue of his dress, which, from its lightness
and freedom from every kind of incumbrance upon
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his motions, was well adapted to the full exercise
of that swiftness and dexterity in scouring the
woods, for which habit, and a healthy, sinewy, and
buoyant frame, had rendered him remarkable, even
among the wild sons of the forest.
When he first entered the room he had a musket
in his hand, and a long knife of the dagger form,
for bleeding any animal he might shoot on his excursions,
in a leathern sheath at his left side, which
sheath was suspended from a belt that crossed his
right shoulder. On perceiving Charles, without
paying any attention whatever to the address of his
father, before given, he hastily deposited his gun in
a corner of the room, and, with an air of recognition,
saluted him with the cordial expression of satisfaction
for his safety, we have mentioned, adding,
at the same time, “But I am sorry that you have
met with so rude and uncivil a reception in our
country.”
“In that respect,” replied Charles, “it is a question
whether I ought to complain or rejoice; for,
since coming to your Wilderness, I have met with
the extremes both of kindness and hatred—happiness
and misery.”
“Then you have met with all that life can give
you, since you came among us,” observed and who
“But I think you have purchased your pleasure,
whatever it may have been, dear, by the sufferings
you have paid for it.”
“But I, perhaps, enjoy it the more sensibly on
that account,” returned Charles; “and I do not
know if I can grudge the personal hardships and
trials I have sustained from the Indians, since they
have been the means of procuring me the happiness
your father's house has this night afforded me.”
“It was but a sma' thing we could do to make
you comfortable,” said Gilbert. “Could we do
mair, I wad be glad o't; for the very sicht o' ye, sae
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Christianlike, sae like oorsel's, and o' oor ain kind,
has made us a' blither an' happier nor we hae been
for mony a year.”
“Mr. Adderly,” observed Paddy, “you have
gained one friend by your misfortunes, for whom
it was, indeed, worth while to endure something—
I mean Tonnaleuka—although, I confess, I should
be very loth to undergo what you did even for
such an acquisition.”
“To have acquired the esteem and friendship of
that good and wonderful man,” replied Charles,
“might itself have been sufficient remuneration for
my sufferings; but Providence has added to this
satisfaction others that”—(here he checked himself,
and hesitated for a moment; then continued)
“that providence has shown me in this house to-night,
that virtue can secure to herself happiness,
even in a `Wilderness,' amidst savages; and
henceforth I resolve to keep in her paths, so far as
I know them in despite of all temptations to the
contrary. Is not the arriving at such a result worth
all I have endured?”
I have no means of exactly comparing the benefits
such a resolution with the evils you have
undergone," observed Paddy; “for I do not understand
matter sufficiently. But this I know, that
yesterday saw you in a predicament, to get out of
which I would have thought you excusable in committing
any sin, although I confess I was better pleased
to see you escape by a miracle; and I only wish
that in every scrape of the kind you may fall into,
you may be so fortunate. To be sure, you have a
watchful and powerful friend in Tonnaleuka. If
any man can protect you from Indian violence, it
is he. But he cannot do every thing; and, to be
plain with you, for it is only this very day that he
desired me to be so, there are trap-doors of destruction
into which you may yet fall, if you be not
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circumspect. Your arch-enemy, Carrawoona, is
intractable. He has vowed either to sacrifice himself
or you, and is, at the present time, ranging
the woods, like a wild and infuriated animal, in
search of you. You are safe here, in the mean
while, however; and I have reason to believe that
the prophet will manage matters so, that the implacable
savage will take the wrong direction in
pursuit of you.”
“Surely,” observed Charles, “I need not be
under much apprehension from the hostility of a
single man. His tribe relinquished their claim upon
me, and he will scarcely dare to destroy what it
was their pleasure to spare.”
“He has sworn your destruction,” said Paddy,
“and his tribe have abandoned any further concern
in the business. The contest is now between
you and him, and God grant the right side to be
successful, say I, which is a wish altogether at your
service.”
“With arms in my hand, and a watchful eye in
my head, I think,” said Charles, “if the contest be
only between him and me, I have nothing to fear.
He cannot be more terrible in fight than his son.”
“He is not, perhaps, more terrible,” rejoined
Paddy, “but he is more treacherous; and who
knows but he may seduce some of the haters of the
white men (for there are many of them in this
country) to join his cause. He would have had
half a dozen after you from Shanapins-town, but
for the timely interference of Tonnaleuka, who represented
to the warriors that you were under the
protection of the Great Spirit, who had denounced
vengeance against any one who would harm
you.”
“I fear much,” said Charles, “that the prophet's
generous zeal in my behalf will excite this
rancorous savage to his destruction, which would
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be to the world a much greater loss than mine,
and a loss that would grieve me more than any evil
that can befall myself.”
“You have nothing to fear on that point,” returned
Paddy. “Carrawoona, with all his ferocity,
will not dare to harm the prophet. If he did,
every Indian arm of man, woman, and child, from
the Alleghany mountain to the Mississippi river,
would be lifted against him, and his name and memory
would be for ever held in abhorrence, as the
enemy and destroyer of the prophet of Maneto,
their chief deity.”
“For myself, then,” said Charles, “I will fear
nothing. Let the savage do his worst.”
“By heavens! sir,” said Paddy, who had learned
a number of civilized oaths from the white
traders he had so frequently dealt with, and with
which, when he wished to express himself with
more than usual energy, he never failed to garnish
his speech; “By heavens! sir, I like your spirit,
and shall keep an eye upon Carrawoona myself, if
he pursues you to this neighbourhood, where I
know every foot of the country a thousand times
better than either he or any one of his tribe.”
Charles thanked him for his friendly intentions,
observing, “With such protectors as you and Tonnaleuka,
I do not see why I should apprehend any
thing from a savage, whose power, unless I am
taken unawares, or unprepared, can do me no injury.”
“Paddy! ye please me noo,” said Gilbert; “I
aye kenned ye had some spunk in ye, though ye
never made a gude worker on the lan'. I thought
ye were carried awa' owre muckle wi' the Indians,
but I see ye hae nature in ye, an' aye like to serve
yere ain kind, when the pinch comes. Goth!
Archy! you an' I too maun hae an e'e to this
matter. We mauna sit still, an' see a
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Maughrygown man ill-used amang us. Na, na; fegs!
that wadna be natural.”
Archy having assented to the propriety of this
opinion, and Charles expressed his thanks for their
kindness and good-will, Paddy observed that the
night was pretty far advanced, and proposed retiring
to rest. Gilbert yielded to the proposal, although,
he said, he would hae been glad to hae
cracked an 'oor or twa langer wi' his Maughrygowan
freen'; but he comforted himself with observing,
that it wadna be the last nicht he should
share a jug o' punch wi' him.
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CHAPTER XI.
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I see the flowers and spreading trees,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a weary wight can please,
And care his bosom ringing!
Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,
Yet dare na for your anger;
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.
Burns.
Although Charles's frame had need enough of
repose, his mind had too many objects of contemplation
to dwell upon after he had retired for the
night, to permit him for a long time to enjoy it.
There was one object, in particular, that soon swallowed
up the rest, and engrossed every faculty of
his mind, and every feeling of his heart, so entirely
that he neither thought, nor wished to think, of
any other. What was this object? Was it the
sudden and enthusiastic friendship of his good
host and hostess, and the singular and unexpected
state of domestic comfort in which he found them?
No. Was it the extraordinary and almost super-human
character and conduct of the benevolent
Tonnalenka? No. Was it his own miraculous
deliverance from an apparently inevitable fate?
No. Was it the unfortunate issue of the expedition
he had commanded? No. Was it the persecution
and perils he was likely to sustain from the
inveterate malignancy of Carrawoona? No. It
was something that had a more immediate, more
uncontrollable influence over his thoughts and feelings
than all these put together: the sagacious reader
will, no doubt, have anticipated me in saying, that
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the loveliness of Maria Frazier was this object.
Not her personal beauty, which he thought he
had never seen equalled; not the sweet intonation,
enchanting melody, and almost overpowering
pathos of her voice and manner, when she
sung; not the interesting manifestations of feeling
and embarrassment in her first reception of
him; not the wisdom, propriety, and refinement
of her whole deportment and conversation; not
the kind and generous disposition displayed in her
defence of her sister; not one of these, perhaps,
singly and by itself, would have been capable of
producing the intense impression that was now
made by her image upon his feelings, and to the
influence of which, as he lay meditating upon her,
he totally resigned his whole faculties. It was the
happy union of all these excellences, which he
perceived so strikingly combined in one captivating
individual, and that too in a Wilderness, amidst
savages, where, of all places in the world, he least
expected to meet with such a being, that now
overpowered and absorbed his whole fancy, feelings,
and reflections, his whole desire, his whole
heart and soul—in short, that had thrown him desperately
and incurably into love, as fervent and
rapturous as ever man felt.
It was to the enchantment of this wonderful, this
all-subduing passion, that his mind alluded, but
which his words dared not express, when he informed
Paddy that he had experienced a happiness
since he arrived in the “Wilderness,” sufficiently
remunerative of all the evils he had undergone;
and he now blessed that Providence which had
conducted his steps, even though it had been
through danger and bloodshed, to the abode of so
much beauty and excellence.
“With such a woman for my wife, my life
would, indeed, be one of happiness; but without
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her, alas! it must be one of misery!” he would
frequently say to himself during this night's meditations.
The difficulty of obtaining her would, it
is true, sometimes occur to him, and torment him.
His father might forbid, or she herself might resist
his addresses. But he was young and sanguine,
and could not but believe that he had some grounds
on which to hope for success. With respect to his
father, the only objection could be her want of fortune.
But, did he not himself choose a wife without
regard to fortune? It would, therefore, be with
a very bad grace that he should condemn him for
following his example. His example, however, he
was determined to follow, provided he could only
obtain the fair one's consent. Of this, although
he might have hopes, he could have no certainty.
It was not indeed probable that her affections could
be engaged. She was yet very young, and, except
the Indian traders, to none of whom it was
likely that she could become attached, there was
no white man, he had reason to presume, had ever
seen, much less solicited this captivating daughter
of the Wilderness.
“Shall I declare myself?” thought he. “Shall
I tell her how much I love her! how I cannot be
happy without her? Shall I do so to-morrow?
Ah! I fear it would be imprudent. I am yet too
much a stranger to her. Such precipitancy might
alarm her delicacy, and rouse her pride to oppose
me. I must act with caution, if I mean to gain
such excellence. Her understanding must be convinced,
that I am not unworthy of her. Oh! if I
could only gain some interest in her heart. But
time, and time only, can effect these things. I
must have patience! I wish Tonnaleuka were
here. I will tell him how I feel. His wisdom will
advise me how to act; and perhaps his friendship
may successfully plead for me, if my own suit be
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rejected; for she reveres him as a father, and will
attend to his counsel. I will wait the coming of
Tonnaleuka.”
With this resolution, whether wise or foolish the
reader may decide, formed in his mind, after about
three hours active meditation, Charles at last resigned
himself to sleep, in which he spent about
three hours more, very deliciously dreaming of
Maria, love, and happiness.
Some of our sympathizing readers will, perhaps,
wish to know how Maria felt on this eventful night,
towards by far the most interesting young man she
had ever seen, and upon whose heart her charms
had made such an indelible impression. But as I
never considered it proper to inquire minutely into
the feelings of young ladies on such occasions, I
cannot give the exact chain of thoughts that passed
through her mind, although I have ascertained
that their tenor was even something more than favourable
towards Charles.
“And was it this noble youth,” she would say
to herself, “that the hard-hearted savages were
about committing to the flames? Oh, happy Tonnaleuka!
I shall love you, I shall revere you more
than I ever yet did, since you were the blessed instrument,
in the hands of God, to save him. Oh!
may heaven still grant him protection from that
barbarous enemy, who seeks his destruction!—
Ah! if he were destroyed now, in the bloom and
fervour of youth, what an ornament to his species
would be cut off from the world!”
But, as I have already said, I know not the exact
chain of Maria's reflections on this occasion, I shall
not, therefore, follow them further. I have given a
few of them only, to show the temper and feeling
with which they were conceived, not the form or
manner in which they arose. But I have another
view in refraining to detail Maria's thoughts on
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the first night that she beheld her lover, even if I
could do it in a regular and connected series, which
is, my wish to acquire the reader's favour, by leaving
him something on which to exercise his own
imagination.
The whole of the ensuing day was spent by
Charles Adderly, in the manner of all others the
most delightful to a youthful lover, in looking at
and listening to the mistress of his heart. It was
a day altogether unchequered by any incident of
importance enough to claim a place in this narrative.
It passed on in the calm enjoyment of domestic
and social happiness; or, if it be thought
that the happiness derived by Charles from the
presence of his Maria, was something different,
perhaps superior, to this, then the appellation of
enamoured felicity may suit it better. In beholding
and conversing with Maria, the world and all
its concerns were forgotten, or only so far remembered
as to occasion a comparison which added a
higher relish to his present happiness. If, during
the preceding evening, the chains of love were
prepared and thrown around his heart, they were
now riveted there, never to be taken off; and so
delighted was he with these chains, that he would
not have exchanged them for king George's crown.
Although he was afraid to excite her displeasure
by a premature disclosure of his feelings, and had
also resolved to consult Tonnaleuka, whom he
knew to be her friend, on the subject, before he
disclosed them, yet, during this day, several tempting
occasions offered, when, forgetting his resolution,
he, by the warmth and energy of his expressions
and manner, permitted the state of his mind
to be almost as well known to her, as if he had
made a formal declaration.
Towards the after part of the following day,
however, as he walked along the bank of the river
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in company with his beloved and her sister, his
feelings so plainly betrayed themselves, as to leave
Maria no room to doubt concerning them. It was
a beautiful afternoon, in that most delightful of all
seasons on the American continent, characteristically
called the “Indian Summer.” The atmosphere
was in a sweet, mellow temperature, equally
free from summer's heat and winter's cold. A
soft, waving species of fog encircled the brows of
the hills and the tops of the trees, but in such a
manner as rather to enliven than conceal them,
and to throw over them an air of romantic wildness
and grandeur. The trees of the forest were
indeed in the season of decay, and shedding their
wasted verdure profusely around them, allowing
it to be scattered abroad, and to cover every path,
and all the surface of the ground, with a variegated
bed of red, brown, and yellow leaves, which
moved to and fro, and sparkled to the view, with
every impulse of the passing wind. Yet, in this
very decay, there was a serene and composing influence,
which, while it reminded the spectator
of nature's great and awful change, at the same
time assured him of a prosperous and happy renovation
of his original and uncorrupted condition.
“Is it not strange,” said Charles, “that this decay,
this disorder of nature, which we now behold,
and which reminds us so forcibly of the great
change we must all undergo, should, instead of inspiring
us with melancholy and desponding ideas,
animate us with feelings of the most welcome and
agreeable description, and produce a contentment
and cordiality of existence, which neither the
freshness of spring nor the bloom of summer can
effect?”
“Tonnaleuka has often explained to me,” replied
Maria, “the source whence the feelings we
derive from external nature arise. But in the
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civilized world, you must have had opportunities
of becoming better acquainted with these things
than a child of the forest. It would, therefore,
be presumption in me to offer you Tonnaleuka's
explanation of the feelings you mention.”
“In the civilized world, as you are pleased to
call it,” said Charles, “there are many appearances
of nature which cannot be studied so well
as in the desert; and such of the sons of the forest
as have inquiring minds, frequently discover
truths for which the drudges of science often
search in vain. I doubt not, but the most learned
of our philosophers would find Tonnaleuka capable
of teaching them many things, especially on
abstract and metaphysical subjects, which require
not the proof of experiment, but only the suggestions
of nature, for their elucidation. As for myself,
I will always be proud to learn from Tonnaleuka,
and always delighted, ah! more than delighted,
to receive his lessons from you.”
“It may be so, sir,” replied Maria; “since you
say it, I must believe it. But in this instance, as
I am convinced you will be more benefited by
getting your lesson from its original source, I will
not deprive you of that benefit, by communicating
it at second hand.”
“Forgive me, Maria,” said Charles, somewhat
startled at this reply, “if my asserting the truth
has given offence. Believe me, I spoke seriously,
and not with the least view to compliment, when
I mentioned the delight your communicating Tonnaleuka's
doctrines would give me.”
“You mistake me, sir,” replied Maria; “you
have given no offence. But do you suppose I
shall be so presumptuous as to turn your instructor?
What a reflection it would be upon the learned
professors of Dublin college, if a simple girl,
born and bred in the wilds of America, should
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be found teaching a pupil upon whom they, no
doubt, expended all their lore!”
“I beg you, for mercy,” said Charles, “be not
so severe with me. What those men taught me,
might be of service to me in the ranks of society;
but here, I acknowledge—here, in the midst of
sublime and beautiful nature, it sinks into insignificance;—
and here, heaven knows, I feel happier,
and would be more content to spend my whole
life as I now do, than in the midst and in possession
of all the pleasures and all the honours that
society could afford me.”
“Sir,” said Maria, “I believe all you say; for
even in these wilds, I have learned that it is uncivil
to disbelieve any one. But I may venture to
express my surprise, that the social life should be
so very disagreeable as to induce you to give these
barbarous woods such a vast preference. Neither
Tonnaleuka, who for several years lived in society,
nor my father, nor my mother, who were bred
up in it, and who have this many a year fretted
almost to broken-heartedness to return to it, have
ever described it to me as so very disagreeable
and hateful as your language would infer.”
“I mean not to say,” replied Charles, “that
society is destitute of its charms and enjoyments.
It has many, and those too, powerfully alluring.
But to me, all its charms are inferior to the charms
I have here beheld—all its enjoyments are insipid,
to those I have, within these last two days, experienced.
Ah, Maria! I do not undervalue the
joys of society—but I value more highly, because
I feel far more acutely, those I have felt here!”
“I am glad that Mr. Adderly is so happy with
us,” observed Nancy; “but I cannot guess what
has made him so. It surely cannot be the bonny
blue mist that's now around us, curling over the
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tops of the trees like smoke rising from the burning
of brushwood.”
“No,” said Maria, smiling, “I think not; neitheir
our fogs, nor our withered leaves, nor any
other feature of our landscape, nor yet the gentle
reception that our native tribes have given him,
could have been the strangely attractive cause that
has bound his fancy so strongly to these uncultured
wilds. I rather imagine that Mr. Adderly is subject
to a certain complaint, with which I have
heard Tonnaleuka say that young travellers and
young poets were often afflicted. He called it
the hyperbole, which, he said, in English means
`overstraining.' Not, Mr. Adderly,” said Maria,
somewhat raising her voice, to check an effort
which Charles was here making to speak, at the
same time sweetly smiling in his face, so as to
keep him in good humour; “not, Mr. Adderly,
that you have wilfully, or even knowingly, fallen
into this disease. Your judgment and your candour,
I believe, are sound; but your imagination—
I beg your pardon, sir, I say nothing about it.”
“Ah! tantalizing girl!” said he, not knowing
whether he ought to be pleased or displeased with
her observations; “tell me whether you really
think me mad, for you half seem to do so—or are
you only bentering me?”
“Think you mad!” repeated Maria—“Why, I
admit it is likely enough. But then, if you were
mad, it might be dangerous to tell you so, and still
more dangerous to banter you. No, no; I shall
never banter a madman, unless I first become mad
myself. But, in sober earnestness, sir, I do not
think you mad—I only think you wild. But, perhaps
it is customary for you civilized gentlemen
to be so.”
“I beg a truce,” cried Charles; “for really if
I have offended by expressing the sense I have of
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my present happiness, I have surely been chastised
enough. But no,” he added; “even this
chastisement is happiness.”
“What,” said Maria, “Hyperbole again! But
I see you are incurable, sir. I will have done with
you, and leave you to your malady. So let us return
home, if you please.”
They according turned towards the house, when
Nancy observing some cattle at a short distance in
the woods, which she wished to drive homewards,
ran after them, and left Charles alone with his beloved.
“Alas! Maria, said he, as soon as their companion
was out of hearing, “the true cause of my
happiness here—oh! would to heaven that you
knew it, and approved of it!”
“Mr. Adderly,” she replied, in a tone and manner
which had become suddenly serious and embarrassed,
“what, what good would my knowledge
of that circumstance do you? If it will do you
good, let me hear it, for I will rejoice to serve
you. But if you are happy, as you say, already,
is it not enough? Be content and continue so.—
My knowledge of your concerns, or my interference
with them, can surely, for my power is exceedingly
limited, do you no good.”
“Yes—you—my Maria!” he cried, rather instinctively
than rationally—“you alone, of all the
world, have the greatest control over my fate—
you alone have—”
“Sir,” said she, interrupting him, “this is
mysterious language. How I can in any manner
control your fate, I do not understand, nor do I
wish, at the present time to be informed. Mysteries
and secrets have never been pleasing to me,
and to become acquainted with yours now, is what
I will not, with my own consent. I am persuaded
that while it might do me harm, it could do you
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no good; and now, when I think of it properly, I
desire you to let me remain in ignorance concerning
your affairs.”
“Ah! Maria,” said he, “why put this cruel
injunction upon me. But it is your wish, and I
shall obey it.”
They here walked for sometime in silence, during
which, Charles's manner betrayed great agitation.
Maria afraid that this might continue after
their arrival at the house, and be observed by
some of the family, stopped at a short distance
from it, and said—
“Mr. Adderly, I wish what has occurred between
us this evening, not to alter our bearing towards
each other, nor to interrupt whatever degree
of friendship may have existed between us.
I assure you I have not changed my opinion of
you, be that opinion what it might, nor will I
change my manners towards you, unless a change
becomes perceptible on your part.”
“Maria! Maria!” said Charles, looking seriously
and affectingly at her, while he laid his hand
upon his heart, “I here seriously promise, that
whatever may be your wishes, only let me know
them, and I shall obey them—for obedience to you
is, and ever shall be, my chief happiness.”
Maria blushed deeply, for she could not now
avoid comprehending his meaning, but she said
nothing, and continuing their walk, they soon arrived
at the house.
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CHAPTER XII.
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She felt his flame, but deep within her breast
In bashful coyness, or in maiden pride
The soft return conceal'd; save when it stole
In side-long glances from her downcast eye,
Or from her swelling soul in stifl'd sighs.
Touch'd by the scene, no stranger to his vows,
He fram'd a melting lay to try her heart;
And if an infant passion struggl'd there,
To call that passion forth. Thrice happy swain!
A lucky chance, that oft decides the fate
Of mighty monarchs, then decided thine.
Thomson.
The day after the preceding interview, Tonnaleuka
visited Gilbert's residence. Taking Charles
aside, he informed him of various unsuccessful attempts
that Carrawoona had made to engage the
neighbouring Indians to assist in pursuing him.—
“But,” said he, “my son, although he is not
likely to obtain auxiliaries in this vicinity, yet he
may obtain them elsewhere. Besides, without
any auxiliary, his own personal exertions, his cunning,
ferocity, perseverence, and intrepidity, are
formidable perils to encounter. There will be no
end to his attempts against you, while you remain
in this country. Alas! my son, while here, you
are not for a single day assured of your life. You
know not how soon, from some unsuspected ambush,
the treacherous savage may discharge the
bolt of your destruction. Then, hear my advice—
Fix an early day for your departure. Our brother
Frazier will furnish you with a horse and provisions,
and I will procure you a guide. My son,
I wish you were safe with your friends in the east,
for I fear much for you here.”
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“My father, and my deliverer,” said Charles,
“I know you wish your son to be happy—Ah! if
you wish him to be so, do not bid him so soon
leave this place. When I last saw you, father, I
wished for nothing more ardently than to get out
of this Wilderness. Now I dread, I tremble, to
leave it, for in leaving it, under present circumstances,
I shall separate from happiness and, perhaps,
bid adieu to it for ever. Oh, Father! forgive
the weakness of your son. I will reveal to
you my heart. I want a confidant and an adviser,
and where can I find a better than you? You
whose friendship will sympathize with me, and
whose wisdom will direct me. Father, my heart
is bound to this place, for it loves, fervently, and
unalterably loves, the fairest, the sweetest maiden
that ever charmed the affections of man.—Ah!
need I tell you, when I say so, that it is Maria, the
daughter of our kind host, to whom I am become so
attached—so devoted, that without her, or without
hopes of her, I know not how I shall support
life.”
“My son,” said Tonnaleuka, “you have made
me your confidant—I will endeavour to be a true
one—you have told me your weakness—I will not
blame you for it, nor coldly exhort you against encouraging
it—for I am not ignorant of what love
is, and therefore know that it would be fruitless.
Advice to a lover is like the wind to the burning
forest, instead of cooling and diminishing the fury
of the flame, it aggravates and increases it beyond
the power of control. But my son, I will say
that I grieve for you—your passion is, at present,
extremely inconvenient, it is unfortunate—it may
interfere with your safety—for if it will not permit
you to leave this country, you are sooner or later
likely to fall by the revenge of Carrawoona. My
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son, may I ask if the maiden knows that you love
her?”
“Alas! Father,” replied Charles—“she has
not permitted me to make the declaration. But
I believe she suspects, ah! she cannot but suspect
how I feel!”
