



Produced by Larry B. Harrison and the Online Distributed
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THE IRIS.




[Illustration: PRESENTED To

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




[Illustration:

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

LANDING OF WILLIAM PENN.]




[Illustration: The IRIS

Souvenir

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




                               THE IRIS:
                       An Illuminated Souvenir,
                                  FOR
                               MDCCCLII.

                               EDITED BY
                         JOHN S. HART, LL. D.

                             PHILADELPHIA:
                 PUBLISHED BY LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.
                   SUCCESSORS TO GRIGG, ELLIOT & CO.
                                 1852.




  Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851,
  BY LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.,
  In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of
    Pennsylvania.

  C. SHERMAN, PRINTER.




PREFACE.


Captain Eastman, of the United States Topographical Corps, having
been stationed for nine years on our northwestern frontier, among the
Indian tribes, at and around Fort Snelling, made a series of drawings
of some of the most striking and remarkable objects connected with the
Indian traditions. His accomplished lady, who was with him seven years
of this time, collected the traditions themselves, and wove them into
tales and poems that let us into the very heart of Indian life. The
whole of this valuable and original collection has been secured for the
Iris, and gives to the volume for 1852 its distinguishing feature. To
make the illustrations conform more to the character of the subjects,
they have all been printed in colours, in the style now so deservedly
popular. Last year the publishers gave only four of these gorgeous
illuminated pages. The present volume contains no less than twelve, all
from original designs, and all printed in ten different colours. The
happy blending of the colours in these pictures, the disposition of the
light and shade, and the skill with which they are printed, give them
the appearance of paintings rather than of prints. Such a collection
of gems of art in one volume, could not be made without a heavy
expense. But the publishers were desirous of making the Iris, as to the
splendour of its appearance, not unworthy of the celestial visitant
from which it has been named, and of the very marked favour with which
its predecessor of the last season was received.

The literary matter, like that of the former volume, is entirely
original, and with the exception of the beautiful poem by Miss Bremer,
entirely American, both as to subjects and authorship. Though there are
various shades of thought and feeling in these effusions of genius,
each subject being  according to the mental constitution of the
writer, yet, as in the divine bow of promise, all colours are blended
and harmonized in the one aim to place before the beholder a new token
of hope and gladness.




[Illustration: ILLUSTRATIONS

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




CONTENTS.


                 SUBJECT.                          AUTHOR.          PAGE

  PROEM.                                  SARAH ROBERTS.              19

  THE LANDING OF WILLIAM PENN.            THE EDITOR.                 21

  DIFFERENT IMPRESSIONS.                  FREDRIKA BREMER.            26

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

  THE LAUGHING WATERS.                    MRS. MARY EASTMAN.          69

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

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

  FIRE-FACE.                              MRS. MARY EASTMAN.          84

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

  THE FALSE ALARM.                        MRS. MARY EASTMAN.          95

  INDIAN COURTSHIP.                       MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         101

  THE SACRIFICE.                          MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         104

  AN INDIAN LULLABY.                      MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         113

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

  AN INDIAN BALLAD.                       MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         124

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

  A REMONSTRANCE.                         ELIZA L. SPROAT.           136

  A FINE ART DISREGARDED.                 ELIZABETH WETHERELL.       139

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

  HAWKING.                                EDITH MAY.                 155

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

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

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

  CASTLE-BUILDING.                        JAMES T. MITCHELL.         180

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

  THE INDIAN MOTHER.                      MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         191

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

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

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

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

  THE DREAMER.                            MARY E. HEWITT.            244

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

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

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

  LOST AND WON.                           CAROLINE EUSTIS.           281

  THE MISTRUSTED GUIDE.                   A WESTERN MISSIONARY.      283

  A NIGHT IN NAZARETH.                    MARY YOUNG.                290

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

  INCONSTANCY.                            E. M.                      295

  CROSSING THE TIDE.                      MISS PHŒBE CAREY.          297




THE IRIS.




PROEM.

BY SARAH ROBERTS.


      They have christened me Iris; and why? oh, why?
        Because, like the rainbow so bright,
      I bring my own welcome, and tell my own tale,
        And am hailed by all hearts with delight:
              And this, this is why
      I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.

      The rainbow, it cometh 'mid sunlight and tears,--
        The tears it soon chaseth away;
      I banish all sighs for the year that is passed,
        And the future in sunlight array:
              And this, this is why
      I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.

      The rainbow, it telleth of promise and love,
        Of hope, with its gay, golden wing;
      It whispers of peacefulness, purity, heaven,--
        Of these lofty themes do I sing:
              And this, this is why
      I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.

      The rainbow is painted in colours most fair,
        By the hand of the Father of love;
      So the genius and talent my pages bespeak,
        Are inspired by the Great Mind above:
              And this, this is why
      I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.




THE LANDING OF WILLIAM PENN.

BY THE EDITOR.

  (See the Frontispiece.)


The first landing of William Penn at Newcastle, in 1682, is one
of those striking historical events that are peculiarly suited
for pictorial illustration. The late Mr. Duponceau, in one of his
discourses, first suggested the idea of making it the subject of an
historical painting. This idea is seized with avidity by Mr. Dixon, the
most recent biographer of the great Quaker, and the circumstances of
the landing are given accordingly, with much minuteness. The artist who
designed the picture that forms the frontispiece to the present volume
has had this description in view. I cannot do better, therefore, than
to quote the words of Mr. Dixon as the best possible commentary upon
the picture.

"On the 27th of October, nine weeks after the departure from Deal, the
_Welcome_ moored off Newcastle, in the territories lately ceded by the
Duke of York, and William Penn first set foot in the New World.[1] His
landing made a general holiday in the town; young and old, Welsh,
Dutch, English, Swedes, and Germans, crowded down to the landing-place,
each eager to catch a glimpse of the great man who had come amongst
them, less as their lord and governor than as their friend. In the
centre of the foreground, only distinguished from the few companions
of his voyage who have yet landed, by the nobleness of his mien, and a
light blue silken sash tied round his waist, stands William Penn; erect
in stature, every motion indicating courtly grace, his countenance
lighted up with hope and honest pride,--in every limb and feature
the expression of a serene and manly beauty.[2] The young officer
before him, dressed in the gay costume of the English service, is his
lieutenant, Markham, come to welcome his relative to the new land, and
to give an account of his own stewardship. On the right stand the chief
settlers of the district, arrayed in their national costumes, the light
hair and quick eye of the Swede finding a good foil in the stolid look
of the heavy Dutchman, who doffs his cap, but doubts whether he shall
take the pipe out of his mouth even to say welcome to the new governor.
A little apart, as if studying with the intense eagerness of Indian
skill the physiognomy of the ruler who has come with his children to
occupy their hunting-grounds, stands the wise and noble leader of the
Red Men, Taminent, and a party of the Lenni Lenapé in their picturesque
paints and costume. Behind the central figure are grouped the principal
companions of his voyage; and on the dancing waters of the Delaware
rides the stately ship, while between her and the shore a multitude of
light canoes dart to and fro, bringing the passengers and merchandise
to land. Part of the background shows an irregular line of streets and
houses, the latter with the pointed roofs and fantastic gables which
still delight the artist's eye in the streets of Leyden or Rotterdam;
and further on the view is lost in one of those grand old pine and
cedar forests which belong essentially to an American scene."

I take much pleasure in quoting also, in this connexion, another scene
of somewhat similar character, though greatly misrepresented in the
ordinary pictures of it heretofore given. Penn's personal appearance
has been even more misapprehended than his character. He was, indeed,
one of the most handsome men of his age, and at the time of his first
coming to America he was in the very prime of life. West makes him an
ugly, fat old fellow, in a costume half a century out of date. So says
Mr. Dixon. The passage referred to, and about to be quoted, is from a
description of the celebrated Treaty with the Indians at Shackamaxon.

"This conference has become one of the most striking scenes in history.
Artists have painted, poets have sung, philosophers have applauded
it; but it is nevertheless clear, that in words and colours it has
been equally and generally misrepresented, because painters, poets,
and historians have chosen to draw on their own imaginations for the
features of a scene, every marking line of which they might have
recovered from authentic sources.

"The great outlines of nature are easily obtained. There, the dense
masses of cedar, pine, and chestnut, stretching far away into the
interior of the land; here, the noble river rolling its waters down
to the Atlantic Ocean; along its surface rose the purple smoke of the
settlers' homestead; on the opposite shores lay the fertile and settled
country of New Jersey. Here stood the gigantic elm which was to become
immortal from that day forward,--and there lay the verdant council
chamber formed by nature on the surface of the soil. In the centre
stood William Penn, in costume undistinguished from the surrounding
group, save by the silken sash. His costume was simple, but not
pedantic or ungainly: an outer coat, reaching to the knees, and covered
with buttons, a vest of other materials, but equally ample, trousers
extremely full, slashed at the sides, and tied with strings or ribbons,
a profusion of shirt sleeves and ruffles, with a hat of the cavalier
shape (wanting only the feather), from beneath the brim of which
escaped the curls of a new peruke, were the chief and not ungraceful
ingredients.[3] At his right hand stood Colonel Markham, who had met
the Indians in council more than once on that identical spot, and was
regarded by them as a firm and faithful friend; on his left Pearson,
the intrepid companion of his voyage; and near his person, but a little
backward, a band of his most attached adherents. When the Indians
approached in their old forest costume, their bright feathers sparkling
in the sun, and their bodies painted in the most gorgeous manner, the
governor received them with the easy dignity of one accustomed to mix
with European courts. As soon as the reception was over, the sachems
retired to a short distance, and after a brief consultation among
themselves, Taminent, the chief sachem or king, a man whose virtues
are still remembered by the sons of the forest, advanced again a few
paces, and put upon his own head a chaplet, into which was twisted a
small horn: this chaplet was his symbol of power; and in the customs of
the Lenni Lenapé, whenever the chief placed it upon his brows the spot
became at once sacred, and the person of every one present inviolable.
The venerable Indian king then seated himself on the ground, with the
older sachems on his right and left, the middle-aged warriors ranged
themselves in the form of a crescent or half-moon round them, and the
younger men formed a third and outer semicircle. All being seated in
this striking and picturesque order, the old monarch announced to the
governor that the natives were prepared to hear and consider his words.
Penn then rose to address them, his countenance beaming with all the
pride of manhood. He was at this time thirty-eight years old; light and
graceful in form; the handsomest, best-looking, most lively gentleman
she had ever seen, wrote a lady who was an eyewitness of the ceremony."

[Footnote 1: "Watson, 16; Day, 299. The landing of Penn in America
is commemorated on the 24th of October, that being the date given by
Clarkson; but the diligent antiquary, Mr. J. F. Watson, has found in
the records of Newcastle the original entry of his arrival."]

[Footnote 2: "The portrait by West is utterly spurious and unlike.
Granville Penn, MSS."]

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




DIFFERENT IMPRESSIONS.

BY FREDRIKA BREMER.


      I was in company
      With men and women,
      And heard small talk
      Of little things,
      Of poor pursuits
      And narrow views
      Of narrow minds.
      I rushed out
      To breathe more freely,
      To look on nature.

      The evening star
        Rose grave and bright,
      The western sky
        Was warm with light,
      And the young moon
        Shone softly down
      Among the shadows
        Of the town,
      Where whispering trees
        And fragrant flowers
      Stood hushed in silent,
        Balmy bowers.
      All was romance,
        All loveliness,
      Wrapped in a trance
        Of mystic bliss.

      I looked on
      In bitterness,
      And sighed and asked,
      Why the great Lord
      Made so rich beauty
      For such a race
      Of little men?

      I was in company
      With men and women,
      Heard noble talk
      Of noble things,
      Of noble doings,
      And manly suffering
      And man's heart beating
      For all mankind.

      The evening star
        Seemed now less bright,
      The western sky
        Of paler light,
      All nature's beauty
      And romance,
      So lovely
      To gaze upon,
      Retired at once,
      A shadow but to that of man!




[Illustration:

  C. Schuessele del.      Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.
        Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.

WE-HAR-KA.]




WE-HAR-KA,
OR, THE RIVAL CLANS.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.


The Indian settlement, the opening scene of our story, presented a
different appearance from what we call an Indian village at the present
day. The lodges were far more numerous, and the Indians were not
drooping about, without energy, and apparently without occupation. The
long line of hills did not echo the revels of the drunkard, nor were
the faces of the people marked with anxiety and care. The untaught and
untamed dispositions of the red men were as yet unaffected by the evil
influences of the degenerate white man.

The Sioux[4] were in their summer-houses, and the village stretched
along the bank of the river for a quarter of a mile. It reached back,
too, to the foot of a high hill, and some of the lodges were shaded by
the overhanging branches of the elm and maple. Above the homes of the
living might be seen the burial-place of the dead; for, on the summit
of the hill the enveloped forms of the departed were receiving the last
red beams of the retiring sun, whose rising and repose were now for
ever unnoticed by them.

The long, warm day was closing in, and the Indians were enjoying
themselves in the cool breezes that were stirring the waves of the
river and the wild flowers that swept over its banks. They were
collected in groups in every direction, but the largest party might be
found surrounding a mat, on which was seated the old war-chief of the
band, who had long dragged a tedious existence, a care to others and
a burden to himself. The mat was placed near the wigwam, so that the
sides of the wigwam supported the back of the aged and infirm warrior.
His hair was cut straight over his forehead, but behind it hung in long
locks over his neck.

Warm as was the season, the buffalo robe was wrapped around him, the
fur side next to him, while on the outside, in Indian hieroglyphics,
might be read many an event of his life. Around the edge of the robe
was a row of hands painted in different colours, representing the
number of enemies he had killed in battle. In the centre of the robe
were drawn the sun and morning star, objects of worship among the
Sioux, and placed on the robe as a remedy for a severe sickness which
once prostrated his vital powers, but was conquered by the efficacious
charm contained in the representation. Ornaments of different kinds
adorned his person; but his limbs were shrunken to the bone with age,
and the time had long since come to him when even the grasshopper was
a burden.

The features of the Sioux were still expressive, though the eyes
were closed and the lips thin and compressed; he was encircled with
a dignity, which, in all ages and climes, attaches itself to an
honourable old age.

Close by his side, and contrasting strongly with the war-chief, was one
of his nearest relations. She was his granddaughter, the orphan girl of
his favourite son. She was at once his companion, attendant, and idol.

They were never separated, that old man and young girl; for a long time
he had been fed by her hands, and now he never saw the light of the sun
he worshipped except when she raised and held open the eyelids which
weakness had closed over his eyes. She had just assisted his tottering
steps, and seated him on the mat, where he might enjoy the pleasant
evening-time and the society of those who delighted in the strange
stories his memory called up, or who were willing to receive the advice
which the aged are ever privileged to pour into the hearts of the young.

The evening meal of the warrior had been a light one, for We-har-ka
still held in her small and beautiful hand a bark dish, which contained
venison cut up in small pieces, occasionally pressing him to eat again.
It was evident there was something unusual agitating his thoughts, for
he impatiently put aside the hand that fed him, and taking his pipe,
the handle of which was elaborately adorned, he held it to have it
lighted, then dreamily and quietly placed it in his mouth.

He had long been an object of reverence to his people; though
superseded as a warrior and a leader, yet his influence was still
acknowledged in the band which he had so long controlled. He had kept
this alive in a great measure by the oft-repeated stories of his
achievements, and above all, by the many personal encounters he had
had, not only with his enemies, but with the gods, the objects of their
devotion and fear.

The pipe was soon laid aside, and his low and murmuring words could not
be understood by the group, that, attracted by the unusual excitement
that showed itself in the war-chief's manner, had pressed near him.

After a short communing with himself he placed his hand upon the head
of the girl, who was watching every change in his expressive face. "My
daughter," he said, "you will not be alone--the Eagle Eye will not
again see the form of his warrior son: he would have charged him to
care for his sister, even as the small birds watch and guard around the
home of the forest god.

"The children of the Great Spirit must submit to his will. My heart
would laugh could I again see the tall form of my grandson. I would see
once more the fleetness of his step and the strength of his arm; but
it is not to be. Before he shall return, crying, 'It is for my father,
the scalp of his enemy,' I shall be roaming over the hunting-grounds of
the Great Spirit. Do not weep, my daughter; you will be happy in your
husband's wigwam, and you will tell your children how the Eagle Eye
loved you, even till his feet started on the warrior's journey.

"Your brother will return," he continued, "and it is for him that I lay
aside the pipe, which I shall never smoke again; the drum that I have
used since I have been a medicine-man, I wish laid near my side when I
shall be dead, and wrapped in the buffalo robe which will cover me.

"You, my braves, shall know whence I obtained this drum. It has often
brought back life to the dying man, and its sound has secured us
success in battle. I have often told you that I had seen the God of the
Great Deep in my dreams, and from him I obtained power to strike terror
to the hearts of my enemies. Who has shouted the death-cry oftener
than I? Look at the feathers[5] of honour in my head! What enemy ever
heard the name of Eagle Eye without trembling? But I, terrible as I
have been to my enemies, must grow weak like a woman, and die like a
child. The waters of the rivers rush on; you may hear them and trace
their way, but soon they join the waves of the great deep, and we see
them no more--so I am about to join the company in the house of the
Great Spirit, and when your children say, 'Where is Eagle Eye?' you may
answer, 'The Great Spirit has called him, we cannot go where he is.'

"It was from Unk-ta-he, the god of the great deep, that I received that
drum. Before I was born of woman I lived in the dark waters. Unk-ta-he
rose up with his terrible eyes, and took me to his home. I lived with
him and the other gods of the sea. I cannot to you all repeat the
lessons of wisdom he has taught me; it is a part of the great medicine
words that women should never hear.

"There, in the home of the god of the sea, I saw many wonders--the
large doors through which the water gods passed when they visited the
earth, the giant trees lying in the water higher than our mountains.
They had lightning too, the weapons of the thunder birds;[6] when the
winds arose, and the sea waved, then did Unk-ta-he hurl the streaked
fire to the earth through the waters.

"The god of the great deep gave me this drum, and I wish it buried with
me; he told me when I struck the drum my will should be obeyed, and it
has been so.

"When my son returns, tell him to let his name be terrible like his
grandfather's. Tell him that my arm was like a child's because of the
winters I had seen, but that he must revenge his brother's death; then
will he be like the brave men who have gone before him, and his deeds
will be remembered as long as the Dacotas hate their enemies. The
shadows grow deeper on the hills, and the long night will soon rest
upon the head of the war-chief. I am old, yet my death-song shall call
back the spirits of the dead. Where are the Chippeways, my enemies? See
their red scalps scorching in the sun! I am a great warrior; tell me,
where is the enemy who fears me not!"

While the voice of the old man now rose with the excitement that was
influencing, now fell with the exhaustion, which brought big drops of
perspiration on his face, the Indians were collecting in a crowd around
him.

It was, indeed, a glorious evening for the war-chief to die. The
horizon was a mass of crimson clouds, their gorgeous tints were
reflected on the river; the rocky bluffs rose up like castle walls
around the village, while on the opposite shore the deer were parting
the foliage with their graceful heads and drinking from the low banks.

We-har-ka wiped the forehead and brow of her grandfather. There was
something of more than ordinary interest about the appearance of this
young person: her features were regularly formed, their expression
mild; her figure light and yielding as a young tree; her hair was
neatly parted and gathered in small braids over her neck; her dress
well calculated to display the grace of her figure; a heavy necklace of
wampum[7] covered her throat and neck, and on her bosom was suspended
the holy cross!

Her complexion was lighter than usual for an Indian girl, owing to the
confinement occasioned by the charge of her infirm relative; a subdued
melancholy pervaded her features, and even the tone of her voice.

There was a pause, for the warrior slept a few moments, and again
his voice was heard. Death was making him mindful of the glorious
achievements of his life. Again he was brandishing his tomahawk
in circles round the head of his fallen foe; again he taunted his
prisoner, whose life he had spared that he might enjoy his sufferings
under the torment; again, with a voice as strong as in early manhood,
he shouted the death-cry--it was his own, for not another sound, not
even a sigh escaped him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gently they moved him into the wigwam. We-har-ka stood by his head.
There was no loud wailing, for he had outlived almost all who were
bound to him by near ties.

Those who stood around heaped their most cherished possessions on his
feet: the knife, the pipe, and the robe were freely and affectionately
offered to the dead.

We-har-ka gazed earnestly upon him: large tears fell on her bosom and
on the old man's brow. Some one drew near and respectfully covered his
venerable face: the drum was placed, as he requested, at his side.

One of the men said, "Eagle Eye takes proud steps as he travels towards
the land of souls. His heart has long been where warriors chase the
buffalo on the prairies of the Great Spirit." We-har-ka drew from her
belt her knife, and cut long, deep gashes on her round arms; then, not
heeding the wounds,[8] she severed the braids of her glossy hair, and
cutting them off with the knife, red with her own blood, she threw them
at her feet.


How did the holy cross find its way to the wilds of a new country?
A savage, yet powerful nation, idolaters at heart and in practice,
bending to the sun, the forests, and the sea--how was it that the sign
of the disciple of Jesus lay glittering on the bosom of one of the
women of this heathen race?

Did the Christian hymn of praise ever rise with the soft and silvery
vapours of morning to the heavens? Had the low and earnest Christian's
prayer ever sounded among the bluffs that towered and the islands that
slept? Never, and yet the emblem of their faith was there.

But, to what region did not the Jesuit penetrate? Hardly were the
resources of our country discovered, before they were upon its shores.

They were there, with their promises and penances, their soft words and
their Latin prayers, with purposes not to be subdued in accomplishing
the mission for which they were sent. Was it a mission of faith, or
of gain? Was it to extend the hopes and triumphs of the cross, or to
aggrandize a Society always overflowing with means and with power?
Witness the result.

Yet they poured like rain into the rich and beautiful country of
Acadie.[9] See them passing through forests where the dark trees bent
to and fro "like giants possessing fearful secrets," enduring hunger,
privation, and fatigue. See them again in their frail barks bounding
over the angry waters of Huron, riding upon its mountain waves, and
often cast upon its inhospitable rocks.

Follow them as they tread the paths where the moccasin-step alone had
ever been heard, regardless of danger and of death, planting the cross
even in the midst of a Dacota village. Could this be for aught save the
love of the Saviour? Those who know the history of the Society founded
by Loyola, best can tell.

Among the ranks of the Jesuit were found the Christian and the martyr,
as, among the priesthood of Rome, in her darkest days, were here and
there those whose robes have, no doubt, been washed in the blood of the
Lamb.

Those hearts that were really touched with the truth divine, drew
nearer to the path of duty by the solemn spectacle of man, standing on
the earth, gay and beautiful as if light had just been created, yet not
even knowing of the existence of his great Creator.


Not far from the wigwam of the dead chief, Father Blanc knelt before
the altar which he had erected. He wore the black robe of his order,
and as he knelt, the strange words he uttered sounded stranger still
here. On the altar were the crucifix and many of the usual ornaments
carried by the wandering Romish priests.

Flowers too were strewn on the altar, flowers large and beautiful, such
as he had never seen even in _la belle France_. He chaunted the vespers
alone, and had but just risen from his devotions when the dying cry of
the war-chief rung through the village.

The priest walked slowly to the scene of death. Why was he not
there before with the cross and the holy oil? Ah! the war-chief
was no subject for the Jesuit faith--he had worshipped too long
Wakinyan-Unk-ta-he to listen to the words of the black robe. There were
no baptisms, no chauntings of the mass here; there was no interest at
stake to induce the haughty Sioux to the necessity of yielding up his
household gods. They were not a weaker party warring with the French,
and obliged from motives of policy to taste the consecrated wafer.
Contrasted with the Indian's ignorance was his native dignity. When
Father Blanc told them there was but one religion and that was the
Roman Catholic, and that the time would come when all would be subject
to the man who was in God's place upon the earth, who lived at Rome,
then would the Sioux laugh, and say, "As long as the sun shines, the
Dacotas will keep the medicine feast."

In vain were the pictured prayer-book and the holy relics exhibited.
What were they to the tracks of Haokah the giant, or the gods' house,
under the hill which reared itself even to the clouds, under which the
gods rested themselves from their battles.

The priest wept when he thought of the useless sacrifice he had made:
he could not even gain the love of the strange beings for whose sake he
had endured so much. They were not like the Abnakis, "those men of the
east," who so loved and obeyed the fathers who sojourned among them.

And the useless life he was leading, how long might it last?
Restrained, as the Sioux were, only by the laws of hospitality and the
promise they had made to the Indians who conducted him hither, how soon
might these influences cease to affect them?

We-har-ka alone spoke gently and kindly to him. She knew that his
heart, like hers, vibrated beneath a load of care; she found too a
strange interest in his stories,--the woman's love of the marvellous
was roused; the miracles of the saints delighted her as did the feats
of the gods.

But only so far was she a Christian; though she wore a gift from the
Jesuit, the consecrated sign. Perhaps in the after accounts of his
converts she was reckoned among them. We are told by one of the Jesuit
fathers of the true conversion and Christian death of a Canada Indian.
"While I related to him," said he, "the scene of the crucifixion, 'Oh!
that I had been there,' exclaimed the Indian, 'I would have brought
away the scalps of those Jews.'"

The war-chief was arrayed in his choicest clothing; and, but for
the silence in the wigwam, and the desolate appearance of the young
person who was alone with her dead, one would have supposed that he
slept as usual. The charms were still to be left about his person
for protection. The body was wrapped in skins: they were as yet laid
but loosely about him, ready for their final arrangement, when, with
the face towards the rising sun, the warrior should be laid upon the
scaffolding, to enjoy undisturbed repose.

But a few hours had elapsed since he sat and talked among them; but
now each of the group had returned to his usual occupation. Even his
daughter sat with her face drooping over her hands, forgetting for the
moment her grief at his loss, and endeavouring to anticipate her own
fate. The twilight had not yet given way to night, but the sudden death
that had occurred had hushed all their usual noisy amusements. Nothing
was heard but the subdued voices of the warriors as they dwelt on the
exploits of Eagle Eye, or speculated on the employments that engaged
him, now that their tie with him was sundered. Sometimes the subject
was changed for another of more exciting interest. A party that had
gone in search of the Chippeways,[10] who had been hovering near their
village, was expected to return, and there was some little anxiety
occasioned by their prolonged stay. Among the most noted of the party
was the brother of We-har-ka and a young brave called the Beaver. These
two young men, aspirants for glory and the preference which, among the
Indians, is awarded to bravery, cunning, and the virtues, so considered
among them, belonged to different clans. The rivalry and hatred between
these clans raged high, more so at this time than for some years
previous.

The Indian lives only for revenge; he has neither arts nor learning to
occupy his mind, and his religion encourages rather than condemns this
passion.

The daring showed by the Chippeways had only stimulated them to greater
acts of bravery; they were determined that the tree of peace, now torn
up by the roots, should never be planted again on the boundaries of the
two countries.

We-har-ka had arisen from her recumbent attitude, and stood by the side
of her dead relative. She had not time to reflect on the loneliness of
her position.

She had only laid her hand on the cold forehead where Death had so
recently set his seal, when the well-known triumphant voice of her
brother echoed through the village.

Hardly had she turned towards the door when another yell of triumph,
sounding even louder than the first, was heard. She knew that voice
too, for the colour mounted to her cheeks, and her breath came short
and quickly.

A chorus of yells now rent the air, answered by the Indians who had
joyfully started up to meet the party. How every eye shone with
delight, every feature working with convulsive excitement; all the
fierce passions of their nature were aroused. Those prolonged and
triumphant shouts had prepared them for what was to come. Already they
longed to see the blood-dyed scalps, and, it might be, the face of some
prisoner in whose sufferings they were to revel.

The figures of the successful war-party soon made themselves visible in
the moonlight. One by one they turned the winding trail that led to the
village. Over their heads they bore the fresh scalps; and as they came
in view, a piercing universal shout arose from all. The eagerness of
the women induced them to press forward, and when it was impossible to
gain a view, from the great crowd in advance, they ascended the nearest
rock, where they could distinctly see the approaching procession.

After the scalps and their bearers were recognised, another deafening
shout arose. The prisoners were descried as they neared: it was seen
there were two men and a woman. The arms of the men were pinioned back
between their shoulders. Nearer still they come, but the shouting is
over: intense curiosity and anxiety have succeeded this eager delight.

The prisoners and scalps were their enemies, but over every heart the
question passed, Have they all returned? Has each husband been restored
to his family, each child to the parent? But not long did these softer
feelings influence the conduct of the Sioux. They had now nearly met,
and the war-party, with the prisoners, had reached the outskirts of
the village. Here the confusion had returned and attained its greatest
height; welcomes had been said, and the crowd pressed around the scalps
to feast their eyes on the precious sight. There were but four, and
they had been taken in the hurry of flight: they were round pieces,
torn from the top of the head, and from one of them fell the long,
glossy hair of a woman.

There was nothing in the carriage of the prisoners to denote their
condition, their attitude and demeanour proclaiming the conqueror
instead of the conquered--the haughty determination of their looks,
the bold freedom of their steps, their gait as erect as possible, with
their hands bound behind them. Even the insolence of their language,
in reply to the taunts of their victors, showed they were prepared for
what was inevitable.

The calm, pale face of the young Chippeway girl showed that she had
determined to brave the blood-loving Sioux, and let them see that a
woman could meet death as well as a warrior.

The procession stopped, and one of the Sioux women called for her
husband. "Where is he, warriors? give me back my husband."

"You will not weep," said one of the men; "here is the Chippeway who
killed him," pointing to the younger of the male prisoners. "You may
stone him, and then you may sing while the fire is burning under his
feet."

A loud laugh of defiance was heard from the prisoner. "The Sioux are
dogs," he said; "let them hurry; I am in haste to go to the land of
souls." The words were not uttered ere a dozen spears pricked his body.
There was no cry of pain; he only laughed at the anger he had excited.

The attention of the Indians was now withdrawn from their prisoners,
for We-har-ka was rapidly walking towards them. Even the arrangement
of her dress was distinctly visible as she approached them: her long
and glossy hair disarranged purposely, to mark the intensity of her
grief; the blood was still trickling from her arms; her pale face
looking even paler than it was, by the moonlight and its broad shadows.

She was hastening to meet her brother, yet she did not offer him one
congratulation on his safe return. "My brother," she cried, "your
grandfather is dead. He lies cold and still, as the large buffalo when
he has ceased to struggle with our hunters. Go to his lodge and tell
him of your prisoners, and your scalps. For me, I will go myself to
shed tears. I will follow the fresh tracks of the deer, and by the
wakeen-stone,[11] in the prairie, I will sit and weep where no eye can
see me but the Great Spirit's. While the moon walks through the sky,
the spirits shall hear my voice."

She was listened to in silence, for the Indians always showed respect
to We-har-ka; her being constantly with the war-chief had made them
look upon her almost with reverence, as if she might have obtained from
him some supernatural power.

"The Sioux listen to the words of a woman," said the old prisoner,
as We-har-ka turned towards the prairie. "Why do they not make her a
war-chief, and let her take them to battle?"

"We will," answered her brother, "when we go again to bring home old
men. I would not have been troubled with your old carrion, but I thought
to let my father return the kind treatment you once gave him; and I
would kill you now, but that I would rather the women would do it."

"The Sioux are brave when their prisoners are bound," again taunted the
prisoner; "let them do their will: the Chippeway fears neither fire nor
death."

The rage of the Sioux was unbounded; the cold unconcern of their
prisoner almost destroyed the pleasure of victory. The women
clamorously demanded that he might be delivered over to them. They
seized him, and moved forward to a large tree, whose massive trunk
indicated its strength. Here they bound him with strong sinews and
pieces of skin. His hands were tied in front, and a strong cord was
passed about his waist, and with it he was fastened to the tree.

This was all the work of the women, and they evinced by their
expedition and hideous laughs the pleasure they found in their
employment.

The Sioux then went to see the body of their venerated chief; on their
return they found their victim firmly secured to the tree. The son was
bound at some little distance from the father, while the daughter was
sitting, hiding her face between her hands, weeping for her father's
situation. Pride had all gone, only affection occupied her heart. The
old Chippeway was convinced now of his immediate sufferings; he had
been tranquil and unmoved until the return of the warriors. Suddenly he
shouted, in a loud voice, the wild notes of his death-song.

There was no failing in his voice; even his daughter turned towards
him with satisfaction as he extolled his life, and expressed pleasure
at the prospect of seeing the hunting-grounds of the Great Spirit.

As he ceased, Chashé told him he must rest from his journey ere he
commenced his long way to the land of souls. "A great many winters
ago," said the young Sioux, "my father was in your country; you took
him prisoner, you bound him, and you told him what a good warm fire he
was to have to die by.

"You said you loved him too well to let him be cold; but while you
were binding him he was too strong for you. Unk-ta-he had made him
brave; he bounded from your grasp in sight of your warriors. He flew;
your bravest men chased him in vain. He came home and lived to an age
greater than yours.

"The old war-chief is gone, or he would tell you how welcome you are
to his village. He was always hospitable and loved to treat brave men
well. But we must eat first, or we cannot enjoy ourselves while you are
so comfortable with your old limbs burning."

Expressions of approbation followed this speech on the part of the
Sioux, but there was no notice taken of it by the Chippeway, who was
now occupied in contemplating his daughter. He had before seemed to be
unconscious of her presence.

No bodily torture could equal the pang of the father, who saw the
utterly helpless and unhappy situation of his child. His own fate was
fixed--that caused him no uneasiness. There was even a feeling of
enthusiasm in the prospect of showing his enemies how slight was their
power over him; how little he cared for any tortures they might inflict.

But his young daughter, who would have been safe now among her own
people, but for her affection for him, which induced her to remain by
his side, refusing the opportunity of escape.

The Sioux saw his concern and rejoiced that this pang was added to the
torture: not only his own fate to bear, but the consciousness that he
had caused the destruction of both his children. His son was surrounded
while endeavouring to protect his father.

Thus will nature assert her right in the hearts of all her children;
but the Chippeway closed his eyes to all, save the effort of appearing
indifferent to his sufferings. Again he sung his death-song, while the
Sioux stretched themselves upon the grass, eating the tender venison
which had been prepared for them, occasionally offering some to the
Chippeway, advising him to eat and be strong, that he might bravely
walk on his journey to the land of souls.

While the Dacotas were eating and resting themselves, the Chippeway
chaunted his death-song; his son, apparently, was unmoved by his own
and his father's desperate situation, but the daughter no longer
endeavoured to restrain her grief. Exhausted from fatigue and fasting,
she would gladly have known her own fate, even if death were to be her
mode of release from her distressing position.

The Indians frequently offered her food. Chashé tried to persuade her
to eat: she indignantly rejected the attention, her whole soul absorbed
in her father's painful situation.

She saw there was no hope: even had she not understood their language,
she could have read all in the fierce glaring eyes of her enemies,
the impatient gestures of the men, and the eager, energetic movements
of the women. The latter were not idle: they were making arrangements
for the burning of the prisoner. Under his feet they piled small round
pieces of wood, with brush conveniently placed, so as to kindle it at
a moment's warning when all should be ready. To their frequent taunts
their victim paid no attention: this only increased their anxiety to
hasten his sufferings, young and old uniting their strength.

One woman struck him with the wood she was about to lay at his feet,
another pierced him with the large thorn she had taken from the branch
she held; but the loudest cries of merriment and applause greeted the
appearance of an old creature, almost bowed together with the weight of
a load she was carrying, large pieces of fat and skin, which she was to
throw in the blaze at different times when it should be kindled.

The glare of day could not have made more perceptible the horrid faces
of the savages than did the brilliant moonlight. Every sound that was
uttered was more distinct, from the intense quiet that pervaded all
nature. The face of the victim, now turned to the sky, now bent in
scorn over his enemies; that of his son, pale, proud, and indifferent;
the unrestrained grief of the girl, who only raised her head to gaze at
her father, then trembling, with sobs, hid it deeper in her bosom; the
malignant triumph of the Sioux men, the excitement and delight of the
women;--all these were distinctly visible in the glowing brightness of
the night.

Was there no hope for the aged and weary old man? no chance that
these stern, revengeful spirits might relent? Will not woman, with her
kind heart and gentle voice, ask that his life may be spared? Alas!
it is woman's work that we are witnessing: they bound his limbs, they
have beaten him, and even now are they disputing for the privilege of
lighting the fire which is to consume him. Loud cries arise, but the
contention is soon quelled, for the deep bass voice of the medicine-man
is heard above theirs, and he says that the newly made widow, and she
alone, shall start the blaze, and then all may join in adding fuel to
the fire, and insult to the present disgrace of the Chippeway warrior.

And now the brush is piled round the wood and touches the victim's feet,
and the men lie still on the grass, knowing their work will be well
done, and the women who are crowded together make a way for the widow to
advance. See her! the tears are on her cheek, yet there is a smile of
exultation too--the blood is streaming from her bosom and her arms.

With her left hand she leads her young son forward. In her right she
holds a large and flaming torch of pine. The red light of the burning
wood contrasts strangely with the white light of the moon; the black
smoke rises and is lost in the fleecy clouds that are flying through
the air.

The silence is broken only by the heart-breaking sobs of the Chippeway
girl. The Sioux woman kneels, and carefully holds the torch under the
brush and kindling-wood. She withdraws her hand, and soon there is
something beside sobs breaking the stillness. The dry branches snap,
and the women shout and laugh as they hear the crackling sound. The men
join in a derisive laugh; but above all is heard the loud, full voice
of the victim. His death-chaunt drowns all other sounds, yet there
is not a tone of pain or impatience in the voice; it is solemn and
dignified; there is even a note of rapture as he shouts defiance to his
enemies and their cruelty.

The dry twigs snap apart, and the smoke curls around the limbs of the
prisoner: now the bright red flames embrace his form.

The warrior is still; he is collecting his energies and challenging his
powers of endurance.

Chashé stood up. "My father," said he, "fled from the fire of the
Chippeways; but you like the fire of the Dacotas, for you stand still."

"The Sioux are great warriors," replied the Chippeway, "when they fight
old men and children," looking at the same time towards his daughter.

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

"He is a great warrior," said the father, "but he was one against many.
He could not see his father and sister scalped before his eyes. Had
he fought man to man he would have showed you the sharp edge of his
tomahawk; but he is a Chippeway, and knows how to suffer and to die."

The noise of the fire drowned the old man's words, for the women were
amusing themselves by throwing on small pieces of dry wood and portions
of deer-fat, which, crackling as it burned, rapidly consumed the body
of the unfortunate man.

No suffering had, as yet, forced from him any cry of pain; it was
evident that nature would soon relieve him of his agony. His heart had
nigh ceased "beating its funeral march." Even he, an untutored savage,
felt that

      "Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
      Was not spoken of the soul."

His fortitude to endure was increased by the thought that soon the
brilliant but mysterious future would be opened to him.

The Sioux were disappointed at his courage, and longed to have their
gratification completed by some acknowledgment of his agony. An old and
fierce-looking woman drew her knife from her belt, and springing upon
the high roots of the tree, cut a deep gash between the shoulders of
the prisoner, then stooping, she raised in her hand a flaming torch,
which she applied to the fresh wound she had just made. This agony was
unendurable: a deathlike struggle convulsed the heroic countenance
of the sufferer; he uttered a sharp and piercing cry; then, as if
apologizing for his want of firmness, exclaimed, "Fire is strong!"

