{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_55942/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_55942","id":"gutenberg_55942","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/55942","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Art","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Category: Short Stories","Gift books","Indians of North America -- Literary collections"],"text":"THE IRIS.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: PRESENTED To\n\n  C. Schuessele del.      Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  C. Schuessele del.      Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.\n\nLANDING OF WILLIAM PENN.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: The IRIS\n\nSouvenir\n\n  C. Schuessele del.      Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.]\n\n\n\n\n                               THE IRIS:\n                       An Illuminated Souvenir,\n                                  FOR\n                               MDCCCLII.\n\n                               EDITED BY\n                         JOHN S. HART, LL. D.\n\n                             PHILADELPHIA:\n                 PUBLISHED BY LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.\n                   SUCCESSORS TO GRIGG, ELLIOT & CO.\n                                 1852.\n\n\n\n\n  Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851,\n  BY LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.,\n  In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of\n    Pennsylvania.\n\n  C. SHERMAN, PRINTER.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nCaptain Eastman, of the United States Topographical Corps, having\nbeen stationed for nine years on our northwestern frontier, among the\nIndian tribes, at and around Fort Snelling, made a series of drawings\nof some of the most striking and remarkable objects connected with the\nIndian traditions. His accomplished lady, who was with him seven years\nof this time, collected the traditions themselves, and wove them into\ntales and poems that let us into the very heart of Indian life. The\nwhole of this valuable and original collection has been secured for the\nIris, and gives to the volume for 1852 its distinguishing feature. To\nmake the illustrations conform more to the character of the subjects,\nthey have all been printed in colours, in the style now so deservedly\npopular. Last year the publishers gave only four of these gorgeous\nilluminated pages. The present volume contains no less than twelve, all\nfrom original designs, and all printed in ten different colours. The\nhappy blending of the colours in these pictures, the disposition of the\nlight and shade, and the skill with which they are printed, give them\nthe appearance of paintings rather than of prints. Such a collection\nof gems of art in one volume, could not be made without a heavy\nexpense. But the publishers were desirous of making the Iris, as to the\nsplendour of its appearance, not unworthy of the celestial visitant\nfrom which it has been named, and of the very marked favour with which\nits predecessor of the last season was received.\n\nThe literary matter, like that of the former volume, is entirely\noriginal, and with the exception of the beautiful poem by Miss Bremer,\nentirely American, both as to subjects and authorship. Though there are\nvarious shades of thought and feeling in these effusions of genius,\neach subject being coloured according to the mental constitution of the\nwriter, yet, as in the divine bow of promise, all colours are blended\nand harmonized in the one aim to place before the beholder a new token\nof hope and gladness.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n  C. Schuessele del.      Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.]\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n                 SUBJECT.                          AUTHOR.          PAGE\n\n  PROEM.                                  SARAH ROBERTS.              19\n\n  THE LANDING OF WILLIAM PENN.            THE EDITOR.                 21\n\n  DIFFERENT IMPRESSIONS.                  FREDRIKA BREMER.            26\n\n  WE-HAR-KA, OR THE RIVAL CLANS.          MRS. MARY EASTMAN.          29\n\n  THE LAUGHING WATERS.                    MRS. MARY EASTMAN.          69\n\n  O-KO-PEE, A HUNTER OF THE SIOUX.        MRS. MARY EASTMAN.          72\n\n  CHEQUERED CLOUD, THE AGED SIOUX WOMAN.  MRS. MARY EASTMAN.          80\n\n  FIRE-FACE.                              MRS. MARY EASTMAN.          84\n\n  DEATH-SONG OF AN INDIAN PRISONER.       MRS. MARY EASTMAN.          91\n\n  THE FALSE ALARM.                        MRS. MARY EASTMAN.          95\n\n  INDIAN COURTSHIP.                       MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         101\n\n  THE SACRIFICE.                          MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         104\n\n  AN INDIAN LULLABY.                      MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         113\n\n  SOUNDING WIND, THE CHIPPEWAY BRAVE.     MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         117\n\n  AN INDIAN BALLAD.                       MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         124\n\n  OLD JOHN, THE MEDICINE-MAN.             MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         127\n\n  A REMONSTRANCE.                         ELIZA L. SPROAT.           136\n\n  A FINE ART DISREGARDED.                 ELIZABETH WETHERELL.       139\n\n  MISSION CHURCH OF SAN JOS\u00c9.             MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         151\n\n  HAWKING.                                EDITH MAY.                 155\n\n  HILLSIDE COTTAGE.                       MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.     156\n\n  SUNSET ON THE DELAWARE.                 J. I. PEASE.               177\n\n  FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY.               S. A. H.                   178\n\n  CASTLE-BUILDING.                        JAMES T. MITCHELL.         180\n\n  THE LOVER'S LEAP, OR WENONA'S ROCK.     MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         185\n\n  THE INDIAN MOTHER.                      MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         191\n\n  THE WOOD SPIRITS AND THE MAIDEN.        MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         194\n\n  ALICE HILL.                             MRS. M. E. W. ALEXANDER.   196\n\n  DR. VANDORSEN AND THE YOUNG WIDOW.      ANN E. PORTER.             206\n\n  A CENOTAPH. A BALLAD OF NATHAN HALE.    ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH.      225\n\n  THE DREAMER.                            MARY E. HEWITT.            244\n\n  WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.               MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         245\n\n  THE RAIN-DROP.                          MISS E. W. BARNES.         276\n\n  A PLEA FOR A CHOICE PICTURE.            MISS L. S. HALL.           279\n\n  LOST AND WON.                           CAROLINE EUSTIS.           281\n\n  THE MISTRUSTED GUIDE.                   A WESTERN MISSIONARY.      283\n\n  A NIGHT IN NAZARETH.                    MARY YOUNG.                290\n\n  TEARS.                                  CHARLES D. GARDETTE, M.D.  293\n\n  INCONSTANCY.                            E. M.                      295\n\n  CROSSING THE TIDE.                      MISS PH\u0152BE CAREY.          297\n\n\n\n\nTHE IRIS.\n\n\n\n\nPROEM.\n\nBY SARAH ROBERTS.\n\n\n      They have christened me Iris; and why? oh, why?\n        Because, like the rainbow so bright,\n      I bring my own welcome, and tell my own tale,\n        And am hailed by all hearts with delight:\n              And this, this is why\n      I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.\n\n      The rainbow, it cometh 'mid sunlight and tears,--\n        The tears it soon chaseth away;\n      I banish all sighs for the year that is passed,\n        And the future in sunlight array:\n              And this, this is why\n      I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.\n\n      The rainbow, it telleth of promise and love,\n        Of hope, with its gay, golden wing;\n      It whispers of peacefulness, purity, heaven,--\n        Of these lofty themes do I sing:\n              And this, this is why\n      I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.\n\n      The rainbow is painted in colours most fair,\n        By the hand of the Father of love;\n      So the genius and talent my pages bespeak,\n        Are inspired by the Great Mind above:\n              And this, this is why\n      I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LANDING OF WILLIAM PENN.\n\nBY THE EDITOR.\n\n  (See the Frontispiece.)\n\n\nThe first landing of William Penn at Newcastle, in 1682, is one\nof those striking historical events that are peculiarly suited\nfor pictorial illustration. The late Mr. Duponceau, in one of his\ndiscourses, first suggested the idea of making it the subject of an\nhistorical painting. This idea is seized with avidity by Mr. Dixon, the\nmost recent biographer of the great Quaker, and the circumstances of\nthe landing are given accordingly, with much minuteness. The artist who\ndesigned the picture that forms the frontispiece to the present volume\nhas had this description in view. I cannot do better, therefore, than\nto quote the words of Mr. Dixon as the best possible commentary upon\nthe picture.\n\n\"On the 27th of October, nine weeks after the departure from Deal, the\n_Welcome_ moored off Newcastle, in the territories lately ceded by the\nDuke of York, and William Penn first set foot in the New World.[1] His\nlanding made a general holiday in the town; young and old, Welsh,\nDutch, English, Swedes, and Germans, crowded down to the landing-place,\neach eager to catch a glimpse of the great man who had come amongst\nthem, less as their lord and governor than as their friend. In the\ncentre of the foreground, only distinguished from the few companions\nof his voyage who have yet landed, by the nobleness of his mien, and a\nlight blue silken sash tied round his waist, stands William Penn; erect\nin stature, every motion indicating courtly grace, his countenance\nlighted up with hope and honest pride,--in every limb and feature\nthe expression of a serene and manly beauty.[2] The young officer\nbefore him, dressed in the gay costume of the English service, is his\nlieutenant, Markham, come to welcome his relative to the new land, and\nto give an account of his own stewardship. On the right stand the chief\nsettlers of the district, arrayed in their national costumes, the light\nhair and quick eye of the Swede finding a good foil in the stolid look\nof the heavy Dutchman, who doffs his cap, but doubts whether he shall\ntake the pipe out of his mouth even to say welcome to the new governor.\nA little apart, as if studying with the intense eagerness of Indian\nskill the physiognomy of the ruler who has come with his children to\noccupy their hunting-grounds, stands the wise and noble leader of the\nRed Men, Taminent, and a party of the Lenni Lenap\u00e9 in their picturesque\npaints and costume. Behind the central figure are grouped the principal\ncompanions of his voyage; and on the dancing waters of the Delaware\nrides the stately ship, while between her and the shore a multitude of\nlight canoes dart to and fro, bringing the passengers and merchandise\nto land. Part of the background shows an irregular line of streets and\nhouses, the latter with the pointed roofs and fantastic gables which\nstill delight the artist's eye in the streets of Leyden or Rotterdam;\nand further on the view is lost in one of those grand old pine and\ncedar forests which belong essentially to an American scene.\"\n\nI take much pleasure in quoting also, in this connexion, another scene\nof somewhat similar character, though greatly misrepresented in the\nordinary pictures of it heretofore given. Penn's personal appearance\nhas been even more misapprehended than his character. He was, indeed,\none of the most handsome men of his age, and at the time of his first\ncoming to America he was in the very prime of life. West makes him an\nugly, fat old fellow, in a costume half a century out of date. So says\nMr. Dixon. The passage referred to, and about to be quoted, is from a\ndescription of the celebrated Treaty with the Indians at Shackamaxon.\n\n\"This conference has become one of the most striking scenes in history.\nArtists have painted, poets have sung, philosophers have applauded\nit; but it is nevertheless clear, that in words and colours it has\nbeen equally and generally misrepresented, because painters, poets,\nand historians have chosen to draw on their own imaginations for the\nfeatures of a scene, every marking line of which they might have\nrecovered from authentic sources.\n\n\"The great outlines of nature are easily obtained. There, the dense\nmasses of cedar, pine, and chestnut, stretching far away into the\ninterior of the land; here, the noble river rolling its waters down\nto the Atlantic Ocean; along its surface rose the purple smoke of the\nsettlers' homestead; on the opposite shores lay the fertile and settled\ncountry of New Jersey. Here stood the gigantic elm which was to become\nimmortal from that day forward,--and there lay the verdant council\nchamber formed by nature on the surface of the soil. In the centre\nstood William Penn, in costume undistinguished from the surrounding\ngroup, save by the silken sash. His costume was simple, but not\npedantic or ungainly: an outer coat, reaching to the knees, and covered\nwith buttons, a vest of other materials, but equally ample, trousers\nextremely full, slashed at the sides, and tied with strings or ribbons,\na profusion of shirt sleeves and ruffles, with a hat of the cavalier\nshape (wanting only the feather), from beneath the brim of which\nescaped the curls of a new peruke, were the chief and not ungraceful\ningredients.[3] At his right hand stood Colonel Markham, who had met\nthe Indians in council more than once on that identical spot, and was\nregarded by them as a firm and faithful friend; on his left Pearson,\nthe intrepid companion of his voyage; and near his person, but a little\nbackward, a band of his most attached adherents. When the Indians\napproached in their old forest costume, their bright feathers sparkling\nin the sun, and their bodies painted in the most gorgeous manner, the\ngovernor received them with the easy dignity of one accustomed to mix\nwith European courts. As soon as the reception was over, the sachems\nretired to a short distance, and after a brief consultation among\nthemselves, Taminent, the chief sachem or king, a man whose virtues\nare still remembered by the sons of the forest, advanced again a few\npaces, and put upon his own head a chaplet, into which was twisted a\nsmall horn: this chaplet was his symbol of power; and in the customs of\nthe Lenni Lenap\u00e9, whenever the chief placed it upon his brows the spot\nbecame at once sacred, and the person of every one present inviolable.\nThe venerable Indian king then seated himself on the ground, with the\nolder sachems on his right and left, the middle-aged warriors ranged\nthemselves in the form of a crescent or half-moon round them, and the\nyounger men formed a third and outer semicircle. All being seated in\nthis striking and picturesque order, the old monarch announced to the\ngovernor that the natives were prepared to hear and consider his words.\nPenn then rose to address them, his countenance beaming with all the\npride of manhood. He was at this time thirty-eight years old; light and\ngraceful in form; the handsomest, best-looking, most lively gentleman\nshe had ever seen, wrote a lady who was an eyewitness of the ceremony.\"\n\n[Footnote 1: \"Watson, 16; Day, 299. The landing of Penn in America\nis commemorated on the 24th of October, that being the date given by\nClarkson; but the diligent antiquary, Mr. J. F. Watson, has found in\nthe records of Newcastle the original entry of his arrival.\"]\n\n[Footnote 2: \"The portrait by West is utterly spurious and unlike.\nGranville Penn, MSS.\"]\n\n[Footnote 3: \"Penn. Hist. Soc. Mem., iii. part ii. 76.\"]\n\n\n\n\nDIFFERENT IMPRESSIONS.\n\nBY FREDRIKA BREMER.\n\n\n      I was in company\n      With men and women,\n      And heard small talk\n      Of little things,\n      Of poor pursuits\n      And narrow views\n      Of narrow minds.\n      I rushed out\n      To breathe more freely,\n      To look on nature.\n\n      The evening star\n        Rose grave and bright,\n      The western sky\n        Was warm with light,\n      And the young moon\n        Shone softly down\n      Among the shadows\n        Of the town,\n      Where whispering trees\n        And fragrant flowers\n      Stood hushed in silent,\n        Balmy bowers.\n      All was romance,\n        All loveliness,\n      Wrapped in a trance\n        Of mystic bliss.\n\n      I looked on\n      In bitterness,\n      And sighed and asked,\n      Why the great Lord\n      Made so rich beauty\n      For such a race\n      Of little men?\n\n      I was in company\n      With men and women,\n      Heard noble talk\n      Of noble things,\n      Of noble doings,\n      And manly suffering\n      And man's heart beating\n      For all mankind.\n\n      The evening star\n        Seemed now less bright,\n      The western sky\n        Of paler light,\n      All nature's beauty\n      And romance,\n      So lovely\n      To gaze upon,\n      Retired at once,\n      A shadow but to that of man!\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  C. Schuessele del.      Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.\n        Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.\n\nWE-HAR-KA.]\n\n\n\n\nWE-HAR-KA,\nOR, THE RIVAL CLANS.\n\nBY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.\n\n\nThe Indian settlement, the opening scene of our story, presented a\ndifferent appearance from what we call an Indian village at the present\nday. The lodges were far more numerous, and the Indians were not\ndrooping about, without energy, and apparently without occupation. The\nlong line of hills did not echo the revels of the drunkard, nor were\nthe faces of the people marked with anxiety and care. The untaught and\nuntamed dispositions of the red men were as yet unaffected by the evil\ninfluences of the degenerate white man.\n\nThe Sioux[4] were in their summer-houses, and the village stretched\nalong the bank of the river for a quarter of a mile. It reached back,\ntoo, to the foot of a high hill, and some of the lodges were shaded by\nthe overhanging branches of the elm and maple. Above the homes of the\nliving might be seen the burial-place of the dead; for, on the summit\nof the hill the enveloped forms of the departed were receiving the last\nred beams of the retiring sun, whose rising and repose were now for\never unnoticed by them.\n\nThe long, warm day was closing in, and the Indians were enjoying\nthemselves in the cool breezes that were stirring the waves of the\nriver and the wild flowers that swept over its banks. They were\ncollected in groups in every direction, but the largest party might be\nfound surrounding a mat, on which was seated the old war-chief of the\nband, who had long dragged a tedious existence, a care to others and\na burden to himself. The mat was placed near the wigwam, so that the\nsides of the wigwam supported the back of the aged and infirm warrior.\nHis hair was cut straight over his forehead, but behind it hung in long\nlocks over his neck.\n\nWarm as was the season, the buffalo robe was wrapped around him, the\nfur side next to him, while on the outside, in Indian hieroglyphics,\nmight be read many an event of his life. Around the edge of the robe\nwas a row of hands painted in different colours, representing the\nnumber of enemies he had killed in battle. In the centre of the robe\nwere drawn the sun and morning star, objects of worship among the\nSioux, and placed on the robe as a remedy for a severe sickness which\nonce prostrated his vital powers, but was conquered by the efficacious\ncharm contained in the representation. Ornaments of different kinds\nadorned his person; but his limbs were shrunken to the bone with age,\nand the time had long since come to him when even the grasshopper was\na burden.\n\nThe features of the Sioux were still expressive, though the eyes\nwere closed and the lips thin and compressed; he was encircled with\na dignity, which, in all ages and climes, attaches itself to an\nhonourable old age.\n\nClose by his side, and contrasting strongly with the war-chief, was one\nof his nearest relations. She was his granddaughter, the orphan girl of\nhis favourite son. She was at once his companion, attendant, and idol.\n\nThey were never separated, that old man and young girl; for a long time\nhe had been fed by her hands, and now he never saw the light of the sun\nhe worshipped except when she raised and held open the eyelids which\nweakness had closed over his eyes. She had just assisted his tottering\nsteps, and seated him on the mat, where he might enjoy the pleasant\nevening-time and the society of those who delighted in the strange\nstories his memory called up, or who were willing to receive the advice\nwhich the aged are ever privileged to pour into the hearts of the young.\n\nThe evening meal of the warrior had been a light one, for We-har-ka\nstill held in her small and beautiful hand a bark dish, which contained\nvenison cut up in small pieces, occasionally pressing him to eat again.\nIt was evident there was something unusual agitating his thoughts, for\nhe impatiently put aside the hand that fed him, and taking his pipe,\nthe handle of which was elaborately adorned, he held it to have it\nlighted, then dreamily and quietly placed it in his mouth.\n\nHe had long been an object of reverence to his people; though\nsuperseded as a warrior and a leader, yet his influence was still\nacknowledged in the band which he had so long controlled. He had kept\nthis alive in a great measure by the oft-repeated stories of his\nachievements, and above all, by the many personal encounters he had\nhad, not only with his enemies, but with the gods, the objects of their\ndevotion and fear.\n\nThe pipe was soon laid aside, and his low and murmuring words could not\nbe understood by the group, that, attracted by the unusual excitement\nthat showed itself in the war-chief's manner, had pressed near him.\n\nAfter a short communing with himself he placed his hand upon the head\nof the girl, who was watching every change in his expressive face. \"My\ndaughter,\" he said, \"you will not be alone--the Eagle Eye will not\nagain see the form of his warrior son: he would have charged him to\ncare for his sister, even as the small birds watch and guard around the\nhome of the forest god.\n\n\"The children of the Great Spirit must submit to his will. My heart\nwould laugh could I again see the tall form of my grandson. I would see\nonce more the fleetness of his step and the strength of his arm; but\nit is not to be. Before he shall return, crying, 'It is for my father,\nthe scalp of his enemy,' I shall be roaming over the hunting-grounds of\nthe Great Spirit. Do not weep, my daughter; you will be happy in your\nhusband's wigwam, and you will tell your children how the Eagle Eye\nloved you, even till his feet started on the warrior's journey.\n\n\"Your brother will return,\" he continued, \"and it is for him that I lay\naside the pipe, which I shall never smoke again; the drum that I have\nused since I have been a medicine-man, I wish laid near my side when I\nshall be dead, and wrapped in the buffalo robe which will cover me.\n\n\"You, my braves, shall know whence I obtained this drum. It has often\nbrought back life to the dying man, and its sound has secured us\nsuccess in battle. I have often told you that I had seen the God of the\nGreat Deep in my dreams, and from him I obtained power to strike terror\nto the hearts of my enemies. Who has shouted the death-cry oftener\nthan I? Look at the feathers[5] of honour in my head! What enemy ever\nheard the name of Eagle Eye without trembling? But I, terrible as I\nhave been to my enemies, must grow weak like a woman, and die like a\nchild. The waters of the rivers rush on; you may hear them and trace\ntheir way, but soon they join the waves of the great deep, and we see\nthem no more--so I am about to join the company in the house of the\nGreat Spirit, and when your children say, 'Where is Eagle Eye?' you may\nanswer, 'The Great Spirit has called him, we cannot go where he is.'\n\n\"It was from Unk-ta-he, the god of the great deep, that I received that\ndrum. Before I was born of woman I lived in the dark waters. Unk-ta-he\nrose up with his terrible eyes, and took me to his home. I lived with\nhim and the other gods of the sea. I cannot to you all repeat the\nlessons of wisdom he has taught me; it is a part of the great medicine\nwords that women should never hear.\n\n\"There, in the home of the god of the sea, I saw many wonders--the\nlarge doors through which the water gods passed when they visited the\nearth, the giant trees lying in the water higher than our mountains.\nThey had lightning too, the weapons of the thunder birds;[6] when the\nwinds arose, and the sea waved, then did Unk-ta-he hurl the streaked\nfire to the earth through the waters.\n\n\"The god of the great deep gave me this drum, and I wish it buried with\nme; he told me when I struck the drum my will should be obeyed, and it\nhas been so.\n\n\"When my son returns, tell him to let his name be terrible like his\ngrandfather's. Tell him that my arm was like a child's because of the\nwinters I had seen, but that he must revenge his brother's death; then\nwill he be like the brave men who have gone before him, and his deeds\nwill be remembered as long as the Dacotas hate their enemies. The\nshadows grow deeper on the hills, and the long night will soon rest\nupon the head of the war-chief. I am old, yet my death-song shall call\nback the spirits of the dead. Where are the Chippeways, my enemies? See\ntheir red scalps scorching in the sun! I am a great warrior; tell me,\nwhere is the enemy who fears me not!\"\n\nWhile the voice of the old man now rose with the excitement that was\ninfluencing, now fell with the exhaustion, which brought big drops of\nperspiration on his face, the Indians were collecting in a crowd around\nhim.\n\nIt was, indeed, a glorious evening for the war-chief to die. The\nhorizon was a mass of crimson clouds, their gorgeous tints were\nreflected on the river; the rocky bluffs rose up like castle walls\naround the village, while on the opposite shore the deer were parting\nthe foliage with their graceful heads and drinking from the low banks.\n\nWe-har-ka wiped the forehead and brow of her grandfather. There was\nsomething of more than ordinary interest about the appearance of this\nyoung person: her features were regularly formed, their expression\nmild; her figure light and yielding as a young tree; her hair was\nneatly parted and gathered in small braids over her neck; her dress\nwell calculated to display the grace of her figure; a heavy necklace of\nwampum[7] covered her throat and neck, and on her bosom was suspended\nthe holy cross!\n\nHer complexion was lighter than usual for an Indian girl, owing to the\nconfinement occasioned by the charge of her infirm relative; a subdued\nmelancholy pervaded her features, and even the tone of her voice.\n\nThere was a pause, for the warrior slept a few moments, and again\nhis voice was heard. Death was making him mindful of the glorious\nachievements of his life. Again he was brandishing his tomahawk\nin circles round the head of his fallen foe; again he taunted his\nprisoner, whose life he had spared that he might enjoy his sufferings\nunder the torment; again, with a voice as strong as in early manhood,\nhe shouted the death-cry--it was his own, for not another sound, not\neven a sigh escaped him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGently they moved him into the wigwam. We-har-ka stood by his head.\nThere was no loud wailing, for he had outlived almost all who were\nbound to him by near ties.\n\nThose who stood around heaped their most cherished possessions on his\nfeet: the knife, the pipe, and the robe were freely and affectionately\noffered to the dead.\n\nWe-har-ka gazed earnestly upon him: large tears fell on her bosom and\non the old man's brow. Some one drew near and respectfully covered his\nvenerable face: the drum was placed, as he requested, at his side.\n\nOne of the men said, \"Eagle Eye takes proud steps as he travels towards\nthe land of souls. His heart has long been where warriors chase the\nbuffalo on the prairies of the Great Spirit.\" We-har-ka drew from her\nbelt her knife, and cut long, deep gashes on her round arms; then, not\nheeding the wounds,[8] she severed the braids of her glossy hair, and\ncutting them off with the knife, red with her own blood, she threw them\nat her feet.\n\n\nHow did the holy cross find its way to the wilds of a new country?\nA savage, yet powerful nation, idolaters at heart and in practice,\nbending to the sun, the forests, and the sea--how was it that the sign\nof the disciple of Jesus lay glittering on the bosom of one of the\nwomen of this heathen race?\n\nDid the Christian hymn of praise ever rise with the soft and silvery\nvapours of morning to the heavens? Had the low and earnest Christian's\nprayer ever sounded among the bluffs that towered and the islands that\nslept? Never, and yet the emblem of their faith was there.\n\nBut, to what region did not the Jesuit penetrate? Hardly were the\nresources of our country discovered, before they were upon its shores.\n\nThey were there, with their promises and penances, their soft words and\ntheir Latin prayers, with purposes not to be subdued in accomplishing\nthe mission for which they were sent. Was it a mission of faith, or\nof gain? Was it to extend the hopes and triumphs of the cross, or to\naggrandize a Society always overflowing with means and with power?\nWitness the result.\n\nYet they poured like rain into the rich and beautiful country of\nAcadie.[9] See them passing through forests where the dark trees bent\nto and fro \"like giants possessing fearful secrets,\" enduring hunger,\nprivation, and fatigue. See them again in their frail barks bounding\nover the angry waters of Huron, riding upon its mountain waves, and\noften cast upon its inhospitable rocks.\n\nFollow them as they tread the paths where the moccasin-step alone had\never been heard, regardless of danger and of death, planting the cross\neven in the midst of a Dacota village. Could this be for aught save the\nlove of the Saviour? Those who know the history of the Society founded\nby Loyola, best can tell.\n\nAmong the ranks of the Jesuit were found the Christian and the martyr,\nas, among the priesthood of Rome, in her darkest days, were here and\nthere those whose robes have, no doubt, been washed in the blood of the\nLamb.\n\nThose hearts that were really touched with the truth divine, drew\nnearer to the path of duty by the solemn spectacle of man, standing on\nthe earth, gay and beautiful as if light had just been created, yet not\neven knowing of the existence of his great Creator.\n\n\nNot far from the wigwam of the dead chief, Father Blanc knelt before\nthe altar which he had erected. He wore the black robe of his order,\nand as he knelt, the strange words he uttered sounded stranger still\nhere. On the altar were the crucifix and many of the usual ornaments\ncarried by the wandering Romish priests.\n\nFlowers too were strewn on the altar, flowers large and beautiful, such\nas he had never seen even in _la belle France_. He chaunted the vespers\nalone, and had but just risen from his devotions when the dying cry of\nthe war-chief rung through the village.\n\nThe priest walked slowly to the scene of death. Why was he not\nthere before with the cross and the holy oil? Ah! the war-chief\nwas no subject for the Jesuit faith--he had worshipped too long\nWakinyan-Unk-ta-he to listen to the words of the black robe. There were\nno baptisms, no chauntings of the mass here; there was no interest at\nstake to induce the haughty Sioux to the necessity of yielding up his\nhousehold gods. They were not a weaker party warring with the French,\nand obliged from motives of policy to taste the consecrated wafer.\nContrasted with the Indian's ignorance was his native dignity. When\nFather Blanc told them there was but one religion and that was the\nRoman Catholic, and that the time would come when all would be subject\nto the man who was in God's place upon the earth, who lived at Rome,\nthen would the Sioux laugh, and say, \"As long as the sun shines, the\nDacotas will keep the medicine feast.\"\n\nIn vain were the pictured prayer-book and the holy relics exhibited.\nWhat were they to the tracks of Haokah the giant, or the gods' house,\nunder the hill which reared itself even to the clouds, under which the\ngods rested themselves from their battles.