“Hear me—my son,” said Tonnaleuka. “The
maiden you love is the child of my instruction,
and as dear to me as if she were the offspring of
my loins. Her peace of mind, therefore, and her
prosperity are as much the objects of my solicitude
as yours can be. Your attentions may have made
an impression upon her mind, even at present unknown
to herself, which may, in the end, be ruinous
to her peace—for, alas! the female mind is
too susceptible of such impressions. I shall try
by studying her attentively while I talk to her
about you, to discover the state of her feelings; and
if she be undisturbed, if she be cool, if she be indifferent
towards you, hear me, my son, nor consider it unkindness
if I say, that I shall then require you, for
her sake, to relinquish all pretensions to her, and,
if possible, for your own sake, to abandon all
thoughts of her. For I will not sanction any measure
that will tend to interrupt the even and
smooth tranquillity which has hitherto occupied
her unruffled mind.”
“Ah! Father! will you be—”
“Hear me, further—son, do not interrupt me;
I have not yet done. If an impression has been
made on Maria's mind; if I find that your attachment
is likely to be mutual, I will then advise you
to declare it. I will encourage you to persevere,
and use any influence I may have over her in
promoting your success. My son, you may now
speak.”
“Father—by what you have said, you have bid
me despair. I hoped for your interference in my
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behalf, but, alas! I now expect none. You will not
befriend me, nay, you will oppose my efforts to
gain her favour, unless you discover that I already
enjoy it! Father, you may save yourself the trouble
of making the inquiry, for I know I do not enjoy
it. She has forbidden me to speak to her the
feelings of my heart; and, alas! I have no friend
who will prevail on her to withdraw that prohibition.
Oh! if I had only permission to plead my
cause, permission to tell her how much she causes
me to suffer, I know she would pity me—she is
too kind-hearted to be aware of my sorrows, and
not bid me be comforted.”
“My son,” replied Tonnaleuka, “I really feel
for you—I grieve for you. But if Maria cannot
love you, grief is all I can give you; for never will
I assist in either constraining, or even in persuading
her to join her fate with one she cannot love.
It is my anxiety for her welfare, and not my indifference
for yours, that prevents me from interfering
with any undue influence in this matter.”
“My son, listen to another thing. Have you
thought seriously upon what would be the consequence
of your suit being successful? You would,
no doubt, make her your wife. But your laws require
a certain prescribed ceremony to be performed
by a privileged person for that purpose.—
Where could such a person be found here? Neither
she nor you would think of submitting to our
Indian form of marriage; and you could not expect
that she would leave her father and her mother,
and travel with you, for weeks together
through a howling wilderness, in search of a priest
to tie the nuptial knot! No—my son, you cannot
expect this—for you must see it could not be done.
Why, therefore, disturb the mind of an innocent
and hitherto happy young woman, by exciting her
affections and securing her love, when to gain the
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object for which these are done, is, under present
circumstances, so utterly impracticable? No, my
son, you will be wise, you will be generous; and
if you really love this young woman, you will permit
her to remain happy as you found her; and
not, by indulging in the pursuit of a wild and visionary,
and, you may now perceive, unattainable object,
plunge both her and yourself into perhaps a
series of misfortunes, the extent of which can
neither be foreseen nor calculated.”
“Oh! Father! bear with me yet!” replied
Charles. “Surely to procure a lawful person to
unite our hands, if our hearts were once united,
would not be so difficult a matter as you suppose.
Oh! let me only be sure of an interest in her
heart—let me but have her consent to join me
in wedlock, and I will soon hasten through the
desert, and bring from the habitations of christians
a clergyman to perform the ceremony.”
“My son! hear me again,” said Tonnaleuka,
“your impetuosity blinds you to obstacles. It is
indeed, always the nature of passion, and especially
the passion of love, to blind its votaries.
The accomplishment of what you propose, may
not be absolutely impossible, but an immense
majority of chances are against it. My son, let
us suppose you have gained the affections of Maria;
you are obliged to leave her speedily, or risk
falling the victim of Carrawoona. This would
render her miserable. Or you get safely out of
the Wilderness, and your father opposes your return,
unwilling that you should again encounter
such hardships and perils as will even make him
shudder to hear recited; or he perhaps, compels
you to marry some eastern heiress; or, if left to
your own inclinations, you may search in vain for
a priest to accompany you back to the desert; or
distance may cool your affection, and your desire
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to return; or—hear me yet—you may meet with
some fatal accident on your perilous journey;
you may sicken and die. In short, a thousand
things may take place to prevent Maria from ever
again seeing you. She, in consequence, sinks into
an agonizing suspense concerning your fate;
she pines under the weight of long continued disappointment,
and at length, dies of a broken
heart, the victim of disappointed love!
“Listen, my son—is it not my duty to protect
her if I can, against such a fate? and Oh! may
her great Parent above assist me! Still, my son!
hear me. If I find that her heart is already touched,
that her affections are already yours—then,
as I know she will be unchangeable—as I know
that her happiness will then depend on yours—I
will bid adieu to caution on the subject; and, as
I before said, will be the promoter of your suit.
For when two minds are thus mutually attached,
the sooner they come to a mutual understanding,
they are the sooner relieved from an unnecessary
burden of suspense and anxiety.”
“Father!” said Charles, “your sentiments may
be reasonable; but I do not feel as if I could judge
of them properly just now. They sound harsh
to me, but you are my deliverer, and I know you
are my friend. I will, therefore, think nothing
you can say to me harsh. But, Oh! these sentiments
promise nothing to my happiness, and I am
not now in a fit state of mind, altogether to acquiesce
in their propriety. But you need not fear
that I will importune Maria with my passion. I
shall for ever love her, and none but her. I shall
bear in silence the tortures of an unrequited love;
for she has commanded me to be silent, and she
shall be obeyed. With respect to any danger
from Carrawoona, since my life is thus likely to
be miserable, it is scarcely worth preserving.
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Still it would be criminal to tempt fate; and the
sooner I proceed to the eastward, the sooner I
shall have it in my power to return with the
means of removing at least some of your objections
to my suit. As soon, therefore, as the necessary
preparations for my journey can be made,
I shall bid, but I trust only for a time, farewell to
a country, where, in the space of a few weeks,
I have felt both more joy, and sorrow, than I ever
did during the whole course of my previous existence.”
The effects of this conversation upon Charles's
mind, were visible during the whole of that day,
and Maria could not but observe them. Indeed,
her own spirits were not in the most comfortable
condition. Tonnaleuka had decided that Charles
was only to remain another day with them, and
she saw that preparations were now making for
his journey.
“But what, thought she, is this affair to me,
that I should permit it to affect me so much?
This young man is but a stranger to me. 'Tis
true he is interesting, brave, and unfortunate, and
he has almost said that—that—no I will not presume
so—for if he did love me, how imprudent
it would be to return or encourage his partiality,
when fortune compels us to reside so far asunder?
Why should I regret that he must now leave us,
when his safety requires it? I will try to be cheerful—
although I see he is not. Unfortunate young
man! I really wish his safety permitted him to stay,
for some short time, at least. But it does not. He
must go and I must not appear to grieve for it. I
will keep up my spirits. It might occasion remarks
to be made, if I should appear particularly
melancholy at this time.”
During the whole of that evening, she accordingly
did keep up her spirits very successfully,
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and so great was the triumph of her resolution
over her feelings, that when Tonnaleuka, with the
design of discovering how they were affected towards
Charles, talked pointedly to her about his
leaving them, professing great regret for the necessity
that occasioned it, and great admiration
for the openness, manliness, and general excellence
of his character, she completely succeeded
in deceiving him with regard to the state of her
affections. She acknowledged that he was a very
fine, accomplished young man—but she did so in
such a careless manner, that Tonnaleuka supposed
she conceived it of no importance whether
he was or not. She pitied his misfortunes, and
wished him safe at a distance from Carrawoona's
vengeance, with so much undisturbed and tranquil
sincerity, that Tonnaleuka believed her to
be actuated only by the mere charity of her nature,
to desire his safety. He gave up his examination,
which by the bye, he had commenced just
when she was best prepared to meet it, thoroughly
convinced, that she felt for Charles no feeling
tenderer than might arise from mere benevolence
and good nature.
When, however, the morning of that day came,
which was to be the last of Charles's abode with
them, she felt internally so agitated, that she
feared that during its course, if she staid at home,
she might betray herself. She thought it prudent,
therefore, to spend the day at a distance. After
breakfast, she accordingly set off on a visit to
Queen Alliquippa, so that Charles, very much to
his dissatisfaction and mortification, felt himself
compelled to pass this last of his days at her abode,
without the satisfaction of seeing her. His chagrin
at her absence was the greater, that all the
rest of the family paid him more than usual
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attention, frequently expressing their regret that it
did not suit him to remain longer with them.
“Ah! thought he—is she whose attention I
alone cared for, indifferent towards me? She
avoids me, she flies from me—perhaps because
she knows, for she cannot but know, that she renders
me miserable by so doing. Ah! this is indeed
refinement in cruelty, and inflicts a torture
less tolerable to my soul, and less excusable, than
that which Carrawoona himself would inflict
upon me. He would only inflict vengeance upon
an enemy—but, alas! she entails misery and despair
upon a lover. But, heaven forgive me if I
accuse her wrongfully! She certainly knows not
how much I desire her presence to-day, or she
would not so cruelly absent herself, for it is not
in her nature to be so cruel.”
Thus he reasoned, and thus he fretted, and thus
he accused, and thus he acquitted her, until the
day had advanced somewhat into the afternoon;
when unable longer to bear her absence, especially
as he was not sure whether she would return
at all before his departure, he resolved to set
out for Alliquippa's, and solicit at least a parting
interview.
He accordingly, without acquainting any one with
his intention, set off in that direction. Fortune
sometimes favours lovers even in their most desponding
moments, and, on this occasion, she favoured
Charles so far as to permit him, when a
little more than half way to Alliquippa's residence,
to meet his Maria returning homewards alone in
the woods.
His heart leaped with joy as he beheld her continuing
to advance; for he was afraid, when he first
saw her, that she would, in order to avoid him,
perhaps return back to the queen's residence.
But I may now inform my readers of what Charles
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himself was at that time ignorant, that feelings
similar to his own actuated the mind of Maria, and
were the cause of her now returning so unexpectedly
soon from her visit. She thought that
it would be carrying her caution with respect to
her lover, (for she knew well that Charles was
such,) too far, and that it would be acting with too
much harshness to both his and her own feelings,
(for she too felt a tenderness, or something else
for Charles Adderly, which she did not wish to
consider love, although it possessed every one of
its qualities except the name,) to refuse him an
opportunity of bidding that farewell, which, in all
probability, was to be both the first and the last he
should ever bid her.
“I will, at least, see him once more before he
departs,” she said to herself; “there can be no
harm in that, since we shall bid farewell, it is
likely never to meet again.”
Charles, in consequence of this charitable resolution
of Maria, met her, as we have stated, and met
her with feelings such as none but those who have
loved can comprehend, and which it would be a
folly to describe to those who have not.
“Oh, Maria!” said he, when he approached her,
while she blushed in some confusion as she held
out her hand to him by way of salutation—“Oh,
Maria! how glad I am to meet you! I really feared
I should not have seen you to have taken a
long, but, I hope, not a last farewell.”
“Your not seeing me, Mr. Adderly,” said she,
“would have been no great disadvantage to you.
I believe it would not have added one particle to
either the length, wildness, or difficulty of your
way homewards.”
“It would, however,” replied Charles, “have
dispirited and enfeebled me. I should have feared
that you wilfully avoided me, from some
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personal dislike; so that I should have been by far
less capable of encountering the difficulties of the
journey, than if I commenced it with a consciousness
of possessing your esteem and good wishes.”
“My esteem or good wishes either can be of
but little importance to any one,” she replied;
“but such as they are, I have no hesitation in saying,
that they are yours, in welcome and sincerity,
wherever you go; and if no harm befalls you until
I wish it, you will always be in safety and comfort.”
“Oh! dare I ask nothing but esteem from you?
Is there no warmer feeling of your heart to which
I might lay claim? will it be presumption—”
“Sir!” said she, interrupting him—“I wish to
hear nothing, at the present time, upon that subject,
to which I see you wish to bring the conversation.
We are soon to part, and may, perhaps,
never again meet. To cherish, therefore, under
such circumstances, feelings in any degree warmer
than sincere esteem, might be detrimental to the
peace and happiness of us both. Let us, therefore,
look upon each other only as—”
Here she was startled with a loud report of a
musket, the ball of which struck Charles in the right
arm, and broke it. This was immediately succeeded
by the terrifying and tremendous yell of a
fierce and powerful savage, who leaped with dreadful
ferocity and force upon Charles, now unable
to defend himself, and throwing him upon his back,
held him firmly down, with one knee upon his
breast, while the other fixed his uninjured arm to the
ground. With his left hand, he grasped Charles
by the throat, thereby, forcibly pressing him
to the earth, while with his right hand he brandished
his tomahawk, and as he aimed the blow,
with which he intended to terminate Charles's existence,
he exclaimed—
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“Destroyer of my son! where liest thou now?
In his father's grasp. Yes, smile thou spirit of
Carrawissa! This is thy victim. I sacrifice thy
enemy to thee. Thou art revenged, in despite of
Tonnaleuka!
“What sayest thou, white man! Dost thou not
now wish that thy sword had been deep in the
caverns of the earth, when it pierced the bowels
of Carrawissa! Thou didst look at the youth—
was he not stately, an ornament to man? And
didst thou not slay him? Yes, perdition seize
thee! thou didst kill the hero of his tribe—the
pride, the delight of his father! But my soul now
riots in pleasure. I now have my revenge—Yes,
I will let thee see that woman! I perceive thou
castest thine eyes towards her. Didst thou love
her! Then I am doubly revenged—for see, her
soul is departed. Look at her—for I delight to
torment thee. She is killed! I will send thee to
death after her. Thy blood shall appease my
passion, thy scalp shall gratify my pride, and thy
soul I shall devote as an offering to Carrawissa!
Now for it!—No prophet of Maneto saves thee
now!”
So saying, he collected his whole strength, and
and the fatal blow was in the act of descending,
when a rifle-ball penetrated the brain of the savage,
and he fell lifeless by the side of his intended
victim. Charles being thus unexpectedly freed
from the death-like grasp of his terrible foe,
started to his feet, and springing to Maria, who
had entirely fainted away, from the effects of
such a sudden and terrifying scene, he perceived
she was still quite insensible, and in a voice of despair,
he called out—“Oh! God! is she indeed
dead! Is there nothing I can do to save her?”
At that instant, Paddy Frazier was at his side:
but directing his whole attention towards
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Carrawoona; on lifting whose head, and seeing his
brains scattered on the earth, he cried out—
“By heavens! it is what he deserved. It was
a good hit too, at such a distance. It took the
very spot I aimed at. I had no time to get nearer—
but never yet, since I was a boy, have I missed
within a hundred yards. It has done his business,
and killed him snugly—thank God!”
Maria's senses were now returning, and the
first words she distinctly heard, were the awful
ones, “and killed him!” which, in the present
scattered state of her senses she supposed were
applied to Charles, whom she did not at once perceive
beside her, supporting her head with his
sound arm under it, and with the wounded one
lying on the other side, bleeding on the ground.
“Ah! my Charles! my Charles!” she in a frenzied
manner exclaimed, “has he killed thee! Has
the monster killed my beloved! Oh! let me see
my Charles! Is he dead!”
(Here seeing him beside her, and thinking
what she saw to be only his corpse, she threw
her arms around him)—
“Oh! my best beloved, have they murdered
thee?” she again exclaimed. “Oh, God! thou hast
soon taken him from me. I am left miserable
here. Oh! that I could die with him! Why did
not the murderer kill us both! These pangs—I—
I—(here her senses had returned so far that she
began to discover the truth)—I, I—Oh! what—”
she now distinguished Charles, saying in a soothing
manner—
“My love! be calm, neither of us is killed.
Thank God! you are yet safe—still alive to comfort
and delight your Charles.”
“Thank God! thank God! indeed,” she replied—
“but Charles how is this! Was not that
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shot mortal! and surely I saw you fall beneath the
grasp of that dreadful savage. I thank heaven
there has been no murder here.”
“No murder, indeed,” said Charles, “has taken
place; but there is a death, although a very deserved
one. My enemy, Carrawoona, has breathed
his last.”
“Your enemy!” repeated Maria—“God be
praised! God who twice protected you, and delivered
you from your enemies. Oh, Charles,
how thankful we should be!” Then checking
herself, as if she felt that she had expressed her feelings
too warmly, she said—“Indeed, Mr. Adderly,
you have singular reason to be thankful for the
protection of heaven, which has now twice so miraculously
rescued you from impending fate.”
“I am thankful, Maria,” said he, “not for my
deliverance only, but also for my danger, for it
has been the means of letting me see that the
heart whose affections I should rather possess than
those of the whole world besides, is not indifferent
to my fate. Oh, Maria! there has been a sweet
consolation afforded to me this evening. Tonnaleuka
will not now ask me to leave thee so soon.”
“Mr. Adderly,” said she, “you have, I believe,
discovered the weakness I wish to conceal; but
let us talk, at present, no more about it. Ah!”
she exclaimed, noticing the condition of his right
arm, “ah! I fear you are wounded, perhaps, dangerously
wounded. Oh, Charles! the worst may
not yet be over!”
“The worst is over, my love!” said he, in a
low voice, so that Paddy could not overhear him,
“I think this hurt nothing, when I consider the
sweet confession I have gained from lips the
loveliest, the dearest to me in the world.”
“Oh! talk not of this,” said she; “let us hasten
home, that your arm may be bound up. Oh,
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Charles! how much you have suffered in the short
time you have been in this Wilderness! But
let us go; your wound, indeed, must be very painful.”
“Yes;” said Paddy, turning from the examination
of the deadly proof which Carrawoona's skull
exhibited of his dexterity as a marksman, and addressing
the lovers—“Yes,” said he, “Mr. Adderly
must be taken care of. This savage, thanks
to the goodness of my rifle, requires no more care;
he'll frighten you no more, Maria.”
“The goodness of your eye, Paddy, I believe
also deserves credit for this result,” said Charles.
“No matter,” replied Paddy, “about my eye;
“the fellow won't trouble us more, that is the best
of it. As to the worst of it, your broken arm, that
dangles there like a twig from a tree—Maria lend
me that shawl, I will sling it comfortably to his
breast till we get home, and then Tonnaleuka will
fix it as neatly as he did my broken leg long ago,
for his hands are as well skilled in these matters,
as his head is in philosophy.”
Maria hastily loosened her shawl, and tremblingly
assisted Paddy in fixing Charles's fracture with
it, so that its motion might not give him pain till
he reached the house, which, as he was able to
walk stoutly enough, was accomplished speedily,
and without accident.
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CHAPTER XIV.
[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]
O woman! in our hours of ease,
Uacertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wrung the brow,
A ministering angel thou!
Scott.
The excitement—the mixture of alarm and joy
produced on Charles's arrival at the house of his
kind host, upon the minds of its inmates, must,
like many other things hinted at in this history,
be left for the reader to imagine. Their joy soon
predominated, however, when Tonnaleuka, after
binding up his arm, as art, or rather as nature, suggested,
declared that the hurt was not dangerous,
and that a few weeks of care and good nursing
would restore him to as much vigour and soundness
as he ever possessed; and they warmly expressed
to Charles the great satisfaction they felt
at this successful termination of his contest with
his rancorous enemy. Paddy also came in for a
share of their joyful attention, and obtained many
hearty thanks and eulogies for his timely and fortunate
interference, with his steady and keen eye,
on this occasion.
“Goth, man!” said his father, “it was the best
guided an' luckiest aim ye ever took. Aye draw
ye're trigger in sitch a cause, Paddy; aye shoot
sharp in favour o' yere ain kind o' folk, an' dinna
spare the ithers when they wad do mischief, an'
I winna say, but after a' ye were born for a guid
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end, though ye'll no work christian-like on the lan'.
Heth, lad! ye hae at last done what maks me
prood o' ye!”
As for Charles, the assurance he now had of
being beloved by the mistress of his heart, and the
assiduous attentions which, in this period of his
affliction, she unhesitatingly paid him, gave him
such a delightful flow and buoyancy of spirits, that
he appeared all cheerfulness, animation, and gaiety,
happy in himself, and pleased with all around him.
Tonnaleuka, who did not know that he had discovered
the state of Maria's feelings, naturally ascribed
Charles's good humour to his having so
providentially got rid of his persecutor, together
with the prospect he now had of enjoying a longer
residence in the same place with the woman he
loved. His mind, being now at ease with respect
to Charles's safety, he was not, of course, so solicitous
for his speedy departure as he had been;
and the wounded arm making a delay of some
weeks necessary, he acquiesced in its propriety.
He thought it prudent, however, to take an early
opportunity of cautioning Charles against disturbing
the present serenity of Maria's mind by any
disclosure of his passion.
“You know, my son,” said he, “that there are
difficulties in the way of your union which you
may never be able to overcome. How unfortunate
would it then be for this young woman to fix
her affections upon one whom it is so unlikely she
shall ever call her husband. If you wish her well,
my son, you will be careful to conceal your passion
from her knowledge. I know it is, under the
circumstances in which you are now placed, a hard
task that I prescribe to you. There are few young
men who could accomplish it; but if you can do
it, so much greater will be your victory, and, in
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the end, believe me, so much greater will be your
self-approbation.”
“Father,” replied Charles, “it would be wrong
in me to conceal aught from you. Of my attachment
for her, she is already aware. If you have
discovered that she views it with indifference, it
is my misfortune. But, father, permit me to say,
that I cannot, and I believe no one can, love as I
do, without hope. Yes, kind-hearted, lovely maiden!
she has given me ground for hope. Ah, father!
I feel here, within my breast, a presentiment, in
which I cannot but confide, that this sweet, this
fascinating young woman and I are destined for
each other. Do not—do not, I implore you, you
who are my best of friends—do not, by your cold,
discouraging injunctions, forbid me to cherish that
sacred presentiment, which affords me so much
happiness!”
“My son,” observed the prophet, “I am then
mistaken in respect to Maria. I have talked to
her about you, and concluded, from her manner
as well as her language, that her mind was yet at
ease. I may have been deceived. But you yourself
said you were certain she did not love you.”
“I said so once, my father,” replied Charles;
“I was then miserable—I believe differently now,
thank heaven! and I am happy.”
“If it be so,” said Tonnaleuka, “then the die
is cast. If she loves you once—I know her—she
will love you for ever; and the only method to
secure her happiness, will be to promote yours,
and use every fair means to clear the way for
your union. She has been more than a favourite
pupil with me. She has been the very child of
my tuition. I must for ever feel concerned in her
welfare. My son, if you have her affections, you
have, indeed, a valuable prize, which, I trust, you
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will ever possess wisdom enough to appreciate
justly, and honour enough to cherish fondly.
“My son, I go off to-morrow to the northward.
An Indian council requires my presence in a few
days. It will be three weeks before I return here.
You will be then much recovered, and, under your
present prospects, I expect will have no objection
to proceed soon to Philadelphia, where you may
smooth the way for the attainment of your future
views.”
During Tonnaleuka's absence, Charles, who
had, as we have seen, exchanged an almost broken
heart for an altogether broken arm, was so rejoiced
at such an improvement in his affairs, that he
felt as if all the world was in the Wilderness—
all of it, indeed, that he at this time considered
necessary to his happiness, namely, Maria Frazier,
was there.
Since the accidental discovery he had made of
her feelings towards him, she had not shown him
the same shyness and reserve as before; nay,
during the first few days of his fracture, she manifested
for him unusual tenderness and sympathy,
under the persuasion that his misfortune was sufficient
justification for the display of such feelings.
But she soon found herself under the necessity of
abating her attentions, and sometimes even of
avoiding his presence, in order to prevent him
from exposing both her and himself, by an ill-timed
display of his fondness; and also, perhaps,
with the view of keeping alive that respectfulness
of passion which he had hitherto borne for her,
and which she supposed (for she had occasionally
a slight tincture of the prude in her disposition)
that too much familiarity would tend to weaken
and diminish. She, however, knew how to regulate
this slight assumption of dignity so well, that
in place of reserve, it appeared gracefulness, and
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instead of displeasing, it only the more charmed
her lover. But she, in reality, allowed him so
many opportunities of enjoying her society, of
talking of his love, of his hopes, and of his intentions
with respect to her and connubial happiness,
that he had, on the whole, during Tonnaleuka's
absence, no reason to complain.
His love matters, that is, the matters dearest to
his heart, being thus providentially placed on the
most favourable footing, he began seriously to reflect
on the propriety of returning home, that he
might not only acquaint the Ohio Company of the
misfortunes that had befallen their expedition, but
also arrange matters for a speedy return to the
Wilderness, with the necessary means of making
Maria his wife. Paddy Frazier, to whom gratitude
now naturally much attached him, was desirous
to accompany him on his journey, for the
purpose of carrying his furs and peltry wares to
Philadelphia, to exchange them there for such
merchandise as suited the Indians. This desire of
Paddy was very agreeable to Charles, not only
because he would be both a useful and agreeable
companion on the way, but because he would have
an opportunity, when they should arrive at Philadelphia,
to reward him by a present of merchandise,
for the active and dexterous management by
which he so critically saved his life; and, if the
whole truth must be told, he also wished to have
the means of writing to his beloved by some safe
and speedy conveyance, if it should so happen that
uncontrollable circumstances compelled him to
remain longer personally, for he felt assured that
he could never be mentally, absent from her.
Paddy accordingly having resolved upon this
journey, (considerably to his father's satisfaction,
who hoped he might fall in with some good christian
woman on the journey, whom he might bring
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back with his other eastern goods, as his own property,)
was now busied preparing for the great undertaking,
by assorting, cleaning, and packing up
his wares, and adding considerably to their quantity,
by hastily purchasing whatever the Indians in
the neighbourhood could spare him.