This sufficed for his enemies, and shouts of joy echoed through the
village, while the agonized daughter, unable longer to endure the
dreadful sight, sunk insensible on the grass at her brother's feet.

It was not long ere another shout announced the relief of the
Chippeway. The sweet hours of night had passed away while they watched
his noble firmness, and awaited his last breath. During the last hour,
long, low, black clouds had been deepening in the far west; now and
then a distant murmur was heard, and faint flashes gleamed athwart the
water. A slight murmuring of the waves witnessed the rising of the
wind, and the Sioux separated to take a rest, which they all needed.

Seeing that their other prisoner was securely bound, they left him
to face the storm and the hideous spectacle of his father's remains.
Chashé raised the lifeless form of the girl and carried her to his
sister's wigwam.

We-har-ka had taken no interest in the scene that had been enacting;
she slept soundly, fatigued with her wanderings on the prairie and the
indulgence of her grief. Chashé laid his unconscious burden by the side
of his sister. Enemies as they were, the looker-on might observe a
strong bond of sympathy between them. Their young faces were shadowed
by grief,--that link which should unite, heart to heart, every child of
earth.

       *       *       *       *       *

The low sigh with which the Chippeway girl awoke from her deathlike
trance, did not awaken We-har-ka. Starting up, she in a moment recalled
the sad tragedy which had just been enacted before her eyes, yet she
could not account for her being where she was. The wigwam was dark,
except when illuminated by vivid flashes of lightning, which showed
her the few articles of furniture and comfort that adorned an Indian
woman's home.

The occasional pealing of the thunder, and We-har-ka's breathing, were
the only sounds she heard. A thousand painful thoughts drove slumber
from her eyelids. Her father she knew was gone: she pressed her hand
before her eyes to recall, and then to chase away, the dreadful memory
that tortured her. She was spared; it might be for a slave, or to be the
wife of some one of her enemies. Her brother, she had no doubt, was still
living: he had been reserved for protracted tortures. Overcome by these
thoughts she sank again upon the ground, but not to sleep.

Could nothing be suggested to give her comfort? She cautiously raised
the door of the wigwam, and by the red lightning she saw her brother
bound as she had left him. Despair had nearly overpowered her once
more, but the natural energy of her mind returning, she looked again to
her own heart, to see if there was any hope. Should she never see again
the home so dear to her! Were she and her bold brother to die by the
hands of her father's murderers! Oh! that she possessed a sharp knife,
to sever the thongs that bound him, how soon would they flee away as
the birds do when winter's winds are heard from the north!

The idea once prominent in her mind, there was hope. Another flash
showed her the most minute objects in the wigwam. Another directed her
to the knife of We-har-ka, which lay glittering by her breast. A few
moments of intense thought decided her: nerved by a sense of her own
and her brother's danger, she no longer hesitated. What horrors could
be greater than those by which she was surrounded! What if she were
detected and murdered at once! Far better than to witness her brother's
fate, and endure her own.

She placed herself near We-har-ka, then gently endeavoured to remove
the knife she coveted. The young heart throbbed against her hand. Again
she endeavoured to slide the knife from its place. We-har-ka turned
upon her side as if disturbed. After a few moments had elapsed she
once more made the effort; and now, as it is clasped in her hand, her
senses have well-nigh left her, for this time she is successful.

But, well she knew there was no time for delay, nor even for
consideration. The deepest darkness of night was now upon them; before
long the morning twilight would be again resting over the earth.

The perfect and unusual repose of the Sioux was in her favour; and,
excited even to desperation, she determined to endeavour to free her
brother, and secure his and her own escape.

She first endeavoured to recall the situation of the principal objects
in the village. She did not, however, require any effort of memory, for
she could see distinctly where her brother was bound, and the path that
led to this point. The storm's spirits were her friends: without the
lightning she could have accomplished nothing.

There was a turn in the path that led through the village, and once
or twice she was at a loss how to proceed. She would not be dismayed,
though at times she feared her enemies would hear the loud beatings of
her heart. Guided by the lightning, and resting for a moment when she
feared her footfall would give the alarm, she at length reached the
spot.

There had been no rest for the younger Chippeway. With the
heart-crushing spectacle before his eyes, he had only given way to a
horror at his father's sufferings, far more dreadful to witness than to
endure. There was, besides, the anticipation of his own.

Again and again he looked at the strong cords that bound him. Could he
for a short time possess the knife his enemies had wrested from him!

Useless, indeed, to him, without assistance!

Softer feelings, too, came in turn. His wife had been murdered before
his eyes, his young son crushed under the feet of those who now lay
sleeping tranquilly around him.

The weary night was wearing on. There would be no breaking of the
day to him. There was no hope, but that which pointed to the unknown
future; no light but that which glimmered from the silent land.

A slight noise arouses his acute senses, and he turns his head to that
part of the village where were the greatest number of lodges. It might
be that the footstep was that of some one of his foes, determined
alone to enjoy the sight of his death. Oh! what joy thus to be saved
the reproaches of his enemies, the laughing of the women, the sneers
of all. Eagerly he peers through the darkness, and the first brilliant
flash shows him the pale face of his sister, as she advances towards him.

Very near him slept, in a wigwam, two warriors who had the charge of
him. They might awake: this thought made the very pulses of his life
stand still.

For at once he understood his sister's intention. He knew her courage;
he also knew that without an object she would not be thus incurring the
risk of arousing their enemies.

Another flash, and she stood close by his side--her hand was upon
his, as she felt for the thongs that bound him. One by one they were
cautiously severed--slowly, for the slightest noise might be fatal.

It was hard work, too, for the maiden, for the sinews were like iron,
and her strength failed her under the repeated efforts she was obliged
to make. There was no word uttered,--their hearts silently conversed
with each other. Time passed, and he was almost free; he was himself
severing the last bond that detained him.

It yielded. Once more he could stretch out his muscular arm. Grasping
his sister to his side, covered by the darkness and the thunder, and
the heavily commencing rain, they made their way under the edges of the
bluffs. The young Chippeway knew the route: a short peace had existed
between the tribes, and he had more than once passed through the
village.

At first their progress was slow and deliberate. There was no
faltering, though. They were without weapons, with the exception of
We-har-ka's knife. Hunger and faintness were oppressing them, but the
danger they were in braced their hearts. As they began to leave the
Sioux village in the distance, hope gave vigour to their frames.

After the day broke, the clouds were scattering, and the sunbeams were
dotting the hills that lay between them and their foes. Still they
could not rest. The wild plum was their only nourishment; nor was it
until night had again shrouded the earth, and the young man laid his
sister in the hospitable lodge of a Chippeway village, that he realized
that he had been a prisoner and was again free.

It were impossible to describe the rage of the Sioux on ascertaining
the escape of their prisoners. Chashé went soon after their flight
to his sister's wigwam. His sleep had been restless, he thought of
his dead relative, but he thought more of the Chippeway girl, whom he
had resolved to adopt[12] in place of his young wife, who had died
recently. Seeing his sister alone, he anxiously inquired of her what
had become of the girl. What was his surprise when she told him there
had been no one there; that when she arose, the storm was passing
over, but it was still dark, but that no one had been in the lodge
since then. Her brother, much irritated, contradicted her, using the
most violent language; yet it was evident to him that his sister was
unconscious of his having laid the girl by her side.

He turned away, and sought the scene of the last night's torture. There
were the burnt fagots, and the ghastly remains. The smoke still curled
and slowly rose from the ashes, but neither of the prisoners was to be
seen. The thongs with which he had been bound lay on the ground.

There was no room for doubt: brother and sister had fled; and they
lived so near the borders of the Chippeway country that there was every
reason to believe they were beyond the reach of recovery.

Disappointment and rage overspread his features. He threw up the door
of the lodge where the sentinels still slept calmly. Pushing the
foremost over with his foot, "Where is your prisoner?" said he. "You
are brave men, that cannot take care of one Chippeway!"

Starting to their feet, the sentinels at once became aware of what had
occurred. "Where is the girl?" they asked of Chashé.

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

"And where were you when the girl went?" replied one of the sentinels.
"You took her off with you, and if we could not keep the man, you could
not keep the woman."

The inmates of the different lodges came forward to learn what had
happened. Here advances a brave, followed by his young sons. The women
throw down their bundles of sticks, to feast themselves with a sight
of the Chippeways ere they commenced their usual avocations; but they
only expressed their sorrow by groans of disappointment. It was decided
that the fugitives should be pursued. A party of the younger men set
out without delay; they were warned, however, not to go too near their
enemy's country.

Glowing with the expectation of recapturing the prisoners, and, it
might be, of bringing home more scalps, they were anxious to set out.
The old medicine-men reminded them of their duty, gave them advice
suitable to the occasion, and then, with uplifted hands, called upon
Wakeen Tonca, Great Spirit, Father, to help them against their enemies.

The close of another evening found the Sioux quiet, and busy in drying
venison, and the usual occupations of the season. With the day, however,
were closing their labours. Often a cry of lamentation was heard from
the lodge of the Sioux who had recently been killed in battle.

The body of Eagle Eye was deposited upon a high scaffolding. His two
children were still engaged at the burial-ground. All cries of sorrow,
usual at such times, were hushed. The sides of the high hills were
tinged with gold and crimson. Some of these "mountains rose high, high
up, until they could look into the heavens and hear God in the storm."
The river was as calm as if no scene of cruelty had ever been enacted
on its banks.

Round the frame where Eagle Eye's form was laid hung his medicine-bag.
Chashé placed a vessel of water near the body. We-har-ka lightly lifted
the bark dish of buffalo-meat[13] and wild rice, where the soul of the
departed warrior could take it, and be refreshed when tired and hungry.
Very near him was buried his wife. Her bones had been gathered and
buried under the ground; branches of trees and solid pieces of wood had
been placed crosswise over her grave, to protect it from the wolves.

The graves and scaffolds were continued to the very edge of the
bluff, while flowers of the most brilliant hue sprung up at the feet
of the mourners, and clung to the low small bushes that grew on the
hilltop. The brother and sister were preparing to come down, when
We-har-ka perceived the priest seated by one of the graves, apparently
unconscious of all that was passing around him. She approached him, and
softly laid her hand upon his shoulder. He turned to her slowly, as
if aroused from a dream of long past years, and followed them to the
village.

His lodge was near hers, and she listened to his full rich voice as he
chaunted the vespers. Totally ignorant of what he said, she was yet
soothed by the sweet sounds, and after they had ceased, unobserved by
others, she sought him in his lodge, and night was closing over the
earth as the voices of the two mingled in earnest conversation.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Jesuit had long been anxious to take advantage of the first
opportunity that offered to return to Canada. Here, his time was wasted
and his health impaired to no purpose. He had succeeded in learning the
language of the savages, so as to converse with them tolerably; but his
mission was as useless here as it would have been among the wild beasts
of Africa.

Constantly exposed to danger, without the means of living, except what
he received from We-har-ka, and occasionally from others, his time
unoccupied, his life was a burden. His health was not strong enough to
enable him to join in the hardy exercises and sports of the red men.
How anxiously, then, did he await the means of deliverance.

There was an occasional intercourse with the tribes that lived in the
region of the great lakes: in this way he had come among the Sioux,
and he hoped thus to return to Acadie. He passed hour after hour
watching the approach of canoes, hoping to recognise the tall, gaunt
forms of the Hurons, or some of those with whom the Sioux were on
friendly terms. Over but one human being, We-har-ka, had he acquired
the slightest influence. We have before alluded to the rivalry of the
two young men, Chashé and the Beaver, for the disputed honour of being
the war-chief of the band. They belonged to opposite clans, which were
almost equally divided. It appeared evident that it could only be
decided by some act of bravery performed by one of the parties.

The aspirants had equal claims. They were each daring in the greatest
degree. Young, athletic, inured to fatigue and hardships, thirsting
like the war-horse for the battle. Chashé owed his reputation in some
degree to the reputation of his grandfather, while on the other hand
the Beaver's courage made him feared by his own and the opposite clan.

The long-continued feud between the two clans had been more violent
than ever since the death of the younger brother of Chashé. His
sickness was attributed to a spell having been cast upon him by some
one of the other clan. Eagle Eye attributed his death to the family
of the Beaver; and so great was the hatred of the two clans[14] that
murder after murder occurred, and every sickness and disaster was
charged upon some individual, and thus revenge was constantly sought.

Especially was Eagle Eye dreaded; his powers as a medicine-man
were rated so high, that in passing by him many avoided his
observation--they dreaded lest he should, by an undefined power, bring
upon them the wrath of an evil spirit. And each warrior wore beneath
his richly embroidered hunting-dress a charm, to protect him from a
machination that he feared.

Yet did the Beaver love the sister of his rival, and he had induced
her to defy her brother's hot temper, and promise him all her young
affection. Love had made him eloquent, and he persuaded her out of all
the opinions she had imbibed from the time she was capable of forming
one; while he, blind to the attractions of all others, could only see
grace in her person.

It was not likely his life would be safe should he marry her, and
remain among his own people; and could he yield the chances of his
high position among the braves with whom he had grown up to the love
of woman? He knew that We-har-ka would leave all for him. The only
question was, could he make the sacrifice?

They had closely kept their secret. We-har-ka had been promised to a
young man of her grandfather's clan. She had from time to time delayed
the marriage, by her influence over the old man. The husband they had
chosen for her was the tried friend of her brother, styled among the
Indians, a comrade. Well did We-har-ka know how determined was her
brother's temper, and that he would force her into the marriage after
her grandfather's death, and that, unless by some great effort, there
was no hope.

On the night of the return of the party, and the burning of the
prisoner, she had, indeed, gone to the prairies to weep; but it was
as much over the difficulties of her position as the death of her
relative. It was not without an object that she had come forward to
meet the war-party, and told them her intention. When the excitement of
the burning of the Chippeway was at its height, her lover had left the
group of young men, and a short time brought him to We-har-ka's side.
After a few moments passed in the joy of reunion, We-har-ka told him
that her fate must soon be decided, and implored him to take her away
from their home, as their only chance of happiness. They could go, she
said, among the Sioux who lived on the Missouri, and there live free
from care.

The young man did not answer her at first, and We-har-ka, startled with
the boldness of her own proposal, awaited his answer, standing. Her
arms were clasped over her breast, and her eyes bent to the ground: the
moonlight glittered on the wampum which lay on her bosom, and flashed
from the silver cross suspended from her neck.

At length the Indian broke out into angry abuse of her brother and all
connected with her. The colour varied in her cheek, and her lips were
more firmly compressed when he charged them with cowardice, but still
she spoke not. She had counted the cost of his love, and knew, that to
retain it, she must resign even the natural impulses of her heart.

She waited until the torrent of his passion had ceased, then pointing
to the dark clouds that were gathering in the west, reminded him that
they would be missed. The shout that came from the village warned them
too of the necessity of separation. He then marked the agitation of her
manner, bade her return home, telling her that, after her father was
buried, he would come to the lodge of the Jesuit: at what time he could
not say, but not until some amusements should engage the Sioux: then he
would tell her his determination. We-har-ka, overpowered with fatigue
on her return to her lodge, slept soundly, even with the Chippeway girl
by her side.

       *       *       *       *       *

We-har-ka sat in the wigwam of the Jesuit, listening to the accounts
of the grandeur of the churches and the magnificence of the altars in
the country where Father Blanc had passed his youth. He pointed to
the small figure of Christ, on the altar of cedar wood, which he had
constructed, then told her of the large one of gold which he had often
knelt before in assisting in the ceremonies of the church. We-har-ka,
whose thoughts had been wandering in quest of her lover, asked him
again of the ever interesting story of the death and sufferings of
the Saviour. Like those who witnessed the crucifixion, she wondered
that that Great Being should submit to such indignities. Her religion
would have justified resenting them. Yet she did not believe it was
true, loving still to hear it told over and over again; especially
was it agreeable to her now to while away the hour until her lover,
under pretence of speaking to the priest, should find a chance of
acquainting her with the plans he had formed. She looked again at the
familiar objects on the altar. Again, as ever, she told the priest he
was good and kind, but that she knew the Great Spirit was the father
of all. Father Blanc's insinuating eloquence touched her feelings, but
her heart was unaffected: yet the father, glad of a listener, even in
the untutored Indian girl, dwelt on scenes long past, and it might be
forgotten by all but him.

When the moon rose they sat outside the lodge on a mat. They were now
both silent. The thoughts of the Jesuit wandered far and wide: memory
transported him to the forests of Languedoc.

There he pursued his studies, full of high hope and youthful happiness.
He wandered through the most beautiful scenes of nature, and there was
one by his side; her smile was bent upon him, as she parted the long
ringlets from her brow. He gazed again as he was wont when he bade her
good night, and wondered if angels smiled so sweetly when they bore the
dead to the regions of Paradise. Memory changes the scene. Death and
desolation are met; darkness and beauty are blended strangely. Those
angel eyes are closed, but the sweet smile is there.

Hushed lips bend over the bier where roses are lavishly strewed.
Echoes of grief are heard along the halls, as they pass on with their
beautiful burden to the house of death. Then come the long nights
of sorrow, the vigils of despair, the renouncing of the hopes and
pleasures of life: then the morbid restlessness, the wish for death
and forgetfulness. Afterwards, the solitary life of the student, then
the seclusion of the cloister, and the longing to wear out life under
a different sky. He traced again his course, until he sat here, a
wanderer, by the side of the Indian girl.

Her eyes were wandering over the brilliant scenes. The stars seemed
almost to rest on the body of her relative, as she looked towards the
burial-ground where she had passed the day.

The branches of the large trees were in perfect repose: there was no
wind to disturb them; and the gorgeous reflection of the moon on the
river seemed almost to illuminate the village.

Richly endowed with the poetry of nature, the anxious girl felt calmed
by the beauty and tranquillity of the scene. The evening was passing
away, and he had not come. Confident of his affection, she determined
to be patient. Sometimes her friends would pass along and converse with
her; but they knew her heart was sad, deprived of the affectionate
caresses of her relative. Her brother she had not seen since they had
returned together from the burial-ground, but she supposed he was in
one of the groups which were enjoying the lovely quiet of the evening.

Suddenly a wild and piercing cry arrests her attention. Starting to her
feet, almost frantic for a moment, she recognised her brother's voice.
Again it fell in one long, rich, full cry on her ear.

There was something unusual in that sound. There was no defiance, no
fear, no excitement in the voice. It was as if the bald eagle, long
watching and hovering over its prey, had at length planted her talons
in its side, and was fleeing away far from human hope or protection.
So clear was the sound, so long its echo, that some doubted if it were
indeed a human voice.

Not so with We-har-ka: pressing her clasped hands tightly over her
heart, turning her marble face to the heavens, she knew it all. That
was not the cry indicating the presence of enemies; her heart would
not have quailed before it as it did now: it was the announcement of
the gratification of a long-cherished revenge. Her lover's absence was
explained. Only a moment, however, was given to conflicting thoughts.
The young girl moved forward, and, as it were, pioneered the others to
the quarter from whence the sound proceeded. There was no shrinking in
her slight form: she might have been taken for some spirit returned to
earth to accomplish some high purpose, unconscious of aught save its
own mission.

Passing on to a rock, whence you could see the beautiful valley that
spread out before them, the whole story was told in a moment.

Chashé stood as if expecting witnesses; in his bearing there was a
frightful exultation that ill accorded with the other circumstances of
his position. In his hand he held the knife, from which drops of blood
were slowly falling on his dress. He watched them with a savage laugh
of delight. His figure seemed taller, by half, in the moonlight, its
long shadow fell so darkly over the grass. He was not alone, for easily
could all recognise the manly and noble form of the man he hated, at
his feet. Well they know that it was death alone that could keep him
there. The blood was oozing from his heart: and they could, even at
the distance from whence they first saw him, distinguish the marble
paleness of his features.

A loud shout now arose from the Indians as they pressed forward. They
were divided as to the interest in this scene. The friends of Chashé
exulted with him, and those of the other clan called for revenge. It
seemed uncertain how the excitement of the crowd would show itself,
when it was diverted for a moment by the appearance of We-har-ka. She
rapidly slid down the rocks, which it was necessary to pass, in order
to reach the two young men. None of them could keep up with her, so
quick and shadowy were her movements.

Throwing herself on the ground beside her lover, she made the most
frantic efforts to staunch the flowing of the wound. She tore up the
grass, and pressing it together, placed it against the wound; but the
blood continued to flow in spite of all her efforts. Her bearing, calm
and collected at first, now changed with the evident hopelessness of
the case; her wild and frantic screams pierced the air as she threw
herself upon his body. Her brother seized her roughly by the arm,
indignant at this show of affection; but she shrank from his touch, and
again springing to his side, before he could divine her purpose, she
had wrested the knife from his grasp and pierced it deep in her own
breast. Chashé caught it from her ere she could a second time bury it
in her bosom; but she glided from him and ascended the bluff over which
she had passed to reach the dreadful spot. A stream of blood follows in
her path. Now she has reached the edge of the precipice: she springs,
and the noise of the dashing waves mingles with the cry of horror that
arises from the witnesses of her self-destruction.

The Indians were obliged to return to their village in order to arrive
at the place where were their canoes. Every effort was made, but in
vain, to recover the body of the unfortunate girl. She was never seen
again.

Father Blanc soon after returned to Acadie with a party who were going
that route. He was thankful to leave the scene of such accumulated
horrors. He had become warmly attached to the young Sioux maiden, whose
early sorrows had been impressed on his memory. The horrors of that
night were written in characters of blood: nor did he ever relate the
incident without trembling at the recollection. He found in the Canada
Indians more tractable scholars,--at least, when they feared the cannon
of the French.

There is reason to conclude that the efforts of the Jesuits among the
aborigines of our country left no abiding impression of good: but, like
the waters which the tall ships have passed over, they were agitated
for a while from their usual course, then returned to their restless
surging as before.

[Footnote 4: The names Sioux and Dacota are applied to the same nation;
the Indians themselves recognising and preferring the latter name. The
little that is known of them is given in the introduction to Dacota,
or Legends of the Sioux. They have, for many years, been considered a
powerful, warlike, and interesting people. They formerly possessed the
knowledge of many things of which they are now totally ignorant. They
retain the greatest attachment to their country and their religion.]

[Footnote 5: For every scalp taken by a Sioux in battle he is entitled
to wear a feather of the War Eagle. This is an ornament greatly
esteemed among them.]

[Footnote 6: The Dacotas believe thunder to be a bird. It would be
impossible to enumerate their gods, they are so numerous; but the
thunder is much feared as being one of the most powerful. In living
among them you constantly see representations of these gods, drawn and
carved on the various articles that are used among them.]

[Footnote 7: Wampum is a long bead made of the inside of a shell, white
and of dark purple colour; it is very much valued by the Indians, used
as necklaces; the women esteem nothing more highly than a string or two
of wampum. It has frequently been used as currency among the different
tribes; but in making treaties it is strung and made into a belt, and
at the close of a speech is presented to the other party as a pledge of
good faith.]

[Footnote 8: Among the Sioux it is customary to inflict wounds,
sometimes deep and severe ones, upon themselves on the occasion of the
death of a friend. The arms of aged people are frequently seamed with
scars.]

[Footnote 9: Acadia, or Acadie, was the ancient name for what is
now called Nova Scotia. Before the latter name was used in the act
of incorporation by the British Parliament, Acadie was within the
jurisdiction of Lower Canada.]

[Footnote 10: The Sioux and Chippeways seem to be natural enemies.
Peace has been declared between the two nations time and again, but
never has it been sustained, although the United States Government
has made every effort to and even compel them to forego their ancient
enmity.]

[Footnote 11: Wakeen-stone. The Sioux choose stones as objects of
worship. We find them frequently on their thoroughfares; they never
pass these without stopping to smoke, or to make some slight offering,
such as tobacco, a feather, an arrow, or a trinket.]

[Footnote 12: Young persons taken prisoners in battle are often
adopted, in the place of some lost relative. They are then treated with
the kindness usually shown towards a dear and valued friend.]

[Footnote 13: The Sioux believe in the duality of the soul,--one going
to the land of spirits, while one hovers round the grave, requiring
nourishment. Some few of their wise people believe that each body
claims more than two souls, assigning an occupation for each; but this
is not the prevailing opinion.]

[Footnote 14: In a Sioux village there are different clans, known by
the peculiar medicine that each uses, each clan claiming superior
power, resting in a spell, which the medicine man or woman can throw
upon those of the opposite party.]




[Illustration:

  C. Schuessele del.      Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.
        Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.

THE LAUGHING WATERS,
Three miles below The Falls of S^{t.} Anthony.]




THE LAUGHING WATERS.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

  A few miles from the Falls of St. Anthony are The Little Falls, or, as
  the Sioux call them, The Laughing Waters.


          Do you know where the waters laugh?
          Have you seen where they playfully fall?
        Hid from the sun by the forest trees green,
        (Though its rays do pierce the vines between,)
        Dancing with joy, till, night-like, a screen
      Comes down from the heavens at the whippoorwill's call.

          Come with me, then, we will tread
          On a carpet of long grass and flowers.
        The wild lady's slipper we'll pluck as it droops,
        We will watch the proud eagle, as from heaven she stoops,
        A seat we will take by the dark leafy nooks,
      Where a fairy might while away summer's bright hours.

          From on high, the gay waters come!
          At first, how they lazily creep
        O'er embedded rocks, while agates so bright
        Here and there greet the sun, by noonday's strong light,
        And again dimly glance when stars come at night,
      To watch where the Father of Waters' waves sleep.

          How mildly they laugh as they haste!
          Now they near the spot where they will spring,
        Lightly clearing the distance to the pebbles below,
        Where, tired with the effort, more calmly they flow,
        While the glistening spray, and the foam white as snow,
      Their light o'er the rocks and the dancing waves fling.

          At evening how often will come
          The wild deer to drink and to rest;
        Till frightened away by the nighthawk's loud scream,
        They flee to the shades where the wood spirits dream,
        And sink to repose by the moonlight's fair beam,
      Like the babe by its mother's soft smile lulled to rest.

          And here does the tall warrior stand,
          With the maiden he loves by his side!
        He tells her to list while the fairies do quaff
        Their cupful, and shout, and then wildly laugh,
        For they know that she leans on his love like a staff,
      Which will ever support her in life's changing tide.

          'Twould be well, did ye weep, waters bright!
          Soon no more to thy banks will they come,--
        The maiden who loves, or the warrior so brave,
        The wild deer at eve, in thy waters to lave,
        The song-bird to dip its bright wing in thy wave,
      When the shadows that fall with the night are all gone.

          The Indian's reproach ye might hear,
          Did ye listen, fair waves, to the sound!
        Are you gay, when you know of the tears we have shed,
        When profaned are the graves of our fathers long dead,
        When haunted our lands, by the white man's proud tread,
      As he passes o'er rock and o'er prairie and mound?

          For ages we've loved thy fair stream!
          No more can we claim thee, no more
        Will the warrior sing his war-song in thy ears,
        Will the mother who comes for her child to shed tears,
        Will the maiden who prays to the spirit she fears,
      Gaze on thy bright waves, or rest by thy shore?




O-KO-PEE.
A MIGHTY HUNTER OF THE SIOUX.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.


It is impossible for one possessed of kind and generous feelings to
pass a grave without mournful reflections. Though a stately monument
rise over it, it covers the work of death. The mouldering form was
once as full of joy and care, of tears and rejoicings, as we;--a being
who performed his part in the theatre of life, but who has now, for
ever, taken his place behind the closed curtain. And if it be the
resting-place of the poor and unknown, we must feel too: the rude
stone at the head, the weeds springing up, the indifference of the
merry children as they play around it, do not take from the claim that
was once possessed by the form that is fast mingling with its native
earth, to have been one of the many toilers after a happiness never
obtained, a rest never enjoyed on earth! How have passed away many of
the nations of the earth. Some have noble monuments. Egypt, Greece,
Rome, Palmyra, and the Aztecs, who flourished upon our own shores--gems
of wealth and learning are heaped upon their graves; the undying wreath
of fame crowns their memory. The older the world, the better they will
be known. As time advances, so will increase our knowledge of their
history and laws--their hieroglyphics will be understood, throwing
light upon things hitherto a mystery to us.

But not so with our Indian nations; they must depart with hardly a
memorial of their existence. Few now care to learn aught that one day
may be spoken in memory of a noble people passed away; few now reflect
that the soul of this people stands winged for its flight.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some recollections of the time passed among the Northwestern Indians
are very delightful to me, but many are equally sad--none more so than
the history of a poor idiot creature with whom we were well acquainted.

O-ko-pee, "The Nest." I have often reflected upon his eventful life,
and melancholy death--his patience and humility, the muscular strength
of his form, and the passionless expression of his features. The
mortal tenement was able and healthful when I first knew him, but the
spiritual no longer animated it; indeed, as a companion he was no
better than the game he hunted, for his mind was gone.

When overcome with hunger he would tell us how very long it was since
he had eaten. He knew, too, when he was cold, for he would direct our
attention to his threadbare clothing. Like the prairie deer or buffalo,
he would seek shelter from the storm or burning sun; but though he
might once have reflected upon the occupations of a disembodied spirit,
when it should be released from the shackles of earth, he had long
since ceased to do so. His mind floated on the stormy waves of life,
like the wreck at sea, far alike from light, hope, or help.

His life was an eventful one for an Indian's. Born when the Sioux were
not dependent upon white people, he trod his native earth with the
consciousness of owning it. He routed up the timid grouse from the
prairies, and brought down the red-head and wood-duck on the wing,
never fearing that they and he would be chased from the haunts they
loved. Often, when a small boy, would he kill the plover and woodcock
in numbers, carrying them to his mother as trophies of his skill. How
gaily he laughed as for the first time he stayed the fleet course of
the wild deer, and watched her panting, as she lay beside the brook,
looking for the last time at her own image in its clear waters, longing
to suage the thirst of death with its refreshing coolness.

His bones were still tender and his frame small when he sped his wild
horse among the buffalo, sending his lance into their sides, and
shouting as they tore up the earth, roaring in their agony. Was he in
danger from the restiveness of his horse? he knew he had only to fix
his black eye upon the revengeful buffalo, and, by the power of the
soul speaking there, subdue his rage. The eye of man meeting the eye of
beast, never turning or yielding its glance, would quell the passions
of the animal, and he would be safe.

He could not stay in the wigwam, even for an hour: child of the woods
and prairies, he needed only their companionship. The streams, the
rocks, and hills were the friends whose society he loved. Among them he
could "commune with his own heart, and be still."

Threading the passes among the hills, or stepping from point to point
on the dangerous rocks by the shore, he ever took the lead in the
chase, and early gained the reputation of being the most famous hunter
among the Sioux. How he obtained the soubriquet of "The Nest"[15] I
know not, but he retained it through all the varying events of his life
on earth, and it has followed him to the Indian's unhallowed grave,
over which hovers no spirit of hope, but the dark and fallen angels of
ignorance and superstition.

As O-ko-pee approached to manhood, the English claimed and obtained
jurisdiction over the Sioux. But the hunter, well acquainted with his
own laws, showed no inclination to meddle with those of another nation,
who showed the might of right.

Perhaps he did not feel with the many, who were more sensitive and less
happy, the soul-destroying anticipation of slavery. So long as he had
his lance and bow and arrow, what cared he for innovation? and he was
too ignorant of the economy of nations to recognise the fact that when
a people loses the right of self-government, it yields for ever the
power of advancing in strength or happiness.

Living in his own world, turning his eyes in adoration to the sun he
worshipped, he believed the Great Spirit would not interfere with his
concerns farther than to punish him should he neglect to celebrate
the feasts and customs of his nation, or turn from the faith of his
ancestors. Never was he happier than when listening to the flapping of
the wings of the mischievous thunder-birds, the gods of his nation, as
they roused themselves at the bright and forked streaks in the heavy
clouds.

There were many, however, among the Sioux who would not willingly yield
to the oppressions of the English, as they now would gladly resent,
had they the power to do so, the encroachments of the people of the
United States. Thus, a Dacota, who had received a personal injury from
an Englishman, determined to take an opportunity of resenting it; he
did so, according to Indian rules of strategy. He watched when his
victim was unawares, and took aim successfully, then plunging into
the thick forests, was lost to the search of his foes, as was the
dead Englishman, to the distress of his family. The English pursued
a system then which has since been adopted by our own countrymen; a
system sometimes productive of great injustice, yet, under the peculiar
circumstances, the best one that could be fixed on. I allude to that of
taking hostages, and retaining them until the offender should be given
up.

O-ko-pee, who had dreamed away his childhood among the most beautiful
scenes of nature, found himself a prisoner, torn from the objects which
were dear to him as life; nay, they were his life, for deprived of them
he sunk to the level of the beasts of the forests.

Immured in a prison, far from the refreshing air of his native hills,
shut in by the bars he vainly strove to loosen or to break, seeing
no more the bear, the buffalo, the otter, or the deer, his heart was
broken.

After many years of imprisonment, useless, for the real murderer
never was found, he was turned loose, like an animal from whence the
owner can no longer derive either amusement or profit: he returned
mechanically to his former occupation. Once again free in the woods, he
was soon a laughing-stock for the Sioux. "He has no heart since he was
prisoner to the white man!" they cried, as he passed to the prairies,
with his vacant look and humbled demeanour. Where was the proud glance
and the free step? Ask those who with the iron arm of power punished
the innocent for the guilty.

Still, as ever, he followed the chase--thirteen deer did he kill in
one day, and never tired of hunting, even as age advanced seemed to
increase his passion for roaming.

Often has he come to us with every variety of game, never breaking
his word, whatever might be the state of the weather. But in coming
or going, giving or receiving, his demeanour and countenance never
changed; his eyes were wandering in vacancy, save when the fire-water,
given by the white man in exchange for the soft furs he brought him,
would tinge his sallow cheeks with the flush of madness, and lighten
his eye with the glances of a fiend, and change from the sober quiet
and calmness of the unhappy idiot to the noisy, reeling, hellish
figure, which seemed a visitant from the world of darkness rather than
a suffering inhabitant of earth.

O-ko-pee is dead. It is not mine to say whether or not, in another
state of existence, he enjoys happiness sufficient in degree to make up
for the heavy trials of life: I have only to do with him here; and as
I have said he lived a sacrifice to the all-conquering and indomitable
spirit of the Saxon race, so did he die.

Some years ago, a band of Sioux, distant from Fort Snelling, attacked a
party of Winnebagoes, taking fourteen scalps. Hearing that the scalps
were carried from village to village, and danced round day after day,
there was a party sent from the Fort to take these scalps from the
Indians, as there was a fear lest the hot blood of the young warriors
should be roused, and serious difficulties would then occur between the
two tribes. So the scalps were brought into the Fort; the affair was
reported at Washington. The Winnebagoes asked for indemnity for the
injuries they had received, and the authorities at Washington decided
that four thousand dollars should be paid to the Winnebagoes out of the
annuities received by the Sioux from our own government. It was in the
summer: the Indian potato, hard and indigestible, was just ripening:
the corn was green. The Sioux were without flour and other provisions;
even if game had been abundant, they had neither powder nor shot.
They pined away by fever and weakness; death stalked among them like
a giant, laughing as he crushed to earth men who were like children
beside him.

Was there no help for them? the mandate had gone forth. The children
fell to the ground dying for want of nourishment; the strong man clung
to the trees for support, and the gray-haired leaned against the
insensible rocks. Few there were who could bring down the game with
their bows and arrows as did their forefathers, and the white people
were crowding in their country and driving the game back where they
were too feeble to pursue it.

Then came forward the kind missionaries to the aid of their unhappy
friends. How liberally they shared with them all that they possessed,
striving too to quiet their minds, agitated by burning fever. They gave
them medicine and food, supporting the dying mother and taking charge
of the infant and the aged. They sought to assuage the agonies of
exhausted nature, directing in its flight the restless spirit standing
upon the borders of life to that happy place where hunger and sickness
are unknown.

It was on one of the warmest days of summer when my little children,
with their father, crossed the St. Peter's, and advanced towards the
trading establishment at Mendota. On the shores of the river one wigwam
was placed, and, attracted by the groans of anguish which proceeded
from it, they entered. It was O-ko-pee dying; yes, dying as he had
lived, a sacrifice to the white man's rule--dying as he had lived,
alone.

No friend supported his aching head, which was burning with fever, or
chafed the cold limbs covered with ashes. Indeed, his head was pillowed
on a bed of ashes. He recognised his visiters, and seeing their young
faces solemnized by what they had never before witnessed, the presence
of death, he spoke to them by name, said he was sick, and asked them
for medicine. It was too late for medicine or sympathy; in another hour
O-ko-pee, the hunter of the Sioux, was gone for ever from the earth.

[Footnote 15: It is customary, when an Indian advances towards manhood,
for him to lose the name bestowed upon him in childhood, obtaining
another by some peculiarity of appearance or conduct, some daring
action or violent passion; thus, Sleepy Eyes, is the name of a chief
among the Sioux, from the drowsy expression of his countenance.]




CHEQUERED CLOUD.

THE AGED SIOUX WOMAN.


      I would tell you of a friend of mine:
        She's neither rich nor fair;
      The snows of many winters
        Have bleached her raven hair.
      The brightness of her large black eye
        Has been dimmed for many years;
      And the furrows in her cheek were made
        By time and shedding tears.

      She is an Indian woman,
        And me has often told
      Traditions of her native land,
        And legends sung of old;
      Of battles fiercely fought and won,
        Of the warrior as he fell,
      While he tried to shield from a fearful death
        The wife he loved so well.

      Ask her whence her nation came:
        With a smile she will reply,
      "The Dacotas aye have owned this land,
        Where the eagle soars so high;
      Where Mississippi's waters flow,
        Through bluffs and prairies wide;
      Where by Minesota's sandy shore
        The wild rice grows beside."

      Ask her of her warrior sons,
        Who rose up by her side--
      Enah! in the fearful battle,
        And by sickness they have died--
      And of her gentle daughter:
        See the tear steals lowly down,
      As the memory of the slaughter
        Of that frightful night comes on.

      Many have been her sorrows,
        While ever to her breast
      Sickness or want or suffering came,
        Like a familiar guest.
      Yet, she says there was a time
        When her step was light and free,
      And her voice as joyous as the bird
        That sings in the forest tree.

      I said she was my friend:--
        I am not one of those,
      Who from the wealthy or the great
        Companionship would choose.
      The soul that animates her frame
        Is as gifted and as free,
      And will live for ever,--like the one
        That God has given me.

      She worships the Great Spirit,
        Yet often does she tell
      Of the fairies that inhabit
        Mountain, river, rock, and dell.
      She will say to kill a foe
        Of religion is a part;
      Yet underneath her bosom beats
        A kind and noble heart.

      She has ever loved to listen
        To the savage shout and dance;
      To see the red knife glisten
        O'er the dying Chippeway's glance.
      To watch the prisoner, burning,
        Confronting at the stake
      His enemies, who vainly strive
        His spirit proud to break.

      Judge her kindly,--and remember,
        She was not taught in youth
      To bend the knee and lift the heart
        To the God of love and truth.
      "Love ye your foes," said He who brought
        To us the golden rule;
      But "eye for eye," was the maxim taught
        In the ancient Jewish school.

      We know it was a beggar
        Who in Abraham's bosom slept,--
      And, haply, her ancestors
        By Babylon's waters wept.
      While poor, like Lazarus, it may be,
        From Israel's stock has come
      The red man, tracing out on earth
        His God-forgotten doom.