\n\nThe priest wept when he thought of the useless sacrifice he had made:\nhe could not even gain the love of the strange beings for whose sake he\nhad endured so much. They were not like the Abnakis, \"those men of the\neast,\" who so loved and obeyed the fathers who sojourned among them.\n\nAnd the useless life he was leading, how long might it last?\nRestrained, as the Sioux were, only by the laws of hospitality and the\npromise they had made to the Indians who conducted him hither, how soon\nmight these influences cease to affect them?\n\nWe-har-ka alone spoke gently and kindly to him. She knew that his\nheart, like hers, vibrated beneath a load of care; she found too a\nstrange interest in his stories,--the woman's love of the marvellous\nwas roused; the miracles of the saints delighted her as did the feats\nof the gods.\n\nBut only so far was she a Christian; though she wore a gift from the\nJesuit, the consecrated sign. Perhaps in the after accounts of his\nconverts she was reckoned among them. We are told by one of the Jesuit\nfathers of the true conversion and Christian death of a Canada Indian.\n\"While I related to him,\" said he, \"the scene of the crucifixion, 'Oh!\nthat I had been there,' exclaimed the Indian, 'I would have brought\naway the scalps of those Jews.'\"\n\nThe war-chief was arrayed in his choicest clothing; and, but for\nthe silence in the wigwam, and the desolate appearance of the young\nperson who was alone with her dead, one would have supposed that he\nslept as usual. The charms were still to be left about his person\nfor protection. The body was wrapped in skins: they were as yet laid\nbut loosely about him, ready for their final arrangement, when, with\nthe face towards the rising sun, the warrior should be laid upon the\nscaffolding, to enjoy undisturbed repose.\n\nBut a few hours had elapsed since he sat and talked among them; but\nnow each of the group had returned to his usual occupation. Even his\ndaughter sat with her face drooping over her hands, forgetting for the\nmoment her grief at his loss, and endeavouring to anticipate her own\nfate. The twilight had not yet given way to night, but the sudden death\nthat had occurred had hushed all their usual noisy amusements. Nothing\nwas heard but the subdued voices of the warriors as they dwelt on the\nexploits of Eagle Eye, or speculated on the employments that engaged\nhim, now that their tie with him was sundered. Sometimes the subject\nwas changed for another of more exciting interest. A party that had\ngone in search of the Chippeways,[10] who had been hovering near their\nvillage, was expected to return, and there was some little anxiety\noccasioned by their prolonged stay. Among the most noted of the party\nwas the brother of We-har-ka and a young brave called the Beaver. These\ntwo young men, aspirants for glory and the preference which, among the\nIndians, is awarded to bravery, cunning, and the virtues, so considered\namong them, belonged to different clans. The rivalry and hatred between\nthese clans raged high, more so at this time than for some years\nprevious.\n\nThe Indian lives only for revenge; he has neither arts nor learning to\noccupy his mind, and his religion encourages rather than condemns this\npassion.\n\nThe daring showed by the Chippeways had only stimulated them to greater\nacts of bravery; they were determined that the tree of peace, now torn\nup by the roots, should never be planted again on the boundaries of the\ntwo countries.\n\nWe-har-ka had arisen from her recumbent attitude, and stood by the side\nof her dead relative. She had not time to reflect on the loneliness of\nher position.\n\nShe had only laid her hand on the cold forehead where Death had so\nrecently set his seal, when the well-known triumphant voice of her\nbrother echoed through the village.\n\nHardly had she turned towards the door when another yell of triumph,\nsounding even louder than the first, was heard. She knew that voice\ntoo, for the colour mounted to her cheeks, and her breath came short\nand quickly.\n\nA chorus of yells now rent the air, answered by the Indians who had\njoyfully started up to meet the party. How every eye shone with\ndelight, every feature working with convulsive excitement; all the\nfierce passions of their nature were aroused. Those prolonged and\ntriumphant shouts had prepared them for what was to come. Already they\nlonged to see the blood-dyed scalps, and, it might be, the face of some\nprisoner in whose sufferings they were to revel.\n\nThe figures of the successful war-party soon made themselves visible in\nthe moonlight. One by one they turned the winding trail that led to the\nvillage. Over their heads they bore the fresh scalps; and as they came\nin view, a piercing universal shout arose from all. The eagerness of\nthe women induced them to press forward, and when it was impossible to\ngain a view, from the great crowd in advance, they ascended the nearest\nrock, where they could distinctly see the approaching procession.\n\nAfter the scalps and their bearers were recognised, another deafening\nshout arose. The prisoners were descried as they neared: it was seen\nthere were two men and a woman. The arms of the men were pinioned back\nbetween their shoulders. Nearer still they come, but the shouting is\nover: intense curiosity and anxiety have succeeded this eager delight.\n\nThe prisoners and scalps were their enemies, but over every heart the\nquestion passed, Have they all returned? Has each husband been restored\nto his family, each child to the parent? But not long did these softer\nfeelings influence the conduct of the Sioux. They had now nearly met,\nand the war-party, with the prisoners, had reached the outskirts of\nthe village. Here the confusion had returned and attained its greatest\nheight; welcomes had been said, and the crowd pressed around the scalps\nto feast their eyes on the precious sight. There were but four, and\nthey had been taken in the hurry of flight: they were round pieces,\ntorn from the top of the head, and from one of them fell the long,\nglossy hair of a woman.\n\nThere was nothing in the carriage of the prisoners to denote their\ncondition, their attitude and demeanour proclaiming the conqueror\ninstead of the conquered--the haughty determination of their looks,\nthe bold freedom of their steps, their gait as erect as possible, with\ntheir hands bound behind them. Even the insolence of their language,\nin reply to the taunts of their victors, showed they were prepared for\nwhat was inevitable.\n\nThe calm, pale face of the young Chippeway girl showed that she had\ndetermined to brave the blood-loving Sioux, and let them see that a\nwoman could meet death as well as a warrior.\n\nThe procession stopped, and one of the Sioux women called for her\nhusband. \"Where is he, warriors? give me back my husband.\"\n\n\"You will not weep,\" said one of the men; \"here is the Chippeway who\nkilled him,\" pointing to the younger of the male prisoners. \"You may\nstone him, and then you may sing while the fire is burning under his\nfeet.\"\n\nA loud laugh of defiance was heard from the prisoner. \"The Sioux are\ndogs,\" he said; \"let them hurry; I am in haste to go to the land of\nsouls.\" The words were not uttered ere a dozen spears pricked his body.\nThere was no cry of pain; he only laughed at the anger he had excited.\n\nThe attention of the Indians was now withdrawn from their prisoners,\nfor We-har-ka was rapidly walking towards them. Even the arrangement\nof her dress was distinctly visible as she approached them: her long\nand glossy hair disarranged purposely, to mark the intensity of her\ngrief; the blood was still trickling from her arms; her pale face\nlooking even paler than it was, by the moonlight and its broad shadows.\n\nShe was hastening to meet her brother, yet she did not offer him one\ncongratulation on his safe return. \"My brother,\" she cried, \"your\ngrandfather is dead. He lies cold and still, as the large buffalo when\nhe has ceased to struggle with our hunters. Go to his lodge and tell\nhim of your prisoners, and your scalps. For me, I will go myself to\nshed tears. I will follow the fresh tracks of the deer, and by the\nwakeen-stone,[11] in the prairie, I will sit and weep where no eye can\nsee me but the Great Spirit's. While the moon walks through the sky,\nthe spirits shall hear my voice.\"\n\nShe was listened to in silence, for the Indians always showed respect\nto We-har-ka; her being constantly with the war-chief had made them\nlook upon her almost with reverence, as if she might have obtained from\nhim some supernatural power.\n\n\"The Sioux listen to the words of a woman,\" said the old prisoner,\nas We-har-ka turned towards the prairie. \"Why do they not make her a\nwar-chief, and let her take them to battle?\"\n\n\"We will,\" answered her brother, \"when we go again to bring home old\nmen. I would not have been troubled with your old carrion, but I thought\nto let my father return the kind treatment you once gave him; and I\nwould kill you now, but that I would rather the women would do it.\"\n\n\"The Sioux are brave when their prisoners are bound,\" again taunted the\nprisoner; \"let them do their will: the Chippeway fears neither fire nor\ndeath.\"\n\nThe rage of the Sioux was unbounded; the cold unconcern of their\nprisoner almost destroyed the pleasure of victory. The women\nclamorously demanded that he might be delivered over to them. They\nseized him, and moved forward to a large tree, whose massive trunk\nindicated its strength. Here they bound him with strong sinews and\npieces of skin. His hands were tied in front, and a strong cord was\npassed about his waist, and with it he was fastened to the tree.\n\nThis was all the work of the women, and they evinced by their\nexpedition and hideous laughs the pleasure they found in their\nemployment.\n\nThe Sioux then went to see the body of their venerated chief; on their\nreturn they found their victim firmly secured to the tree. The son was\nbound at some little distance from the father, while the daughter was\nsitting, hiding her face between her hands, weeping for her father's\nsituation. Pride had all gone, only affection occupied her heart. The\nold Chippeway was convinced now of his immediate sufferings; he had\nbeen tranquil and unmoved until the return of the warriors. Suddenly he\nshouted, in a loud voice, the wild notes of his death-song.\n\nThere was no failing in his voice; even his daughter turned towards\nhim with satisfaction as he extolled his life, and expressed pleasure\nat the prospect of seeing the hunting-grounds of the Great Spirit.\n\nAs he ceased, Chash\u00e9 told him he must rest from his journey ere he\ncommenced his long way to the land of souls. \"A great many winters\nago,\" said the young Sioux, \"my father was in your country; you took\nhim prisoner, you bound him, and you told him what a good warm fire he\nwas to have to die by.\n\n\"You said you loved him too well to let him be cold; but while you\nwere binding him he was too strong for you. Unk-ta-he had made him\nbrave; he bounded from your grasp in sight of your warriors. He flew;\nyour bravest men chased him in vain. He came home and lived to an age\ngreater than yours.\n\n\"The old war-chief is gone, or he would tell you how welcome you are\nto his village. He was always hospitable and loved to treat brave men\nwell. But we must eat first, or we cannot enjoy ourselves while you are\nso comfortable with your old limbs burning.\"\n\nExpressions of approbation followed this speech on the part of the\nSioux, but there was no notice taken of it by the Chippeway, who was\nnow occupied in contemplating his daughter. He had before seemed to be\nunconscious of her presence.\n\nNo bodily torture could equal the pang of the father, who saw the\nutterly helpless and unhappy situation of his child. His own fate was\nfixed--that caused him no uneasiness. There was even a feeling of\nenthusiasm in the prospect of showing his enemies how slight was their\npower over him; how little he cared for any tortures they might inflict.\n\nBut his young daughter, who would have been safe now among her own\npeople, but for her affection for him, which induced her to remain by\nhis side, refusing the opportunity of escape.\n\nThe Sioux saw his concern and rejoiced that this pang was added to the\ntorture: not only his own fate to bear, but the consciousness that he\nhad caused the destruction of both his children. His son was surrounded\nwhile endeavouring to protect his father.\n\nThus will nature assert her right in the hearts of all her children;\nbut the Chippeway closed his eyes to all, save the effort of appearing\nindifferent to his sufferings. Again he sung his death-song, while the\nSioux stretched themselves upon the grass, eating the tender venison\nwhich had been prepared for them, occasionally offering some to the\nChippeway, advising him to eat and be strong, that he might bravely\nwalk on his journey to the land of souls.\n\nWhile the Dacotas were eating and resting themselves, the Chippeway\nchaunted his death-song; his son, apparently, was unmoved by his own\nand his father's desperate situation, but the daughter no longer\nendeavoured to restrain her grief. Exhausted from fatigue and fasting,\nshe would gladly have known her own fate, even if death were to be her\nmode of release from her distressing position.\n\nThe Indians frequently offered her food. Chash\u00e9 tried to persuade her\nto eat: she indignantly rejected the attention, her whole soul absorbed\nin her father's painful situation.\n\nShe saw there was no hope: even had she not understood their language,\nshe could have read all in the fierce glaring eyes of her enemies,\nthe impatient gestures of the men, and the eager, energetic movements\nof the women. The latter were not idle: they were making arrangements\nfor the burning of the prisoner. Under his feet they piled small round\npieces of wood, with brush conveniently placed, so as to kindle it at\na moment's warning when all should be ready. To their frequent taunts\ntheir victim paid no attention: this only increased their anxiety to\nhasten his sufferings, young and old uniting their strength.\n\nOne woman struck him with the wood she was about to lay at his feet,\nanother pierced him with the large thorn she had taken from the branch\nshe held; but the loudest cries of merriment and applause greeted the\nappearance of an old creature, almost bowed together with the weight of\na load she was carrying, large pieces of fat and skin, which she was to\nthrow in the blaze at different times when it should be kindled.\n\nThe glare of day could not have made more perceptible the horrid faces\nof the savages than did the brilliant moonlight. Every sound that was\nuttered was more distinct, from the intense quiet that pervaded all\nnature. The face of the victim, now turned to the sky, now bent in\nscorn over his enemies; that of his son, pale, proud, and indifferent;\nthe unrestrained grief of the girl, who only raised her head to gaze at\nher father, then trembling, with sobs, hid it deeper in her bosom; the\nmalignant triumph of the Sioux men, the excitement and delight of the\nwomen;--all these were distinctly visible in the glowing brightness of\nthe night.\n\nWas there no hope for the aged and weary old man? no chance that\nthese stern, revengeful spirits might relent? Will not woman, with her\nkind heart and gentle voice, ask that his life may be spared? Alas!\nit is woman's work that we are witnessing: they bound his limbs, they\nhave beaten him, and even now are they disputing for the privilege of\nlighting the fire which is to consume him. Loud cries arise, but the\ncontention is soon quelled, for the deep bass voice of the medicine-man\nis heard above theirs, and he says that the newly made widow, and she\nalone, shall start the blaze, and then all may join in adding fuel to\nthe fire, and insult to the present disgrace of the Chippeway warrior.\n\nAnd now the brush is piled round the wood and touches the victim's feet,\nand the men lie still on the grass, knowing their work will be well\ndone, and the women who are crowded together make a way for the widow to\nadvance. See her! the tears are on her cheek, yet there is a smile of\nexultation too--the blood is streaming from her bosom and her arms.\n\nWith her left hand she leads her young son forward. In her right she\nholds a large and flaming torch of pine. The red light of the burning\nwood contrasts strangely with the white light of the moon; the black\nsmoke rises and is lost in the fleecy clouds that are flying through\nthe air.\n\nThe silence is broken only by the heart-breaking sobs of the Chippeway\ngirl. The Sioux woman kneels, and carefully holds the torch under the\nbrush and kindling-wood. She withdraws her hand, and soon there is\nsomething beside sobs breaking the stillness. The dry branches snap,\nand the women shout and laugh as they hear the crackling sound. The men\njoin in a derisive laugh; but above all is heard the loud, full voice\nof the victim. His death-chaunt drowns all other sounds, yet there\nis not a tone of pain or impatience in the voice; it is solemn and\ndignified; there is even a note of rapture as he shouts defiance to his\nenemies and their cruelty.\n\nThe dry twigs snap apart, and the smoke curls around the limbs of the\nprisoner: now the bright red flames embrace his form.\n\nThe warrior is still; he is collecting his energies and challenging his\npowers of endurance.\n\nChash\u00e9 stood up. \"My father,\" said he, \"fled from the fire of the\nChippeways; but you like the fire of the Dacotas, for you stand still.\"\n\n\"The Sioux are great warriors,\" replied the Chippeway, \"when they fight\nold men and children,\" looking at the same time towards his daughter.\n\n\"But, is he an old man or a girl?\" asked Chash\u00e9, pointing to the\nyounger Chippeway.\n\n\"He is a great warrior,\" said the father, \"but he was one against many.\nHe could not see his father and sister scalped before his eyes. Had\nhe fought man to man he would have showed you the sharp edge of his\ntomahawk; but he is a Chippeway, and knows how to suffer and to die.\"\n\nThe noise of the fire drowned the old man's words, for the women were\namusing themselves by throwing on small pieces of dry wood and portions\nof deer-fat, which, crackling as it burned, rapidly consumed the body\nof the unfortunate man.\n\nNo suffering had, as yet, forced from him any cry of pain; it was\nevident that nature would soon relieve him of his agony. His heart had\nnigh ceased \"beating its funeral march.\" Even he, an untutored savage,\nfelt that\n\n      \"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,\n      Was not spoken of the soul.\"\n\nHis fortitude to endure was increased by the thought that soon the\nbrilliant but mysterious future would be opened to him.\n\nThe Sioux were disappointed at his courage, and longed to have their\ngratification completed by some acknowledgment of his agony. An old and\nfierce-looking woman drew her knife from her belt, and springing upon\nthe high roots of the tree, cut a deep gash between the shoulders of\nthe prisoner, then stooping, she raised in her hand a flaming torch,\nwhich she applied to the fresh wound she had just made. This agony was\nunendurable: a deathlike struggle convulsed the heroic countenance\nof the sufferer; he uttered a sharp and piercing cry; then, as if\napologizing for his want of firmness, exclaimed, \"Fire is strong!\"\n\nThis sufficed for his enemies, and shouts of joy echoed through the\nvillage, while the agonized daughter, unable longer to endure the\ndreadful sight, sunk insensible on the grass at her brother's feet.\n\nIt was not long ere another shout announced the relief of the\nChippeway. The sweet hours of night had passed away while they watched\nhis noble firmness, and awaited his last breath. During the last hour,\nlong, low, black clouds had been deepening in the far west; now and\nthen a distant murmur was heard, and faint flashes gleamed athwart the\nwater. A slight murmuring of the waves witnessed the rising of the\nwind, and the Sioux separated to take a rest, which they all needed.\n\nSeeing that their other prisoner was securely bound, they left him\nto face the storm and the hideous spectacle of his father's remains.\nChash\u00e9 raised the lifeless form of the girl and carried her to his\nsister's wigwam.\n\nWe-har-ka had taken no interest in the scene that had been enacting;\nshe slept soundly, fatigued with her wanderings on the prairie and the\nindulgence of her grief. Chash\u00e9 laid his unconscious burden by the side\nof his sister. Enemies as they were, the looker-on might observe a\nstrong bond of sympathy between them. Their young faces were shadowed\nby grief,--that link which should unite, heart to heart, every child of\nearth.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe low sigh with which the Chippeway girl awoke from her deathlike\ntrance, did not awaken We-har-ka. Starting up, she in a moment recalled\nthe sad tragedy which had just been enacted before her eyes, yet she\ncould not account for her being where she was. The wigwam was dark,\nexcept when illuminated by vivid flashes of lightning, which showed\nher the few articles of furniture and comfort that adorned an Indian\nwoman's home.\n\nThe occasional pealing of the thunder, and We-har-ka's breathing, were\nthe only sounds she heard. A thousand painful thoughts drove slumber\nfrom her eyelids. Her father she knew was gone: she pressed her hand\nbefore her eyes to recall, and then to chase away, the dreadful memory\nthat tortured her. She was spared; it might be for a slave, or to be the\nwife of some one of her enemies. Her brother, she had no doubt, was still\nliving: he had been reserved for protracted tortures. Overcome by these\nthoughts she sank again upon the ground, but not to sleep.\n\nCould nothing be suggested to give her comfort? She cautiously raised\nthe door of the wigwam, and by the red lightning she saw her brother\nbound as she had left him. Despair had nearly overpowered her once\nmore, but the natural energy of her mind returning, she looked again to\nher own heart, to see if there was any hope. Should she never see again\nthe home so dear to her! Were she and her bold brother to die by the\nhands of her father's murderers! Oh! that she possessed a sharp knife,\nto sever the thongs that bound him, how soon would they flee away as\nthe birds do when winter's winds are heard from the north!\n\nThe idea once prominent in her mind, there was hope. Another flash\nshowed her the most minute objects in the wigwam. Another directed her\nto the knife of We-har-ka, which lay glittering by her breast. A few\nmoments of intense thought decided her: nerved by a sense of her own\nand her brother's danger, she no longer hesitated. What horrors could\nbe greater than those by which she was surrounded! What if she were\ndetected and murdered at once! Far better than to witness her brother's\nfate, and endure her own.\n\nShe placed herself near We-har-ka, then gently endeavoured to remove\nthe knife she coveted. The young heart throbbed against her hand. Again\nshe endeavoured to slide the knife from its place. We-har-ka turned\nupon her side as if disturbed. After a few moments had elapsed she\nonce more made the effort; and now, as it is clasped in her hand, her\nsenses have well-nigh left her, for this time she is successful.\n\nBut, well she knew there was no time for delay, nor even for\nconsideration. The deepest darkness of night was now upon them; before\nlong the morning twilight would be again resting over the earth.\n\nThe perfect and unusual repose of the Sioux was in her favour; and,\nexcited even to desperation, she determined to endeavour to free her\nbrother, and secure his and her own escape.\n\nShe first endeavoured to recall the situation of the principal objects\nin the village. She did not, however, require any effort of memory, for\nshe could see distinctly where her brother was bound, and the path that\nled to this point. The storm's spirits were her friends: without the\nlightning she could have accomplished nothing.\n\nThere was a turn in the path that led through the village, and once\nor twice she was at a loss how to proceed. She would not be dismayed,\nthough at times she feared her enemies would hear the loud beatings of\nher heart. Guided by the lightning, and resting for a moment when she\nfeared her footfall would give the alarm, she at length reached the\nspot.\n\nThere had been no rest for the younger Chippeway. With the\nheart-crushing spectacle before his eyes, he had only given way to a\nhorror at his father's sufferings, far more dreadful to witness than to\nendure. There was, besides, the anticipation of his own.\n\nAgain and again he looked at the strong cords that bound him. Could he\nfor a short time possess the knife his enemies had wrested from him!\n\nUseless, indeed, to him, without assistance!\n\nSofter feelings, too, came in turn. His wife had been murdered before\nhis eyes, his young son crushed under the feet of those who now lay\nsleeping tranquilly around him.\n\nThe weary night was wearing on. There would be no breaking of the\nday to him. There was no hope, but that which pointed to the unknown\nfuture; no light but that which glimmered from the silent land.\n\nA slight noise arouses his acute senses, and he turns his head to that\npart of the village where were the greatest number of lodges. It might\nbe that the footstep was that of some one of his foes, determined\nalone to enjoy the sight of his death. Oh! what joy thus to be saved\nthe reproaches of his enemies, the laughing of the women, the sneers\nof all. Eagerly he peers through the darkness, and the first brilliant\nflash shows him the pale face of his sister, as she advances towards him.\n\nVery near him slept, in a wigwam, two warriors who had the charge of\nhim. They might awake: this thought made the very pulses of his life\nstand still.\n\nFor at once he understood his sister's intention. He knew her courage;\nhe also knew that without an object she would not be thus incurring the\nrisk of arousing their enemies.\n\nAnother flash, and she stood close by his side--her hand was upon\nhis, as she felt for the thongs that bound him. One by one they were\ncautiously severed--slowly, for the slightest noise might be fatal.\n\nIt was hard work, too, for the maiden, for the sinews were like iron,\nand her strength failed her under the repeated efforts she was obliged\nto make. There was no word uttered,--their hearts silently conversed\nwith each other. Time passed, and he was almost free; he was himself\nsevering the last bond that detained him.\n\nIt yielded. Once more he could stretch out his muscular arm. Grasping\nhis sister to his side, covered by the darkness and the thunder, and\nthe heavily commencing rain, they made their way under the edges of the\nbluffs. The young Chippeway knew the route: a short peace had existed\nbetween the tribes, and he had more than once passed through the\nvillage.\n\nAt first their progress was slow and deliberate. There was no\nfaltering, though. They were without weapons, with the exception of\nWe-har-ka's knife. Hunger and faintness were oppressing them, but the\ndanger they were in braced their hearts. As they began to leave the\nSioux village in the distance, hope gave vigour to their frames.\n\nAfter the day broke, the clouds were scattering, and the sunbeams were\ndotting the hills that lay between them and their foes. Still they\ncould not rest. The wild plum was their only nourishment; nor was it\nuntil night had again shrouded the earth, and the young man laid his\nsister in the hospitable lodge of a Chippeway village, that he realized\nthat he had been a prisoner and was again free.\n\nIt were impossible to describe the rage of the Sioux on ascertaining\nthe escape of their prisoners. Chash\u00e9 went soon after their flight\nto his sister's wigwam. His sleep had been restless, he thought of\nhis dead relative, but he thought more of the Chippeway girl, whom he\nhad resolved to adopt[12] in place of his young wife, who had died\nrecently. Seeing his sister alone, he anxiously inquired of her what\nhad become of the girl. What was his surprise when she told him there\nhad been no one there; that when she arose, the storm was passing\nover, but it was still dark, but that no one had been in the lodge\nsince then. Her brother, much irritated, contradicted her, using the\nmost violent language; yet it was evident to him that his sister was\nunconscious of his having laid the girl by her side.\n\nHe turned away, and sought the scene of the last night's torture. There\nwere the burnt fagots, and the ghastly remains. The smoke still curled\nand slowly rose from the ashes, but neither of the prisoners was to be\nseen. The thongs with which he had been bound lay on the ground.\n\nThere was no room for doubt: brother and sister had fled; and they\nlived so near the borders of the Chippeway country that there was every\nreason to believe they were beyond the reach of recovery.\n\nDisappointment and rage overspread his features. He threw up the door\nof the lodge where the sentinels still slept calmly. Pushing the\nforemost over with his foot, \"Where is your prisoner?\" said he. \"You\nare brave men, that cannot take care of one Chippeway!\"\n\nStarting to their feet, the sentinels at once became aware of what had\noccurred. \"Where is the girl?\" they asked of Chash\u00e9.\n\n\"They are both gone,\" said he, \"and they must both have passed near you.\"\n\n\"And where were you when the girl went?\" replied one of the sentinels.\n\"You took her off with you, and if we could not keep the man, you could\nnot keep the woman.\"\n\nThe inmates of the different lodges came forward to learn what had\nhappened. Here advances a brave, followed by his young sons. The women\nthrow down their bundles of sticks, to feast themselves with a sight\nof the Chippeways ere they commenced their usual avocations; but they\nonly expressed their sorrow by groans of disappointment. It was decided\nthat the fugitives should be pursued. A party of the younger men set\nout without delay; they were warned, however, not to go too near their\nenemy's country.\n\nGlowing with the expectation of recapturing the prisoners, and, it\nmight be, of bringing home more scalps, they were anxious to set out.\nThe old medicine-men reminded them of their duty, gave them advice\nsuitable to the occasion, and then, with uplifted hands, called upon\nWakeen Tonca, Great Spirit, Father, to help them against their enemies.\n\nThe close of another evening found the Sioux quiet, and busy in drying\nvenison, and the usual occupations of the season. With the day, however,\nwere closing their labours. Often a cry of lamentation was heard from\nthe lodge of the Sioux who had recently been killed in battle.\n\nThe body of Eagle Eye was deposited upon a high scaffolding. His two\nchildren were still engaged at the burial-ground. All cries of sorrow,\nusual at such times, were hushed. The sides of the high hills were\ntinged with gold and crimson. Some of these \"mountains rose high, high\nup, until they could look into the heavens and hear God in the storm.\"\nThe river was as calm as if no scene of cruelty had ever been enacted\non its banks.\n\nRound the frame where Eagle Eye's form was laid hung his medicine-bag.\nChash\u00e9 placed a vessel of water near the body. We-har-ka lightly lifted\nthe bark dish of buffalo-meat[13] and wild rice, where the soul of the\ndeparted warrior could take it, and be refreshed when tired and hungry.\nVery near him was buried his wife. Her bones had been gathered and\nburied under the ground; branches of trees and solid pieces of wood had\nbeen placed crosswise over her grave, to protect it from the wolves.\n\nThe graves and scaffolds were continued to the very edge of the\nbluff, while flowers of the most brilliant hue sprung up at the feet\nof the mourners, and clung to the low small bushes that grew on the\nhilltop. The brother and sister were preparing to come down, when\nWe-har-ka perceived the priest seated by one of the graves, apparently\nunconscious of all that was passing around him. She approached him, and\nsoftly laid her hand upon his shoulder. He turned to her slowly, as\nif aroused from a dream of long past years, and followed them to the\nvillage.\n\nHis lodge was near hers, and she listened to his full rich voice as he\nchaunted the vespers. Totally ignorant of what he said, she was yet\nsoothed by the sweet sounds, and after they had ceased, unobserved by\nothers, she sought him in his lodge, and night was closing over the\nearth as the voices of the two mingled in earnest conversation.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Jesuit had long been anxious to take advantage of the first\nopportunity that offered to return to Canada. Here, his time was wasted\nand his health impaired to no purpose. He had succeeded in learning the\nlanguage of the savages, so as to converse with them tolerably; but his\nmission was as useless here as it would have been among the wild beasts\nof Africa.