At length Charles's arm was sufficiently recovered
to permit him to undertake the journey,
and the day drew near when he was to bid farewell
to his beloved. Tonnaleuka had returned
from the Indian council which he had been attending,
and the guide whom he had some time before
provided for Charles was in readiness. This man,
whose name was Manhulseh, was much in awe of
Tonnaleuka, and was, at the same time, well acquainted
with the whole mountainous district of
Pennsylvania, from the Chesnut Ridge to the
South Mountain. He was also a tolerably brave
man, and could handle a musket or a tomahawk
with any individual of his tribe. Hence he was
one of the best qualified persons our travellers
could have procured, to conduct them through the
vast, intricate, and appalling Wilderness they
had to traverse; and his reverence and attachment
for Tonnaleuka, secured to them the full
benefit of his fidelity.
Although thus well supplied with a guide, and in
every other respect fully equipped for the journey,
Charles felt at his heart such a reluctance to
commence it, that, under various pretences, some
of which were even so frivolous as to be seen
through and smiled at, although they were indulged
by his friends, he succeeded, in spite of all
Paddy's efforts, who was very impatient to proceed,
in getting their starting postponed, from day
to day, for upwards of a week after the time originally
fixed upon for it. At length all pleas and
excuses were exhausted, or rather he felt
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ashamed to advance more; and, becoming resigned to
the necessity of separating, for a time, from his
heart's best and dearest treasure, he agreed, that
the next rising sun should see him on his way. He
had just enjoyed what he considered would be his
last private interview, at this time, with Maria,
and was wandering, towards the evening, alone in
one of Gilbert's fields, indulging a train of none of
the most agreeable kinds of reflection, in which
he was entirely absorbed, when he was startled by
a person springing over the fence near which he
was meditating, and suddenly, to his great astonishment,
stood before him the well-known and
identical person of Peter M'Fall, who, while he
eagerly caught Charles's hand, exclaimed—
“Och, Master! now I have found you at last!
Just put your hand here, and feel how Peter's
heart beats, for I'm all out of breath with joy, and
with running to see you alive. By the powers of
Moll Kelly! but I thought the ould prophet had
taken you to heaven with him, and I feared I
should never see you again.”
“Had I been taken to heaven, indeed,” said
Charles, “it is likely you never should. I therefore,
suppose, Peter, that my being there would
have much displeased and grieved you.”
“Arrah, master! now believe me, for its as
true as the gospel, that I would almost as soon
have wished myself to be there. But, my blessing
on the lucky head of you, I see that you are
not so badly off yet.”
“Then you are pleased,” observed Charles,
“that I must fret and fight a little longer with
this troublesome world.”
“By the sweet Hill of Houth!” replied Peter,
“and sure I am so—and many a hard fight may you
have of it, and the blessing of Saint Kenan into the
bargain! But, master, yonder comes the doctor who
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set my arm in a sling so neat—but, how! what!
your arm in tapes, too! Not broken! master—I
hope—but arrah! by my sowl, the doctor must
cure it. Not broken, I hope!”
“Yes broken, but mended again,” replied
Charles.
“Mended!” repeated Peter, “och! sure now,
wastn't it a pity to get it done so soon, master,
before either the doctor or I could get to you to
fix it. Doctor Killbreath is the best hand at soldering
bones ever came from a college. Arrah!
now how lucky it would have been if you had
known we were coming, for, sure now, wouldn't
you have waited to get the doctor to cure it?”
“It is pretty well as it is, Peter,” observed
Charles, “and a good deal better, I believe, than
if I had kept it hanging these five or six weeks by
flesh and skin, in order to accommodate you and
the doctor with a job. But I beg your pardon,
doctor!“he continued, turning to the surgeon, who
had just approached, for he had not exerted his
speed on seeing Charles, with such enthusiasm as
Peter had done; but coming forward at a moderate
rate, he arrived just at this point of the conversation.
“Doctor, I beg your pardon,” said
Charles, “I was just excusing myself to Peter for
not permitting my arm to remain for the last six
weeks in a state of fracture, in order that you
might now have the pleasure of reducing it.”
“Had you done so,” said the doctor, smiling,
“it is ten to one if you should now have had any
arm to talk about.”
“Why sure, now, doctor,” observed Peter,
“he didn't get them both smashed. Arrah, master,
I think that you still would have had one of
them to show, and to talk about.”
“I hope so, Peter,” replied Charles, “I am
glad you are so witty. Why, you have really
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detected the doctor in a bull; unless he supposes,
that, had I paid him the compliment to wait for
his services, both of my arms should now have
been food for the worms, and consequently unfit
for me to talk about. But, my friends, I am glad
you have come here at such a critical moment,
for I was about setting off to-morrow for Philadelphia.
Now we can all go together. What say you
doctor? My good friend, Frazier, who lives here
can have you both equipped for the journey in a
single day.”
“There is nothing I wish for more sincerely,” replied
the doctor; “the sooner we get out of these
wilds the better. I am happy that we got here so
opportunely. I have indeed, reason to thank Peter
for it.”
“No, by my sowl!” said Peter, “you may thank
master, there, for I would not have thought of leaving
the French yet, if the ould prophet hadn't told
me to a shaving, how master lived here with a decent
christian and an Irishman, heaven bless him!
but I must see him and shake his ould bone for
him on account of the sod.”
“Come along then, Peter,” said Charles, “old
Gilbert will be glad to see you. Yonder comes
his daughter, Nancy. Doctor, you must take care
of your heart, for she's a pretty girl—and I know
it is rather tempting to meet a pretty girl in the
wilderness.”
“I suppose you have found it so, Mr. Adderly,”
replied the doctor.
“I cannot say much about it,” observed
Charles, “but I know, doctor, you are no woman-hater—
and Nancy, as you will soon see, is really
handsome.”
“I acknowledge,” returned the doctor, “that
in this desert, I should consider the sight of a
handsome young woman a real treat.”
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“Well—take care of your heart, my good
friend,” said Charles, “for here comes temptation.”
At this moment, Nancy, who had been in
the woods on some errand, and was now returning
home, turned off in another direction, as if to avoid
the men with whom Charles was conversing, for
she had advanced near enough to perceive they
were strangers. Charles called on her to stop,
which she did, and the party approached her.
“Why do you run away from me, Nancy?” said
he, “these are some of my Philadelphia companions
just escaped from Le Bœuf, and one of them
is a countryman of your father.”
“My father will be glad to see them, doubtless,”
said Nancy.
“And won't you too, make them welcome for a
couple of days?” asked Charles. “Here is Doctor
Killbreath, my friend, who, I hope, will be
found a pleasant companion.”
“Sir,” said Nancy, who had taken one or two
sly looks at the doctor, for she had observed his
eyes fixed upon her, with a meaning she did not
exactly understand, but which she thought did not
denote any thing uncivil. “Sir, I will do my best
to make your friends comfortable, for I doubt not
that they will deserve our kindness.”
“Doctor! why don't you thank the young lady,”
said Charles: “Why man! you seem to be
in a reverie.”
“I feel, I feel—her kindness,” replied the doctor,
rousing up at this reproof. “Miss—Miss Frazier,
I assure you I feel your kindness as much as
if I expressed it better.”
“Why, I think,” observed Nancy, “you express
well enough what there is, indeed, no need
at all for mentioning. You should first receive the
kindness, before you give thanks for it.”
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“Agh! let the lasses alone for good manners!”
cried Peter M'Fall, “the pretty creatures can
still teach us genteelity. God bless the kind hearts
of them, for, sure, my mother was one of them!”
“And have you never seen any of them you
loved better than your mother?” asked Charles.
“Well, the devil take me, master, but I have,”
replied Peter, “but it was in sweet Dublin, your
honour. Och! there, how I longed, till I was
bothered almost out of my senses, for a little bit of
the cherry lips of Molly M`Nickle, of Thomas-street.
Arrah, master, just think now how it
pleased me to sit beside her and sing
“Oh, Molly Astore!
How much I adore
The sweet smiling charms of your beautiful face,
On your lovely white breast,
Oh! how fond I could rest,
And enjoy all the bliss of a mutual embrace.”
Alas, poor Molly! she may never hear me again!”
The party had now arrived at the house, and a
hearty shake of Gilbert's Irish fist soon dispelled
from Peter's volatile heart, the melancholy which
the remembrance of the happiness he once enjoyed
with Molly M`Nickle had excited.
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CHAPTER XIV.
[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]
Speed, speed for your freedom, the war dogs are out,
Their scent is a sure one, it marks out your path;
Speed, speed for your safety, I hear the fierce shout
Of the foes who are panting for blood in their wrath!
Basket of Scraps.
Whether the writer of a tale should relate
more of it than is just necessary to make it easily
understood, is a question which I could wish the
critics to decide. It would save an indolent author,
like me, many a half hour's troublesome reasoning
and balancing with himself the various pros
and cons concerning the propriety of narrating incidents,
the connexion of which with the grand
thread of his story, may be somewhat doubtful; but
which, if not narrated, would leave a certain air of
incompleteness and obscurity hanging over some
transactions and characters, which must be introduced.
It is true, there are many readers, who
might not observe this want of connexion—for
there are indolent readers as well as indolent writers;
but there are others who would not only
observe it, but feel it offensive, and be, in consequence,
heartily inclined to consign the author to
unpitied condemnation.
But who are the critics? My dear reader, you
are one of them; and if I could possibly have your
opinion on this matter, before I write this chapter,
the intended subject of which is one of the
-- 184 --
[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
above perplexing description, I should then know,
whether giving it would please you or not; and
to please you, you are aware, is the great object I
have in view. But being, of course, ignorant of
what may be your wishes on the subject, I can
only do what I suppose best adapted to keep you
in temper. I will not, therefore, withhold the
chapter, lest peradventure, you might desire to
read it, but I will tell you the subject, so that, if
you should think it has not concern enough with
the main story, you may avoid it, and without
either troubling yourself, or vexing me by your
displeasure, go on with the next, which will be
the fifteenth chapter of this volume, and which
will carry you along the path of the history, ruggedly
and coarsely enough, I forewarn you, but I
assure you, with great fidelity and exactness. By
this management, I conceive that the only error
I shall commit, will be giving to those who
may travel through this work, the choice of
two roads for their journey—the one shorter, but
a little more obscure and abrupt, and the other
clearer and smoother, but more winding and tedious.
Now, reader, having thus stated the merits
and demerits of both these ways of getting
onwards, and left it fairly to your own choice,
which to take, I think that you cannot in conscience
blame me, if you take the one that gives
you least pleasure.
The subject of this chapter will be the adventures
of Peter M`Fall and Doctor Killbreath, in making
their escape from Fort Le Bœuf, and traversing the
wilderness from thence to Gilbert Frazier's. It will
cousequently have little or nothing to do with the
history of either Charles Adderly or Maria Frazier.
You may, therefore, pass it by if you choose.
Although Peter M`Fall had the fortunate faculty
of soon making himself comfortable in almost any
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situation, yet there were places and persons in the
world whose presence he infinitely preferred to
others. For instance, the air of sweet Dublin he
greatly preferred to that of Le Bœuf, and the authority
of Charles Adderly to that of the French
commandant. Notwithstanding this feeling. Peter
had not for some weeks after his imprisonment
entertained any desire to escape. At Fort Le
Bœuf he could eat and drink, and be idle, or when
he pleased, he could be merry, and dance, sing,
and frolic away with his gay-hearted jailers, as
contentedly and giddily as any of them. But this
was because he saw he could do no better. If he
got out of the fort, he was convinced that he
could never get out of the unbounded forest that
surrounded it. The chance was, that in attempting
it, he would either perish from cold and want,
or fall into the hands of the savages, and perhaps
meet that terrifying fate from which the humanity
of his present jailers had rescued him.
These reflections had prevented him from harbouring
any desire to escape, until about three
weeks previous to his appearing in the presence of
his master, as related in the last chapter. An accident
which befell his fellow-prisoner, Dr. Killbreath,
first excited the intention to effect both his
own and the Doctor's freedom.
The Doctor had been amusing himself one day
in the woods, shooting game, (for it will be remembered
that such liberty was permitted to him
on his parole,) when he narrowly escaped being
killed by an Indian, who shot at him from behind
a tree. He immediately fired at the assailant, who
attempted to run off, and killed him. Five or six
savages instantly raised the war-whoop, and the
Doctor was nearly seized by them. By swift running,
however he escaped into the fort, which fortunately
was at no great distance, where the French
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protected him from the immediate vengeance of his
pursuers. The whole tribe of the Otawas, to which
the man whom he had killed belonged, were excited
to revenge, and made such continued and unappeasable
demands upon the garrison for the Doctor's
punishment, accompanied with threats, if they
persisted to refuse, that the commander at length
thought that prudence required his compliance.
The matter was in consequence submitted to the
decision of a council of twelve, composed one half
of French and the other of Indians. The latter
insisted strenuously that the prisoner should be
committed to the flames; and, after as much resistance
as they could properly make, the French
were on the point of yielding to a compromise
which had been proposed, of having him shot,
when the approach of the prophet Tonnaleuka was
announced to the council. The Indians received
him with profound respect, and the French, on account
of their expecting some favourable result
from his visit, with great cordiality and satisfaction.
After some minutes profound silence, during
which he alternately pointed his wand towards
heaven and towards the council three times, his
lips moving in the meanwhile, as if he were soliciting
the dictation of a superior power, he spoke as
follows:
“My brothers of the Otawas! Ye seem not at
this time to know the will of Maneto.—He has
sent me here to reveal it. This white man, whom
you would sacrifice, has killed one of our brothers.
I grieve as ye all do for his death. But I must
tell you, that the Great Father said he should die
by the act of this white man, for he himself excited
that act. Yes—I can tell you, brothers, that he
first fired at the white man, and the Great Spirit,
in consequence, permitted his death. Do not,
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therefore, bring down upon you the vengeance of
Maneto, by destroying this prisoner. Why should
you fight against the Almighty, against the Great
Father. Otawas, you will be wise, and do as I am
ordered by Maneto to direct you, and pardon the
prisoner.
“Brothers, I hope you will obey these directions,
for I would grieve much for the calamities
that will befall you, if you disobey them. You
have heard what I was sent to say; I hope, my
brothers, you will attend to it.”
One of the Indian counsellors, named Palaro,
replied:
“Prophet, to obey the directions of Maneto,
who governs all things, is our duty. I believe his
words as they have been delivered by you, but all
may not believe them. You say that Maneto requires
us to let a white man who has killed an
Otawa, go free. We have not been accustomed
to receive such commands from him when we
would sacrifice an enemy to the spirits of the slain,
and it is hard to let our brother remain unavenged.
“But, prophet, hear your son! is it not fair, in
order that our tribe may be convinced that pardoning
our prisoner was right, to ask what sign
you can give of your words being the words of
the Great Spirit? When we can say to our brothers—
behold the sign! they will not blame us for
giving up the prisoner.
“Prophet, you have heard my suggestion: is it
not reasonable?”
Tonnaleuka now lifted his hands and eyes towards
heaven, and continued in this attitude, with
his countenance expressive of earnest supplication,
for several minutes, during which all eyes were
fixed upon him with mute attention. He at length
spoke audibly:
“Thou art, indeed, kind and merciful; thou
dost pity their weakness, and pardon their
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unbelief. Oh! that they were as merciful as thou art!
then would such thirst for vengeance and for each
other's destruction cease.
“Otawas and brothers, hear me! You have
desired proof of my veracity; a sign, by which
you may be convinced that Maneto forbids the
sacrifice of this man. Were ye not afraid that he
would punish such presumption? He would have
punished it, but shows himself merciful, that you
may learn mercy; and he allows me to give you
the sign you ask.
“Listen to me, brothers! there is a high rock
on the shore of Erie, the top of which was rent
last summer by the hand of Maneto, when the
land shook, and the waters trembled at his thunder.
Beneath that rock, you, Palaro, my brother,
had then your wigwam; it stood uninjured amidst
the agony of nature, and you were piously thankful.
“Brothers! on the third day from this, let three
of your warriors proceed to this rock. A living
eagle will be found there fixed in the breach made
by the thunder. Seize him; he will be a sacrifice
to the memory of your dead brother, and a more
acceptable one to his spirit than this prisoner.
“Brothers! attend to Maneto, and avoid destruction.”
The council determined to send in search of the
eagle, and accept of it as a substitute for the prisoner,
who was given over to the charge of the
French, on condition that if no eagle were found,
he should be without delay put to death in any
manner the Otawas might desire.
Three warriors were accordingly despatched to
the rock, who, arriving there at the time directed,
found the eagle exactly as Tonnaleuka had described;
and to the great surprise and satisfaction
of the French, returned with it living to Le Bœuf,
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where the council and a numerous party of the
tribe still remained anxiously awaiting the result.
Palaro, in the name of the Otawas, now addressed
the commandant:
“Father, the Great Spirit, who is the owner of
all things, has thought proper that we should not
put the white prisoner to death. We submit to
his will, as his good prophet our brother Tonnaleuka
desired us. We have lost a brother by
the hands of the prisoner, but our brother was
himself to blame. Maneto knew this, and has not
permitted us to burn the slayer.
“Father! look at this eagle; it has been miraculously
found fixed in the fissure of a rock, which
the finger of the Great Father opened last summer.
The Great Father permits us to sacrifice
this bird to the memory of our brother, in place
of the prisoner. We will obey him, we will reverence
him, and respect the voice of his prophet.
“Father, we wish you to let the prisoner go
free.”
The doctor was instantly liberated from his
bonds, and in about fifteen minutes beheld the
unfortunate eagle tied to the stake that had been
intended for himself, where, amidst a blazing pile
of faggots it was soon consumed in his stead. He
was, however, forbidden for the future to be seen
outside of the ramparts.
During this sacrifice, the Indians chanted forth
with great fervency the glory of Maneto, the
praises of Tonnaleuka, and the valour of their deceased
warrior. The doctor wished much to thank
the prophet to whom he owed so much; but Tonnaleuka
had left the fort immediately after pleading
his cause before the council, and now all he
could do was to supplicate the deity for blessings
upon his head. But the prophet had not withdrawn
so hastily as to prevent Peter McFall from
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obtaining with him a short, but, to Peter, a very
satisfactory interview.
Peter was standing, a very anxious and deeply
interested spectator of the deliberations, when
Tonnaleuka entered and addressed the council.
He recognised him at once, as the same extraordinary
personage that had delivered his master
from the Chippeways, and he immediately concluded
that the doctor was safe.
“I will ask him about my master,” thought he;
“whether he took him to the other world or not,
sure he won't be angry at me for inquiring.”
Peter accordingly watched his opportunity;
and, as the prophet was hastening towards the
gate of the fort, with hat in hand, he very reve-rentially
approached, and addressed him to the following
effect:
“Och, now! I hope your reverence won't be
angry with me, if I ask you a civil question?”
“Let that question be brief then,” said Tonnaleuka.
“Suppose now, I ask you what you did with
my master when you took him away from the
Chippeways—would your holiness tell me?” inquired
Peter.
“What is your name my brother?” asked the
prophet.
“Peter M`Fall, may it please your worship
to command.”
“And what is your master's?”
“Charles Adderly, your reverence.”
Tonnaleuka, now whispered something into
Peter's ear, which he ended by enjoining him to
strict secresy; adding, “if you reveal it to any one
in this garrison, dread my vengeance!”
“May your holiness blast me to pieces,” said
Peter, earnestly, “if I breathe a word of it to any
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woman's son, or daughter either, while I am within
twenty miles of this place.”
But ere he got the sentence finished, the prophet
had departed from the fort, and was instantly
out of sight.
“Agh! long life to you, and are you gone! ye
jewel of a prophet! I wish to St. Patrick that I
was only clear out of these walls with you. I could
soon find the Shanapin's-town—and then, ten
miles up the river,—why, it would scarcely be a
hop, step, and jump, to bring me to—But mum's
the word.”
So saying, he gave an arch smile, and accompanied
the last expression with that very significant
gesture of slyness, the placing of one of his fingers
upon his nose, and then leaped off, singing
with great glee—
“In Dublin so clever,
By Liffy's sweet river,
When Molly McNickle was civil;
With kissing and laughing,
And whiskey-punch quaffing,
Old care I sent smack to the devil!”
From this moment, Peter resolved by some
means or other, speedily to attempt his escape.
He had the determination fully formed in his mind
by the time the doctor's fate was decided; and
the eagle was not yet altogether consumed amidst
the flames, when he accosted his fellow-prisoner:
“By my sowl! my dear doctor, but the fellow
fries well. Och! botheration to them that would
have roasted your precious flesh in his stead, in
that horrible bonfire. Sure, now, I couldn't have
stood to see the fat melting from your crackling
bones, like grease dropping from a leg of roast
mutton. The devil take me now, dear doctor,—
don't be frightened,”—for the doctor had actually
turned pale at this coarse representation of what
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was so nearly being his fate; which Peter perceiving,
gave him a sly wink, and said—“Och,
now! come along, I just want to spake with you,
to comfort you a bit?”
So saying, he half dragged the doctor to a convenient
place, where he acquainted him with the
determination he had come to, of escaping from
the fort, and the ease with which he believed he
could in three or four days, at furthest, reach his
master's present residence, and invited him to
join in the enterprise.
The doctor considering that he was now under
no obligation from parole, and that while he continued
in the garrison, he was still in danger of
some accident taking place which might again
expose him to the awful fate from which he had
been just saved, by an absolute miracle, agreed
at once to the measure.
Fort Le Bœuf was situated upon the bank of
the western branch of French Creek. It occupied
about a rood of ground, and was surrounded
by a stockade circumvallation, made of strong
piles driven close to each other into the earth,
sharpened at the top, and more than twelve feet
high, with port-holes for cannon, and loop-holes
for small arms, cut through them. The garrison,
at this time, consisted of about two hundred
men, whose cooking, washing, &c. there
being but few European women among them,
were principally performed by squaws who had
learned a smattering of the French language.
How to get out of this stockade, was the question,
upon which Peter M`Fall now for about
five or six days exercised his ingenuity. At the
end of that time, however, by dint of personal
exploring, rather than thinking, he resolved it
to his own satisfaction. He had discovered a
small sewer commencing in the yard of a
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washhouse, which was occupied by a number of squaws
in the service of the garrison. This sewer had
been made for the purpose of carrying off to the
creek, the waste water that had been used in washing.
The distance from its entrance to its out-let
upon the bank of the creek, Peter conjectured
to be about ten or twelve yards. It was
through this passage that he contemplated making
his escape. It was, indeed, so narrow, he perceived,
as scarcely to admit his body; and from
the daily flow of dirty water that passed through
it, it was an absolute puddle of mud and filthiness.
The softness, and spunginess, however,
which the latter circumstance occasioned, he calculated
would facilitate his passage, by enabling
him the more easily to drag his body through.
The only obstacle that perplexed him, was a strong
iron grating that was fixed over its entrance. This,
he however was determined to overcome by some
energetic effort. His chief difficulty was in persuading
the doctor as to the practicability of the
scheme. At length, when the latter perceived
that no reasoning would prevent Peter from trying
it, he determined not to desert him, but to
assist all he could, although he anticipated all the
evil consequences of complete failure and detection.
In pursuance of this resolution, having secretly
provided a small bag full of provisions, and a couple
of spades, they one dark night, about two
weeks after the doctor's rescue, when all the garrison,
except the sentinels, had gone to sleep,
scaled the low wooden fence that surrounded the
washer-woman's yard, and commenced their operations
by digging a hole close to the grate, sufficiently
large to admit their entrance. As the
ground was soft, and Peter an excellent spadesman,
this was only the work of about fifteen
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minutes, and into the mud-bottomed pit he plunged,
without hesitation, head-foremost, dragging, by
means of a strong cord attached to it, the bag of
provisions after him. The doctor had now nothing
for it, but to follow.
For the first three or four yards, they swam or
paddled, like ducks, in the stagnant water which
had here collected to the depth of eight or ten
inches, on account of some deficiency in its fall
towards the creek. But this was the easiest part
of their progress; for during the remainder, Peter
found the passage so small that it required all his
perseverance and strength, to squeeze himself
forward; which, however, he persisted in doing,
and at last, with incredible labour, and not without
great fatigue, and soreness of both flesh and
bones, he arrived at the open air on the bank of
the creek. The doctor being a smaller man, found
less difficulty in passing, especially as the efforts
of Peter had cleared the way for him.
Although enveloped in a complete vesture of
mud and dirt, our adventurers did not wait to wash
themselves in the creek, but taking to the woods,
hastened on as speedily as the darkness and the
numerous impediments of the way would permit,
towards the Alleghany river. Daylight overtook
them while yet in the intricacies of the forest,
when being both hungry and fatigued, they thought
proper to enjoy some of such fare as their bag afforded,
and then to repose themselves for a few
hours. About noon they again proceeded, and
continued their journey till the evening; when resolving
not to undergo the fatigue of another
night, struggling amidst brush-wood, swamps, and
fallen timber; they selected a place of shelter,
and by collecting together a quantity of dry
leaves, made themselves as comfortable a bed as
they could, on which their fatigue and long
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wakefulness, enabled them to sleep soundly, till the
morning. After three days troublesome journeying
in this manner, during which, they became
sometimes afraid of not being on their proper
course, they arrived at the Alleghany river, a
short distance below its confluence with French
creek. From thence they kept down the stream
of the river for upwards of four days, and it was
the ninth from their leaving Le Bœuf, before they
met with Charles, as already stated.