      Well I knew, when last we parted,
        That, if ever we met more,
      'Twould be when life's sweet sympathies
        And painful cares are o'er.
      She said, while down her aged face
        The tears coursed rapidly,
      "Many a white woman have I known,
        But you were kind to me."

      Not half as dear to the miser
        Is the yellow gold he saves,--
      Or the pearl, to the venturous diver,
        Which he seeks beneath the waves,
      Or the summer breeze, to the drooping flower,
        Fresh from the balmy South,
      As those grateful words which slowly came
        From the Indian woman's mouth.

      She has struggled with the ills of life;
        For her no parent's prayers
      Have risen to the throne of God,
        To sanctify life's cares.
      But God will judge her kindly:
        He sees the sparrow fall;
      And, through his Son's atoning blood,
        May he mercy show to all!




FIRE-FACE.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.


Fire-face was willing to die, he said, but not until he had killed
another white man. He was sincere in acknowledging hatred towards the
people of the United States. There was no doubt but he had stained
his hands with the blood of one white man; but this did not satisfy
him: let him take the life of another, and he was willing to be made
prisoner, and to meet what punishment might be designed for him. The
mantle of Cain had indeed fallen upon him; his heart was turned even
from his own people, and angry threatenings were ever upon his lips,
against those with whom he had grown up side by side. Wabashaw, chief
of one of the bands of Sioux on the Mississippi, left his home, where
the prairies stretch out to the distance, without even a hill to
relieve the level sameness, or trees to shelter them from the short
but intense heat of the summer, to encamp, by permission, on the St.
Peter's River, opposite Fort Snelling. Fire-face, one of the band, was
with them, accompanied by his two wives.

He was feared by all of the band; even the brave chief Wabashaw, whose
life he had threatened, turned from the fierce gaze of the man, over
whom had been cast a spell from the spirits of evil, for he frowned
alike upon friend and foe. Only his wives seemed easy when he was
near, and they not only feared but loved the strange being, whose hand
was against every man's.

He passed the most of his time seated near his lodge, with his
medicine-bag hanging near; his implements of war and hunting glistening
in the light, and his loaded gun ever by his side.

Many efforts had been made to apprehend this desperate man, yet he had
always eluded the pursuit of the soldiers; and now, although aware of
the danger he was in, when living so near the garrison, he appeared
to be perfectly unconcerned, saying, he knew the soldiers would make
every effort to arrest him; but that he would never be taken until
another of the pale faces had fallen by his arm. Wabashaw, the chief,
frequently visited the Fort, always accompanied by his late friend Many
Lightnings, and on every occasion he pressed the necessity of taking
Fire-face prisoner. "He was a bad Indian," said Wabashaw, "who loved to
see blood; and, if allowed to go at liberty, some one would be murdered
by him."

The chief said that he did not sleep at night in his own lodge, but
went for safety to the near village of Mendoto, where he remained until
the sun was high in the heavens the next day. In consequence of these
representations, a party of soldiers was sent to arrest him, and the
Indians were to assist in the capture.

Fire-face was on the lookout: he appeared to show himself in the way
of danger for the pleasure of overcoming it. He would remain at ease
until the party was near him; and then, like an arrow from the bow,
he would fly through the village, no man daring to stay him: and you
might as well have attempted to catch the sunbeam on the waters as the
hunted man. Pursuit was unavailing, and the soldiers each time returned
disappointed to the Fort.

He would soon come back to the encampment. What a courage was his,
thus purposely throwing himself in the way of danger, knowing too that
he had not one friend to whom he could turn. His frightened, helpless
family alone cared for him. It was evidently a pleasure to him to be in
a situation of peril, to show his adroitness in extricating himself.

About ten o'clock one night he sat in his lodge, gloomily meditating on
his position. Could he eventually escape the pursuit of his enemies?
Was he not a doomed man, when the bands of friendship were severed
between him and those with whom he had fought, and whose lives had been
tracing an even course with his?

The children's heavy breathing was the only sound that could be heard.
His wives sat mute in the lodge. He had been hunted to the death, and
now sleep was overcoming him, and his watchfulness was yielding to his
fatigue; while he thought to lay his tomahawk beside him, and seek
repose, the door of his lodge was turned aside, and the long-knives (as
the soldiers were called) were upon him.

Their exulting looks were met by his calmest demeanour: he offered no
resistance; but when the soldiers placed their hands upon his wrists to
secure the captive, he glided from their grasp as easily as a serpent
might pass from the touch of a child; he bounded from their sight, and
again they vainly sought the strange man: the protecting shades of
night were about him, and he knew full well the hiding-places of the
neighbourhood. When out of their reach he laughed as he looked at his
oiled hands and arms, for _there_ was the secret of his escape.

Morning found him again in his lodge, calm, fearless as ever. The Sioux
thought he must wear a charmed life, and they kept from the reach of
his arm: and the children, even his own, played where they could not
see his dark face as he watched their amusements.

There is a spell, however, that few Indians can resist; it is to them
an unfailing quietus for care: they can fancy they are free when
fire-water quickens the coursing of their veins. They curse the white
man from the heart, and hope and look forward to the time when the red
man shall have his own again. They then forget that the outstretched
arms of desolation are ready to clasp them, and that destruction,
like the night-bird, is hovering over their heads with its hoarse cry
sounding to their hearts.

Fire-face could not refuse the charm. The Indians pressed it upon
him, and then informed the soldiers that they were going out with the
intention of hunting, as Fire-face thought, that on this occasion he
might be followed and taken.

The party went on their route, stopping occasionally to drink and to
smoke. Fire-face, overcome by the liquor he had drank, could hardly
keep up with them. His gun swung carelessly from his shoulder, and his
usual gravity was changed for a loud and boisterous cheerfulness.

"The white people fear me," he said, laughing; "well they may, for my
arm is strong, and before I die I will kill another of them. I have
already murdered a white man, and should be satisfied if one of their
women died by my tomahawk. I should like to take her scalp with the
long light hair hanging from it."

The Indians still encouraged him to drink, and as the morning advanced
he became the more unfitted to pursue his way. From a state of passion
and excitement he had passed into one of stupor: at length he rested
himself against a tree, and alternately muttered and dozed.

In the mean time soldiers were following him up. Wabashaw gave
information of the path Fire-face had taken, and they were soon upon
him.

He was a prisoner at last, and that consciousness sobered him. His
hands were bound. One of the Sioux, indignant at this proceeding,
attempted to cut the straps, but was pushed off. After a slight delay,
the soldiers returned with him to the garrison.

He continually reproached himself with his own unwatchfulness, telling
the soldiers that he had always intended killing one of them ere he
should be in their power. He mournfully said it was too late now to
accomplish his purpose.

At about six o'clock in the afternoon he was brought into the Fort.
The news of his capture had reached the encampment of Wabashaw on the
opposite side of the river, and as he approached the guard at the gate
of the Fort, a number of Sioux wore seen watching him. His two wives
stood there, and as their husband's figure passed, guarded and bound,
they literally lifted up their voices and wept.

Fire-face, in the mean time, was turned over to the tender mercies of
the guard, and he was soon seated at the grated window of his cell. I
had heard a great deal of the man, and thought that one who combined
so many terrible traits of character must show it in his countenance:
in order to see this singular being, I determined to visit him in his
cell. We passed the guard-room and entered his dark and dreary-looking
place of confinement. His back was to us, as he was looking through
the bars of his window towards his home. Hearing some one approach,
he turned to us with an expression of face entirely mild; there was
neither passion nor murder portrayed in his features, not even a
restlessness in his manner--only a quiet dignity, a calm unconcern.

He begged of the commanding officer to be shot at once, deprecating the
thought of imprisonment--only let him die or be free. It was in vain to
remind him of his offences: the laws of the white man were not for him.
He then said that he wished to see his wives. The request was granted:
they were sent for, and after a little while they, trembling with fear,
passed the terrible-looking guard and entered their husband's cell,
with their faces covered with their blankets.

The next day a council was held at the council-house, and I could not
resist the wish I had to be present. I longed to see the aborigines
of my country presiding as it were in their own halls of legislature.
There was always a charm and freshness in listening to their unstudied
eloquence.

When I reached the council-house the speaking was nearly over, but the
scene repaid me for the trouble I had taken to witness it.

The warriors were seated in rows round the room on the floor, with the
exception of Wabashaw, Many Lightnings, and a few of the principal
men,--these occupied a bench.

Their dresses were very rich; their fans were of large feathers,
stained in many colours. "The Owl" was looking grave, for he had been
reproved for interfering with the soldiers, by attempting to cut
the prisoner's straps. One old man was in mourning, and he looked
particularly _en dishabille_, his clothing (and there was little of
it) was dirty in the extreme. His face he had painted perfectly black;
his hair he had purposely disarranged, to the greatest degree. Thus
he presented a striking contrast to the elaborately adorned warriors
around him.

Many Lightnings was dressed with scrupulous care. He had been presented
with an old uniform-coat, which he wore with the utmost complacency.
We noticed the warriors were almost all young: we asked where were
all their old men. Wabashaw said, they were all carried off by the
small-pox, which had nearly destroyed their band some years before.
Several of them, besides the chief, were deeply marked from this
disease.

When we left Fort Snelling, Fire-face was still in confinement, but
was soon to go to Dubuque for trial. I learned some months after, that
he had escaped: I thought then, his long-cherished wish might still be
gratified.




DEATH-SONG
OF AN INDIAN PRISONER, FOR A LONG TIME CONFINED AT FORT SNELLING.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.


      Here, in these hated walls
        A prisoner I;
      Vainly my young wife calls,
        As night-winds sigh.
      Brightly the white stars shine:
        Upwards I gaze,
      Seeking this soul of mine
        From earth to raise.

      Strong Wind, my comrade brave,
        Looks sternly by,
      Watching the death-film dim
        His brother's eye.
      Chained are these useless hands;
        Cold is my heart;
      Soon to the spirits' land
        Must I depart.

      Pacing my prison dark,
        Arms do I see,--
      While measured the sentry's step,--
        Glance gleamingly.
      Once, like the wild deer,
        Or eagle, as free,--
      Now, closely guarded here,
        Prisoners we!

      When has the red man felt
        Woman's weak fears?
      But from these wearied eyes
        Fall warriors' tears.
      Father of Waters, I
        Ne'er shall see more,--
      List to its waves pass by,
        Beating the shore.

      Sleeps my brave comrade now?--
        Dreams he of home?
      See, o'er his haughty brow
        Dark shadows come.
      Like me, he fain would be
        Where, from the bow,
      Piercing the wild deer's side,
        Swift arrows go.

      When from the waters bright
        Fades the red sun,
      Following the evening light,
        Darkness comes on.
      So has my spirit drooped,
        Since from my home
      Traced I my weary steps,
        Ne'er to return.

      Hark! in the evening air
        Low voices come,--
      Bring they to this sad heart
        Breathings of home.
      Now do the whispers rise,
        Mighty the sound,
      Like the thunder-bird,[16] from the skies
        Hurled to the ground.

      "Come to our hunting-lands!
        Proudly we roam
      Here, where the white man
        Never may come.
      From our forests on earth
        Oft driven back,
      We are free now, and follow
        The buffalo's track.

      "Here is the bright glance,
        From maiden's dark eye;
      While the song of the feast and dance
        Rings through the sky.
      Here do we wait thy step,
        While soon, for thee,
      Bursted the prison bars,
        The warrior free!"

[Footnote 16: This is an allusion to the battles of the gods of the
Dacotas. The Thunder (believed to be a bird) is sometimes conquered and
cast to the earth by the god of the woods or the god of the waters.]




THE FALSE ALARM.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.


"Yes," said We-har-ka, who had outlived children and grandchildren, whose
face and neck were covered with wrinkles, but who still could walk with
the youngest and strongest, "the old woman must pick up what she can
get to eat. I hate the white people. Have I forgotten the death of my
son? Do I not see him now as he fell dead by the gate of the Fort? What
if the Dacotas had killed some Chippeways! The Dacotas have a right
to kill their enemies. Enah! I hate the Chippeways too. If I were a
warrior, I would ever be tracking them and shooting them down, and I
would laugh when I saw their blood flow."

"The white people caused the death of your son," said Harpen.

"I hate them both," replied We-har-ka. "My son and two others killed some
Chippeways, and they were taken, prisoners, to the Fort, because the
long-knives had said we must not kill our enemies. Then the Chippeways
wanted the Dacotas who murdered their friends, that their women might
cut them in pieces. So the long-knives told the Dacotas they might
start from the gate of the Fort, and run for their lives; but they told
the Chippeways to be there too, and they might fire at them and kill
them if they could. The Chippeways fired, and the three Dacotas fell.
The Chippeways shouted and were glad, and the Dacota women wept. I lay
on the ground many days, with my limbs bleeding. See the scars on my
arms! With this very knife did I make these wounds. I, a widow, and
childless, who has there been to give me food since?

"When Beloved Hail was killed," continued the old woman, "the white men
would not let our warriors go to war against the Chippeways. Red-boy,
too, was wounded by the Chippeways, and even he could not go out to
fight them. Our warriors are like children before the white men."

"Red-boy was badly wounded," said Harpen.

"Yes, he was badly wounded: I saw him at the time. If I were Red-boy,
I would only live to revenge myself on those who had tried to take my
life."

While the woman talked, little Wanska sat by them, playing with her
wooden doll. "Grandmother," said she, "may I take your canoe and go
over to the village? You can come home with the others. I want to talk
to my mother about Red-boy."

"Go, go," said We-har-ka, "our brave men may no longer do brave deeds,
and by the time that you are a woman, there will be no more warriors.
It has been five winters since Beloved Hail was killed and Red-boy
wounded, and no one has avenged them yet."

The child entered the canoe and paddled towards the village, thinking
all the while of what she had heard. "Grandmother says, by the time I
am a woman, there will be no more warriors: what will I do then for a
husband?" and thus divided between the disgrace of not being married,
and the remembrance of Red-boy's wound, which she thought had occurred
recently, she entered the village in a state of trepidation, which
was yet exceeded by the condition in which her mother was thrown,
on hearing the announcement that Red-boy was badly wounded by the
Chippeways; that We-har-ka had seen the wound; that all the old women
were very angry with the Chippeways and white people; then, bursting
into tears, the girl of ten years added: "Mother, the Chippeways and
white men are going to kill all the Dacota warriors, so that, when I am
a woman, I can never have a husband!"

Up rose the eyes and hands of the mother, and down went the moccasins
she was making to the ground; and up and down she made her way
through the village, giving the alarm, that Red-boy was killed by the
Chippeways!

Shall I tell of the scene that followed? Oh! for a pen of magic, to
describe how Red-boy's relations cried, and how everybody's relations
cried with them; how the children ran to their mothers, sheltering
themselves under their _okendokendas_.[17] How the dogs yelped and
howled, and sprung on the children's backs, ready to go wherever
prudence might dictate. How the old men started from sleeping in the
lazy summer's sun, and held their tomahawks as firmly as if time were
made to be laughed at, and the young men throwing away the pebbles with
which they were playing a game of chance, walked swiftly on, bent on
avenging Red-boy.

How the wind all at once began to rise, and the very fish leaped out of
the water, as if they would like to fight too; while already, Indian
runners were far on their way to tell the news at Man-in-the-cloud's
and Good-road's villages, and to give the word to those whom they might
meet, who would take up the cry, and rush forward with revenge on their
lips, and murder in their hearts.

On they went, until they reached the house of the Interpreter, near
Fort Snelling, and then he went with them, to report to the officers at
the Fort of the outrage; that Red-boy was killed, and that the Dacota
warriors wished to go and avenge the death of their friend.

This was, of course, considered an infringement of the treaty of peace
then existing between the two tribes; and the Chippeways had showed
their daring by committing a murder so near the walls of the Fort. It
was immediately determined to send a detachment of soldiers to arrest
the offenders.

In ten minutes a number of men were on the parade-ground, ready to
march, looking as fiercely at the officers' quarters as if they were
about to enter into mortal combat with the doors and windows; obeying
the word of command as quickly as it was reiterated, while the ringing
noise of their ramrods sounded through the garrison.

The Dacotas were perfectly satisfied with the promise made them,
that the Chippeways should be punished in a manner satisfactory to
themselves, for the death of Red-boy.

We women felt quite solemn in the Fort. The Chippeways might resist:
in fact, there was no saying what they might, or what they might not
do. The command in garrison was very small: we felt as if we had been
"through seven wars, and this was the worst of all."

Retreat, the assembling of the command at sundown, came--the evening
gun was fired, and the flag was lowered--and nothing was heard of the
war-party, white or Indian. Tattoo had come, the soldier's bedtime,
and our anxieties were not at rest. Towards twelve o'clock the men
returned with their officer, without having had even a show of fight.
To their intense mortification and disappointment, Red-boy had been
seen, and talked with, large as life. He had eaten a saddle of venison
that day, without any assistance, and was, accordingly, in a good state
of preservation, having received no wound since the one of five years'
standing, the scar of which he showed.

Now, we know that among white people, as well as Indians, women have
the credit of raising all the false reports, and circulating all the
scandal that is going the rounds. Most unjust charge! and all men, red
skins and pale faces, are defied to prove it. Among the Indians women
have no chance whatever. Is an Indian charged with stealing pork from
the traders? It was not the warrior who did it, but his wife. Has a
party of Indians been admitted into the Fort, and some loaves of bread
and pieces of meat been abstracted? Somehow or other the women are sure
to be in fault. Has the garrison been alarmed, and a party of soldiers
sent out uselessly? As usual, the women made the trouble.

Yet, with a sigh from my heart, I must confess that appearances are
against the sex.

There were many threats of vengeance made against We-har-ka in the
present instance, for the trouble which her longings for vengeance had
occasioned; but she was not afraid: she had taken care of herself for
nearly a hundred years, and would be apt to do so during the short
remnant of her life.

Indian women will talk of their wrongs as long as they feel them, and
that will be until the heart has ceased to beat, and the tongue is
silent for ever.

We-har-ka lives on the memory of her sorrows. She holds them to her
heart, as does the mother her child of a day old. They are dear to her
as would be the hope of vengeance.

I say she lives, but I know not. Seasons have gone since I bade adieu
to her home, and it may be, she is all unconscious that winter is gone,
and that summer's breath is waving the green boughs of the forest trees
as they lift up their branches to the heavens.

It must be soon, if not now, that her form, covered with garments of
poverty and misery, and perhaps shielded from the gaze of passers-by by
the tattered blanket of some friend poor as she, reposes quietly near
the river bank.

Would you not like to have heard her talk of her amusements as a
child, and her happiness when a maiden--of the scenes of pleasure she
remembers, and of terror from which she has fled--of the pains, the
hunger, the watchings she has endured--of the storms and sunshine of a
life passed away?

[Footnote 17: An Okendokenda is a part of an Indian woman's dress,
somewhat resembling the sack worn by ladies at the present time,
more open, displaying the throat and chest. It is generally made of
bright- calico.]




[Illustration:

  C. Schuessele del.      Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.
        Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.

INDIAN COURTSHIP]




INDIAN COURTSHIP.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.


                        Show me a brighter scene
      On our beautiful earth, or where fairies dream!

             *       *       *       *       *

      Tell me where, rocked by the billows high,
      The sea-bird pierces the gorgeous sky,
      Where the moonbeams rest on the ocean wave--
      Where dies the sun o'er the crystal cave.
      Where the bell sounds sweet o'er the desert sand,
      Like matins that ring in a far-off land.
      Where the mountain heaves with its angry voice,
      And the lava speeds with its fiercest course;
      Where the glaciers glance by the sunbeam's ray,
      And the avalanche bursts with resistless sway.
      Yet show me a brighter, a fairer scene
      On our beautiful earth, or where spirits dream,
      Than here! where the leaves of the large trees lave,
      As their boughs are bent to the river's wave;
      Than here! where night and the white stars come,
      Their watch to keep o'er the Indian's home.

            Now o'er the waters bright
              Glides his canoe,
            Throbbing his warrior heart,
              Maiden! for you.
            Roused from your dreamy sleep,
              Bend low and list;
            Not once has his well-known tread
              Your loving heart missed.

            Not far from the wigwam door
              Rests he awhile--
            But from far has he journeyed
              To meet your bright smile.
              He speaks to your heart
              By the flute's slightest sound,
            And its low notes are echoed
              By that heart's wildest bound.

            He knows if you love him
              You'll surely come forth,
            And modestly plight him
              A maiden's pure troth.
            Then come! he will talk
              Of his sweet forest home,
            Which you will make brighter;
              Come! maiden, come!

            You move not. Ah! woman,
              He will not despair:
            He has medicine tied
              In the braids of his hair.
            Love-medicine, bound
              In the white deer's soft breast,
            'Twill charm you at last
              On his bosom to rest.

            Should he wait for your coming
              This fair night in vain,
            No faint heart has he--
              He will charm you again.
            A spell he will cast
              On your slight graceful form;
            Then, wrapped in your blanket-robe,
              Maiden, you'll come.

            To your parents he'll presents give:
              Bright things and new--
            Ah! young wives are bought and sold
              Among Indians too.
            Then, from the mother's side
              You will go forth,
            The star of a warrior's home,
              The light of his hearth.

            Come! ere the morning star
              Lures him away;
            He must meet with the wise men
              When breaks the blue day.
            Your soft voice must greet him
              Ere homeward he turn,
            Then close to his throbbing heart
              Come, maiden, come!




THE SACRIFICE.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.


Far away in one of the fair valleys of the West, where dark forests
frown alike in summer, when the richly clad boughs wave to the passing
breeze, and in winter, when the bare maple and thick evergreens are
covered with snow,--far away, just on the borders of the valley, close
by the huge rocks which rear their heads above the bluffs that hang
over the water,--an Indian village, with its many-sized lodges rising
here and there, reposed, as it were, without fear from storm, or the
sun's heat, or the aggressions of enemies. Sometimes, indeed, the
mighty thunder rolled angrily towards it, and the streaked lightning
called over and over again, to the many hills around, to rouse up the
tardy storm-spirits; but they loved not to linger here. Their voices
could be heard in angry murmurs, then they would pass on in the river's
course, with many a wild shout, to seek some spot less lovely on which
to spend their wrath.

A very few miles below the village, an Indian might be seen, slowly
paddling his canoe over the placid waters. The dark lines of his face
were fixed in deep thought. His countenance was pale, though the hue of
his race was there; his nostrils large, and quivering with the remains
of passion; his eyes bright and lustrous, as if with fever; but around
his mouth might be traced an expression which seemed to indicate
that grief as well as passion was struggling with him. As he slowly
touched with his paddle the passive waters, he looked around him with a
bewildered air.

Suddenly, he started, as his eye fell upon something that lay in the
bottom of the canoe; he raised it: 'twas the arrow of his child. How
came it there? and why should the father, forgetting all, as he dropped
unconsciously the paddle into the waters, cover his face with both his
hands, and while the tears forced their way through his fingers, tremble
with remembrances too strong even for him, the Iron Heart, to bear?

All was quiet and peace. Not a voice was heard; even nature's was
still. No human eye looked upon the warrior as he wept. Silence and
solitude surrounded him. The vast prairie that stretched abroad might
have recalled to his mind the unending future, which he was to spend in
the society of the honoured dead. The soft vapoury clouds of evening
that hung over him, might have told him, as they have told many, that
it is not far from the wretched to the land of spirits. The waters,
on which his canoe rested almost motionless, might have called to his
remembrance, that life was a sea, sometimes troubled and sometimes
calm, over which the mortal must pass to reach immortality.

But no such tranquillizing thoughts calmed the tempest which was raging
in his bosom; his bare chest heaved with emotion; but at length he
raised his head, and taking another paddle from the bottom of his canoe
in his right hand, with the other he threw the small arrow that had
occasioned him so many painful thoughts, and watching till the waters
closed over it, he made his way towards the bend in the river, where
lowlands and prairies were no more to be seen, and an hour's time
brought him in sight of the village, and soon he was clambering over
the rocks towards it.

When he met his friends, there was a stern coldness in his manner, and
he replied fiercely to the greeting salutations of his younger wives,
and called for his daughter Wenona, whose mother had long since been
dead, to prepare him some food.

Wenona obeyed with alacrity her father's commands, at the same time
glancing uneasily towards her two step-mothers, whose smothered wrath
she knew would break forth at some future time. They sat silent on the
ground in seeming submission to the will that wrested from them their
rights, in favour of the child of a dead rival; but those accustomed
to read the writing on a woman's countenance, could see they were
rebelliously inclined, but were forced to conceal their vexation under
a calm demeanour.

It was in August, "the moon that corn is gathered." Wenona had during
the long day paid the penalty of her father's love; she had toiled
unceasingly, though the sun scorched her face and bosom; the watchful
eyes of her father's wives were upon her, and when he was absent, they
hardly allowed her a moment's rest. Her young companions wondered
at the little spirit she showed; but Wenona was of a peace-making
disposition, and preferred submission to contention. The large bundles
of corn she had gathered during the day were hanging outside the
wigwam to dry. Not even had she allowed herself time to join the other
girls, who were diving at noon in the cool waters, and raising their
heads up to call Wenona, looking like mermaids as the water flowed from
their long, unbraided hair.

It was not long before she placed before Iron Heart his evening meal,
venison and boiled corn--while her face was so good-humoured, and her
motions so easy and graceful, that one would suppose the wrath of the
evil spirits themselves would have been disarmed, much less the anger
of those to whose children she so often sung sweet lullabies. Iron
Heart did not relish his food; but tasting the venison, then lighting
his pipe, he appeared lost to what passed before him: he often looked
in Wenona's face, with a strange repentant look, as if he had done her
an injury, but sought to conceal it in his own bosom.

After a while he rose, and joined a group of warriors, who were seated
without the wigwam, Wenona following in his protecting shadow, out of
the reach of complaint or reproof.

The group that Iron Heart joined was composed of the principal men of
the band, who were listening to the words of one of their wisest men.
No one interrupted him, as he boasted of the feathers he had won, as
he told of the bears and buffaloes he had destroyed; no one showed
impatience as he dwelt upon the time when he was young, and all admired
his feats of valour and strength. Respect and attention were on every
countenance, as the white hair of the old man was lifted from his brow
by the evening breeze.

He told them they had long been at peace with the Chippeways;
their young men were becoming like women, without the ennobling and
exciting employment of war. That the edge of the tomahawk was blunted
for want of use. He said the Chippeways had again intruded on their
hunting-grounds, and it was time that the war-cry of the Dacotas should
be heard, to show their enemies their power.

The old man, who had lived nearly a century, ceased speaking, and The
Buffalo, who leaned against a tree near the others, turned towards
them, as if he, too, would speak.

"My words are not good, like the words of the aged; my voice is low,
like the sound of the waters in a small stream, but the wise speak, and
the sound of the Father of many Waters is in your ears. But our brave
men say they are at peace with the Chippeways: they promised they would
bury the hatchet deeper than the roots of our tallest trees; they said
we would live together like friends, and that the war-cry only should
be heard when we joined together against our enemies."

The old man prepared to answer him: his limbs shook with rage and
excitement; he raised his finger, and pointed towards The Buffalo,
then, when the crimson blood dyed his cheeks, he said, "Shame on the
coward who fears his enemies: go gather corn with the women, and the
old and feeble man will die with his tomahawk raised against those who
hate his nation."

In vain The Buffalo essayed to speak: they would not hear him; and he
left the council amid the sneers of all.

War was decided upon; and night was fast approaching when Wenona, with
pale and agitated looks, pressed forward among the warriors. "My
father," said she, "where is my brother?"

Iron Heart started; but recovering himself, he replied, "I know not.
Seek him yourself, if you would find him."

"I have sought him," she said, "but the old woman, Flying Cloud, tells
me I may seek him no more, for she saw his body floating down the
river, as she came up in her canoe. She laughed, too, and said I would
see him one day in the land of spirits."

All looked towards Iron Heart, but he made his way among them, and
returned to the wigwam. In vain Wenona wept, and besought him to go in
search of her brother; not even would he inquire of Flying Cloud.

"I will go, then, and look for him myself," said the girl. "Is he not
my brother, my mother's son?"

"Cease your noise," said her father, sternly. "If the Great Spirit
have called my son, is he not already a brave warrior in the city of
spirits?"

Wenona was quiet at her father's rebuke, but her heart was ill at ease.
She hoped he would return in the night. She remembered that Flying
Cloud was always bitter and ill-tempered; and besides, was not her
brother at home on the water? Could he not swim as easily as he could
tread down the grass on the prairie? She reasoned herself into the hope
that Chaské had been tired, and had laid down to rest; and she fell
asleep with the expectation that his merry voice would arouse her at
break of day.

And how did he sleep in whose heart lay the secret of the death of his
son? in whose ear was sounding the voice of that son's blood?

       *       *       *       *       *

In vain might we seek to follow Wenona in her untiring search for her
brother--she knew all his accustomed haunts--at one time making her way
over rock and crag, to find out the eagle's home; at another, pushing
her small canoe up the stream, where the beavers made their houses;
weeping, yet hoping too.

Day after day passed thus: and ever as she returned to the village
would Flying Cloud tell her she must go beyond the clouds to seek him.

Iron Heart neither assisted in the search for the boy, nor spoke of his
loss. He was calm as usual: yet in the last four days he seemed to have
lived as many years.

He employed himself sharpening the instruments he was soon to use
against the Chippeways, while hanging near the medicine-sack, which was
attached to a pole outside the wigwam, was a knife which glittered in
the sun, which was only touched or moved by himself.

Days and weeks passed by: Wenona ceased to look for her brother, or
hope for his return; yet still she wept. The heart of the motherless
girl clung ever in thought to him who had been not only her companion,
but her charge from his birth. She had taken him from her mother's
bosom when dying; she had watched his childish sports, and sung to him
the legends of her people. Could she have closed his eyes, and wept at
his feet, her grief would not have been so hopeless. It often occurred
to her that her father was not unacquainted with the circumstances of
his death.

       *       *       *       *       *

Strange and solemn was the secret of the death of the Indian boy.
Dearly loved by his father, they stood together one day by the river's
side. "Did you not say, my father," said the boy, "that we would go to
the forest for the deer? Let us go now; my arrows are swift and strong,
and to-morrow the girls will come and help us drag them in. Come, my
father, your looks have been sad for many days, but you will laugh when
you see the red deer fall as we strike them. The old woman, Flying
Cloud," continued the boy, "says she knows what is going to happen to
me. She says I will never go to war against the Chippeways; that my
knife shall never sever the scalps from the head of my enemy; that my
voice shall not be heard in the council, nor shall my wife ever stand
at the door of her lodge to wait my coming. But I laughed at her: she
is old and poor; she loves not the young and happy. See her now, my
father, as she stands upon that high rock, waving her arms to me. What
have you done to her that she hates you so? She says she has cast a
spell upon our race."

"Flying Cloud is not of our clan, my son," replied Iron Heart; "her son
died, and she says my mother caused his death. She says she cannot die
till my mother is childless like herself. But come, before the night we
must kill many deer."

"Is your knife sharp?" said the boy; "you know we must draw the skins
off while they are warm. My sister will work our moccasins and leggins.
She says she is never so happy as when she is sewing for me."

Shall we follow them--shall we penetrate the deep forests to see the
father raise his knife to pierce from side to side the strong, healthy
frame of his son!

Not in anger did he take the life that was dearer to him than his own.
Was the burden of his sins lying heavily against his heart? Who shall
tell his agony when he saw the blood flow! Who shall say how his soul
was wrung with grief as the reproachful face of his much-loved child
was turned towards him in death!

The wild deer flew past, but he saw them not. The serpent glided by as
it did in Paradise, but its stealthy motion was unobserved. The sweet
song-birds raised their notes to the sky, but they all fell unheeded on
the ear of the father who had taken the life of his son.

Raising the form of the boy in his arms, he bore it carefully to the
shore, and casting it where the current hurried impetuously on, the
dead boy was borne along to share the lot of many who will rest in their
ocean grave, till the land and the sea shall alike give up their dead.

When I reflect on the tradition of the Sioux, that once only has human
life been offered in sacrifice, and then a father took the life of his
son--when in the quiet night I mind me of those whose destiny seems now
to be in our power for good or evil, I remember that when the world
was new, Abraham, in holy faith, yet with a breaking heart, led his
much-loved child--the child of hope and promise, to sacrifice his life
in obedience to the command of God. Can you not see his lip quiver and
his cheek turn pale as he lays him on the altar? Can you not hear the
throbbings of his heart as he binds him to the wood?

Abraham's son was spared, but I mind me of another sacrifice, where
God spared not his own Son, but yielded him, the pure and sinless, a
sacrifice for the guilt of all.




A LULLABY.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.


      Lo! by the river-shore Wenona weeping,
      Lashed to its cradle-bed her young child sleeping,
      While 'neath the forest trees the dead leaves lying,
      Mournful, and sad, and low, the autumn winds are sighing.
      Lists she to hear his footstep proud advancing?
      Gazes, to see his tomahawk brightly glancing?
      Watching the tossing waves, weary and lonely,
      Faithful her breaking heart, loving him only.
      Raising her drooping form, hearing her infant cry,
      Pressing him to her breast, sings she a lullaby.

                  Sleep on, my warrior son!
                    Ne'er to his childhood's home,
                  Waiting our greeting smile,
                    Will thy brave father come.

                  Shouting the loud death-cry
                    With the grim warrior band,
                  Singing the giant's songs,
                    Dwells he in spirit land.
                  Turning from brave to brave,
                    See his keen eye
                  As he glances around him,
                    And smiles scornfully.

                  I knew when he left me,
                    (The strawberries grew
                  On the prairies green,
                    And the wild pigeon flew
                  Swift o'er the spirit lakes,)
                    Then o'er my heart
                  Came a dark shadow
                    Ne'er to depart.

                  I watched, from the door
                    Of my tupee,[18] the band
                  As they turned from their home
                    To the Chippeways' land.
                  I watched and I wept,
                    As thy father, the last
                  Of the many tall braves,
                    From my tearful gaze passed.

                  Wake not, my young son,
                    For thy father sleeps sound,
                  And his stiffened corse lies
                    On his enemy's ground.
                  Wake not, my brave child,
                    Thou wilt wrestle, too soon,
                  With the miseries of life,--
                    'Tis the red man's dark doom.

                  O'er the fate of the Indian
                    The Great Spirit has cast
                  The spell of the white man--
                    His glory is past.
                  Like the day that is dying
                    As fades the bright sun,
                  Like the warrior expiring
                    When the battle is done.

                  Soon no more will our warriors
                    Meet side by side,
                  To talk of their nation,
                    Its power and pride.
                  'Tis the white man who rules us
                    And tramples us down;
                  We are slaves, and must crouch
                    When our enemies frown.

                  Sleep on, my young son,
                    I'd fain have thee know
                  As the warrior departs
                    Did thy brave father go.
                  He feared not the white man,
                    While the Chippeway knew
                  He could boast when he scalped
                    The Dacota he slew.

                  Sleep on, to our desolate
                    Tupee we go;
                  Soon the winter winds come,
                    And the cold and the snow.
                  He is gone who would bring
                    To us covering warm,
                  Would supply us with food,
                    And would shield us from harm.

                  I have listened full oft,
                    As the white woman told
                  Of the city of life,
                    Where the bright waters rolled;
                  Where tears never come,
                    Where the night turns to day,--
                  I gladly would go there,
                    But know not the way.

                  Ah! ye who have taken
                    From the red man his lands,
                  Who have crushed his proud spirit,
                    And bound his strong hands;
                  If ye see our sad race
                    In ignorance bowed down,
                  And care not to see it,
                    Ye have hearts made of stone.

                  Sleep on, my young son,
                    For soon will we know
                  If to the heaven of the white man
                    The Dacota may go.
                  We are children of earth,
                    We must meekly toil on
                  'Till the Great Spirit call us,
                    My warrior son!

[Footnote 18: Tupee is the Dacota word for house or wigwam.]




[Illustration:

  C. Schuessele del.      Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.
        Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph^{a.}

SOUNDING WIND.
The Chippewa Brave.]




SOUNDING WIND;
OR, THE CHIPPEWAY BRAVE.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

      Hast thou mourned! oh mourn no longer:
      Death is strong, but love is stronger.


The amnesties that have been made between the Sioux and Chippeways for
many years have been of short duration: it appears now that the two
nations will be friendly only when the lion and the lamb shall lie down
together, should the two nations exist at that happy period. The sight
of each other's blood is as precious to a Chippeway or Sioux as would
be the secret of perpetual youth to an octogenarian, who eagerly grasps
his tenure for life, loving, and fearing to lose it to the last. At the
time of my story, a longer peace than usual had existed between the
two nations. They hunted and danced, and even married together. Many
a child, that had never trembled at hearing the war-whoop, wondered
at the old men's stories, that invariably closed with the triumph of
the Dacota tomahawk over the weaker blade of the enemy: but that child
grew to be a man only to hate a Chippeway, as his father had done in
youth; one offence had brought on another, and the slumbering spirit
of vengeance that had reposed in the hearts of the red men was roused
up, and with a double vengeance foe sought foe. In vain were the women
and children hidden in the holes of the earth at night for safety;
they were hunted out, as the starving wolf scents its prey: after the
desperate fight was over, when the strong were laid low, then were the
aged and the infants dragged from their hiding-places.

The red morning sun, parting the sullen clouds, hid again from the
sight of the blood that was covering the ground, and dyeing the very
stream where but yesterday the village belle, seated by its fair banks,
listened to the words that every maiden loves to hear.

A sad scene was presented at the village of Gray Eyes: the old chief
lay helpless among those who had obeyed his slightest word, the glaze
of death dimming an eye that for more than eighty winters had watched
the snow, as it drifted from vale to vale. Life had not yet departed:
you could feel the pulse still flutter, and the heart faintly beat, but
the thoughts of the chief were in spirit-land, and his soul hasted to
burst its prison bars, that it might renew the combat where the Dacotas
would aye be the victors.

A gleam of life and consciousness passed over his faded features, as an
Indian girl advanced towards him: it was a child he dearly loved, soon
to be left without a protector.

"My daughter," said the old man feebly, as the maiden threw herself on
the ground beside him, and covered with her tears his cold hands; then
raising herself, as she saw the wound still bleeding, she tore a piece
from her okendokenda, and endeavoured to staunch it. "It is too late,
my child; the soul of your father longs to join the warriors who live
in the land of spirits. Where are your brothers?"

"There!" said the weeping girl, pointing to the dead bodies that lay
across each other.

"And your mother?"

"There too," she answered; "all are gone, my father, but you and me.
I knew how the rocks lay, and where I could hide myself, and there I
stayed, hearing my mother's cries, and my brothers' shouts, as they
died. I saw, too, the Chippeways, as they carried away the scalps. When
you are gone what will become of me? Who will care for Wenona?"

"Not Wenona," said her father, "but 'The Lonely One.' That will be your
name when you will have neither father nor brother left. But see,"
continued the old man, "our enemies' blood! Your brothers fought well:
they have already passed the warriors' road to the City of Spirits."

His breath came quickly--big drops stood on his forehead--another
struggle--a last sigh--and Wenona was indeed "the lonely one."