\n\nConstantly exposed to danger, without the means of living, except what\nhe received from We-har-ka, and occasionally from others, his time\nunoccupied, his life was a burden. His health was not strong enough to\nenable him to join in the hardy exercises and sports of the red men.\nHow anxiously, then, did he await the means of deliverance.\n\nThere was an occasional intercourse with the tribes that lived in the\nregion of the great lakes: in this way he had come among the Sioux,\nand he hoped thus to return to Acadie. He passed hour after hour\nwatching the approach of canoes, hoping to recognise the tall, gaunt\nforms of the Hurons, or some of those with whom the Sioux were on\nfriendly terms. Over but one human being, We-har-ka, had he acquired\nthe slightest influence. We have before alluded to the rivalry of the\ntwo young men, Chash\u00e9 and the Beaver, for the disputed honour of being\nthe war-chief of the band. They belonged to opposite clans, which were\nalmost equally divided. It appeared evident that it could only be\ndecided by some act of bravery performed by one of the parties.\n\nThe aspirants had equal claims. They were each daring in the greatest\ndegree. Young, athletic, inured to fatigue and hardships, thirsting\nlike the war-horse for the battle. Chash\u00e9 owed his reputation in some\ndegree to the reputation of his grandfather, while on the other hand\nthe Beaver's courage made him feared by his own and the opposite clan.\n\nThe long-continued feud between the two clans had been more violent\nthan ever since the death of the younger brother of Chash\u00e9. His\nsickness was attributed to a spell having been cast upon him by some\none of the other clan. Eagle Eye attributed his death to the family\nof the Beaver; and so great was the hatred of the two clans[14] that\nmurder after murder occurred, and every sickness and disaster was\ncharged upon some individual, and thus revenge was constantly sought.\n\nEspecially was Eagle Eye dreaded; his powers as a medicine-man\nwere rated so high, that in passing by him many avoided his\nobservation--they dreaded lest he should, by an undefined power, bring\nupon them the wrath of an evil spirit. And each warrior wore beneath\nhis richly embroidered hunting-dress a charm, to protect him from a\nmachination that he feared.\n\nYet did the Beaver love the sister of his rival, and he had induced\nher to defy her brother's hot temper, and promise him all her young\naffection. Love had made him eloquent, and he persuaded her out of all\nthe opinions she had imbibed from the time she was capable of forming\none; while he, blind to the attractions of all others, could only see\ngrace in her person.\n\nIt was not likely his life would be safe should he marry her, and\nremain among his own people; and could he yield the chances of his\nhigh position among the braves with whom he had grown up to the love\nof woman? He knew that We-har-ka would leave all for him. The only\nquestion was, could he make the sacrifice?\n\nThey had closely kept their secret. We-har-ka had been promised to a\nyoung man of her grandfather's clan. She had from time to time delayed\nthe marriage, by her influence over the old man. The husband they had\nchosen for her was the tried friend of her brother, styled among the\nIndians, a comrade. Well did We-har-ka know how determined was her\nbrother's temper, and that he would force her into the marriage after\nher grandfather's death, and that, unless by some great effort, there\nwas no hope.\n\nOn the night of the return of the party, and the burning of the\nprisoner, she had, indeed, gone to the prairies to weep; but it was\nas much over the difficulties of her position as the death of her\nrelative. It was not without an object that she had come forward to\nmeet the war-party, and told them her intention. When the excitement of\nthe burning of the Chippeway was at its height, her lover had left the\ngroup of young men, and a short time brought him to We-har-ka's side.\nAfter a few moments passed in the joy of reunion, We-har-ka told him\nthat her fate must soon be decided, and implored him to take her away\nfrom their home, as their only chance of happiness. They could go, she\nsaid, among the Sioux who lived on the Missouri, and there live free\nfrom care.\n\nThe young man did not answer her at first, and We-har-ka, startled with\nthe boldness of her own proposal, awaited his answer, standing. Her\narms were clasped over her breast, and her eyes bent to the ground: the\nmoonlight glittered on the wampum which lay on her bosom, and flashed\nfrom the silver cross suspended from her neck.\n\nAt length the Indian broke out into angry abuse of her brother and all\nconnected with her. The colour varied in her cheek, and her lips were\nmore firmly compressed when he charged them with cowardice, but still\nshe spoke not. She had counted the cost of his love, and knew, that to\nretain it, she must resign even the natural impulses of her heart.\n\nShe waited until the torrent of his passion had ceased, then pointing\nto the dark clouds that were gathering in the west, reminded him that\nthey would be missed. The shout that came from the village warned them\ntoo of the necessity of separation. He then marked the agitation of her\nmanner, bade her return home, telling her that, after her father was\nburied, he would come to the lodge of the Jesuit: at what time he could\nnot say, but not until some amusements should engage the Sioux: then he\nwould tell her his determination. We-har-ka, overpowered with fatigue\non her return to her lodge, slept soundly, even with the Chippeway girl\nby her side.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe-har-ka sat in the wigwam of the Jesuit, listening to the accounts\nof the grandeur of the churches and the magnificence of the altars in\nthe country where Father Blanc had passed his youth. He pointed to\nthe small figure of Christ, on the altar of cedar wood, which he had\nconstructed, then told her of the large one of gold which he had often\nknelt before in assisting in the ceremonies of the church. We-har-ka,\nwhose thoughts had been wandering in quest of her lover, asked him\nagain of the ever interesting story of the death and sufferings of\nthe Saviour. Like those who witnessed the crucifixion, she wondered\nthat that Great Being should submit to such indignities. Her religion\nwould have justified resenting them. Yet she did not believe it was\ntrue, loving still to hear it told over and over again; especially\nwas it agreeable to her now to while away the hour until her lover,\nunder pretence of speaking to the priest, should find a chance of\nacquainting her with the plans he had formed. She looked again at the\nfamiliar objects on the altar. Again, as ever, she told the priest he\nwas good and kind, but that she knew the Great Spirit was the father\nof all. Father Blanc's insinuating eloquence touched her feelings, but\nher heart was unaffected: yet the father, glad of a listener, even in\nthe untutored Indian girl, dwelt on scenes long past, and it might be\nforgotten by all but him.\n\nWhen the moon rose they sat outside the lodge on a mat. They were now\nboth silent. The thoughts of the Jesuit wandered far and wide: memory\ntransported him to the forests of Languedoc.\n\nThere he pursued his studies, full of high hope and youthful happiness.\nHe wandered through the most beautiful scenes of nature, and there was\none by his side; her smile was bent upon him, as she parted the long\nringlets from her brow. He gazed again as he was wont when he bade her\ngood night, and wondered if angels smiled so sweetly when they bore the\ndead to the regions of Paradise. Memory changes the scene. Death and\ndesolation are met; darkness and beauty are blended strangely. Those\nangel eyes are closed, but the sweet smile is there.\n\nHushed lips bend over the bier where roses are lavishly strewed.\nEchoes of grief are heard along the halls, as they pass on with their\nbeautiful burden to the house of death. Then come the long nights\nof sorrow, the vigils of despair, the renouncing of the hopes and\npleasures of life: then the morbid restlessness, the wish for death\nand forgetfulness. Afterwards, the solitary life of the student, then\nthe seclusion of the cloister, and the longing to wear out life under\na different sky. He traced again his course, until he sat here, a\nwanderer, by the side of the Indian girl.\n\nHer eyes were wandering over the brilliant scenes. The stars seemed\nalmost to rest on the body of her relative, as she looked towards the\nburial-ground where she had passed the day.\n\nThe branches of the large trees were in perfect repose: there was no\nwind to disturb them; and the gorgeous reflection of the moon on the\nriver seemed almost to illuminate the village.\n\nRichly endowed with the poetry of nature, the anxious girl felt calmed\nby the beauty and tranquillity of the scene. The evening was passing\naway, and he had not come. Confident of his affection, she determined\nto be patient. Sometimes her friends would pass along and converse with\nher; but they knew her heart was sad, deprived of the affectionate\ncaresses of her relative. Her brother she had not seen since they had\nreturned together from the burial-ground, but she supposed he was in\none of the groups which were enjoying the lovely quiet of the evening.\n\nSuddenly a wild and piercing cry arrests her attention. Starting to her\nfeet, almost frantic for a moment, she recognised her brother's voice.\nAgain it fell in one long, rich, full cry on her ear.\n\nThere was something unusual in that sound. There was no defiance, no\nfear, no excitement in the voice. It was as if the bald eagle, long\nwatching and hovering over its prey, had at length planted her talons\nin its side, and was fleeing away far from human hope or protection.\nSo clear was the sound, so long its echo, that some doubted if it were\nindeed a human voice.\n\nNot so with We-har-ka: pressing her clasped hands tightly over her\nheart, turning her marble face to the heavens, she knew it all. That\nwas not the cry indicating the presence of enemies; her heart would\nnot have quailed before it as it did now: it was the announcement of\nthe gratification of a long-cherished revenge. Her lover's absence was\nexplained. Only a moment, however, was given to conflicting thoughts.\nThe young girl moved forward, and, as it were, pioneered the others to\nthe quarter from whence the sound proceeded. There was no shrinking in\nher slight form: she might have been taken for some spirit returned to\nearth to accomplish some high purpose, unconscious of aught save its\nown mission.\n\nPassing on to a rock, whence you could see the beautiful valley that\nspread out before them, the whole story was told in a moment.\n\nChash\u00e9 stood as if expecting witnesses; in his bearing there was a\nfrightful exultation that ill accorded with the other circumstances of\nhis position. In his hand he held the knife, from which drops of blood\nwere slowly falling on his dress. He watched them with a savage laugh\nof delight. His figure seemed taller, by half, in the moonlight, its\nlong shadow fell so darkly over the grass. He was not alone, for easily\ncould all recognise the manly and noble form of the man he hated, at\nhis feet. Well they know that it was death alone that could keep him\nthere. The blood was oozing from his heart: and they could, even at\nthe distance from whence they first saw him, distinguish the marble\npaleness of his features.\n\nA loud shout now arose from the Indians as they pressed forward. They\nwere divided as to the interest in this scene. The friends of Chash\u00e9\nexulted with him, and those of the other clan called for revenge. It\nseemed uncertain how the excitement of the crowd would show itself,\nwhen it was diverted for a moment by the appearance of We-har-ka. She\nrapidly slid down the rocks, which it was necessary to pass, in order\nto reach the two young men. None of them could keep up with her, so\nquick and shadowy were her movements.\n\nThrowing herself on the ground beside her lover, she made the most\nfrantic efforts to staunch the flowing of the wound. She tore up the\ngrass, and pressing it together, placed it against the wound; but the\nblood continued to flow in spite of all her efforts. Her bearing, calm\nand collected at first, now changed with the evident hopelessness of\nthe case; her wild and frantic screams pierced the air as she threw\nherself upon his body. Her brother seized her roughly by the arm,\nindignant at this show of affection; but she shrank from his touch, and\nagain springing to his side, before he could divine her purpose, she\nhad wrested the knife from his grasp and pierced it deep in her own\nbreast. Chash\u00e9 caught it from her ere she could a second time bury it\nin her bosom; but she glided from him and ascended the bluff over which\nshe had passed to reach the dreadful spot. A stream of blood follows in\nher path. Now she has reached the edge of the precipice: she springs,\nand the noise of the dashing waves mingles with the cry of horror that\narises from the witnesses of her self-destruction.\n\nThe Indians were obliged to return to their village in order to arrive\nat the place where were their canoes. Every effort was made, but in\nvain, to recover the body of the unfortunate girl. She was never seen\nagain.\n\nFather Blanc soon after returned to Acadie with a party who were going\nthat route. He was thankful to leave the scene of such accumulated\nhorrors. He had become warmly attached to the young Sioux maiden, whose\nearly sorrows had been impressed on his memory. The horrors of that\nnight were written in characters of blood: nor did he ever relate the\nincident without trembling at the recollection. He found in the Canada\nIndians more tractable scholars,--at least, when they feared the cannon\nof the French.\n\nThere is reason to conclude that the efforts of the Jesuits among the\naborigines of our country left no abiding impression of good: but, like\nthe waters which the tall ships have passed over, they were agitated\nfor a while from their usual course, then returned to their restless\nsurging as before.\n\n[Footnote 4: The names Sioux and Dacota are applied to the same nation;\nthe Indians themselves recognising and preferring the latter name. The\nlittle that is known of them is given in the introduction to Dacota,\nor Legends of the Sioux. They have, for many years, been considered a\npowerful, warlike, and interesting people. They formerly possessed the\nknowledge of many things of which they are now totally ignorant. They\nretain the greatest attachment to their country and their religion.]\n\n[Footnote 5: For every scalp taken by a Sioux in battle he is entitled\nto wear a feather of the War Eagle. This is an ornament greatly\nesteemed among them.]\n\n[Footnote 6: The Dacotas believe thunder to be a bird. It would be\nimpossible to enumerate their gods, they are so numerous; but the\nthunder is much feared as being one of the most powerful. In living\namong them you constantly see representations of these gods, drawn and\ncarved on the various articles that are used among them.]\n\n[Footnote 7: Wampum is a long bead made of the inside of a shell, white\nand of dark purple colour; it is very much valued by the Indians, used\nas necklaces; the women esteem nothing more highly than a string or two\nof wampum. It has frequently been used as currency among the different\ntribes; but in making treaties it is strung and made into a belt, and\nat the close of a speech is presented to the other party as a pledge of\ngood faith.]\n\n[Footnote 8: Among the Sioux it is customary to inflict wounds,\nsometimes deep and severe ones, upon themselves on the occasion of the\ndeath of a friend. The arms of aged people are frequently seamed with\nscars.]\n\n[Footnote 9: Acadia, or Acadie, was the ancient name for what is\nnow called Nova Scotia. Before the latter name was used in the act\nof incorporation by the British Parliament, Acadie was within the\njurisdiction of Lower Canada.]\n\n[Footnote 10: The Sioux and Chippeways seem to be natural enemies.\nPeace has been declared between the two nations time and again, but\nnever has it been sustained, although the United States Government\nhas made every effort to and even compel them to forego their ancient\nenmity.]\n\n[Footnote 11: Wakeen-stone. The Sioux choose stones as objects of\nworship. We find them frequently on their thoroughfares; they never\npass these without stopping to smoke, or to make some slight offering,\nsuch as tobacco, a feather, an arrow, or a trinket.]\n\n[Footnote 12: Young persons taken prisoners in battle are often\nadopted, in the place of some lost relative. They are then treated with\nthe kindness usually shown towards a dear and valued friend.]\n\n[Footnote 13: The Sioux believe in the duality of the soul,--one going\nto the land of spirits, while one hovers round the grave, requiring\nnourishment. Some few of their wise people believe that each body\nclaims more than two souls, assigning an occupation for each; but this\nis not the prevailing opinion.]\n\n[Footnote 14: In a Sioux village there are different clans, known by\nthe peculiar medicine that each uses, each clan claiming superior\npower, resting in a spell, which the medicine man or woman can throw\nupon those of the opposite party.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  C. Schuessele del.      Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.\n        Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.\n\nTHE LAUGHING WATERS,\nThree miles below The Falls of S^{t.} Anthony.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAUGHING WATERS.\n\nBY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.\n\n  A few miles from the Falls of St. Anthony are The Little Falls, or, as\n  the Sioux call them, The Laughing Waters.\n\n\n          Do you know where the waters laugh?\n          Have you seen where they playfully fall?\n        Hid from the sun by the forest trees green,\n        (Though its rays do pierce the vines between,)\n        Dancing with joy, till, night-like, a screen\n      Comes down from the heavens at the whippoorwill's call.\n\n          Come with me, then, we will tread\n          On a carpet of long grass and flowers.\n        The wild lady's slipper we'll pluck as it droops,\n        We will watch the proud eagle, as from heaven she stoops,\n        A seat we will take by the dark leafy nooks,\n      Where a fairy might while away summer's bright hours.\n\n          From on high, the gay waters come!\n          At first, how they lazily creep\n        O'er embedded rocks, while agates so bright\n        Here and there greet the sun, by noonday's strong light,\n        And again dimly glance when stars come at night,\n      To watch where the Father of Waters' waves sleep.\n\n          How mildly they laugh as they haste!\n          Now they near the spot where they will spring,\n        Lightly clearing the distance to the pebbles below,\n        Where, tired with the effort, more calmly they flow,\n        While the glistening spray, and the foam white as snow,\n      Their light o'er the rocks and the dancing waves fling.\n\n          At evening how often will come\n          The wild deer to drink and to rest;\n        Till frightened away by the nighthawk's loud scream,\n        They flee to the shades where the wood spirits dream,\n        And sink to repose by the moonlight's fair beam,\n      Like the babe by its mother's soft smile lulled to rest.\n\n          And here does the tall warrior stand,\n          With the maiden he loves by his side!\n        He tells her to list while the fairies do quaff\n        Their cupful, and shout, and then wildly laugh,\n        For they know that she leans on his love like a staff,\n      Which will ever support her in life's changing tide.\n\n          'Twould be well, did ye weep, waters bright!\n          Soon no more to thy banks will they come,--\n        The maiden who loves, or the warrior so brave,\n        The wild deer at eve, in thy waters to lave,\n        The song-bird to dip its bright wing in thy wave,\n      When the shadows that fall with the night are all gone.\n\n          The Indian's reproach ye might hear,\n          Did ye listen, fair waves, to the sound!\n        Are you gay, when you know of the tears we have shed,\n        When profaned are the graves of our fathers long dead,\n        When haunted our lands, by the white man's proud tread,\n      As he passes o'er rock and o'er prairie and mound?\n\n          For ages we've loved thy fair stream!\n          No more can we claim thee, no more\n        Will the warrior sing his war-song in thy ears,\n        Will the mother who comes for her child to shed tears,\n        Will the maiden who prays to the spirit she fears,\n      Gaze on thy bright waves, or rest by thy shore?\n\n\n\n\nO-KO-PEE.\nA MIGHTY HUNTER OF THE SIOUX.\n\nBY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.\n\n\nIt is impossible for one possessed of kind and generous feelings to\npass a grave without mournful reflections. Though a stately monument\nrise over it, it covers the work of death. The mouldering form was\nonce as full of joy and care, of tears and rejoicings, as we;--a being\nwho performed his part in the theatre of life, but who has now, for\never, taken his place behind the closed curtain. And if it be the\nresting-place of the poor and unknown, we must feel too: the rude\nstone at the head, the weeds springing up, the indifference of the\nmerry children as they play around it, do not take from the claim that\nwas once possessed by the form that is fast mingling with its native\nearth, to have been one of the many toilers after a happiness never\nobtained, a rest never enjoyed on earth! How have passed away many of\nthe nations of the earth. Some have noble monuments. Egypt, Greece,\nRome, Palmyra, and the Aztecs, who flourished upon our own shores--gems\nof wealth and learning are heaped upon their graves; the undying wreath\nof fame crowns their memory. The older the world, the better they will\nbe known. As time advances, so will increase our knowledge of their\nhistory and laws--their hieroglyphics will be understood, throwing\nlight upon things hitherto a mystery to us.\n\nBut not so with our Indian nations; they must depart with hardly a\nmemorial of their existence. Few now care to learn aught that one day\nmay be spoken in memory of a noble people passed away; few now reflect\nthat the soul of this people stands winged for its flight.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSome recollections of the time passed among the Northwestern Indians\nare very delightful to me, but many are equally sad--none more so than\nthe history of a poor idiot creature with whom we were well acquainted.\n\nO-ko-pee, \"The Nest.\" I have often reflected upon his eventful life,\nand melancholy death--his patience and humility, the muscular strength\nof his form, and the passionless expression of his features. The\nmortal tenement was able and healthful when I first knew him, but the\nspiritual no longer animated it; indeed, as a companion he was no\nbetter than the game he hunted, for his mind was gone.\n\nWhen overcome with hunger he would tell us how very long it was since\nhe had eaten. He knew, too, when he was cold, for he would direct our\nattention to his threadbare clothing. Like the prairie deer or buffalo,\nhe would seek shelter from the storm or burning sun; but though he\nmight once have reflected upon the occupations of a disembodied spirit,\nwhen it should be released from the shackles of earth, he had long\nsince ceased to do so. His mind floated on the stormy waves of life,\nlike the wreck at sea, far alike from light, hope, or help.\n\nHis life was an eventful one for an Indian's. Born when the Sioux were\nnot dependent upon white people, he trod his native earth with the\nconsciousness of owning it. He routed up the timid grouse from the\nprairies, and brought down the red-head and wood-duck on the wing,\nnever fearing that they and he would be chased from the haunts they\nloved. Often, when a small boy, would he kill the plover and woodcock\nin numbers, carrying them to his mother as trophies of his skill. How\ngaily he laughed as for the first time he stayed the fleet course of\nthe wild deer, and watched her panting, as she lay beside the brook,\nlooking for the last time at her own image in its clear waters, longing\nto suage the thirst of death with its refreshing coolness.\n\nHis bones were still tender and his frame small when he sped his wild\nhorse among the buffalo, sending his lance into their sides, and\nshouting as they tore up the earth, roaring in their agony. Was he in\ndanger from the restiveness of his horse? he knew he had only to fix\nhis black eye upon the revengeful buffalo, and, by the power of the\nsoul speaking there, subdue his rage. The eye of man meeting the eye of\nbeast, never turning or yielding its glance, would quell the passions\nof the animal, and he would be safe.\n\nHe could not stay in the wigwam, even for an hour: child of the woods\nand prairies, he needed only their companionship. The streams, the\nrocks, and hills were the friends whose society he loved. Among them he\ncould \"commune with his own heart, and be still.\"\n\nThreading the passes among the hills, or stepping from point to point\non the dangerous rocks by the shore, he ever took the lead in the\nchase, and early gained the reputation of being the most famous hunter\namong the Sioux. How he obtained the soubriquet of \"The Nest\"[15] I\nknow not, but he retained it through all the varying events of his life\non earth, and it has followed him to the Indian's unhallowed grave,\nover which hovers no spirit of hope, but the dark and fallen angels of\nignorance and superstition.\n\nAs O-ko-pee approached to manhood, the English claimed and obtained\njurisdiction over the Sioux. But the hunter, well acquainted with his\nown laws, showed no inclination to meddle with those of another nation,\nwho showed the might of right.\n\nPerhaps he did not feel with the many, who were more sensitive and less\nhappy, the soul-destroying anticipation of slavery. So long as he had\nhis lance and bow and arrow, what cared he for innovation? and he was\ntoo ignorant of the economy of nations to recognise the fact that when\na people loses the right of self-government, it yields for ever the\npower of advancing in strength or happiness.\n\nLiving in his own world, turning his eyes in adoration to the sun he\nworshipped, he believed the Great Spirit would not interfere with his\nconcerns farther than to punish him should he neglect to celebrate\nthe feasts and customs of his nation, or turn from the faith of his\nancestors. Never was he happier than when listening to the flapping of\nthe wings of the mischievous thunder-birds, the gods of his nation, as\nthey roused themselves at the bright and forked streaks in the heavy\nclouds.\n\nThere were many, however, among the Sioux who would not willingly yield\nto the oppressions of the English, as they now would gladly resent,\nhad they the power to do so, the encroachments of the people of the\nUnited States. Thus, a Dacota, who had received a personal injury from\nan Englishman, determined to take an opportunity of resenting it; he\ndid so, according to Indian rules of strategy. He watched when his\nvictim was unawares, and took aim successfully, then plunging into\nthe thick forests, was lost to the search of his foes, as was the\ndead Englishman, to the distress of his family. The English pursued\na system then which has since been adopted by our own countrymen; a\nsystem sometimes productive of great injustice, yet, under the peculiar\ncircumstances, the best one that could be fixed on. I allude to that of\ntaking hostages, and retaining them until the offender should be given\nup.\n\nO-ko-pee, who had dreamed away his childhood among the most beautiful\nscenes of nature, found himself a prisoner, torn from the objects which\nwere dear to him as life; nay, they were his life, for deprived of them\nhe sunk to the level of the beasts of the forests.\n\nImmured in a prison, far from the refreshing air of his native hills,\nshut in by the bars he vainly strove to loosen or to break, seeing\nno more the bear, the buffalo, the otter, or the deer, his heart was\nbroken.\n\nAfter many years of imprisonment, useless, for the real murderer\nnever was found, he was turned loose, like an animal from whence the\nowner can no longer derive either amusement or profit: he returned\nmechanically to his former occupation. Once again free in the woods, he\nwas soon a laughing-stock for the Sioux. \"He has no heart since he was\nprisoner to the white man!\" they cried, as he passed to the prairies,\nwith his vacant look and humbled demeanour. Where was the proud glance\nand the free step? Ask those who with the iron arm of power punished\nthe innocent for the guilty.\n\nStill, as ever, he followed the chase--thirteen deer did he kill in\none day, and never tired of hunting, even as age advanced seemed to\nincrease his passion for roaming.\n\nOften has he come to us with every variety of game, never breaking\nhis word, whatever might be the state of the weather. But in coming\nor going, giving or receiving, his demeanour and countenance never\nchanged; his eyes were wandering in vacancy, save when the fire-water,\ngiven by the white man in exchange for the soft furs he brought him,\nwould tinge his sallow cheeks with the flush of madness, and lighten\nhis eye with the glances of a fiend, and change from the sober quiet\nand calmness of the unhappy idiot to the noisy, reeling, hellish\nfigure, which seemed a visitant from the world of darkness rather than\na suffering inhabitant of earth.\n\nO-ko-pee is dead. It is not mine to say whether or not, in another\nstate of existence, he enjoys happiness sufficient in degree to make up\nfor the heavy trials of life: I have only to do with him here; and as\nI have said he lived a sacrifice to the all-conquering and indomitable\nspirit of the Saxon race, so did he die.\n\nSome years ago, a band of Sioux, distant from Fort Snelling, attacked a\nparty of Winnebagoes, taking fourteen scalps. Hearing that the scalps\nwere carried from village to village, and danced round day after day,\nthere was a party sent from the Fort to take these scalps from the\nIndians, as there was a fear lest the hot blood of the young warriors\nshould be roused, and serious difficulties would then occur between the\ntwo tribes. So the scalps were brought into the Fort; the affair was\nreported at Washington. The Winnebagoes asked for indemnity for the\ninjuries they had received, and the authorities at Washington decided\nthat four thousand dollars should be paid to the Winnebagoes out of the\nannuities received by the Sioux from our own government. It was in the\nsummer: the Indian potato, hard and indigestible, was just ripening:\nthe corn was green. The Sioux were without flour and other provisions;\neven if game had been abundant, they had neither powder nor shot.\nThey pined away by fever and weakness; death stalked among them like\na giant, laughing as he crushed to earth men who were like children\nbeside him.\n\nWas there no help for them? the mandate had gone forth. The children\nfell to the ground dying for want of nourishment; the strong man clung\nto the trees for support, and the gray-haired leaned against the\ninsensible rocks. Few there were who could bring down the game with\ntheir bows and arrows as did their forefathers, and the white people\nwere crowding in their country and driving the game back where they\nwere too feeble to pursue it.\n\nThen came forward the kind missionaries to the aid of their unhappy\nfriends. How liberally they shared with them all that they possessed,\nstriving too to quiet their minds, agitated by burning fever. They gave\nthem medicine and food, supporting the dying mother and taking charge\nof the infant and the aged. They sought to assuage the agonies of\nexhausted nature, directing in its flight the restless spirit standing\nupon the borders of life to that happy place where hunger and sickness\nare unknown.\n\nIt was on one of the warmest days of summer when my little children,\nwith their father, crossed the St. Peter's, and advanced towards the\ntrading establishment at Mendota. On the shores of the river one wigwam\nwas placed, and, attracted by the groans of anguish which proceeded\nfrom it, they entered. It was O-ko-pee dying; yes, dying as he had\nlived, a sacrifice to the white man's rule--dying as he had lived,\nalone.\n\nNo friend supported his aching head, which was burning with fever, or\nchafed the cold limbs covered with ashes. Indeed, his head was pillowed\non a bed of ashes. He recognised his visiters, and seeing their young\nfaces solemnized by what they had never before witnessed, the presence\nof death, he spoke to them by name, said he was sick, and asked them\nfor medicine. It was too late for medicine or sympathy; in another hour\nO-ko-pee, the hunter of the Sioux, was gone for ever from the earth.