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CHAPTER XV.
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Survey his front, where wisdom sits serene,
And the bright flashing of his fearless eye;
That gallant port, that majesty of mien,
Which promise deeds of unsurpass'd emprise,
Such as to minstrelsy its fondest theme supplies,
And gains the palm the world may not deny.
Basket of Scraps.
The dearest to each other are often doomed to
part. It is one of the evils incident to humanity,
and one from which all the philosophy in the world
will not relieve us. The best way, therefore, to
meet the evil, is, to do it courageously, and philosophize
nothing about it.
Charles Adderly, on this occasion, did so; and
in consequence, he succeeded in separating from
Maria, with a reluctant heart, it must be confessed,
but not with a desponding one.
His party, consisting of himself, Dr. Killbreath,
Paddy Frazier, Peter M`Fall, and Manhulseh their
Indian guide, commenced their journey on the
third day after Peter and the Doctor had arrived
at Frazier's. Besides the horses on which they
rode, they had along with them three others, two
of which were laden with Paddy's merchandise,
and the third with provisions and other traveling
stores. They were of course well armed—for in
those days, no one ever thought of attempting a
journey, of even a short distance, through the
Wilderness, without being properly prepared for
both defence and attack.
On the third day they crossed the Chesnut
Ridge, and encamped that night between it and
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the Laurel Hill, in what is now called Ligonier
Valley. As they were about continuing their journey
the next morning, they were unexpectedly
attacked by a small party of Otawas, whom the
French had despatched to scour the country in
pursuit of Peter and the Doctor. The savages,
however, had given their fire at too great a distance
to do any serious mischief. Two of their
shots feebly pierced through a package of Paddy's
furs, and another slightly wounded one of the
horses. The rest fell altogether harmless. Each
of our travellers immediately took to a tree, and
kept up such a well-directed fire upon their enemies,
when any of them dared to appear in sight,
that the latter thought proper, about mid-day, to
withdraw, after having lost five or six of their
number, who were killed on the spot.
Our party then cautiously proceeded onwards,
keeping on all directions a good look out, which
obliged them to travel so slowly, that they only
reached the top of the Laurel Hill that night.
Here they encamped on a spot where they could
not be easily surprised; and Charles, equally with
the rest, took his turn in watching as sentinel during
the night.
The savages, however, during the preceding
day had tasted so bitterly of their intrepidity, that
they had no relish for more of it, and they were
not molested during the remainder of their journey,
which they performed, without meeting with
any serious disaster, in about four weeks.
The account which Charles gave to the Ohio
Company of the fate of their expedition, which
he ascribed altogether to the jealousy and management
of the French, made a great noise in the
political world, and produced much excitement
throughout all the colonies. But there was none
of them that took up the matter with greater
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spirit than Virginia. That state, indeed, did then,
as it does still, possess a high-minded and courageous
population, that could not tamely submit
to any insult or encroachment upon their rights;
and the territory thus usurped by a hostile force
being then considered as within the bounds of her
charter, she felt herself called upon both to demand
satisfaction for what had been done, and to
take measures for resisting such aggressions for
the future.
But, although the public mind continued, during
the whole of the spring and summer succeeding
the occurrences we have related, to receive
fresh and repeated provocations from Indian incursions
upon the back settlements, especially in
the Virginian territories, yet the colonial governments
thought proper to delay making any public
effort to restrain or punish these depredations, until
they should receive instructions on the subject
from the government of Great Britain. They had
reason, indeed, to presume that the remonstrances
which they knew the British ministry would make
to the French government, would induce the later
to recall, and, perhaps, chastise, their Canadian
servants for the outrages they had committed on
the subjects of a power with which they were
then in a state of peace and amity. At all events,
they wished to be fully authorized by their own
government to make whatever opposition they
should find necessary, whether by force or otherwise,
to put a stop to the unwarrantable proceedings
of the French.
With respect to the hostile Indians, small parties
of militia and volunteers were, indeed, immediately
employed, but in a very inefficient manner,
against them; and for several months, the terror
and sufferings of the Virginian back-settlers continued
daily to increase.
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At length Mr. Dinwiddie, the Governor of Virginia,
received intelligence that the French government
manifested a very suspicious reluctance to
give any satisfaction to the British on the subject
at issue, and he was authorized to use his discretion
in bringing the aggressors to an account for
what they had done. A national war, however, at
that time was not to be wished; at all events, he
resolved not to act rashly in kindling its flames,
but to convince the world that every thing had
been done, consistent with the honour and dignity
of the British crown, and the prosperity and safety
of its subjects, to prevent such a calamity. He,
therefore, thought it expedient, before he should
have recourse to actual force, to send an envoy to
the commander at Fort Le Bœuf, to whose instrumentality
the late outrages had been particularly
charged, for the purpose of demanding from him,
in the name of his Britannic Majesty, an explanation
of his hostile conduct towards British subjects,
and some satisfactory security that it should
not be repeated.
It was, at that crisis, very difficult to find any
one properly qualified for such an embassy, willing
to undertake it, a circumstance which, if the
nature of the country and the state of the times
be considered, will not be thought surprising. A
distance of several hundred miles through a trackless
and rugged wilderness of woods, inhabited
only by nations of savages, the most of whom had
of late become inveterately hostile to the English
name, had to be traversed. No English white
man, it was thought, could then penetrate into
these wilds and return alive, unless by the aid of
a mere miracle; for even the traders, that had
formerly been rather invited than forbidden to frequent
the country, and were in most instances
kindly enough treated by the natives, had latterly
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been often plundered, and sometimes massacred,
for no other reason than their being English.—
There were in Virginia, no doubt, numbers of patriotic
and gallant spirits, whom danger alone could
not have deterred from the undertaking. But various
other motives operated on their minds.
Many were opposed to the measure altogether, as
betraying imbecility, and want of promptitude and
wisdom. They exclaimed against the folly of
sending an embassy into the midst of a barbarous
race of men, who neither knew, nor cared for, the
sacred character of embassadors; and alleged,
that it was worse than madness, even if the messengers
should happen to perform their errand in
safety, to expect any favourable result from the
enterprise.
“No,” said they, “if we go at all into the haunts
of these savages, let us go sword in hand, and drive
them and their christian allies together, out of their
dens with the bayonet and the rifle. We should
negotiate with such enemies only with the mouths
of cannon.”
Domestic concerns and family interference prevented
others, who might not have the same objection
to trying the effects of negotiation and remonstrance,
before the drawing of that sword, whose
unsheathing might involve two powerful nations in
all the evils of a tedious and sanguinary war.
In short, Governor Dinwiddie, after he had decided
on the propriety of the measure, found so
much difficulty in finding any one qualified for the
hazardous service, willing to undertake it, that he
began to harbour thoughts of abandoning the idea,
especially as the winter season was approaching,
until the ensuing spring.
As he was one day in his private apartment, meditating
with considerable anxiety on this subject,
he was informed that a very respectable looking
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young man requested admittance to his presence.
The governor desired him to be shown into a front
chamber, where he in a few minutes attended him.
The governor, although, as we have seen, his
mind had been rendered uneasy by contemplating
the unfortunate aspect of a favourite and important
measure, saluted the stranger with much complaisance;
for notwithstanding his youth, being
apparently not above twenty years of age, there was
in his manner and aspect an air of dignity and intelligence,
with which the governor was struck,
and before which any feeling of ill-humour that
might have arisen from the unpleasant nature of
the reflections from which he had been interrupted,
entirely gave way.
As this young man will make a considerable
figure during the remainder of this history, it is
presumed that a description of his appearance on
this occasion will not be unacceptable to the
reader.
His stature was exactly six feet, and his form a
happy medium between the usual slenderness of
youth and the more rounded muscularity of manhood.
His chest was already somewhat full and
expanded, as if to make room for a liberal and capacious
heart. His limbs were in just proportion
to the rest of his frame, and so free and unincumbered
in all their motions, as to give a peculiar
gracefulness to his gait and gestures. His shoulders
were broad, but finely shaped, and harmonizing
so well with the stateliness and just symmetry
of the other parts of his figure, as to impart to the
whole an extraordinary degree of dignity and majesty
of mien; and indicating, at the same time,
strength, hardihood, and activity.
With respect to his countenance, if every there
was one that expressed true nobleness and magnanimity
of soul, it was his. It was of the oval
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form, with a remarkably high forehead, which was
open, serious, kind, and candid. His sparkling
blue eyes displayed the fire of passion, combined
with the coolness of wisdom, while the movements
of his eye-brows assured the beholder, that in every
contest the latter should gain the victory. His
nose was of a commanding agreeable form, neither
exactly Grecian nor Roman, but partaking partly
of both, and it was, perhaps, this feature which
most forcibly impressed the beholder with the idea
of his fearless intrepidity and undeviating integrity.
But it was in the expression of his mouth that the
benevolence, generosity, and tenderness of his nature
were chiefly to be seen; for his were lips to
which no one could ever impute the utterance of
falsehood, calumny, or even unnecessary censure.
His chin was muscular, round, and full, but agreeably
corresponding with the general contour of his
countenance. As to his complexion, it was at this
time slightly sun-burnt, but still affording a pleasant
mixture of that fairness and ruddiness which
is so becoming in youth, and which generally betokens
an originally healthy and still unbroken
constitution.
His dress was at once modest and genteel, affecting
in no particular either to despise, or to be
fastidiously imitative of the fashion of the day. It
was neither gaudy, nor slovenly, but such as a gentleman
who, while he does not despise his person,
seems conscious that his mind is his better part,
might be expected to wear. When we have said
this, and when we add that it was a mourning-dress,
(for this young gentleman had lately sueceeded
to the ample estate of a deceased, tenderly
beloved, and much lamented elder brother,) the
reader will easily figure it to himself, without our
giving him more particulars.
He was a native of Virginia, and descended from
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one of the most respectable families in that province;
but in the opinion of governor Dinwiddie
on this occasion, such a youth would have made
any family respectable. His name was—George
Washington—a name which is now synonymous
with virtue, and to pronounce which is to eulogize.
After the usual salutation was over, Mr. Washington
presented an introductory letter from a valued
friend of the governor, who immediately read
it as follows:
May it please your Excellency,
“This letter will be handed to you by Mr.
George Washington, of Mount Vernon, a young
gentleman of whom I doubt not report has already
spoken favourably to you. For myself, I profess
to feel a high respect for his promising talents, and
a still higher for that steady conduct, unsullied virtue,
and strong sense of honour which have hitherto
marked his character.
“To speak thus decisively in behalf of so young
a man, may seem to your excellency, to be a somewhat
overstrained recommendation, but if I know
any thing of the characters of men, I am convinced
that in giving credit to Mr. Washington for all the
virtues and talents my language may ascribe to
him, you will not find yourself deceived.
“The ardour of his patriotic feelings, together
with his commiserating the distresses under which
our back-settlers now labour, and, no doubt, a laudable
ambition to signalize himself in doing good
to his country, induce him to solicit what he is
grieved to find so many of higher name and pretensions
have lately refused—the appointment of
envoy to the French commandant at Le Bœuf.
“Should it please your excellency to confide to
him the management of that arduous and
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important mission, I am persuaded, that young, and consequently
inexperienced, as he is, you will have
no reason to regret having done so; for, I believe,
that if prudence, intrepidity, and perseverance in
the attainment of the public good can succeed,
whatever enterprise he conducts must be successful.
“I have the honour to be, your excellency's sincere
friend and most obedient, humble servant. —”
“Why! Mr. Washington,” observed the governor,
when he had done reading, “this is really a
complimentary letter, but Mr. — is a good
judge of characters, and I believe he has not mistaken
yours. Your brother was a brave man,
true to his country, and I think that you cannot be
inferior to him. When would it suit you to go on
this mission?”
“At a day's warning, whenever your excellency
orders—”
“Suppose—let me see—this is Tuesday the 23d
of October. In a week from this date could you
be ready?”
“To-morrow—to-day—this hour—and at all
hours, I am at the service of my country. You
are her monarch's representative; order me when
you choose. But if I might suggest any thing in
this matter, it would be promptitude and expedition.—
Your excellency is aware that the season requires
it.”
“Young man! my friend has not been mistaken
in his estimate of your character. Your ardour in
this case is wisdom. Your country has been for
tunate in giving you birth; for I perceive, if heaven
spares you, that you will be both her blessing
and her boast. Had I known of you only two
months sooner, this mission might now have been
successfully terminated; but name your day, and
every thing shall be provided.”
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“It is your excellency's right to name it.”
“Well, then, let it be this day week; your
commission and instructions shall be immediately
prepared. But, tell me, have you thought of the
dangers and difficulties?”—
“I have thought of them seriously, sir.”
“And they don't make you hesitate?”
“Nothing, I trust, will ever make me hesitate
to do my duty.”
“I am satisfied,” observed the governor. “It
has been perhaps fortunate that the perils of the
undertaking have deterred others from engaging
in it whose services I should have gladly accepted.
The delay may not have been lost to our
country, since it has brought you forward to her
service; and that backwardness to serve in this
case, which I but half an hour ago lamented as an
evil, may in reality turn out to be a benefit. My
young friend, I shall now detain you no longer,
but shall be glad if you come to spend the evening
with me.”
“With your excellency's permission, I should
rather return to Mount Vernon to arrange some
matters, so that nothing on my part may retard
the expedition.”
“You can return to morrow; one day will make
no difference, and you will have sufficient time to
be back here in a week. If you should be a day
longer, it will not be charged upon you.”
“Your excellency will excuse me; I cannot
remain to-night, unless some public business requires
my presence.”
“There is no public business to require your
stay, I acknowledge,” replied the governor, “but
I wish to enjoy your conversation, and cultivate
your friendship, so that you may be convinced
how much I esteem your gallant proposal to
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embark in this service—a single evening will, be of
no consequence.”
“I should, indeed, feel happy and honoured in
your excellency's society,” observed the young hero,
“but I am now to prepare for a public service
which requires expedition; and I confess that, unless
my going off instantly to make preparation
will give you more displeasure than, if I have any
knowledge of your character, I think it will, I
should much rather depart: for I must ever make
it a rule, that when duty is to be performed, no
time should be lost upon pleasure.”
“My friend,” replied Dinwiddie, “be ever thus
proof against temptation. I esteem you the more
that you have resisted my wishes on this point.
Be as expeditious as you please, and may heaven
prosper your zeal! I shall try to imitate you in
getting every thing ready without delay.”
Washington now withdrew, and immediately
hastened home to make the best use he could
of his time, in both arranging his private affairs
and in providing for the performance of his public
duty.
When he was out of sight, Dinwiddie could not
help exclaiming—“Admirable youngman! you will
yet be of more service to your country than a
thousand mines of gold!”
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CHAPTER XVI.
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There is a tie, whose magic force
The power of lengthen'd years defies;
There is a thought whose stayless course
A dearer tide of life supplies,
Than gives to other thoughts their source;
And days of gloom may intervene,
Like ocean's wave its flight to stay,
And distant climes may come between—
They cannot—must not—check its way!
And there's a cord which love entwines
Unconsciously round kindred hearts,
Which length of absence but refines,
And death alone for ever parts!
Basket of Scraps.
How it is that the female heart, when in love,
can more successfully control its affections, at
least the display of them, when their object is
present, and suing with all his might, for some
little symptom of reciprocal fondness—than when
he is absent, and cannot witness, and, consequently,
cannot enjoy such endearments—I will
not stop to explain; and, perhaps, for the very
good reason, that I cannot do it to my own satisfaction.
But I can state, that after Charles Adderly's
departure from the Wilderness, Maria Frazier
experienced that she possessed this feminine
quality in perfection.
He was not many hours gone, when his image
took such full and forcible possession of her mind,
that whether she dreamed by night, or meditated
by day, that image was still present with her. It
haunted her in her rambles, it engrossed her
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studies, and disturbed her devotions; and whether
she ate, or drank, or walked, or slept, it would
never leave her, and what was in all respects as
extraordinary, she never wished it to leave her.
No, she cherished it fondly in her heart; it was
her only care, her only comfort, and her only joy.
Though she dared hardly venture to expect that
she should ever see him again, yet she felt that
without him the Wilderness was cheerless, life insipid,
and the world a blank. Her fears that he
should never return were great, but they arose not
from any doubt respecting the sincerity and unchangeableness
of his love for her, but from the
numerous perils and obstacles which she knew he
must encounter and overcome before he could retrace
the dread and savage-haunted wilds that now
separated them.
She, however, succeeded tolerably well in concealing
these feelings from the observation of all
her friends, except Nancy, who, perhaps, on account
of being actuated by some feelings of the
same kind, for a different object, but one also now
at a distance, the more readily suspected her sister;
or, if it be true, that the pangs of love are
always relieved by being poured into the ear of a
confidant, Maria may have voluntarily intrusted
her with her secret.
With respect to Nancy's own case, Dr. Killbreath
had found means during his short abode
with her, not only to convince her that she possessed
his heart, but also to obtain possession of
hers. In consequence of this, although the feeling
with which she remembered the doctor was
not so very deep and acute as that with which
Maria remembered Charles, yet it was sufficient to
make her sympathize so sincerely with her sister,
as induced the latter to confide her sorrows, and
her love, to her secresy. Nancy returned the
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favour by a reciprocal confidence, which, perhaps,
did more to keep alive the doctor's interest in
her heart, by occasionally affording her opportunities
to talk of him, than any impression his addresses
while with her had made.
Maria's affection for Charles Adderly did not
require any such stimulus of conversation to preserve
it, during his absence, from decay. It was
an affection which no time nor distance could diminish,
for it was planted in a mind as constant,
tender, sincere, and unchangeable in its attachments,
as any woman ever possessed. It might,
perhaps, be for this reason, that, although she felt
more acutely, she talked less freely, on the subject
of her feelings than Nancy. Nay, sometimes
she felt more enjoyment in meditating alone upon
her lover's perfections, as they appeared to her
imagination, than in conversing about them. But
often the disposition would vary, and she would
feel great satisfaction in being able to interchange
ideas concerning him with a friend and sister, of
whose perseverance in secresy she was fully confident.
Upwards of four months passed on in this manner,
and Maria had not heard from her lover, for
Paddy had not yet returned from Philadelphia,
and she was becoming very uneasy to ascertain
his safety.
“Surely, thought she, if they had reached Philadelphia
alive, Paddy would have been returned
before now, and I should have heard of Charles.
The Indians, alas! hated him—they may have taken
him—they may have put him to death—a cruel
death—when Tonnaleuka could not be near to
save him. It is true the prophet has discovered
that the mauraders were disa pointed in their attempt
near the Laurel Hill—but they may have
succeeded elsewhere, for it was a long
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Wilderness they had to traverse. Heaven grant that
my fears may be unfounded!”
At length, to the great joy of all Frazier's family,
Paddy arrived, accompanied by Dr. Killbreath,
whose desire to revisit Nancy had rendered him
easily persuaded to join her brother in trading with
the Indians. They, therefore, brought with them
in partnership a large and valuable assortment of
goods, not only suited for the Indians, but also for
the French, with whom Paddy was desirous to
open a trade, because he expected that it would
be lucrative, and that it might be the means of
preserving their friendship, which he was very
anxious to preserve, since they were now become the
lords of the forest. As to the danger the doctor
was in of falling again into their hands, he believed
that it could be easily removed, by a present to the
commandant at Le Bœuf, with a declaration that the
doctor wished to settle as a trader in the Wilderness
under the French protection.
Near the North Mountain they met with several
Indians who would, no doubt, have attacked and
plundered, and perhaps, massacred them, had some
of them not known Paddy, who speaking their language
freely, managed matters so well with them,
that they agreed, for a present of a few blankets
and some trinkets, to escort him home.
If Nancy was rejoiced to see her dear doctor
come back again, he was no less so to find himself
once more safe under her father's roof, with the
prospect of being permitted to remain there unmolested
by either the French or Indians.
But the great source of Maria's joy was the assurance
she now had of her lover's safety. He had
transmitted to her a present of various books of
late publication, such as the works of Pope,
Thomson, Addison, and others, which he knew she
had not seen, and was desirous to peruse. There
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were also other presents of considerable value, as
jewelry, dress, &c. which need not be particularized.
These had been intrusted to the care of Doctor Killbreath,
who punctually obeyed his instructions by
handing them to her in private. But the gift which
afforded her by far the greatest pleasure, was a
packet of letters written by her Charles's own hand.
In these letters he assured her of the unabated
fervour of his love, which rendered him extremely
anxious to return to the Wilderness, to be once
more in her presence. “Duties of a very imperious
nature, he said, compelled him to remain a few
months longer in Philadelphia, but he trusted that
during the summer he should be able to gratify the
most ardent desire of his heart, by visiting her.
In the mean time, he exhorted—he conjured her,
to constancy and perseverance in cherishing that
affection which it was his only consolation to know
she bore for him.”
But, reader, you have, no doubt read many a
love letter, and many, perhaps you have yourself
both written and received. To detain you, therefore,
with a recital of the sentiments contained in
those of Charles Adderly, for the sentimental parts
of all love letters, which are always the nine
tenths of their contents, are very much alike,
would be no treat. But as love had made him
something of a poet, and he had enclosed a few
verses in one of these letters in praise of his fair
one, (a thing which every writer of love letters cannot
do,) I shall take the liberty of submitting them
to your perusal. These verses although far from
being of first-rate excellence, are at least no worse
than the rhymes which many a love-sick gentleman
has thought proper to string together in compliment
to his mistress. But be they good or bad,
since Charles Adderly wrote them, I think I may
be permitted to print them.
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To Maria.
Maria! nature's loveliest child,
Sweet floweret of the fragrant wild!
When first you met my ravish'd eyes,
How leapt my bosom with surprise,
To find that, in the desert waste,
Nature, with careless hand, had plac'd
The loveliest plant that ever grew,
To warm the heart, and charm the view!
Ah! few, but happy were those days,
When on your charms I sat to gaze;—
With heart enraptur'd at the sight,
I sigh'd with passionate delight.
For ne'er could I believe before
That woman had such charms in store,
As so to bind the captive soul,
In passion's chains beyond control!
May fortune bear me soon again,
To where you tread the sylvan reign;
Where, blest once more, I'll view your charms,
Feel the sweet pressure of your arms,
As through your native woods we rove,
And give our hearts and souls to love:
Till then, my only thought thou'lt be;
Then think of me—and none but me!
The summer months passed without any remarkable
occurrence happening to affect the fortunes
of Maria. Her habits of household rural
employments were attended to as usual, but her
secret thoughts were altogether occupied with the
idea of him who loved her so warmly and tenderly,
and whom she did not now affect to conceal
from herself, she loved with equal warmth and
tenderness The perusal of the books, but more
particularly the letters he had sent her, occupied
the chief portion of her leisure hours; and on some
occasions, but not often, she would indulge her
feelings by talking about him to her sister. On
such occasions, however she still took care not to
dwell long upon the dangerous subject, lest she
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might express herself more ardently in his favour,
than her delicate views of propriety would altogether
warrant.
It was one beautiful evening in November 1753,
the Indian summer being then in all its glory and
sweetness, that these two young women walked upon
the bank of the Monongahela. Charles Adderly,
Dr. Killbreath, and some Indian transactions,
were the chief topics of their conversation.
“I am not sure whether I could wish Mr. Adderly
to visit us this fall or not,” observed Maria—
“the French dislike him so much, that they might
instigate the savages to his destruction. Oh,
Nancy! what a barbarous and blood-thirsty people
we live among?”
“I can say but little,” replied Nancy, “in favour
of the Indians when they go out to war, or
when they take prisoners, for Dr. Killbreath says
that they have then little mercy on men, women,
or children. But I think Mr. Adderly could be
here long enough without their knowledge; and
Tonnaleuka, you know, could protect him.”
“Tonnaleuka cannot be every where,” said
Maria. “He has often to be at a distance among
the contending tribes, giving them counsel, and
settling their disputes. And the Indians are far
more exasperated this season against the English,
than they ever were before. But it is before he
arrives here, that danger is chiefly to be dreaded.
If the savages find him crossing any of the mountains,
alas! I fear his destruction will be inevitable.
I am sometimes tempted to pray that he may
not venture to come, at least until these outrageous
times be past.”
“Truly,” observed Nancy, “it would be better
that he should not attempt to visit you, than that he
should be killed. But both Paddy and Dr. Killbreath
say, that the white people would have no
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occasion to fear so much from the Indians, if they
would only treat them kindly, and not attempt to
cheat them, or wrest their lands from them, as they
do.”
“But Charles Adderly never cheated them,”
replied Maria, “nor had he taken any land from
them by force when they attacked him last year,
and were going to sacrifice him. Ah! I fear much
for him, for the French now hate him thoroughly;
and from their hatred there is less chance by far,
of escaping than from that of the Indians.”
“It is hard to say,” returned Nancy, “whether
he would consent to do what Dr. Killbreath has
done; make friends of the French, and live here
under their protection. If he would do this, I
think all would be safe, and—”
“No!” exclaimed Maria—“Charles Adderly
never will stoop to such a thing. I know him to
be too dignified in his sentiments for that. He
considers the French the enemies of his country,
and from such he never will crave protection.—
Alas! no, if he come at all, it will be either privately,
or publicly as their enemy; for the savages
and they, I fear, have latterly carried their ravages
into the English settlements too ferociously
and destructively, not to have made every one of
that nation their enemy.”
“Why, that cannot be!” observed Nancy, “for
Dr. Killbreath is English, and he now lives here
with us as the friend of the French.”