The attack of the night before had not been unexpected. The Sioux had
placed pickets around their village, and a guard had been kept; but
their enemies were too wily for them. The violent storm that raged
during the battle was favourable to the Chippeways; they were upon the
Sioux ere the watches had heard the slightest sound, except the wind,
and the peals of thunder that shook the earth. Some escaped with their
families from the lower end of the village, but almost all who remained
to fight for their families were massacred with them.

While Wenona awaited the struggle, she was overcome with fear and
excitement; but now she was as one without hope. The blow had been
struck. Chippeway and Sioux had fallen in the death-struggle, locked in
the embrace which bound foe to foe. She had given her heart's devoted
love to one whom she must now consider as her enemy. Sounding Wind, a
noble young Chippeway, handsome in person, and already favoured among
his own people, had promised to take her to his wigwam when the two
nations were at peace, though there were many then who foreboded the
strife that would rend the ties of friendship between the nations. Even
after hostilities had commenced, Sounding Wind had sworn to himself the
woman he loved should be his wife, though every brave in the nation
might stand between him and the accomplishment of his vow.

Wenona, as she rose from her father's body, gazing upon the scene of
terror before her, looked like the flower beside her, which still
reared its head, though its fair companions were all crushed to the
earth by the storm of the night. Silence and death reigned here--nature
was as tranquil as the hearts of her children. Near by swept the lake
of the thousand isles: undisturbed were its waters; there was no
requiem for the dead, even in the passing breeze.

"My heart weeps," murmured the girl; "but shall the bodies of my
friends remain until night brings the wolves and hungry birds? Sounding
Wind has forgotten the maiden who loves him. He told me our village
should be safe; that he would talk like a wise man; that he would lead
the Chippeways far away from us: that, as the little islands sleep
peacefully in the lake through the long summer's day, so might I rest
from fear for myself and for my friends.

"I will go alone and find our people, that they may come and help me
bury our dead. Why should I fear, when all who have loved me are gone,
and he who once loved me would take my life as he would pierce the deer
on the prairie?"

Wearily she turned her steps, intending to go to the nearest village,
avoiding the dead bodies at every step: yet her moccasins were red with
blood, which, as she pursued her way, crimsoned the earth at her feet.
The reverence that every Indian woman feels for all things connected
with death, gave her courage to undertake the task before her. Every
change in the scene brought with it some reminiscence: grief for the
dead were connected with each, but there were thoughts of the living
hard to bear.

_Here_ had she sat with her mother, working with porcupine quills gay
garments for her brothers. _Here_ had she stood and watched the canoe
of her lover; here had he given her the charm which she still wore
about her neck: it was to secure her from any accident till she had
left her friends, and until the gods that the Chippeways worshipped
were hers.

She pursued her way; but as the waters became bright with the warm rays
of the sun, and the pleasant breezes were wafted to the shore, a sense
of oppression and fatigue overcame her.

In vain she essayed to rouse herself to the task before her: it was,
indeed, in vain, for at last she threw herself under a large tree, and
yielded to the repose which exhausted nature demanded. She slept on for
hours as calmly as if she could only remember and look forward to joy.
Bright eyes were glancing before her--laughter greeted her ears, she
was a child again in her dreams, and passing over the gay waters with
her boy lover by her side.

Sounding Wind, we have said, was already a man of consequence in his
tribe; but he had refused to accompany the war-party of the preceding
night, nor did he seek to hide his reasons. They had lived peaceably
with the band that lived near the Lake of the Thousand Isles. While he
was willing to resent the aggressions of the band that by treacherous
acts had broken their faith, he would not assail those who had given
them no cause of offence.

A better reason was in his heart: the love he bore to Wenona was
strong, even stronger than death; and could he raise a murderous
tomahawk against her family? He was anxious to know the result of the
attack on the Sioux. He met the Chippeways as, taking the trail by the
river, they were on their way home.

Shortly after he joined them, they seated themselves by the great tree
whose branches sheltered Wenona. They were resting and eating. Sounding
Wind stood by them: no one interfered with his gloomy mood--there was
that in him that kept them in control. They were all silent, when
suddenly a sigh of grief and fatigue was uttered near them. Startled by
it, each warrior rose to his feet and grasped his knife and tomahawk.
Sounding Wind sprung over the bushes that were between them and the
spot from whence the sigh issued.

At his feet, just rousing from slumber, was the girl who was dearer
to him than home or friends. One gleam of joy at seeing her again,
one shade of terror at her probable fate, and the young man, placing
himself between her and the Chippeways who had followed him, showed
himself ready to protect her so long as his arm could wield the
tomahawk that glistened in the sun.

"Come not towards her," he said to them, for they had recognised her by
her dress, "she is my prisoner. I first touched her--I claim her before
you all. I am your chief. I have led you against the Sacs and Foxes,
and I will lead you against the Dacotas, who have become our enemies,
but this girl's life shall be spared, for she is to be my wife.

"I have taken her prisoner: I shall spare her life. Am I not a
Chippeway? and shall I forget my promise to her, to make her my wife?"

Wenona had covered her face with her hands, every moment expecting the
blow that would terminate her sorrows; but no one offered to touch her.
They were many and strong in the love of revenge. Sounding Wind was
but one; but stronger than a host was the love that made him brave the
stern spirits before him.

She arose at the bidding of her lover. She eat of their food, and
pursued, without fear of harm, her journey to her new home. There,
amid the struggles of the Sioux and Chippeways, she was ever safe.
And happy, too, save when the remembrance of the fate of her family
came between her and the bright visions that cheer and gladden even an
Indian woman's home, when the love of her husband and children hallow
it.




AN INDIAN BALLAD.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.


      "Take me away," said one they called the "Drooping Eye,"
        "Bear me where stoops the deer to drink at eve."
      She would behold the clouds of heaven float gently by,
        And hear the birds' sweet song ere earth to leave.

      Close is the wigwam,--oh! give her light and air;
        Say, can her spirit wing itself for flight,
      Losing the perfume borne from flowers fair,
        As comes on them and her the gloom of night?

      On them and her,--but they will bloom again,
        When breaks the day on earth, by sleep spellbound,--
      Refreshed by morning winds, or summer's rain,
        Gilding with colours bright the dewy ground.

      Oh! bear her gently; lay her feeble form
        Close by the lake, where beam the waters bright:
      Oft has she watched from here the coming storm,
        And oft, as now, the glow of evening's light.

      Why weep her friends that fails her parting breath,
        That cold the pressure of her powerless hand!
      List!--Ye may hear from far the voice of death,
        Calling from earth her soul to spirits' land.

      Well do they know the fairies of the lake,
        That with its waves have mingled oft her tears,
      Here would she nature's solemn silence break
        With the death-song of woman's hopes and fears.

                      I go,--I go,
                Where is heard no more
              The cry of sorrow or pain;
                I will wait for you there,
                Where skies are fair,
              But I come not to earth again.

                  Mother, you weep!
              Yet my body will sleep
              Right near you, by night and by day:
                And, when comes the white snow,
                You will still weep, I know,
              That the summer and I've passed away.

                When the storm-spirit scowls,
                When the winter-wind howls,
              Oh! crouch not in cowardly fear.
                Not unwatched, then, the form
                That with life once was warm,--
              My spirit will ever be near.

                  My sisters! full well
                  A dark tale I could tell,
              How my lover in death slumbers sound:
                My brother's strong arm,
                Made the life-blood flow warm:
              And he laughed as it covered the ground.

                  I heard his deep sigh,
                  I saw his closed eye,
              I knew that life's struggle was past.
                When his heart ceased to beat,
                Then I wept at his feet,--
              My first love, my only, my last.

                  Well my proud brother knew
                  That my heart was as true
              To my love as the bird to its mate.
                I go to him there,
                Where flowers bloom fair:
              Will his spirit the Drooping Eye wait?

                  Comes quickly my breath!
                  The dampness of death,
              Oh! wipe from my brow with thy hand.
                Earth's sorrows are o'er,
                I may weep never more,--
              Tears are not in that bright spirits' land.




OLD JOHN.
THE MEDICINE-MAN.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.


If ever "life was a fitful fever," it was with Old John, the
Medicine-Man.

Coming to the Fort at times when you would not suppose any human
being would expose himself to the elements,--always laughing, always
hungry--seating himself before the fire to sleep, and starting up the
moment his eyelids closed over his restless, twinkling eyes--talking
for ever and singing in the same breath--troublesome and intrusive,
yet always contriving to be of use. And useful he often was to an
artist who was with us; for he would stand, sit, or lean, assuming and
retaining the most painful attitudes, looking good-humoured all the
time, and telling of his many wonderful adventures and hairbreadth
escapes.

He came to us one day in the middle of winter, for the picture of the
medicine-feast was in progress, and he had promised to show how the
priest was to be represented, that the white people might know in very
truth how were conducted the sacred ceremonies of the Dacotas.

While he warms himself, and eats, and smokes, he has as usual a great
deal to say, and this in a half-muttered tone; for he is a little
drowsy from the effect of the fire on his chilled limbs.

He takes from his head the three-cornered cloth hood which is worn by
the men in severe weather, and throws his blanket a little from his
shoulders, displaying his handsomely embroidered coat.

There is the strongest odour of smoke and stale tobacco from his dress,
and he laughs heartily as we throw open the doors and windows for the
benefit of the fresh air.

How many strange stories he has of the different medicine-feasts,
and in each he figures largely. About some portions of the dance he
is silent; you may question him closely, but you get no satisfactory
answer.

He tells that the feast commences when there is no sun in the heavens;
at midnight, when often even the moon and stars are hiding their light.
He cannot tell white people what occurs then, nay, even the uninitiated
Indians would not dare intrude themselves upon the scene; only the
medicine-men and women are allowed to be present. Neither entreaties
nor bribes have any effect: he will not intrust to your keeping the
solemn secret. All we may know of this part of it is, that the feast
is given in honour of some departed friend, and these ceremonies are
taking place near where lies the body. A conversation is carried on
with the dead, and food is placed near, that the spirit may eat.

"Bury my dead out of my sight." This is not the sentiment of the Dacota
mourner. The mother wants her child to rest on the boughs of the tree,
under which she has sat and lulled it to sleep in her arms. Here,
while she works, she can see its form swayed by the branches, rocked
by the summer winds: its innocent spirit, according to her faith, must
still guard the decaying frame. She feels not the separation so keenly,
when she fancies the soul of her first-born is hovering round her. She
steals away from the noisy revelling in the wigwam to weep. She can
hardly recall the bright eye and healthy glow, which once belonged to
the lost one, but the suffering countenance and wasting frame are ever
before her; and in the loud call of the night-bird, she often fancies
she hears again the cry with which her young child yielded up its life.

Old John is telling of the medicine-feast. He shows us the medicine-bag
which he uses: it is an otter skin, though sometimes a mink, a swan, or
even a snake, is used, and often has he performed wonderful cures, or
executed terrible vengeance, by the power of this medicine-bag.

He will not say what is the medicine which the skin contains; whether
it is a root, or the leaf of a tree, a precious gum, a mineral
substance, or the bone of some animal which has been preserved for
centuries. He says that he breathed into the nostrils of the dead
animal, and thus imparted to it qualities which made it sacred. Thus
has he often restored to life the dying man, and by the same power has
he cast the spell of misfortune, disease, and even death, upon one he
hated. This is why he is so much feared.

Feared by all, but most by the women, Old John's eyes twinkled until
you could only see a black line, when he told how he could frighten the
women in the dance, by holding towards them the skin which contained
the medicine of his clan.

As if to afford him an opportunity of proving the truth of his
statements, two or three squaws had just brought venison to the
kitchen, and we sent for them to pay them, and, at the same time, to
give them the chance of talking a little--a privilege of which all
women are glad to avail themselves.

The picture was half done; the medicine-man was to be represented
jumping towards the women, with his dreaded medicine-bag; and Old John
assured us it was invariably the case that the person he selected from
the crowd fell down as if in a fit. This, he insisted, was purely the
effect of his medicine. He offered to prove this by exercising his
prerogative as a medicine-man upon the women who had just entered the
room. The women were much fatigued, and glad of a chance to rest. They
little expected to see any part of a medicine-feast celebrated in a
white man's house.

The artist seated himself before his easel, and commenced sketching the
figure of the medicine-man. Old John stoops, and holds the bag with
both hands, as if ready to dart it towards some person. You wonder how
he can retain his painful position so long a time. The veins in his
temple swell, and his hands tremble, yet he does not offer to move
until the sketch is made. Then, when told he is at liberty to sit down,
he gives a merry, mischievous look towards us, and commences going
round the room, singing with a loud voice, holding the bag as if about
to avenge on some one present a long-remembered injury.

The women were taken completely by surprise. From the moment Old John
commenced his performance in earnest, they showed every symptom of
terror, now covering their faces with their hands, and crying "Enah!
Enah!" and again, as the medicine-man passed round the room, looking
after him as if he were something supernatural, instead of being
a compound of art and wickedness. He was now going to embrace the
opportunity that had presented itself to convince us of the ease with
which he could excite the superstitious fears of these women.

He continued going round the room in measured time, and it was
impossible not to observe the increasing awe which was stealing upon
the women. He kept perfect time to his own music, stopping the while,
as if absorbed in the thoughts attendant on the celebration of a
religious ceremony--when suddenly he sprang towards the women, holding
the bag close in the face of one of them.

The woman sank to the ground: a severe and stunning blow could not have
had a more immediate effect on her system than the terror into which
she had been thrown. She lay on the ground motionless, with her hands
pressed over her eyes. Old John, perfectly satisfied with the result of
his experiment, laid down his medicine-bag, and seated himself on the
carpet.

We spoke to the woman, and endeavoured to rouse her. For some minutes
she appeared not to hear; but, after arising, she looked as pale and
ill as if she had indeed been in the presence of an evil spirit; and
she was at that very time, for I doubt if in the Sioux or any other
country a more determined and hopeless reprobate could be found than
Old John.

I wondered to observe the trepidation into which a female of so strong
and healthy a frame could be thrown. To what could it be ascribed, but
to the influence of an all-powerful superstition on a mind chained by
ignorance to its natural estate of dark degradation?

Among the most curious ideas of the Sioux are those concerning the
Aurora Borealis, which is considered a kind of goddess of war. Old John
will tell you all about her; for not only is he skilled in all that
relates to the mysteries of his religion, but, if you will take his
word for it, he has seen all kinds of visions. He will tell you how the
gods look--for he has seen them at different times--and to no better
person could you apply for information about the Aurora (as they call
her, Waken-kedan, the old woman). He will tell you that she is one of
their chief objects of worship; that her favour and protection are
invoked as a necessary preparation for going to war.

Old John declares he has had several visions of the goddess. When she
has appeared to him, she has given him the most minute directions as to
the hiding-places of the enemy. Sometimes she insures success to the
party;--if, however, she predicts misfortune, it is sure to occur.

The goddess, he says, wears little hoops on her arms. When she appears
to the war-chief, if they are to be successful, she throws as many
of these hoops on the ground as they are to take scalps. These hoops
resemble the hoops that the Indians use in stretching the scalps of
their enemies, when they are preparing for the scalp dance. But,
should the goddess throw broken arrows on the ground, woe to the
war-party! for this tells the chief how many of his comrades are to be
scalped, an arrow for a scalp.

Sometimes, when the successful party is on its return, it is made more
triumphant by the appearance of the goddess. She does not then take
the form of a woman, but quietly enfolds the heavens with her robe of
light. This they interpret as a favourable omen. The heavens, they say,
are rejoicing on their account; the stars shine out brighter in honour
of their victory; while, to use the Indian warrior's own words, it is
as if their goddess said to them, "Rejoice and dance, my grandchildren,
for I have given you victory." "The old woman," he says, wore a cap,
on the top of which were little balls or knots, of the same kind
with which warriors adorn themselves after having killed an enemy.
She held in her hand an axe, with a fringe fastened to the handle:
this represents an axe that has killed an enemy, as it is a universal
custom among the Sioux to attach a strip of some kind of animal to the
implement that was used in battle.

The Aurora appears and disappears at the pleasure of the goddess, or
as she is sometimes called, "the old woman who sits in the north."
It is not to be wondered at that the minds of this people should be
thus impressed with the brilliant flashing of the Aurora, in their far
northern home.

Her appearance is not always considered a favourable omen. Sometimes
it is a warning of coming danger. The mind, overwhelmed with ignorance
and superstition, is apt to read darkly the signs of nature; while a
prospect of success in any contemplated undertaking will change the
interpretation.

       *       *       *       *       *

Old John loves to tell of another of his gods, the meteor; of this god
they stand in great awe, calling him Waken-ne-ken-dah, or man of fire.
He strides through the air to punish recreant Indians, who forget the
claims of the Great Spirit upon them. Around this god is ever a circle
of fire, while small meteors flow from this "great fiery man." In each
hand he holds a war-club of bone, and every blow is fatal to that Sioux
who deserves his condemnation. He is said to be very wily, attacking
the Indians when they are asleep.

On this account Sioux are often timid about sleeping out of doors; they
have traditions of Indians having been carried off by these errant
meteors.

Old John thinks the "great fiery man" does not deserve a reputation for
bravery, as he never attacks a waking foe. He says there was once a
Sioux who, tired and sleepy, laid down, rolling himself in his blanket,
though the weather was hot, for the musquitoes were biting him, and
rendering it impossible that he should obtain any rest. The first thing
of which he was conscious was the sensation of being whirled through
the air, passing over miles of prairies and forests with the speed of
light.

All at once they approached a small pond, which was full of mallard
duck. The appearance of the meteor threw the inhabitants of the lake
into the greatest trepidation, and in consequence a most unearthly
quacking took place. The fiery man not being aware of the cause of this
commotion, never having seen a duck, dropped his affrighted burden,
gladly making his way back to the regions of space.

But it will be impossible to get anything more from Old John to-day:
the savoury fumes of the kitchen have reached our sitting-room. He has
done with the arts and with religion; he is enough of a philosopher to
take the goods "the gods provide:" and the hearty dinner that he ate
showed that the mystical attributes of a medicine-man did not prohibit
him from the indulgence of his appetite; while the Sioux women were
well repaid for their venison and their fright by some gaudy calico,
for okendokendas, and a few needles, thread, and some other "notions,"
of great value among them.




A REMONSTRANCE.

BY ELIZA L. SPROAT.


      While the warm, sweet earth rejoices,
        And the forests, old and dim,
      Populous with little voices,
        Raise their trilling hymn,--
      Chime _our_ notes in joyous pleading
        With the million-tonéd day;
      We are young, and Time is speeding--
                  Sweet Time, stay!

      We would hold the hasty hours,
        Ope them to the glowing core,
      Leaf by leaf, like folded flowers,
        Till they glow no more.
      We are mated with the Present,
        Bosom friends with dear To-day:
      Loving best the latest minute,
                  Sweet Time, stay!

      Sovereign Youth! all dainty spirits
        Wait on us from earth and air;
      From the common life distilling
        But its essence rare.
      Golden sounds, to Age so leaden,
        Eden sights, to Age so drear:
      Sweet illusions, subtle feelings,
        Age would smile to hear.

      Happy Youth! when fearless bosoms
        With their wealth of follies rare,
      Loose their thoughts, like summer blossoms,
        To the generous air,
      When we sit and mock at sorrow,
        Looking in each other's eyes;
      Greeting every new to-morrow
        With a new surprise.

      Father Time, if thou wert longing
        For a luxury of rest,
      I know where the moss is greenest,
        Over toward the west:
      I would hide thee where the shadows
        Cheat the curious eye of day;
      I would bury thee in blossoms--
                  Sweet Time, stay!

      Where the bees are ever prosing,
        Lulling all the air profound;
      Where the wanton poppies, dozing,
        Hang their heads around;
      Where the rill is tripping ever,
        Trilling ever on its way,
      Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
        All the happy day.

      I would keep thee softly dreaming,
        Dreaming of eternity,
      Till the birds forget their sleeping
        In the general glee;
      Till the stars would lean from heaven
        In the very face of day,
      Looking vainly for the even--
                  Sweet Time, stay!

      Hope is with us, chaunting ever
        Of some fair untried to be;
      Lurking Love hath prisoned never
        Hearts so glad and free:
      Yet, unseen, a fairy splendour
        O'er the prosing world he flings;
      Everywhere we hear the rushing
        Of his rising wings.

      As the tender crescent holdeth
        All the moon within its rim,
      So the silver present foldeth
        All the future dim:
      Oh! the _prophet_ moon is sweetest,
        And the life is best to-day;
      Life is best when Time is fleetest--
                  Sweet Time, stay!




A FINE ART DISREGARDED.

BY ELIZABETH WETHERELL,

  AUTHOR OF "THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD."

      "A man that looks on glass
        On it may stay his eye;
      Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass:
        And then the heaven espy."


I took a walk with my father last evening. Now the pleasure of this
walk was so great that I will even jot down some notes of its history.

It was just the pretty time of a summer's day,--the sun's "parting
smile," when he has a mind to leave a pleasant impression behind him:
the hot hours were past; the remnant of a sweet north wind, which had
been blowing all day, just filled the sails of one or two sloops, and
carried them lazily down the bay; and the sun, having taken up his old
trade of a painter,  their white canvass for the very spots it
filled in the picture: the same witching pencil was upon a magnificent
rose-bush at the foot of the lawn, tinting its flowers for fairy-land;
and had laid little stripes of fairy light across the lately-mown
grass; and, through a slight haze of the delicious atmosphere, the
hills were mellowed to a painter's wish.

My father and I strolled down the walk, and took one or two turns
almost in silence, tasting all this too keenly at first to say much
about it. There were beauties near hand too. The rose-trees had shaken
out all their luxuriance, and defied the eye to admire aught else.
Yet, but for them, there was enough to be admired. The pure Campanulas
looked modestly confident of attractions; little Gilias filled their
place in the world passing well; the sweet double pinks gave us a most
good-humoured face as we went by; the tall white lily-buds showed
beautiful indications; and some rare geraniums, and my splendid English
heart's-ease quietly disdained or declined competition. And in that
evening-light, even the flowers of humbler name and lower pretension,
looked as if they cared not for it. Sprawling bachelor's-buttons, and
stiff sweet-williams, and pert chrysanthemums, all were pretty under
the sun's blessing; I think none were overlooked.

"How much pleasure we take in at the eye!" said my father.

"Where the eye has been opened," said I.

"Ay. How many people go through the world with their eyes tight
shut;--not certainly to every matter of practical utility, but shut to
all beautiful ends."

"Oh, those practical eyes!--the eyes that have no vision but for the
_useful_,--what wearisome things they are!"

"It is but a moderate portion of the useful that they see," said my
father;--"it was not an empty gratuity that things were made 'pleasant
to the eyes.'"

"But how the eye needs to be educated," said I.

"Rather the mind, Cary," said my father. "Let the mind be educated to
bring its faculty and taste into full play, and it will train its own
spies fast enough."

"It was that I meant, papa,--that cultivation of taste;--I was
thinking, before you spoke what a blessing it is."

"Why, yes," said my father; "with that piece to bring down game, one is
in less danger of mental starvation. But hush; here comes somebody that
won't understand you."

And as he spoke, I saw the trim little figure of Mrs. Roberts, one of
our neighbours, come in sight round a turn in the shrubbery.

"What a lovely evening, Mrs. Roberts," said I, as we met.

"Delicious!--such charming weather for the grass and the dairy, and
everything. It was so fine, I told Mr. Roberts I would just run down
and see your mamma for a minute; I wanted to ask her a question. I
shall find her at home, shan't I?"

I satisfied Mrs. Roberts on that point, and my father and I turned to
walk back to the house with her, thinking that our pleasure was over.

"The roses are in great beauty now," I remarked.

"Beautiful!--and what an immense quantity of them you have. I don't
know what ails our roses, but we can't make them do, somehow. They seem
to get a kind of blight when they're about half open, and what are not
blighted are full of bugs. What do you do with the bugs? I don't see
that you have any."

I suggested the effectiveness of daily hand-picking.

"Oh, but bless me! it's so much trouble. Mr. Roberts would never let
the time be taken for it. How stout your grass is! It's a great deal
stouter than ours. There's half as much again of it, I'm sure. And
you're cutting it! We haven't begun to cut yet; Mr. Roberts thought
he'd let it stand as long as he could, to give it a chance; but I'm
sure it's time. What do you do with all your roses?--make rose-water?"

I said no.

"I never saw such a quantity! I'll tell you what--if you'll send me a
basket or two of 'em, _I'll_ make some rose-water, and you shall have
half of it. Oh, what beautiful heart's-ease! My dear Caroline, you must
just give me one of those for my girls, for a pattern; you know they
are making artificial flowers, and they want some of these for their
bonnets. Really, they are quite equal to the French ones, _I_ think,
and--thank you!--that is superb. Now, my dear Caroline, one more--that
one with so much yellow in it;--want a little variety, you know. They
will be delighted. You know it is just the fashion."

"I did not, indeed, Mrs. Roberts."

"Didn't you? They wear little open bonnets of some light straw--rice is
the prettiest, or some kind of open-work--and here, at the side, just
here, a bunch of heart's-ease, right against the side of the head;--it
is very elegant."

"Caroline has bad taste," said my father gravely; "she never wears
heart's-ease in a bonnet."

"O no, of course, not these,--she is too careful of them--but you know
false heart's-ease, I mean. No, go on with your walk--you shall not
come in--I am not going to stay a minute."

And my father and I quietly turned about and went down the walk again.

"False heart's-ease!" said my father.

"What a different thing all this scene is to those eyes, and to ours,
papa."

"Yes," said my father. "Poor woman!--she carries a portable kitchen and
store-closet in her head, I believe, and everything she sees goes into
the one or the other."

"Poor Mrs. Roberts!" said I, laughing. "Now that is the want of
cultivation, papa."

"Not entirely, perhaps. There must be soil first to cultivate, Cary."

"Well, her want is the same. And how much is lost for that want!"

"Lost?--what is lost?" said another voice behind us; and turning, we
welcomed another and a very different neighbour, in our old friend Mr.
Ricardo.

"What is lost?"

"Happiness," said I.

"For the want of what?"

"For the want of a cultivated taste."

"Pshaw!" said Mr. Ricardo, letting go my hand. "_That_ has nothing to
do with happiness."

"Do you think so, sir?"

"Certainly. What can a cultivated taste do for you, but create
imaginary wants, that you would do just as well without?"

"If you have not them, you have not the exquisite pleasure of
gratifying them."

"Well, and what if you haven't? How are you the worse off? The want
that is not known is not felt."

"But the range of pleasure is a very different thing without them,"
said I.

"And character is a very different thing," said my father.

"Character?" said Mr. Ricardo.

"Yes," said my father.

"I should like to hear you make that out."

"And so should I," said I. "I was arguing only for enjoyment--I did not
venture so far as that."

"Well, enjoyment," said Mr. Ricardo. "Do you think you have more
enjoyment here now, than one of the plain sons of the soil, who would
see nothing in roses but roses, and who would call 'Viola tricolor' a
'Johnny-jump-up?'"

"In the first place, learning is not taste; and, in the second place,
you do not mean what you say, Mr. Ricardo. You know what Dr. Johnson
says of the quart pot and the pint pot--both may be equally full, but
the one holds twice as much as the other."

"Ah, Dr. Johnson!" said Mr. Ricardo, with an odd little flourishing
wave of his hand; "you delude yourself! The quart pot is twice as
likely to be spilled. If you have some pleasures that other people
haven't, you have pains of your own, too, that they are exempt
from. Now I suppose a little mal-adjustment of proportions--a
little deviating from the exquisite line of correctness in men or
things--would overturn your whole cup of enjoyment, while his or mine
would stand as firm as ever."

"But perhaps a sip of mine would be worth his entire cupful."

"Now," said Mr. Ricardo, not minding me, "I fell in with a family
once--it was at the West, when I was travelling there. They were good,
plain, sensible, excellent people, happy in each other, and contented
with the rest of the world. They had everything within themselves, and
lived in the greatest comfort, and harmony, and plenty. I was with them
several days, and it occurred to me that people could not be happier
than they were."

"But for your bringing them up as instances, I suppose their having
'everything within themselves' did not include the pleasures of a
cultivated intelligence?"

"Well, I don't suppose they would have quoted Dr. Johnson to me. But
now of what use to them would be all that extra cultivation?"

"Of what use to you," said my father, "is that window you had cut in
your library this spring, that looks to the west?"

"Of very little use," said Mr. Ricardo, "for my wife sits in it all the
time."

"Ah, Mr. Ricardo!" said I, laughing.

"Well, now," said he, but his face gave way a little, "how are you any
better off than those people?"

"I don't wish to make myself an example, sir; but put them down here
this evening, and what would they see in all this that we have been
enjoying?"

"They would see what you see, I suppose. They had reasonably good
eyes--they were not microscopes or telescopes."

"Precisely," said my father. "They would see what mere ordinary vision
could take in, _without_ the quick discernment of finely trained
sensibilities, and without the far-reaching and wide views of a mind
rich in knowledge and associations. Where cultivated senses find a
rare mingling of flavours, theirs would at best only perceive the
difference of stronger or fainter--of more or less sweet."

"Senses literal or figurative, do you mean?"

"Both," said my father. "You rarely find the one cultivated without the
other."

"You may find the other without the one," said Mr. Ricardo. "I knew a
man once who had no aptness for anything but judging of wines, and he
was curious at that. He did it mostly by the sense of smell, too. All
the mind the man had seemed to reside in his nose."

"That is an instance of morbid development," said my father, smiling,
"not in point."

"You would have thought it was in point, if you had seen him," said Mr.
Ricardo, glancing at my father.

"But the pleasures of a cultivated taste, Mr. Ricardo," said I, "may
be constantly enjoyed; and they are some of the purest, and most
satisfying, and most unmixed that we have."

"And, I maintain, of the most useful," said my father.

"To the character," said Mr. Ricardo. "But I do not believe that, where
they most prevail, are to be found in general the strongest minds or
the most hopeful class of our population."

"My good sir," said my father, "do not confound things that have
nothing to do with each other. That may be true, and it may be equally
true of sundry other matters, such as correct pronunciation and the
usages of polite society, Mocha coffee and fine broadcloth,--none of
which, I hope, have any deleterious effect upon mind."

"Well, go on," said Mr. Ricardo, without looking at him, "let us hear
how you make out your case."

"Learning to draw nice distinctions, to feel shades of difference,
becoming alive to the perception and enjoyment of most fine and
delicate influences, the mind acquires a _habit of being_ which will
discover itself in other matters than those of pure taste. This faculty
of nice discrimination and quick feeling cannot be in high exercise in
one department alone, without being applied more or less generally to
other subjects. It will develope itself in the ordinary intercourse
and relations of social and domestic life, and the _tendency_ will be
to the producing or perfecting of that nice sense of proprieties, that
quick feeling of what is due to or from others, which we call tact."

"But tact cannot be given, papa," said I.

"And how is it useful if it could?" said Mr. Ricardo.

"Useful?" said my father, meditating--"why, sir, the want of it is a
death-blow to I know not what proportion of the efforts that are made
after usefulness. How many an appeal from the pulpit has been ruined,
simply by bringing in a coarse or unhappy figure, which the speaker's
want of cultivation did not allow him to appreciate! How many a word,
intended for counsel or kindness, has fallen to the ground, because the
kindly person did not know how to work out his intentions!"

"But, you cannot give tact, father," I repeated.

"No, Cary--that is true--tact cannot be _given_; it is the growth
only of minds endowed with peculiarly fine sensibilities; but the
mind trained to nice judging in one set of matters can exercise the
same acumen upon others, so soon as its attention is fairly called
out to them. Taste is a thing of particular growth and cultivation in
each separate branch; but certainly the mind that has attained high
excellence in one is finely prepared to take lessons in another."

"There may be something in that," said Mr. Ricardo, as if he thought
there wasn't much.

"But, beyond that," said my father, "the cultivation of taste opens
truly a new world of enjoyment utterly closed to every one destitute
of it. Nature's stores of beauty and wonder, the fine analogies of
moral truth that lie hidden under them, the new setting forth of nature
which is Art's beautiful work,--how numberless, how measureless the
sources of pleasure to the mind once quickened to see and taste them!
Once quickened, it will not cease to rejoice in them, and more and
more. And as the mind always assimilates itself to those objects with
which it is very conversant, and as these sources of pleasure are all
pure, it follows, that not only a refined but a purifying influence
also is at work in all this; and the result should be, if nothing
untoward counteract, that everything gross, everything _improper_, in
the strict sense of the word, everything unseemly, unlovely, impure,
becomes disgustful, and more and more. And whatever is the reverse of
these meets with a juster appreciation, a keener relish, a truer love
than could be felt for them by a mind not so cultivated. This refining
and purifying effect will be seen in the whole character. It will make
those solid qualities, which are, indeed, more worth in themselves,
show with yet new lustre and tell with higher effect, and not the
outward attire only, but the very inward graces of the mind will be
worn with a more perfect adjustment."

"Hum--well," said Mr. Ricardo, about a minute after my father had done
speaking, "you have made a pretty fair case of it."

My father smiled, and we all three paced up and down the walk in
silence. I thought we had done with the subject.

"That's a beautiful sky!" said Mr. Ricardo, coming to a stand, with his
face to the west.

"Look down yonder," said my father.

In the southwestern quarter lay a beautiful fleecy mass of cloud: the
under edges touched with exquisite rose-colour, sailing slowly down the
sky--pushed by that same faint north wind. Just over it--just over it,
sat a little star, shining at us with its unchanging ray.

"Would your Tennessee friends see enough there to hold their thoughts
for half a minute?" said I, when we had looked as long; but Mr. Ricardo
did not answer me.

"That painted cloud," said my father, "is like the pleasures of
earth--catching the eye with fair hues; the star, like the better
pleasures, that have their source above the earth. That light fills,
indeed, it may be, a much smaller space in our eye, or our fancy, than
the colours on the cloud; but mark,--it is pure, bright, and undying,
while the other is a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then
vanisheth away."

I looked at the star, and I looked at my father, and my heart was full.
I thought Mr. Ricardo had got enough, and I think he thought so too,
for when we reached the far end of the walk, he left us, with a very
hearty shake of the hand, indeed.

My father and I walked then, without talking any more, till glow after
glow passed away and night had set in. The little cloud had lost all
its fair colours, and had drifted far down into the southern sky,
a soft rack of gray vapour, and the star was shining steadily and
brightly as ever in the deepening blue.




[Illustration:

  C. Schuessele del.      Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.
        Chromolith of P. S. Duval Phil.

MISSION CHAPEL OF SAN JOSE, NEAR SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS.]




THE MISSION CHURCH OF SAN JOSÉ.[19]

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.


      Not far from San Antonio,
        Stands the Church of San José;
      Brightly its walls are gilded
        With the sun's departing ray.
      The long grass twines the arches through,
        And, stirred by evening air,
      Wave gracefully the vine's dark leaves,
        And bends the prickly pear.

      High, from its broken, mouldering top,
        The holy cross looks down,
      While round the open portals stand
        Figures of saints in stone.
      And round its ancient spires,
        In the turrets wide and high,
      While you watch the night-birds flap their wings,
        You hear their piercing cry.

      And ever and anon the bats,
        In clusters, seek their homes,
      As night, with shrouding mantle,
        On the Mission Chapel comes.
      Oh! 'twas not thus, when Jesuit priests
        Their chaunt at evening sung,
      As, echoing o'er the river's shores,
        The vesper bells were rung.

      Now, while we linger round its walls,
        Its history would we learn?--
      How San José's walls and spires rose up?--
        To its legends we must turn.
      In learning high, and cunning deep,
        With wealth and numbers, come--
      Christians to make the red men all--
        These haughty priests of Rome.

      Did they tell them they were brothers?
        That every human heart
      Was a link in love's great chain--
        Of salvation's scheme a part?
      Not they: they bade them hew the stone,
        And bear its heavy weight;
      And, while they used the Indian's strength,
        They gained his fiercest hate.

      But towers, and spires, and steeples rise,
        And the Church of San José
      Arrests the traveller, who kneels,
        Then passes on his way.
      Turning once more, to bend before
        The Virgin and her Son,
      The Cherubim and Seraphim
        From his strained gaze are gone.

      No converts from the red men
        Made these haughty priests of Rome;
      But still on ignorance and vice
        The holy cross looked down,
      Though Jesus, with the crown of thorns,
        The offering made for sin,
      And the vase of holy water,
        Borne by angels, stood within.

      Rich tapestries, and gilded signs,
        And images stood forth,
      And the patron saint, San José--
        Were all these nothing worth?
      "The red man's heart is adamant,"
        Thus do the Jesuits say;
      "Unmoved they see these splendours--
        Unchanged they turn away."

      Not under stern and unjust rule
        The red man's heart will melt,
      But by such gentle, sorrowing love,
        As Christ for mortals felt.
      Oh! that the star might shine for them,
        That unto us is given,
      To cheer our dreary path on earth,
        And guide our steps to heaven.

      Let the ruins of her glory stand,
        A monument to art;
      But the temple of the Living God
        Should be the human heart;
      While mouldering in tower and wall,
        And bending in decay,
      Do we gaze upon this chapel fair,
        The Church of San José.

[Footnote 19: San José is the most interesting of the ruins of the
mission chapels in Texas. There are five of them,--the chapel of
the Alamo, at San Antonio; Chapel of Conception, two miles from San
Antonio; Chapel of San José, five miles from San Antonio; Chapel of San
Juan, ten miles from the same place; and one other near Goliad. These
chapels were built by the Jesuits, at the time when they contemplated
Christianizing the Indians of Mexico. The Indians were obliged to
assist in the labour. The chapels are all in a state of ruin. On the
top of San José, near the large cross at its foot, a peach tree grows.
Occasionally there is some sort of service performed in them. There is
a great deal of carving about them, and remains of former splendour;
but they have become refuges for the bats and owls, which are for ever
flying in and about them.]




HAWKING.

BY EDITH MAY.


      She had drawn rein within the castle court
      Under its arching gateway, and there stood,
      Curbing the hot steed that, with upreared hoofs,
      Bearing upon the gilded bit, pressed forward.
      Her eyes had measured distance, and her lips,
      Parted and eager, seemed to drink the air
      Now fresh with morning, and her light form kept
      Its throne exultingly. A single plume
      Waved from her hunting-cap, and the quick wind
      Close to the floating ringlets of her hair
      Pressed down its snowy fringes. But the folds
      Of her rich dress hung motionless, and its hem
      Swept to the shaven turf. Near by, a page
      Held in a leash of greyhounds, and a hawk
      Sat hooded on the bend of her gloved wrist.




HILLSIDE COTTAGE.

BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.


There was no spot in all Elmwood that we children so dearly loved
to visit as Hillside Cottage. No matter where our wanderings
began--whether we started for the meadow, in pursuit of the rich
strawberry--for the thick woods, where the wild flowers bloomed so
luxuriantly, and the bright scarlet clusters of the partridge-berry,
contrasting beautifully with its dark green leaves, sprang up at our
feet--for the brook, to gather the shining pebbles, or to watch the
speckled trout, as they darted swiftly through the water--no matter
where our wanderings began, it was a strange thing if they did not
terminate somewhere about the sweet wild place where Aunt Mary lived.