\n\n[Footnote 15: It is customary, when an Indian advances towards manhood,\nfor him to lose the name bestowed upon him in childhood, obtaining\nanother by some peculiarity of appearance or conduct, some daring\naction or violent passion; thus, Sleepy Eyes, is the name of a chief\namong the Sioux, from the drowsy expression of his countenance.]\n\n\n\n\nCHEQUERED CLOUD.\n\nTHE AGED SIOUX WOMAN.\n\n\n      I would tell you of a friend of mine:\n        She's neither rich nor fair;\n      The snows of many winters\n        Have bleached her raven hair.\n      The brightness of her large black eye\n        Has been dimmed for many years;\n      And the furrows in her cheek were made\n        By time and shedding tears.\n\n      She is an Indian woman,\n        And me has often told\n      Traditions of her native land,\n        And legends sung of old;\n      Of battles fiercely fought and won,\n        Of the warrior as he fell,\n      While he tried to shield from a fearful death\n        The wife he loved so well.\n\n      Ask her whence her nation came:\n        With a smile she will reply,\n      \"The Dacotas aye have owned this land,\n        Where the eagle soars so high;\n      Where Mississippi's waters flow,\n        Through bluffs and prairies wide;\n      Where by Minesota's sandy shore\n        The wild rice grows beside.\"\n\n      Ask her of her warrior sons,\n        Who rose up by her side--\n      Enah! in the fearful battle,\n        And by sickness they have died--\n      And of her gentle daughter:\n        See the tear steals lowly down,\n      As the memory of the slaughter\n        Of that frightful night comes on.\n\n      Many have been her sorrows,\n        While ever to her breast\n      Sickness or want or suffering came,\n        Like a familiar guest.\n      Yet, she says there was a time\n        When her step was light and free,\n      And her voice as joyous as the bird\n        That sings in the forest tree.\n\n      I said she was my friend:--\n        I am not one of those,\n      Who from the wealthy or the great\n        Companionship would choose.\n      The soul that animates her frame\n        Is as gifted and as free,\n      And will live for ever,--like the one\n        That God has given me.\n\n      She worships the Great Spirit,\n        Yet often does she tell\n      Of the fairies that inhabit\n        Mountain, river, rock, and dell.\n      She will say to kill a foe\n        Of religion is a part;\n      Yet underneath her bosom beats\n        A kind and noble heart.\n\n      She has ever loved to listen\n        To the savage shout and dance;\n      To see the red knife glisten\n        O'er the dying Chippeway's glance.\n      To watch the prisoner, burning,\n        Confronting at the stake\n      His enemies, who vainly strive\n        His spirit proud to break.\n\n      Judge her kindly,--and remember,\n        She was not taught in youth\n      To bend the knee and lift the heart\n        To the God of love and truth.\n      \"Love ye your foes,\" said He who brought\n        To us the golden rule;\n      But \"eye for eye,\" was the maxim taught\n        In the ancient Jewish school.\n\n      We know it was a beggar\n        Who in Abraham's bosom slept,--\n      And, haply, her ancestors\n        By Babylon's waters wept.\n      While poor, like Lazarus, it may be,\n        From Israel's stock has come\n      The red man, tracing out on earth\n        His God-forgotten doom.\n\n      Well I knew, when last we parted,\n        That, if ever we met more,\n      'Twould be when life's sweet sympathies\n        And painful cares are o'er.\n      She said, while down her aged face\n        The tears coursed rapidly,\n      \"Many a white woman have I known,\n        But you were kind to me.\"\n\n      Not half as dear to the miser\n        Is the yellow gold he saves,--\n      Or the pearl, to the venturous diver,\n        Which he seeks beneath the waves,\n      Or the summer breeze, to the drooping flower,\n        Fresh from the balmy South,\n      As those grateful words which slowly came\n        From the Indian woman's mouth.\n\n      She has struggled with the ills of life;\n        For her no parent's prayers\n      Have risen to the throne of God,\n        To sanctify life's cares.\n      But God will judge her kindly:\n        He sees the sparrow fall;\n      And, through his Son's atoning blood,\n        May he mercy show to all!\n\n\n\n\nFIRE-FACE.\n\nBY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.\n\n\nFire-face was willing to die, he said, but not until he had killed\nanother white man. He was sincere in acknowledging hatred towards the\npeople of the United States. There was no doubt but he had stained\nhis hands with the blood of one white man; but this did not satisfy\nhim: let him take the life of another, and he was willing to be made\nprisoner, and to meet what punishment might be designed for him. The\nmantle of Cain had indeed fallen upon him; his heart was turned even\nfrom his own people, and angry threatenings were ever upon his lips,\nagainst those with whom he had grown up side by side. Wabashaw, chief\nof one of the bands of Sioux on the Mississippi, left his home, where\nthe prairies stretch out to the distance, without even a hill to\nrelieve the level sameness, or trees to shelter them from the short\nbut intense heat of the summer, to encamp, by permission, on the St.\nPeter's River, opposite Fort Snelling. Fire-face, one of the band, was\nwith them, accompanied by his two wives.\n\nHe was feared by all of the band; even the brave chief Wabashaw, whose\nlife he had threatened, turned from the fierce gaze of the man, over\nwhom had been cast a spell from the spirits of evil, for he frowned\nalike upon friend and foe. Only his wives seemed easy when he was\nnear, and they not only feared but loved the strange being, whose hand\nwas against every man's.\n\nHe passed the most of his time seated near his lodge, with his\nmedicine-bag hanging near; his implements of war and hunting glistening\nin the light, and his loaded gun ever by his side.\n\nMany efforts had been made to apprehend this desperate man, yet he had\nalways eluded the pursuit of the soldiers; and now, although aware of\nthe danger he was in, when living so near the garrison, he appeared\nto be perfectly unconcerned, saying, he knew the soldiers would make\nevery effort to arrest him; but that he would never be taken until\nanother of the pale faces had fallen by his arm. Wabashaw, the chief,\nfrequently visited the Fort, always accompanied by his late friend Many\nLightnings, and on every occasion he pressed the necessity of taking\nFire-face prisoner. \"He was a bad Indian,\" said Wabashaw, \"who loved to\nsee blood; and, if allowed to go at liberty, some one would be murdered\nby him.\"\n\nThe chief said that he did not sleep at night in his own lodge, but\nwent for safety to the near village of Mendoto, where he remained until\nthe sun was high in the heavens the next day. In consequence of these\nrepresentations, a party of soldiers was sent to arrest him, and the\nIndians were to assist in the capture.\n\nFire-face was on the lookout: he appeared to show himself in the way\nof danger for the pleasure of overcoming it. He would remain at ease\nuntil the party was near him; and then, like an arrow from the bow,\nhe would fly through the village, no man daring to stay him: and you\nmight as well have attempted to catch the sunbeam on the waters as the\nhunted man. Pursuit was unavailing, and the soldiers each time returned\ndisappointed to the Fort.\n\nHe would soon come back to the encampment. What a courage was his,\nthus purposely throwing himself in the way of danger, knowing too that\nhe had not one friend to whom he could turn. His frightened, helpless\nfamily alone cared for him. It was evidently a pleasure to him to be in\na situation of peril, to show his adroitness in extricating himself.\n\nAbout ten o'clock one night he sat in his lodge, gloomily meditating on\nhis position. Could he eventually escape the pursuit of his enemies?\nWas he not a doomed man, when the bands of friendship were severed\nbetween him and those with whom he had fought, and whose lives had been\ntracing an even course with his?\n\nThe children's heavy breathing was the only sound that could be heard.\nHis wives sat mute in the lodge. He had been hunted to the death, and\nnow sleep was overcoming him, and his watchfulness was yielding to his\nfatigue; while he thought to lay his tomahawk beside him, and seek\nrepose, the door of his lodge was turned aside, and the long-knives (as\nthe soldiers were called) were upon him.\n\nTheir exulting looks were met by his calmest demeanour: he offered no\nresistance; but when the soldiers placed their hands upon his wrists to\nsecure the captive, he glided from their grasp as easily as a serpent\nmight pass from the touch of a child; he bounded from their sight, and\nagain they vainly sought the strange man: the protecting shades of\nnight were about him, and he knew full well the hiding-places of the\nneighbourhood. When out of their reach he laughed as he looked at his\noiled hands and arms, for _there_ was the secret of his escape.\n\nMorning found him again in his lodge, calm, fearless as ever. The Sioux\nthought he must wear a charmed life, and they kept from the reach of\nhis arm: and the children, even his own, played where they could not\nsee his dark face as he watched their amusements.\n\nThere is a spell, however, that few Indians can resist; it is to them\nan unfailing quietus for care: they can fancy they are free when\nfire-water quickens the coursing of their veins. They curse the white\nman from the heart, and hope and look forward to the time when the red\nman shall have his own again. They then forget that the outstretched\narms of desolation are ready to clasp them, and that destruction,\nlike the night-bird, is hovering over their heads with its hoarse cry\nsounding to their hearts.\n\nFire-face could not refuse the charm. The Indians pressed it upon\nhim, and then informed the soldiers that they were going out with the\nintention of hunting, as Fire-face thought, that on this occasion he\nmight be followed and taken.\n\nThe party went on their route, stopping occasionally to drink and to\nsmoke. Fire-face, overcome by the liquor he had drank, could hardly\nkeep up with them. His gun swung carelessly from his shoulder, and his\nusual gravity was changed for a loud and boisterous cheerfulness.\n\n\"The white people fear me,\" he said, laughing; \"well they may, for my\narm is strong, and before I die I will kill another of them. I have\nalready murdered a white man, and should be satisfied if one of their\nwomen died by my tomahawk. I should like to take her scalp with the\nlong light hair hanging from it.\"\n\nThe Indians still encouraged him to drink, and as the morning advanced\nhe became the more unfitted to pursue his way. From a state of passion\nand excitement he had passed into one of stupor: at length he rested\nhimself against a tree, and alternately muttered and dozed.\n\nIn the mean time soldiers were following him up. Wabashaw gave\ninformation of the path Fire-face had taken, and they were soon upon\nhim.\n\nHe was a prisoner at last, and that consciousness sobered him. His\nhands were bound. One of the Sioux, indignant at this proceeding,\nattempted to cut the straps, but was pushed off. After a slight delay,\nthe soldiers returned with him to the garrison.\n\nHe continually reproached himself with his own unwatchfulness, telling\nthe soldiers that he had always intended killing one of them ere he\nshould be in their power. He mournfully said it was too late now to\naccomplish his purpose.\n\nAt about six o'clock in the afternoon he was brought into the Fort.\nThe news of his capture had reached the encampment of Wabashaw on the\nopposite side of the river, and as he approached the guard at the gate\nof the Fort, a number of Sioux wore seen watching him. His two wives\nstood there, and as their husband's figure passed, guarded and bound,\nthey literally lifted up their voices and wept.\n\nFire-face, in the mean time, was turned over to the tender mercies of\nthe guard, and he was soon seated at the grated window of his cell. I\nhad heard a great deal of the man, and thought that one who combined\nso many terrible traits of character must show it in his countenance:\nin order to see this singular being, I determined to visit him in his\ncell. We passed the guard-room and entered his dark and dreary-looking\nplace of confinement. His back was to us, as he was looking through\nthe bars of his window towards his home. Hearing some one approach,\nhe turned to us with an expression of face entirely mild; there was\nneither passion nor murder portrayed in his features, not even a\nrestlessness in his manner--only a quiet dignity, a calm unconcern.\n\nHe begged of the commanding officer to be shot at once, deprecating the\nthought of imprisonment--only let him die or be free. It was in vain to\nremind him of his offences: the laws of the white man were not for him.\nHe then said that he wished to see his wives. The request was granted:\nthey were sent for, and after a little while they, trembling with fear,\npassed the terrible-looking guard and entered their husband's cell,\nwith their faces covered with their blankets.\n\nThe next day a council was held at the council-house, and I could not\nresist the wish I had to be present. I longed to see the aborigines\nof my country presiding as it were in their own halls of legislature.\nThere was always a charm and freshness in listening to their unstudied\neloquence.\n\nWhen I reached the council-house the speaking was nearly over, but the\nscene repaid me for the trouble I had taken to witness it.\n\nThe warriors were seated in rows round the room on the floor, with the\nexception of Wabashaw, Many Lightnings, and a few of the principal\nmen,--these occupied a bench.\n\nTheir dresses were very rich; their fans were of large feathers,\nstained in many colours. \"The Owl\" was looking grave, for he had been\nreproved for interfering with the soldiers, by attempting to cut\nthe prisoner's straps. One old man was in mourning, and he looked\nparticularly _en dishabille_, his clothing (and there was little of\nit) was dirty in the extreme. His face he had painted perfectly black;\nhis hair he had purposely disarranged, to the greatest degree. Thus\nhe presented a striking contrast to the elaborately adorned warriors\naround him.\n\nMany Lightnings was dressed with scrupulous care. He had been presented\nwith an old uniform-coat, which he wore with the utmost complacency.\nWe noticed the warriors were almost all young: we asked where were\nall their old men. Wabashaw said, they were all carried off by the\nsmall-pox, which had nearly destroyed their band some years before.\nSeveral of them, besides the chief, were deeply marked from this\ndisease.\n\nWhen we left Fort Snelling, Fire-face was still in confinement, but\nwas soon to go to Dubuque for trial. I learned some months after, that\nhe had escaped: I thought then, his long-cherished wish might still be\ngratified.\n\n\n\n\nDEATH-SONG\nOF AN INDIAN PRISONER, FOR A LONG TIME CONFINED AT FORT SNELLING.\n\nBY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.\n\n\n      Here, in these hated walls\n        A prisoner I;\n      Vainly my young wife calls,\n        As night-winds sigh.\n      Brightly the white stars shine:\n        Upwards I gaze,\n      Seeking this soul of mine\n        From earth to raise.\n\n      Strong Wind, my comrade brave,\n        Looks sternly by,\n      Watching the death-film dim\n        His brother's eye.\n      Chained are these useless hands;\n        Cold is my heart;\n      Soon to the spirits' land\n        Must I depart.\n\n      Pacing my prison dark,\n        Arms do I see,--\n      While measured the sentry's step,--\n        Glance gleamingly.\n      Once, like the wild deer,\n        Or eagle, as free,--\n      Now, closely guarded here,\n        Prisoners we!\n\n      When has the red man felt\n        Woman's weak fears?\n      But from these wearied eyes\n        Fall warriors' tears.\n      Father of Waters, I\n        Ne'er shall see more,--\n      List to its waves pass by,\n        Beating the shore.\n\n      Sleeps my brave comrade now?--\n        Dreams he of home?\n      See, o'er his haughty brow\n        Dark shadows come.\n      Like me, he fain would be\n        Where, from the bow,\n      Piercing the wild deer's side,\n        Swift arrows go.\n\n      When from the waters bright\n        Fades the red sun,\n      Following the evening light,\n        Darkness comes on.\n      So has my spirit drooped,\n        Since from my home\n      Traced I my weary steps,\n        Ne'er to return.\n\n      Hark! in the evening air\n        Low voices come,--\n      Bring they to this sad heart\n        Breathings of home.\n      Now do the whispers rise,\n        Mighty the sound,\n      Like the thunder-bird,[16] from the skies\n        Hurled to the ground.\n\n      \"Come to our hunting-lands!\n        Proudly we roam\n      Here, where the white man\n        Never may come.\n      From our forests on earth\n        Oft driven back,\n      We are free now, and follow\n        The buffalo's track.\n\n      \"Here is the bright glance,\n        From maiden's dark eye;\n      While the song of the feast and dance\n        Rings through the sky.\n      Here do we wait thy step,\n        While soon, for thee,\n      Bursted the prison bars,\n        The warrior free!\"\n\n[Footnote 16: This is an allusion to the battles of the gods of the\nDacotas. The Thunder (believed to be a bird) is sometimes conquered and\ncast to the earth by the god of the woods or the god of the waters.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE FALSE ALARM.\n\nBY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.\n\n\n\"Yes,\" said We-har-ka, who had outlived children and grandchildren, whose\nface and neck were covered with wrinkles, but who still could walk with\nthe youngest and strongest, \"the old woman must pick up what she can\nget to eat. I hate the white people. Have I forgotten the death of my\nson? Do I not see him now as he fell dead by the gate of the Fort? What\nif the Dacotas had killed some Chippeways! The Dacotas have a right\nto kill their enemies. Enah! I hate the Chippeways too. If I were a\nwarrior, I would ever be tracking them and shooting them down, and I\nwould laugh when I saw their blood flow.\"\n\n\"The white people caused the death of your son,\" said Harpen.\n\n\"I hate them both,\" replied We-har-ka. \"My son and two others killed some\nChippeways, and they were taken, prisoners, to the Fort, because the\nlong-knives had said we must not kill our enemies. Then the Chippeways\nwanted the Dacotas who murdered their friends, that their women might\ncut them in pieces. So the long-knives told the Dacotas they might\nstart from the gate of the Fort, and run for their lives; but they told\nthe Chippeways to be there too, and they might fire at them and kill\nthem if they could. The Chippeways fired, and the three Dacotas fell.\nThe Chippeways shouted and were glad, and the Dacota women wept. I lay\non the ground many days, with my limbs bleeding. See the scars on my\narms! With this very knife did I make these wounds. I, a widow, and\nchildless, who has there been to give me food since?\n\n\"When Beloved Hail was killed,\" continued the old woman, \"the white men\nwould not let our warriors go to war against the Chippeways. Red-boy,\ntoo, was wounded by the Chippeways, and even he could not go out to\nfight them. Our warriors are like children before the white men.\"\n\n\"Red-boy was badly wounded,\" said Harpen.\n\n\"Yes, he was badly wounded: I saw him at the time. If I were Red-boy,\nI would only live to revenge myself on those who had tried to take my\nlife.\"\n\nWhile the woman talked, little Wanska sat by them, playing with her\nwooden doll. \"Grandmother,\" said she, \"may I take your canoe and go\nover to the village? You can come home with the others. I want to talk\nto my mother about Red-boy.\"\n\n\"Go, go,\" said We-har-ka, \"our brave men may no longer do brave deeds,\nand by the time that you are a woman, there will be no more warriors.\nIt has been five winters since Beloved Hail was killed and Red-boy\nwounded, and no one has avenged them yet.\"\n\nThe child entered the canoe and paddled towards the village, thinking\nall the while of what she had heard. \"Grandmother says, by the time I\nam a woman, there will be no more warriors: what will I do then for a\nhusband?\" and thus divided between the disgrace of not being married,\nand the remembrance of Red-boy's wound, which she thought had occurred\nrecently, she entered the village in a state of trepidation, which\nwas yet exceeded by the condition in which her mother was thrown,\non hearing the announcement that Red-boy was badly wounded by the\nChippeways; that We-har-ka had seen the wound; that all the old women\nwere very angry with the Chippeways and white people; then, bursting\ninto tears, the girl of ten years added: \"Mother, the Chippeways and\nwhite men are going to kill all the Dacota warriors, so that, when I am\na woman, I can never have a husband!\"\n\nUp rose the eyes and hands of the mother, and down went the moccasins\nshe was making to the ground; and up and down she made her way\nthrough the village, giving the alarm, that Red-boy was killed by the\nChippeways!\n\nShall I tell of the scene that followed? Oh! for a pen of magic, to\ndescribe how Red-boy's relations cried, and how everybody's relations\ncried with them; how the children ran to their mothers, sheltering\nthemselves under their _okendokendas_.[17] How the dogs yelped and\nhowled, and sprung on the children's backs, ready to go wherever\nprudence might dictate. How the old men started from sleeping in the\nlazy summer's sun, and held their tomahawks as firmly as if time were\nmade to be laughed at, and the young men throwing away the pebbles with\nwhich they were playing a game of chance, walked swiftly on, bent on\navenging Red-boy.\n\nHow the wind all at once began to rise, and the very fish leaped out of\nthe water, as if they would like to fight too; while already, Indian\nrunners were far on their way to tell the news at Man-in-the-cloud's\nand Good-road's villages, and to give the word to those whom they might\nmeet, who would take up the cry, and rush forward with revenge on their\nlips, and murder in their hearts.\n\nOn they went, until they reached the house of the Interpreter, near\nFort Snelling, and then he went with them, to report to the officers at\nthe Fort of the outrage; that Red-boy was killed, and that the Dacota\nwarriors wished to go and avenge the death of their friend.\n\nThis was, of course, considered an infringement of the treaty of peace\nthen existing between the two tribes; and the Chippeways had showed\ntheir daring by committing a murder so near the walls of the Fort. It\nwas immediately determined to send a detachment of soldiers to arrest\nthe offenders.\n\nIn ten minutes a number of men were on the parade-ground, ready to\nmarch, looking as fiercely at the officers' quarters as if they were\nabout to enter into mortal combat with the doors and windows; obeying\nthe word of command as quickly as it was reiterated, while the ringing\nnoise of their ramrods sounded through the garrison.\n\nThe Dacotas were perfectly satisfied with the promise made them,\nthat the Chippeways should be punished in a manner satisfactory to\nthemselves, for the death of Red-boy.\n\nWe women felt quite solemn in the Fort. The Chippeways might resist:\nin fact, there was no saying what they might, or what they might not\ndo. The command in garrison was very small: we felt as if we had been\n\"through seven wars, and this was the worst of all.\"\n\nRetreat, the assembling of the command at sundown, came--the evening\ngun was fired, and the flag was lowered--and nothing was heard of the\nwar-party, white or Indian. Tattoo had come, the soldier's bedtime,\nand our anxieties were not at rest. Towards twelve o'clock the men\nreturned with their officer, without having had even a show of fight.\nTo their intense mortification and disappointment, Red-boy had been\nseen, and talked with, large as life. He had eaten a saddle of venison\nthat day, without any assistance, and was, accordingly, in a good state\nof preservation, having received no wound since the one of five years'\nstanding, the scar of which he showed.\n\nNow, we know that among white people, as well as Indians, women have\nthe credit of raising all the false reports, and circulating all the\nscandal that is going the rounds. Most unjust charge! and all men, red\nskins and pale faces, are defied to prove it. Among the Indians women\nhave no chance whatever. Is an Indian charged with stealing pork from\nthe traders? It was not the warrior who did it, but his wife. Has a\nparty of Indians been admitted into the Fort, and some loaves of bread\nand pieces of meat been abstracted? Somehow or other the women are sure\nto be in fault. Has the garrison been alarmed, and a party of soldiers\nsent out uselessly? As usual, the women made the trouble.\n\nYet, with a sigh from my heart, I must confess that appearances are\nagainst the sex.\n\nThere were many threats of vengeance made against We-har-ka in the\npresent instance, for the trouble which her longings for vengeance had\noccasioned; but she was not afraid: she had taken care of herself for\nnearly a hundred years, and would be apt to do so during the short\nremnant of her life.\n\nIndian women will talk of their wrongs as long as they feel them, and\nthat will be until the heart has ceased to beat, and the tongue is\nsilent for ever.\n\nWe-har-ka lives on the memory of her sorrows. She holds them to her\nheart, as does the mother her child of a day old. They are dear to her\nas would be the hope of vengeance.\n\nI say she lives, but I know not. Seasons have gone since I bade adieu\nto her home, and it may be, she is all unconscious that winter is gone,\nand that summer's breath is waving the green boughs of the forest trees\nas they lift up their branches to the heavens.\n\nIt must be soon, if not now, that her form, covered with garments of\npoverty and misery, and perhaps shielded from the gaze of passers-by by\nthe tattered blanket of some friend poor as she, reposes quietly near\nthe river bank.\n\nWould you not like to have heard her talk of her amusements as a\nchild, and her happiness when a maiden--of the scenes of pleasure she\nremembers, and of terror from which she has fled--of the pains, the\nhunger, the watchings she has endured--of the storms and sunshine of a\nlife passed away?\n\n[Footnote 17: An Okendokenda is a part of an Indian woman's dress,\nsomewhat resembling the sack worn by ladies at the present time,\nmore open, displaying the throat and chest. It is generally made of\nbright-coloured calico.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  C. Schuessele del.      Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.\n        Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.\n\nINDIAN COURTSHIP]\n\n\n\n\nINDIAN COURTSHIP.\n\nBY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.\n\n\n                        Show me a brighter scene\n      On our beautiful earth, or where fairies dream!\n\n             *       *       *       *       *\n\n      Tell me where, rocked by the billows high,\n      The sea-bird pierces the gorgeous sky,\n      Where the moonbeams rest on the ocean wave--\n      Where dies the sun o'er the crystal cave.\n      Where the bell sounds sweet o'er the desert sand,\n      Like matins that ring in a far-off land.\n      Where the mountain heaves with its angry voice,\n      And the lava speeds with its fiercest course;\n      Where the glaciers glance by the sunbeam's ray,\n      And the avalanche bursts with resistless sway.\n      Yet show me a brighter, a fairer scene\n      On our beautiful earth, or where spirits dream,\n      Than here! where the leaves of the large trees lave,\n      As their boughs are bent to the river's wave;\n      Than here! where night and the white stars come,\n      Their watch to keep o'er the Indian's home.\n\n            Now o'er the waters bright\n              Glides his canoe,\n            Throbbing his warrior heart,\n              Maiden! for you.\n            Roused from your dreamy sleep,\n              Bend low and list;\n            Not once has his well-known tread\n              Your loving heart missed.\n\n            Not far from the wigwam door\n              Rests he awhile--\n            But from far has he journeyed\n              To meet your bright smile.\n              He speaks to your heart\n              By the flute's slightest sound,\n            And its low notes are echoed\n              By that heart's wildest bound.\n\n            He knows if you love him\n              You'll surely come forth,\n            And modestly plight him\n              A maiden's pure troth.\n            Then come! he will talk\n              Of his sweet forest home,\n            Which you will make brighter;\n              Come! maiden, come!\n\n            You move not. Ah! woman,\n              He will not despair:\n            He has medicine tied\n              In the braids of his hair.\n            Love-medicine, bound\n              In the white deer's soft breast,\n            'Twill charm you at last\n              On his bosom to rest.\n\n            Should he wait for your coming\n              This fair night in vain,\n            No faint heart has he--\n              He will charm you again.\n            A spell he will cast\n              On your slight graceful form;\n            Then, wrapped in your blanket-robe,\n              Maiden, you'll come.\n\n            To your parents he'll presents give:\n              Bright things and new--\n            Ah! young wives are bought and sold\n              Among Indians too.\n            Then, from the mother's side\n              You will go forth,\n            The star of a warrior's home,\n              The light of his hearth.\n\n            Come! ere the morning star\n              Lures him away;\n            He must meet with the wise men\n              When breaks the blue day.\n            Your soft voice must greet him\n              Ere homeward he turn,\n            Then close to his throbbing heart\n              Come, maiden, come!\n\n\n\n\nTHE SACRIFICE.\n\nBY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.\n\n\nFar away in one of the fair valleys of the West, where dark forests\nfrown alike in summer, when the richly clad boughs wave to the passing\nbreeze, and in winter, when the bare maple and thick evergreens are\ncovered with snow,--far away, just on the borders of the valley, close\nby the huge rocks which rear their heads above the bluffs that hang\nover the water,--an Indian village, with its many-sized lodges rising\nhere and there, reposed, as it were, without fear from storm, or the\nsun's heat, or the aggressions of enemies. Sometimes, indeed, the\nmighty thunder rolled angrily towards it, and the streaked lightning\ncalled over and over again, to the many hills around, to rouse up the\ntardy storm-spirits; but they loved not to linger here. Their voices\ncould be heard in angry murmurs, then they would pass on in the river's\ncourse, with many a wild shout, to seek some spot less lovely on which\nto spend their wrath.\n\nA very few miles below the village, an Indian might be seen, slowly\npaddling his canoe over the placid waters. The dark lines of his face\nwere fixed in deep thought. His countenance was pale, though the hue of\nhis race was there; his nostrils large, and quivering with the remains\nof passion; his eyes bright and lustrous, as if with fever; but around\nhis mouth might be traced an expression which seemed to indicate\nthat grief as well as passion was struggling with him. As he slowly\ntouched with his paddle the passive waters, he looked around him with a\nbewildered air.\n\nSuddenly, he started, as his eye fell upon something that lay in the\nbottom of the canoe; he raised it: 'twas the arrow of his child. How\ncame it there? and why should the father, forgetting all, as he dropped\nunconsciously the paddle into the waters, cover his face with both his\nhands, and while the tears forced their way through his fingers, tremble\nwith remembrances too strong even for him, the Iron Heart, to bear?\n\nAll was quiet and peace. Not a voice was heard; even nature's was\nstill. No human eye looked upon the warrior as he wept. Silence and\nsolitude surrounded him. The vast prairie that stretched abroad might\nhave recalled to his mind the unending future, which he was to spend in\nthe society of the honoured dead. The soft vapoury clouds of evening\nthat hung over him, might have told him, as they have told many, that\nit is not far from the wretched to the land of spirits. The waters,\non which his canoe rested almost motionless, might have called to his\nremembrance, that life was a sea, sometimes troubled and sometimes\ncalm, over which the mortal must pass to reach immortality.