“The doctor's love for you,” returned Maria,
“has induced him in this affair, I am persuaded,
to act contrary both to his inclination and judgment.
He has become an exception to the conduct
that all the rest of his nation will adopt, which
I know Charles Adderly will never become.”
“I'm sure you know,” said Nancy, “that Mr.
Adderly is as much in love, and as desirous to live
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here, as Dr. Killbreath; and why shouldn't he as
well as the doctor prefer love to politics?”
“Because,” said Maria, “it would be preferring
private interest to public duty, which Charles never
will do.”
“La! now,” cried Nancy, “I cannot believe
that you think so. Don't you suppose that Mr.
Adderly would prefer you to all the French, and
all the Indians, and all the English into the bargain,
in the world?”
“I have no right,” said Maria, “to suppose any
such thing. Nay, if he did so, it would be very
wrong, and I do not think I should esteem him so
much if I thought him capable of it.”
“Now surely,” returned Nancy, with a look of
incredulity, “you cannot be serious. What harm
has Dr. Killbreath done by making friends of the
French? and sure I must like him the better for
doing it on my account, and I am persuaded, that
if Mr. Adderly's love for you would so far overcome
his dislike to them, you could not be displeased.”
“You are much mistaken in your opinion of me,”
said Maria, “if you believe so. A strict adherence
to principles and duty, I shall for ever admire; and
I shall the more admire it, that it is accomplished
in opposition to self interest and personal advantage;
for the more difficult the performance of virtuous
actions is, the greater must be their merit,
and the higher should be the approbation afforded
them.”
“Then you do not think that Dr. Killbreath has
done right?” observed Nancy.
“I do not undertake to judge the doctor,” returned
Maria. “Duties are, perhaps, like almost
every thing else, in the strictness of their obligation,
capable of being modified by circumstances.
What may be imperiously incumbent upon one
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man to perform, may be less so, or even not at all
so, upon another; and the same man may, in different
circumstances, feel himself bound to act differently
in respect to a general duty, if he wants to
act right. Dr. Killbreath in making peace with
the French, even while they are making war with
his countrymen, may have no design to injure the
latter; on the contrary, he may thereby have it in
his power to serve some of them. But Charles
Adderly has higher responsibilities to bear. He
has been already employed as a leader, and his
countrymen must expect more from him than from
many others. But Nancy, to cut short the discussion,
I am convinced that, in the present times, no
temptation will induce Charles, even in appearance,
and I believe that it is only in appearance
that Dr. Killbreath has done so, to court favour
from the French.”
“I know,” said Nancy, “that the doctor don't
like them in his heart; for when he heard of them
sending the Wiandots on their late Blue Ridge excursion,
“it will be a murderous affair,” said he—
“I wish to God the Virginians may give them a
thorough defeat!”
“It is, indeed, shocking to think of these doings,”
returned Maria: “what cruel hearts those men
must have, that can engage in them! I fear they
will not give over until the English are excited to
retaliation; and then, alas! what a terrible state
of things may we not expect to witness in this
country! But I hope Providence will avert the
calamity. My heart sickens to think of it. How
different from that secure and peaceful state of society,
which the delightful author I have in my
hand describes! Let us sit down, Nancy, and I
shall read for you the heart-cheering picture of
love, peace, and virtue, which the beautiful tale of
Palemon and Lavinia exhibits; it will drive away
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the disagreeable reflections which the contemplation
of those sanguinary horrors, of which we have
been talking, have excited.”
They sat down beneath a tree which grew on a
shelving portion of the bank, and Nancy listened
with great earnestness, while Maria read with an
audible and sweet voice, and with a tenderness and
pathos of manner which shewed that her whole
soul was enrapt with the delightful strains in
which the poet of the Seasons has told his sweetest
tale. She had just pronounced the following
exquisite lines,—
“He saw her charming, but he saw not half
The charms her downcast modesty conceal'd—”
When Nancy, happening to direct her attention a
little to one side, perceived a white man leaning
against a tree scarce two yards distant. She immediately
started to her feet in surprise, crying
out—
“Oh, Maria! here is a white stranger!”
Maria arose, considerably startled, and the stranger
approached, with mildness, benevolence, and
admiration strongly expressed in his countenance.
“Ladies!” said he, “I must ask pardon for my
delay in addressing you. But how could I interrupt
the noble exercise, the refined enjoyment in
which I found you engaged! And in such a place
too—so unexpectedly! I have traversed the wilderness
nearly two hundred miles without seeing a
white woman; and here to discover such as you
and so employed! Ladies—forgive me, if I say
my delight is equal to my astonishment!”
“Sir!” replied Maria—“we meet in this wilderness
with so few gentlemen like you, that, if we
have on our part manifested any symptoms of
childish surprise at seeing you, we presume that
you have discernment and candour enough to
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ascribe it to its true cause—our peculiarly secluded
condition; for these woods, that river, and the sky
above us, are the utmost extent and variety of external
nature that we have seen since our birth.—
But our father lives near at hand; he always makes
the sojourner in the forest welcome. If you have
no objection, we will lead you to his house.”
“Is your father's name Frazier?” asked the
stranger.
“It is, sir,” was the reply.
“I was informed that his residence is about this
place, and was just in search of it, when I perceived
you,” he answered.
An idea now crossed Maria's thoughts, which
made her change colour, and embarrassed her
manner more then even the sudden appearance of
the stranger.
“He may be from Philadelphia—he may have
news for me (thought she);—but I dare not ask
him;”—and she unconsciously heaved a sigh,
which was not unobserved by the penetrating
stranger, whose eye, indeed, since he first saw
her, had, in spite of all his efforts, been kept steadily
fixed upon her. He would fain at this moment
have inquired into the cause of her slight
agitation, but his delicacy, and an agitation which
he himself felt, keener, perhaps, than even Maria's,
prevented him, and they went towards the house
in silence. A few minutes brought them to the
lane, where they met Gilbert; and Maria becoming
soon satisfied, from their conversation, that the
stranger was not from Philadelphia, the fluttering
of her bosom gradually subsided.
“That, sir, is my father,” said she, as Gilbert
approached. He soon saluted the stranger with a
friendly welcome, who cordially shook his hand,
saying,
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“I have heard of you, Mr. Frazier, and was directed
to take your house on my way to Fort Le
Bœuf, where I am proceeding on public business,
by the order of the Governor of Virginia.”
The high respect with which the stranger's first
appearance had impressed Gilbert, was, of course,
nothing diminished by this intelligence.
“Ay, ay! Indian business, na doot,” said he;
“I wonner the Governor did na lang ere this, send
to inquire after thir things; for there hae been
unco fearfu' an' troublesome doings lately. I hope
noo, howsomever, that ye'll get it a' settled. But
come in, come in—I wish I could accommodate
ye better; but amang thir woods, ye ken, it's no
like lievin' in a christian country.”
“Your kindness will far more than compensate for
any deficiency of accommodation—George Washington,
for such, Mr. Frazier, is my name, will
never be fastidious in this respect. If he has not
yet learned, he hopes he will learn, how to bear
hardships when the public service requires them.
In the mean time, to men who have, for several
nights past, lodged in the open woods, the shelter
of your roof will be a luxury; for I am not, you
will suppose, traversing this wilderness without
assistants and guides.”
“And whar are yere men?” inquired Gilbert;
“I'll send for them, an' try wi' heart an' gude
wull, to mak' ye a' welcome.”
“I left them about a mile up the river, where
they halted to refresh themselves, while, with my
rifle in my hand, I kept on our course before
them.”
“Your rifle!” said Gilbert, seeing none in
Washington's possession; “an' whar is it?”
“It is at the foot of a walnut tree, not far from
the place where I met your daughters; for on
perceiving them, I feared to alarm them by
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appearing armed in their presence, and dropped it
there.”
“I'll send my sin Archy to bring your men doon
the river,” said Gilbert. “He'll likely fin' the
rifle on his way. But come yoursel' into the
hoose, Mr. Washington, an' the women will hae
something comfortable for you, belyve.”
“I think I had myself better go back for the
rifle,” said Washington; “I can from thence call
my men together. It will save your son unnecessary
trouble.”
He accordingly retraced his steps as far back as
the walnut tree, where he sounded a horn, as a
signal for his company to come on, which was immediately
answered from no great distance.—
Archy, who, by his father's order, followed after
him, overtook him at that crisis, and was informed
that he need proceed no further, for his companions
would be present in a few minutes.
“I'll push on, if ye please, sir,” said Archy;
“the sight of a white man in thir woods, since the
Indians have frightened away the traders, is a
pleasure we canna get every day.
So saying, he hastened onwards, and Washington
returned to the house, desirous again to behold
the most beautiful and interesting female he had
ever seen.
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CHAPTER XVII.
[figure description] Page 221.[end figure description]
He came to the cot of the wild mountaineer,
And gladly its inmates receiv'd him:
He came with a tale which he told without fear,
And freely and well they believ'd him;—
He came with a heart that was blithesome and gay,
And he wot not of love that could bind him,
But when from that cottage he went far away,
He left his gay heart there behind him.
Basket of Scraps.
Maria, who now knew the quality and errand
of the new visiter, received him, on his entering
the house, with none of that embarrassment
which she had manifested before meeting with
her father. Her manner was kind and respectful,
but easy, graceful, and dignified. Her guest
however, was not so much at ease. He saw
before him the most perfect model of female excellence,
(and no man ever more ardently admired
such excellence,) of which he had ever formed
any conception; and he saw this where, of all
places in the world, he least expected to see it,
and under circumstances the most calculated of
any that could easily be imagined, to make an impression
on his heart. How could he then, at this
moment, feel tamely cool and collected in her
presence! No; Washington's heart was made of
warmer materials, and his soul composed of more
amiable qualities, than to behold, unmoved, so rare
a combination of all those charms that form the
witchery of woman.
When he was seated with Maria and Nancy in
Gilbert's little parlour, and some light refreshment
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placed before him, until a more substantial meal
could be prepared, Maria observing that he scarcely
tasted any thing—
“Mr. Washington,” said she, “I should have
expected that traversing the woods would have
quickened the appetite more than it seems to have
done with you. I wish you would use some of
this fare. It is indeed rustic, but you will make
allowance for it, being the produce of the Wilderness.”
“I shall eat, since it will gratify you,” he replied,
“although I confess I have no appetite just
now. Yet think not, Miss Frazier, that it is because
these cakes and that metheglin are disagreeable
to my taste, that I use them sparingly.
No—the choicest viands of city luxury could not
be more grateful to me. Ah! I feel, believe me
I do, that the very heart of the Wilderness can
produce attractions equal, nay, let me say superior,
to any I have yet met with in society.”
“Sir,” said Maria, “there must be a refinement
in society, arising from a thousand opportunities
and advantages enabling the people to cultivate
it, that we do not possess here; nor can it
be expected that we should. What means, what
instructions, what examples, either to infuse and
culture taste, or afford the means of its gratification,
can we enjoy among nations of savages,
whose only object is to prowl the Wilderness, in
search of prey, or alas! too frequently, in search
of revenge.”
“And yet,” said Washington—in this very Wilderness,
it appears—forgive me for saying it Miss
Frazier—but it is truth; that you have been
taught both to relish and discriminate with a truer
taste, and sounder judgment, the refinements of
life, than the majority of even those women in
society who have had the advantages of the best,
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tuition. I have met with none of them who
could have read with more apparent feeling and
enjoyment, than you did to-day, the delightful
tale of the lovely, the modest Lavinia, who, like
yourself, was the child of seclusion; and who,
like yourself, possessed as much, perhaps, more
real taste and refinement, than if she had been
brought up in courts. I must confess, Miss Frazier,
that from my first perusal of Lavinia's tale,
which was in my boyhood, I have been more enamoured
of the idea my fancy formed of her attractions
and virtues, than I ever was with those
of any other woman; and until—”
He was here interrupted by the arrival of his
party, whom Gilbert with great animation and satisfaction,
introduced into the apartment.
“I am glad,” said Gilbert, when he had them
all seated, “to see sae many christians in my hoose,
an' speakin' sae as I can understand. It's like getting
bock to the world again.”
“And I,” said Mr. Vanbraam, who was to be
Washington's interpreter with the French, “I am
heartily glad, after wandering ten or twelve days
as we have done, without seeing a house at all,
once more to get the walls of one round my sides.
So, Mr. Frazier, we have cancelled obligations in
this respect, I think.”
“I wish we could only cancel the debt of mischief
we owe the French, and their red allies as
easily,” said one Gist, who had acted as guide to
the party through the Wilderness. Mr. Frazier, I
have often heard the trader's talk of your living
down here, and many a time I wondered at your
hardihood, and cannot guess how you have escaped
so long, unless it be by the aid of the Mingo
prophet, or conjurer, that they talk about, as
protecting you. It's nation curious, Mr. Frazier.”
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“It is, indeed, remarkable,” observed Washington,
“that amidst all their depredations and
barbarities of late, the Indians should have permitted
a family so very much in their power, and
belonging to the nation they so much hate, to remain
so long unmolested. You must assuredly,
Mr. Frazier, have some uncommon means of conciliating
them?”
“I canna say,” replied Gilbert, “that I hae ever
used muckle means to please them, but I aye tak'
care no to offend them. I hae never yet cheated
or affronted any o' them, as the traders hae often
done.”
“I believe,” said Washington, “that the injudicious
and unnecessary haughtiness, and, perhaps,
in many instances, fraudulent conduct of our own
people, have been the means of provoking these
sons of the forest, to resentment and cruelties
against us, that they would not otherwise have displayed.
It would be wise and fortunate, Mr.
Frazier, if all our back-settlers and traders, would
act so inoffensively towards them as you have
done. The intrigues of French jealousy and ambition,
would not then be so fatally successful as
they now are, in stirring them up against us.”
“Surely,” observed Gist, “you can't 'spose it
a sin of much heinousness to take from the enemies
of the Lord whatever we can get, and in any
how we can get it. These savages are heathens,
the Lord's enemies. I expect, and I guess you remember
the story of the children of Israel despoiling
the Egyptians by borrowing, without returning,
according to the command of the Lord.”
“But we have no command of the kind,” said
Washington, “to treat the Indians so; and, Mr. Gist,
although you have been a trader among their tribes,
I hope, as you were not placed in exactly the same
circumstances as the Israelites, you did not feel
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bound to imitate their manner of despoiling the
Egyptians, who, you will recollect, had been long
their tyrannical task-masters.”
“Ye're vera right, sir,” observed Gilbert—“the
Testament says, that the labourer is worthy o' his
hire, an' as the Egyptians would na' wi' their ain
will gie the Israelites their lawfu' wages, which
could na' be ta'en by force, they could na do better
than tak' it by craft—an' since the prophet
o' the Lord bade it, it could na be a sin, ye
ken.”
“We han't any express command,” said Gist,
“to despoil the savages, I grant ye. But are they
not heathens, and as wicked, and cursed before the
Lord, I guess, as the Egyptians. 'Tarnation to
them! han't they plundered, and robbed, and
massacred us, if they did not make us slaves!”
“This plundering and massacreing,” said Washington,
“have, indeed, unhappily taken place;
but I fear that they have been sometimes wantonly
provoked by the misconduct of our own people.
The safety and tranquility of Mr. Frazier
here, in the midst of the Indians, is a proof of it.”
“He has had the old conjurer, Tonnaleuka, at
his back, I guess,” said Gist. “Unless the devil
had helped him, he couldn't, I expect, have so
long escaped his imps, and their tomahawks.
They say he's a nation'd curious old fish, that Indian
prophet. I guess I shouldn't dislike much,
to see whether he has a cloven foot, like his daddy.”
“You may examine instantly, thou son of levity,”
said a solemn and awful voice, which made
the blood almost freeze in the heart of the startled
and terrified Gist, at the same time, the majestic
and hallowed looking figure of Tonnaleuka
stood before him, with one leg advanced, as if to
invite inspection.
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“Look here,” continued the prophet, “is there
any mark of an evil spirit here? Examine me, all.
Is there any such mark about me? Where comest
thou from, thou mocker of sacred things? Thou
perverter of sacred oracles! Hear me—I will tell
you—for I have been in your land. Is it not called
the land of puritanism? Upon the river Connecticut,
do ye not call yourselves the servants of
God—the enlightened children of the east?
“Hearken to me, I will tell you what you are,
You are the children of mammon, the followers of
lucre, and the victims of witchcraft. It is you
that have the cloven foot. When upon the shores
of the Concord, and the Merrimack, I saw you
sacrifice your sons and your daughters as victims
to the spirit of evil, to the angel of darkness, as
your priest called him; how did my soul rejoice
in the pure religion of my native tribes! How did
I congratulate myself that I was none of you!
We worship, said I, one Great Spirit who made all
men, and desires the sacrifice of none. But these
irrational people of the east, worship Lucifer, the
deity of gold, and sacrifice to his kindred god, the
spirit of darkness, whom they call the author of
evil. How preposterous!
“But hear me, son of deceit! thou who wouldst
despoil a people more upright and pure than thine
own, and think it no crime! Hear me, I can—”
At this, Gist, who expected some sudden denunciation,
and preternatural infliction of the prophet's
wrath, trembled greatly, and turned ghastly pale;
which induced Tonnaleuka to assume a look of
kindness and forgiveness, with which he thus continued:
“Hear me—I am an Indian, and can forbear
to be angry when the Great Spirit forbids anger;
and for the sake of one here, he who is your
leader, whom he hath blessed, whom he hath
sworn to lead and guide in the ways of truth,
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righteousness, and prosperity, he hath forbidden
anger.
“And brother,” said he, turning to Washington,
“thou blessed of heaven! I will say to thee, thou
mayest go on thy way without fear. Thou hast
received a spirit of wisdom, and of virtue, to keep
thee right, and no one will harm thee; but thou
wilt, when thou performest thy errand, return to
thy home and thy people, in safety; and from thee
they shall learn what to do; and if they hearken
to thy words, they will prosper and become a
great people.
“Brother, thou hast heard my words.”
To this Washington answered:—
“Father—I am glad I have met with you. I
have heard of your virtues, and of your influence
over the Indians. You know that the object of my
mission at present, to the Wilderness, is to effect
a reconciliation with those of your nations, who
are hostile to us, and to put an end to the intrigues
of your French brethren, in exciting them
against us.
“Father—I thank you for your good will, and
the favourable sentiments you have expressed towards
me, and I wish for your aid in accomplishing
the pacific object I have in view; an object
which I know you must approve.
“Father—My instructions are to visit the
French, and to remonstrate with them; for we
look upon them as the chief source of our late
calamities, and blame them more than we do your
people. If we at all lift the hatchet, it will be
more to humble them, than to punish the Indians
whom they have deceived into the belief that we
are their enemies.
“Father! The temper of our red brothers, unless
when they are deceived or provoked, I do not
believe to be so cruel and malignant as I have
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heard reported. You know that they have, during
the last summer, done us great injury, by destroying
our people and carrying off our property.
Hence it was natural we should think them blood-thirsty
and inhuman. But they have permitted
our friend Frazier to live here in the midst of them
in peace, for many years, although he is of our
nation. I presume, therefore, that they are not
inveterately hostile to us, and that, if they were
only well informed as to our intentions towards
them, they would be our friends, and withdraw
their confidence from those who deceive them.
“Father! you have heard me, and you may believe
that we do not wish to be at war with your people.”
“Brother,” replied Tonnaleuka, “you are a
wise man, and know the true interests of your
country. I have heard you—I have listened to
you with great delight, as I would to the pleasant
sound of the summer's breeze, that refreshes the
forest when it whistles amidst the leaves of the hazel
and the elder bushes—for it is refreshing to
hear the words of peace from a white man.
“Brother—our white brother, Frazier, has lived
here long; and because he was peaceable we have
not disturbed him. The chiefs of thirteen nations
have, at different times, smoked the calumet with
him, and he has thirteen strings of wampum in his
possession—the symbols of amity, and his security
from molestation. All your white men might sit
in tranquillity and safety, with as little fear and concern
for our animosity, as our friend, if they would
only conduct themselves as he has done;—for—
hear me, brother, Indians can be kind friends, as
assuredly as you have found them to be terrible
enemies.
“Brother—hear me—all our tribes have not
declared against your nation. Nay—some of them
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wish you better than they do the French. The
Shannoahs, the Delawares, and the Mingoes, who
inhabit these parts, believe the French to be less
upright than you, and they have blamed the Ottawas,
and the Chippeways, and the Caughnewagoes,
and the Wiandots, and the other nations who have
lent themselves to your white enemies; for they
say,—“who invaded our territories, and built forts
among us first? Was it not the French? The
English are more numerous and powerful, and yet
they have been more moderate, and have kept out
of our hunting ground, or else come into it with
our permission. We should, therefore, wish the
English better than the French.”
“Thus, brother, are the Shannoahs, the Delawares,
and the Mingoes your friends. You are
now among them, and need fear nothing; and as
to the hostile tribes, they have, for this season,
withdrawn to their huts and their wigwams, and
will annoy you no more till the spring; and, if
you can persuade the French to be quiet, all will
be well; but, brother, the French are not inclined
to be so. You have heard my opinions. Receive
this wampum in testimony of my friendship. The
chief of my tribe, I doubt not, will also give you
one.
“Brother—as you are peaceable, may you be
prosperous!” So saying, he turned round, and
left the apartment.
The impression made on our travellers, by this
extraordinary Indian, was a mixture of astonishment
and reverence. Washington had before
heard of him, as an eccentric man, with some pretensions
to the spirit of prophecy, and with just
sufficient knowledge of the world and of mankind,
to enable him to impose himself upon his barbarous
brethren as an inspired person; but he had
no idea of that dignity, that wisdom, that elevation
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of manner, and commanding potency of language,
which scarcely ever failed to effect its purpose with
his auditors; and which, consequently, gave him
an unbounded influence over many nations of his
red brethren.
Washington was extremely desirous to make inquiry
of some of Frazier's family, concerning what
they knew of the prophet's previous life, and the
means by which he had acquired that knowledge
of the world which he evidently possessed, in a degree
far superior to any thing he had ever expected
to find in an Indian. The best qualified person
to give him such information, he believed, was
Maria; at all events, he felt she would be the most
agreeable; and was internally pleased with the
idea, that the making such an inquiry would afford
him an excellent plea for drawing her into a conversation,
perhaps, somewhat of a confidential
kind; and which she could have no proper objection
to indulge him in extending to a considerable
length. She had left the room immediately on the
entrance of his companions—he could not, therefore,
instantaneously gratify his wishes; but he resolved
to seize the first opportunity that offered
during the evening for that purpose; and in the
meantime, to refrain from asking that information
from her father or any other of the family which
would be, beyond measure, more sweet and precious
when obtained from her lips. The noblest
of all poems has informed the world, that our good
mother Eve, was actuated by similar feelings towards
the man she loved, when she withdrew, while
the angel communicated to him the interesting
story of the world's creation, in order that she
might afterwards enjoy the greater delight of hearing
him repeat it. Thus it appears that the effects
of love upon the mind did not differ greatly sixty
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centuries ago in Paradise, from what they did
about sixty years ago in the Wilderness.
As to the observations of the rest of the company
concerning Tonnaleuka, when he had withdrawn,
they were expressed pretty much as follows:
“By heavens!” said Vanbraam, “that is a strange
kind of a man! If it were not against all the rules
of Monsieur Bayle's philosophy, I protest I should
almost believe him to be really a prophet. He
must at least be a soothsayer. Hah, Gist! he gave
your yankeeism, with all its shifts and turnings,
a complete overset. I never hit a pigeon's crown
more fairly with a rifle shot, than he did your
witchcraft.”
“Tarnation to your rifle, and him too!” cried
Gist, rather hysterically, and forcing into his manner
an appearance of ease and unconcern, which
he really did not feel. “What signifies his gibberish
about the Merrimack and the Concord. I
guess he wanted to frighten me—but, faith, Elij'
Gist ha'nt got so squirrel a heart as to flinch at a
pop-gun. But it's nation curious, after all, I
expect.—He's an odd fish—and I an't sure whether
he mayn't be Satan, or not. His bear-skin
moccasins may have hidden his cleft foot.”
“Whether his foot be cloven or not,” replied
Vanbraam, “his sudden appearance, I believe, clove
the contents of your cranium, as the philosophers
call it, down to the very cella turcica of the learned
Voissius; and I doubt the saddle itself has been
shattered, for it is plain that your brain has not
yet resumed its proper position in it.”
“Curse your philosophy, and your Latin!” exclaimed
Gist. “You would fire a squib at me too,
I guess—but I expect you an't primed enough,
Mr. Interpreter! Tarnation to it! but if my head
wan't bothered with that conjurer, and your Latin,
I could twirl back your jokes till your ears
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would ring again, I guess, as easily as I could
crack a hazel-nut.”
“Ay! and as easily as you lost your wager this
morning,” replied Vanbraam, “by shooting the
squirrel through the tail instead of the head. Pro
pudor! Master Aimwell!”
“Pro devil!” cried Gist, considerably nettled;
“I tell you, Monsieur—I guess I can aim as well
as you—tarnation to you! I'll stake you five guineas,
here they are, true spades, I guess, and as
good metal as ever had the king's head on them—
down with as many now! Mr. Washington, you'll
hold the stakes. I'll shoot for them with any man
in the company, except yourself, at a hundred
yards distance, through the size of a crown-piece.
Vanbraam, I guess now I defy you for the yellow
boys.”
“Defy me at hitting a mark at a hundred yards!
