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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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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

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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

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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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