Now, prythee, gentle reader, do not picture to your "mind's eye" a
stately mansion with an unpretending name, when you read of Hillside
Cottage. Neither was it a cottage _ornée_, with piazzas, and columns,
and Venetian blinds. It was a low-roofed dwelling, and its walls had
never been visited by a single touch of the painter's brush: but the
wild vines had sprung up around it, until their interlacing tendrils
formed a beautiful network nearly all over the little building; and
the moss upon the roof had been gathering there for many years,
growing thicker and greener after the snows of each succeeding winter
had rested upon it. It stood, as the name given it by the villagers
indicated, upon the hillside, just in the edge of the woods that nearly
covered the rounded summit of the hill; a little rivulet danced along,
almost beneath the very windows, and at a short distance below fell
over a ledge of rocks, forming a small but beautiful cascade, then,
tired of its gambols, it flowed onwards as demurely as if it had never
leaped gaily in the sunlight, or frolicked, like a child at play, with
every flower that bent to kiss its bright waters. We thought there was
no place where the birds sang half so sweetly, or where the air was so
laden with fragrance; and sure am I there was no place where we were
more cordially welcomed than in Aunt Mary's cottage.

I well remember Aunt Mary's first arrival in Elmwood. For two or three
weeks it had been rumoured that the cottage on the hill was to receive
a new tenant. Some slight repairs were going on, and some one had seen
a wagon, loaded with furniture, unladen at the door. This was enough to
excite village curiosity; and when we assembled in the church, the next
Sabbath, I fear that more than one eye wandered from the pulpit to the
door, to catch the first glimpse of our new neighbour. Just as our old
pastor was commencing the morning service, a lady, entirely unattended,
came slowly up the aisle, and entered the pew designated by the sexton.
Her tall and graceful figure was robed in deepest black, and it was
evident that grief, rather than years, had dimmed the brightness of her
eye, and driven the rich colouring of youth and health from her cheek.
But there was something in the quiet, subdued glance of those large,
thoughtful eyes, in the intellect that seemed throned upon her lofty
forehead, and in the sweet and tender expression that played around
her small and delicately formed mouth, that more than compensated for
the absence of youthful bloom and freshness. I did not think of these
things then; but, child that I was, after one glance I shrank back in
my seat, awe-struck and abashed by the dignity of her bearing. Yet when
she rose from her knees, and I caught another glimpse of her pale face,
my little heart seemed drawn towards her by some powerful spell; and
after service was concluded, as we passed down the aisle side by side,
I timidly placed in her hand a wild rose I had gathered on my way to
church. She took it with a smile, and in a sweet low voice thanked me
for the simple gift. Our homes lay in the same direction, and ere we
reached my father's gate I imagined myself well acquainted with Miss
Atherton.

From that hour my visits to Hillside Cottage were neither "few" nor
"far between." My parents laughed at my enthusiastic praises of my new
friend; but they soon became assured that they were well grounded:
and it was not long before the answer, "Oh, she has only gone to see
Aunt Mary," was the most satisfactory one that could be given to the
oft-repeated query, "Where in the world _has_ Jessie gone now?"

She lived almost the life of a recluse; seldom mingling with the
villagers, save in the services of the sanctuary, or when, like a
ministering angel, she hovered around the couch of the dying. Formed to
be an ornament to any circle, and to attract admiration and attention
wherever she moved, she yet shrank from public notice, and was rarely
seen, except by those who sought her society in her own little cottage.
To those few it was evident that her love of seclusion was rather the
effect of some deep grief, that had in early life cast its shadow over
her pathway, than the constitutional tendency of her mind. Hers was
a character singularly lovely and symmetrical. With a mind strong,
clear, and discriminating, she yet possessed all those finer shades of
fancy and feeling, all that confiding tenderness, all those womanly
sympathies, and all that delicacy and refinement of thought and manner
which, in the opinion of many, can rarely be found _in woman_, combined
with a high degree of talent. Love of the beautiful and sublime was
with her almost a passion, and conversing with her, when animated by
her favourite theme, was like reading a page of rare poetry, or gazing
upon a series of paintings, the work of a well-skilled hand.

Years passed on. The little village of Elmwood had increased in
size, if not in comeliness: the old church had given place to one
of statelier mien and prouder vestments, and the winding lane, with
its primroses and violets, had become a busy street, with tall rows
of brick bordering it on either side. But still the cottage on the
hill remained quiet and peaceful as ever, undisturbed by the changes
that were at work beneath it. A silver thread might now and then be
traced amid the abundant raven tresses that were parted on Aunt Mary's
forehead; and my childish curls had grown darker, and were arranged
with more precision than of yore. Yet still the friendship of earlier
years remained unbroken, and a week seldom passed without finding me at
Hillside Cottage. My visits had of late been more frequent than ever,
for the time was drawing near when our intimacy must be interrupted. I
was soon to leave my father's roof, for a new home in a far-off clime,
and to exchange the love and tenderness that had ever been lavished
upon me there for a nearer and more engrossing attachment.

It was the evening before my bridal. I had stolen away unperceived, for
I could not resist the temptation of one more quiet chat with Aunt Mary.

"I scarcely expected you to-night, my dear Jessie," said she, as I
entered, "but you are none the less welcome. Do you know I am very
selfish to-night? When I ought to be rejoicing in your happiness, my
heart is heavy, because I feel that I can no longer be to you what
I have been, chief friend and confidant. Oh! I shall indeed miss my
little Jessie."

"You will always be to me just what you have been, Aunt Mary," I
replied, and tears filled my eyes, as I threw myself upon a low seat
at her feet. "You must not think that because I am a wife, I shall
love my old friends any the less: and you of all others, you who have
been to me as a dear, dear elder sister,--you who have instructed and
counselled me, and have shared all my thoughts and feelings since I was
a little child; oh! do you think any one can come between our hearts?
We may not meet as frequently as we have done, but you will ever find
me just the same, and I shall tell you all my thoughts, and all my
cares and sorrows, and all my joys too, just as I always have done."

"No, no, Jessie, say not so. That may not be. You may love me just as
well, but you will love another more. Your heart _cannot_ be open to
me as it has been, for it will belong to another. Its hopes, its fears,
its joys, its sorrows, its cares, its love, will all be so intimately
blended with those of another, that they cannot be separated. No wife,
provided the relations existing between her husband and herself are
what they should be, can be to _any_ other friend exactly what she was
before her marriage."

"Why, Aunt Mary!--you surely do not mean to say that a wife should
never have any confidential friends?"

"The history of woman, dear Jessie, is generally simply a record of
the workings of her own heart; in ordinary cases, she has little else
to consider. 'The world of the affections is her world,' and there
finds she her appropriate sphere of action. What I mean to say is,--not
that a wife should have no friend save her husband,--but that, if the
hearts of the twain are as closely linked together as they should
be, if they always beat in perfect unison, and if their thoughts and
feelings harmonize as they ought to do, it will be difficult for her
to draw aside the veil from her own heart, and lay it open to the gaze
of any other being, without, in some degree, betraying the confidence
reposed in her by him who should be nearer and dearer than all the
world beside. The heart is like a temple, Jessie. It has its outer and
its inner court, and it has also its holy of holies. The outer court
is full: common acquaintances,--those that we call friends, merely
because they are not enemies,--are gathered there. The inner court but
few may enter,--the few who we feel love us, and to whom we are united
by the strong bonds of sympathy; but the sanctum sanctorum, the holy
of holies, that must never be profaned by alien footsteps, or by the
tread of any, save him to whom the wife hath said, 'Whither thou goest
I will go, thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.'"

The deepening twilight hung over us, wrapping all things in its sombre
mantle, and its solemn stillness fell with soft, subduing power upon
our hearts, as we sat, for many moments, each lost in reverie, ere I
spoke again.

"Aunt Mary, why were you never married?"

"Rather an abrupt question that, my love. What if I say, in the words
of the old song, because 'nobody ever came wooing me?'"

"Nay, nay, Aunt Mary, I know you have never passed through life
unloved, and I have sometimes fancied not unloving either. But pardon
me, I fear my obtrusive curiosity has given you pain," I added quickly,
as in the dim light I saw that her pale cheek was growing still
paler, and that deep, though subdued, anguish was stamped in legible
characters upon her brow.

"I have nought to pardon, my child, for our long familiarity has given
you a right to ask the question; and I wonder that you have never made
the inquiry before, rather than that you make it now. The history of my
early life is a sad one, but you shall hear it, and know why I am now
such a lone and isolated being.

"Upon the early part of my life it will be necessary for me to dwell
but slightly. My childhood passed dreamily away, marked by no event of
sufficient importance to leave a very deep impression upon my mind.
An only child, I was my father's idol, and he loved me none the less
tenderly, because the destroying angel had snatched his young wife
from his bosom, and I was all that was left to him of her. I was very
young when my mother died--too young to appreciate the magnitude of
my loss, or to feel that I was motherless. Yet I have an indistinct
recollection of a sweet, girlish face, that used to bend over my couch,
and of a melodious voice that was wont to lull me to my baby slumbers.
The remembrance is a very faint one, but I have never thought of angels
in my dreams, or in my waking hours, when the vision did not wear the
semblance of my mother's face, nor of angel voices without in fancy
hearing again my mother's low, soft tones.

"As I grew older, the best instructors in the country were procured for
me, and I was taught all the accomplishments of the day, while, at the
same time, I was not allowed to neglect any of the plainer, but equally
important branches of female education. At last my education was
completed, and 'I came out' under auspices as flattering as those under
which any young girl ever made her debut upon the stage of life. The
harsh fingers of Time have wrought such changes upon my face and form,
that you may find it difficult to believe that in my youth I was called
beautiful. Yet so it was, and this, together with my father's station
in society and reputation for wealth, drew a crowd of admirers around
me. One of my father's chief sources of delight, was the exercise of
an almost prodigal hospitality, and he dearly loved to see me, attired
with all the elegance that his ample means could afford, presiding at
his table, or moving among our guests, in his fond eyes 'the star of
the goodly companie.'

"It was by the bedside of his dying sister, that I first met Walter
Elmore. Effie had been a schoolmate of mine, and an intimate friendship
had sprung up between us. Sisterless as I was, I had learned to cherish
for her almost a sister's love. Soon after we left school, her father
removed his residence from a distant part of the country to the city
near which mine resided, and our girlish attachment was cemented
and strengthened, as we entered, hand in hand, upon the duties and
pleasures of early womanhood.

"Effie's constitution was naturally weak, and she had been subject from
her childhood to a slight cough; but her friends gave little heed to
it, as the buoyancy of her spirits and her unchanged demeanour seemed
to preclude the idea of any seated complaint. But the destroyer came,
and disease had made fearful havoc before we awoke to a sense of her
danger. I was with her day and night for a few weeks, and then Effie
Elmore, in her youth and loveliness, slept the 'sleep that knows no
waking.'

"Her brother, of whom I had often heard her speak in terms of
enthusiastic fondness, had been abroad, completing his studies, and I
never met him until we stood, side by side, gazing upon the calm, still
face of the beautiful being whom we both so tenderly loved.

"It is needless for me to say that from that hour we met often. At my
father's house he became a frequent and a welcome guest; and we met
too, at no distant intervals, by Effie's grave, in her favourite walks,
and in every nook that had been made sacred by her presence. We thought
that it was our mutual love for the departed that drew us together; we
thought it was her memory, and the recollection of the hour when first
we met, that made us seek each other's society, and that rendered the
moments we spent together so dear to us both; but ah me! but few months
had rolled over our heads before we found that it was even a stronger
tie; that it was the mystic chain that binds heart to heart, the deep
love of congenial spirits.

"And Walter Elmore was indeed one that any maiden might be proud of
loving. His face and figure were cast in nature's finest mould. But
that were nothing--it is of the nobleness of his character of which
I would speak. Proud and high-spirited even to a fault, he could not
stoop to a mean or unworthy action. Generous and confiding, his soul
was filled with all true and noble impulses, and his heart was the home
of pure and elevated affections. His intellectual powers were such as
to win the admiration and esteem of all who knew him, and he possessed
also the rare gift of eloquence,--a gift that seldom fails to find its
way to a woman's heart. What wonder was it then that I yielded mine
to him wholly and unreservedly, and soon learned to listen for his
footstep, as I listened for no other? My father smiled upon his suit,
and gave it his unqualified approbation. Elmore was not wealthy, but
his family was one of the first in the country, and my father was proud
of his brilliant talents and untarnished name. I had wealth enough for
both, and it was decided that upon my twentieth birthday our nuptials
should be celebrated.

"Alas! how little know we of the future! Ere that day came, I was
penniless--I had almost said a penniless orphan. My father's capital
was all invested in the business transactions of two of the oldest,
and, it was supposed, the wealthiest houses in New York. Two successive
weeks brought news of the failure of both firms, and he found himself,
when far advanced in life, stripped of the fortune he had acquired by
his own hard exertions in earlier years, and utterly destitute. He sank
beneath the blow, and for weeks I hung over his couch, fearing each
night that the next rising sun would see me an orphan.

"He rose at length from that bed of suffering, but oh, how changed!
His hair, which had before but lightly felt the touch of time, was
white as snow; his once erect form was bent and trembling; his eye had
lost its lustre, and what was far more sad than all, his mental vigour
had departed, and he was as imbecile and feeble as a little child.
Accustomed as I had ever been to lean upon his strong arm for support,
to look to him for guidance and direction in all things, I was now
obliged to summon all my fortitude, and be to him in turn protector and
guardian.

"The whole of our property was gone, our ruin was complete, and for a
time I was overwhelmed by the new and strange cares that were pressing
so heavily upon me. But I soon found that it was time for me to _act_
rather than mourn, and I began to look around me for some means by
which to obtain a comfortable livelihood for my poor father. I might
have obtained a situation as governess, where the labour would be
light, and the salary more than sufficient for my wants; but in that
case I must be separated from my parent, and leave him to the tender
mercies of strangers. The same objection arose in my mind in connexion
with almost every course that presented itself, and I finally concluded
upon renting a small house in a pleasant little village not far from
the city, where I could obtain a few pupils, and still be able to watch
over my feeble charge.

"It was in the 'merry, merry month of May,' that the news of our
reverses came, but it was late in October before we left our home, that
home rendered sacred by so many hallowed associations. The intervening
months had been spent by me in watching over the sick couch of my aged
parent, in striving to compose my own agitated spirits, and to gain
sufficient courage to gaze unshrinkingly upon the new and strange
pathway I was about to tread.

"Slowly and wearily passed they away, and the day at length dawned
that was to witness our departure. All was bright and joyous in the
outer world. The air was soft and balmy as a morning in June. The trees
were just changing their green summer robes for the gorgeous attire of
autumn, with its rich colouring and brilliant dyes; and the sky was
as cloudless as if the storm-king had been dethroned, and his banners
furled for ever. The house, and everything around it, presented much
the same appearance as in happier days; for the gentleman who had
purchased it had bought the furniture also, with the exception of a few
indispensable articles, that the kindness of the creditors allowed us
to retain for our new dwelling.

"But oh, the darkness of the inner world! the gloom in which my own
soul was wrapped, when I awoke from a short and troubled sleep, and
the thought fell as a dull, sickening weight upon my heart, that I
had slept for the last time in that quiet chamber! I passed from room
to room, and every step but added to my grief. Here was the nursery
and the little crib, where I could just remember sleeping in my very
babyhood; here the retired study, with its perfect stillness, and the
light coming in so stealthily through the stained glass; here the
library, my father's favourite apartment, and there, in the recess
with its bay window, the arm-chair that had ever been his chosen
resting-place; and here the room where my mother had lain, in her quiet
beauty, ere the coffin-lid was closed, and she was borne hence for ever.

"In a distant part of the grounds, where the forest-trees had not yet
fallen, and where the hand of art had done little more than to clear
away the tangled underbrush, there was a small plot enclosed by a stone
wall, over which wild vines and running mosses had been trained until
the gray stones were almost entirely hidden. The grass in the enclosure
was of the deepest green, and shaded though it was by the overhanging
trees, there had not a faded leaf or a withered branch been suffered to
rest upon it. In the centre was a mound of earth, and over it a slab
of white marble, upon which lay the sculptured image of a woman, young
and of surpassing loveliness. She lay as if in sleep, one rounded arm
thrown over her head, and the other dropping by her side; while from
the half-opened hand a white rose-bud had seemingly just fallen. It was
my mother's burial-place, and I bent my steps thitherward that I might
cast one farewell look upon it, before it passed into the possession of
strangers. A tide of softening recollections swept over me as I stood
by the grave, and falling upon my knees, I poured out my full heart in
prayer.

      "'Oh, when the heart is sad--when bitter thoughts
      Are crowding thickly up for utterance,
      And the poor, common words of courtesy
      Are such a bitter mocking--how much
      The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!'

I rose from my knees calmer than I had been for many weeks. I was sad,
but not despairing,--and felt again, what in my despondency I had
well-nigh forgotten, that I was in the hands of One who careth for His
children.

"When I returned to the house, I found the vehicle that was to convey
us away waiting at the door. My father was already in his seat, and I
sprang quickly in, not trusting myself to cast another look around me.
He--thanks to his weakness and imbecility--had partaken little of my
dread or agony. Provided his daily wants were supplied, it mattered
little to him where his lot was cast."

"But, Aunt Mary, where was Walter Elmore all this time?"

"I should have told you, my love, that business of vital importance
called him to a distant part of the country a short time previous to
our misfortunes, and there detained him. He was kept apprised by my
letters, however, of all that had befallen us, and hastened to my side
as soon as he returned. He vehemently opposed my pursuance of the
course I had marked out for myself, and with all the eloquence and
earnestness of love, besought me to become his wife at once, and give
him a right to protect and guard me.

"But fervently as he prayed, and strongly as my own heart seconded
his entreaties, I could not yield. I had thought that it was to be my
blessed privilege to aid and assist him I loved; to place him where
it would no longer be necessary for him to confine his noble mind to
close and ceaseless drudgery, and constant toil for his daily bread.
And how could I now consent to be a drawback upon his efforts, and to
burden him with the care of my helpless parent?

"'No, no, Walter,' said I, in reply to his oft-repeated solicitations;
'urge me no longer. For the present our paths must be separated. Your
task will be hard enough, while you are taking the first steps towards
acquiring a name and a competence, even if you have no interests but
your own to regard. Were I alone in the world, I would joyfully link my
fate with yours, and we would toil together, side by side. But as it
is, it may not be. My father cannot understand why he need be deprived
of any of his accustomed luxuries. Be it my care that he misses them
not. I will labour for his sustenance and my own, until you are so
circumstanced that, without detriment to your own prospects, you can
relieve me of the charge. _Then_ come to me, and the hand pledged to
you in brighter days shall be yours!'

"A year passed not unhappily away in the earnest and faithful discharge
of the new duties devolving upon me. My school flourished beyond my
expectations. I had gained the esteem and confidence of those around
me, and I found no difficulty in supplying our daily wants. Elmore was
in an adjacent city, in the office of an eminent lawyer, who, it was
imagined, would ere long make him a partner in his business. During the
last few months his visits had been less frequent than of yore. Rumour
told strange tales of a young and exceedingly beautiful girl, the
sister of his employer, who was playing the mischief with the hearts
and brains of half the young men in M----, and more than hinted that
my lover was among the number of her admirers. Things went on thus for
some time. I fancied that, when we met, which was rarely, his manner
was cold and reserved, and that he seemed to shrink from my presence. I
now know that my own jealous fancies threw a false colouring over all
his actions, and that, if there was any coldness in his demeanour, it
sprang from the unusual, and, in fact, unintended reserve of mine.

"At last I heard, from the lips of one whose veracity and friendship
I thought I could not question, that his leisure hours were all spent
in the society of my supposed rival, and that, when rallied by some of
his associates with regard to myself, he had denied our engagement, and
spoken lightly and contemptuously of the 'school-mistress.'

"A thousand contending passions were striving for the mastery in my
breast, when, upon the evening of that day, after its weary labours
were over, I threw myself upon a low seat in the room that served
alike as school-room and parlour. Woman's pride--and who does not know
that 'there is not a high thing out of heaven her pride o'er-mastereth
not?'--was all aroused. Memory was wide awake, bringing back the
recollection of by-gone days, when my hand had been sought by the
proudest in the land. Then came thoughts of our early love--of the
exquisite happiness that had filled my heart, when I had so rejoiced
that wealth was at my command, and that I could place it all at the
feet of one whom I deemed so noble and so pure--and of a later period,
when, rather than place the slightest barrier in his way to fame and
fortune, I had resisted all his entreaties, and confined myself to
close and unremitting toil. It was at this very moment when I was half
maddened by the retrospect, that the door opened, and Walter Elmore
entered.

"Hastily rising, with every appearance of calmness, I received him with
a cold and stately courtesy, surprising even to myself.

"'What means this, Mary?' said he; and I could see that his lip
quivered, and the hand he had extended trembled. 'Why do you greet me
thus coldly?'

"'Let your own heart answer the question, Mr. Elmore. To that and
to your own words I refer you for reasons why we must henceforth be
strangers.'

"'You speak enigmas to-night, my dear Mary. My heart tells me no tale
that can enable me to comprehend this unlooked-for change in you. It
will take more than your simple assertion that we are strangers, to
render us such; and he again attempted to take my hand.

"I drew back more haughtily than before, and words that I cannot now
repeat burst from my lips. I can only tell you that they were harsh,
stinging words--words fraught with contempt and bitterness--words that
a proud spirit like Elmore's could not brook.

"He sought no farther explanation. 'Be it as you will,' he said, and
his manner was as stern as my own; 'I have asked you to account for
this change, and you refuse compliance, couching that refusal in terms
that I can hear twice from no one, not even from yourself. We meet no
more; but remember, Mary Atherton, the words you have this day uttered
will ring in your ear until it is closed to all earthly sounds. You
have given heed to some idle tale of calumny, and have wantonly flung
away a heart that was filled but with your image--a heart that had
centred upon you its every dream and wish for the far future--that
lived but in the hope of one day calling you its own--and that looked
forward to that period as to the commencement of a better and a happier
existence. The hour will come when you will feel that this is true, and
then will you bewail the step you have now taken!'--and without one
farewell look he rushed from the room.

"This prophecy was fulfilled almost before the echo of his departing
footsteps had died away. I felt that I was labouring under some strange
delusion, and bursting into tears, I wept long and bitterly. I would
have given worlds to recall him; but his fleet steed was bearing him
from me, as on the wings of the wind. Yet, hope whispered: 'We shall
surely meet again. My harsh words angered him; but he has loved me so
long and so fondly, that he will not resign me thus easily. All will
yet be explained.'

"But day after day passed and he came not; and my heart was as if
an iron hand was resting upon it, pressing it downward to the very
earth. The excitement of passion had died away, and I could now see
how greatly I had erred, in not telling him frankly the tale that
had reached my ears, and thus giving him an opportunity to exculpate
himself from the charge. Alas! for pride and anger, how often does the
shadow of one unguarded moment darken our life-paths for ever!

"Two weeks had elapsed; and one night, after vain attempts to sleep, I
rose from my couch and threw open the lattice. The glare of daylight
was wanting; but the moon poured forth such a flood of radiance that
the minutest object was distinctly visible. All heaven and earth were
still; the very leaves upon the trees hung motionless as those painted
upon canvass. The perfect silence was becoming painfully oppressive,
when a low sound, like distant footsteps, fell upon my ear. Nearer and
still nearer it came, and I could distinguish a faint murmur, as of
half-suppressed voices. Then a group of men approached. They walked
slowly and heavily, and as they drew near I perceived that they bore a
dark object. Soon, by their reverential mien, and by the unyielding,
uneven nature of their burden, the stiff outlines of which were
discernible beneath the mantle thrown over it, I knew they were bearing
the dead.

"They were passing directly beneath my window, when a sudden movement
of the bearers disarranged the pall, and the moonbeams fell clear and
soft upon the uncovered features. I leaned forward, and--oh, God! it
was the face of Walter Elmore!

"With a shriek that rang out fearfully upon the night-air, I rushed
forth, and threw myself upon the motionless form. The men paused in
astonishment; but I heeded them not; I lifted the wet, dark locks from
his forehead: more than living beauty rested upon it; but it was cold,
icy cold,--so cold that the touch chilled my very life-blood. I placed
my hand upon his heart: but it beat no longer. I kissed his pale lips
again and again, and wildly called him by name, and prayed that he
would speak to me once, _only once_ more; but he answered not. They
thought I was mad, and attempted to raise me, and bear the body on;
but I clung to it with a frenzied clasp, exclaiming: 'You shall not
separate us,--he is mine,--he is mine!' Then, suddenly, in thunder
tones, a voice from the depths of my own spirit sounded in my ears: 'He
is not yours: your own hand severed the ties that bound you. What dost
thou here?' and I fell senseless to the ground.

"When I next awoke to consciousness, the snow had rested for many weeks
upon the grave of Walter Elmore.

"I cannot dwell longer upon this theme. Years have fled since that name
has passed my lips, until this evening; but my brain whirls, even now,
when I recall the agony of that moment. Elmore had been crossing a
narrow bridge, when his foot slipped, and he was precipitated into the
water beneath. The current was strong; and his body was found, by some
travellers, washed on shore some distance below.

"I learned, before many months had passed, that the tale to which I
had given credence was an entire fabrication, having its origin solely
in jealousy and malice. He had never swerved from his fidelity, even
for one moment; but I,--oh! would to God that my spirit might but for
once hold communion with his, that I might humble myself before him,
and implore forgiveness for the injustice and coldness of our last
interview!

"Little more remains to be told. Shortly after, my father sank to his
rest; and the death of a distant relative placed me in possession of a
small annuity, which enabled me to purchase this cottage. Here I shall
probably live until called to rejoin my loved ones in a happier clime."

Aunt Mary's story was ended. My heart was too full for utterance, and
silently I pressed my lips upon her pale forehead, and wended my way
homewards.

The next morning I left Elmwood. When I again revisited my early home, a
plain slab of marble in the churchyard bore the name of Mary Atherton.




SUNSET ON THE RIVER DELAWARE.
A SONNET, TO "SIBYL."

BY J. I. PEASE.


      A day of storms!--But, at its latest close,
        _Beyond_ the cloud, comes forth the glowing sun,
        Kissing the waves to dimples, one by one,
      O'er which our homeward bark serenely goes.
      The blue expanse with tremulous lustre glows,
        As the warm hues of evening fade to dun;
        And the still twilight hour comes softly down,
      Like blessed, eyelids, for the day's repose.
      And thus _our_ day!--The heavy clouds rolled past,
        The dark eclipse of doubt and fear is o'er;
        The tides of life flow calmly as before,
      And love's pure tranquil moon shines clear at last.
      Oh, may this hour of beauty and of rest
      Bring peace undreaming to thy troubled breast.




FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY.

BY S. A. H.


      I saw a noble bark upon the angry main--
        The foamy billows pressed upon her track;
      Now high, now low, I saw her timbers strain,
        As forth she bounded o'er the waters black.
      But ever, as a deeper plunge she gave,
      Phosphoric brightness gleamed along the wave:
      And thus, I said, wide o'er Life's stormy sea,
      Glances the light of Faith, so pure and free.

      I marked a threatening cloud hang o'er the western sky,
        And throw its blackness o'er the landscape fair,
      Whence lightnings flashed, whence pealed the thunder high,
        And wide re-echoed through the trembling air.
      The sun broke forth, and all its dark array
      Was gilded with the hues of parting day:
      And thus, I said, can Hope's bright rays illume,
      And richly paint the darkest days of gloom.

      I saw, at twilight eve, a snowy flower--
        It closed its leaves and drooped its tender bud;
      Cold came the dew, and blightingly the shower
        Swept o'er the plant in swift destructive flood.
      But, bending o'er its tender charge its leaves,[20]
      Bows the strong branch, and needed shelter gives:
      And thus, I said, does Charity descend,
      And proves to every drooping one a friend.

[Footnote 20: The tamarind plant, which closes its leaves over its
young fruit and flowers.]




CASTLE-BUILDING.

BY JAMES T. MITCHELL.


      At twilight, when the deepening shades
        Of humid night are closing fast,
      When o'er bright fields and green arcades
        The dazzling beams of gold are cast,
      Another day its weary round
        Of mingled joys and pains has run,
      And clouds, with golden fringes bound,
        In beauty veil the setting sun,--

      A silence, pleasing, calm, profound,
        Falls soothing on the raptured brain;
      The hum of busy life is drowned,
        On crowded street and lonely plain;
      The soul, in dreamy reveries lost,
        To shadowy realms far distant roves,
      In stormy waves of ether tost,
        Then wandering wild in heavenly groves.

      And cloud-built castles, towering high,
        O'er gorgeous scenes that fancy rears,
      Where laughing orbs illume the sky,
        Seem mansions for our future years;
      And, while the spirit gazing stands,
        Enwrapt with pleasure at the scenes
      Which fill Imagination's lands
        With palaces for fairy queens,

      The view is changing--all is gone--
        The castles, fading slow away,
      As misty shapes at early dawn,
        Vanish before the coming day;
      And storm-clouds now are lowering round;
        Wild demon shapes are flitting by;
      Fierce flames are rising from the ground,
        And lurid lightnings cleave the sky.

      Bleak snow-capped mountains o'er us frown,
        While, gray and grim, through darkened air,
      Towers and turrets, looking down
        From rocky heights o'erhanging there,
      Seem prisons for the wandering brain,
        Within whose deep and caverned walls
      'Tis doomed for ever to remain,
        'Mid shrieks as from demoniac halls.

      But pyramids above these rise,
        Whose summits, gleaming gaily bright,
      Inspire with hope the fainting eyes,
        As bathed they stand in golden light,
      Lifting their peaks high o'er the dark,
        Like shining spots, that on the breast
      Of darkened Luna, seem to mark
        Some towering Etna's blazing crest.

      Perched on these lofty granite piles,
        Rise adamantine domes of power,
      Secure from treachery, force, or wiles,
        Reared in Ambition's happy hour,
      When, having left the storm behind,
        Of raging battles, fears, and hates,
      He spurns their threats as empty wind,
        Himself the guardian of the gates.

      Here in these grand, but lonely halls,--
        Unmingling with the crowd below,
      And all unharmed by what befalls
        Poor wanderers in this world of woe,--
      Ambition, well-directed, dwells,
        While songs of sorrow, care, and grief,
      Give place to martial music's swells,
        Which proudly hail the victor chief.

      Yet not alone--without a friend
        To share his toil-bought honours great,
      And by congenial spirit lend
        New splendour to his regal state--
      Celestial Hope dwells ever near,
        And Happiness, her sister gay;
      And thus they live, while year on year
        With rapid pinions rolls away.

      But gazing from these lofty walls,
        A landscape rises bright and fair,
      Where happy light serenely falls
        On scenes of gorgeous beauty there.
      Here crystal founts, 'mid orient flowers,
        Which radiant shine in varied hues,
      Flow joyous through an Eden's bowers,
        Where perfume loads the falling dews;

      While here and there, these laughing streams,
        Dimpling and eddying ever gay,
      Rippling o'er golden sand, that gleams
        Like the Golcondian diamond's ray,
      Leap headlong down a rocky dell,
        And o'er the heaven's ethereal azure
      Cast many a rainbow's glittering spell,
        That chains the heart in silent pleasure.

      And 'neath the heaven's o'erarching bow,
      Bloom laurels proud, and violets low,
      In fragrance sweet, and beauty rare,
      With graceful rose, and lily fair;
      The mirthful grape, and crocus glad,
      Yet here and there, geranium sad,
      With hawthorn, and ambrosia kind,
      And 'mongst them all is ivy twined.

      Amid these blooming spirit-lands,
      Mid chaplets wreathed by Love's own hands,
      The glowing flowers of Love are found
      With which his shining locks are crowned;
      He sings a song, through all the day long,
        Of joy, and of gladness, and glee,
      And he sits so light, on his throne so bright,
        Oh ever a conquering king is he!

      But when the sunset's golden dyes
      Have faded away from the western skies;
      And these fairy gardens are seen by night.
      Over their moonlit waters bright,
      On which, as they're merrily flowing and dancing,
      The light of the stars is twinkling and glancing,
      There's a charm in that silent midnight hour,
      They only can tell who have felt its power.

      There's a mystic spell in its silence sweet,
      And a magic thrill through all who meet,
      Where kindred thoughts together stray,
      Whispering beneath pale Luna's ray;
      Then is the time for poet's song,
      When his voice on the zephyr is borne along,
      And slumbering echo, like fairy fay,
      Murmurs the words of his wakening lay.

      But the rosy beams of the coming morn
      Tell us how fast the night has worn,
      How far and free the soul has strayed,
      Wandering '<DW41> scenes in fancy laid;
      And the heathcock's note, or the matin bell,
      As the morning breeze brings its pealing swell,
      Recalls the soul from its musings there,
      To find its "Castles"--built in air.




[Illustration:

  C. Schuessele del.      Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.
        Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph^{a.}

WENONA'S LEAP. LAKE PEPIN, MISS. RIVER.]




THE LOVER'S LEAP:
OR, WENONA'S ROCK.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.


Love, which "rules the court, the camp, the grove," is not without a
share of influence in the wigwam.

It is true that in a polished and refined society, woman is more likely
to receive a just appreciation, than where the intellect of man is
like the one talent rolled in a napkin, useless, because neglected and
unimproved. In an enlightened country, woman is not considered as being
only created to perform the household duties of a wife and mother. She
is a companion, in the highest sense of the word. Her aim, like his,
may be towards the great purposes of life.

Not unmindful of her first duties, those which lie in her province
alone, she can go on towards that exalted state of perfection of which
the soul is capable, though not to be attained here. Religion, that
teaches her "that the price of a virtuous woman is far above rubies,"
also commends her that "she openeth her mouth with wisdom." We find
her in the sacred history not only the friend, the mother, and the
wife, but the poet, the heroine, the prophetess, and even the judge.
But among Indian nations we find her position more than equivocal.
Her influence is undoubted in the domestic relations, but she is still
a slave. She was born to labour--what merit then in her strongest
efforts! She is an inferior--how then can she hope for justice?

Among the Sioux, the men appear indeed to be a superior class of
beings. They are noble-looking, while the women are often repelling in
appearance. The difficulties with which they must contend in the harsh
climate of their country; their poverty increasing year after year;
their frequent and long fastings: these all make the men more hardy,
more capable of a continued struggle, but they have a different effect
upon the women. They are compelled to remain in the lodge; the care of
their children obliges them to forego the excitement of seeking for
food, and thus sickness and even death is often brought upon them that
could otherwise have been avoided. They are often found buried in the
snow in winter, prevented by sickness from making such efforts as saved
the lives of their husbands and brothers.

But their noble courage, where the emotions of the heart are concerned,
gives them the first place in the romantic traditions of their country.

The Sioux will soon have taken a farewell look of the lands which the
Great Spirit gave them in the olden time. The lodge and its occupants
are vanishing away. The occasional war-whoop will soon be forgotten
where it has been heard in unrecorded ages. The scenes of many a
romantic tradition will be forgotten by those who succeed the valiant
but doomed people, who must look upon them no more. The hunter and his
wild steed depart, and the white man, the axe, the plough, and the
powder-horn take their place.[21] The fairy-rings[22] on the prairie
must be trodden down. Spirits will no more assemble where are heard the
noise and excitement of advancing civilization. The same sun gilds the
hills, the same breezes play upon the waters--but the red man must go.

He must, with his heart full of patriotism and sorrow, find another
site for his lodge, another country for his hunting-grounds. The
wakeen-stone to which he was sacrificed is no longer his. The graves of
his ancestors reproach him as he departs.

The illustration of Wenona's Rock presents one of the most striking
and beautiful scenes in Indian country. Even were there no tradition
connected with it, its wonderful beauty must give it interest. One must
indeed feel that God made it. That huge rock with its worn and broken
sides--the lake that reflects it in her placid bosom--the everlasting
hills stretching out before the eye,--these would show the Creator's
handiwork.

But there is an additional interest in viewing it when we recall the
tale of sorrow and passion connected with it. When we recollect that
_here_ a young heart throbbed its last emotions--that from that high
eminence the sweet notes of woman's voice pealed forth their last
music. That _here_ her arms were raised to heaven, appealing for that
justice which earth had denied her.

[Illustration:

  C. S. Schuessele del.      Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.
        Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph^{a.}

MARRIAGE CUSTOM OF THE INDIANS.]

But it is not only on Wenona's Rock that the devotion of an Indian
woman's love is recorded. Go among them and hear the traditions of
each band; how many have loved and died. Learn of the sacrifices that
only woman can make--of the devotion that only woman can feel--of the
sorrows that only woman can endure.

You may see one, who, though past her youth, still attracts you by the
full and expressive glances of her dark and brilliant eyes. Her hair
(a marvel among Indians), waves along her forehead--and when damp from
heat or bathing, divides itself into locks, that would with any pains
be formed into ringlets. Her smile lights up her countenance, for her
white teeth shine, and her mouth, though large, is expressive. She will
not open her heart to a stranger, but to one she loves, she told all.

She had seen but fourteen summers when she left her mother to go to her
husband's lodge. She loved to dwell upon that time, for no bride ever
boasted greater adornment, and her marriage was celebrated according to
the old and venerated customs.[23]

She was a whole morning preparing herself, for her mother loved her,
and was proud of her. She had obtained from the traders gay beads of
every colour, and brooches in numbers, too.

Her father was a favourite of the traders. He carried them so many
beautiful furs--for he was a great hunter--that they gave him trinkets
for her in abundance. They gave him, besides, fire-water; and then she
and her mother used to leave the wigwam and hide, for fear he would
kill her.

When she was ready to go to her husband's lodge, her father and two of
her brothers attended her. Her cousin, Whistling Wind, came to meet
her, and, taking her upon his back, carried her in and placed her by
her husband's side.

She was very happy at first, for her husband loved her; but many moons
passed away, and she had no child.

Her husband reproached her, and she could only weep--and no infant's
voice was heard in their lodge.

At last her husband brought home another wife, and she was forgotten.
Soon she watched him as he carved the thunder-bird on his son's cradle;
and the second wife laughed at her, because she could not be a happy
mother like herself.

He has beaten her sometimes--for he drinks fire-water too.

She might return to her mother, for her family is a powerful one, but
she cannot leave her husband. She cannot forget the love of her early
youth. She stays by him, for he is often sick, and she can take better
care of him than his other wife, who has many young children.

Wherever is man, with his proud, exacting spirit, there is woman, with
her devoted and enduring love. There are many instances of heroic
affection, not recorded in the traditionary annals of the Sioux; but
Wenona's Rock will stand, as long as the world lasts, a monument in
memory of woman's love.

[Footnote 21: The Seal of Minesota, adopted in 1850, represents an
Indian warrior departing on his steed: while a husbandman is in the
foreground, surrounded by the implements of civilization,--the plough,
axe, and rifle. The scene is located at Anthony's Falls.]

[Footnote 22: On the prairies we frequently observe what the Sioux
call Fairy-rings. These are circles, occasioned by the grass growing
in this form, higher and of a darker colour than that around it.
Medicine-Bottle, an inferior chief, living now about twenty miles from
Fort Snelling, says that "they are the paths in which their ancestors
danced their war-dances;" the Indians at Lac qui Parle say the same
thing. In confirmation of this opinion, it may be stated, that these
circles of dark grass vary about as much from true circles as do the
paths in which the Sioux dance at the present time. Chequered Cloud, a
medicine-woman, much esteemed among the Sioux, says "that these circles
were made, in the first instance, by one of their gods, Unk tomi sapa
tonka, the large black spider, for the warriors to dance in." I will
observe that Dr. Williamson, a missionary among the Sioux, requested
from the two Indians mentioned their opinion on this subject, telling
them I had asked it. Dr. Williamson gives his own opinion, or rather
observation, thus:--"It seems to me, from the appearance of these
circles, that they enlarge every year: and I have thought it probable
that they originated from the death of some large animal, or other like
cause, destroying the common grass of the prairie and enriching the
ground, thus starting grass of another kind, or weeds which grow rankly
in this manner, and overshadowing, and to some extent destroying the
surrounding grass, the next year taking possession of the ground from
which the common grass has been destroyed, &c."