Gist, that you sha'nt,” returned the interpreter.
“If it were a needle's point instead of a crown
piece, I'll take you up. Here is the coin. Mr.
Washington will say when and where.”
At this moment Mrs. Frazier entered to equip
the table for dinner, and Washington observed:
“At present, my friends, this good lady is about
furnishing you with other employment, in which,
I hope, you will have no objection to engage.
To-morrow morning, if you wish to try your skill,
you may do it with all my heart; but I would recommend
you to do it from a nobler motive than
the winning of a wager, I mean the honour of victory.
You will, therefore, be pleased, each of you,
to take back your money; and let us have to-morrow
a friendly contest for the character of the
best marksman: I shall myself try a hand in the
sport.”
“No, sir,” said Vanbraam, “I shall not engage
to contend with you; Gist is my antagonist.”
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“Nor I,” said Gist; “I guess we would come
off devilish losers in that matter. But, sir, I han't
no objection you should try the winner.”
“As you please,” said Washington; “but if the
day be suitable for travelling, we must not occupy
much of it in amusement.”
“We shall only take the best of three hits, sir,
and then attend you,” said Vanbraam.
Mrs. Frazier's good fare now smoked upon the
table, and the party soon applying themselves
pretty vigorously to its enjoyment, the conversation
was discontinued.
During the repast, Paddy Frazier and Dr. Killbreath
arrived from a hunting excursion, and took
their seats. The former, after the meal was over,
informed Washington that the governor of Le Bœuf
was dead, and that an officer named St. Pierre
commanded there in his place; that in a few days
a council of the chiefs of some tribes, mostly friendly
to the English, was to be held at a place called
the Loggstown, about thirty miles down the river,
and that all the hostile tribes, except the Wiandots
and Caughnewagoes, had removed to a considerable
distance westward, to spend the winter, with
the intention, however, of recommencing in the
spring with more than their former force and ferocity
their depredations upon the frontiers.
“At the present time,” said he, “the only
danger your company can have to encounter will
arise from the Wiandots and Caughnewagoes, part
of whom are yet encamped between this and Le
Bœuf, and their chiefs are to attend the council
at the Loggstown.”
“But on account of the nature of my mission,
I have a right,” observed Washington, to demand
a safe-conduct for my followers from the French,
which I suppose those Indians will respect. It is
true, the obtaining that safe-conduct may be
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attended with difficulty and loss of time. It would
not be safe for any of my men to venture singly to
the fort for that purpose. It will, therefore, be
better to keep together, exert prudence, and trust
to Providence for the issue.”
“There is a small fortification,” returned Paddy,
“lately erected at Venango, not much above
sixty miles from this place, commanded by a
Monsieur Joncaire. Let me see, I think I could
be there to-morrow night, for I am well acquainted
with the road; and the third day from this, I think,
barring accidents, I could meet you at the Loggstown
with a safe-conduct. In the meantime, we
can start Dr. Killbreath in a canoe to king Shingiss,
about twelve miles down the river, with information
that you are here. He will afford you
all the protection he can, for he is the most steadily
attached to the English of any chief in the country.”
Washington immediately perceived the propriety
of acceding to those proposals; and Paddy,
who required no other preparation for the journey
than merely to throw on his belts, and a small
wallet of provisions, and to see that his rifle was in
order, received his instructions, and was off in a
few minutes. Dr. Killbreath also set out the same
evening in a canoe for king Shingiss' residence.
The roads being bad, in order to relieve the horses
of part of their burthens, he took a great portion
of the baggage with him, which was placed
under the care of three of Washington's men,
named Stewart, Currin, and McGuire, who accompanied
him in the canoe.
It was not till after making these arrangements,
that Washington enjoyed the opportunity he so
much desired of conversing with Maria on the
subject of Tonnaleuka, or, if the reader will have
it so, on any subject she might think proper to
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permit. At length, various occasions having caused
the apartment to be vacated by all except Maria,
Nancy, and himself, he addressed them, not,
it must be confessed, without feeling some slight
agitation at his heart, which, however, he soon
overcame.
“Ladies,” said he, “next to the astonishment
I felt at first finding you in this Wilderness, my
greatest surprise has been to see that it contains
so extraordinary a man as Tonnaleuka; the Indians
cannot surely be quite destitute of intelligent
men, when they have such an instructor.”
“I am sorry to say,” observed Maria, “that
the Indians, although they have often benefited
by his counsels, are, universally, through all their
tribes, too inveterately attached to their ancient
habits, to derive advantage from his instructions;
nay, so great is their antipathy to all kinds of
knowledge not communicated to them by their
ancestors, that whenever he has offered to open
to their youth any of the stores of his information,
they have uniformly forbidden him; and, I believe,
that our family is the only one in the Wilderness
in which his benevolent efforts to communicate
knowledge to the uninformed mind has
been thankfully received.”
“Then I see the mystery explained!” exclaimed
Washington, almost involuntarily; “no wonder,
extraordinary maiden, that your mind is so
superior, when with your own fine natural talents
you have had such an extraordinary instructor!
Pardon me, Miss Frazier, I have, perhaps, said
too much; but it is really singular and pleasing
to meet with such minds as I have met with here!”
“Sir,” said Maria, “I know not what may be
the privileges of your sex in society; but, if I may
credit the authors I have read, they have always
been accustomed to work upon the vanity of ours
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by praising our excellence beyond all rational
bounds; and, I believe, the daughters of refinement
have always permitted them to indulge this
display of their good manners at the expense of
sincerity, perhaps, because they knew the exact
value to place upon it. But as here, in the forest,
we have no means of ascertaining this value with
equal precision, I think our safest method will be
to dispense with the custom altogether, and tolerate,
from those who converse with us, only such
language as is conformable to truth and nature.
I, therefore, wish—”
“Oh, Miss Frazier!” said Washington, interrupting
her with considerable emotion, “Oh, believe
me, if I have offended your delicacy, it was
done involuntarily—and let me say in my own
justification, that I never spoke insincerely to flatter
either man or woman; and that, concerning
you in particular, I have not expressed half—ah!
I will not—I dare not express half, what I think
your merits—”
“Stop, sir,” said she, “I will not impeach
your sincerity—I believe you incapable of uttering
opinions you know to be unfounded; but in this
instance you are perhaps too premature in your
conclusions—a little more time, a little more acquaintance,
might show your first impressions to
be erroneous. I will accuse you, therefore, of
nothing but incaution, to which I request that so
far as respects your opinion of me you will plead
guilty, and let us end the discussion.”
“Incautious in expressing that opinion,” replied
Washington, “I may have been; but certainly
not in forming it, for, alas! I cannot resist
the evidence of my senses.”
“Well then,” observed Maria, “let the matter
rest so; we esteem each other too highly, I hope,
to contend about nice distinctions; you have
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acknowledged your want of caution in one particular:
this is as much as I can ask for. I have no
right to turn your confessor, and require you to
inform me of every little foible and mistake into
which you may have detected yourself falling.
Tonnaleuka's character is a public one, and,
therefore, a fair subject of investigation. We
began with it, I believe, and if you can animadvert
upon it without complimenting mine, I have
no objection to join you on the subject; for there
is scarcely another in the world that could afford
me more satisfaction.”
“I am desirous,” observed Washington, cautiously
avoiding the tempting, but forbidden topic
of her praise; “I am desirous to know from what
sources this singular man has drawn his uncommonly
extensive information. A philosopher—a
prophet—and a savage!—how can we reconcile
the co-existence in one individual of characters
so apparently contradictory to each other?”
But, reader, I have given you enough of this
dialogue; during the remainder of which our heroine
detailed to Washington all she had learned
of the prophet's early life, and opportunities of
acquiring knowledge. You, however, know all
about this already. I will not, therefore, tease
you needlessly by repeating an already-told tale.
I shall only mention that, during this conversation,
the whole heart and affections of Washington were
irreclaimably given up to Maria, and that, although
the gratification he enjoyed was great, it
was dearly enough purchased by the irretrievable
loss of his heart's tranquillity.
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CHAPTER XVIII.
[figure description] Page 238.[end figure description]
There is a high and mystic spell,
With which great minds supremely sway
O'er those of grosser mould;
Whose nameless potency obey—
The coward and the bold,
Nor of its source aright the history can tell.—
On human fate in darkest hour,
Its beams of light can fall,
And some its intellectual power,
Before whose dazzling beam they cower,
The might of magic call.
Basket of Scrape.
There is many a fair lady in America, who, I
doubt not, will think it a great pity that the illustrious
character, who had thus become a captive
to Maria's charms, should have been fated to throw
away the ardent affections of his manly heart upon
one who could not return them. Such a one will
regret much, that he had not visited the Wilderness
a year sooner, when the probability would
have been, that he should then have gained that
ascendancy over her feelings which Charles Adderly
now possessed. Nay, there will be some
inclined to challenge the accuracy of our heroine's
taste and discernment, in not, at once, giving the
preference to her new lover—whom we know now
to have been born to the glorious destiny of establishing
a new and triumphant era for the rights
and dignities of man! If ever, indeed, a deviation
from the rigid line of constancy in love could
admit of apology, it would have been in this instance:
but Maria Frazier, like the noble-hearted
youth who had now become devoted to her, was
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resolved never, with her knowledge, to do any
thing that should require apology. In justification
of her discernment, we will say, that she clearly
saw all Washington's merits; and although she
could not foresee all his future greatness, she
esteemed and respected him as much as if she did.
At all events, had he been even then the conqueror
of Cornwallis, and the emancipator of half
the world, devoted, ardently devoted, as his whole
soul was to her, he could not have made her
change in her attachment, or waver in her constancy,
for Charles Adderly.
But Washington knew not this; nay, he knew
not that any one possessed those affections, for
which he felt that he could sacrifice every consideration
but one to obtain. For to him there was
something more dear, more sacred, than the dearest,
the sweetest throb that could ever warm his
heart, or give pleasure to his existence—more
dear than life, more dear than fame—more dear
than even that Maria, whose loveliness had enchanted
his feelings into a sense of bliss he had
never before known—it was his Duty. This was
the polar star that guided all his actions—this was
the moving spirit within him, to whose dictates he
was resolved that every prospect, every feeling,
and every wish of his existence, should bend.
Had he known the state of Maria's mind, ere he
permitted her charms to imprint themselves so
deeply on his heart, as almost to attain an irresistible
influence over his destiny, it is probable
that he would have had resolution enough to have
successfully combated against their power, and to
have preserved that freedom which he now, almost
without a struggle, yielded to their fascination.
He did not, however, yield blindly, and
without reflection, as many lovers do. He yielded
because he conceived it to be his duty, to give up
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those youthful affections, which he felt were yet
unappropriated, to one whom Providence seemed
to have thrown in his way as the most suitable,
since she was the most lovely, and he believed the
most virtuous of her sex, to whom he could attach
himself, and to one of whom he knew that he
ought, sooner or later, to unite his fate.
Being now upon important public business
which required despatch, he thought it would be
wrong to make such a delay at her father's house
as would justify him in making a declaration of
his feelings, or even attempting to engage her affections
by any attentions of such a nature as
might have that effect. After his public duty
should be performed, and his public functions expired,
he would then be master of his own time,
and of his own movements, and without obstruction
from any duty, he could return to the abode
of his Maria, woo her affections, tell her how he
loved her, and solicit her to become the wife of
his bosom. These were the dreams of love in
which this young hero now delighted to indulge;
these were the captivating pictures of future felicity,
the endearing scenes of domestic bliss, when
Maria should be his own, which his fancy loved
to form; and amidst all the cares, the dangers,
and the toils of the arduous enterprise he had undertaken
to conduct, these ideas—these visions
of Maria, love and happiness were his solace, his
joy, and the bright reward which he hoped would
crown all his labours.
Although the emotions of his mind had kept him
long sleepless after his retiring to rest, yet he was
early awake; and soon had the three companions
of his journey who remained with him, namely,
Vanbraam, Gist, and one Jenkins, at work, fixing
the horses, and preparing to move onwards. Their
good host, Gilbert, however, thought it would
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never do to let them depart without breakfast; and
he pleaded so hard that they should delay till it
was prepared, that he gained his point, and Nelly
put it in a state of forwardness.
In the meantime, according to their agreement
the preceding night, Vanbraam and Gist, tried
the accuracy of their rifles, and the steadiness of
their eyes, upon a mark at a hundred yards distance,
which each pierced so dexterously that it
was difficult for Washington to allot to either the
victory. The distance was enlarged to one hundred
and fifty yards, when, after several trials,
Vanbraam gained a slight advantage, and Gist
was obliged, though with great reluctance, to relinquish
the contest.
At length, they set forward, and Washington
for the first time in his life, felt what it was to
separate from the object of a tender love. He
heaved an involuntary sigh as he bade her adieu,
and although she perceived it, and suspected its
cause, (for she was too sagacious to be easily deceived
in this matter) she in a very calm, but
kindly and respectful manner, wished him a safe
and prosperous return from the perils of his undertaking.
“Thank you, Miss Frazier,” was all he said;
but he mentally added, “Oh! may heaven soon
restore me to her lovely presence, and, for her
sake, grant peace to the Wilderness she inhabits!”
A few hours brought them to the Shanapin's
town. Here, with the eye of a soldier, he beheld
the point of land where the Alleghany and
Monongahela meet; and was the first person to
be struck with the eligibility of the situation for a
fort, on which afterwards Du Quesne, and fort
Pitt, were successively built. This was in consequence
of the French erecting the former of
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these fortifications, the spot which soon afterwards
became the great object of contention between
the two most powerful nations in the world, each
adopting the opinion of Washington concerning
it, as being the position which more than any
other westward of the Alleghany mountains, was
calculated to give its possessors the command of
the largest portion of country.
Having spent some time in estimating the height
of the banks, and the breadth of the rivers at
this place, he accompanied Shingiss, king of the
Delawares, who had here met him with ten or
twelve of his warriors, to his residence, situated
about two miles farther down the river, upon the
bank of Chartier's creek, and near the place
where Charles Adderly had been defeated. Here
he found that doctor Killbreath's party and the
baggage, had arrived safe. It was near the evening,
when he reached this place, but as he was
desirous to view the ground on which our hero's
disasters had taken place, Shingiss accompanied
him to the spot, with doctor Killbreath, who having
acquired a considerable knowledge of the
Indian language, acted as his interpreter.
Here he saw the remains of the hasty fortification
that Charles had attempted to construct, and
perceived some of its logs yet stained with the
blood of several of those who fell in defending
it. Shingiss also pointed out to him the spot
where Charles slew the young Indian chief, Carrawissa,
and gave him an account of the desperate
encounter between them, of which he said
he was an eye-witness, in such terms as raised
Charles's heroism to a considerable height in the
opinion of Washington; and, indeed, the whole of
what he heard and saw, impressed him with a
very exalted idea of his character, both as a
man and a soldier.
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The Indian mode of fighting, described to him
on this occasion, by skulking and keeping up an
irregular fire from behind trees, or from ambuscades,
forcibly struck his mind as being the only
one suited for that woody country, and the only
one by which its red warriors could be successfully
combated. He perceived, therefore, that Charles
Adderly, had, in a military point of view, committed
a great error in attempting to defend such a
frail fortification, when the thickness of the forest
offered his men, in every direction, infinitely securer
covers for defence, as well as more eligible
points from which to attack. He conceived that
he ought to have ordered them to screen themselves
in the woods as soon as the assailants appeared,
and from behind trees or ravines, to take
off by a sure and steady fire, any enemy that
should approach them.
The next morning, in company with Shingiss,
and a few of his warriors, Washington, and his
whole party proceeded to the Loggstown, which
was about sixteen miles farther westward. Here
a number of the chiefs had already assembled,
among whom he distributed the presents he had
brought from Virginia, for that purpose. These
presents were received graciously, and Washington
was assured, that he had nothing to fear for
his party, as all the chiefs present wished to be
on friendly terms with the English. A large wigwam
was constructed for him and his men, around
which, some of Shingiss' warriors assisted in
keeping guard, for fear of any surprise during the
night.
The next morning, several other chiefs, and
sachems, among whom were those of the Wiandots,
and Caughnewagoes, who were hostile to the
English, arrived. These hostile chiefs, however,
on being informed that Washington had come to
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the council for the purpose of making peace with
the French Indians, after which, he was to proceed
to Le Bœuf, to make peace with the French
themselves, accepted of his presents, and promised
to listen to his proposals without molesting
him.
A council feast was now prepared, at which
Washington and his party, were invited to partake;
after which, all the chiefs smoked the calumet
with him, except those of the hostile tribes,
who said that they could not do so until they knew
the terms of peace he should offer; and until their
allies, the French, had accepted of them, and
ratified a treaty.
At length, the council was organised, and Kustaloga,
the chief sachem of the Mingoes, being
declared its president, he addressed Washington
as follows:
“Brother—You are welcome to our assembly.
Our father, the governor of Virginia, has shown
his wisdom in sending you to make peace with
the red nations, and their white allies. I shall
rejoice when I hear that you have prevailed on
them to bury the hatchet, and, as you are a prudent
man, I doubt not that you will be successful.
“Brother—For my part, I have been always
friendly to your nation. I did not approve of
the French building forts in our country, without
our consent. But, brother, hear me. I will speak
my mind freely, concerning both your nation, and
that of the French.
“There was a time—brother you cannot deny
it—when neither the French nor you, made any
pretensions to our lands, nor disturbed us with
your disputes. We then lived in peace, where
our fathers had lived, for more than a hundred
generations, and every man hunted the deer and
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the buffalo, without danger from the encroachments
and attacks of strangers.
“At what time, brother, either you or the
French obtained a right to our lands, I cannot tell;
but I believe never. If you were then, honest
men, you would withdraw into your own bounds,
and not attempt to usurp our property. Is not
this right?
“Brother, I have not heard so much complaint
against your nation as against the French. I have,
therefore, generally sided with you, although many
of us think that if you were not afraid of the
French, you would encroach upon us as much as
they have done; and, as to the enemies you have
among our red brothers, they say that your people
to the east, in New-England, have been more
bitter against us than even the French were.
This may be true, but you yourself no doubt know
whether or not.
“But, attend me, brother, I do not like the
French; I speak with sincerity; and I say it, although
the Wiandots and the Caughnewagoes, their
allies, hear me. But the French themselves know
it.
[1]“Brother, listen to what I told the French commanders
lately at Le Bœuf, when I was sent by
my tribe and the Delawares to dismiss them off
our land.
“Fathers! said I, I am come to tell you your
own speeches; what your own mouths have declared.
Fathers! you in former days set a silver
basin before us, wherein there was the leg of a
beaver, and desired all nations to come and eat
of it, to eat in peace and plenty, and not be churlish
to one another.
“Now, fathers, by the edge of this dish I lay
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down a rod, that if any person be found to be a
disturber, you may scourge him therewith, and
even if I should get foolish in my old days, I desire
you not to spare me. And if you should be in
fault, fathers, should not the rod in justice be
used upon you as well as upon others?
“Now, fathers, it is you who are the disturbers
in this land, by coming and building your towns in
it, and taking it away unknown to us, and by force.
Now is it not you who should bear the infliction
of this rod?
“Fathers, we kindled a fire a long time ago, at
a place called Montreal, where we desired you to
stay, and not come and intrude upon our land. I
now desire that you may despatch back to that
place, for be it known unto you, fathers, that this
is our land, and not yours.
“Fathers—I desire you may hear me in civilness.
If not, we must handle that rod which was
laid down for the use of the unruly. If you had
come in a peaceable manner like our brothers, the
English, we would not have been against your
trading with us as they do. But to come, fathers!
and build houses upon our land, and to take it by
force, is what we cannot submit to.
“Fathers—both you and the English are white—
we live in a country between you, and the land
belongs to neither of you. But the Great Being
above allowed it to be a place of residence for us;
so fathers, I desire you to withdraw, as I have
done our brothers, the English—for we will keep
you at arm's length. I lay this down as a trial for
you both, to see which will have the greatest regard
for it, and that side we will stand by, and
make equal sharers with us. Our brothers, the
English, have heard this, and I now come to tell
it to you—for I am not afraid to discharge you off
this land.
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“I then gave him back his wampum, that our
friendship might be at an end.
“Hear me, brother—you will see why I dislike
the French—Their general made me this reply.
“Now, my child, I have heard your speech.
You spoke first, but it is my time to speak now.
Where is my wampum that you took away, with
the marks of towns in it? This wampum I do not
know, which you now give me to discharge me off
the land. But you need not have put yourself to
the trouble, for I will not mind it. I am not afraid
of flies or musquitoes, and Indians are no better
than these. I tell you, down that river I will go,
and build there as I have been ordered. If the
river was blocked up, I have forces sufficient to
burst it open, and to tread under my feet all who
oppose me, together with their allies; for my
force is as the sand upon the sea-shore. Therefore,
here is your wampum—I fling it at you.
“Child! you talk foolishly. You say, that this
land is yours, but there is not so much as the black
of my nail of it yours. It is my land, and I will
have it; let who will say against it. You may buy
and sell with the English, as you please—but the
land shall be mine. If your people will be ruled
by me, they may expect kindness, but not otherwise.”
I then asked him what he had done with the
English prisoners that the Chippeways had taken
last year. He replied,
“Child, do not concern yourself about this matter.
You think it a great hardship that we took
those people. But we sent them to Canada to inform
the governor of what the English intend
against us.
“Brother, I have told you all. Take this wampum
and let me hear you.”
Washington received the wampum and replied—
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“Brother—I am glad to meet my brothers here
in council. I thank you for this wampum, and for
the good-will you have manifested for my nation.
I have been ordered by your brother, the governor
of Virginia, to acquaint you, that I must proceed,
with all possible despatch, to visit the French
commandant, and to deliver to him a letter of very
great importance to your brothers, the English;
and, I believe, also to you, their friends and allies.
“I was desired, by your brother, the Governor,
to call upon you, the sachems of the nations,
to inform you of my errand, and to ask your advice
and assistance how to proceed by the best
and nearest road to the French. You see, brother,
I have got thus far on my journey.
“His honour also desired me to apply to you
for provisions, and for some of your young men to
conduct us on our way, and to be a safe-guard
against the French Indians, who have taken up
the hatchet against us. I have spoken thus particularly
to you, brothers, because his honour the
Governor wishes to treat you as his friends and
allies, and holds you in great esteem.
“To confirm what I have said, I give you this
string of wampum.”*
Massakeukas, the chief of the Wiandots, now
addressed the presiding sachem.
“Brother—if you will hear one who speaks
plainly—one who flatters no person, you will attend
to me. I approve not of these proceedings;
this low submission to an English emissary who is
sent here to sow dissention between us and our
French allies.
“Brother—did you think I would listen to
your abuse of my friends, and not rise to reply? I
knew the French commandant—he is now dead.
I heard so but yesterday, and while his memory is
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yet green in my mind, I will not hear it traduced,
unanswered.
“Brother! He was a man of truth. He often
told me that the designs of the English were to engross
the west, as they have already engrossed
the east, for their people. I believed him; for I
have seen enough of the English on the banks of
the Genessee and the Mohawk not to know their
intentions against us.
“Brother—the general no doubt told you the
same. Why did you not believe him? Why will
not king Shingiss nor queen Alliquippa believe
him? Because your minds are full of the stories
of the English traders who come down the river.
And who are those English traders? What kind
of men are they? Are they not spies upon our
country? Have you not found them out, and have
you not often acknowledged them to be cheats,
impostors, and liars? Brother, have you ever
found truth in any of them! No—I will answer
for you; and I will say that sooner will you find
the waters of the Ohio flowing back over the Alleghany
mountains to mix with the great sea on
the east, than find honesty in any of their traders
that come among you.
“Brother—I do not think we should grant an
escort to send the enemies who are now in our
power, in safety to the French. The French are
tender-hearted, and will not put them to death.
These men will be only burthensome to our
allies—who will not thank us for sparing them.
“Let us, therefore, act wisely, and not be
timid-hearted in the matter. Let us teach the
English to send no more of their emissaries as
spies among us, under the pretence of friendship.
I know their nation too well not to suspect that
there is some treachery in the pretensions of this
man—whom, if you do right, and act prudently,
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you will, with all his companions, immediately put
to death. If not, you will at least, order them to
return, at once, to their own homes.
“Brother, you have heard my proposal—is
there not wisdom in it?”
This proposal, in its most murderous tendency,
was warmly supported by several orators of the
Wiandols and the Caughnewagoes—one of the latter
of whom fiercely exclaimed—
“What, brothers! when the serpent is in your
bosom, will you fondle with him till he sting you!
Will you, like children, sport with the glittering of
his scales, till he infuses his destructive venom into
your hearts, when at a single stroke you might
crush him to death, and free yourselves from danger,
and the reproach of folly!
“Brothers—Let us sieze these men, and sacrifice
them to our wrath. It will gratify our allies—
it will strike terror into our enemies, and save ourselves
from many future calamities.”
Kustaloga, Shingiss, and their party, opposed
these violent councils to the utmost of their power,
but as the Shannoah chiefs had not attended the
assembly according to expectation, they were
likely to be overcome by the weight and fury of
the French party. The followers of the latter,
therefore, who wished for the destruction of the
white men, conceiving that it would be inevitably
determined on, attempted to surround them, and
beat off the Delawares, who firmly kept their
ground as their protectors. A considerable clamour
and confusion took place, and blows would,
no doubt, have soon been exchanged, the consequence
of which would, in all probability, have
been the destruction of Washington and his followers,
as their enemies appeared far more determined
to carry their point, than their friends, when
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the approach of the prophet Tonnaleuka was announced.