\n\nBut no such tranquillizing thoughts calmed the tempest which was raging\nin his bosom; his bare chest heaved with emotion; but at length he\nraised his head, and taking another paddle from the bottom of his canoe\nin his right hand, with the other he threw the small arrow that had\noccasioned him so many painful thoughts, and watching till the waters\nclosed over it, he made his way towards the bend in the river, where\nlowlands and prairies were no more to be seen, and an hour's time\nbrought him in sight of the village, and soon he was clambering over\nthe rocks towards it.\n\nWhen he met his friends, there was a stern coldness in his manner, and\nhe replied fiercely to the greeting salutations of his younger wives,\nand called for his daughter Wenona, whose mother had long since been\ndead, to prepare him some food.\n\nWenona obeyed with alacrity her father's commands, at the same time\nglancing uneasily towards her two step-mothers, whose smothered wrath\nshe knew would break forth at some future time. They sat silent on the\nground in seeming submission to the will that wrested from them their\nrights, in favour of the child of a dead rival; but those accustomed\nto read the writing on a woman's countenance, could see they were\nrebelliously inclined, but were forced to conceal their vexation under\na calm demeanour.\n\nIt was in August, \"the moon that corn is gathered.\" Wenona had during\nthe long day paid the penalty of her father's love; she had toiled\nunceasingly, though the sun scorched her face and bosom; the watchful\neyes of her father's wives were upon her, and when he was absent, they\nhardly allowed her a moment's rest. Her young companions wondered\nat the little spirit she showed; but Wenona was of a peace-making\ndisposition, and preferred submission to contention. The large bundles\nof corn she had gathered during the day were hanging outside the\nwigwam to dry. Not even had she allowed herself time to join the other\ngirls, who were diving at noon in the cool waters, and raising their\nheads up to call Wenona, looking like mermaids as the water flowed from\ntheir long, unbraided hair.\n\nIt was not long before she placed before Iron Heart his evening meal,\nvenison and boiled corn--while her face was so good-humoured, and her\nmotions so easy and graceful, that one would suppose the wrath of the\nevil spirits themselves would have been disarmed, much less the anger\nof those to whose children she so often sung sweet lullabies. Iron\nHeart did not relish his food; but tasting the venison, then lighting\nhis pipe, he appeared lost to what passed before him: he often looked\nin Wenona's face, with a strange repentant look, as if he had done her\nan injury, but sought to conceal it in his own bosom.\n\nAfter a while he rose, and joined a group of warriors, who were seated\nwithout the wigwam, Wenona following in his protecting shadow, out of\nthe reach of complaint or reproof.\n\nThe group that Iron Heart joined was composed of the principal men of\nthe band, who were listening to the words of one of their wisest men.\nNo one interrupted him, as he boasted of the feathers he had won, as\nhe told of the bears and buffaloes he had destroyed; no one showed\nimpatience as he dwelt upon the time when he was young, and all admired\nhis feats of valour and strength. Respect and attention were on every\ncountenance, as the white hair of the old man was lifted from his brow\nby the evening breeze.\n\nHe told them they had long been at peace with the Chippeways;\ntheir young men were becoming like women, without the ennobling and\nexciting employment of war. That the edge of the tomahawk was blunted\nfor want of use. He said the Chippeways had again intruded on their\nhunting-grounds, and it was time that the war-cry of the Dacotas should\nbe heard, to show their enemies their power.\n\nThe old man, who had lived nearly a century, ceased speaking, and The\nBuffalo, who leaned against a tree near the others, turned towards\nthem, as if he, too, would speak.\n\n\"My words are not good, like the words of the aged; my voice is low,\nlike the sound of the waters in a small stream, but the wise speak, and\nthe sound of the Father of many Waters is in your ears. But our brave\nmen say they are at peace with the Chippeways: they promised they would\nbury the hatchet deeper than the roots of our tallest trees; they said\nwe would live together like friends, and that the war-cry only should\nbe heard when we joined together against our enemies.\"\n\nThe old man prepared to answer him: his limbs shook with rage and\nexcitement; he raised his finger, and pointed towards The Buffalo,\nthen, when the crimson blood dyed his cheeks, he said, \"Shame on the\ncoward who fears his enemies: go gather corn with the women, and the\nold and feeble man will die with his tomahawk raised against those who\nhate his nation.\"\n\nIn vain The Buffalo essayed to speak: they would not hear him; and he\nleft the council amid the sneers of all.\n\nWar was decided upon; and night was fast approaching when Wenona, with\npale and agitated looks, pressed forward among the warriors. \"My\nfather,\" said she, \"where is my brother?\"\n\nIron Heart started; but recovering himself, he replied, \"I know not.\nSeek him yourself, if you would find him.\"\n\n\"I have sought him,\" she said, \"but the old woman, Flying Cloud, tells\nme I may seek him no more, for she saw his body floating down the\nriver, as she came up in her canoe. She laughed, too, and said I would\nsee him one day in the land of spirits.\"\n\nAll looked towards Iron Heart, but he made his way among them, and\nreturned to the wigwam. In vain Wenona wept, and besought him to go in\nsearch of her brother; not even would he inquire of Flying Cloud.\n\n\"I will go, then, and look for him myself,\" said the girl. \"Is he not\nmy brother, my mother's son?\"\n\n\"Cease your noise,\" said her father, sternly. \"If the Great Spirit\nhave called my son, is he not already a brave warrior in the city of\nspirits?\"\n\nWenona was quiet at her father's rebuke, but her heart was ill at ease.\nShe hoped he would return in the night. She remembered that Flying\nCloud was always bitter and ill-tempered; and besides, was not her\nbrother at home on the water? Could he not swim as easily as he could\ntread down the grass on the prairie? She reasoned herself into the hope\nthat Chask\u00e9 had been tired, and had laid down to rest; and she fell\nasleep with the expectation that his merry voice would arouse her at\nbreak of day.\n\nAnd how did he sleep in whose heart lay the secret of the death of his\nson? in whose ear was sounding the voice of that son's blood?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn vain might we seek to follow Wenona in her untiring search for her\nbrother--she knew all his accustomed haunts--at one time making her way\nover rock and crag, to find out the eagle's home; at another, pushing\nher small canoe up the stream, where the beavers made their houses;\nweeping, yet hoping too.\n\nDay after day passed thus: and ever as she returned to the village\nwould Flying Cloud tell her she must go beyond the clouds to seek him.\n\nIron Heart neither assisted in the search for the boy, nor spoke of his\nloss. He was calm as usual: yet in the last four days he seemed to have\nlived as many years.\n\nHe employed himself sharpening the instruments he was soon to use\nagainst the Chippeways, while hanging near the medicine-sack, which was\nattached to a pole outside the wigwam, was a knife which glittered in\nthe sun, which was only touched or moved by himself.\n\nDays and weeks passed by: Wenona ceased to look for her brother, or\nhope for his return; yet still she wept. The heart of the motherless\ngirl clung ever in thought to him who had been not only her companion,\nbut her charge from his birth. She had taken him from her mother's\nbosom when dying; she had watched his childish sports, and sung to him\nthe legends of her people. Could she have closed his eyes, and wept at\nhis feet, her grief would not have been so hopeless. It often occurred\nto her that her father was not unacquainted with the circumstances of\nhis death.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nStrange and solemn was the secret of the death of the Indian boy.\nDearly loved by his father, they stood together one day by the river's\nside. \"Did you not say, my father,\" said the boy, \"that we would go to\nthe forest for the deer? Let us go now; my arrows are swift and strong,\nand to-morrow the girls will come and help us drag them in. Come, my\nfather, your looks have been sad for many days, but you will laugh when\nyou see the red deer fall as we strike them. The old woman, Flying\nCloud,\" continued the boy, \"says she knows what is going to happen to\nme. She says I will never go to war against the Chippeways; that my\nknife shall never sever the scalps from the head of my enemy; that my\nvoice shall not be heard in the council, nor shall my wife ever stand\nat the door of her lodge to wait my coming. But I laughed at her: she\nis old and poor; she loves not the young and happy. See her now, my\nfather, as she stands upon that high rock, waving her arms to me. What\nhave you done to her that she hates you so? She says she has cast a\nspell upon our race.\"\n\n\"Flying Cloud is not of our clan, my son,\" replied Iron Heart; \"her son\ndied, and she says my mother caused his death. She says she cannot die\ntill my mother is childless like herself. But come, before the night we\nmust kill many deer.\"\n\n\"Is your knife sharp?\" said the boy; \"you know we must draw the skins\noff while they are warm. My sister will work our moccasins and leggins.\nShe says she is never so happy as when she is sewing for me.\"\n\nShall we follow them--shall we penetrate the deep forests to see the\nfather raise his knife to pierce from side to side the strong, healthy\nframe of his son!\n\nNot in anger did he take the life that was dearer to him than his own.\nWas the burden of his sins lying heavily against his heart? Who shall\ntell his agony when he saw the blood flow! Who shall say how his soul\nwas wrung with grief as the reproachful face of his much-loved child\nwas turned towards him in death!\n\nThe wild deer flew past, but he saw them not. The serpent glided by as\nit did in Paradise, but its stealthy motion was unobserved. The sweet\nsong-birds raised their notes to the sky, but they all fell unheeded on\nthe ear of the father who had taken the life of his son.\n\nRaising the form of the boy in his arms, he bore it carefully to the\nshore, and casting it where the current hurried impetuously on, the\ndead boy was borne along to share the lot of many who will rest in their\nocean grave, till the land and the sea shall alike give up their dead.\n\nWhen I reflect on the tradition of the Sioux, that once only has human\nlife been offered in sacrifice, and then a father took the life of his\nson--when in the quiet night I mind me of those whose destiny seems now\nto be in our power for good or evil, I remember that when the world\nwas new, Abraham, in holy faith, yet with a breaking heart, led his\nmuch-loved child--the child of hope and promise, to sacrifice his life\nin obedience to the command of God. Can you not see his lip quiver and\nhis cheek turn pale as he lays him on the altar? Can you not hear the\nthrobbings of his heart as he binds him to the wood?\n\nAbraham's son was spared, but I mind me of another sacrifice, where\nGod spared not his own Son, but yielded him, the pure and sinless, a\nsacrifice for the guilt of all.\n\n\n\n\nA LULLABY.\n\nBY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.\n\n\n      Lo! by the river-shore Wenona weeping,\n      Lashed to its cradle-bed her young child sleeping,\n      While 'neath the forest trees the dead leaves lying,\n      Mournful, and sad, and low, the autumn winds are sighing.\n      Lists she to hear his footstep proud advancing?\n      Gazes, to see his tomahawk brightly glancing?\n      Watching the tossing waves, weary and lonely,\n      Faithful her breaking heart, loving him only.\n      Raising her drooping form, hearing her infant cry,\n      Pressing him to her breast, sings she a lullaby.\n\n                  Sleep on, my warrior son!\n                    Ne'er to his childhood's home,\n                  Waiting our greeting smile,\n                    Will thy brave father come.\n\n                  Shouting the loud death-cry\n                    With the grim warrior band,\n                  Singing the giant's songs,\n                    Dwells he in spirit land.\n                  Turning from brave to brave,\n                    See his keen eye\n                  As he glances around him,\n                    And smiles scornfully.\n\n                  I knew when he left me,\n                    (The strawberries grew\n                  On the prairies green,\n                    And the wild pigeon flew\n                  Swift o'er the spirit lakes,)\n                    Then o'er my heart\n                  Came a dark shadow\n                    Ne'er to depart.\n\n                  I watched, from the door\n                    Of my tupee,[18] the band\n                  As they turned from their home\n                    To the Chippeways' land.\n                  I watched and I wept,\n                    As thy father, the last\n                  Of the many tall braves,\n                    From my tearful gaze passed.\n\n                  Wake not, my young son,\n                    For thy father sleeps sound,\n                  And his stiffened corse lies\n                    On his enemy's ground.\n                  Wake not, my brave child,\n                    Thou wilt wrestle, too soon,\n                  With the miseries of life,--\n                    'Tis the red man's dark doom.\n\n                  O'er the fate of the Indian\n                    The Great Spirit has cast\n                  The spell of the white man--\n                    His glory is past.\n                  Like the day that is dying\n                    As fades the bright sun,\n                  Like the warrior expiring\n                    When the battle is done.\n\n                  Soon no more will our warriors\n                    Meet side by side,\n                  To talk of their nation,\n                    Its power and pride.\n                  'Tis the white man who rules us\n                    And tramples us down;\n                  We are slaves, and must crouch\n                    When our enemies frown.\n\n                  Sleep on, my young son,\n                    I'd fain have thee know\n                  As the warrior departs\n                    Did thy brave father go.\n                  He feared not the white man,\n                    While the Chippeway knew\n                  He could boast when he scalped\n                    The Dacota he slew.\n\n                  Sleep on, to our desolate\n                    Tupee we go;\n                  Soon the winter winds come,\n                    And the cold and the snow.\n                  He is gone who would bring\n                    To us covering warm,\n                  Would supply us with food,\n                    And would shield us from harm.\n\n                  I have listened full oft,\n                    As the white woman told\n                  Of the city of life,\n                    Where the bright waters rolled;\n                  Where tears never come,\n                    Where the night turns to day,--\n                  I gladly would go there,\n                    But know not the way.\n\n                  Ah! ye who have taken\n                    From the red man his lands,\n                  Who have crushed his proud spirit,\n                    And bound his strong hands;\n                  If ye see our sad race\n                    In ignorance bowed down,\n                  And care not to see it,\n                    Ye have hearts made of stone.\n\n                  Sleep on, my young son,\n                    For soon will we know\n                  If to the heaven of the white man\n                    The Dacota may go.\n                  We are children of earth,\n                    We must meekly toil on\n                  'Till the Great Spirit call us,\n                    My warrior son!\n\n[Footnote 18: Tupee is the Dacota word for house or wigwam.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  C. Schuessele del.      Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.\n        Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph^{a.}\n\nSOUNDING WIND.\nThe Chippewa Brave.]\n\n\n\n\nSOUNDING WIND;\nOR, THE CHIPPEWAY BRAVE.\n\nBY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.\n\n      Hast thou mourned! oh mourn no longer:\n      Death is strong, but love is stronger.\n\n\nThe amnesties that have been made between the Sioux and Chippeways for\nmany years have been of short duration: it appears now that the two\nnations will be friendly only when the lion and the lamb shall lie down\ntogether, should the two nations exist at that happy period. The sight\nof each other's blood is as precious to a Chippeway or Sioux as would\nbe the secret of perpetual youth to an octogenarian, who eagerly grasps\nhis tenure for life, loving, and fearing to lose it to the last. At the\ntime of my story, a longer peace than usual had existed between the\ntwo nations. They hunted and danced, and even married together. Many\na child, that had never trembled at hearing the war-whoop, wondered\nat the old men's stories, that invariably closed with the triumph of\nthe Dacota tomahawk over the weaker blade of the enemy: but that child\ngrew to be a man only to hate a Chippeway, as his father had done in\nyouth; one offence had brought on another, and the slumbering spirit\nof vengeance that had reposed in the hearts of the red men was roused\nup, and with a double vengeance foe sought foe. In vain were the women\nand children hidden in the holes of the earth at night for safety;\nthey were hunted out, as the starving wolf scents its prey: after the\ndesperate fight was over, when the strong were laid low, then were the\naged and the infants dragged from their hiding-places.\n\nThe red morning sun, parting the sullen clouds, hid again from the\nsight of the blood that was covering the ground, and dyeing the very\nstream where but yesterday the village belle, seated by its fair banks,\nlistened to the words that every maiden loves to hear.\n\nA sad scene was presented at the village of Gray Eyes: the old chief\nlay helpless among those who had obeyed his slightest word, the glaze\nof death dimming an eye that for more than eighty winters had watched\nthe snow, as it drifted from vale to vale. Life had not yet departed:\nyou could feel the pulse still flutter, and the heart faintly beat, but\nthe thoughts of the chief were in spirit-land, and his soul hasted to\nburst its prison bars, that it might renew the combat where the Dacotas\nwould aye be the victors.\n\nA gleam of life and consciousness passed over his faded features, as an\nIndian girl advanced towards him: it was a child he dearly loved, soon\nto be left without a protector.\n\n\"My daughter,\" said the old man feebly, as the maiden threw herself on\nthe ground beside him, and covered with her tears his cold hands; then\nraising herself, as she saw the wound still bleeding, she tore a piece\nfrom her okendokenda, and endeavoured to staunch it. \"It is too late,\nmy child; the soul of your father longs to join the warriors who live\nin the land of spirits. Where are your brothers?\"\n\n\"There!\" said the weeping girl, pointing to the dead bodies that lay\nacross each other.\n\n\"And your mother?\"\n\n\"There too,\" she answered; \"all are gone, my father, but you and me.\nI knew how the rocks lay, and where I could hide myself, and there I\nstayed, hearing my mother's cries, and my brothers' shouts, as they\ndied. I saw, too, the Chippeways, as they carried away the scalps. When\nyou are gone what will become of me? Who will care for Wenona?\"\n\n\"Not Wenona,\" said her father, \"but 'The Lonely One.' That will be your\nname when you will have neither father nor brother left. But see,\"\ncontinued the old man, \"our enemies' blood! Your brothers fought well:\nthey have already passed the warriors' road to the City of Spirits.\"\n\nHis breath came quickly--big drops stood on his forehead--another\nstruggle--a last sigh--and Wenona was indeed \"the lonely one.\"\n\nThe attack of the night before had not been unexpected. The Sioux had\nplaced pickets around their village, and a guard had been kept; but\ntheir enemies were too wily for them. The violent storm that raged\nduring the battle was favourable to the Chippeways; they were upon the\nSioux ere the watches had heard the slightest sound, except the wind,\nand the peals of thunder that shook the earth. Some escaped with their\nfamilies from the lower end of the village, but almost all who remained\nto fight for their families were massacred with them.\n\nWhile Wenona awaited the struggle, she was overcome with fear and\nexcitement; but now she was as one without hope. The blow had been\nstruck. Chippeway and Sioux had fallen in the death-struggle, locked in\nthe embrace which bound foe to foe. She had given her heart's devoted\nlove to one whom she must now consider as her enemy. Sounding Wind, a\nnoble young Chippeway, handsome in person, and already favoured among\nhis own people, had promised to take her to his wigwam when the two\nnations were at peace, though there were many then who foreboded the\nstrife that would rend the ties of friendship between the nations. Even\nafter hostilities had commenced, Sounding Wind had sworn to himself the\nwoman he loved should be his wife, though every brave in the nation\nmight stand between him and the accomplishment of his vow.\n\nWenona, as she rose from her father's body, gazing upon the scene of\nterror before her, looked like the flower beside her, which still\nreared its head, though its fair companions were all crushed to the\nearth by the storm of the night. Silence and death reigned here--nature\nwas as tranquil as the hearts of her children. Near by swept the lake\nof the thousand isles: undisturbed were its waters; there was no\nrequiem for the dead, even in the passing breeze.\n\n\"My heart weeps,\" murmured the girl; \"but shall the bodies of my\nfriends remain until night brings the wolves and hungry birds? Sounding\nWind has forgotten the maiden who loves him. He told me our village\nshould be safe; that he would talk like a wise man; that he would lead\nthe Chippeways far away from us: that, as the little islands sleep\npeacefully in the lake through the long summer's day, so might I rest\nfrom fear for myself and for my friends.\n\n\"I will go alone and find our people, that they may come and help me\nbury our dead. Why should I fear, when all who have loved me are gone,\nand he who once loved me would take my life as he would pierce the deer\non the prairie?\"\n\nWearily she turned her steps, intending to go to the nearest village,\navoiding the dead bodies at every step: yet her moccasins were red with\nblood, which, as she pursued her way, crimsoned the earth at her feet.\nThe reverence that every Indian woman feels for all things connected\nwith death, gave her courage to undertake the task before her. Every\nchange in the scene brought with it some reminiscence: grief for the\ndead were connected with each, but there were thoughts of the living\nhard to bear.\n\n_Here_ had she sat with her mother, working with porcupine quills gay\ngarments for her brothers. _Here_ had she stood and watched the canoe\nof her lover; here had he given her the charm which she still wore\nabout her neck: it was to secure her from any accident till she had\nleft her friends, and until the gods that the Chippeways worshipped\nwere hers.\n\nShe pursued her way; but as the waters became bright with the warm rays\nof the sun, and the pleasant breezes were wafted to the shore, a sense\nof oppression and fatigue overcame her.\n\nIn vain she essayed to rouse herself to the task before her: it was,\nindeed, in vain, for at last she threw herself under a large tree, and\nyielded to the repose which exhausted nature demanded. She slept on for\nhours as calmly as if she could only remember and look forward to joy.\nBright eyes were glancing before her--laughter greeted her ears, she\nwas a child again in her dreams, and passing over the gay waters with\nher boy lover by her side.\n\nSounding Wind, we have said, was already a man of consequence in his\ntribe; but he had refused to accompany the war-party of the preceding\nnight, nor did he seek to hide his reasons. They had lived peaceably\nwith the band that lived near the Lake of the Thousand Isles. While he\nwas willing to resent the aggressions of the band that by treacherous\nacts had broken their faith, he would not assail those who had given\nthem no cause of offence.\n\nA better reason was in his heart: the love he bore to Wenona was\nstrong, even stronger than death; and could he raise a murderous\ntomahawk against her family? He was anxious to know the result of the\nattack on the Sioux. He met the Chippeways as, taking the trail by the\nriver, they were on their way home.\n\nShortly after he joined them, they seated themselves by the great tree\nwhose branches sheltered Wenona. They were resting and eating. Sounding\nWind stood by them: no one interfered with his gloomy mood--there was\nthat in him that kept them in control. They were all silent, when\nsuddenly a sigh of grief and fatigue was uttered near them. Startled by\nit, each warrior rose to his feet and grasped his knife and tomahawk.\nSounding Wind sprung over the bushes that were between them and the\nspot from whence the sigh issued.\n\nAt his feet, just rousing from slumber, was the girl who was dearer\nto him than home or friends. One gleam of joy at seeing her again,\none shade of terror at her probable fate, and the young man, placing\nhimself between her and the Chippeways who had followed him, showed\nhimself ready to protect her so long as his arm could wield the\ntomahawk that glistened in the sun.\n\n\"Come not towards her,\" he said to them, for they had recognised her by\nher dress, \"she is my prisoner. I first touched her--I claim her before\nyou all. I am your chief. I have led you against the Sacs and Foxes,\nand I will lead you against the Dacotas, who have become our enemies,\nbut this girl's life shall be spared, for she is to be my wife.\n\n\"I have taken her prisoner: I shall spare her life. Am I not a\nChippeway? and shall I forget my promise to her, to make her my wife?\"\n\nWenona had covered her face with her hands, every moment expecting the\nblow that would terminate her sorrows; but no one offered to touch her.\nThey were many and strong in the love of revenge. Sounding Wind was\nbut one; but stronger than a host was the love that made him brave the\nstern spirits before him.\n\nShe arose at the bidding of her lover. She eat of their food, and\npursued, without fear of harm, her journey to her new home. There,\namid the struggles of the Sioux and Chippeways, she was ever safe.\nAnd happy, too, save when the remembrance of the fate of her family\ncame between her and the bright visions that cheer and gladden even an\nIndian woman's home, when the love of her husband and children hallow\nit.\n\n\n\n\nAN INDIAN BALLAD.\n\nBY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.\n\n\n      \"Take me away,\" said one they called the \"Drooping Eye,\"\n        \"Bear me where stoops the deer to drink at eve.\"\n      She would behold the clouds of heaven float gently by,\n        And hear the birds' sweet song ere earth to leave.\n\n      Close is the wigwam,--oh! give her light and air;\n        Say, can her spirit wing itself for flight,\n      Losing the perfume borne from flowers fair,\n        As comes on them and her the gloom of night?\n\n      On them and her,--but they will bloom again,\n        When breaks the day on earth, by sleep spellbound,--\n      Refreshed by morning winds, or summer's rain,\n        Gilding with colours bright the dewy ground.\n\n      Oh! bear her gently; lay her feeble form\n        Close by the lake, where beam the waters bright:\n      Oft has she watched from here the coming storm,\n        And oft, as now, the glow of evening's light.\n\n      Why weep her friends that fails her parting breath,\n        That cold the pressure of her powerless hand!\n      List!--Ye may hear from far the voice of death,\n        Calling from earth her soul to spirits' land.\n\n      Well do they know the fairies of the lake,\n        That with its waves have mingled oft her tears,\n      Here would she nature's solemn silence break\n        With the death-song of woman's hopes and fears.\n\n                      I go,--I go,\n                Where is heard no more\n              The cry of sorrow or pain;\n                I will wait for you there,\n                Where skies are fair,\n              But I come not to earth again.\n\n                  Mother, you weep!\n              Yet my body will sleep\n              Right near you, by night and by day:\n                And, when comes the white snow,\n                You will still weep, I know,\n              That the summer and I've passed away.\n\n                When the storm-spirit scowls,\n                When the winter-wind howls,\n              Oh! crouch not in cowardly fear.\n                Not unwatched, then, the form\n                That with life once was warm,--\n              My spirit will ever be near.\n\n                  My sisters! full well\n                  A dark tale I could tell,\n              How my lover in death slumbers sound:\n                My brother's strong arm,\n                Made the life-blood flow warm:\n              And he laughed as it covered the ground.\n\n                  I heard his deep sigh,\n                  I saw his closed eye,\n              I knew that life's struggle was past.\n                When his heart ceased to beat,\n                Then I wept at his feet,--\n              My first love, my only, my last.\n\n                  Well my proud brother knew\n                  That my heart was as true\n              To my love as the bird to its mate.\n                I go to him there,\n                Where flowers bloom fair:\n              Will his spirit the Drooping Eye wait?\n\n                  Comes quickly my breath!\n                  The dampness of death,\n              Oh! wipe from my brow with thy hand.\n                Earth's sorrows are o'er,\n                I may weep never more,--\n              Tears are not in that bright spirits' land.\n\n\n\n\nOLD JOHN.\nTHE MEDICINE-MAN.\n\nBY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.\n\n\nIf ever \"life was a fitful fever,\" it was with Old John, the\nMedicine-Man.\n\nComing to the Fort at times when you would not suppose any human\nbeing would expose himself to the elements,--always laughing, always\nhungry--seating himself before the fire to sleep, and starting up the\nmoment his eyelids closed over his restless, twinkling eyes--talking\nfor ever and singing in the same breath--troublesome and intrusive,\nyet always contriving to be of use. And useful he often was to an\nartist who was with us; for he would stand, sit, or lean, assuming and\nretaining the most painful attitudes, looking good-humoured all the\ntime, and telling of his many wonderful adventures and hairbreadth\nescapes.\n\nHe came to us one day in the middle of winter, for the picture of the\nmedicine-feast was in progress, and he had promised to show how the\npriest was to be represented, that the white people might know in very\ntruth how were conducted the sacred ceremonies of the Dacotas.\n\nWhile he warms himself, and eats, and smokes, he has as usual a great\ndeal to say, and this in a half-muttered tone; for he is a little\ndrowsy from the effect of the fire on his chilled limbs.\n\nHe takes from his head the three-cornered cloth hood which is worn by\nthe men in severe weather, and throws his blanket a little from his\nshoulders, displaying his handsomely embroidered coat.\n\nThere is the strongest odour of smoke and stale tobacco from his dress,\nand he laughs heartily as we throw open the doors and windows for the\nbenefit of the fresh air.\n\nHow many strange stories he has of the different medicine-feasts,\nand in each he figures largely. About some portions of the dance he\nis silent; you may question him closely, but you get no satisfactory\nanswer.