"On mentioning this and your letter to Mr. G. H. Pond," Dr. W.
continues, "he said, Lieut. Mather, the geologist, who visited this
country (Minesota) with Featherstonhaugh, many years ago, had advanced
the same opinion. In confirmation of it, I would observe, that in the
large prairies up the St. Peter's River, I have often seen buffalo
bones in these circles." Mr. Pond, the Doctor adds, did not think
these circles originated in this way: saying, some supposed they were
caused by a mineral in the soil, and that he had observed, that when
cattle came on or near these circles, they always eat the dark grass in
the ring close to the ground, neglecting or passing over that growing
elsewhere.]

[Footnote 23: The marriage custom of the Sioux is given in "Dacota,
or Legends of the Sioux." The ancient form, as represented in the
illustration, is still venerated, and frequently, though not always
celebrated.]




THE INDIAN MOTHER,
AND THE SONG OF THE WIND.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.


            Softly the Indian mother[24] sings--
              "Woman's heart is strong,
            When she works for those she loves,
              Through the summer's day so long.
            Hark! to the wind's wild voice, my babe--
              What may its story be,
            Stirring thy cradle-bed, securely laid
              In the arms of the forest tree?"

      "We have travelled afar, but we come again;
      We have passed o'er the couch of weakness and pain;
      We have seen the gifted from earth depart;
      We have fanned the brow of the broken heart;
      We have fled from the shrieks of the mighty in death,
      From the battle's rage and the victor's breath;
      We have been at the grave--at the infant's birth;
      We know all the cares of the children of earth.

      "Our wail is heard o'er the mighty deep,
      In whose breast the loved and lost ones sleep,
      When, sweeping in rage, the hurricane blast
      Tosses to heaven the waters vast.
      When we bear o'er the foaming and dashing main
      The voices that ne'er will be heard again;
      Yet we come and go at His will, who said
      To the sea 'Be still!' and its waves obeyed.

      "The air was still as we stayed our breath,
      While the mother wept o'er her young child's death--
      A fatherless child; 'twas peacefully laid,
      So placid and calm, 'neath the curtain's shade.
      Yet, pressing the clay to her throbbing breast,
      'Oh! when,' she cried, 'will I be at rest?'
      We sang for the child a requiem low,
      And the mother's to sing on our way we go.

      "But why should we chaunt of sorrow and gloom,
      Of night and the tempest, of tears and the tomb?
      Those who are parted shall meet again--
      The sea yield her victims, the earth her slain;
      Our mission we haste o'er ocean to bear;
      We tell of his glory whose servants we are.
      We quell with our tidings the idol's dark power,
      That the cries of its victims be heard never more.

      "We raise from the earth the spirit crushed;
      At the sight of the cross its murmurs are hushed.
      Our voice is heard, and the wandering son
      In spirit turns to his long-left home.
      He remembers his father's voice in prayer,
      And he kneels by the side of his mother there;
      And he cries, while his steps are homeward trod,
      'Oh! be thou mine, my father's God!'

      "Alike is the charge and the mission given
      To the faithful heart and the winds of heaven,
      To tell how the Saviour came to earth,
      How poor he was from the hour of his birth:
      His own griefs unheeded, for others he sighed;
      Of the life that he lived, of the death that he died.
      To earth's farthest shore these tidings we bear--
      All glory to Him whose servants we are."

          Again the Indian mother sings--
            "Woman's heart is strong,
          When she works for those she loves,
            Through the summer's day so long.
          I would know what the wild winds said, my babe--
            What could their story be,
          Stirring thy cradle-bed, securely laid
            In the arms of the forest tree?"

[Footnote 24: Indian women take great interest in listening to
instruction connected with religious subjects. They often deplore the
difference in their position from that of the white woman, desiring for
themselves and their children the thousand comforts and advantages they
observe the wives and children of the white man possess. Only can they
ever hope to enjoy them when their nation becomes a Christian one.]




THE WOOD SPIRITS AND THE MAIDEN.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

  Those who have lived among the Indians are accustomed to their faith
  in the protecting power of the Spirits of Nature. Especially powerful
  is the god of the woods and forests.


      Day with its gorgeous light passes away,
      Shadows of coming night darken the way.
              Who is the wanderer
              With the long braided hair?
              'Mid the tall evergreens,
              She like a fairy seems;
              Know ye the maiden young,
              Wood Spirits, say?

      Know we the maiden young--mark well her form,
      Like the tall pine tree, when rages the storm.
              How like the dark bird's wing
              Glistens her braided hair.
              When watching o'er her birth,
              Sang we a song of earth,
              We were her guardians made,
              She was our child.

      Soon o'er her body cold, chaunt we her funeral hymn,
      Wild branches, torn and old, timing the requiem.
              Why does she wander here,
              With the long braided hair?
              Why is the maiden pale--
              Why does her breathing fail?
              Now, by the moonbeams fair,
              See her dimmed eye.

      She loved as maiden loves, she wept as woman weeps.
      Soon will her restless frame sleep where her lover sleeps.
              Then to our far-off groves
              Will we her spirit hear.
              When heaves her parting sigh,
              When closed her lustrous eye,
              We will her guardians be,--
              She is our child.




ALICE HILL.

BY MRS. M. E. W. ALEXANDER.


      Fast by a brook, whose murmuring streams
      Reflected heaven in angel dreams,
      Embosomed in a quiet wood,
      An old and storm-rent school-house stood.
      All brown with age and worn by rains,
      Rude winter shook the shattered panes,
      That shivered in their casements light,
      Like goblins' teeth on windy night.
      But when the sun shone down the hill,
      On smiling field and gushing rill,
      And by the school-house danced the brook,
      Through hidden course or leafy nook,
      On shattered panes in casement light
      Its summer rays streamed clear and bright.
      Of pleasant ways and knowledge fair,
      Blithe Alice Hill reigned mistress there,--
      Nor birchen rod nor oaken rule
      In terror held this woodland school;
      Love awed the spirits bold and wild,
      Love won the most rebellious child,--
      O, Alice Hill! just sweet sixteen,
      Of pleasant ways and courteous mien,
      With glowing cheeks and eyes of blue,
      And glossy hair of golden hue,
      O God! that I should ever live,
      Such sad account of thee to give!

      In Moreland vale brown Autumn's tilth,
      Impatient waits the reaper's scythe:
      Where, scattered with a bounteous hand,
      Luxuriant harvests thickly stand.
      The sunlight bathes the waving grain,
      That sweetly smiles to sun again;
      The landscape lies in green and gold,
      And purple clouds in ether rolled,
      Or gentle blue now smile above
      This earthly scene of Eden love.

      With dashing wheels and flying steed,
      Nor whip nor spur to urge their speed,
      To view his land Fitch Moreland came,
      The eldest of his honoured name,
      And heir of all, the green-crowned wood,
      In which the low-roofed school-house stood,
      The wide-spread fields, the meadows broad,
      The fruitful land and grassy sward,
      And near embraced with roses wild
      The old brown house that through them smiled,
      Where Alice Hill had passed her days
      Unnoticed by a flatterer's gaze;
      And Rudolph Hill, a farmer skilled,
      The fields had reaped, the lands had tilled,
      Fitch Moreland's tenant, prompt to pay
      His rent and taxes gathering day.

      Just free from school, with shout and song,
      Fitch Moreland met a joyous throng,
      And joined their sports, with heart as gay,
      As boyhood had not passed away;
      Till seated in a fairy glade,
      Beneath an elm tree's grateful shade,
      Sweet Alice Hill fell on his sight,
      With glowing cheeks and eyes of light:
      Around her neck, her hair unbound,
      In floating tresses swept the ground,
      And pupils kneeling at her side,
      Wild flowers in graceful garlands tied,
      A coronal as fresh and gay
      As ever crowned "the Queen of May."

      With courteous words and city mien,
      Fitch Moreland joined the rustic scene.
      Quick beat the heart of Alice Hill,
      Her pulses woke a music thrill:
      Her glowing cheek with crimson flushed,
      And in her heart tumultuous gushed
      A spring of thought, so sweet and rare,
      It might have claimed the name of air,
      Its unseen visions came so bright,
      To shed on life a holier light.
      O ye who wear love's gentle spell,
      And bless the bondage, can ye tell
      Blithe Alice Hill if this was Love,--
      That like a homeless, wandering dove,
      Beat at her fluttering heart, and sought
      An altar for his blissful thought?

      No longer now, like placid streams,
      Life passes by in quiet dreams;
      But hurried, feverish pulses shake
      The beating heart they may not break,--
      Hope, fear, desire, and all that stored
      The spring of life, hung on his word:
      There was no life without his smile,
      Nor dreamed she that a heart of guile
      Beat in so fair and smooth a shrine,
      That other eyes for him might shine,
      And softer voices breathe his name!
      O, Alice Hill, love's vestal flame
      Hath many a false, misguiding light,
      To cheat young hearts, with promise bright.
      And strew life's shores with dearer wrecks
      Than perish from our wave-washed decks.

      The fowler laid a cunning snare:
      The timid bird was fluttering there,
      And paused on half-suspended wing,
      To hear the subtle charmer sing;
      Close to the brink, with dizzy sense,
      She hung upon his eloquence;
      Lured by the magic of his eye,
      She quite forgot her power to fly,
      Till reeling, powerless with the spell,
      She lost her fragile hold and fell.

      The fowler saw his lovely spoil
      Entangled in the dazzling toil,
      A few frail threads of woven gauze,
      But deadly as the lion's jaws.
      Not till her golden wings were shorn,
      The timid bird escaped forlorn--
      To soar with flocks of grosser mould,
      An alien from the heavenly fold,

      The timid bird, a human heart--
      The snare, a smooth seducer's art--
      How can my pitying pen rehearse
      The burden of its mournful verse,
      Since he who triumphed in his power
      To crush so meek and low a flower,
      Contemptuous spurned it from his path,
      To die a lone neglected death,
      And to the winds his bauble tost--
      Left Alice Hill, betrayed and lost.
      And, Alice Hill, his haughty name
      Will never hide thy maiden shame--
      And though he swear it on his life,
      Thou'lt never be Fitch Moreland's wife!

      "Farewell, my own, my waiting bride!
      Though I am wandering from thy side,
      And from these favourite haunts afar,
      I see thine eyes in every star,
      I hear thy voice in every breeze,
      That floats through summer's radiant trees;
      And thou shalt wear our bridal ring,
      And wear it as a holy thing,
      Till, to the sacred altar led,
      It be the seal by which we wed."

      Years rolled down Time's resistless tides
      Where Time, Eternity divides;
      Fitch Moreland, high in hall and state,
      Cared not that by the elm tree sate
      Poor Alice Hill, to reason lost,
      Like oarless bark on ocean tost;
      Not wildly crazed to tear her hair,
      But mute and sad, as if despair
      Had worn away life's tuneful strings,
      And sealed to Thought its gushing springs.
      But on that ring mute Alice Hill
      For ever looks, as if a thrill
      Of reason shot across her brain,
      And darted gleams of mental pain.

      Bold Winter lay on Moreland Vale.
      His bearded crown of ice and hail,
      And columns wreathed in feathery snow,
      How childhood dreams of glory show.
      Fast by these piles, on reeking steed,
      A post-boy checked his furious speed,
      And whispered to a gaping wight,
      "Fitch Moreland takes a wife to-night."
      Mute Alice Hill the echo caught,--
      With stealthy steps the town she sought,
      That three leagues off in beauty lay
      Along Wamphassock's lovely bay--
      With hair arranged and graceful dress,
      None would have dreamed such loveliness
      Concealed a heart to reason lost,
      Like oarless bark on ocean tost.

      Light, glorious light, streamed clear and wide,
      Through the proud dome of Moreland's bride,
      And mirth and music chid the hours
      Lost in a maze of thornless flowers.
      His eye erect in manly pride,
      Fitch Moreland stood beside his bride,
      Nor dreamed he that his Eden bough
      Hung on a false and perjured vow.
      The holy priest in scarf and bands
      With holy words had joined their hands,
      And as to make more strong an oath,
      When each had pledged their plighted troth,
      A gleaming ring in diamonds set,
      That hid a lock of glossy jet,
      The fragile finger graceful pressed,
      As sunlight lies on ocean's crest.

      A maddened brain, a spirit strong,
      Has pressed aside that startled throng.
      With glaring eyes and purple cheeks,
      Fitch Moreland's side a woman seeks,
      While o'er her half-ethereal frame
      The altar sheds its holy flame.
      The grasp on Moreland's arm was light,
      But those wild eyes, so wildly bright,
      His craven soul with terror fill,
      For now he knows crazed Alice Hill.
      A ring she from her finger drew,
      And held it forth to Moreland's view,
      And murmured low, in tones that thrilled
      His thickly throbbing pulse, and stilled
      The awe-struck guests, as if a breath
      Had touched them from the wing of death:
      "Four times twelve months have quickly fled--
      This be the seal by which we wed,
      And in this light empyreal bow,
      To consecrate, our bridal vow!
      I sit beneath the elm alone
      Since thou, my own, my love, art gone.
      Where hast thou trifled on the way,
      Like truant-boy forbid to stay?
      But hush, my heart, thou needst not chide:
      Fitch Moreland claims his waiting bride!
      My beating heart, what raptures thrill,
      Tumultuous heart, be still! be still!"

      A sturdy arm grasped Alice Hill,
      Who struggling fiercely, shrieking shrill,
      Out from the door was rudely cast,
      Though storms were out and tide and blast.
      There shivering on the pavement cold
      Sat Alice Hill, with spirit bold,
      Roused by a blow, revenge to claim
      For reason lost and peace and name.
      The holy priest completes his task,
      And bride and groom his blessing ask.

      What benediction can reverse
      A wronged and ruined woman's curse?
      With fettered hands and ringlets shorn,
      Poor Alice Hill, a maniac, borne
      On to the mad-house's gloomy walls,
      For ever on Fitch Moreland calls,--
      "I am not mad! Unloose these bands!
      See here my tortured, bleeding hands!
      On Moreland's ring a crimson stain:
      It shall not plead my wrongs in vain;
      For in my heart revenge lies deep--
      Its glassy eyes shall never sleep,
      Till at the altar, live or dead,
      This be the seal by which we wed!"

      A pallet, undisturbed by night,
      Fell on the careful matron's sight.
      And Alice Hill from thence had fled,
      With shoeless feet and naked head.
      Long was the search, and every track
      Pursued to bring crazed Alice back.
      But vain pursuit, reward in vain,
      To bring crazed Alice back again.
      Wrapped in a cloak of faded red,
      With shoeless feet and naked head,
      And ringlets shorn, a woman stood
      Half muttering, in a crazy mood,
      And watched with glazed and jealous eye
      A gorgeous equipage move by.
      Reined in the light of glaring lamps
      The restless steed his bridle champs.

      A form alights with agile bound,
      But reeling, totters to the ground.
      They said, who passed, a weapon's gleam
      Danced in the moonlight's silvery beam.
      Crowds gathered round, a crimson tide
      Was slowly ebbing from his side,
      When on their sight a weapon flashed,
      And feet that living current plashed,
      Till bending o'er his shivering frame
      A woman wildly shrieked his name.
      "Turn on me now your treacherous eyes!
      Speak, lying lips, while perjury dies,
      See what a work a falsehood wrought,
      My love with life were dearly bought,
      But peace and reason with it fled--
      Eternal curses on your head!
      You stole my love, an artless child
      By sacred promises beguiled,
      Then left me to a blighted name,
      To add new laurels to your fame;--
      To death's avenging altar led,
      This be the seal by which we wed."

      Upraised, the weapon gleamed again
      On coward hearts and awe-struck men:
      Beside Fitch Moreland, fainting, dead,
      Lay Alice Hill, their spirits wed
      In that eternal, dreamless sleep,
      Where souls their solemn bridals keep.




DR. VANDORSEN AND THE YOUNG WIDOW.

BY ANN E. PORTER.


To assure my readers that I am telling them what is truth, and
not drawing upon the treasury of fancy for a sketch, I will first
relate to them in what manner I became acquainted with the Doctor
and the Widow. I was once a teacher: yes, for seven years I held
sway in the school-room, and learned by severe discipline the art
of self-government, and to bear in secret many a sorrow of which
the cherished daughter in the domestic circle remains in blissful
ignorance. Whenever I see a young lady, at the close of school-hours,
turning with a weary step to her solitary room in some boarding-house,
my first impulse is to go and ask her to share my own fireside, sit
down at my table, and forget for a while, in my little family circle,
that she is away from the loved ones of her own home.

I shall never forget my first preparations for leaving home. I was
to go eight hundred miles,--a long journey in the days of stages and
canal-boats. My little purse grew thin and lank under the unusual
exertion. I had a trunk and a large bandbox (the latter article I have
since learned to dispense with): in this was placed all the "varieties"
of my wardrobe, as Parson Milton would call them; or the accessories to
strengthen the arsenal, as Bonaparte termed the feminine requisites
to the toilet. My little store of collarets, ribbons, and cravats, my
lace capes and fancy handkerchiefs were all folded in one box, and
placed inside the larger one. They were few in number; but what girl
of eighteen does not cherish her own small hoard of treasures? I was
to go as far as Pittsburg in the company of a lady and her brother,
a boy of sixteen. Three days and nights we were to travel by stage,
stopping only for meals, and occasionally an hour for rest, besides the
intervals caused by changing horses. Two strangers, young gentlemen
from Philadelphia, joined us at the latter city, and remained with the
party to Pittsburg. Nothing, perhaps, makes people better acquainted
with the disposition of their companions, than the old-fashioned mode
of coach-travelling; the petty troubles and peculiar annoyances excite
the mirth of some, but elicit only the grumbling of others, so that for
days together we are entertained by the fun of laughter-loving girls,
and gallant young gentlemen, with growling interludes from some gouty
old man, or the groans of an epicure, who talks only to condemn the
dinner, and curse the cooks.

I had never spent a whole night out of my bed before, and though the
excitement kept me up at first, I found myself so exhausted by the
middle of the second night, that it was with difficulty I could retain
my seat.

One of the passengers, perceiving my situation, and alarmed by my
almost deadly paleness, requested the driver to stop, and ordered a
cup of tea. This, and a resting-place for my poor head, relieved me a
little; but with what joy did we hail, the next day at evening, the
smoky city of Pittsburg.

"Ladies, shall we have the pleasure of meeting all our little party
together in the parlour this evening?" said one of the gentlemen. The
next morning we were to separate, taking three different routes. We
therefore cheerfully acquiesced, and Miss S. and myself repaired to our
rooms to dress. What was my astonishment to find my treasures gone, and
with them a valuable breastpin, the gift of my grandfather, shortly
before his death! I was weary, sick, and sad; but at the earnest
request of my companion, I put on a black silk dress, and felt not a
little refreshed by my bath, and the privilege of using thoroughly the
brush and comb, which, denied me for two days and nights, had given
to my head, with its exuberance of hair, a most moppish appearance on
the outside, while the brain within seemed to share the entanglement
without.

But the efforts of my companions could not chase away the homesickness
of the heart. The morning would find me alone in the world. Sixty miles
of my journey were yet to be travelled: and, wearied in body and faint
in spirit, I longed to see my dear father, and be at home again under
his protection. I shrunk, too, from the duties before me: they seemed
more arduous and difficult as I approached them; and with a sad feeling
of my own incompetency and the lack of personal charms, which might
prepossess my employers, I laid my head upon my pillow that night and
watered it with my tears. Sleep! blessed, blessed Sleep! Thou dost take
the burdens from the weary and fling them into the waters of oblivion;
the infant, in its guileless rest, is pillowed on thy lap, and the
aged lean lovingly on thy shoulder. Merciful was the great Father of
all, that he did permit thee to follow Adam from Paradise, and travel
with his children in this world of guilt,--thus are we permitted to
forget, for a while, at least, our sorrows and our sins. Early the next
morning I went on board a steamboat for Wheeling, and though shrinking
and timid, I still found protection and kindness when needed; but when
we arrived, at midnight, in the village of P., and I found myself alone
in a large, desolate-looking room of the hotel, all the former feeling
of sadness came over me, and with them an indefinable dread of the
future.

I must send word to the patrons of the school that I had arrived:
and fearful that their expectations would be disappointed, I could
not sleep. The next morning I despatched a messenger, and two of the
trustees called. They were polite, but said little, excepting what
related to business; but when they left me, remarked, "We will procure
a more agreeable home for you than this." I thanked them with my lips,
but they little comprehended how earnestly the heart craved for a home
again. The day passed, and I saw no one till the twilight shadows were
creeping into that lonely room, and with them also dim visions of home
and friends, bringing with them that sad heart-longing which the young
feel during their first absence from home, when I was startled from
my reverie by a gentle knock at my door. I opened it, and an old lady
stood before me, so kind, so motherly in her appearance, and so plainly
yet tastefully dressed, that my heart clung to her at first sight. If
my Father in heaven had sent an angel to me, I should certainly have
chosen just such a face and garb, in my present condition, rather than
the white robes and bright-winged cherubs of Raphael's glorious fancy.

"Why, my dear child," said she, as if struck at once by my girlish
figure and pallid face, "you must have been lonely here to-day, and you
need a mother to nurse and take care of you after your long journey.
My name is Warner, and I am going to take you home with me, if you
will go. My brother called this morning, and my husband would have
accompanied me, but he was very busy; and I was so fearful that you
would be homesick, that I thought I would come and introduce myself."

My heart bounded with delight, and I could hardly speak for gratitude;
and I said so little, and that in such a blundering way, that I was
afraid she would not know how much relief she had brought me.

"Come, my dear, get your bonnet," said she pleasantly, "and I will send
for your baggage."

I obeyed, and in a few minutes we stopped at a large but neat
residence, almost hid in a profusion of shrubbery. The climbing
multiflora rose covered one side of the house, and, with welcome
intrusiveness, peeped into the chamber windows, while a honeysuckle and
woodbine threw their mantle of green over the door, and mingled their
blossoms with those of a tall snowball tree, which had grown high, and,
clinging to the house, showered a white welcome upon every corner. A
few steps from the house, on the right side, but in the same enclosure,
was a small brick office;--on the other side a cottage, shaded by two
large beech trees, children of the forest, spared by some merciful
woodman when the land was cleared. Such was the outward appearance of
my new home--a word as to its inmates. My companion ushered me into a
small sitting-room, prettily furnished, and occupied at the time by two
persons,--one a tall, white-haired old gentleman, with spectacles on
nose, reading the newspaper--the other Mrs. Travis, a young widow, the
daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Warner, who had returned again to the home of
her youth. She was sewing as we entered, but, laying aside her work,
rose to greet us. Her countenance was plain, but a pair of sparkling
black eyes gave animation and expression to her features; and, as I
returned her salutation, I thought her welcome not quite so cordial as
her mother's. It seemed to express this--"Whether you and I like each
other will depend on circumstances." But the old gentleman looked at
me for an instant over his spectacles; then, laying them aside with
his paper, rose, and taking my hand, welcomed me to the West with a
hearty greeting; then, placing a chair near to his own, begged me to be
seated. His whole countenance was expressive of goodness; and, as I sat
down by his side in all the timidity of a girlish stranger, I felt, for
the first time since leaving home, a delicious sense of security and
peace. It seemed as if the wing of some guardian angel was over me, and
a refuge opened in time of sorrow.

And here, _en passant_, I must add, those first impressions never
changed; and, from that hour till the day when that blessed spirit
was carried by angels to its own pure home in heaven, I always found
consolation in trouble, advice in perplexity, and gentle reproof in
error, by the side of the good old man. How sweet was the fragrance
of his daily life, and how precious the kiss he imprinted upon my
forehead, and the blessing he implored upon my head when I bade him
farewell! Oh! the hopeless darkness of atheism, which draws the veil
of oblivion between us and all further intercourse with such spirits!
No, no!--let us rather say with St. Paul, "I _know_ in whom I have
believed;" and with Job, "I _shall_ live again."

But my limits forbid any extended notice of the members of the family,
though the years I spent under that charmed roof are marked in my life
with a white stone. There I emerged from the bashful, timid girl, into
the more active, energetic woman; and under the blessed influence of
love I trust I grew wiser and happier.

When, at nine o'clock, the family Bible was opened, and father

      "Read a portion with judicious care,
      And 'Let us worship God,' he said with solemn air;"

and all knelt at the family altar in prayer, my own heart was full,
and I was thankful that no eye could see my face. Soon afterwards the
old lady said, "You look tired, and must retire; I will show you to
your room." Then, leading me through a small entry, she opened the door
of a commodious room, saying, as she did so, "This will be yours." It
was carpeted, a centre-table was in the middle of the room, an open
stove with its grate, ready at any chilly hour for coal, and a nice,
cosy-looking bed in one corner of the apartment. The old lady lighted
a candle, and bade me good night. Did she, or did she not, think I was
a cold-hearted little thing, that I said good night in such a low,
tremulous tone? I know not; but this I do know, that, as soon as she
had left the room, I sat down, and, laying my head on the table, burst
into tears.

They were tears of thankfulness and joy, and they refreshed the heart,
as a summer shower the parched earth.

I seemed a child again, and, with my childhood's prayer upon my lips, I
dropped to sleep that night. I would love to sit and write till night
about my after-life there, but I have limited myself to one little
episode, and to that I will proceed. I had been there some months;
Elizabeth had learned that we were so unlike that we could love, and
neither be enemies nor rivals. Her high, ambitious, buoyant spirit had
nothing to fear from the timid, yielding, sensitive girl who was to
be her companion. Not a single trait in the character of each came in
collision. One was self-reliant, could keep her own secrets, extricate
herself from her own difficulties, feared none but God, cared little
for the opinion of others, loved deeply, hated cordially. The other
had an inordinate "love of approbation," lacked hope and courage, but,
supported by a stronger arm, could endure the bitterest trial even to
the end. The one was proud to uphold, the other loved to trust.

And thus we moved on, loved and loving, whereas, had we resembled each
other more closely, bitter heart-burnings and jealousies might have
been the result. One day we sat together in the little sitting-room.
We were reading "Deerbrook," by Miss Martineau, and wondering that
such want of trust and faith should ever take place between sisters,
when the door-bell rang, and a young gentleman, a total stranger to
us, was ushered in. He was a tall young man, with a fresh countenance,
a somewhat diffident manner, and gray eyes, which had a downcast
expression. It was difficult for him to observe that simple rule of
politeness, "Look directly at the person to whom you speak." Mr. Warner
endeavoured to make him more at his ease by casual remarks upon the
weather, and other topics of the day; but he elicited little besides
"Yes, sir," "No, sir," "I agree with you perfectly, sir," and suchlike
replies. At last he drew a card from his pocket, and handed it to Mr.
Warner, saying, "I have been in town some days, and am looking out for
an office. Learning that the one near your house is unoccupied, I have
made an early application."

"I will think of it," said the old gentleman. "This is Dr. Vandorsen,
ladies, come to take up his residence in our village." This somewhat
awkward introduction over, I took the opportunity to slip out of the
room, just as they commenced talking upon the terms of rent and other
business matters.

"Well, now," said Elizabeth, as she came hastily into my room, an hour
afterwards; "what do you think of the Doctor?"

"Why, I haven't thought of him since I left the room; I have been
preparing my lesson in Butler's Analogy, and I assure you it requires
all the strength of my feeble brain to grasp his arguments and make
them clear to my class."

"A truce to such work! I thought you had been studying the young
stranger's physiognomy, and were prepared to give me an analysis of his
character."

"Let me see," I said; "I cannot give you his character, but I believe
his personal appearance I can remember; cheeks like your rusty-coat
apples, rusty brown with a touch of red, foxy eyes, slick, _very_
slick hair, as the Yankees say, an inflexible spine, and in one respect
only like St. Paul."

"Pray what is that?"

"Brethren, I came unto you in much _weakness of speech_."

Lizzy's eyes snapped, and she looked, for a moment, almost angry.
"Then," said she, "I really thought you had some penetration of
character, but I must be mistaken. Did you not see the evidence of
fine feelings beneath that bashful exterior? And then he was so modest
and unassuming; why I no sooner heard his errand than my fancy drew a
beautiful picture in perspective. He seemed so much like yourself,--you
that we are beginning to love so much, that I thought it would be love
at first sight. Father will let him have the office, and then here's
the cottage: a nice, snug place it would be for you, and we could have
you always with us, and a doctor handy to cure 'the ills to which flesh
is heir.'"

"You have a vivid imagination, truly; but let me tell you that you are
right in supposing that I have very little penetration of character.
I have none; but sometimes, though I cannot account for it, I have a
strong aversion to a person on the first meeting; and when it is so, I
never overcome it."

"Nonsense," said Lizzy, "that is all imagination; a belief without
reason, but it cannot be so in this case."

"We will leave this for the present," I said; "and I will take more
particular notice of the Doctor the next time. If you like him, I have
no doubt I shall also. But why so disinterested? why not take the good
Doctor yourself, and then the office and cottage will follow as a life
possession for him?"

"Why, don't you know, my dear child, he is not the man for me? I should
be the death of so amiable a personage in two years. If I marry again,
it must be a man of boldness and spirit. I care not if he have the
temper of Bonaparte, if he have his courage and spirit."

"And could you endure like Josephine? You forget the broken vows and
crushed hopes."

A shade passed over her countenance a moment.

"Let us not talk about marriage now," said she.

"Agreed," I replied. "I must study, and bury all other aspirations for
the present in my school."

The next day the Doctor took possession of the office, and long rows
of vials and boxes of bones usurped the place of law books and deeds.
The boy pounded medicines in the morning, and the Doctor played on his
flute at night.

He was neighbourly, and very attentive to both the young ladies,
evidently studying to make no difference in his attentions. To be sure,
he talked most with myself, and I noticed whenever an opportunity
occurred, Lizzy would direct the conversation to some subject in
which I was especially interested. Every Wednesday evening we went to
a lecture, and he was usually present to accompany the family. The
whole family seemed interested in him, and good old Mr. Warner too,
especially as he now spoke of his intention to join the church. When
that event did take place, I found some excuse for staying at home. The
more I tried to overcome it, the stronger my aversion became. I thought
it must be groundless--the rest of the family had more experience
and wisdom than myself,--why then should I feel such an unaccountable
prejudice towards an innocent young gentleman who had done me no harm?

I determined to overcome it, and most severely did I blame myself for
suspecting that any other than holy motives led to this public act
of consecration. The next evening, when he proposed to me that we
should take a short walk, I cheerfully consented. As we passed a large
flouring mill, he said, "This, I believe, is Mr. Warner's?"

"Yes," I replied.

"It seems, to be a very valuable one."

"One of the most so in the region. The old gentleman came to this
country many years ago. Like Abraham, he went forth, not knowing
whither he went, and like him has he been prospered. He has flocks and
herds, houses and lands, and, what shall I call _those_?" I asked, as a
drove of swine marked by him came grunting along with their snub noses
in the gutter.

"Oh, that is but one species of property," he remarked, "and has its
value. The good old man seems to be very worthy."

"Worthy!" I repeated to myself--what harm in that, and yet I didn't
like the question, or rather the tone of the remark.

"He is one of the excellent of the earth--belonging to that species of
salt which never loses its savour."

"They seem to be a very affectionate family, no wonder they feel almost
idolatry for their interesting daughter. Did you know her husband?"

"Not at all," I replied, and by my silence indicated that I had no wish
to continue this conversation.

The very next morning I had occasion to go into the private room or
study of the old gentleman, to deposit in his hands a sum of money,
the proceeds of my labour, and for which he gave me good interest
and security. I found the old lady there, and as I opened the door
she remarked, "Oh yes, husband, lend him freely if he needs; he is
young, and a hundred dollars may aid him greatly now; I have perfect
confidence in the Doctor."

I bit my lip, for I found myself inclined to smile, and did not wish
to be observed. But the old gentleman remarked the expression of my
face, and looking over his spectacles archly said, "Ay, ay, my little
schoolma'am! and so you don't think so highly of the Doctor as the rest
of us, or do you sail under false colours just now?"

"I have no cause for that," I replied, "and if I had, your penetration
would find it out; so honesty is really my best policy, for no other
reason than because I can have no other."

"Well, time works wonders; I only desire that you settle among us, and
I must say, prudence would hardly advise the Doctor at present; so
take good care of yourself and all will come right," so giving me my
receipt and a kiss on the cheek, I left the good couple in the act of
counting out a hundred dollars for the Doctor. Weeks passed, and Lizzy,
delighted at every new patient the Doctor had and at the increasing
reputation she thought he was gaining, always had some interesting fact
to relate to me when I returned from school at night. At one time he
had refused all pay from a sick old woman, one of Lizzy's protégés,
whom he visited daily. At another time, he had spent half a day in
the garden with her good mother, budding, trimming, and tying up her
bushes; again, he had gone into the field and mowed for three hours, to
help her father, when there was a prospect of rain. "And wouldn't he
make a good husband, Sissy dear?" she said.

"Yes, love, if he was only a little more fiery, like Bonaparte, and had
the courage and spirit of a hero."

Lizzy looked annoyed. In the mean time, common report had, to my great
vexation, coupled the Doctor's name with mine; but to attempt to stem
the current of village gossip is like using Dame Partington's broom
to sweep the sea. Firmness and patience are the only salves for such
annoyances. Happily, a vacation of a week occurred, and I was to spend
it with one of my pupils.

On my return, it was a pleasant summer's evening, the doors were open,
and the same vines and trees which the year before looked so inviting
to the little homesick girl, were again loaded with blossoms. The old
folks sat just inside the door enjoying the mild air, and Lizzy on an
ottoman, which stood on the broad step. The Doctor, with a hideous
black patch on the side of his forehead, and one arm in a sling, stood
leaning in a picturesque attitude by her side. Lizzy's eyes looked
milder than I ever saw them before, and when she turned them upon the
Doctor, there was an expression of interest and sympathy which I had
never noticed before. "The victory is won," I said to myself, and then,
like a shadow on my heart, came those first impressions, which no after
acquaintance had removed. Mr. Warner came forward to welcome me, and
wait upon me into the house, saying to the Doctor, with a smile, "We
will excuse all want of gallantry this evening."

"And excuse me, also," he replied, "I will do myself the pleasure of
calling on Miss Porter to-morrow," he said.

"What in the name of wonder has happened?" I said to Lizzy, who had
flown to my side as the Doctor left.

"Oh, it is quite a story, I assure you; but I ought not to tell you,
for I shall spoil it for the Doctor to-morrow. He tells it so well;
you'll find that your stammering St. Paul can speak with the tongue of
an angel sometimes."

But my curiosity would not allow me to wait: and in truth, neither
would Lizzy's enthusiasm permit her to do the same; so she gave the
outlines, promising that the Doctor should fill them up in the morning.

"Would you believe it," she commenced, "the Doctor has been robbed and
shot at, and"--

"Shot at, and then robbed, Sis," said the old gentleman.

"There, I knew I should spoil the story."

"Never mind, do go on," I said, "where, pray?"

"Why, on the turnpike road to McConnelsville; don't you remember a
piece of woods there?"

"Why, yes; but honest black Gassoway's house is near about half way as
you pass the woods. I came from there on horseback, at eight o'clock in
the evening, only two weeks ago."

"You must never go there again, my child," said Mrs. Warner, in a sort
of sepulchral tone; "it may be the death of you."

"Just as the Doctor came to where the woods commenced, two
horrible-looking ruffians with masks came out of the woods, and while
one seized the horse's bridle, the other pointed a pistol to his heart,
and demanded his money. He had two hundred dollars by him, which he was
then taking to a man he owed. It was all the spare money he had; you
know the Doctor is just commencing his profession, and he does not wish
to urge his debtors too hard at present. But he was too brave to yield
at once; he knocked the pistol aside, but it went off, grazing his arm;
but after a hard fight with his opponents, he found they were too much
for him, and after resigning all his money he came back home. Isn't it
too bad, so industrious and prudent as he seems to be?"

"It is a hard case surely; but for the life of me I cannot imagine how
robbers dared come so near the town; the pistol-shot must have been
heard at Gassoway's."

"No, it was midnight, and they were sound asleep, probably. I wish they
had heard and gone in pursuit."

The next day was Sunday, and, as usual, I went to meeting in the
evening. Lizzy complained of slight indisposition, and did not
accompany us; but when we returned we found the two invalids together,
and one at least looking very agreeable, though Lizzy's face expressed
embarrassment whenever she caught my eye.

The next morning the good old lady called me into her room a little
while before the hour of school, and, bidding me sit down by her side,
said affectionately, but seriously,

"My child, do you love the Doctor?"

Though not naturally mirthful, I could scarce refrain from laughing
in the old lady's face. Respect forbade, and I answered, with all the
seriousness I could command,

"Dear Aunty, because you and Lizzy wished it, I have tried hard to do
so; but I do not love him, and I am convinced I never can."

The good woman looked relieved, and said, "I am glad it is so; you are
far away from home and friends, and I should be sorry to have you in
trouble while with us. Come to me at all times with your sorrows, and I
will try and be a mother to you."

The smiles were now exchanged for tears. What in the world does any one
wish to cry for, when they are grateful? But some seem to have that
unfortunate propensity.

"I was only to add," said the old lady, "that the Doctor loves Lizzy;
and I feared," she said, "it might make one heart sad. We fancied you
felt more interest in the Doctor than you are willing to acknowledge."

"I now give you a solemn promise," I said, and it was sealed with a
kiss, "that I will always speak the truth to yourself."

This conversation only gave me new cause for regret. I could not see my
dear Lizzy married to the Doctor, so long as I was unable to shake off
my own dislike to him, and my own mouth was fettered by the suspicions
concerning myself. For two days I was pondering in my own mind what
could be done; and learning that Mr. Warner would permit no engagement
to take place at present, concluded that time and patience would bring
all right.

Thus I mused, with my book open, but my mind wandering, when Lizzy
burst into the room.

"Heigh-ho! my little hypocrite, you never can keep a secret, you say.
Is that the truth?" And she held a card towards me.

"I never had any secrets to keep, Lizzy, so I don't know how much
strength I possess."

"Well here, then--'Joseph Dushey, St. Louis, Mo.'"

"Upon my word, Lizzy, I know no more about this gentleman than
yourself. Does he wish to see me?"

"That he does, and is waiting your ladyship's presence in the parlour."

"Some business relating to the school," I said. "I must not keep him
waiting."

So to the parlour I went, and soon found myself in the presence of a
gentleman upon whom nature had put her unmistakeable sign of nobility.
His address and manner were those of one accustomed to refined
society, and his ease and suavity quite overcame my own timidity. But,
after a few minutes' general conversation, it was his turn to become
embarrassed; and, after apologizing for interference in my private
affairs, he said that, hearing that an engagement of marriage existed
between myself and Dr. Vandorsen, he had felt it his duty to expose the
character of the Doctor. It was painful, but it seemed to him an act of
justice and mercy. He then related the history of this adventurer--a
reckless swindler, ingratiating himself into the favour of others,
and then repaying kindness with black ingratitude. "I have often," he
said, "from regard to his father, helped him to money. He is owing me
now; and, learning that I was in the vicinity, he invented the account
of the sham robbery, which he says took place on Saturday evening."
He then placed in my hands the papers containing proofs of that which
he had asserted, and again, with much delicacy, apologized for his
intrusion.