He hastily entered the area, which might be
called the council ring, with fire flashing from his
eyes, his hair streaming in the wind, and his hands
and his awful wand extended forward, as if he
were rushing to arrest the vengeance of heaven ere
it burst upon their devoted heads. Silence and
order had taken place the moment he was announced,
and now all eyes were immoveably fixed
upon him, and the boldest in the council perceiving
that displeasure and wrath were marked in his
countenance, sat aghast and breathless to hear
the annunciation of his errand.
“Brothers, brothers!” he exclaimed—“What
were ye about to do? Thank the Great Spirit that
he has in mercy arrested your impious hands.
What! would you destroy the favourite of heaven!
would you slay the chosen of Maneto! for,
know! short-sighted mortals that ye are, this very
man whom ye have denounced, and were going to
sacrifice as an impostor and a spy, has been born
to fulfil destinies which will benefit all mankind.
The whole of this waste wilderness will yet
bloom and flourish, in consequence of his great
deeds and heroic virtues.
“Shrink, brothers, and shudder at the thought
of what you were going to do!—for had you done
it, it would have brought a terrible perdition, the
unutterable pangs inflicted by the wrath of the
Great Spirit upon you. Repent for your intended
crime, be thankful for your providential escape. I
will pray for you, and you will be forgiven.
“Oh, Maneto!” he cried, directing his looks,
and lifting his holy wand towards heaven—“Oh,
Maneto! Thou who hast graciously preserved
these people from the crime of murdering him
whom thou hast selected from among men to
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execute the benevolent designs thou hast in view for
the world, they repent that they intended it; and
they implore thee for forgiveness. Oh! assure us
that thou hast forgiven them. What sign shall we
ask from thee that they are forgiven? Oh, Maneto!
let this be the sign! Shew the enemies of
this, thy chosen one, that he is so especially under
thy protection, that thou canst turn the hearts
of even his worst enemies, in his favour. Let a
message come from the French to their allies in
this council, ordering them to forbear from injuring
him or any of his companions during their
present sojourning in this country! Grant this
now to take place, oh Maneto! so that all who
see it, and all who may hear of it, may see that he
is under thy care, and that it will be both impossible
for any one to harm him, and criminal to attempt
it.”
At this moment, to the astonishment and conviction
of every one present, Paddy Frazier entered
the council ring, with a written paper addressed
to the chiefs and warriors of all the nations
in alliance with the French, desiring them to “respect,
and hold sacred, the person and effects of
George Washington, and those of his suite, so that
neither shall be in any manner annoyed or injured,
while employed in either proceeding on, or returning
from their present mission to the officer commanding
the fort and forces of his most Christian
Majesty at Le Bœuf, on pain of any infringement
upon this order being considered as a breach of
whatever treaty or treaties may exist between
the offender and his most Christian Majesty aforesaid.”
This document was signed by Le Gardeur
de St. Pierre, commanding officer at Le Bœuf.
It may be here mentioned, that Paddy had accidently
met this officer at Venango, and obtained
from him the above passport without difficulty.
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Maskakeukas, and the other hostile chiefs now
expressed their sorrow for their rashness, and
withdrew all further opposition to the friendly intentions
of Shingiss and Kustaloga in favour of
Washington.
The council then broke up, and our adventurers
remained for the night at Loggstown, enjoying the
hospitality of Kustaloga, and the protection of his
tribe.
eaf269v1.n1[1] From this to the asterisk in page 248, is taken nearly verbatim
from Washington's Journal of this mission.
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CHAPTER XIX.
[figure description] Page 254.[end figure description]
Danger is glory's fancied world,
Whose golden sands and amber seas
To dastards are unknown;
Where never tributary breeze
Their banner has unfurl'd,
And to that wild and brilliant zone,
Which vulgar souls can never know,
The sons of glory call their own,
T'is theirs, and theirs alone to go,
Till through long years of pain and toil,
They reach its shore—they tread its soil;
Then on their native land, its splendours they bestow.
Basket of Scraps.
Several circumstances, chiefly owing to some
difficulty which Kustaloga had in finding certain
strings of wampum that he wished to return to
the French, as an evidence of his withdrawing from
all dependence upon them, occurred to detain
Washington some days, very much against his inclination,
at the Loggstown.
At length, on the last day of November he and
his whole party proceeded on their journey, attended
by several Indian chiefs in the character of
companions, rather than protectors, as it was believed
that no protection was at present needed.
They took the way to Venango, which was then
the nearest French station to the Ohio, and arrived
there on the fifth day, without meeting with any
thing particularly disagreeable, except bad weather;
a circumstance, which formed indeed but a
small obstacle to so resolute a mind, and so healthy
a frame as Washington's, in the performance
of his duty.
Here he was politely received by a Captain
Joncaire, who commanded at this station, but who
did not possess sufficient authority to treat on the
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subject of governor Dinwiddie's letter. From
this man, who appears to have been both a free
liver, and a free speaker, using wine and oaths in
equal abundance, Washington became fully apprised
of the intentions of the French, in respect to
the country in dispute.
Having become pretty mellow over his cups,
while he treated our party with a flowing and jovial
hospitality, he told them without reserve that
it was the intention of his government to take possession
of all the country round the Ohio.
“We are resolved to do it,” said he, “and by
G—d! we will do it. We know that you English
can raise two men for our one, but you're so
d—d slow in your motions that you never can
make head against us. We hear that some of your
families design to settle at Shanapin's town in
the spring; but we'll soon pick them up, by
heavens, and then to Quebec with them, to ease
their consciences of the job!”[2]
As no business could be done at this place,
Washington re-commenced his journey as soon as
possible, for the fort at Le Bœuf, to which Joncaire
ordered a small party of soldiers to escort
him. The fort was about sixty miles distant, and
the difficulty of travelling, owing to the excessive
rains and snows that had fallen, and the numerous
mires and swamps over which they were obliged
to pass, in order to avoid the creek, which had
become so high and rapid as to render its passage
impassable, was so great that they were upwards
of four days in reaching it.
The commander at Le Bœuf had very shortly
before assumed that station, upon the death of the
late general. He received Washington with great
complaisance, but declined taking his business into
consideration until he should consult the
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commander of the neighbouring fort, who was immediately
sent for. It was four days before the affair
was settled, and an answer to governor Dinwiddie's
letter received. This answer, we are informed
by the history of the times, was far from being
satisfactory, containing no indication whatever on
the part of the French, to withdraw from the contested
country; but the whole management of
Washington in the arduous and hazardous enterprise
of thus ascertaining, in an official manner,
their real sentiments and intentions, merited and
obtained from all classes of his countrymen, the
warmest approbation and praise.
Having obtained this document, which was to be
decisive of the question of peace or war between
the two crowns, he lost no time in commencing
his return homewards, as he knew the public mind
anxiously waited to learn the result of his enterprise.
The disappointment of his hopes in securing
peace to his country, preyed greatly upon his
mind, for, unlike the generality of young men possessed
of high military ardour, his heart sickened
at the contemplation of these calamities, which
war, and especially war with savages, never fails
to inflict upon humanity. In the present instance,
in particular, he could not help feeling an agony
of soul at the idea of the evils to which she, whom
he loved better than the whole world, would, during
the approaching troubles, be peculiarly exposed.
“Oh! may heaven protect her from the calamities
with which she will, too soon, be surrounded!”
he mentally exclaimed; `alas! that, for her
own sake, she would consent to be mine, that I
might transplant her to a more secure abode. But
if she will not consent, may I have power to watch
over her safety, and protect her, even should it be
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unknown to herself, from misfortune. Sweet,
sweet will be the employment, if I can only make
it comport with my public duty. My country, my
country! yes, thy welfare must be the first object
of my solicitude. Oh Maria! my dearly beloved
maiden, forgive me, if even to thine, I prefer my
country's happiness. Oh heaven! I feel, alas,
that I am scarcely sincere in saying so; but thou
wilt pardon my weakness, if I am insincere; for
thou knowest that I love that maiden more ardently—
alas! grant that it may not be more ardently
than I love my country.”
In this state of mind, agitated by both love and
patriotism, Washington bade adieu to Le Bœuf,
and descended the creek, on the banks of which
it was built, in a canoe accompanied by another
containing the baggage and two or three of his
people, the horses, being almost worn out with fatigue,
having been sent, unloaded, under charge
of his other companions some days before, to proceed
at easy journeys to Shanapin's town, and
there await his arrival.
Snow and rain, frost and thaw, had alternately
for many days rendered the weather extremely
disagreeable, and his passage down the creek, in
consequence of its swollen and rapid state, was
both dangerous and fatiguing. Several times the
canoes were almost staved against rocks; and frequently
becoming fixed upon shoals, all hands were
obliged to get out and remain in the water for an
hour at a time, struggling to drag them over.
Often the ice had become solid from shore to
shore, and they had either to break their way
through it with immense labour, or carry their
canoes over land to where they might again float.
In all these labours, Washington performed more
than double duty, and set an example to his followers,
not only of mental perseverance, and
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fortitude, but of indefatigible and astonishing personal
exertions.
At length, on the sixth day after starting from
Le Bœuf, the canoes reached Venango at the confluence
of the creek with the Alleghany river.
Here meeting with their horses, for weakness,
and the badness of the roads, had prevented them
from getting any further, Washington thought it
prudent to abandon the canoes, lest they should
become fixed in the ice, which was now every day
threatening to lock up the river. The horses
were therefore loaded with as much of the baggage
as they could well carry, and every man also
with a pack, in order to get along with as little delay
as possible. The weakness of the horses, however,
rendered their progress so slow, that Washington,
impatient once more to see Maria, and
forward his despatches, and conscious that there
was no use in personally waiting on the slow motions
of his party, delegated to Vanbraam the
charge of bringing them to Frazier's house, where
he intended to remain till they arrived.
He then threw off his usual clothes, wrapped
himself in a watch coat, slung a pack upon his
back, in which he had secured his necessary papers
and provisions, and with his rifle in his hand
and a dagger at his side, hastened onwards, accompanied
by Paddy Frazier, equipped and armed
in a similar manner. They journeyed briskly and
boldly amidst woods, through thickets, over morasses,
and swollen rivers, and deep ravines, for two
days, when they fell in with a party of three French
Indians, who had laid an ambush for them. These
fired at our travellers when only about twelve
yards distant, but miraculously missed them. Paddy
immediately killed one of these men, and Washington
gave chase to another, whom he soon overtook
and made prisoner. This fellow
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[figure description] Page 259.[end figure description]
acknowledged that he had taken a deliberate aim at
Washington, and could scarcely believe his senses
when he saw that he had missed him, for, he said,
“it was the only aim he ever recollected to have
taken at six times the distance without striking his
object.”
Paddy catching at this idea, resolved to work
upon the superstitious feelings of the Indian, and
boldly asserted that Maneto had made Mr. Washington's
body impenetrable to any ball that should
ever be fired with gunpowder; and that the Indians
might as well aim at one of the stars, with the expectation
of piercing it, as at him. As this prisoner
was set at liberty the next day, he circulated
Paddy's information through all his tribe, from
whom it soon spread among the neighbouring nations;
and that Washington possessed such a miraculous
property is to this day believed by many
of them.
Two days after escaping the foregoing peril,
they encountered another, from which it required
more dexterity, and infinitely greater presence of
mind to extricate themselves. They had gained
the Alleghany river about two miles above Shanapin's
town, nearly opposite to an island, now called
Wainright's Island. From the cold they had endured,
they expected to find the river so completely
frozen, that they would have no trouble in
passing over. But instead of this, they found its
waters greatly raised, and carrying down, in a rapid
stream, large masses of ice, which passed
along with so much velocity as to threaten every
thing they should encounter with destruction.
Pass the river, however, they knew they must,
otherwise the chance was, that they would soon
be discovered by bands of the hostile Indians,
whom they had every reason to suppose were
now pursuing them; and there was no way for it,
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but by a raft, to make which they possessed no
other tool than one very indifferent hatchet. To
men like them, however, no difficulties are insuperable.
To work they set, and in something
less than a day they had a raft constructed of logs
fastened together with hiccory withes, on which
they ventured to commit themselves to the flood.
In pushing it across the stream with their poles,
they had great difficulty in keeping clear of the
large fragments of ice that were rolling down with
appalling fury, as if they would dash the frail
structure to which they had now committed their
safety, to pieces. In defiance of all their efforts,
it at length became entangled with a huge mass,
which got underneath its edge, and drove it onwards.
Washington with his pole made a violent
effort to clear it from this mass, by using his whole
strength to push it aside, when, unfortunately, the
pole slipped from under him, and he fell into the
flood in a depth of more than twenty feet of water.
He struggled for several minutes with the stream
and the blocks of ice that were passing around him,
and sometimes over him, but his efforts would
have been fruitless, and he would have been lost
to a truly bereaved world, had not his companion,
with great dexterity and considerable risk, contrived
to introduce under his breast one end of
his pole, which Washington instantly seizing, drew
himself within reach of the raft, and immediately
sprung upon it. At that instant it broke asunder,
and Paddy Frazier was in a moment under one of
its logs in the water. The impulse of the stream,
however, soon moved the log from above him, and
he arose to the surface; but unable to stem the
current with the same strength that Washington
had exerted, it was fast driving him away, when
his heroic companion, forsaking the log on which
he floated, sprang after him, with his pole in his
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hand. He fortunately caught him just as the current
was carrying him under the edge of a large
sheet of ice that jutted out from a point in the
island. Here he held him upon the surface, by
the assistance of his pole, while he broke away the
edge of the ice until it became thick and strong
enough to bear his weight. By an astonishing effort
of activity he then placed himself on it, and
assisted Paddy to follow. In a moment more they
were both on the island.
“We are safe now, thank God!” cried Paddy,
as soon as he came in contact with the solid earth.
“I never got such a cold dip in my life before.
But I hope, sir, I didn't hurt you by striking the
pole under your breast.”
“Thank God, indeed, for such an escape!”
said Washington, “it has been truly miraculous;
had we missed driving upon that ice, we should
have been both lost. As to my breast, there is no
injury done. The stroke hurt me a little at the
time, but I feel nothing of it now. But I am glad
that you have kept your senses so well. I expected
that you would have altogether swooned away on
reaching the shore; you have really a stout heart,
Mr. Frazier.”
“Not so stout as you, sir,” replied Paddy, “it
has undergone but one dipping; had it, like yours,
undergone two, I think it would now have been as
cold as the ice we have just left. But our difficulties
are now over, and I expect we shall be comfortable
at my father's fireside in a couple of
hours.”
“Then let us walk swiftly,” said Washington,
who indeed longed much to be there. “Brisk
exercise will keep us from freezing, in spite of
our wetness.”
They accordingly hastened onwards, and found
no difficulty in getting off the island, as, on its
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eastern side it approached very near the land, from
which it was then only separated by a narrow and
strong bridge of ice.
As they walked fast, and as Paddy knew the
best and nearest road, they were seated at his
father's fireside in a shorter time than he had predicted.
Refreshments, and a change of raiment
for each, were soon produced; and Washington,
having ascertained that the papers contained in
the pack which had been securely fastened to his
shoulders, had suffered no damage, felt himself,
after the dangers and difficulties he had undergone,
more than usually disposed to enjoy—thankfully
to enjoy, the happiness of being under the
same roof, and in the presence of the sweet mistress
of his affections. He had even the satisfaction
to hear her express her fervent gratitude to
heaven for his escape from the perils that had
surrounded him; and he could not help blessing
her in his heart, for her sympathy and kindness,
and congratulating himself for having excited
them in a bosom so pure, so intelligent, so tender,
and so lovely.
“Ah!” thought he, “this indeed is happiness
worth having suffered something for. Surely she
must feel for my welfare an interest warmer than
mere friendship could inspire, when she has so
little hesitation in expressing it. If, indeed, she
were the child of artificial cultivation, I might
have some reason to distrust the sincerity of this
manifestation of her sympathy for me; but she is
altogether the child of nature, and of truth, and
I must believe that she feels all, perhaps more
than she expresses. At all events, I will indulge
the idea of her affection for me, for it is comfort,
it is solace, it is happiness!”
Thus it is, that love can blind minds of the most
acute and accurate discernment. The very
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easiness and freedom from embarrassment, with which
the beloved object expresses an interest in our
concerns, are often fondly mistaken for marks of
passion, when they denote nothing more than
friendship and respect; and the smiles of the
fair one of our hearts, when only excited by humanity,
or politeness, often deceive us into a belief
of a reciprocal affection, which only increases
our disappointment, when we discover the unhappy
mistake.
Washington, indeed, did not, on this occasion,
assure himself so fully of the nature of Maria's
feelings towards him, as to be without doubt that
they were of that tender description, he would
fondly have believed; neither did he break
through the resolution he had formed, of not at
this time making a formal declaration of his own
feelings for her, so that he voluntarily deprived
himself of the only means he could have of ascertaining
hers. But he acted so from motives
of delicacy towards her; and also from a wish to
make his public duty now the chief, if not the only
object of his attention; although he felt that
he could not make it so of his solicitude.
The next day this resolution met with a trial
of its strength and firmness, to which, had it not
been formed in such a mind as Washington's, it
must have yielded.
The day, though cold, was considerably more
calm and settled than any that had for some weeks
preceded it; when, shortly after breakfast, the
beloved of his soul invited him to take a walk.
Yes, reader—this was temptation! Maria invited
him to walk in company with her to Alliquippa's.
How did his heart beat at the idea! Did he refuse?
No—he could not. But to keep his resolution of
not disturbing her with his passion, if it should be
in the least disagreeable to her, he was
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determined; and he had fortitude enough to withstand any
temptation to do at present, what he was conscious
could with more propriety be done at another
period.
“Sir,” said she, as they walked along, “the
Indian Queen we are going to visit, has from my
infancy, been one of my most disinterested friends,
and greatest favourites. She is attached to the
cause of your nation, and when she heard of your
business at the Loggstown, and at Le Bœuf, she felt
a little mortified that you did not visit her on your
way to those places. She has conversed with me
several times about you, and desired me, as soon
as you should return, to accompany you to her
residence. I promised I should, and I now go
with you in consequence of my word. As I believe
you do not speak Indian, I will, if you have
no objection, be your interpreter.”
“Objection to your being my interpreter! Miss
Frazier. My delight will—but pardon me, I must
restrain the expression of my feelings—I do not,
indeed, speak Indian, and shall, of course, be glad
of your assistance. As to this queen, your brother
has given me an account of her partiality for
our cause; and I should think myself deficient in
my duty, if I did not call upon her to pay her
my respects, and confirm her favourable sentiments
towards us; for I fear we shall soon require
as many friends in this quarter, as it is in our power
to make.”
“I hope,” said Maria, “that your people will
not push matters to extremity, for war is a shocking
calamity; and I trust the Indians will be more
guarded for the future, not to provoke your people,
since they see you are about to take it up seriously.
Indeed, Mr. Washington, if the French
had only let them alone, half the excesses they
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committed last summer, would not have taken
place.”
“We blame not the Indians,” observed Washington,
“so much as the French. The designs
of the latter are not perceived by the poor deluded
savages. It is their schemes of political ambition
and aggrandizement, which will drive us
into war. Oh, Maria! ere the nations draw
the sword, I wish you were safe out of this Wilderness.”
“And why do you wish so?” observed Maria,
affecting a tone of simple surprize. “Here live
my parents, and to run away from them, you
could not suppose either pardonable, or practicable.”
“I only speak the simple wish of my heart,”
returned Washington, “and that too without having
any rational or excusable grounds, on which to
explain it. The time may come—but pardon me,
I will not trouble you with my anticipations. You
might not feel them agreeable—and alas, they
may never be realized!”
“I do not wish to inquire into any of your views,
whether personal or political, that you may desire
to conceal,” observed Maria. “But that they are
all rational, and not only excusable, but laudable,
I have confidence enough in your wisdom and integrity,
to believe without any explanation. None,
therefore, is necessary. But yonder is the queen's
residence. She will, I expect, be waiting our arrival.”
Her Shannoah majesty received Washington
very graciously, although she gave him a slight
reprimand for not visiting her, as he had formerly
passed so near her residence.
“But brother,” said she with a smile, “I suppose
you thought a woman's friendship of very little
consequence to your nation.”
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Washington assured her that he had a high respect
for her character, and a sincere desire to
cultivate her good will on behalf of his countrymen.
“When I before passed this way,” said he, “I
did not know that your wigwam was so near me;
besides, I had not then, as I now have, an interpreter
to enable me to converse with you. But as a
proof of my regard, I hope, mother, that you will
accept of some presents I shall send you, as soon
as my baggage, which I expect daily, shall arrive
at Mr. Frazier's. In the mean time, receive these
few rings, in token of my personal regard, and
this string of wampum, as a cement to the amity
between you and my nation.”
The queen, on her part, presented him with a
wampum, thanked him for the rings, and the presents
he had promised, and assured him that she
had always felt a high regard for his countrymen;
and that, on his account, that regard should for the
time to come, be still higher. Washington took
his leave, and returned to Frazier's with Maria,
much pleased with the result of his visit.
eaf269v1.n2[2] See Washington's Journal.
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CHAPTER XX.
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How dear is the heart-warming throb of delight,
When after long seasons of absence and pain,
The maid he adores greets the fond lover's sight,
And close to his bosom he clasps her again.
Savelabour.
When they were about midway on their road towards
Frazier's, they perceived a company of apparently
thirty or forty men, and as many horses laden
with baggage, winding slowly down the bank of
the river. Washington immediately conjectured
them to be a second party which he had heard the
Ohio company contemplated sending this season,
to make another attempt to take possession of
their territory. There was, at least, no doubt of
their being English, and Maria and he, somewhat
quickened their pace to approach them, which
they perceived they could soon do, as the road on
which the strangers travelled, joined theirs at no
great distance before them.
When Maria had advanced so near as to be able
to distinguish their persons, she suddenly stopped,
and, by her change of colour, betrayed considerable
emotion of mind. She however, recovered
instantly, and although Washington had noticed
her confusion, he did not consider it any thing
extraordinary, as he ascribed it to the timidity
natural to so secluded a female, when approaching
so large a company of strangers.
“Fear nothing, Miss Frazier,” said he—“these
are friends, and will offer us no injury.”
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“I fear nothing,” said she, “I know they are
friends, and that—” she here suddenly held her
peace—as at that instant, she saw that the person
who appeared to act as the leader of the company,
had perceived them, for he had turned his
horse, and was riding swiftly through the brush towards
them.
She assumed all her self-command, and said in a
low voice to Washington—“This is Mr. Adderly,
who commanded the Ohio expedition last year. I
am glad that he has arrived before you left us, so
that you may become acquainted with each other.”
“I am glad of it too, for I have heard much in
his praise,” replied Washington.
By this time Charles had approached, and
alighted from his horse, and Maria, with great effort,
assuming the appearance of an unrestrained
but composed cordiality of manner, shook him by
the hand and welcomed him. She then added,
“This, Mr. Adderly, is my friend—Mr. Washington,
from Virginia.”
Charles, with an involuntary coldness in his
manner, saluted Washington, and drily observed—
“that he should always be glad to meet with any
friend of Miss Frazier.”
Washington's manner, however, in a moment
dispelled this coldness, as with great sincerity and
even warmth, he said—
“Mr. Adderly! I am really rejoiced to meet
with you, for, by both public and private report, I
have had the means of ascertaining the worth of
your character; and I trust that, as the affairs of
the west have attracted the attention of us both,
we will be able to render each other assistance in
protecting it from the enemy, and promoting the
views of our country in effecting its settlement.”
“Mr. Washington!” replied Charles, “the
testimony of the public voice in your favour,
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since you so gallantly embarked in the arduous
mission to Le Bœuf, is too flattering for me to repeat
in your presence, but is, in reality, I believe,
still short of what you deserve. I shall, indeed,
rejoice in your friendship! and now, Miss Frazier,
may I ask how it has fared with you—and—and—
your father's family since I saw you. I mean—I
mean—no matter,” said he, with a smile, for he
perceived his own emotion, and hastily threw it
off. “How have all your friends been—Nancy—
and Paddy, and Doctor Killbreath?”
“None of us,” she replied, “have met with
any serious accident; although I must confess
that we passed the last summer in great alarm and
anxiety on account of the Indian outrages that
were committed on the border-settlers.”
“But I trust your family has nothing to fear,”
observed Charles: “Is not Tonnaleuka still your
friend?”
“Still as firmly as ever,” she replied; “but
even he, you know, cannot always control the
unruly dispositions of revengeful men.”
“Happy would it be for this region if he could!”
observed Washington. “The calamities our borders
suffered last summer would not then have
stained its annals. But, Mr. Adderly, may I ask,
what is the object of this present enterprise of
which, I presume, you are the leader?”
“I am, indeed, intrusted with its management,”
replied Charles; “for notwithstanding my former
misfortunes, the Ohio Company have ventured
again to place confidence in me. They supposed,
I believe, that I had learned wisdom by experience;
but I confess, Mr. Washington, that if I
did not know that the hostile Indians are retired to
their winter abodes, I should feel almost as awkwardly
fixed with the handful of men, I now have,
as I did last year.”
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“The company ought to have furnished you
with a force adequate for the designs they contemplate,”
returned Washington. “What number
of men have you?”
“I have about forty, pretty well furnished with
arms and stores, it is true; but if it had not been
that I calculated, when I started, upon the season
being favourable for our operations, by keeping
the great force of our enemies at a distance, I
acknowledge, I should not have been willing to
venture here with fewer than ten times as many.