\n\nHe tells that the feast commences when there is no sun in the heavens;\nat midnight, when often even the moon and stars are hiding their light.\nHe cannot tell white people what occurs then, nay, even the uninitiated\nIndians would not dare intrude themselves upon the scene; only the\nmedicine-men and women are allowed to be present. Neither entreaties\nnor bribes have any effect: he will not intrust to your keeping the\nsolemn secret. All we may know of this part of it is, that the feast\nis given in honour of some departed friend, and these ceremonies are\ntaking place near where lies the body. A conversation is carried on\nwith the dead, and food is placed near, that the spirit may eat.\n\n\"Bury my dead out of my sight.\" This is not the sentiment of the Dacota\nmourner. The mother wants her child to rest on the boughs of the tree,\nunder which she has sat and lulled it to sleep in her arms. Here,\nwhile she works, she can see its form swayed by the branches, rocked\nby the summer winds: its innocent spirit, according to her faith, must\nstill guard the decaying frame. She feels not the separation so keenly,\nwhen she fancies the soul of her first-born is hovering round her. She\nsteals away from the noisy revelling in the wigwam to weep. She can\nhardly recall the bright eye and healthy glow, which once belonged to\nthe lost one, but the suffering countenance and wasting frame are ever\nbefore her; and in the loud call of the night-bird, she often fancies\nshe hears again the cry with which her young child yielded up its life.\n\nOld John is telling of the medicine-feast. He shows us the medicine-bag\nwhich he uses: it is an otter skin, though sometimes a mink, a swan, or\neven a snake, is used, and often has he performed wonderful cures, or\nexecuted terrible vengeance, by the power of this medicine-bag.\n\nHe will not say what is the medicine which the skin contains; whether\nit is a root, or the leaf of a tree, a precious gum, a mineral\nsubstance, or the bone of some animal which has been preserved for\ncenturies. He says that he breathed into the nostrils of the dead\nanimal, and thus imparted to it qualities which made it sacred. Thus\nhas he often restored to life the dying man, and by the same power has\nhe cast the spell of misfortune, disease, and even death, upon one he\nhated. This is why he is so much feared.\n\nFeared by all, but most by the women, Old John's eyes twinkled until\nyou could only see a black line, when he told how he could frighten the\nwomen in the dance, by holding towards them the skin which contained\nthe medicine of his clan.\n\nAs if to afford him an opportunity of proving the truth of his\nstatements, two or three squaws had just brought venison to the\nkitchen, and we sent for them to pay them, and, at the same time, to\ngive them the chance of talking a little--a privilege of which all\nwomen are glad to avail themselves.\n\nThe picture was half done; the medicine-man was to be represented\njumping towards the women, with his dreaded medicine-bag; and Old John\nassured us it was invariably the case that the person he selected from\nthe crowd fell down as if in a fit. This, he insisted, was purely the\neffect of his medicine. He offered to prove this by exercising his\nprerogative as a medicine-man upon the women who had just entered the\nroom. The women were much fatigued, and glad of a chance to rest. They\nlittle expected to see any part of a medicine-feast celebrated in a\nwhite man's house.\n\nThe artist seated himself before his easel, and commenced sketching the\nfigure of the medicine-man. Old John stoops, and holds the bag with\nboth hands, as if ready to dart it towards some person. You wonder how\nhe can retain his painful position so long a time. The veins in his\ntemple swell, and his hands tremble, yet he does not offer to move\nuntil the sketch is made. Then, when told he is at liberty to sit down,\nhe gives a merry, mischievous look towards us, and commences going\nround the room, singing with a loud voice, holding the bag as if about\nto avenge on some one present a long-remembered injury.\n\nThe women were taken completely by surprise. From the moment Old John\ncommenced his performance in earnest, they showed every symptom of\nterror, now covering their faces with their hands, and crying \"Enah!\nEnah!\" and again, as the medicine-man passed round the room, looking\nafter him as if he were something supernatural, instead of being\na compound of art and wickedness. He was now going to embrace the\nopportunity that had presented itself to convince us of the ease with\nwhich he could excite the superstitious fears of these women.\n\nHe continued going round the room in measured time, and it was\nimpossible not to observe the increasing awe which was stealing upon\nthe women. He kept perfect time to his own music, stopping the while,\nas if absorbed in the thoughts attendant on the celebration of a\nreligious ceremony--when suddenly he sprang towards the women, holding\nthe bag close in the face of one of them.\n\nThe woman sank to the ground: a severe and stunning blow could not have\nhad a more immediate effect on her system than the terror into which\nshe had been thrown. She lay on the ground motionless, with her hands\npressed over her eyes. Old John, perfectly satisfied with the result of\nhis experiment, laid down his medicine-bag, and seated himself on the\ncarpet.\n\nWe spoke to the woman, and endeavoured to rouse her. For some minutes\nshe appeared not to hear; but, after arising, she looked as pale and\nill as if she had indeed been in the presence of an evil spirit; and\nshe was at that very time, for I doubt if in the Sioux or any other\ncountry a more determined and hopeless reprobate could be found than\nOld John.\n\nI wondered to observe the trepidation into which a female of so strong\nand healthy a frame could be thrown. To what could it be ascribed, but\nto the influence of an all-powerful superstition on a mind chained by\nignorance to its natural estate of dark degradation?\n\nAmong the most curious ideas of the Sioux are those concerning the\nAurora Borealis, which is considered a kind of goddess of war. Old John\nwill tell you all about her; for not only is he skilled in all that\nrelates to the mysteries of his religion, but, if you will take his\nword for it, he has seen all kinds of visions. He will tell you how the\ngods look--for he has seen them at different times--and to no better\nperson could you apply for information about the Aurora (as they call\nher, Waken-kedan, the old woman). He will tell you that she is one of\ntheir chief objects of worship; that her favour and protection are\ninvoked as a necessary preparation for going to war.\n\nOld John declares he has had several visions of the goddess. When she\nhas appeared to him, she has given him the most minute directions as to\nthe hiding-places of the enemy. Sometimes she insures success to the\nparty;--if, however, she predicts misfortune, it is sure to occur.\n\nThe goddess, he says, wears little hoops on her arms. When she appears\nto the war-chief, if they are to be successful, she throws as many\nof these hoops on the ground as they are to take scalps. These hoops\nresemble the hoops that the Indians use in stretching the scalps of\ntheir enemies, when they are preparing for the scalp dance. But,\nshould the goddess throw broken arrows on the ground, woe to the\nwar-party! for this tells the chief how many of his comrades are to be\nscalped, an arrow for a scalp.\n\nSometimes, when the successful party is on its return, it is made more\ntriumphant by the appearance of the goddess. She does not then take\nthe form of a woman, but quietly enfolds the heavens with her robe of\nlight. This they interpret as a favourable omen. The heavens, they say,\nare rejoicing on their account; the stars shine out brighter in honour\nof their victory; while, to use the Indian warrior's own words, it is\nas if their goddess said to them, \"Rejoice and dance, my grandchildren,\nfor I have given you victory.\" \"The old woman,\" he says, wore a cap,\non the top of which were little balls or knots, of the same kind\nwith which warriors adorn themselves after having killed an enemy.\nShe held in her hand an axe, with a fringe fastened to the handle:\nthis represents an axe that has killed an enemy, as it is a universal\ncustom among the Sioux to attach a strip of some kind of animal to the\nimplement that was used in battle.\n\nThe Aurora appears and disappears at the pleasure of the goddess, or\nas she is sometimes called, \"the old woman who sits in the north.\"\nIt is not to be wondered at that the minds of this people should be\nthus impressed with the brilliant flashing of the Aurora, in their far\nnorthern home.\n\nHer appearance is not always considered a favourable omen. Sometimes\nit is a warning of coming danger. The mind, overwhelmed with ignorance\nand superstition, is apt to read darkly the signs of nature; while a\nprospect of success in any contemplated undertaking will change the\ninterpretation.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOld John loves to tell of another of his gods, the meteor; of this god\nthey stand in great awe, calling him Waken-ne-ken-dah, or man of fire.\nHe strides through the air to punish recreant Indians, who forget the\nclaims of the Great Spirit upon them. Around this god is ever a circle\nof fire, while small meteors flow from this \"great fiery man.\" In each\nhand he holds a war-club of bone, and every blow is fatal to that Sioux\nwho deserves his condemnation. He is said to be very wily, attacking\nthe Indians when they are asleep.\n\nOn this account Sioux are often timid about sleeping out of doors; they\nhave traditions of Indians having been carried off by these errant\nmeteors.\n\nOld John thinks the \"great fiery man\" does not deserve a reputation for\nbravery, as he never attacks a waking foe. He says there was once a\nSioux who, tired and sleepy, laid down, rolling himself in his blanket,\nthough the weather was hot, for the musquitoes were biting him, and\nrendering it impossible that he should obtain any rest. The first thing\nof which he was conscious was the sensation of being whirled through\nthe air, passing over miles of prairies and forests with the speed of\nlight.\n\nAll at once they approached a small pond, which was full of mallard\nduck. The appearance of the meteor threw the inhabitants of the lake\ninto the greatest trepidation, and in consequence a most unearthly\nquacking took place. The fiery man not being aware of the cause of this\ncommotion, never having seen a duck, dropped his affrighted burden,\ngladly making his way back to the regions of space.\n\nBut it will be impossible to get anything more from Old John to-day:\nthe savoury fumes of the kitchen have reached our sitting-room. He has\ndone with the arts and with religion; he is enough of a philosopher to\ntake the goods \"the gods provide:\" and the hearty dinner that he ate\nshowed that the mystical attributes of a medicine-man did not prohibit\nhim from the indulgence of his appetite; while the Sioux women were\nwell repaid for their venison and their fright by some gaudy calico,\nfor okendokendas, and a few needles, thread, and some other \"notions,\"\nof great value among them.\n\n\n\n\nA REMONSTRANCE.\n\nBY ELIZA L. SPROAT.\n\n\n      While the warm, sweet earth rejoices,\n        And the forests, old and dim,\n      Populous with little voices,\n        Raise their trilling hymn,--\n      Chime _our_ notes in joyous pleading\n        With the million-ton\u00e9d day;\n      We are young, and Time is speeding--\n                  Sweet Time, stay!\n\n      We would hold the hasty hours,\n        Ope them to the glowing core,\n      Leaf by leaf, like folded flowers,\n        Till they glow no more.\n      We are mated with the Present,\n        Bosom friends with dear To-day:\n      Loving best the latest minute,\n                  Sweet Time, stay!\n\n      Sovereign Youth! all dainty spirits\n        Wait on us from earth and air;\n      From the common life distilling\n        But its essence rare.\n      Golden sounds, to Age so leaden,\n        Eden sights, to Age so drear:\n      Sweet illusions, subtle feelings,\n        Age would smile to hear.\n\n      Happy Youth! when fearless bosoms\n        With their wealth of follies rare,\n      Loose their thoughts, like summer blossoms,\n        To the generous air,\n      When we sit and mock at sorrow,\n        Looking in each other's eyes;\n      Greeting every new to-morrow\n        With a new surprise.\n\n      Father Time, if thou wert longing\n        For a luxury of rest,\n      I know where the moss is greenest,\n        Over toward the west:\n      I would hide thee where the shadows\n        Cheat the curious eye of day;\n      I would bury thee in blossoms--\n                  Sweet Time, stay!\n\n      Where the bees are ever prosing,\n        Lulling all the air profound;\n      Where the wanton poppies, dozing,\n        Hang their heads around;\n      Where the rill is tripping ever,\n        Trilling ever on its way,\n      Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,\n        All the happy day.\n\n      I would keep thee softly dreaming,\n        Dreaming of eternity,\n      Till the birds forget their sleeping\n        In the general glee;\n      Till the stars would lean from heaven\n        In the very face of day,\n      Looking vainly for the even--\n                  Sweet Time, stay!\n\n      Hope is with us, chaunting ever\n        Of some fair untried to be;\n      Lurking Love hath prisoned never\n        Hearts so glad and free:\n      Yet, unseen, a fairy splendour\n        O'er the prosing world he flings;\n      Everywhere we hear the rushing\n        Of his rising wings.\n\n      As the tender crescent holdeth\n        All the moon within its rim,\n      So the silver present foldeth\n        All the future dim:\n      Oh! the _prophet_ moon is sweetest,\n        And the life is best to-day;\n      Life is best when Time is fleetest--\n                  Sweet Time, stay!\n\n\n\n\nA FINE ART DISREGARDED.\n\nBY ELIZABETH WETHERELL,\n\n  AUTHOR OF \"THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD.\"\n\n      \"A man that looks on glass\n        On it may stay his eye;\n      Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass:\n        And then the heaven espy.\"\n\n\nI took a walk with my father last evening. Now the pleasure of this\nwalk was so great that I will even jot down some notes of its history.\n\nIt was just the pretty time of a summer's day,--the sun's \"parting\nsmile,\" when he has a mind to leave a pleasant impression behind him:\nthe hot hours were past; the remnant of a sweet north wind, which had\nbeen blowing all day, just filled the sails of one or two sloops, and\ncarried them lazily down the bay; and the sun, having taken up his old\ntrade of a painter, coloured their white canvass for the very spots it\nfilled in the picture: the same witching pencil was upon a magnificent\nrose-bush at the foot of the lawn, tinting its flowers for fairy-land;\nand had laid little stripes of fairy light across the lately-mown\ngrass; and, through a slight haze of the delicious atmosphere, the\nhills were mellowed to a painter's wish.\n\nMy father and I strolled down the walk, and took one or two turns\nalmost in silence, tasting all this too keenly at first to say much\nabout it. There were beauties near hand too. The rose-trees had shaken\nout all their luxuriance, and defied the eye to admire aught else.\nYet, but for them, there was enough to be admired. The pure Campanulas\nlooked modestly confident of attractions; little Gilias filled their\nplace in the world passing well; the sweet double pinks gave us a most\ngood-humoured face as we went by; the tall white lily-buds showed\nbeautiful indications; and some rare geraniums, and my splendid English\nheart's-ease quietly disdained or declined competition. And in that\nevening-light, even the flowers of humbler name and lower pretension,\nlooked as if they cared not for it. Sprawling bachelor's-buttons, and\nstiff sweet-williams, and pert chrysanthemums, all were pretty under\nthe sun's blessing; I think none were overlooked.\n\n\"How much pleasure we take in at the eye!\" said my father.\n\n\"Where the eye has been opened,\" said I.\n\n\"Ay. How many people go through the world with their eyes tight\nshut;--not certainly to every matter of practical utility, but shut to\nall beautiful ends.\"\n\n\"Oh, those practical eyes!--the eyes that have no vision but for the\n_useful_,--what wearisome things they are!\"\n\n\"It is but a moderate portion of the useful that they see,\" said my\nfather;--\"it was not an empty gratuity that things were made 'pleasant\nto the eyes.'\"\n\n\"But how the eye needs to be educated,\" said I.\n\n\"Rather the mind, Cary,\" said my father. \"Let the mind be educated to\nbring its faculty and taste into full play, and it will train its own\nspies fast enough.\"\n\n\"It was that I meant, papa,--that cultivation of taste;--I was\nthinking, before you spoke what a blessing it is.\"\n\n\"Why, yes,\" said my father; \"with that piece to bring down game, one is\nin less danger of mental starvation. But hush; here comes somebody that\nwon't understand you.\"\n\nAnd as he spoke, I saw the trim little figure of Mrs. Roberts, one of\nour neighbours, come in sight round a turn in the shrubbery.\n\n\"What a lovely evening, Mrs. Roberts,\" said I, as we met.\n\n\"Delicious!--such charming weather for the grass and the dairy, and\neverything. It was so fine, I told Mr. Roberts I would just run down\nand see your mamma for a minute; I wanted to ask her a question. I\nshall find her at home, shan't I?\"\n\nI satisfied Mrs. Roberts on that point, and my father and I turned to\nwalk back to the house with her, thinking that our pleasure was over.\n\n\"The roses are in great beauty now,\" I remarked.\n\n\"Beautiful!--and what an immense quantity of them you have. I don't\nknow what ails our roses, but we can't make them do, somehow. They seem\nto get a kind of blight when they're about half open, and what are not\nblighted are full of bugs. What do you do with the bugs? I don't see\nthat you have any.\"\n\nI suggested the effectiveness of daily hand-picking.\n\n\"Oh, but bless me! it's so much trouble. Mr. Roberts would never let\nthe time be taken for it. How stout your grass is! It's a great deal\nstouter than ours. There's half as much again of it, I'm sure. And\nyou're cutting it! We haven't begun to cut yet; Mr. Roberts thought\nhe'd let it stand as long as he could, to give it a chance; but I'm\nsure it's time. What do you do with all your roses?--make rose-water?\"\n\nI said no.\n\n\"I never saw such a quantity! I'll tell you what--if you'll send me a\nbasket or two of 'em, _I'll_ make some rose-water, and you shall have\nhalf of it. Oh, what beautiful heart's-ease! My dear Caroline, you must\njust give me one of those for my girls, for a pattern; you know they\nare making artificial flowers, and they want some of these for their\nbonnets. Really, they are quite equal to the French ones, _I_ think,\nand--thank you!--that is superb. Now, my dear Caroline, one more--that\none with so much yellow in it;--want a little variety, you know. They\nwill be delighted. You know it is just the fashion.\"\n\n\"I did not, indeed, Mrs. Roberts.\"\n\n\"Didn't you? They wear little open bonnets of some light straw--rice is\nthe prettiest, or some kind of open-work--and here, at the side, just\nhere, a bunch of heart's-ease, right against the side of the head;--it\nis very elegant.\"\n\n\"Caroline has bad taste,\" said my father gravely; \"she never wears\nheart's-ease in a bonnet.\"\n\n\"O no, of course, not these,--she is too careful of them--but you know\nfalse heart's-ease, I mean. No, go on with your walk--you shall not\ncome in--I am not going to stay a minute.\"\n\nAnd my father and I quietly turned about and went down the walk again.\n\n\"False heart's-ease!\" said my father.\n\n\"What a different thing all this scene is to those eyes, and to ours,\npapa.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said my father. \"Poor woman!--she carries a portable kitchen and\nstore-closet in her head, I believe, and everything she sees goes into\nthe one or the other.\"\n\n\"Poor Mrs. Roberts!\" said I, laughing. \"Now that is the want of\ncultivation, papa.\"\n\n\"Not entirely, perhaps. There must be soil first to cultivate, Cary.\"\n\n\"Well, her want is the same. And how much is lost for that want!\"\n\n\"Lost?--what is lost?\" said another voice behind us; and turning, we\nwelcomed another and a very different neighbour, in our old friend Mr.\nRicardo.\n\n\"What is lost?\"\n\n\"Happiness,\" said I.\n\n\"For the want of what?\"\n\n\"For the want of a cultivated taste.\"\n\n\"Pshaw!\" said Mr. Ricardo, letting go my hand. \"_That_ has nothing to\ndo with happiness.\"\n\n\"Do you think so, sir?\"\n\n\"Certainly. What can a cultivated taste do for you, but create\nimaginary wants, that you would do just as well without?\"\n\n\"If you have not them, you have not the exquisite pleasure of\ngratifying them.\"\n\n\"Well, and what if you haven't? How are you the worse off? The want\nthat is not known is not felt.\"\n\n\"But the range of pleasure is a very different thing without them,\"\nsaid I.\n\n\"And character is a very different thing,\" said my father.\n\n\"Character?\" said Mr. Ricardo.\n\n\"Yes,\" said my father.\n\n\"I should like to hear you make that out.\"\n\n\"And so should I,\" said I. \"I was arguing only for enjoyment--I did not\nventure so far as that.\"\n\n\"Well, enjoyment,\" said Mr. Ricardo. \"Do you think you have more\nenjoyment here now, than one of the plain sons of the soil, who would\nsee nothing in roses but roses, and who would call 'Viola tricolor' a\n'Johnny-jump-up?'\"\n\n\"In the first place, learning is not taste; and, in the second place,\nyou do not mean what you say, Mr. Ricardo. You know what Dr. Johnson\nsays of the quart pot and the pint pot--both may be equally full, but\nthe one holds twice as much as the other.\"\n\n\"Ah, Dr. Johnson!\" said Mr. Ricardo, with an odd little flourishing\nwave of his hand; \"you delude yourself! The quart pot is twice as\nlikely to be spilled. If you have some pleasures that other people\nhaven't, you have pains of your own, too, that they are exempt\nfrom. Now I suppose a little mal-adjustment of proportions--a\nlittle deviating from the exquisite line of correctness in men or\nthings--would overturn your whole cup of enjoyment, while his or mine\nwould stand as firm as ever.\"\n\n\"But perhaps a sip of mine would be worth his entire cupful.\"\n\n\"Now,\" said Mr. Ricardo, not minding me, \"I fell in with a family\nonce--it was at the West, when I was travelling there. They were good,\nplain, sensible, excellent people, happy in each other, and contented\nwith the rest of the world. They had everything within themselves, and\nlived in the greatest comfort, and harmony, and plenty. I was with them\nseveral days, and it occurred to me that people could not be happier\nthan they were.\"\n\n\"But for your bringing them up as instances, I suppose their having\n'everything within themselves' did not include the pleasures of a\ncultivated intelligence?\"\n\n\"Well, I don't suppose they would have quoted Dr. Johnson to me. But\nnow of what use to them would be all that extra cultivation?\"\n\n\"Of what use to you,\" said my father, \"is that window you had cut in\nyour library this spring, that looks to the west?\"\n\n\"Of very little use,\" said Mr. Ricardo, \"for my wife sits in it all the\ntime.\"\n\n\"Ah, Mr. Ricardo!\" said I, laughing.\n\n\"Well, now,\" said he, but his face gave way a little, \"how are you any\nbetter off than those people?\"\n\n\"I don't wish to make myself an example, sir; but put them down here\nthis evening, and what would they see in all this that we have been\nenjoying?\"\n\n\"They would see what you see, I suppose. They had reasonably good\neyes--they were not microscopes or telescopes.\"\n\n\"Precisely,\" said my father. \"They would see what mere ordinary vision\ncould take in, _without_ the quick discernment of finely trained\nsensibilities, and without the far-reaching and wide views of a mind\nrich in knowledge and associations. Where cultivated senses find a\nrare mingling of flavours, theirs would at best only perceive the\ndifference of stronger or fainter--of more or less sweet.\"\n\n\"Senses literal or figurative, do you mean?\"\n\n\"Both,\" said my father. \"You rarely find the one cultivated without the\nother.\"\n\n\"You may find the other without the one,\" said Mr. Ricardo. \"I knew a\nman once who had no aptness for anything but judging of wines, and he\nwas curious at that. He did it mostly by the sense of smell, too. All\nthe mind the man had seemed to reside in his nose.\"\n\n\"That is an instance of morbid development,\" said my father, smiling,\n\"not in point.\"\n\n\"You would have thought it was in point, if you had seen him,\" said Mr.\nRicardo, glancing at my father.\n\n\"But the pleasures of a cultivated taste, Mr. Ricardo,\" said I, \"may\nbe constantly enjoyed; and they are some of the purest, and most\nsatisfying, and most unmixed that we have.\"\n\n\"And, I maintain, of the most useful,\" said my father.\n\n\"To the character,\" said Mr. Ricardo. \"But I do not believe that, where\nthey most prevail, are to be found in general the strongest minds or\nthe most hopeful class of our population.\"\n\n\"My good sir,\" said my father, \"do not confound things that have\nnothing to do with each other. That may be true, and it may be equally\ntrue of sundry other matters, such as correct pronunciation and the\nusages of polite society, Mocha coffee and fine broadcloth,--none of\nwhich, I hope, have any deleterious effect upon mind.\"\n\n\"Well, go on,\" said Mr. Ricardo, without looking at him, \"let us hear\nhow you make out your case.\"\n\n\"Learning to draw nice distinctions, to feel shades of difference,\nbecoming alive to the perception and enjoyment of most fine and\ndelicate influences, the mind acquires a _habit of being_ which will\ndiscover itself in other matters than those of pure taste. This faculty\nof nice discrimination and quick feeling cannot be in high exercise in\none department alone, without being applied more or less generally to\nother subjects. It will develope itself in the ordinary intercourse\nand relations of social and domestic life, and the _tendency_ will be\nto the producing or perfecting of that nice sense of proprieties, that\nquick feeling of what is due to or from others, which we call tact.\"\n\n\"But tact cannot be given, papa,\" said I.\n\n\"And how is it useful if it could?\" said Mr. Ricardo.\n\n\"Useful?\" said my father, meditating--\"why, sir, the want of it is a\ndeath-blow to I know not what proportion of the efforts that are made\nafter usefulness. How many an appeal from the pulpit has been ruined,\nsimply by bringing in a coarse or unhappy figure, which the speaker's\nwant of cultivation did not allow him to appreciate! How many a word,\nintended for counsel or kindness, has fallen to the ground, because the\nkindly person did not know how to work out his intentions!\"\n\n\"But, you cannot give tact, father,\" I repeated.\n\n\"No, Cary--that is true--tact cannot be _given_; it is the growth\nonly of minds endowed with peculiarly fine sensibilities; but the\nmind trained to nice judging in one set of matters can exercise the\nsame acumen upon others, so soon as its attention is fairly called\nout to them. Taste is a thing of particular growth and cultivation in\neach separate branch; but certainly the mind that has attained high\nexcellence in one is finely prepared to take lessons in another.\"\n\n\"There may be something in that,\" said Mr. Ricardo, as if he thought\nthere wasn't much.\n\n\"But, beyond that,\" said my father, \"the cultivation of taste opens\ntruly a new world of enjoyment utterly closed to every one destitute\nof it. Nature's stores of beauty and wonder, the fine analogies of\nmoral truth that lie hidden under them, the new setting forth of nature\nwhich is Art's beautiful work,--how numberless, how measureless the\nsources of pleasure to the mind once quickened to see and taste them!\nOnce quickened, it will not cease to rejoice in them, and more and\nmore. And as the mind always assimilates itself to those objects with\nwhich it is very conversant, and as these sources of pleasure are all\npure, it follows, that not only a refined but a purifying influence\nalso is at work in all this; and the result should be, if nothing\nuntoward counteract, that everything gross, everything _improper_, in\nthe strict sense of the word, everything unseemly, unlovely, impure,\nbecomes disgustful, and more and more. And whatever is the reverse of\nthese meets with a juster appreciation, a keener relish, a truer love\nthan could be felt for them by a mind not so cultivated. This refining\nand purifying effect will be seen in the whole character. It will make\nthose solid qualities, which are, indeed, more worth in themselves,\nshow with yet new lustre and tell with higher effect, and not the\noutward attire only, but the very inward graces of the mind will be\nworn with a more perfect adjustment.\"\n\n\"Hum--well,\" said Mr. Ricardo, about a minute after my father had done\nspeaking, \"you have made a pretty fair case of it.\"\n\nMy father smiled, and we all three paced up and down the walk in\nsilence. I thought we had done with the subject.\n\n\"That's a beautiful sky!\" said Mr. Ricardo, coming to a stand, with his\nface to the west.\n\n\"Look down yonder,\" said my father.\n\nIn the southwestern quarter lay a beautiful fleecy mass of cloud: the\nunder edges touched with exquisite rose-colour, sailing slowly down the\nsky--pushed by that same faint north wind. Just over it--just over it,\nsat a little star, shining at us with its unchanging ray.\n\n\"Would your Tennessee friends see enough there to hold their thoughts\nfor half a minute?\" said I, when we had looked as long; but Mr. Ricardo\ndid not answer me.\n\n\"That painted cloud,\" said my father, \"is like the pleasures of\nearth--catching the eye with fair hues; the star, like the better\npleasures, that have their source above the earth. That light fills,\nindeed, it may be, a much smaller space in our eye, or our fancy, than\nthe colours on the cloud; but mark,--it is pure, bright, and undying,\nwhile the other is a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then\nvanisheth away.\"\n\nI looked at the star, and I looked at my father, and my heart was full.\nI thought Mr. Ricardo had got enough, and I think he thought so too,\nfor when we reached the far end of the walk, he left us, with a very\nhearty shake of the hand, indeed.\n\nMy father and I walked then, without talking any more, till glow after\nglow passed away and night had set in. The little cloud had lost all\nits fair colours, and had drifted far down into the southern sky,\na soft rack of gray vapour, and the star was shining steadily and\nbrightly as ever in the deepening blue.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  C. Schuessele del.      Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.\n        Chromolith of P. S. Duval Phil.\n\nMISSION CHAPEL OF SAN JOSE, NEAR SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE MISSION CHURCH OF SAN JOS\u00c9.[19]\n\nBY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.\n\n\n      Not far from San Antonio,\n        Stands the Church of San Jos\u00e9;\n      Brightly its walls are gilded\n        With the sun's departing ray.\n      The long grass twines the arches through,\n        And, stirred by evening air,\n      Wave gracefully the vine's dark leaves,\n        And bends the prickly pear.\n\n      High, from its broken, mouldering top,\n        The holy cross looks down,\n      While round the open portals stand\n        Figures of saints in stone.\n      And round its ancient spires,\n        In the turrets wide and high,\n      While you watch the night-birds flap their wings,\n        You hear their piercing cry.\n\n      And ever and anon the bats,\n        In clusters, seek their homes,\n      As night, with shrouding mantle,\n        On the Mission Chapel comes.\n      Oh! 'twas not thus, when Jesuit priests\n        Their chaunt at evening sung,\n      As, echoing o'er the river's shores,\n        The vesper bells were rung.\n\n      Now, while we linger round its walls,\n        Its history would we learn?--\n      How San Jos\u00e9's walls and spires rose up?--\n        To its legends we must turn.\n      In learning high, and cunning deep,\n        With wealth and numbers, come--\n      Christians to make the red men all--\n        These haughty priests of Rome.\n\n      Did they tell them they were brothers?\n        That every human heart\n      Was a link in love's great chain--\n        Of salvation's scheme a part?\n      Not they: they bade them hew the stone,\n        And bear its heavy weight;\n      And, while they used the Indian's strength,\n        They gained his fiercest hate.