I thanked him most sincerely for what he had done, and assuring him
that no such engagement existed between us, yet these papers were
valuable as guarding against future trouble for others.

He allowed me to retain them. On going to my room I sat down and
examined them carefully, and blessed God that I had it in my power to
save Lizzy from a dreadful sacrifice. I laid them aside, determined to
place them in the hands of Mr. Warner in the morning.

When morning came, the Doctor's office was found deserted; the key hung
upon the outside, his valuables were removed, and from that time to
this I have heard nothing from Dr. Vandorsen, nor has my good mother
Warner or her family. Neither have the two hundred dollars, which they
at different times loaned him, ever been returned.

Lizzy is most delightfully situated, and I know of but one drawback
to her perfect happiness, viz., that her husband is one of the most
amiable of men, never allowing his temper to conquer his reason, and
never likely to allow ambition to overpower the deep affection he bears
his wife.




A CENOTAPH.
AUGUST, 1776.

BY ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH.

    "It was a notion of the ancients, that if one perished at sea, or
    where his body could not be found, the only way to procure repose
    for him was to build an empty tomb, and by certain rites and
    invocations, call his spirit to the habitation prepared for it."

  ESCHENBURG.


I.

1.

      The memory of Nathan Hale,
        Who, in the days of strife,
      For freedom of our native land,
        Laid down his noble life.

      Lord Howe, Cornwallis, Percy earl
        Were come in wide array,
      And from Long Island to New York
        Had pushed our guns away.

      Our Father looked across the Sound,
        Disaster groaned behind,
      And many dubious, anxious thoughts
        Were labouring in his mind.

      "Knowlton," said he, "I need a man,
        Such as is hard to meet,
      A trusty, brave, and loyal man,
        And skilful in deceit.

      "The British, now in Brooklyn lodged,
        May divers plans pursue:
      Find me a man to go and spy
        What Howe intends to do."

      Said Knowlton, "Sir, I make no doubt
        Many apt men have we."
      He went. At nightfall he returned
        With Hale in company.

2.

      "Young friend," said Washington to Hale,
        "It much imports to know
      What mischief Howe is brooding on;
        Which way intends to go.

      "But though you might, with help of Grace,
        Unmask his schemes of ill,
      I will not risk your generous blood
        Without your perfect will."

      "Grave Sir," said Hale, "I left my home,
        Not for the love of strife,
      But for my country's cause resolved,
        Knowing I risked my life.

      "Between my duty and my will,
        In service light or sore,
      It is not now for me to choose,
        For that was done before.

      "Let not your Excellency poise
        What may to me ensue;
      But weigh the service to be done,
        And judge my power to do."

      "Well said; then briefly thus:--Put on
        Some other self-disguise--
      And by to-morrow morning be
        Among our enemies.

      "Go safely curious how you will,
        And spy whate'er you may,
      Of how their troops have borne the bruise
        They gave us yesterday.

      "And deeper else--our chief concern,
        And study at this hour--
      Find if their guns are hither aimed;
        Or, with divided power,

      "Cleft from the rearward of their force,
        While we stand here attent;
      Or farther south, or farther north,
        They mean to make descent.

      "Brooklyn to them is vantage-ground.
        Find what you can. To know
      The mischief in a foeman's thought
        Is half to foil a foe.

      "The moon goes down"--"By nine," said Hale.
        Said Knowlton: "Nay, at ten."
      "Can you be off so soon as that?"
        "I hardly think by then:

      "Nor would--for let me plead that I,
        Herein, may yield my breath;
      And mine affairs I would devise
        As if before my death.

      "God knows what hearts may crack for this.
        But failure, or no fail,
      To-morrow morning I'll be there,
        As I am Nathan Hale."

      "Bravely, my boy! Such soul as this
        Is better than a host.
      To dare is little, if to dare
        Unmindful of the cost."

3.

      The night was broadly overcast,
        And the scant moon and stars,
      From the dim dungeons of the clouds,
        Looked through their iron bars.

      "My worthy lad," said Washington,
        "We seek without despair,
      Although we find, in all yon arch,
        No sign of morning there."

      "And know whose gracious hand it is
        That times the darkest sky,"
      Said Hale. "Adieu!" said Washington,
        "God keep you,--go,--good-bye!"


II.

1.

      The flitting Hours, with golden brands
        Once more adorned with flame,
      Beheld our land in busy act,
        Where war was all the game.

      Out of his cups of deep carouse,
        That reeled till morning shine,
      The Provost of the Lion camp
        Came forth the tented line.

      An ugly man,--a tiger soul,
        Lodged in a human house,--
      With whiskey fuming from his hide,
        And hair about his brows.

      And Hale had hid his skiff, and now
        Was coming by the shore,
      Thinking of many serious things
        He never thought before.

      He mused of all the hard assays
        Of this our mortal state;
      The bitter bruise, and bloody blows
        Of Virtue matched with Fate.

      He heard the larks and robins sing,
        And tears came in his eyes,
      To think how man, and man alone,
        Was cast from Paradise.

2.

      "Well Hodge, how's turnips? What's in this?"
        "Now who be you?" said Hale,
      "I aint no Hodge,--taint turnips,--stop,--
        Let go,--this here's for sale."

      "Powder and grog! be quiet, lad.
        Tobacco! by my soul!
      Rebel, we've come to take the land,--
        Hands off!--I seize the whole."

      The Provost wheeled towards the camp.
        Hale followed with a cry:
      "Give me my pack--now--come--you sir!"
        "Clod-shoes, get home!--not I."

      But epaulettes were on the road.--
        The trick was getting worse.
      The Provost dumped the pack aside,
        With a substantial curse.

      "Wa'al, mister, that's the han'some thing!
        That are tobaker's prime.
      I knowed you didn't mean to grab,--
        I knowed it all the time.

      "I'm goin' to peddle, up to camp,
        And if you only would
      Go snacks, and help me sell, you might.
        Come, I should say you could."

      "Yorky, pick up your pack, hook on,
        Hook on, we'll make it even."
      The lines were passed, the countersign,--
        "Whither away,"--was given.

      "I see," said Hale, within himself,
        "This man's internal shape,--
      The Devil can do a gracious turn,
        To shy a graceless scrape."

3.

      Gay was the camp with liveried men;
        Some trimmed the gun and blade,
      Some chatted in the morning sun,
        Some slept along the shade.

      And some bore out the soldier dead
        On his unfollowed bier--
      The soldier dead, the hapless dead,
        Who died without a tear.

      So lately wept from England's shore,
        And winged with prayers afar,
      To feel the piercing thunder-shock,
        Gored by the horns of War.

4.

      Cried Hale, "Who buys? who buys? who buys?
        Hearts! Boys! My lads! Hooraw!
      Thrippence a junk, Britannia rule--
        Don't any of you chaw?"

      And all the while his wily eye
        Was taking curious notes
      Of men, and arms, and sheeted carts,
        And guns with stoppered throats.

      "Boys, what you goin' to doin' on?
        Hello!--this way that beer.
      You goin' to captivate New York?
        Pine-shillin' piece--look here--"

      "Sing us a song." "'Bout what?" said Hale.
        "Sing us 'All in the Doons'--
      'Britannia Rule'--'God save the King'"--
        Said Hale, "Don't know the tunes."

      Cornwallis now came walking by,--
        "The Capting, hey?" "It is."
      Hale folded up an ample slice:
        "D'ye s'pose he'd 'xcept of this?"

      Mad with the thought, to see the clown
        Break his own pate with fun,
      "Do it," said they. Said Hale, "I will."
        "Jerry's respects"--'twas done.

      And back he came with open grin;
        "Took it like ile!" said he.
      "I swow! I done the handsome thing--
        He done it, too, to me."


III.

1.

      Sins are like waters in a gap;
        Like flames to leap a check;
      If cable Conscience crack a strand,
        A man may go to wreck.

      Sins never shut the doors of hearts
        That give good cheer to sin,
      But always leave them open wide,
        For others to come in.

      Disdaining ours, for England's camp,
        There lurked a man about,
      Who, flushed with shame and rage of heart,
        Like Judas, had gone out.

      He left us, and he swore revenge,
        And vengeance did not fail.
      The courteous fiend, who led his steps,
        Conducted him to Hale--

      His kinsman--one whose generous hand,
        Impelled by bold desire,
      Had saved him once, and still endured
        The seal of it in fire.

      He met him coming from the camp;
        He saw--he knew the hand--
      He saw the whole--and in the road
        He made a sudden stand.

      "Hum! ha!--It's Captain Hale, I think.
        Nathan, how do you do?
      Sorry I am to see you here--
        Sorry I am for you."

      Off from the sudden heart of Hale
        All his disguises fell:
      "Cousin! good God!--go back with me.
        And all shall yet be well."

      "It cannot be. You came to dare,
        And you must take the rod."
      Said Hale, "This hand, at Judgment day,
        Will fan the wrath of God."

      "Speak not of God," the traitor said;
        "A good French faith have I--
      'No man hath seen Him,' Scripture saith,
        And 'all is vanity.'"

      Hale, finding how the scoundrel feared
        Nor God's nor man's award,
      Looked for a handy stick or stone,
        To quicken his regard.

      But, tiger-soon, the renegade
        Had gripped his arms around:
      "Ah, ha!--yes, yes--help! help!" he cried,
        And crushed him to the ground.

2.

      Fettered on straw, with soldier guards,
        The tent-lamp trembling low,
      The morrow was his day of doom,
        That night a night of woe.

      And half the night the gallows sound
        Of hammers filled his ears,
      Like strokes upon a passing-bell,
        Telling his numbered years.

      His numbered years--alas! how brief!
        And Memory searched them back,
      Like one who searches, with a light,
        Upon a midnight track.

      The fields, the woods, the humming school,
        The idly-pondered lore,
      And the fair-fingered girl that shared
        His dinner at the door;

      His room, beneath the homestead eaves,
        Wherein he laid his head;
      His mother, come to take the light,
        And see him warm in bed.

      These, and their like, distinct and bright,
        Came back, and fired his brain
      With visions, all whose sweetness now
        Was but exalted pain.


IV.

1.

      Ere silence droops her fluttering wing,
        The pang may all be past;
      And oft, of good men's latter hours,
        The easiest is their last.

      The morn was up, the flickering morn
        Of summer, towards the fall.
      "Bravely is all," the guardsman said;
        Said Hale, "God's grace is all."

      And now the Provost-Marshal came
        With soldiers--all was ripe;
      But out of Hale's tobacco, first,
        He filled and smoked a pipe.

      Forth passed the man, through all disguise,
        With look so sweet and high;
      He showed no sort of dread, at all,
        Of what it was to die.

      Come to the cart, whose doleful planks
        Beneath his feet did creak,
      He bowed, and looked about, and stood
        In attitude to speak.

      "Holloa! hoa! drummer, bring your drum,
        Play Yankee Doodle here--
      Play, while we crack the rebel's neck."
       Earl Percy then drew near:

      "Provost," said he, "I shame at this.
        Let the lad have his say,
      Or you shall find who rules the camp;"
        And so he walked away.

2.

      "Soldiers," said Hale, "you see a man
        Whom Death must have and keep;
      And things there are, if I should think,
        I could not help but weep.

      "But since in darkness, evermore,
        God's providences hide,
      The bravely good, in every age,
        By faith have bravely died.

      "That man who scorns his present case,
        For glorious things to be,
      I hold that in his scorn he shows
        His soul's nobility.

      "Though George the Third completely scourge
        Our groaning lives away,
      It cannot, shall not be in vain
        That I stand here to-day.

      "Oh take the wings of noble thought!
        Run out the shapes of Time,
      To where these clouds shall lift, nor leave
        A stain upon the clime.

      "Behold the crown of ages gone,
        Sublime and self-possessed;
      In empire of the floods and shores
        None so completely blest.

      "This land shall come to vast estate,
        In freedom vastly grow,
      And I shall have a name to live,
        Who helped to build it so.

      "Ye patriots, true and sorely tried,
        When the dark days assail,
      I seem to see what tears ye shed,
        At thought of Nathan Hale.

      "Where is that man among ye all,
        Who come to see me die,
      That would not glory in his soul,
        If he had done as I?

      "Judge, then, how I have wrecked my life.
        And in what cause begun.
      I sorrow but in one regret,
        That I can lose but one.

      "In Thee, O Christ! I now repose--
        Thou art my All to me;
      And unto Thee, thou Triune God--
        Oh make my country free!"

      Then turning to a guard, who wept
        Like sudden April rain,
      And scattered from his generous eyes
        The drops of holy pain.

      "Unto your honest tears I trust
        These letters to convey."
      Then, to the Provost-Marshal, Hale
        Did mildly turn, and say:

      "Before from underneath my feet
        The fatal cart is gone,
      I fain would hear the chaplain pray;
        Sir Provost have you none?"

      As when a dreadful lion roams
        The torrid sands, and sees
      A fawn among the valleys drink,
        Beneath the tuneful trees;

      If, 'chance, he sees the tender hind
        Just move behind an oak,
      He snaps his teeth, and snaps his tail,
        And makes the desert smoke.

      So, when the Provost witnessed Hale
        To softer hands convey
      His parting love, and heard him ask
        To hear the chaplain pray,

      He jumped like mad, he danced about,
        Did dance, and roar, and swear--
      The furies in his furnace eyes,
        And in his rampant hair.

      "Dog of a thief! ere you shall have
        Priest, book, or passing-bell,
      Your rebel hide shall rot in air,
        Your soul shall roast in hell!"

      "God's will be done!" said Nathan Hale:
        "Farewell to life and light!"
      They pulled the cloth about his eyes,
        And the slack cord was tight.


V.

1.

      Once more the rack, along the Sound,
        Curled to the mounting sun,
      That kissed, with mercy's beams, a world
        Where such strange things are done.

      Along our lines the sentry walked;
        The dew was on his hair;
      He felt the night in every limb,
        But kept his station there;

      And watched the shimmering spires, and saw
        The swallows slide away;
      When, o'er the fields, there came a man,
        Rough, and in rough array.

      "Holla, you Yankee scout!" said he,
        "They've caught your Captain Hale,
      And choked him for a traitor spy,
        Dead as a dead door-nail.

      "Run--use your rebel soldier legs--
        Tell General Washington.
      Don't wait--you'll be promoted for't--
        I'll stand and hold your gun."

      Out spake the guard--"You British crow,
        Curse on your croaking head!
      Move off, or else, I swear, you'll get
        The cartridge and the lead."

2.

      Full of his news, the sentry soon
        To Knowlton told the same.
      Knowlton, with tears in either eye,
        To the head-quarters came,

      And told to General Washington
        Poor Hale's unhappy case.
      Nought answered he, but bowed awhile,
        With hands upon his face.

      Then rising, steadfast and serene,
        The same great master still--
      Curbing a noble sorrow down
        With a more noble will--

      "Bring me," said he, "my writing-desk,
        And maps last night begun;
      Send hither Putnam, Lee, and Greene,
        For much is to be done."

      So perished Nathan Hale. God grant
        Us not to die as he;
      But, for the glorious Stripes and Stars,
        Such iron loyalty.


    NOTE.--Nathan Hale was a native of the town of Coventry, in
    Connecticut; and graduated at Yale College, in 1773. He entered the
    army of the Revolution at an early period, as a captain in a light
    infantry regiment, under command of Colonel Knowlton. After the
    defeat of the 27th August, 1776, and the retreat of the Americans
    from Long Island, Washington became exceedingly desirous to gain
    some information respecting the future operations of the enemy, and
    applied to Colonel Knowlton, through whom Hale was introduced, and
    volunteered his services.

    He disguised himself, crossed to Long Island, procured admission to
    the British camp, obtained the information desired, and was about
    leaving the Island, when a refugee and a relative recognised, and
    betrayed him.

    The case was clear. Hale confessed; and Sir William Howe ordered
    him hung the next morning. He suffered like a patriot and a
    Christian. "I lament," said he, "that I have but one life to
    lose for my country." The provost-marshal, who superintended the
    execution, was a savage-hearted man, and refused him the attendance
    of a clergyman, and the use of a Bible, and destroyed letters which
    he had written to his mother, and other friends, making the remark,
    that "the rebels should not know that they had a man in their army
    who could die with so much firmness."

    An aged physician, recently deceased, was accustomed to relate an
    anecdote that is worthy of preservation. The Doctor, when a small
    boy, attended a school taught by Hale in the town of East Windsor,
    Connecticut. One day Hale was standing at his desk, in a deep
    study, when certain wide-awake boys began to take advantage of his
    inattention.

    The narrator thereupon went softly to his side, touched him, and
    pointed to the scene of mischief. Hale, without turning his head,
    dropped a look[25] upon the little informer--a mild look, but full
    of rebuke,--"Go back to your seat," said he. The boy slunk away,
    and neither misunderstood nor forgot this rebuke of the ungenerous
    and disloyal, from his true-hearted teacher; and associated as the
    incident became with the subsequent fate of Hale, it made a deep
    and affecting impression upon his memory.

[Footnote 25: The Doctor described Hale as having had remarkably fine
and expressive blue eyes.]




THE DREAMER.

BY MARY E. HEWITT.


      Last night he kissed me,--kissed me in my dream!
        He unto whom I with pure flame aspire,--
      His eyes poured down on mine love's kindling beam,--
        Through all my being ran the immortal fire,
        I felt cold doubt within my breast expire,--
      I felt his clasp, as gently he enwound me;
      I felt his heart beat, as he closer bound me;
        He kissed me! measure of my soul's desire;
      He kissed my down-drooped eyelids,--kissed my brow;
        Felt he no thrill, my well beloved one,
      While passed the vision that enchains me now?
        Ah, no! the ecstasy was mine alone;
      And, while the memory on my spirit lies,
      I fear, lest he should read my dream within my eyes.




[Illustration:

  C. Schuessele del.      Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.
        Chromolith of P. S. Duval Phil.

FALLS OF S^{T.} ANTHONY]




WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.
A LEGEND OF THE FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.


CHAPTER I.

The glowing noonday's sun was resting over the rocks that lay and the
waters that dashed in the region of St. Anthony's Falls. The long row
of hills in the distance was tinged with gold, which mixed gaudily
with their purple hues. The dark green of the trees that grew on the
opposite shore interposed between the brightness of the hills beyond
and the white glare of the foaming waters.

Above the Falls, large trees lay fixed in the river, notwithstanding
the efforts the waves appeared to be making to remove every obstacle
that lay in their way, which led to the edge of the precipice, where
they threw themselves into the abyss below.

Large and small fragments of rocks dotted the water in every direction,
and in the centre of the Falls lay a number of rocks reposing against
each other, with rich, luxuriant shrubs and trees rising from among
them.

Notwithstanding the noise of the falling waters, and the roaring of the
boiling waves below, there was great beauty mingled with the grandeur
of the scene. The width of the river at this point made the height of
the Falls appear less than it really was. The association connected
with the death of Wenona,[26] the injured, but loving wife, gave a
romantic cast to the red man's thoughts, as he rested from the toils of
the chase near this beautiful scene. He could identify the very spot
where she raised her arms, while the notes of her death-song pealed
above all other sounds, as her slight canoe bent towards her child's
and her own grave. He marvelled that the boiling of the waters did not
appal her, or that the voice of her husband did not rouse her from her
fatal purpose.

But now there is no person near, to take from the solitary beauty of
the scene. If the screaming of the loon were heard, it was immediately
followed by the flapping of her wings, as she passed to the spirit
lakes, over whose quiet surface she loved better to rest. The deer were
all far distant;--the shade of the forest trees was more acceptable now
than the rays of the summer's sun. Whatever might be the burden of the
song of the waters, it was unheard, save by the spirits that are ever
assembled in numbers around this hallowed spot.

When the intense heat had passed away, a fresh, invigorating wind was
felt among the rocks and waves. Evening was unfolding her mantle, and
her breath was playing over the bright flowers that even here enjoy
their short season of life. The flitting clouds were gathering towards
the horizon, constantly changing their hues, and resting in golden
lines above the hills. Large fish, the bass, and the pike, moved at
their ease in the restless waters, as if there were no fear of being
bearded in this their stronghold. The beautiful red deer, too, has
been tempted to come and be refreshed,--ever on their guard, though,
as might be seen by the tossing of their heads when the winds rose and
whispered over the earth.

Now they start and flee like lightning, for the light sound of woman's
step is heard; and in the very spot where one of them rested, looking
over the waves, stands a slight figure, bearing in her face and form
the marks of youth, while her short and richly embroidered skirt, and
the crimson okendokenda, that partly covered her arms and chest, showed
her to belong to a family at least not unimportant among her people.

She stood still for some moments in a listening attitude, her face
pale, and every feature fixed in intense thought. She carried a bundle
of small size: this she seemed to think of value, for she grasped it as
if her life depended on the preservation of what it contained.

Turning towards the course of the rocks by the river's edge, she
surveyed their way; then, bending where she stood, she looked
unappalled at the waters becoming dark by the shadows of evening.

There was but little current where she stood, for the position of the
rocks prevented this, though quite near them the impetuous stream
hurried on like one tired of existence, eager only to reach and be
lost in the great ocean of forgetfulness.

There was evidently some great difficulty in her position, for her
colour flushed and left her, and she pressed her hands across her
bosom, without quelling its tumult: yet it was equally evident her
object was self-preservation. Life was dear to the young and active
blood that animated her veins. There was too much brightness in the
depths of those dark eyes to be quenched by death. She looked all
around her; and well might she have asked if the red man's heaven
boasted a more beautiful picture than the one now before her.

The sound of voices has recalled her from her meditations. Loud, stern
voices, speaking in tones of anger and disappointment. They were not
yet very near, but she knew them well. The language was her own, but
the lips that spoke it were threatening death to her. She recognised
his voice--her husband's--he was the pursuer. And she smiled a bitter
smile as she listened to the harsh sounds. Notwithstanding the perils
that surrounded her, she was as calm as when she sat by her mother's
door, in the far-off home of the Indians, who live by "Le Lac qui
Parle." All her terror, all her restlessness was forgotten. She raised
her arm to its greatest height, and elevating her lithe frame too, she
threw her bundle as far as her strength enabled her; listening till
the voices sounded nearer, and the steps could be distinguished in the
dead leaves that lay in their path, she swayed her form to and fro, and
sprung, laughing as she did so, from the rocks. Then swimming round
them, disappeared, concealed by the overhanging precipices, as well as
by the thick foliage that grew close to the water's edge.

Hardly was she out of sight when her place was again occupied. A large,
fierce-looking Sioux stood where she had been standing. He looked round
as if the object of his search might be hid among the rocks and bushes.
The waters laughed just as she had, as he complained of fatigue and
disappointment. He looked like a fiend who had forced himself where
but a moment ago some gentle spirit had been resting. The passions in
their prime worked in his haughty face. Stripes of different-
paint lay across his cheeks and around his eyes. His broad chest and
brawny arms were uncovered--he raised his hand, and moving it in a half
circle, as he turned towards his companions, "I have looked for her
until I am tired," he said; "perhaps she has killed herself; if she is
living, my vengeance shall yet reach her,--I will tear her heart from
her breast."

Then turning, wearied and angered beyond endurance, he strode back
towards his home. His giant figure rose far above his companions. His
eye flashed like the lion's deprived of his prey. Well might they call
him the Fiery Man.


CHAPTER II.

We must go back two days before this incident occurred. In a large
wigwam were two persons. The one, a young, pale woman, seated on a
mat. The white lips and the black shadows beneath the eyes, told of
watchings and despair. No tear moistened the colourless eyelids, no
sigh relieved the overburdened heart. Still as death itself, the young
mother gazed on the unconscious cause of her agony.

There it lay, peaceful and calm, against her throbbing heart. There it
lay, as it was wont, when seated on the high rocks by the Mississippi,
it heard the sweet tones of a mother's voice. There it lay, never to
hear even them again.

Absorbed in her grief, the mother knew not that there was another in
the wigwam. She was recalling, as she gazed on the crushed flower thus
rudely torn from her love, the many and strange changes of the past
year. She had once looked forward to the future, as the young always
do. She loved and was promised to the one she loved.

Fiery Man came from afar, with his powerful, athletic frame, and his
deep and piercing eyes, and his voice so low and solemn. He stopped at
her father's village, returning from a successful expedition against
the Sacs; and he was full of proud boastings. He said he was "a great
warrior, and hunter too, for his lodge was always full of game; that he
had taken more scalps than any brave of his band; that when he held his
enemies, they were like children in his large hand."

In an evil hour his eye fell upon White Moon. He loved her because
she was the opposite of himself. He fancied the gentle and submissive
way in which she received the directions of her parents. When he saw
her eyes droop and her cheek mantle when the warriors danced--when he
watched her and marked that she only looked at one--when he inquired,
and learned that to that one was she destined, then did he mark her for
his own; he was as cool and determined as if he had been aiming his
arrow at the frightened grouse; as sure of his prey as if the bird lay
already bleeding at his feet.

He went to her mother, and showed her the rich crimson cloth he had
received from the traders on his way.

Other presents he laid before her, very valuable then; for traders were
just coming in the country, and articles for use or adorning were rare
among the Sioux.

The mother told him her child was promised,--that White Moon loved
the noble young warrior she was to marry, and she could not break her
daughter's heart.

The father came in, and Fiery Man showed him his new gun,--they were
scarce then, and were deemed wakun (supernatural). Fiery Man enlarged
upon its merits, and he pressed on the foolish old man the advantages
of securing him as a friend, by giving him his daughter in marriage.

White Moon's mother interfered, saying, "her daughter was a good girl,
and deserved to be happy. She was not like the other girls, always
running away to look among the rocks in the water for young beavers;
but she was steady and industrious, and should make herself happy by
marrying the man she loved."

Fiery Man stamped, and his eyes were bloodshot with rage. He showed the
parents his medicine-bag; he would make them know what it was to refuse
a medicine-man; he would charm them; he would dry up the red rivers of
life; he would make their steps feeble.

Already would White Moon have trembled, had she been present.

Fiery Man saw his advantage, and continued: he was the friend of
Chat-o-tee-dah, the forest god, and he could go where no other Indian
could, protected by this powerful friend. He was strong and brave, and
it was well for the woman who married him, and for her family too.

The old man had kept his eyes fixed on the gun. Fiery Man told him to
follow him; he did so, but could hardly keep pace with the strides of
the tall warrior. Fiery Man led him towards the lowlands, where, among
the trees, the woodcock were in numbers. They seated themselves on a
mound, the work of their more enlightened ancestors; they were quiet at
first, only listening to the passing of the birds through the low trees.

Fiery Man pointed the gun, and fired; the birds fell to the ground. The
old man laughed, and Fiery Man showed him the powder and shot.

He took the gun and explained to his companion the mode of preparing
it to fire. "Ha!" said he, "you cannot shoot as well as I; but try and
bring down one." The old man pointed, and fired; his aim was sure:
again a bird fell before his astonished gaze.

"It is yours," said Fiery Man, "and the girl is mine. We will go back
and tell her mother what we have agreed upon."

Again he led the way, and the old man followed him back to the wigwam.
There they found mother and daughter. There were tears upon the cheek
of the latter; she was soon to know how vainly they were shed. She
turned away from the gaze of her tall lover, and hid her face against
her mother's bosom.

"Tell her," said Fiery Man to White Moon's father; but the old man
knew of the bitter dregs he would stir up in the fountain of life
before him: he could not find words to tell the young maiden her doom.

Fiery Man could not brook the delay. He laid his brawny hand on the
young head that had not yet been lifted from its refuge-place. "She is
mine," he said to the mother; "I have bought her. That wakun gun is
her father's, that red cloth is yours. White Moon must go with me to
my lodge: she must give me warriors like myself for sons. She will be
obedient and happy, because her husband is powerful, and feared."

White Moon raised her head and looked in his face; for hope? as well
might she have asked it in the glancing of the tomahawk of a Chippeway.

That dark, stern face was softened, it is true: but it was from
the contemplation of her attractive features; pride was changed to
satisfaction: but it was because he knew that the graceful figure which
clung to her mother for protection would soon lean only on him. She
sighed and turned away her face; she trembled and sank upon the mat
with weakness; no hope--all her bright visions changed: darkness and
gloom had come where day had presided in all her brightness.

A short time saw Fiery Man lead to his wigwam his sad young wife,
wearied to death with her long journey. Could love have consoled her,
she had been happy: for she was as dear as life to the heart of the
passionate, overbearing man. As he led her into the wigwam, he pointed
to its present occupant. He said she was his sister, but the first
glance did the same. There was the tall, gaunt figure; the fierce,
flashing eye; the passionate, commanding countenance; but far more
repelling in her than in him. White Moon read her own fate; she was to
endure hatred as well as love. She could see no shelter from the storm
that was settling over her head.


CHAPTER III.

The sister of Fiery Man stood unnoticed, we have said, in the lodge
where White Moon sat with her dead child. On her back she carried a
large bundle of wood. As she threw it to the ground, the noise roused
White Moon from her dreams. She rose from her mat, clasping the child
yet more closely to her breast. Giving one look towards her sister, in
which was concentrated all the passion and all the harshness of which
she was capable, she left the lodge. The crimson flush soon died away
from her face, and she was calm and pale as before.

Assisted by several of the women, she proceeded to place her child upon
its last resting-place. It was at some distance from the lodge, yet in
sight. She returned, and carried to the place of burial the cradle and
some little trinkets belonging to the child, and hung them in reach of
the infant's hand, on the scaffolding.

All day she sat on the ground near it. She wept there, as only a mother
can weep, for her first and only child. She refused the food the women
offered her; she had not eaten since its death.

Even when night came, she was still there, through its long watches
giving vent to her violent grief. The breaking of the morn found
her sleeping for a short interval on the ground; on awakening, she
remembered there were duties that still claimed her care. Her new
buffalo-skin lodge was still unfinished, and she had promised her
husband she would be in it on her return. The one they were living in
was her sister's; it was an old one, torn, and admitting the rain, so
that it was not comfortable. Some of the women had assisted her in
making it, and she had still to finish and set it up before the evening.

On the day of the child's death she had been obliged to leave her work,
to go out at some little distance to cut wood. She did not, as usual,
take her child with her: it was asleep in its carved board cradle,
and she left it in charge of a girl, the child of one of her friends.
Fiery Man's sister had gone out, telling White Moon she should be away
all day. So great was her dread of this proud woman--so fearful was
she that she would revenge on her child the hatred she felt towards
herself--that otherwise she would not have left the infant at home.

The anticipations of White Moon at her first interview with her
husband's sister were all realized. This woman possessed all the bad
qualities of Fiery Man, without any of his redeeming ones.

She had been married, and was a widow. Both of her children were dead:
there was no avenue by which kindness could find its way to her heart.
She disliked White Moon, because she had so won her brother's love. But
there needed to assign no reason, for she disliked all who were better
off than she.

It is not only in civilized life that the dread passion of envy
has full sway: the human heart, the same by nature, varies only by
association and circumstance.

Had it not been for the unhappy disposition of Fiery Man's sister,
White Moon had been happy. She could not but be proud of her husband,
and of his affection for her: it was not in the nature of a Sioux woman
to see unmoved the many trophies of his skill and bravery. But the
curse of envy was about her; and when White Moon smiled over her boy,
and Fiery Man exulted in the pride and affection of a Sioux father for
his son, his sister could not rejoice with them--she envied and hated
them.

Fiery Man exacted the most implicit obedience from his wife, and from
all around him. He would not have brooked the slightest contradiction
from her; but she did not attempt it.

In most cases an Indian wife is little more than a serving-woman to
her husband. To this White Moon was accustomed from observation,
and from her short experience. She trembled at her husband's voice,
though against her it had never been raised in anger. But the violent
passions, the abusive language, the frequent blows--these, coming from
one who ought to have no power over her, made her often wish for death.
Yet so great was the likeness of brother and sister, that she bowed to
the tyranny of the one, from having done so to the other. Her spirit,
too, was broken. She could easily submit, but not forget. When she left
her child in the wigwam it was quietly sleeping; when she returned it
still slept. She had been a long time away, and yet the rest of the
infant appeared to have been unbroken.

She missed the girl who had promised to remain with the child. She had
brought a heavy burden of wood to her lodge, and she sat down by the
child to rest, and to watch its awakening.

Its unusual paleness alarmed her; she held her own breath that she
might distinguish the breathing of the child, but in vain. She placed
her hand before its parted lips; the warm breath of infancy did not
play upon it.

She thought it strange; but death did not present itself to her mind.
Going to the door of the lodge, she looked around, and saw her sister
gazing, with fixed attention, towards the wigwam. This alarmed her,
and she returned to her child; again she listened for its breath: she
pressed its small and clammy hand. Then did the real truth flash across
her. She took in her arms the infant and rushed with it into the open
air.

As she stood outside calling for help, the Indians collected around her.
Her sister, calm and unconcerned, approached with them and looked on.

The Indian doctors were there, and White Moon, under their direction,
carried her child back to the lodge. She placed it on a buffalo-robe,
which was folded on the floor. Red Head, the great medicine-man, seated
himself near it. He held the sacred rattle, shaking it, and chaunting
in a loud voice. He shouted to the women to stand off, for near him, on
the ground, he had laid his pipe and medicine-bag.

White Moon alternately wept and hoped; she knew Red Head was a
powerful medicine-man: but still her baby showed no signs of life.
Despairing, at last, and frantic with grief, she broke in upon his
incantations. She raised her child, and placed its little face against
her breast. She knew this test would be decisive.

There was no motion, on its part, to receive the offered sustenance.
She raised her despairing eyes, and they met the cold glances of her
sister. Then she told Red Head there was no hope. She asked to be left
alone with her dead; she wept until the power of weeping was gone: and
then, until the time was come to place it in its cradle grave, she held
it to her heart. She did not dare reflect on the passionate grief of
the father, when he should return, and ask of her his son.

She could not rouse herself to say, what she believed to be the case,
that his sister had destroyed it. There was no mark,--no apparent cause
for its sudden death.

On returning to the wigwam, after the burial of the child, she found
her sister there, more than usually bent upon an altercation. She
endeavoured to avoid it by employing herself in silence. She eat for
the first time since her child's death, and then applied herself to the
task of finishing her lodge. Her bereaved condition might have excited
the pity of her companion; but there was no sympathy in that breast.
For a time, White Moon would not reply to her taunts. This the more
enraged the other, who at length charged the heart-broken mother with
the murder of her child!

White Moon heard her in stupified horror and amazement. That a
mother could destroy her infant,--no such sentiment could reach her
understanding or her heart. Yet again and again did her sister repeat
the charge, dwelling upon the impossibility of the child's dying
without a cause. No one, she said, had been with the infant during her
absence; the young girl, who had promised to take care of it, having
gone off soon after White Moon left. She then insisted, that as White
Moon had been forced to marry her brother, she had thus resented upon
him her wrong. She had killed his child, forgetting it was her own.

The despairing woman was roused by a sense of the injustice done her.
She saw, too, her position,--the danger in which she stood. She felt,
in anticipation, the reproaches, the hot anger of her husband.

She was roused even to madness. Her many wrongs stood up in witness
against the woman who, in her deep sorrow, thus goaded her. Her slight
frame expanded; the gentle and obedient wife, the submissive woman,
had become a murderer; her knife lay in the heart of her husband's
sister,--the strong had bowed before the weak!

The act was so instantaneous, that White Moon stood alone to behold the
consequences of her passion. It was during the hottest part of the day,
and their lodge stood apart from the rest. Most of the men were on the
hunt with Fiery Man; the women, some sleeping away the sultry hours,
others off at their different employments.

The hoarse groans of the dying woman were not heard outside the
lodge, so that White Moon was not detected. On one of the mats lay
the embroidered dress of a young warrior that Fiery Man's sister had
just finished. She immediately determined upon making her escape,
and taking these clothes with her as a disguise. She made them into
a bundle before the eyes of the dying woman, and resolved upon flying
from her husband's resentment.

How often she had called for death, yet how closely she now clung
to life. The violent excitement through which she had passed had
brought again the colour to her cheek. Brightness had succeeded to the
expression of languor in her eyes. There was no tie to keep her in
her husband's home. She now only thought of him as the avenger of his
sister's blood.

She left the lodge without even a glance towards the cause of her
misery and her sin. She turned from the places which would now know her
no more.


CHAPTER IV.

Fiery Man and the large party of hunters came in sight of their home
on the evening of the same day. They had brought a large number of
buffalo, and were glad to reach the vicinity of their village, where
their wives and other women came forward to relieve them of their
burden. Merry work it was to them on this occasion, until they learned
some of the hunters were missing.

Fiery Man looked to see his wife and child among them, and was
disappointed and irritated at not seeing them; but he remembered White
Moon was always backward in joining these noisy parties, and thus he
accounted for her absence.

His tall figure was slightly clad, for the weather was warm--in his
right hand he held a spear, and on its top was a scalp recently taken.
He strode on without waiting to explain the occasion of this, only
thinking of his wife and son. He did not miss his sister, though he
might well have done so, for she was always ready with her strong arm
to assist the hunters, and her loud voice to give directions to the
women.

There was a great deal of confusion as they entered the village, for
the absence of the three hunters had been accounted for, though not by
Fiery Man, who had passed forward towards his lodge.

The hunters, enthusiastic with their success, (for the number of
buffalo they had killed was unusually great,) were surprised by a party
of Iroquois, and in the sudden terror three of the Sioux, who had laid
down their arms, intending to sleep, were killed and scalped. These
Iroquois had come from a great distance; their villages were in the
western part of New York. They were then in the height of their power,
and constantly performed exploits that astonished other Indian nations.

But that a small party should have travelled four hundred leagues,
living by chance, surrounded by their enemies; that they should venture
among so powerful a people with such an object, is indeed remarkable;
that they should have been successful, is still more so.

They lost one of their party. Fiery Man pursued them, with some others,
as they endeavoured to make their escape, and killed one, whose scalp
adorned his spear.

The lamentations of the families whose relatives had been killed, their
affectionate but melancholy reception of their dead bodies--for they
had been wrapped in skins and brought home--the loud talking of those
engaged in caring for the immense quantities of buffalo-meat and the
valuable skins,--all these were unnoticed and indeed unheard by Fiery
Man.

Even his stout heart quailed before the silent and gloomy appearance of
his lodge. There was not even an evidence of habitation.

The lodge on which White Moon had been engaged lay heaped up near it;
but there was no one there to welcome him.

He threw up the door and looked in; then started almost affrighted at
what he saw. His sister lay dead--and the only creature near her was
the small dog that had been always by her side during life. He could
not mistake the horrible symptoms,--the fallen jaw, the dark-looking
blood, the face calm and composed in its expression, as it never had
been in life.

He turned again from the lodge to seek his wife and child,--the former
with her timid and almost fearful salutation, the latter with his merry
infant laugh, as he reached forth his hands to be taken close to his
father's heart.

He looked around among the groups talking here and there. They were
gazing at him, with doubt and consternation in every countenance;
for who would dare tell him of all?--who would expose himself to the
violence of his wrath?--who but feared to see that iron frame bowed
with the tale of horror he must hear?