As to our intentions, they are pretty much the
same as they were last year—namely, to take possession
of the country in the name of his Britannic
Majesty, and on behalf of his good cousins and
loving subjects, the Ohio Company.”
“You intend, of course, to fortify yourselves?”
replied Washington.
“Of course,” returned Charles; “and if we can
only manage to effect that before the French or
Indians attack us, I believe we shall do pretty
well; otherwise our success may be the counterpart
of last year's. But we have daring hearts
and stout hands, few as they are; and we will do
our best, and providence may favour us.”
“I sincerely pray that it may,” said Washington.
“But could not the company have raised a
stronger force for the occasion?”
“No, sir, it was with difficulty we could collect
the followers we have. Few are at present
willing to embark personally in a warfare against
warlike and barbarous savages, who treat their
prisoners with such horrible cruelty; and had it
not been supposed that your mission was likely
to have the effect of preventing opposition to our
measures, at least, from the French, who were at
the root of the disasters of the last season, we
could not have mustered our present number.”
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“Have you concluded where to build your
fort?” asked Washington.
“Not absolutely,” replied Charles; “I am at
this time left much to my own discretion in the
matter—last year the ground was prescribed to
me. If you have examined the country, Mr.
Washington, I should be glad to have your advice
in this particular.”
“For various reasons,” replied Washington,
“I would prefer the forks at Shanapins to the
height at Chartier's creek, where you made your
former attempt. But this is too military a subject
of conversation to be relished by Miss Frazier. If
you have no objection, therefore, to postpone it,
I shall, on a more convenient occasion, give you,
at full length, my reasons for this opinion.”
“I was myself beginning to think,” said Charles,
“that we had unfortunately fallen upon a subject
that could not afford much entertainment to Miss
Frazier. I therefore approve of your hint; but
shall be glad to hear you upon this matter at any
other time that may suit you.”
“Gentlemen,” observed Maria, “a useful topic
of discourse can never be disagreeable to me;
and I beg you not to change your subject on my
account.”
“It would be more becoming at present,” said
Washington, “to converse on matters on which
you can join us; and you cannot but suppose that
we feel the impropriety of two young men engrossing
to themselves the conversation when
there is a lady present.”
“When young gentlemen suppose that their
gallantry may be doubted,” returned Maria,
“they may, with propriety enough, be anxious to
show it off by their pointed politeness to our sex.
But, in the present instance, this anxiety is
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unnecessary, for I do not harbour the slightest suspicion
against either of you in this respect.”
“Your generosity then gives us credit,” said
Washington, “for what in reality we did not lately
appear to possess; and it would be the height
of injustice to you if in return for such generosity
we should exclude you from our conversation—
nay, let me add, Miss Frazier, it would be cruelty
to ourselves.”
“I perceive,” replied Maria, “that you now
want to make up for your supposed deficiency in
politeness; but since you are gallant gentlemen,
and this is the course of gallantry, I must submit.
You may, therefore, go on in a full stream of
compliment. I will listen to you.”
“You will also forgive us, I trust, Miss Frazier,”
replied Washington, “if in wishing to pay
that respect which we owe to your sex, we express
ourselves so that you may wrongfully imagine
us insincere; I protest, on my own part, and
I think I may with safety say, on the part of Mr.
Adderly, that we have neither uttered, nor intend
to utter, any thing concerning you but with sincerity.
Compliment I beg leave to remind you is
often truth; nay, to deny it, is sometimes to deny
justice.”
“And Miss Frazier, will surely admit,” observed
Charles, “that in the present instance, we have
offered her no more civility than both as a friend
and a female she had a right to expect.”
At this moment they came up with the Ohio
Company's party at the junction of the roads, and
Charles had to express the last words of his remark
in rather an under voice. He had scarcely
finished it, when Peter M`Fall approached Maria
with his hat off, and making a low, but very respectful
bow, addressed her:
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“Now, by the powers! mistress, but I am glad
to see you living again; for I thought the savages
had killed every soul of a christian in the Wilderness.”
“We are not all killed yet, you perceive, Peter,”
she replied. “But you are welcome back
to the woods, and I am really glad to see you looking
so well.”
“Looking well,” returned Peter, raising his
frame to an erect attitude, and putting on what
he supposed to be one of his most agreeable looks.
“Ay, by my troth, and Peter M`Fall was born to
look well. Sure, didn't my own mother tell me
so when I was no bigger than your knee, may it
plase your ladyship.”
“I mean that you look healthy, Peter,” said
Maria.
“Healthy,” replied Peter, somewhat disappointed.
“And is that all! But by my sowl, I
think doctor Killbreath would be a better judge
of that than your ladyship. It would be a devilishly
different matter as to my looking well. But
does your ladyship know whether the doctor be
living, or roasted by the Indians yet?”
“He is still living and well,” replied Maria,
“and I believe is just now to be found at no great
distance.”
“Then, by the holy piper! I suppose he's at
our father's house—I must run to see him;” exclaimed
Peter,—“Master, it is only to give me
leave for a minute or two, that I may get on before
these lazy turf drivers, and shake the doctor's
ould bone for him—master, just say the word now,
and let me off—a wink will do it.”
“There is no use for such haste,” said Charles,
“you will see the doctor presently.”
“Och! now just give me the wink, master,”
persisted Peter, “my heels are so itchy to run,
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and my hand so itchy to shake the doctor's fist for
him, that, by my faith! the devil a step can Peter
wait longer on the company, that may crawl after
after me through the woods as slow as a hangman's
march, if they please!”
Peter was about starting off at full speed, for he
perceived, or what to him was the same thing, he
imagined he perceived, an approving glance twinkle
in Charles's eye—when he received a heavy
thump upon the shoulder, which made him exclaim—
“Blood and thunder! who's that?” and turning
round, he seized Doctor Killbreath in his arms.
“By the holy Bridget! doctor!” he cried,
lifting him fairly off the ground, and swinging him
round him with great exultation—“but I see you
have life in your ould bones yet! The savages, bad
luck to them! haven't fried the grease out of you
yet. By my sowl, I thought when you were such
a fool as to come back to them here, that they
would have made you into a cinder long ago; for,
I knew, if they took you again, you wouldn't have
Peter McFall to stand at your back, and whisk
you through a kennel like a half-drowned cat, out
of their reach. Arrah, doctor, Saint Kenan be
praised! you have flesh and blood on you yet!”
When Peter had finished this rhapsody, he relieved
the doctor from his grasp, and placed him
again on the earth.
“Faith, Peter!” cried Killbreath, when he
had recovered wind enough to articulate—“the
Indians would have spared me to little purpose if
you had kept me much longer squeezed up in
those horrible clutches of yours. It would have
been only exchanging burned bones for broken
ones—or being calcined to a cinder, for being
crushed to a mummy!”
“Why, sure now, doctor,” returned Peter
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sympathizingly, “I didn't hurt your ould carcass.
The devil take me, if an Irishman at the fair of
old Wicklow would have thought any thing of such
a hug.”
“Hug!” cried the doctor, rubbing and twisting
his sides, which still ached from the pressure of
Peter's grasp; “why, the hug of a bear would be
but a trifle to such squeezing. I would as soon be
crushed in a cider press.”
“Och! now, doctor, be asy, and give me your
fist for ould times,” cried Peter; “never mind the
squeezing; it was only an Irish welcome for your
Pennsylvany bones. Och! botheration to it, if I
would give the toss of a ha'penny for these cold
dish-water meetings between ould friends, that
scarcely touch the skin of each other's fingers.”
So saying, he gave the doctor's hand such a squeeze
as made him roar out, and absolutely brought tears
to his eyes.
“By the great Columb!” continued Peter,
somewhat sorry for his rashness, “but I thought,
doctor, that you were made of better stuff. I
really believe I have splintered your knuckles for
you. Arrah, now! if you would live more on
potatoes instead of apples, you would have stouter
bones, dear doctor. But tell me now, how is your
sweetheart, the pretty, plump, black-eyed lass of
the woods here, that you used to toast at your
oyster suppers in Philadelphia?”
“Hush!” cried the doctor, in an under voice,
“say nothing, dear Peter, say nothing about this
matter; you'll see her shortly, but be mum. I'll
tell you again all about it.”
He then caught Peter's arm, and they set off
together for Frazier's house, where the whole
party soon arrived, and Gilbert and Nelly had
once more the pleasure, of which they did not fail
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to inform their guests, of beholding some of the
blood of Maughrygowan under their roof.
Towards the evening of the following day, Vanbraam
arrived with Washington's baggage, and
the rest of his followers. The presents promised
to the Shannoah queen were given over to the
care of Paddy Frazier, who immediately proceeded
to her residence, and delivered them to her
majesty; and Washington prepared to leave Maria
and the Wilderness, which was now to him the
dearest spot in the world, the next morning. Before
he set off, however, Charles Adderly had proceeded
with his party to take possession of the
forks at Shanapins, where Washington's reasoning
had convinced him of the propriety of erecting
the contemplated fort. These two young heroes
took farewell of each other, impressed with the
strongest feelings of mutual respect, but little
knowing that they were each other's rivals in a
matter on which each felt, at that time, that his
whole life's happiness depended. It is true, that
Charles, on meeting Maria and Washington together
in the woods, as we have seen, had permitted
a transient suspicion on this subject to alarm his
mind, which his manner had almost betrayed; but
his confidence in her fidelity, on a moment's reflection,
returned, for he knew she had once loved
him, and he believed what the prophet had told
him, that whom she loved once she would love
for ever; and this confidence was fully confirmed
by the ease, candour, and cordiality of Washington's
manner of addressing him. The subsequent
conversation which he held with this eminently
gifted young man, inspired him with a respect
for his talents and judgment almost approaching
to reverence, and he resolved to follow his advice
in every thing he had suggested to him for the management
of his present enterprise.
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Just before Washington set off, he seized a favourable
occasion for a short private interview
with Maria.
“Miss Frazier!” said he, “I must now bid you
farewell for a time. Permit me, before I depart,
to present you with a small volume of poems, one
of which is with me, next to some of the passages
of your admired Thomson, the most favourite
piece of poetry in our language. This copy has
for many months past been my constant companion.
Its author was one who was greatly enamoured
of that sylvan seclusion which you here
enjoy in such perfection. He was also one who
keenly felt, and sweetly described the tenderest
and sweetest of all passions. I have marked with
a pencil those passages of my favourite poem;
which I shall often recall to mind when at a distance
from you; and oh! may I request that, for
my sake, you will frequently read them. They
will depict to you the feelings which, until I see
you again, will strongly agitate this bosom. Farewell!
and may heaven protect you from all dangers!”
So saying, he pressed her hand gently,
and departed.
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CHAPTER XXI.
[figure description] Page 278.[end figure description]
This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,
I better brook than flourishing peopled towns.
Here I can sit alone unseen of any,
And to the nightingale's complaining notes
Tune my distresses and record my woes.
Oh! thou that dost inhabit in my breast,
Leave not the mansion tenantless;
Lest growing ruinous, the building fall,
And leave no memory of what it was.
Shakspeare.
The book which Washington left with our heroine
was a handsomely bound copy of Shenstone's
Poems; and the passages he had marked for her
attention she found in that most tender and simple
of all poetical effusions, the Pastoral Ballad. The
reader, I trust, will have no objection to peruse
them. They were as follows—
“Now I know what it is to have strove
With the torture of doubt and desire;
What it is to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire.”
“When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
I thought—but it might not be so—
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart
She gaz'd as I slowly withdrew,
My path I could scarcely discern;
So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return.
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“The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far distant shrine,
If he bear but a relique away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relique I bear,
And my solace wherever I go.”
Had not Maria been before convinced from the
conduct of her illustrious visiter that he loved
her, these stanzas, combined with his manner of
bidding her farewell, would have left her no room
to doubt on the subject. The circumstance grieved
her. She respected, she esteemed, she almost
revered those talents and virtues which she perceived
that he possessed in such an eminent degree;
but love was what she could not afford him.
Another object engrossed all her passion and tenderness
exclusively and unalterably; and to Washington—
to him, whom she believed to be possessed
of every quality that could ennoble man, and
whose warmest affections, she doubted not, were
now devoted to her, she could only spare ardent
friendship and heart-felt admiration. Yes—she
could, and did also, yield him pity—for loving passionately
as she herself did, she could easily imagine
how miserable she must have been, had she
loved in vain. Much, therefore, much did she
grieve for one so worthy, whom she knew must be
wretched from the same cause.
“How rejoiced I should be,” she would say to
herself, “if this excellent, this admirable young
man could place his affections on some one who
had affections at her own disposal to give him in
return. I know, alas! how much the happiness of
life depends on this; and if ever man deserved
happiness, it is he. But he is now gone; and I
trust absence, change of scene, and the bustle of
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business, may weaken the unfortunate attachment
he has here imbibed; and providence, I hope, will
throw in his way one worthy of him, and both capable
of exciting in his bosom the tenderest feelings
of love, and of returning them. Oh Charles!
thou object of my first and only love! it is my
study, it is my duty, it is my delight to be true to
thee. Thou art the chosen of my heart—a heart
that never, never will choose another.”—
Charles having encamped his men at Shanapins
town, and marked out the ground for the fort, returned
the next day to visit his Maria.
Sweet, sweet is the intercourse between two
young and virtuous lovers, who are aware of possessing,
unchangeably and entirely, each other's affections.
But although such intercourse be sweet
to them, the detail of the conversations by which
it is carried on is seldom so to others. It is the
presence of the beloved object, the thousand
nameless charms which each sees in the other, and
which no other can see, much less describe, or
even if described, could feel, far more than the
sentiments or language which they utter, that constitute
the delight, the ecstasy of their private interviews,
and their solitary rambles.
For this reason I will refrain from relating to
the reader the many conversations that now took
place between Charles Adderly and his Maria, at
their secret and confidential meetings. There
was one, however, which I shall relate, because it
touched upon a topic, of which the reader may require
some explanation, namely, the cause of that
nuptial ceremony, for which Charles so ardently
sighed, not taking place, although, with a secret
view to its accomplishment, he had brought with
him, as chaplain to the expedition, a person qualified
for its performance.
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“Why delay my happiness, my love?” said he.
“There is now no obstacle to its accomplishment—
there is no reason for its delay. You talk of
my father's sanction. Tonnaleuka has infused the
idea into your mind that it is necessary. But,
Maria, believe me, it is not. When the vows are
once uttered, you are then my wife in defiance of
human power or opposition.”
“I know.” replied Maria, “that by the institutions
of your country, your father could not dissolve
our marriage. It is not that which I dread;
but I dread the displeasure he would manifest, and
justly too, at its taking place without his knowledge
and consent. No; I never will become the
wife of any man who, by making me such, will
displease his relations.”
“But I have no reason to suppose that my father
would be displeased, at least if he knew you as I
do, I am persuaded he would not, at your becoming
his daughter.”
“But, Charles,” said she, smiling, “do you not
remember that he does not know me? or, if he
did, how are you sure that he would estimate me
as highly as you have been pleased to do? No—
he might look upon, what you have thought proper
to call my worth, in a very different light;
and in place of being an acceptable daughter-in-law,
if we were to marry under present circumstances,
the probability is, that I should be considered
by him as an intruder into his family, and
treated, and perhaps deservedly so, as such.”
“Believe me, Maria,” he returned, “that I
know my father well. I am his only son; and he
has ever been the kind consulter of my happiness.
When the sacred knot is tied, he will not seek to
dissolve it, not so much because he would know
the thing impossible, as because he would know
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that it would make me miserable, permanently and
supremely miserable!”
“But, suppose even this indulgence,” she replied,
“or rather, this forgiveness on his part to take
place, in consequence of parental tenderness, even
after you had acted disrespectfully towards him,
by marrying without his knowledge—think of it,
Charles!—would not so much goodness be a high
aggravation of your offence, in being guilty of
such disrespect to so kind a father? No, Charles,
I cannot bear, I will not consent, that you should
act so unworthily, so little like yourself—”
“Ah! too rigid, too austere girl!” he exclaimed;
“you place too much importance upon this
matter of my father sanctioning our nuptials. It
is but a trifling consideration—”
“How, Charles!” she said, interrupting him;
“O do not let me hear you call behaving disrespectfully
to your father, and such a father as, I
doubt not, yours is, a trifling consideration. Surely
your good sense and filial affection have yielded,
in this instance, to your wishes.”
“Oh Maria! understand me before you condemn
me. I respect, I honour my father, as much
as ever son did a parent. But surely, in comparison
to spending, perhaps, another long year of
privation from the bliss of calling you my own,
the taking of this step without his knowledge, under
circumstances so difficult to procure it, if it
be at all an aberration from duty, is but a trifling
one. O consent, my love! Depend upon my
assurance, that you have nothing to fear from the
measure.”
“Were I to be so weak as to comply with your
wishes,” said she, “it might indeed happen that
your father would not be absolutely inexorable.
He might not for ever cast you off from his affections
for our fault. But still, Charles, we would
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have committed a fault. We would have given a
kind and tender parent cause of offence; which
would ever afterwards be, at least to me, and let
me say, I believe also to you, a source of uneasiness.
He might forgive our error; but I am convinced
that we ourselves never should forget it.
O! let us not commit it, if we want to be truly
happy with each other. Let not impatience cause
us to do wrong. Providence may yet remove all
obstacles to our union. We may yet be happy
without being guilty; or, if we should not, let us
at least never be guilty, and then we never will
be thoroughly unhappy.”
“Lovely maiden!” exclaimed Charles, struck
with admiration at the purity of her sentiments,
although so much in opposition to his wishes;
“you are too good, too angelical in your principles,
as well as in your charms, for an erring mortal like
me. But I will be guided by you. If I have not
virtue to resist temptation to error, I will learn it
of you. You will be the monitor of my mind, as
you have been the charmer of my eyes—you will
instruct me, as you have fascinated me—you will
excite me to virtue, as you have warmed me to
love—and, in the end, make me happy in the approbation
of my own conduct, as I now am in the
admiration of yours!”
A day or two after the foregoing conversation,
Charles retired from the camp at Shanapins to a
favourite walk, for meditation, which he had discovered
on the bank of the Monongahela. It was
one of those days of sunshine which sometimes,
even in the month of January, chequer the unsteady
climate around the head of the Ohio, and
make a ramble, at that usually inclement season,
inviting. The air was considerably warm; and,
although in hollow places that were shaded from
the rays of the sun, there were still lodgements of
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unmelted ice and snow, yet the general aspect of
the country showed that there had been a thaw of
several days continuance, as in all exposed situations
the snow had disappeared, and again displayed
the surface of the earth clothed with a variegated
garment of undecaying herbage and withered
leaves. The broad, and at this time, full stream
of the river flowed majestically past, exhibiting by
reflection, the reversed images of the high and
headlong banks on either side, hanging pendulous,
with all their woods upon them, within its glassy
bosom.
Charles sat down upon a protruding fragment
of stone, which formed the basement of a high
rock that arose from the margin of the stream.
He became soon absorbed in contemplating the
charms of his Maria, and comparing the superior
happiness he should enjoy in these solitudes, with
her for his daily and faithful companion through
life, than, without her, in the midst of all the gaieties,
grandeur, pleasures, and luxuries, that ingenuity
has ever invented for the gratification of social
life. In such a situation, when impressed
with such feelings, a romantic mind can hardly refrain
from becoming poetical; and Charles, as we
have seen, had already moistened his lips at the
Castalian fount. He therefore, on this occasion,
drew out his memorandum book and pencil, and
noted down the following lines, addressed to the
Monongahela.
Fair stream! though deep in forest glooms
Thou roll'st thy Indian-haunted tide,
Upon thy bank a maiden blooms,
The gem of nature, virtue's pride!
Let others choose the joys supplied
By art, on Thames' or Liffey's shore,
Give me upon thy sylvan side,
With her to live—I ask no more.
Fair stream! though never poet's lay
Hath bade the world thy name revere.
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Though history's page refrains to say
What heroes fought and conquer'd here—
Than Tweed's or Tyber's banks, more dear,
Is thy unchanted shore to me;
And warm'd to rapture, more sincere,
I worship charms possessed by thee!
For in seclusion's peaceful shade,
Fair nature oft delights to show
Some flower or gem, or beauteous maid,
Too lovely for the world to know.
Thus woodland roses often blow,
To bless with sweets the desert wild,
And thus, from thee my raptures flow,
Maria, nature's fairest child!
He had scarcely completed these stanzas, when
he heard the sound of footsteps approaching him,
and soon the form of Tonnaleuka, whom he had
not seen since his return to the west, stood before
him.
“Hail to thee, my son!” said the prophet. “I
am glad to see thee yet safe. But thou comest in
an evil hour to visit this land, for thy safety will
be endangered. Thy enemies are vigilant and
strong, and they will soon become active. Still
thou art welcome! and I hope the great Being
will protect thee from the perils thou art doomed
to encounter.”
“Father,” replied Charles, “since my arrival,
I have longed much to see you. The dangers
you speak of, I have anticipated from the enemy.
But if they arrive not, before we have raised our
defences, I will not fear them. The season, I expect,
will till then protect us.”
“Do not deceive yourself,” said the prophet;
“the season will not protect you, neither will
your defences; and your numbers are insufficient.
But prepare your ramparts with what haste you
can. From behind them you may at least treat
for safety, if you cannot fight for victory. My
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son, I came to warn you, that you may be wary,
for your foe is stronger than you.”
“Father,” replied Charles, “you are ever kind
to me. You have been my deliverer. You
would now be my guardian. But oh! my soul is
sad, my life is weary, and I almost wish to die.
You possess the power, if any earthly being possesses
it, to procure me relief from my troubles.
May I crave your assistance, for alas! what good
will protecting me from destruction do, if my existence
is to be miserable!
“Father, I love—thou knowest it. Thou knowest
how ardently, how devotedly—ah no; thou
canst not know that. No one can know what I
feel for the loveliest, the dearest of maidens!
“Father—on revisiting the Wilderness, I rejoiced,
for I thought that she would then become my
own. I brought with me one qualified, according
to our custom, to join us in marriage. But alas,
she, at this time, refuses to unite her fate with
mine. Now, when she might make me happy,
she will not, and misfortune may interfere, alas!
I much dread it, to prevent us from ever again enjoying
such an opportunity. You, you alone, my
father, whom she reveres as a messenger of God,
can alter her determination. Oh! let me implore
thee to interfere. Let me beg thee, as thou valuest
my happiness and my regard for life, to show
her that she is unnecessarily cruel—to show her
that she is too austerely scrupulous in respect to
matters of but trifling moment, when compared
with the privation to which she condemns me.”
“Son,” replied the prophet—“I know the desire
of your heart. I also know her determination,
and I approve of it. You are too impatient,
my son, and you are wrong. She is prudent, and
I rejoice that she is so. Were she your wife,
think you, would she not be exposed during the
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coming troubles, for alas! I see them approaching
fast, to perils and calamities, from which, in her
private, obscure situation, as the daughter of Gilbert
Frazier, she will be exempt?”
“Think seriously, my son, and if you do so,
you will, if your love be for her welfare, and not
your own gratification, approve of her resolution,
and attempt not to seduce her from it.”
“Father,” replied Charles, eagerly, and greatly
agitated. “Can you—Oh, heavens! how can
you torture me, by affecting to doubt the purity,
the disinterestedness of my love for that angel!
Prefer her welfare to my own gratification! Ah!
if my heart did not tell me that I did so, I would
tear it from my body, and cast it to the wolves to
be devoured, or to the more cruel Chippeways, to
be consumed in the flames of their animosity.
But, father! could she not be my wife, and live in
security?”
“No, my son—not, at least, with equal ease
and propriety. If she were so connected with
you, she would have responsibilities upon her,
from which she is now free. Besides, I know her
objection is on account of your not possessing
the sanction of your father. She knows herself
to be pennyless, and she is not ignorant of the
value which men of the world, like your father,
place upon wealth. She has a right, therefore,
to anticipate his displeasure both to you, and to
herself, if she should encourage you to a clandestine
union.
“My son, I know all this; and can you ask me
to bid her do wrong? Nay, if you solicit her with
your eyes open to all these things, I must accuse
you of preferring your own gratification to her
welfare.
“And, hear me, my son—should your solicitations
succeed, you would soon afterwards, when
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the evils I predict should come upon you, severely
condemn your own rashness.”
“Oh, father, forbear!” cried Charles, “your
words make me wretched! Tell me what I must
do?”
“With respect to Maria,” said the prophet,
“exert patience; and with respect to your enemies,
circumspection. This is my counsel.”
“With respect to the enemy, I shall follow it,”
replied Charles, “and with respect to Maria, I
shall endeavour—yes, I shall exert patience, although
it should kill me.”
“Then, my son, receive my blessing, and may
the great father lead you safely through the perilous
times, that are drawing near! Farewell! be
prudent and be patient.”
So saying, Tonnaleuka ascended the banks, and
left Charles fixed to the spot, in a stupor of intense
feeling, compounded of admiration, disappointment,
and grief almost approaching to despair.
In a short time, however, his agitation began
to subside, and making a great effort to recover
at least the appearance of serenity, he returned
to the camp, in order to encourage his men
to expedition in forwarding the intended fortification.
END OF VOLUME I.
McHenry, James, 1785-1845 [1823], The wilderness, or, Braddock's times: a tale of the west, volume 1 (E. Bliss and E. White, New York) [word count] [eaf269v1].