\n\n      But towers, and spires, and steeples rise,\n        And the Church of San Jos\u00e9\n      Arrests the traveller, who kneels,\n        Then passes on his way.\n      Turning once more, to bend before\n        The Virgin and her Son,\n      The Cherubim and Seraphim\n        From his strained gaze are gone.\n\n      No converts from the red men\n        Made these haughty priests of Rome;\n      But still on ignorance and vice\n        The holy cross looked down,\n      Though Jesus, with the crown of thorns,\n        The offering made for sin,\n      And the vase of holy water,\n        Borne by angels, stood within.\n\n      Rich tapestries, and gilded signs,\n        And images stood forth,\n      And the patron saint, San Jos\u00e9--\n        Were all these nothing worth?\n      \"The red man's heart is adamant,\"\n        Thus do the Jesuits say;\n      \"Unmoved they see these splendours--\n        Unchanged they turn away.\"\n\n      Not under stern and unjust rule\n        The red man's heart will melt,\n      But by such gentle, sorrowing love,\n        As Christ for mortals felt.\n      Oh! that the star might shine for them,\n        That unto us is given,\n      To cheer our dreary path on earth,\n        And guide our steps to heaven.\n\n      Let the ruins of her glory stand,\n        A monument to art;\n      But the temple of the Living God\n        Should be the human heart;\n      While mouldering in tower and wall,\n        And bending in decay,\n      Do we gaze upon this chapel fair,\n        The Church of San Jos\u00e9.\n\n[Footnote 19: San Jos\u00e9 is the most interesting of the ruins of the\nmission chapels in Texas. There are five of them,--the chapel of\nthe Alamo, at San Antonio; Chapel of Conception, two miles from San\nAntonio; Chapel of San Jos\u00e9, five miles from San Antonio; Chapel of San\nJuan, ten miles from the same place; and one other near Goliad. These\nchapels were built by the Jesuits, at the time when they contemplated\nChristianizing the Indians of Mexico. The Indians were obliged to\nassist in the labour. The chapels are all in a state of ruin. On the\ntop of San Jos\u00e9, near the large cross at its foot, a peach tree grows.\nOccasionally there is some sort of service performed in them. There is\na great deal of carving about them, and remains of former splendour;\nbut they have become refuges for the bats and owls, which are for ever\nflying in and about them.]\n\n\n\n\nHAWKING.\n\nBY EDITH MAY.\n\n\n      She had drawn rein within the castle court\n      Under its arching gateway, and there stood,\n      Curbing the hot steed that, with upreared hoofs,\n      Bearing upon the gilded bit, pressed forward.\n      Her eyes had measured distance, and her lips,\n      Parted and eager, seemed to drink the air\n      Now fresh with morning, and her light form kept\n      Its throne exultingly. A single plume\n      Waved from her hunting-cap, and the quick wind\n      Close to the floating ringlets of her hair\n      Pressed down its snowy fringes. But the folds\n      Of her rich dress hung motionless, and its hem\n      Swept to the shaven turf. Near by, a page\n      Held in a leash of greyhounds, and a hawk\n      Sat hooded on the bend of her gloved wrist.\n\n\n\n\nHILLSIDE COTTAGE.\n\nBY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.\n\n\nThere was no spot in all Elmwood that we children so dearly loved\nto visit as Hillside Cottage. No matter where our wanderings\nbegan--whether we started for the meadow, in pursuit of the rich\nstrawberry--for the thick woods, where the wild flowers bloomed so\nluxuriantly, and the bright scarlet clusters of the partridge-berry,\ncontrasting beautifully with its dark green leaves, sprang up at our\nfeet--for the brook, to gather the shining pebbles, or to watch the\nspeckled trout, as they darted swiftly through the water--no matter\nwhere our wanderings began, it was a strange thing if they did not\nterminate somewhere about the sweet wild place where Aunt Mary lived.\n\nNow, prythee, gentle reader, do not picture to your \"mind's eye\" a\nstately mansion with an unpretending name, when you read of Hillside\nCottage. Neither was it a cottage _orn\u00e9e_, with piazzas, and columns,\nand Venetian blinds. It was a low-roofed dwelling, and its walls had\nnever been visited by a single touch of the painter's brush: but the\nwild vines had sprung up around it, until their interlacing tendrils\nformed a beautiful network nearly all over the little building; and\nthe moss upon the roof had been gathering there for many years,\ngrowing thicker and greener after the snows of each succeeding winter\nhad rested upon it. It stood, as the name given it by the villagers\nindicated, upon the hillside, just in the edge of the woods that nearly\ncovered the rounded summit of the hill; a little rivulet danced along,\nalmost beneath the very windows, and at a short distance below fell\nover a ledge of rocks, forming a small but beautiful cascade, then,\ntired of its gambols, it flowed onwards as demurely as if it had never\nleaped gaily in the sunlight, or frolicked, like a child at play, with\nevery flower that bent to kiss its bright waters. We thought there was\nno place where the birds sang half so sweetly, or where the air was so\nladen with fragrance; and sure am I there was no place where we were\nmore cordially welcomed than in Aunt Mary's cottage.\n\nI well remember Aunt Mary's first arrival in Elmwood. For two or three\nweeks it had been rumoured that the cottage on the hill was to receive\na new tenant. Some slight repairs were going on, and some one had seen\na wagon, loaded with furniture, unladen at the door. This was enough to\nexcite village curiosity; and when we assembled in the church, the next\nSabbath, I fear that more than one eye wandered from the pulpit to the\ndoor, to catch the first glimpse of our new neighbour. Just as our old\npastor was commencing the morning service, a lady, entirely unattended,\ncame slowly up the aisle, and entered the pew designated by the sexton.\nHer tall and graceful figure was robed in deepest black, and it was\nevident that grief, rather than years, had dimmed the brightness of her\neye, and driven the rich colouring of youth and health from her cheek.\nBut there was something in the quiet, subdued glance of those large,\nthoughtful eyes, in the intellect that seemed throned upon her lofty\nforehead, and in the sweet and tender expression that played around\nher small and delicately formed mouth, that more than compensated for\nthe absence of youthful bloom and freshness. I did not think of these\nthings then; but, child that I was, after one glance I shrank back in\nmy seat, awe-struck and abashed by the dignity of her bearing. Yet when\nshe rose from her knees, and I caught another glimpse of her pale face,\nmy little heart seemed drawn towards her by some powerful spell; and\nafter service was concluded, as we passed down the aisle side by side,\nI timidly placed in her hand a wild rose I had gathered on my way to\nchurch. She took it with a smile, and in a sweet low voice thanked me\nfor the simple gift. Our homes lay in the same direction, and ere we\nreached my father's gate I imagined myself well acquainted with Miss\nAtherton.\n\nFrom that hour my visits to Hillside Cottage were neither \"few\" nor\n\"far between.\" My parents laughed at my enthusiastic praises of my new\nfriend; but they soon became assured that they were well grounded:\nand it was not long before the answer, \"Oh, she has only gone to see\nAunt Mary,\" was the most satisfactory one that could be given to the\noft-repeated query, \"Where in the world _has_ Jessie gone now?\"\n\nShe lived almost the life of a recluse; seldom mingling with the\nvillagers, save in the services of the sanctuary, or when, like a\nministering angel, she hovered around the couch of the dying. Formed to\nbe an ornament to any circle, and to attract admiration and attention\nwherever she moved, she yet shrank from public notice, and was rarely\nseen, except by those who sought her society in her own little cottage.\nTo those few it was evident that her love of seclusion was rather the\neffect of some deep grief, that had in early life cast its shadow over\nher pathway, than the constitutional tendency of her mind. Hers was\na character singularly lovely and symmetrical. With a mind strong,\nclear, and discriminating, she yet possessed all those finer shades of\nfancy and feeling, all that confiding tenderness, all those womanly\nsympathies, and all that delicacy and refinement of thought and manner\nwhich, in the opinion of many, can rarely be found _in woman_, combined\nwith a high degree of talent. Love of the beautiful and sublime was\nwith her almost a passion, and conversing with her, when animated by\nher favourite theme, was like reading a page of rare poetry, or gazing\nupon a series of paintings, the work of a well-skilled hand.\n\nYears passed on. The little village of Elmwood had increased in\nsize, if not in comeliness: the old church had given place to one\nof statelier mien and prouder vestments, and the winding lane, with\nits primroses and violets, had become a busy street, with tall rows\nof brick bordering it on either side. But still the cottage on the\nhill remained quiet and peaceful as ever, undisturbed by the changes\nthat were at work beneath it. A silver thread might now and then be\ntraced amid the abundant raven tresses that were parted on Aunt Mary's\nforehead; and my childish curls had grown darker, and were arranged\nwith more precision than of yore. Yet still the friendship of earlier\nyears remained unbroken, and a week seldom passed without finding me at\nHillside Cottage. My visits had of late been more frequent than ever,\nfor the time was drawing near when our intimacy must be interrupted. I\nwas soon to leave my father's roof, for a new home in a far-off clime,\nand to exchange the love and tenderness that had ever been lavished\nupon me there for a nearer and more engrossing attachment.\n\nIt was the evening before my bridal. I had stolen away unperceived, for\nI could not resist the temptation of one more quiet chat with Aunt Mary.\n\n\"I scarcely expected you to-night, my dear Jessie,\" said she, as I\nentered, \"but you are none the less welcome. Do you know I am very\nselfish to-night? When I ought to be rejoicing in your happiness, my\nheart is heavy, because I feel that I can no longer be to you what\nI have been, chief friend and confidant. Oh! I shall indeed miss my\nlittle Jessie.\"\n\n\"You will always be to me just what you have been, Aunt Mary,\" I\nreplied, and tears filled my eyes, as I threw myself upon a low seat\nat her feet. \"You must not think that because I am a wife, I shall\nlove my old friends any the less: and you of all others, you who have\nbeen to me as a dear, dear elder sister,--you who have instructed and\ncounselled me, and have shared all my thoughts and feelings since I was\na little child; oh! do you think any one can come between our hearts?\nWe may not meet as frequently as we have done, but you will ever find\nme just the same, and I shall tell you all my thoughts, and all my\ncares and sorrows, and all my joys too, just as I always have done.\"\n\n\"No, no, Jessie, say not so. That may not be. You may love me just as\nwell, but you will love another more. Your heart _cannot_ be open to\nme as it has been, for it will belong to another. Its hopes, its fears,\nits joys, its sorrows, its cares, its love, will all be so intimately\nblended with those of another, that they cannot be separated. No wife,\nprovided the relations existing between her husband and herself are\nwhat they should be, can be to _any_ other friend exactly what she was\nbefore her marriage.\"\n\n\"Why, Aunt Mary!--you surely do not mean to say that a wife should\nnever have any confidential friends?\"\n\n\"The history of woman, dear Jessie, is generally simply a record of\nthe workings of her own heart; in ordinary cases, she has little else\nto consider. 'The world of the affections is her world,' and there\nfinds she her appropriate sphere of action. What I mean to say is,--not\nthat a wife should have no friend save her husband,--but that, if the\nhearts of the twain are as closely linked together as they should\nbe, if they always beat in perfect unison, and if their thoughts and\nfeelings harmonize as they ought to do, it will be difficult for her\nto draw aside the veil from her own heart, and lay it open to the gaze\nof any other being, without, in some degree, betraying the confidence\nreposed in her by him who should be nearer and dearer than all the\nworld beside. The heart is like a temple, Jessie. It has its outer and\nits inner court, and it has also its holy of holies. The outer court\nis full: common acquaintances,--those that we call friends, merely\nbecause they are not enemies,--are gathered there. The inner court but\nfew may enter,--the few who we feel love us, and to whom we are united\nby the strong bonds of sympathy; but the sanctum sanctorum, the holy\nof holies, that must never be profaned by alien footsteps, or by the\ntread of any, save him to whom the wife hath said, 'Whither thou goest\nI will go, thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.'\"\n\nThe deepening twilight hung over us, wrapping all things in its sombre\nmantle, and its solemn stillness fell with soft, subduing power upon\nour hearts, as we sat, for many moments, each lost in reverie, ere I\nspoke again.\n\n\"Aunt Mary, why were you never married?\"\n\n\"Rather an abrupt question that, my love. What if I say, in the words\nof the old song, because 'nobody ever came wooing me?'\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, Aunt Mary, I know you have never passed through life\nunloved, and I have sometimes fancied not unloving either. But pardon\nme, I fear my obtrusive curiosity has given you pain,\" I added quickly,\nas in the dim light I saw that her pale cheek was growing still\npaler, and that deep, though subdued, anguish was stamped in legible\ncharacters upon her brow.\n\n\"I have nought to pardon, my child, for our long familiarity has given\nyou a right to ask the question; and I wonder that you have never made\nthe inquiry before, rather than that you make it now. The history of my\nearly life is a sad one, but you shall hear it, and know why I am now\nsuch a lone and isolated being.\n\n\"Upon the early part of my life it will be necessary for me to dwell\nbut slightly. My childhood passed dreamily away, marked by no event of\nsufficient importance to leave a very deep impression upon my mind.\nAn only child, I was my father's idol, and he loved me none the less\ntenderly, because the destroying angel had snatched his young wife\nfrom his bosom, and I was all that was left to him of her. I was very\nyoung when my mother died--too young to appreciate the magnitude of\nmy loss, or to feel that I was motherless. Yet I have an indistinct\nrecollection of a sweet, girlish face, that used to bend over my couch,\nand of a melodious voice that was wont to lull me to my baby slumbers.\nThe remembrance is a very faint one, but I have never thought of angels\nin my dreams, or in my waking hours, when the vision did not wear the\nsemblance of my mother's face, nor of angel voices without in fancy\nhearing again my mother's low, soft tones.\n\n\"As I grew older, the best instructors in the country were procured for\nme, and I was taught all the accomplishments of the day, while, at the\nsame time, I was not allowed to neglect any of the plainer, but equally\nimportant branches of female education. At last my education was\ncompleted, and 'I came out' under auspices as flattering as those under\nwhich any young girl ever made her debut upon the stage of life. The\nharsh fingers of Time have wrought such changes upon my face and form,\nthat you may find it difficult to believe that in my youth I was called\nbeautiful. Yet so it was, and this, together with my father's station\nin society and reputation for wealth, drew a crowd of admirers around\nme. One of my father's chief sources of delight, was the exercise of\nan almost prodigal hospitality, and he dearly loved to see me, attired\nwith all the elegance that his ample means could afford, presiding at\nhis table, or moving among our guests, in his fond eyes 'the star of\nthe goodly companie.'\n\n\"It was by the bedside of his dying sister, that I first met Walter\nElmore. Effie had been a schoolmate of mine, and an intimate friendship\nhad sprung up between us. Sisterless as I was, I had learned to cherish\nfor her almost a sister's love. Soon after we left school, her father\nremoved his residence from a distant part of the country to the city\nnear which mine resided, and our girlish attachment was cemented\nand strengthened, as we entered, hand in hand, upon the duties and\npleasures of early womanhood.\n\n\"Effie's constitution was naturally weak, and she had been subject from\nher childhood to a slight cough; but her friends gave little heed to\nit, as the buoyancy of her spirits and her unchanged demeanour seemed\nto preclude the idea of any seated complaint. But the destroyer came,\nand disease had made fearful havoc before we awoke to a sense of her\ndanger. I was with her day and night for a few weeks, and then Effie\nElmore, in her youth and loveliness, slept the 'sleep that knows no\nwaking.'\n\n\"Her brother, of whom I had often heard her speak in terms of\nenthusiastic fondness, had been abroad, completing his studies, and I\nnever met him until we stood, side by side, gazing upon the calm, still\nface of the beautiful being whom we both so tenderly loved.\n\n\"It is needless for me to say that from that hour we met often. At my\nfather's house he became a frequent and a welcome guest; and we met\ntoo, at no distant intervals, by Effie's grave, in her favourite walks,\nand in every nook that had been made sacred by her presence. We thought\nthat it was our mutual love for the departed that drew us together; we\nthought it was her memory, and the recollection of the hour when first\nwe met, that made us seek each other's society, and that rendered the\nmoments we spent together so dear to us both; but ah me! but few months\nhad rolled over our heads before we found that it was even a stronger\ntie; that it was the mystic chain that binds heart to heart, the deep\nlove of congenial spirits.\n\n\"And Walter Elmore was indeed one that any maiden might be proud of\nloving. His face and figure were cast in nature's finest mould. But\nthat were nothing--it is of the nobleness of his character of which\nI would speak. Proud and high-spirited even to a fault, he could not\nstoop to a mean or unworthy action. Generous and confiding, his soul\nwas filled with all true and noble impulses, and his heart was the home\nof pure and elevated affections. His intellectual powers were such as\nto win the admiration and esteem of all who knew him, and he possessed\nalso the rare gift of eloquence,--a gift that seldom fails to find its\nway to a woman's heart. What wonder was it then that I yielded mine\nto him wholly and unreservedly, and soon learned to listen for his\nfootstep, as I listened for no other? My father smiled upon his suit,\nand gave it his unqualified approbation. Elmore was not wealthy, but\nhis family was one of the first in the country, and my father was proud\nof his brilliant talents and untarnished name. I had wealth enough for\nboth, and it was decided that upon my twentieth birthday our nuptials\nshould be celebrated.\n\n\"Alas! how little know we of the future! Ere that day came, I was\npenniless--I had almost said a penniless orphan. My father's capital\nwas all invested in the business transactions of two of the oldest,\nand, it was supposed, the wealthiest houses in New York. Two successive\nweeks brought news of the failure of both firms, and he found himself,\nwhen far advanced in life, stripped of the fortune he had acquired by\nhis own hard exertions in earlier years, and utterly destitute. He sank\nbeneath the blow, and for weeks I hung over his couch, fearing each\nnight that the next rising sun would see me an orphan.\n\n\"He rose at length from that bed of suffering, but oh, how changed!\nHis hair, which had before but lightly felt the touch of time, was\nwhite as snow; his once erect form was bent and trembling; his eye had\nlost its lustre, and what was far more sad than all, his mental vigour\nhad departed, and he was as imbecile and feeble as a little child.\nAccustomed as I had ever been to lean upon his strong arm for support,\nto look to him for guidance and direction in all things, I was now\nobliged to summon all my fortitude, and be to him in turn protector and\nguardian.\n\n\"The whole of our property was gone, our ruin was complete, and for a\ntime I was overwhelmed by the new and strange cares that were pressing\nso heavily upon me. But I soon found that it was time for me to _act_\nrather than mourn, and I began to look around me for some means by\nwhich to obtain a comfortable livelihood for my poor father. I might\nhave obtained a situation as governess, where the labour would be\nlight, and the salary more than sufficient for my wants; but in that\ncase I must be separated from my parent, and leave him to the tender\nmercies of strangers. The same objection arose in my mind in connexion\nwith almost every course that presented itself, and I finally concluded\nupon renting a small house in a pleasant little village not far from\nthe city, where I could obtain a few pupils, and still be able to watch\nover my feeble charge.\n\n\"It was in the 'merry, merry month of May,' that the news of our\nreverses came, but it was late in October before we left our home, that\nhome rendered sacred by so many hallowed associations. The intervening\nmonths had been spent by me in watching over the sick couch of my aged\nparent, in striving to compose my own agitated spirits, and to gain\nsufficient courage to gaze unshrinkingly upon the new and strange\npathway I was about to tread.\n\n\"Slowly and wearily passed they away, and the day at length dawned\nthat was to witness our departure. All was bright and joyous in the\nouter world. The air was soft and balmy as a morning in June. The trees\nwere just changing their green summer robes for the gorgeous attire of\nautumn, with its rich colouring and brilliant dyes; and the sky was\nas cloudless as if the storm-king had been dethroned, and his banners\nfurled for ever. The house, and everything around it, presented much\nthe same appearance as in happier days; for the gentleman who had\npurchased it had bought the furniture also, with the exception of a few\nindispensable articles, that the kindness of the creditors allowed us\nto retain for our new dwelling.\n\n\"But oh, the darkness of the inner world! the gloom in which my own\nsoul was wrapped, when I awoke from a short and troubled sleep, and\nthe thought fell as a dull, sickening weight upon my heart, that I\nhad slept for the last time in that quiet chamber! I passed from room\nto room, and every step but added to my grief. Here was the nursery\nand the little crib, where I could just remember sleeping in my very\nbabyhood; here the retired study, with its perfect stillness, and the\nlight coming in so stealthily through the stained glass; here the\nlibrary, my father's favourite apartment, and there, in the recess\nwith its bay window, the arm-chair that had ever been his chosen\nresting-place; and here the room where my mother had lain, in her quiet\nbeauty, ere the coffin-lid was closed, and she was borne hence for ever.\n\n\"In a distant part of the grounds, where the forest-trees had not yet\nfallen, and where the hand of art had done little more than to clear\naway the tangled underbrush, there was a small plot enclosed by a stone\nwall, over which wild vines and running mosses had been trained until\nthe gray stones were almost entirely hidden. The grass in the enclosure\nwas of the deepest green, and shaded though it was by the overhanging\ntrees, there had not a faded leaf or a withered branch been suffered to\nrest upon it. In the centre was a mound of earth, and over it a slab\nof white marble, upon which lay the sculptured image of a woman, young\nand of surpassing loveliness. She lay as if in sleep, one rounded arm\nthrown over her head, and the other dropping by her side; while from\nthe half-opened hand a white rose-bud had seemingly just fallen. It was\nmy mother's burial-place, and I bent my steps thitherward that I might\ncast one farewell look upon it, before it passed into the possession of\nstrangers. A tide of softening recollections swept over me as I stood\nby the grave, and falling upon my knees, I poured out my full heart in\nprayer.\n\n      \"'Oh, when the heart is sad--when bitter thoughts\n      Are crowding thickly up for utterance,\n      And the poor, common words of courtesy\n      Are such a bitter mocking--how much\n      The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!'\n\nI rose from my knees calmer than I had been for many weeks. I was sad,\nbut not despairing,--and felt again, what in my despondency I had\nwell-nigh forgotten, that I was in the hands of One who careth for His\nchildren.\n\n\"When I returned to the house, I found the vehicle that was to convey\nus away waiting at the door. My father was already in his seat, and I\nsprang quickly in, not trusting myself to cast another look around me.\nHe--thanks to his weakness and imbecility--had partaken little of my\ndread or agony. Provided his daily wants were supplied, it mattered\nlittle to him where his lot was cast.\"\n\n\"But, Aunt Mary, where was Walter Elmore all this time?\"\n\n\"I should have told you, my love, that business of vital importance\ncalled him to a distant part of the country a short time previous to\nour misfortunes, and there detained him. He was kept apprised by my\nletters, however, of all that had befallen us, and hastened to my side\nas soon as he returned. He vehemently opposed my pursuance of the\ncourse I had marked out for myself, and with all the eloquence and\nearnestness of love, besought me to become his wife at once, and give\nhim a right to protect and guard me.\n\n\"But fervently as he prayed, and strongly as my own heart seconded\nhis entreaties, I could not yield. I had thought that it was to be my\nblessed privilege to aid and assist him I loved; to place him where\nit would no longer be necessary for him to confine his noble mind to\nclose and ceaseless drudgery, and constant toil for his daily bread.\nAnd how could I now consent to be a drawback upon his efforts, and to\nburden him with the care of my helpless parent?\n\n\"'No, no, Walter,' said I, in reply to his oft-repeated solicitations;\n'urge me no longer. For the present our paths must be separated. Your\ntask will be hard enough, while you are taking the first steps towards\nacquiring a name and a competence, even if you have no interests but\nyour own to regard. Were I alone in the world, I would joyfully link my\nfate with yours, and we would toil together, side by side. But as it\nis, it may not be. My father cannot understand why he need be deprived\nof any of his accustomed luxuries. Be it my care that he misses them\nnot. I will labour for his sustenance and my own, until you are so\ncircumstanced that, without detriment to your own prospects, you can\nrelieve me of the charge. _Then_ come to me, and the hand pledged to\nyou in brighter days shall be yours!'\n\n\"A year passed not unhappily away in the earnest and faithful discharge\nof the new duties devolving upon me. My school flourished beyond my\nexpectations. I had gained the esteem and confidence of those around\nme, and I found no difficulty in supplying our daily wants. Elmore was\nin an adjacent city, in the office of an eminent lawyer, who, it was\nimagined, would ere long make him a partner in his business. During the\nlast few months his visits had been less frequent than of yore. Rumour\ntold strange tales of a young and exceedingly beautiful girl, the\nsister of his employer, who was playing the mischief with the hearts\nand brains of half the young men in M----, and more than hinted that\nmy lover was among the number of her admirers. Things went on thus for\nsome time. I fancied that, when we met, which was rarely, his manner\nwas cold and reserved, and that he seemed to shrink from my presence. I\nnow know that my own jealous fancies threw a false colouring over all\nhis actions, and that, if there was any coldness in his demeanour, it\nsprang from the unusual, and, in fact, unintended reserve of mine.\n\n\"At last I heard, from the lips of one whose veracity and friendship\nI thought I could not question, that his leisure hours were all spent\nin the society of my supposed rival, and that, when rallied by some of\nhis associates with regard to myself, he had denied our engagement, and\nspoken lightly and contemptuously of the 'school-mistress.'\n\n\"A thousand contending passions were striving for the mastery in my\nbreast, when, upon the evening of that day, after its weary labours\nwere over, I threw myself upon a low seat in the room that served\nalike as school-room and parlour. Woman's pride--and who does not know\nthat 'there is not a high thing out of heaven her pride o'er-mastereth\nnot?'--was all aroused. Memory was wide awake, bringing back the\nrecollection of by-gone days, when my hand had been sought by the\nproudest in the land. Then came thoughts of our early love--of the\nexquisite happiness that had filled my heart, when I had so rejoiced\nthat wealth was at my command, and that I could place it all at the\nfeet of one whom I deemed so noble and so pure--and of a later period,\nwhen, rather than place the slightest barrier in his way to fame and\nfortune, I had resisted all his entreaties, and confined myself to\nclose and unremitting toil. It was at this very moment when I was half\nmaddened by the retrospect, that the door opened, and Walter Elmore\nentered.\n\n\"Hastily rising, with every appearance of calmness, I received him with\na cold and stately courtesy, surprising even to myself.\n\n\"'What means this, Mary?' said he; and I could see that his lip\nquivered, and the hand he had extended trembled. 'Why do you greet me\nthus coldly?'\n\n\"'Let your own heart answer the question, Mr. Elmore. To that and\nto your own words I refer you for reasons why we must henceforth be\nstrangers.'\n\n\"'You speak enigmas to-night, my dear Mary. My heart tells me no tale\nthat can enable me to comprehend this unlooked-for change in you. It\nwill take more than your simple assertion that we are strangers, to\nrender us such; and he again attempted to take my hand.\n\n\"I drew back more haughtily than before, and words that I cannot now\nrepeat burst from my lips. I can only tell you that they were harsh,\nstinging words--words fraught with contempt and bitterness--words that\na proud spirit like Elmore's could not brook.\n\n\"He sought no farther explanation. 'Be it as you will,' he said, and\nhis manner was as stern as my own; 'I have asked you to account for\nthis change, and you refuse compliance, couching that refusal in terms\nthat I can hear twice from no one, not even from yourself. We meet no\nmore; but remember, Mary Atherton, the words you have this day uttered\nwill ring in your ear until it is closed to all earthly sounds. You\nhave given heed to some idle tale of calumny, and have wantonly flung\naway a heart that was filled but with your image--a heart that had\ncentred upon you its every dream and wish for the far future--that\nlived but in the hope of one day calling you its own--and that looked\nforward to that period as to the commencement of a better and a happier\nexistence. The hour will come when you will feel that this is true, and\nthen will you bewail the step you have now taken!'--and without one\nfarewell look he rushed from the room.\n\n\"This prophecy was fulfilled almost before the echo of his departing\nfootsteps had died away. I felt that I was labouring under some strange\ndelusion, and bursting into tears, I wept long and bitterly. I would\nhave given worlds to recall him; but his fleet steed was bearing him\nfrom me, as on the wings of the wind. Yet, hope whispered: 'We shall\nsurely meet again. My harsh words angered him; but he has loved me so\nlong and so fondly, that he will not resign me thus easily. All will\nyet be explained.'\n\n\"But day after day passed and he came not; and my heart was as if\nan iron hand was resting upon it, pressing it downward to the very\nearth. The excitement of passion had died away, and I could now see\nhow greatly I had erred, in not telling him frankly the tale that\nhad reached my ears, and thus giving him an opportunity to exculpate\nhimself from the charge. Alas! for pride and anger, how often does the\nshadow of one unguarded moment darken our life-paths for ever!