He hastened towards them, and shook Harpstinah roughly by the arm.
"Where is my wife?--my child? Speak!" he said, as the woman, in her
fright, seemed to have lost the power of speech.

An old man, who had not accompanied the hunting party, on account of
his age, came forward. "There is your son," he said, pointing to the
burial-ground. "Your wife left him asleep, and your sister--"

Harpstinah, having recovered herself, interrupted him: he had but a
confused notion of the state of things. She told Fiery Man all the
circumstances, even to her going to the lodge, drawn thither by the
continual crying of the dog, and finding his sister there in her
death-pangs. She had tried to make Harpstinah comprehend a message to
her brother, but had expired with the effort. Previous to that she had
told several persons that White Moon had killed her child, but no one
believed it. The affectionate care of the mother was too well known;
besides, the girl who had been left in charge of her, said the infant
had awakened a short time after White Moon had left, and had then
fallen asleep again.

White Moon had been seen as she hurried from the village, but no one
had seen her return. Harpstinah had heard angry words passing between
them, but did not know that anything more serious had occurred,
until some time after, when she entered the lodge, as she had before
described. All presumed it must have been the act of White Moon, as she
had expressed previously her intention of remaining at home, in order
to finish her lodge.

This was the substance of the intelligence, to which Fiery Man listened
with an ashy countenance and a trembling frame. His wife, whom he had
so loved--his boy, the noble, healthy child, whose growth he had
watched day by day! As he bent forward to listen, large tears rested on
his cheek. The women moved off affrighted at the spectacle, that tears,
such as women shed, should be seen there.

There was one who still remained beside him. Fiery Man had not heard
the charge brought against his wife of the murder of her child. So
stricken was he, that he only heard and felt that they were gone.
The Fawn still remained beside him: she had loved Fiery Man, and had
hoped to be his wife. She waited to speak when he should arouse from
the first stupor of his grief. He turned to go, he knew not where; he
heard his name called, and saw the Fawn beside him. "Your sister said
that White Moon had never loved you, and was now revenged; that you had
torn her from all she had loved; that even her old mother had wept, and
asked you to leave her with her, but in vain; and it was for this White
Moon had killed your child, that you might have sorrow too."

Then came back the colour to the bronzed cheek of Fiery Man, and the
flashing to his eye. Then did he stand erect, like one that had never
known grief--then did love change to bitter hatred. The wife of his
bosom was his worst enemy. There were no more tears, but loud threats
of vengeance--no trembling, but firm purposes of revenge.

He went again to the lodge, to look at his sister's body. He left her,
and stood by the grave of his child. He laid his hand upon the little
body, and stood thus while he decided what to do. He shouted for the
young men, and told them to go and hunt for his wife, and bring her
back to him.

It was fearful to see the paroxysms of his hot anger. He lay down on
the grass near his child; he rested, but not with sleep. He sought his
wife through the night, but in vain. He went into the thick forests;
he remembered Chat-o-tee-dah, the god of the woods, was his friend; he
prayed to the god; he sacrificed to the wakeen-stone; but still he was
unsuccessful.

He knew neither sleep nor rest until the evening of the next day, when
he was forced to yield to his overtaxed condition. There did he stand,
by the Laughing Waters, where she had stood. The White Moon was making
her way, slowly and sadly, but clinging to life--full of grief, but
fearing the avenger--living on the berries of the woods, and sleeping
where the red deer and its young lie down to rest.


CHAPTER V.

A short time after the events we have noticed, a young and
slight-looking Sioux warrior entered one of the villages of that
nation. He was a stranger and alone. This was enough to insure him a
hospitable reception. On approaching the lodges which were nearest him,
he seemed to hesitate as to what course he should pursue as regards
making himself known. In the mean time his appearance had attracted a
good deal of attention.

His limbs were slight but well formed, his figure denoting agility
rather than strength. His dress was new and handsomely ornamented;
his leggins were of very fine deer-skin, dressed so as to be white and
soft, and these, as well as his coat, were richly embroidered with
porcupine quills. He had no blanket, nor were there any war-eagle
feathers in his head; his pipe, made of an earthen material, was
large and heavy. He was without arms of any kind: this was the most
remarkable feature in his appearance.

He was pale, as if he had been ill, and there was at times an
expression of wildness, almost amounting to ferocity, in his
appearance. He advanced towards a lodge outside of which stood the
family; they spoke to him at once, telling him to sit down and rest
himself. One of the women seeing his mocassin was torn, untied it,
saying she would mend it.

Before asking him his name or errand, they insisted upon his eating,
knowing from his features and dress he was a Sioux.

His feet they found blistered and inflamed. The women of the lodge got
some herbs, laid them in cold water, and applied them to the inflamed
parts.

They gave him wild rice, in an earthen bowl of a kind manufactured
by themselves, the art being now lost. They were then destitute of
metallic vessels of any kind.

The young warrior, after he had eaten, proceeded to give an account of
himself. He said he had come a great distance in search of an uncle who
had suddenly disappeared from among them. He was a very important man
among them, famous for his wisdom, and for knowing all the history of
their people, the Mendewakantonwau Dacotas. He could always tell them
the year when buffalo would be the most plentiful; he could direct
them to the very spot where the largest herds could be found.

His people, he said, lived on the banks of the Minesota; the mouth
of this river, his uncle said, lay immediately over the centre of
the earth, and under the centre of the heavens: the Great Spirit had
ordered this, that they might know they were his favourite people,
superior to all other nations.

All these things his uncle had learned in dreams; and often he spoke of
them to the young people, that they might be proud of their country,
and might remember who was their Great Father and friend.

On one occasion he had assembled the young people, and told them of
the bloody battles they had fought with the Sacs and Foxes and other
nations. Some of the Dacota bands had been destroyed by them, but they
had been saved because they were under the centre of the heavens, and
the eye of the Great Spirit was always upon them. They knew more too
than the other bands, and were in consequence much better off.

On that occasion he had talked nearly all night, and after that they
all retired to rest. On awaking, the old warrior had disappeared, and
since then had never been seen. Whether Unk-ta-he had drawn him into
the deep, or Chat-o-tee-dah, the god of the woods, had drawn him under
the earth, or the Great Spirit had taken him, no one knew. He was no
more among them.

The young man went on to say he had had a dream, in which he was told
to array himself in new clothing, and to go in search of his uncle. He
was forbidden to take arms or provisions of any kind; and in a short
time he would have an interview with his uncle. This he had done in
spite of the objections of his friends, who urged him at least to take
his bow and arrows, but he had refused to do so, preferring to follow
implicitly the directions he had received in his dream. He had been in
the woods a long time, and was almost despairing, when one night he
fell into a deep sleep, and his uncle stood before him; not old and
wrinkled and time-worn, as he remembered him, but erect and firm. His
voice was strong too, and he could have been heard a long way off, he
spoke so loud and distinctly.

He said that the Sioux need not any more look for his return, for
that in the far-off country where he lived, he had none of those
weaknesses and pains to contend with, which are constantly among the
aged on earth: he had wanted to try the bravery of his young nephew,
to see whether or not he would have courage to do as he was told. He
was glad he had done so, for now he would be a favourite of the gods,
who delighted in courageous acts. He directed him as to what route he
should take, telling him of everything that would happen to him on his
way to the village, and charged him to say to them, that he should be
furnished with a lance, bow, and arrows, and also have given to him a
comrade, and be allowed to stay in the band. The Indians were overcome
with admiration at the courage shown in these adventures, and they
immediately presented him with the arms he required, and in every other
way gratified his wishes.

He accepted these things proudly, as a right, rather than a favour;
this bearing made him still more popular with his new friends.
One of them came forward and told him he should have his oldest
daughter--pointing to the well-pleased maiden--for a wife: the stranger
said he had promised his uncle he would not marry until he had killed
three Winnebagoes, and wore the feathers of honour he had thus earned.

He continued to grow in their favour, and was preparing to accompany
some of their braves on a war-party, when, one morning, a party of
Sioux approached the village. One of the men was much taller and larger
than all the rest, his eagle feathers towering above their heads. The
hospitable people pressed forward to welcome them: and when they were
rested, and had eaten and smoked, the chief missed their stranger
friend. He was not to be seen; when they found he did not return to
them, they told his strange story to Fiery Man and his band.

The wretched man knew it was his wife who had thus baffled him. He
went on his way, but some evil spirit stood between him and the
accomplishment of his purpose. She was not to be given to his vengeance
or his love. There was happiness yet in store for White Moon.


CHAPTER VI.

Chat-o-tee-dah, the god of the woods and forests, holds a high rank
among the Sioux; by some he is considered even greater than the
Thunder-Bird. Were it not for the great number of Thunder-Birds, that
race would long since have been extinct; so many battles have they had,
and so powerful is the god whose home is in the dark woods, whose
guardians and servants are every bird that rests itself in the branches
of the trees, whose notes welcome the coming of the day.

Chat-o-tee-dah passes by the shrubbery of the lowlands, and makes his
home on the largest tree on the highest eminence of the forest; his
dwelling is in the root of the tree. He is not confined to this part of
it, but comes out when occasion may require.

Is he hungry? he takes his seat upon the branch of the tree, and, by
his power of attraction, he is soon surrounded by the winged messengers
of the forest, ready to do his bidding. While he is thus holding his
court, the limb of the tree on which he is seated becomes smooth as
glass.

Chat-o-tee-dah and the Thunder-Bird, as I have said, are enemies: and
many hard battles have been fought between them, the god of the woods
being generally the victor.

This is to be ascribed, in a great measure, to the attachment and
vigilance of his body-guard, the birds of the forest.

At the slightest commotion in the heavens, whose stormy portents
indicate the coming of the Thunder-Bird, Chat-o-tee-dah is roused from
his sleep, or whatever occupation may engage him at the time, by his
servants; he has thus ample time to make his arrangements.

While the clouds roll swiftly and angrily towards the habitation of the
water god, and streaked lightning plays in vivid flashes on the earth,
Chat-o-tee-dah is coolly making his preparations for the work of death,
assured, by his very calmness, of victory. The little birds, hid in
the dark branches of the trees, are faithful sentinels, momentarily
making their report, while the god of the woods keeps safely hid in the
root of the tree, his stronghold in time of danger.

The Thunder-Bird resorts to cunning. He takes the form of a large bird,
but his disguise is always penetrated by the smallest forest-bird; they
know him, and, like faithful servants, keep near their lord. Again and
again the thunder rolls, and the lightning plays about the branches
of the tree. The waters swell and rise up to anger the Thunder-Bird,
and to tempt him to do battle, but he has too many quarrels to resent
against the forest gods, and the day of his vengeance is come. It is
not often that he has courage to tempt the forest god to battle, for he
knows his power; but now he will show him his own strength, when he is
roused.

There is a stillness of the elements, and now again the deafening sound
is heard, and the lightning pierces the home of the forest god; but
Chat-o-tee-dah is safe, for there is a communication with the roots of
the tree and the waters, and he passes through it safely, hearing the
while the noise of the elements, while he descends to the great waters
below.

Again the earth shakes, for the Thunder-Bird has cast forth his
lightning, and pierced the root of the tree; but he is again defeated
by the cunning of the god, who has found a refuge in the dominions of
Unk-ta-he.

But at last the forest god is angry, and he has determined to come
forth from his watery retreat, and beard the Thunder-Bird with his own
weapons. He hurls back at him the lightning;--in an instant the daring
invader is dead at his feet.

The battles of their gods are unending themes of adventure among the
Sioux. Conversing upon them, the hours are whiled away from evening
until midnight, and often from midnight to morn. The intellect must
have occupation. How many a noble mind has thus gone to waste!

We may judge, from the importance attached to these fanciful stories,
how hard must be the work of the Indian missionary. What a system of
error to uproot! We may also look into our own hearts:--which is the
greater absurdity, the worship of Chat-o-tee-dah or mammon?--the bowing
down to the glorious works of the hand of God, or devotions paid to the
gilded idol of this world?

Fiery Man no more boasted of his intercourse with the gods; they seemed
to have forgotten they were his friends.

He had sought far and near for his wife. At times his heart was full
of revenge: that she should have destroyed his son was the bitterest
reflection of all. His sister's blood seemed still to be flowing before
him; vengeance was called for on her who had made his lodge dark for
ever. Then a different mood would affect him. She would stand before
him, obedient, docile, and timid, with her soft, fearful voice, so
different from the loud tones of his sister's. He could remember her
so distinctly, as she held up her child for him to see, as he left the
lodge to go with the hunting party. Her long, braided hair, falling
about her shoulders, as her infant's cheek lay pressed against hers.
For the first time he thought she looked sad at parting with him, and
he had treasured the thought. He knew _then_ she never raised her hand
against her child. He would have crushed his evil-minded sister for the
suggestion, had she stood before him in life. He would sit buried in
thought, the storms of passion breaking away from his heart; but this
did not last, and woe to the man who came before him in his fierce mood.

He died in battle; but the Indians said he gave his life away, for he
met his enemy as if he were in a dream, and shouted no cry as he was
wont. They brought his body back and buried it by the side of his son:
and even death did not break the spell of awe connected with him, for
the women were afraid to sit and plait grass near his grave. Harpstinah
moved her lodge from where it stood, saying, she must live farther off
from the graves, that she might not hear Fiery Man in the night calling
for vengeance on his wife, who had deserted him, and murdered his child.

No one could tell the fate of White Moon. Her parents died soon after
her disappearance. But the Black Eagle, who some years after visited
the Sioux who live among the thousand isles at the head of Rum River,
said, that when he arrived there, White Moon's old lover took him to
his lodge, and that his wife helped him off with his snow-shoes, and
made him broth, for he was nearly perished with cold and hunger, having
been at one time covered with snow for several days and nights, as his
only chance of life.

When he told them he had come for some of the stone that lay on the
shores of that river, to make knives, the war-chief asked him what band
he belonged to, and that while he was answering, the woman ceased her
employment, listening intently to him. That the war-chief asked him
what had become of that tall chief called the Fiery Man; and that while
he was telling of his death, and of his strange condition before it,
the woman laughed, and said that after all Chat-o-tee-dah had not been
as true a friend as the warrior thought, for a weak woman had escaped
from his fiercest anger; and that when he asked her if she had ever
known Fiery Man, her husband was angry, and told her to hush, saying,
women always talked too much, and that it was time she had done his
leggins, which he wanted to wear in the morning, when he met the wise
men of their band in council; that when she returned to her work, as
she was told, that he was reminded of the quiet obedience with which
White Moon ever listened to the commands of her husband, that tall
warrior, Fiery Man, who had gone to that country where thousands of
warriors assemble and shout through the heavens their song, as they
celebrate the medicine feast.

[Footnote 26: The story of Wenona is given in "Dacota, or Legends
of the Sioux," in almost the words of the Sioux themselves. It has
been often told by travellers, and there is no doubt but it actually
occurred. [N. B. This tradition, as given in a letter from Miss Bremer
to myself, during her visit to the Falls of St. Anthony, will be found
at the end of this story.--J. S. H.]]


NOTE.

    A TRADITION OF THE FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY.--There is a little island,
    just below the Falls, surrounded by their spray, with picturesque
    rocks and dark cedars, looking lonely and romantic, more attractive
    than the Falls, through its peculiar looks, and its story,
    connected with the Falls and with the people which still hovers
    around them, on the territory of Minesota, raising tents of one
    night soon to depart, kindling fires soon to be quenched. It is
    called the _Spirit Island_, and its tale is that of many an Indian
    woman,--is in fact the poetic truth of woman's fate among the red
    men. It tells:

    There was once a hunter of the tribe of the Dacotas (or Sioux)
    living near the Falls of St. Anthony. He had but one wife, and
    loved her and was loved by her so well, that the union and the
    happiness of the hunter and his wife, Ampota Sampa, was talked
    of among the tribe as wonderful. They had two children, and lived
    lonely and happy for several years. But as he became known as a
    great hunter, and grew rich, several families came and raised their
    tipis (lodges) near that of the happy pair. And words and whispers
    came to the young man that he ought to have more wives, so that he
    might enjoy more happiness. He listened to the tempters, and soon
    made a choice among the daughters of his new friends. But when he
    had to tell his first wife thereof, his heart smote him, and, to
    make the news less painful to her, he began by telling her that he
    had bethought himself that she had too many household cares, and
    that she wanted somebody to help her in them, and so he would bring
    her that help in the form of a young girl, who was to be his second
    wife.

    Ampota Sampa answered "No!" She had not too many cares. She was
    happy to have them for him and his children. She prayed and
    besought him, by their former love and happy life, by every tender
    tie, by the love of their little ones, not to bring a new love, a
    new wife, to the lodge. He said nothing. But this same night he
    brought home to the lodge his new wife.

    Early next morning a death-song was heard on the waters of the
    Mississippi, and a canoe was seen gliding swiftly down the rapids,
    above the Falls of St. Anthony, and in the canoe was sitting a
    young woman with two little children folded to her bosom. It was
    Ampota Sampa; and in her song she told the cause of her despair,
    of her death, of her departure for the spirit-land. So she sat,
    singing her death-song, swiftly borne onward by the rapids to the
    edge of the rocks. Her husband, her friends, heard her and saw her,
    but too late. In a few moments the canoe was at the top of the
    Falls; there it paused a second, and then, borne on by the rush
    of the waters, down it dashed, and the roaring waves covered the
    victims with their white foam.

    Their bodies were never seen again; but tradition says that on
    misty mornings, the spirit of the Indian wife, with the children
    folded to her bosom, is seen gliding in the canoe through the
    rising spray about the Spirit Island, and that the sound of
    her death-song is heard moaning in the wind and in the roar
    of the Falls of St. Anthony. Such is the legend of the Indian
    wife.--FREDRIKA BREMER.




THE RAIN-DROP.

BY MISS E. W. BARNES.


      It quivered on a bended spray--
        A rain-drop, bright and clear--
      Though beautiful, it waked sad thoughts,
        'Twas so like sorrow's tear.

      And on its crystal surface lay
        Reflected, calm as heaven,
      The glories of the summer sky,
        With purple tints of even;

      And earth's transcendent loveliness
        Was also on its breast,
      As with her dewy smiles she made
        The parting sunbeam blest.

      I loved the rain-drop, as it hung
        So trustingly the while--
      The verdant earth, the glowing heaven
        Reflected in its smile.

      A symbol seemed it to mine eye
        Of the loving human heart,
      That lives but in the smile of God,
        Which earth and heaven impart.

      I gazed into its tiny sphere--
        In miniature it lay,
      A world of beauty, trembling there,
        And soon to pass away--

      To pass from earth, and leave no trace,
        But the memory divine
      Of beauty, which, within the heart,
        Erects its own pure shrine.

      The breeze passed by; it swayed the bough
        Where the sweet gem was hung;
      But, with tenacious grasp, it still
        Fondly and closely clung.

      Nor, till with a resistless power
        The mighty wind swept by,
      Did the frail thing, so beautiful,
        In shattered fragments lie.

      And thus, though moved by every breeze
        That sweeps along our way,
      Our hearts still cling to life, and still
        The world asserts its sway.

      But, like the rain-drop, pure and clear,
        That hangs upon the bough,
      Oh! soul of mine, give back earth's light,
        Reflect its glories, thou!

      Give back the summer's rosy tints,
        The verdant tree, the flower;
      Give back the mountain and the mead,
        The summer sun and shower.

      But ah! in thy far deeper depths
        May heaven reflected lie;
      Its holy calm--its voiceless wave,
        Serene as yon soft sky.

      Unruffled be those silent depths--
        Calm, though the tempest lower.
      My Saviour! walk thou on the wave,
        And let it feel thy power.

      Speak to the troubled waters, _Peace_,
        And passion ne'er shall rise,
      Nor doubt, nor care, to dim the light
        That greets me from the skies.




A PLEA FOR A CHOICE PICTURE.
TO A GENTLEMAN WHO UNDERVALUED IT.

BY MISS L. S. HALL.


      Nay, do not say my favourite is tame--
      Her soul lies dreaming in its tranquil depths,
      And 'tis not every passive breeze can wake
      The slumberer from her peaceful reverie.
      The sheltering wings of Faith, and Hope, and Love
      Are folded round the temple of her heart,
      Perpetual guardians of its altar place;
      And they, of wingéd feet, who go and come,
      Must pass beneath their penetrating gaze;
      Unhallowed sentiments may enter not,--
      Where these stand sentinels, 'tis hallowed ground.

      Speak but a thrilling word, and you shall meet
      In those so dreamy eyes, that heed you not,
      The shadow of your own ecstatic thoughts,--
      Those lips, so passive now, shall echo back
      The earnest tones of your own eloquence.
      But do not measure her internal strength
      By any standard of man's magnitude.
      Nor think to fathom what no eye can reach,--
      She hath a woman's heart, and it hath been
      The constant struggle of her watchful life,
      To curb her will, and bend her energies,
      And train her nature for her destiny;
      And conscious that she hath a marshalled host,
      Obedient to the mandates of her soul,
      She wears a placid brow, and dreads no foe.

      A thoughtless word upon affection's tongue,
      A look of coldness from a cherished friend,
      A hardened thought, that wrongs her of her due,
      And makes her seem what she would scorn to be,
      Imputing motives she would blush to own,--
      Her spirit, safe from storms and rude alarms,
      Is too susceptible to wounds like these;
      But that calm face will ne'er reveal to thee,
      Nay, from her dearest friends she'll most conceal,
      The bitter anguish they can measure not.

      Then do not say her tranquil brow is tame.
      A passive soul hath ne'er the dignity
      That sits, a queen, upon her passive face;
      'Tis nobler far to rule the spirit realm,
      Than gather laurels from the battle-field.




LOST AND WON.

BY CAROLINE EUSTIS.


      Lost the freshness of life's morning;
        Lost the tints of rosy light,
      Which like daylight, perfect dawning,
        Covered all with glory bright;
      Lost the golden locks which shaded
        Brow so smooth, and eyes so blue,
      And the happy smile has faded
        Round those lips of rosy hue.
            I have lost,--but I have won.

      Lost the kind oblivious sleeping,
        Which enshrouds the little child,
      Like the holy angels keeping
        Saintly watches,--calm and mild.
      Lost the dreams of sunny hours,
        Where no terror dare intrude;
      Lost the dreams of love and flowers,
        Of the beautiful and good.
            I have lost,--but I have won.

      Lost!--oh, most of all the losses!--
        Lost the childlike, earnest faith,
      Loving on mid joys and crosses,
        Thankful still for all it hath.
      I have lost youth's simple pleasures,
        Each departed, one by one;
      But--oh, blessing without measure!--
            I have lost,--but I have won.

      I have won, through earnest striving,
        Guerdons above all the loss,
      Hopes once faded, now reviving
        Twining round the sacred Cross:
      Sorrow pale hath been my teacher;
        Hopes bereft, my gentle friends;
      Graves of the loved, my silent preacher,
        Where dust with dust so sadly blends.
            I have lost,--but I have won.

      I have won, through tribulation,
        Title to a heavenly home,
      Working out my own salvation
        Through the blood of Christ alone.
      Oh, my future brightest seemeth,
        Eye of faith, exchanged for sight,
      With celestial splendour beameth
        On through darkness into light.
            I have lost,--but I have won.

      I have won bright hopes immortal
        Of a heaven of peace and rest;
      E'en now I linger at the portal,
        As a kindly bidden guest.
      Lost and won!--oh earth! oh heaven!
        Hark!--I list the angels' strain,
      Voices in the silence even!
        Small the loss, and great the gain!
            I have lost,--but I have won.




THE MISTRUSTED GUIDE.
A WESTERN SKETCH.

BY A MISSIONARY.


It was the close of a cloudy afternoon, about sunset, in February,
1818, and I began to think it high time to seek a lodging-place. The
prairie--the first I had seen, unless it might have been a patch of
a few acres, the day before--was covered with snow; and, although a
good many bushes grew on it, and it was somewhat "rolling"--I hope my
readers know what _that_ is--I confess its aspect was to me, just then,
more dreary than picturesque. Our road is best described by the term
which designated it, "The old Rocky Trace," by which may be understood
the "blazed" road usually travelled from Shawneetown to Kaskaskia.
The dwellings were not very numerous--indeed, we had the privilege of
considerable exercise in passing from one to another. Now and then
a block-house, in good condition, showed the rather recent Indian
troubles, which had frequently compelled the inhabitants to "fort."

The sight of a cabin, after a while, was quite cheering. My wife was
somewhat tired of carrying the babe all day, and was glad to see a
prospect of rest and shelter. We drove up, and inquired, as usual, if
we "could get to stay," not doubting an affirmative answer. And so we
had; yet there was difficulty in the case.

"I'm afeard, stranger, you'll have to go furder. _Our_ childer's got
the hoopin'-cough, and maybe you moughtn't like yourn to go whar it
mought git it--'less it's had it. You may stop, ef you're a mind to
resk it, for I don't never turn anybody away; but I didn't like to let
you carry your baby in without lettin' you know."

Here _was_ a difficulty. We had had the child vaccinated at
Pittsburg, on our way, but had used no precautionary measure against
hooping-cough, and in "the dead of winter" there was some hazard in
it. I looked at my wife: she looked troubled. Our friend--for he _was_
friendly--told us there was "a house on the Turkey Hill Road, a mile or
two ahead; but it was a smart little bit on the _Rocky Trace_, afore
we'd git any place to stop." The roads forked just where we stood, and
we might choose either, to go to St. Louis; but some circumstance made
it necessary for me to go through Kaskaskia.

"What shall we do, wife?"

"I really don't know what to advise. I am afraid to expose Amy to the
hooping-cough, and I am afraid to go on far. It will soon be dark."

I was irresolute and anxious. We would have "timber," and probably a
stream to cross; and, with my little "dearborn," it might be somewhat
hazardous in the dark. The man sympathized with us--told us we "were
welcome to stay, ef we'd a mind to resk it;" but then, if we did stay,
we would have to be huddled in the same room with the family, and I
don't know how many of "the childer" had the dreaded disease.

All this while my wife was sitting in the wagon, and, if not freezing,
was sufficiently cold to wish for a good fire. We had hardly observed
another man standing near, with whom the man of the house had been
talking. He listened in silence for a considerable time, but at length
spoke.

"Ef you'll put up with sech as I have--it's tol'able poor--you can go
to my house and stay."

I looked now at the speaker, and discovered an elderly man, in a
mixed jeans hunting-shirt--it was not the fashion to call it a blouse
then--tied round the waist, a '<DW53>-skin cap, and "trousers accordin'."
He had a rifle, or an axe--though I think it was the latter--lying
across his arm, and looked wrinkled, and rough, and all drawn up with
the cold. The twinkle of his deep-set eyes might be merry, or it might
be sinister. I inquired where he lived.

"Why, it's rayther on the _Turkey Hill_ Road, and about a mile from
t'other; but I can go in the mornin' and show you the way. It's mighty
easy gittin' over from thar to yon road."

It occurred to me that his neighbour had not once referred to _him_ to
solve the difficulty, and I wondered why; but he now rather intimated
that I might as well take up with the old man's offer. I did so,
without consulting my wife's opinion.

He trudged on, and I trudged after him, leading my horse,--which I did
much of the way across the State,--through the snow. After a little
while I discovered that we left the road, and were winding through a
sort of ravine, or rather depression of the prairie, almost deserving
the name of valley. The snow-covered ground--the brown, or bare
bushes--the bleak, though diminutive hills--all looked cold, and wild,
and dreary. My guide still trudged on, seldom looking round; and we
seemed to be travelling without a road to "nowhere." My wife called me
to her. Her looks gave token of alarm.

"Do you think it safe to go on with that old man? I don't like his
looks, and this is a wild place. Hadn't we better go back, or try some
other way? I feel afraid."

I laughed at her, but her fears troubled me. She was not given to false
alarms; or, if she ever felt them, she never annoyed me with them. I
cannot say that I participated in her fears now. Indeed I did not. The
old man looked anything but terrible. I thought his countenance mild
rather than austere. Still, these backwoodsmen were famous for a quiet
ferociousness that could do a brave or terrible deed without the least
fuss. I did not know what to think. But what to _do_ seemed to admit
of but one answer--I must go on with him, and trust Providence, who
had brought us safely some fifteen hundred miles. My wife shuddered,
perhaps trembled, and hugged the child closer; but she submitted
quietly--I may say trustfully. She certainly gave _him_ no hint of her
fears.

At length--for the time did not seem very short to me, and doubtless
stretched out much longer to my wife--but at length, after a long and
very gradual <DW72> down a hollow, such as I have _failed_ to describe,
we saw the habitation of our guide. It was a cabin of the rudest
sort and smallest size, in what had perhaps in "crap time" been an
enclosure on the ascent of a <DW72> beyond a little wet weather brook.
I took notice--for it was an _interesting_ fact to me--that for the
accommodation of my horse there was a "rail-pen," though, whether it
was covered with straw, or "shucks," or prairie hay, or the cloudy sky,
I do not now remember; for I have seen more such many a time since
then; but there was "cawn" in another rail-pen close by. So my horse
was supplied. But my wife and child must be got into the house first;
and in we went.

Reader, in that little dearborn-wagon was all I had in this world, or
of it; and though, to say the truth, all, except the wife and child,
might have been well sold for a very few hundred dollars--and probably
that is an enormous over-estimate--yet it was precious to me, for much
of _their_ comfort depended on its preservation. And a _few_ hundred
dollars--nay, a few _dollars_--would make quite an addition to the
comforts of the habitation we entered, and of those who dwelt in it.
There was neither table nor chair. The puncheon floor was not air-tight
nor a dead level. The stick chimney and hearth were covered with clay;
but there was a fire in it. The bed--but we have not got to the bed yet.

I suppose it happened very well that we had our provisions with us,
for I saw no cooking nor anything to cook. I forgot to say, that the
inmates when we arrived were a boy, dressed something like his father,
and a girl, whose single garment--we judged from appearances--was a
home-spun cotton frock, not white, though I think it had never been
dyed. Both were barefoot. They might be twelve and fourteen years old.

"Whar's yer mammy?"

"Mom's went over to Jake Smith's; and she haint never come home yit. I
reckon she's agwine to stay all night."

I don't know what made me think so, but I remember I _did_ rather
surmise that it was just as well for us. _Something_ made me think of a
shrew.

Presently, while my wife was spreading the table (i.e. a short bench,
usually a seat) for our supper, I observed the old man seated on
something, with a plate on his knees, plying his hunting-knife on
some cold meat and corn bread for his. I suppose the children had
eaten before our arrival. We had, I believe, our provision-box and an
inverted half bushel for seats, and ate our supper with commendable
appetites; for by this time I think my wife's fears were sensibly
abated. At length bedtime came, and what should be done? There was
a bed, or something like one, in a corner, but that would hardly
accommodate all five of us and the baby. Soon, however, that doubt was
solved. The girl spread a pallet on the floor, taking the straw bed
for the purpose; and the feather bed--yes, _feather_ bed--was made
up on the bedstead for us. That bedstead would be a curious affair,
doubtless, in a Philadelphia furniture store. I will endeavour to
describe it. It consisted of one post and three rails; or rather, what
was intended to correspond with those parts of a bedstead. The post
aforesaid was a round pole, with the bark on, reaching from the floor
to the joist or rafter, inserted at top and bottom into auger-holes. At
a convenient height, a branch cut off not quite close on each of two
sides, formed a rest for two of the poles that served for a side and
foot rail, the other end being inserted in auger-holes in the logs
which constituted the wall of the house. One end of the other side-rail
rested on the foot-rail. Across the two longest poles, or side-rails,
split clapboards rested; and on the scaffold thus formed, the bed was
made. I remember that it was comparatively clean; and the bedstead
being quite elastic, and my wife's fears now entirely removed by the
cheerful consent of our host to unite in family devotion, we slept well
and soundly: while the family reposed no doubt quite as sweetly on
their bed on the floor.

After we had breakfasted, our host, for whom we saw no more preparation
than on the night before, piloted us through a grove of tall trees to
the Kaskaskia Road, and pointed out our course; when we went on our way
rejoicing, and saw that day, for the first time, a herd of seven wild
deer together.

But the old man! What became of him? Didn't you pay him?

He turned homeward, and we saw him no more. We did pay him his full
charge, amounting to twenty-five cents!

I do not think my wife was ever afraid of a man after that, because he
looked rough in his dress. As for Amy, she had the hooping-cough; I
don't remember how soon, but she survived it; and has weaned her eighth
baby.

Does the reader want an apology for a dull story?

"Story--God bless you, I have none to tell."

I could have _made_ one, embellished with various incidents; could have
had a rifle pointed, or frozen all our hands and feet at least, "or
anything else that's agreeable;" but it would not then have been, as it
is now, the simple truth.




A NIGHT IN NAZARETH.

BY MARY YOUNG.

    "But while he thought on these things, behold, the angel of the
    Lord appeared unto him in a dream, saying, Joseph, thou son of
    David, fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife; for that which is
    conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost."--MATTHEW i. 20.


      Stern passions rose, and won wild mastery
      In Joseph's breast. He wandered darkly on,
      From the calm fountain and the olive grove,
      Toward the wilderness, as he would find
      Room for the ocean tumult of his thoughts.
      Long had he loved her with a matchless love,
      Deep as his nature, truthful as his truth;
      And she was his--by every sacred tie--
      His own, espoused; though ever still had dwelt
      On Mary's thoughtful brow a chastening spell,
      That shamed to stillness all life's throbbing pulses:
      Or, if his words grew passion, there would steal
      To her large, azure eye a startled glance
      Of sad, deep questioning, and she would turn
      Appealingly to heaven, with trembling tears--
      Yet was it she--the very same he saw,
      Writ o'er with all the foul name of a wanton.

      One fearful word broke from the quivering lips
      Of the young Hebrew, as at last alone,
      By the dark base of a high, shadowy rock,
      He sank in agony; and then he bent
      His forehead down to the cool, mossy turf,
      And lay there silently. Light, creeping plants,
      And one long spray of the white thornless rose,
      Stooped low, and swayed above him; a soft sound
      Of far, sweet, breezy whisperings wooed his ear,
      Till gentler thoughts stole to him, and he wept.
      Ere long his ear heard not: all things around,
      The present and the past--the painful past--
      Became as though they were not. Joseph lay,
      With eyes closed calmly, and a strange full peace
      Breathed to his spirit's depths; for there was one,
      Fairer and nobler than the sons of earth,
      Bending in kindness o'er him.

                                    Calmly still,
      Although to ecstasy his being drank,
      The fathomless, pure music of the voice
      Heard in that visioned hour, as once again
      He stood by the low portal of the home
      Of Mary. He passed in with noiseless step.
      Through the dim vine-leaves of the lattice
      Not a moonbeam fell, and yet a softer ray
      Than ever streamed from alabaster lamps,
      Lit the white vesture and the upturned face
      Of her who knelt in meekness there. Her lips
      Were motionless, and the slight clasping hands
      Pressed lightly on her bosom, but a high
      Seraphic bliss spoke in the fervent hush
      Of the pure, radiant features; for she held
      Unsoiled communion with her spirit's lord.

      Slowly away faded that glorious trance,
      And the white lids lifted as though reluctant.
      She looked on Joseph, and a faint, quick flush
      Swept shadowingly her forehead. Woman still,
      She felt, and painfully, that at the bar
      Of manhood's pride, earth had for her no witness.
      But the calm mien, and broad, uncovered brow
      Of Joseph, told no anger. He drew near,
      And knelt beside her; and the hand she gave
      In greeting was pressed close and silently,
      With reverent tenderness, upon his heart.




TEARS.

BY CHARLES D. GARDETTE, M.D.


      'Tis said, affliction's deepest sting
      Some token of its pain will bring
              In tears of bitter flow;
      But they who thus judge sorrow's smart,
      Know not the pang that wrings the heart,
              With withering tearless woe!

      The scorching grief that blasts the fount,
      And dries its tears, ere yet they mount,
              To soothe the burning eye;
      That speeds the blood with torrent force
      Through every bursting vein to course,
              Yet leave each life-track dry!

      The grief that binds with rankling chain
      Each feeling of the heart and brain,
              Save sternness and despair;
      And crushes with relentless hand
      Each hope religion's trust had planned,
              Planting rebellion there!

      Such grief, not one of these have known,
      Who say that flowing tears alone
              Proclaim the bosom's throes!
      Tears are the tokens God designed
      For lighter griefs of heart and mind,
              Such as pure child-life knows;

      And therefore, hath He so ordained
      That infant-tears be not restrained,
              But lightly caused to flow,
      That these, who cannot tell their grief,
      Shall find in weeping, such relief
              As manhood may not know!




INCONSTANCY.

BY E. M.


      They told me he'd forsake me; that the words
      With which he charmed my very soul away
      Were like the hollow music of a shell,
      That learns to mock the ocean's deeper voice.
      For he had listened to love's tones, until
      His ear and lip, though not his heart, had grown
      Familiar with their melody. Nay, more,--
      They said his very boyhood had been marked
      By worse than a boy's follies; that in youth,
      The season of high hopes, when lesser men
      Put on their manhood, as a monarch's heir
      Rich robes and royalty, his poor ambition
      Asked but new charms and pleasures; newer loves;
      New lips to smile until their sweetness palled,
      And softer hands to clasp his own, until
      He wearied even of so light a fetter.
      Thus did they pluck me from him, but in vain;
      For when did warning stay a woman's heart?
      I knew all this, and yet I trusted him.
      Yea, with a child's blind faith I gave my fate
      Into his hands, content that he should know
      How absolute his power and my weakness.
      Speak not of pride, I never felt its lash.
      There is no place for fallen Lucifer
      In the pure heaven of a sinless love.
      And when he left me, as they said he would,
      My spirit had no room for aught save grief.
      Giving the lie to my own conscious heart,
      I taxed stern truth with falsehood to the last.
      But when to doubt was madness, when, perforce,
      Even from my credulous eyes the scales were fallen,
      What was the cold scorn of a thousand worlds
      To the one thought, that for a counterfeit
      I'd staked my woman's all of love--and lost!




CROSSING THE TIDE.

BY MISS PHŒBE CAREY.


      Fainter, fainter, all the while
      On us beams her patient smile;
      Brighter as each day returns,
      In her cheek the crimson burns;
      And her tearful, fond caress
      Hath more loving tenderness,--
      Saviour, Saviour, unto her
      Draw thou near, and minister!

      And when on the crumbling sand
      Of life's shore her feet shall stand;
      When the death-stream's moaning surge
      Sings for her its solemn dirge,
      And our earthly love would shrink,
      Trembling, backward from the brink.
      Saviour, Saviour, take her hand,
      That her feet may safely stand!

      Firmly hold it in thine own,
      Gently, gently lead her down;
      And when o'er the solemn sea
      Safely she shall walk with thee,
      Nearing to that other shore.
      Whence a voice hath called her o'er.
      Saviour, Saviour, from the tide,
      Aid her up the heavenly side!

      Lead her on that burning way,
      Brighter than the path of day,
      Where a thousand saints have trod
      To the city of our God;
      Where a thousand martyrs came
      Shining on a path of flame;
      Saviour, till her wanderings cease
      On the eternal hills of peace.


  THE END.




Transcriber's Note


  Footnotes have been placed at end of their respective chapter, poem or
  note.

  Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
  in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and
  punctuation remains unchanged.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Iris, by Various

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