\n\n\"Two weeks had elapsed; and one night, after vain attempts to sleep, I\nrose from my couch and threw open the lattice. The glare of daylight\nwas wanting; but the moon poured forth such a flood of radiance that\nthe minutest object was distinctly visible. All heaven and earth were\nstill; the very leaves upon the trees hung motionless as those painted\nupon canvass. The perfect silence was becoming painfully oppressive,\nwhen a low sound, like distant footsteps, fell upon my ear. Nearer and\nstill nearer it came, and I could distinguish a faint murmur, as of\nhalf-suppressed voices. Then a group of men approached. They walked\nslowly and heavily, and as they drew near I perceived that they bore a\ndark object. Soon, by their reverential mien, and by the unyielding,\nuneven nature of their burden, the stiff outlines of which were\ndiscernible beneath the mantle thrown over it, I knew they were bearing\nthe dead.\n\n\"They were passing directly beneath my window, when a sudden movement\nof the bearers disarranged the pall, and the moonbeams fell clear and\nsoft upon the uncovered features. I leaned forward, and--oh, God! it\nwas the face of Walter Elmore!\n\n\"With a shriek that rang out fearfully upon the night-air, I rushed\nforth, and threw myself upon the motionless form. The men paused in\nastonishment; but I heeded them not; I lifted the wet, dark locks from\nhis forehead: more than living beauty rested upon it; but it was cold,\nicy cold,--so cold that the touch chilled my very life-blood. I placed\nmy hand upon his heart: but it beat no longer. I kissed his pale lips\nagain and again, and wildly called him by name, and prayed that he\nwould speak to me once, _only once_ more; but he answered not. They\nthought I was mad, and attempted to raise me, and bear the body on;\nbut I clung to it with a frenzied clasp, exclaiming: 'You shall not\nseparate us,--he is mine,--he is mine!' Then, suddenly, in thunder\ntones, a voice from the depths of my own spirit sounded in my ears: 'He\nis not yours: your own hand severed the ties that bound you. What dost\nthou here?' and I fell senseless to the ground.\n\n\"When I next awoke to consciousness, the snow had rested for many weeks\nupon the grave of Walter Elmore.\n\n\"I cannot dwell longer upon this theme. Years have fled since that name\nhas passed my lips, until this evening; but my brain whirls, even now,\nwhen I recall the agony of that moment. Elmore had been crossing a\nnarrow bridge, when his foot slipped, and he was precipitated into the\nwater beneath. The current was strong; and his body was found, by some\ntravellers, washed on shore some distance below.\n\n\"I learned, before many months had passed, that the tale to which I\nhad given credence was an entire fabrication, having its origin solely\nin jealousy and malice. He had never swerved from his fidelity, even\nfor one moment; but I,--oh! would to God that my spirit might but for\nonce hold communion with his, that I might humble myself before him,\nand implore forgiveness for the injustice and coldness of our last\ninterview!\n\n\"Little more remains to be told. Shortly after, my father sank to his\nrest; and the death of a distant relative placed me in possession of a\nsmall annuity, which enabled me to purchase this cottage. Here I shall\nprobably live until called to rejoin my loved ones in a happier clime.\"\n\nAunt Mary's story was ended. My heart was too full for utterance, and\nsilently I pressed my lips upon her pale forehead, and wended my way\nhomewards.\n\nThe next morning I left Elmwood. When I again revisited my early home, a\nplain slab of marble in the churchyard bore the name of Mary Atherton.\n\n\n\n\nSUNSET ON THE RIVER DELAWARE.\nA SONNET, TO \"SIBYL.\"\n\nBY J. I. PEASE.\n\n\n      A day of storms!--But, at its latest close,\n        _Beyond_ the cloud, comes forth the glowing sun,\n        Kissing the waves to dimples, one by one,\n      O'er which our homeward bark serenely goes.\n      The blue expanse with tremulous lustre glows,\n        As the warm hues of evening fade to dun;\n        And the still twilight hour comes softly down,\n      Like blessed, eyelids, for the day's repose.\n      And thus _our_ day!--The heavy clouds rolled past,\n        The dark eclipse of doubt and fear is o'er;\n        The tides of life flow calmly as before,\n      And love's pure tranquil moon shines clear at last.\n      Oh, may this hour of beauty and of rest\n      Bring peace undreaming to thy troubled breast.\n\n\n\n\nFAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY.\n\nBY S. A. H.\n\n\n      I saw a noble bark upon the angry main--\n        The foamy billows pressed upon her track;\n      Now high, now low, I saw her timbers strain,\n        As forth she bounded o'er the waters black.\n      But ever, as a deeper plunge she gave,\n      Phosphoric brightness gleamed along the wave:\n      And thus, I said, wide o'er Life's stormy sea,\n      Glances the light of Faith, so pure and free.\n\n      I marked a threatening cloud hang o'er the western sky,\n        And throw its blackness o'er the landscape fair,\n      Whence lightnings flashed, whence pealed the thunder high,\n        And wide re-echoed through the trembling air.\n      The sun broke forth, and all its dark array\n      Was gilded with the hues of parting day:\n      And thus, I said, can Hope's bright rays illume,\n      And richly paint the darkest days of gloom.\n\n      I saw, at twilight eve, a snowy flower--\n        It closed its leaves and drooped its tender bud;\n      Cold came the dew, and blightingly the shower\n        Swept o'er the plant in swift destructive flood.\n      But, bending o'er its tender charge its leaves,[20]\n      Bows the strong branch, and needed shelter gives:\n      And thus, I said, does Charity descend,\n      And proves to every drooping one a friend.\n\n[Footnote 20: The tamarind plant, which closes its leaves over its\nyoung fruit and flowers.]\n\n\n\n\nCASTLE-BUILDING.\n\nBY JAMES T. MITCHELL.\n\n\n      At twilight, when the deepening shades\n        Of humid night are closing fast,\n      When o'er bright fields and green arcades\n        The dazzling beams of gold are cast,\n      Another day its weary round\n        Of mingled joys and pains has run,\n      And clouds, with golden fringes bound,\n        In beauty veil the setting sun,--\n\n      A silence, pleasing, calm, profound,\n        Falls soothing on the raptured brain;\n      The hum of busy life is drowned,\n        On crowded street and lonely plain;\n      The soul, in dreamy reveries lost,\n        To shadowy realms far distant roves,\n      In stormy waves of ether tost,\n        Then wandering wild in heavenly groves.\n\n      And cloud-built castles, towering high,\n        O'er gorgeous scenes that fancy rears,\n      Where laughing orbs illume the sky,\n        Seem mansions for our future years;\n      And, while the spirit gazing stands,\n        Enwrapt with pleasure at the scenes\n      Which fill Imagination's lands\n        With palaces for fairy queens,\n\n      The view is changing--all is gone--\n        The castles, fading slow away,\n      As misty shapes at early dawn,\n        Vanish before the coming day;\n      And storm-clouds now are lowering round;\n        Wild demon shapes are flitting by;\n      Fierce flames are rising from the ground,\n        And lurid lightnings cleave the sky.\n\n      Bleak snow-capped mountains o'er us frown,\n        While, gray and grim, through darkened air,\n      Towers and turrets, looking down\n        From rocky heights o'erhanging there,\n      Seem prisons for the wandering brain,\n        Within whose deep and caverned walls\n      'Tis doomed for ever to remain,\n        'Mid shrieks as from demoniac halls.\n\n      But pyramids above these rise,\n        Whose summits, gleaming gaily bright,\n      Inspire with hope the fainting eyes,\n        As bathed they stand in golden light,\n      Lifting their peaks high o'er the dark,\n        Like shining spots, that on the breast\n      Of darkened Luna, seem to mark\n        Some towering Etna's blazing crest.\n\n      Perched on these lofty granite piles,\n        Rise adamantine domes of power,\n      Secure from treachery, force, or wiles,\n        Reared in Ambition's happy hour,\n      When, having left the storm behind,\n        Of raging battles, fears, and hates,\n      He spurns their threats as empty wind,\n        Himself the guardian of the gates.\n\n      Here in these grand, but lonely halls,--\n        Unmingling with the crowd below,\n      And all unharmed by what befalls\n        Poor wanderers in this world of woe,--\n      Ambition, well-directed, dwells,\n        While songs of sorrow, care, and grief,\n      Give place to martial music's swells,\n        Which proudly hail the victor chief.\n\n      Yet not alone--without a friend\n        To share his toil-bought honours great,\n      And by congenial spirit lend\n        New splendour to his regal state--\n      Celestial Hope dwells ever near,\n        And Happiness, her sister gay;\n      And thus they live, while year on year\n        With rapid pinions rolls away.\n\n      But gazing from these lofty walls,\n        A landscape rises bright and fair,\n      Where happy light serenely falls\n        On scenes of gorgeous beauty there.\n      Here crystal founts, 'mid orient flowers,\n        Which radiant shine in varied hues,\n      Flow joyous through an Eden's bowers,\n        Where perfume loads the falling dews;\n\n      While here and there, these laughing streams,\n        Dimpling and eddying ever gay,\n      Rippling o'er golden sand, that gleams\n        Like the Golcondian diamond's ray,\n      Leap headlong down a rocky dell,\n        And o'er the heaven's ethereal azure\n      Cast many a rainbow's glittering spell,\n        That chains the heart in silent pleasure.\n\n      And 'neath the heaven's o'erarching bow,\n      Bloom laurels proud, and violets low,\n      In fragrance sweet, and beauty rare,\n      With graceful rose, and lily fair;\n      The mirthful grape, and crocus glad,\n      Yet here and there, geranium sad,\n      With hawthorn, and ambrosia kind,\n      And 'mongst them all is ivy twined.\n\n      Amid these blooming spirit-lands,\n      Mid chaplets wreathed by Love's own hands,\n      The glowing flowers of Love are found\n      With which his shining locks are crowned;\n      He sings a song, through all the day long,\n        Of joy, and of gladness, and glee,\n      And he sits so light, on his throne so bright,\n        Oh ever a conquering king is he!\n\n      But when the sunset's golden dyes\n      Have faded away from the western skies;\n      And these fairy gardens are seen by night.\n      Over their moonlit waters bright,\n      On which, as they're merrily flowing and dancing,\n      The light of the stars is twinkling and glancing,\n      There's a charm in that silent midnight hour,\n      They only can tell who have felt its power.\n\n      There's a mystic spell in its silence sweet,\n      And a magic thrill through all who meet,\n      Where kindred thoughts together stray,\n      Whispering beneath pale Luna's ray;\n      Then is the time for poet's song,\n      When his voice on the zephyr is borne along,\n      And slumbering echo, like fairy fay,\n      Murmurs the words of his wakening lay.\n\n      But the rosy beams of the coming morn\n      Tell us how fast the night has worn,\n      How far and free the soul has strayed,\n      Wandering 'mong scenes in fancy laid;\n      And the heathcock's note, or the matin bell,\n      As the morning breeze brings its pealing swell,\n      Recalls the soul from its musings there,\n      To find its \"Castles\"--built in air.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  C. Schuessele del.      Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.\n        Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph^{a.}\n\nWENONA'S LEAP. LAKE PEPIN, MISS. RIVER.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOVER'S LEAP:\nOR, WENONA'S ROCK.\n\nBY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.\n\n\nLove, which \"rules the court, the camp, the grove,\" is not without a\nshare of influence in the wigwam.\n\nIt is true that in a polished and refined society, woman is more likely\nto receive a just appreciation, than where the intellect of man is\nlike the one talent rolled in a napkin, useless, because neglected and\nunimproved. In an enlightened country, woman is not considered as being\nonly created to perform the household duties of a wife and mother. She\nis a companion, in the highest sense of the word. Her aim, like his,\nmay be towards the great purposes of life.\n\nNot unmindful of her first duties, those which lie in her province\nalone, she can go on towards that exalted state of perfection of which\nthe soul is capable, though not to be attained here. Religion, that\nteaches her \"that the price of a virtuous woman is far above rubies,\"\nalso commends her that \"she openeth her mouth with wisdom.\" We find\nher in the sacred history not only the friend, the mother, and the\nwife, but the poet, the heroine, the prophetess, and even the judge.\nBut among Indian nations we find her position more than equivocal.\nHer influence is undoubted in the domestic relations, but she is still\na slave. She was born to labour--what merit then in her strongest\nefforts! She is an inferior--how then can she hope for justice?\n\nAmong the Sioux, the men appear indeed to be a superior class of\nbeings. They are noble-looking, while the women are often repelling in\nappearance. The difficulties with which they must contend in the harsh\nclimate of their country; their poverty increasing year after year;\ntheir frequent and long fastings: these all make the men more hardy,\nmore capable of a continued struggle, but they have a different effect\nupon the women. They are compelled to remain in the lodge; the care of\ntheir children obliges them to forego the excitement of seeking for\nfood, and thus sickness and even death is often brought upon them that\ncould otherwise have been avoided. They are often found buried in the\nsnow in winter, prevented by sickness from making such efforts as saved\nthe lives of their husbands and brothers.\n\nBut their noble courage, where the emotions of the heart are concerned,\ngives them the first place in the romantic traditions of their country.\n\nThe Sioux will soon have taken a farewell look of the lands which the\nGreat Spirit gave them in the olden time. The lodge and its occupants\nare vanishing away. The occasional war-whoop will soon be forgotten\nwhere it has been heard in unrecorded ages. The scenes of many a\nromantic tradition will be forgotten by those who succeed the valiant\nbut doomed people, who must look upon them no more. The hunter and his\nwild steed depart, and the white man, the axe, the plough, and the\npowder-horn take their place.[21] The fairy-rings[22] on the prairie\nmust be trodden down. Spirits will no more assemble where are heard the\nnoise and excitement of advancing civilization. The same sun gilds the\nhills, the same breezes play upon the waters--but the red man must go.\n\nHe must, with his heart full of patriotism and sorrow, find another\nsite for his lodge, another country for his hunting-grounds. The\nwakeen-stone to which he was sacrificed is no longer his. The graves of\nhis ancestors reproach him as he departs.\n\nThe illustration of Wenona's Rock presents one of the most striking\nand beautiful scenes in Indian country. Even were there no tradition\nconnected with it, its wonderful beauty must give it interest. One must\nindeed feel that God made it. That huge rock with its worn and broken\nsides--the lake that reflects it in her placid bosom--the everlasting\nhills stretching out before the eye,--these would show the Creator's\nhandiwork.\n\nBut there is an additional interest in viewing it when we recall the\ntale of sorrow and passion connected with it. When we recollect that\n_here_ a young heart throbbed its last emotions--that from that high\neminence the sweet notes of woman's voice pealed forth their last\nmusic. That _here_ her arms were raised to heaven, appealing for that\njustice which earth had denied her.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  C. S. Schuessele del.      Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.\n        Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph^{a.}\n\nMARRIAGE CUSTOM OF THE INDIANS.]\n\nBut it is not only on Wenona's Rock that the devotion of an Indian\nwoman's love is recorded. Go among them and hear the traditions of\neach band; how many have loved and died. Learn of the sacrifices that\nonly woman can make--of the devotion that only woman can feel--of the\nsorrows that only woman can endure.\n\nYou may see one, who, though past her youth, still attracts you by the\nfull and expressive glances of her dark and brilliant eyes. Her hair\n(a marvel among Indians), waves along her forehead--and when damp from\nheat or bathing, divides itself into locks, that would with any pains\nbe formed into ringlets. Her smile lights up her countenance, for her\nwhite teeth shine, and her mouth, though large, is expressive. She will\nnot open her heart to a stranger, but to one she loves, she told all.\n\nShe had seen but fourteen summers when she left her mother to go to her\nhusband's lodge. She loved to dwell upon that time, for no bride ever\nboasted greater adornment, and her marriage was celebrated according to\nthe old and venerated customs.[23]\n\nShe was a whole morning preparing herself, for her mother loved her,\nand was proud of her. She had obtained from the traders gay beads of\nevery colour, and brooches in numbers, too.\n\nHer father was a favourite of the traders. He carried them so many\nbeautiful furs--for he was a great hunter--that they gave him trinkets\nfor her in abundance. They gave him, besides, fire-water; and then she\nand her mother used to leave the wigwam and hide, for fear he would\nkill her.\n\nWhen she was ready to go to her husband's lodge, her father and two of\nher brothers attended her. Her cousin, Whistling Wind, came to meet\nher, and, taking her upon his back, carried her in and placed her by\nher husband's side.\n\nShe was very happy at first, for her husband loved her; but many moons\npassed away, and she had no child.\n\nHer husband reproached her, and she could only weep--and no infant's\nvoice was heard in their lodge.\n\nAt last her husband brought home another wife, and she was forgotten.\nSoon she watched him as he carved the thunder-bird on his son's cradle;\nand the second wife laughed at her, because she could not be a happy\nmother like herself.\n\nHe has beaten her sometimes--for he drinks fire-water too.\n\nShe might return to her mother, for her family is a powerful one, but\nshe cannot leave her husband. She cannot forget the love of her early\nyouth. She stays by him, for he is often sick, and she can take better\ncare of him than his other wife, who has many young children.\n\nWherever is man, with his proud, exacting spirit, there is woman, with\nher devoted and enduring love. There are many instances of heroic\naffection, not recorded in the traditionary annals of the Sioux; but\nWenona's Rock will stand, as long as the world lasts, a monument in\nmemory of woman's love.\n\n[Footnote 21: The Seal of Minesota, adopted in 1850, represents an\nIndian warrior departing on his steed: while a husbandman is in the\nforeground, surrounded by the implements of civilization,--the plough,\naxe, and rifle. The scene is located at Anthony's Falls.]\n\n[Footnote 22: On the prairies we frequently observe what the Sioux\ncall Fairy-rings. These are circles, occasioned by the grass growing\nin this form, higher and of a darker colour than that around it.\nMedicine-Bottle, an inferior chief, living now about twenty miles from\nFort Snelling, says that \"they are the paths in which their ancestors\ndanced their war-dances;\" the Indians at Lac qui Parle say the same\nthing. In confirmation of this opinion, it may be stated, that these\ncircles of dark grass vary about as much from true circles as do the\npaths in which the Sioux dance at the present time. Chequered Cloud, a\nmedicine-woman, much esteemed among the Sioux, says \"that these circles\nwere made, in the first instance, by one of their gods, Unk tomi sapa\ntonka, the large black spider, for the warriors to dance in.\" I will\nobserve that Dr. Williamson, a missionary among the Sioux, requested\nfrom the two Indians mentioned their opinion on this subject, telling\nthem I had asked it. Dr. Williamson gives his own opinion, or rather\nobservation, thus:--\"It seems to me, from the appearance of these\ncircles, that they enlarge every year: and I have thought it probable\nthat they originated from the death of some large animal, or other like\ncause, destroying the common grass of the prairie and enriching the\nground, thus starting grass of another kind, or weeds which grow rankly\nin this manner, and overshadowing, and to some extent destroying the\nsurrounding grass, the next year taking possession of the ground from\nwhich the common grass has been destroyed, &c.\"\n\n\"On mentioning this and your letter to Mr. G. H. Pond,\" Dr. W.\ncontinues, \"he said, Lieut. Mather, the geologist, who visited this\ncountry (Minesota) with Featherstonhaugh, many years ago, had advanced\nthe same opinion. In confirmation of it, I would observe, that in the\nlarge prairies up the St. Peter's River, I have often seen buffalo\nbones in these circles.\" Mr. Pond, the Doctor adds, did not think\nthese circles originated in this way: saying, some supposed they were\ncaused by a mineral in the soil, and that he had observed, that when\ncattle came on or near these circles, they always eat the dark grass in\nthe ring close to the ground, neglecting or passing over that growing\nelsewhere.]\n\n[Footnote 23: The marriage custom of the Sioux is given in \"Dacota,\nor Legends of the Sioux.\" The ancient form, as represented in the\nillustration, is still venerated, and frequently, though not always\ncelebrated.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE INDIAN MOTHER,\nAND THE SONG OF THE WIND.\n\nBY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.\n\n\n            Softly the Indian mother[24] sings--\n              \"Woman's heart is strong,\n            When she works for those she loves,\n              Through the summer's day so long.\n            Hark! to the wind's wild voice, my babe--\n              What may its story be,\n            Stirring thy cradle-bed, securely laid\n              In the arms of the forest tree?\"\n\n      \"We have travelled afar, but we come again;\n      We have passed o'er the couch of weakness and pain;\n      We have seen the gifted from earth depart;\n      We have fanned the brow of the broken heart;\n      We have fled from the shrieks of the mighty in death,\n      From the battle's rage and the victor's breath;\n      We have been at the grave--at the infant's birth;\n      We know all the cares of the children of earth.\n\n      \"Our wail is heard o'er the mighty deep,\n      In whose breast the loved and lost ones sleep,\n      When, sweeping in rage, the hurricane blast\n      Tosses to heaven the waters vast.\n      When we bear o'er the foaming and dashing main\n      The voices that ne'er will be heard again;\n      Yet we come and go at His will, who said\n      To the sea 'Be still!' and its waves obeyed.\n\n      \"The air was still as we stayed our breath,\n      While the mother wept o'er her young child's death--\n      A fatherless child; 'twas peacefully laid,\n      So placid and calm, 'neath the curtain's shade.\n      Yet, pressing the clay to her throbbing breast,\n      'Oh! when,' she cried, 'will I be at rest?'\n      We sang for the child a requiem low,\n      And the mother's to sing on our way we go.\n\n      \"But why should we chaunt of sorrow and gloom,\n      Of night and the tempest, of tears and the tomb?\n      Those who are parted shall meet again--\n      The sea yield her victims, the earth her slain;\n      Our mission we haste o'er ocean to bear;\n      We tell of his glory whose servants we are.\n      We quell with our tidings the idol's dark power,\n      That the cries of its victims be heard never more.\n\n      \"We raise from the earth the spirit crushed;\n      At the sight of the cross its murmurs are hushed.\n      Our voice is heard, and the wandering son\n      In spirit turns to his long-left home.\n      He remembers his father's voice in prayer,\n      And he kneels by the side of his mother there;\n      And he cries, while his steps are homeward trod,\n      'Oh! be thou mine, my father's God!'\n\n      \"Alike is the charge and the mission given\n      To the faithful heart and the winds of heaven,\n      To tell how the Saviour came to earth,\n      How poor he was from the hour of his birth:\n      His own griefs unheeded, for others he sighed;\n      Of the life that he lived, of the death that he died.\n      To earth's farthest shore these tidings we bear--\n      All glory to Him whose servants we are.\"\n\n          Again the Indian mother sings--\n            \"Woman's heart is strong,\n          When she works for those she loves,\n            Through the summer's day so long.\n          I would know what the wild winds said, my babe--\n            What could their story be,\n          Stirring thy cradle-bed, securely laid\n            In the arms of the forest tree?\"\n\n[Footnote 24: Indian women take great interest in listening to\ninstruction connected with religious subjects. They often deplore the\ndifference in their position from that of the white woman, desiring for\nthemselves and their children the thousand comforts and advantages they\nobserve the wives and children of the white man possess. Only can they\never hope to enjoy them when their nation becomes a Christian one.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE WOOD SPIRITS AND THE MAIDEN.\n\nBY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.\n\n  Those who have lived among the Indians are accustomed to their faith\n  in the protecting power of the Spirits of Nature. Especially powerful\n  is the god of the woods and forests.\n\n\n      Day with its gorgeous light passes away,\n      Shadows of coming night darken the way.\n              Who is the wanderer\n              With the long braided hair?\n              'Mid the tall evergreens,\n              She like a fairy seems;\n              Know ye the maiden young,\n              Wood Spirits, say?\n\n      Know we the maiden young--mark well her form,\n      Like the tall pine tree, when rages the storm.\n              How like the dark bird's wing\n              Glistens her braided hair.\n              When watching o'er her birth,\n              Sang we a song of earth,\n              We were her guardians made,\n              She was our child.\n\n      Soon o'er her body cold, chaunt we her funeral hymn,\n      Wild branches, torn and old, timing the requiem.\n              Why does she wander here,\n              With the long braided hair?\n              Why is the maiden pale--\n              Why does her breathing fail?\n              Now, by the moonbeams fair,\n              See her dimmed eye.\n\n      She loved as maiden loves, she wept as woman weeps.\n      Soon will her restless frame sleep where her lover sleeps.\n              Then to our far-off groves\n              Will we her spirit hear.\n              When heaves her parting sigh,\n              When closed her lustrous eye,\n              We will her guardians be,--\n              She is our child.\n\n\n\n\nALICE HILL.\n\nBY MRS. M. E. W. ALEXANDER.\n\n\n      Fast by a brook, whose murmuring streams\n      Reflected heaven in angel dreams,\n      Embosomed in a quiet wood,\n      An old and storm-rent school-house stood.\n      All brown with age and worn by rains,\n      Rude winter shook the shattered panes,\n      That shivered in their casements light,\n      Like goblins' teeth on windy night.\n      But when the sun shone down the hill,\n      On smiling field and gushing rill,\n      And by the school-house danced the brook,\n      Through hidden course or leafy nook,\n      On shattered panes in casement light\n      Its summer rays streamed clear and bright.\n      Of pleasant ways and knowledge fair,\n      Blithe Alice Hill reigned mistress there,--\n      Nor birchen rod nor oaken rule\n      In terror held this woodland school;\n      Love awed the spirits bold and wild,\n      Love won the most rebellious child,--\n      O, Alice Hill! just sweet sixteen,\n      Of pleasant ways and courteous mien,\n      With glowing cheeks and eyes of blue,\n      And glossy hair of golden hue,\n      O God! that I should ever live,\n      Such sad account of thee to give!\n\n      In Moreland vale brown Autumn's tilth,\n      Impatient waits the reaper's scythe:\n      Where, scattered with a bounteous hand,\n      Luxuriant harvests thickly stand.\n      The sunlight bathes the waving grain,\n      That sweetly smiles to sun again;\n      The landscape lies in green and gold,\n      And purple clouds in ether rolled,\n      Or gentle blue now smile above\n      This earthly scene of Eden love.\n\n      With dashing wheels and flying steed,\n      Nor whip nor spur to urge their speed,\n      To view his land Fitch Moreland came,\n      The eldest of his honoured name,\n      And heir of all, the green-crowned wood,\n      In which the low-roofed school-house stood,\n      The wide-spread fields, the meadows broad,\n      The fruitful land and grassy sward,\n      And near embraced with roses wild\n      The old brown house that through them smiled,\n      Where Alice Hill had passed her days\n      Unnoticed by a flatterer's gaze;\n      And Rudolph Hill, a farmer skilled,\n      The fields had reaped, the lands had tilled,\n      Fitch Moreland's tenant, prompt to pay\n      His rent and taxes gathering day.\n\n      Just free from school, with shout and song,\n      Fitch Moreland met a joyous throng,\n      And joined their sports, with heart as gay,\n      As boyhood had not passed away;\n      Till seated in a fairy glade,\n      Beneath an elm tree's grateful shade,\n      Sweet Alice Hill fell on his sight,\n      With glowing cheeks and eyes of light:\n      Around her neck, her hair unbound,\n      In floating tresses swept the ground,\n      And pupils kneeling at her side,\n      Wild flowers in graceful garlands tied,\n      A coronal as fresh and gay\n      As ever crowned \"the Queen of May.\"\n\n      With courteous words and city mien,\n      Fitch Moreland joined the rustic scene.\n      Quick beat the heart of Alice Hill,\n      Her pulses woke a music thrill:\n      Her glowing cheek with crimson flushed,\n      And in her heart tumultuous gushed\n      A spring of thought, so sweet and rare,\n      It might have claimed the name of air,\n      Its unseen visions came so bright,\n      To shed on life a holier light.\n      O ye who wear love's gentle spell,\n      And bless the bondage, can ye tell\n      Blithe Alice Hill if this was Love,--\n      That like a homeless, wandering dove,\n      Beat at her fluttering heart, and sought\n      An altar for his blissful thought?\n\n      No longer now, like placid streams,\n      Life passes by in quiet dreams;\n      But hurried, feverish pulses shake\n      The beating heart they may not break,--\n      Hope, fear, desire, and all that stored\n      The spring of life, hung on his word:\n      There was no life without his smile,\n      Nor dreamed she that a heart of guile\n      Beat in so fair and smooth a shrine,\n      That other eyes for him might shine,\n      And softer voices breathe his name!\n      O, Alice Hill, love's vestal flame\n      Hath many a false, misguiding light,\n      To cheat young hearts, with promise bright.\n      And strew life's shores with dearer wrecks\n      Than perish from our wave-washed decks.\n\n      The fowler laid a cunning snare:\n      The timid bird was fluttering there,\n      And paused on half-suspended wing,\n      To hear the subtle charmer sing;\n      Close to the brink, with dizzy sense,\n      She hung upon his eloquence;\n      Lured by the magic of his eye,\n      She quite forgot her power to fly,\n      Till reeling, powerless with the spell,\n      She lost her fragile hold and fell.\n\n      The fowler saw his lovely spoil\n      Entangled in the dazzling toil,\n      A few frail threads of woven gauze,\n      But deadly as the lion's jaws.\n      Not till her golden wings were shorn,\n      The timid bird escaped forlorn--\n      To soar with flocks of grosser mould,\n      An alien from the heavenly fold,\n\n      The timid bird, a human heart--\n      The snare, a smooth seducer's art--\n      How can my pitying pen rehearse\n      The burden of its mournful verse,\n      Since he who triumphed in his power\n      To crush so meek and low a flower,\n      Contemptuous spurned it from his path,\n      To die a lone neglected death,\n      And to the winds his bauble tost--\n      Left Alice Hill, betrayed and lost.\n      And, Alice Hill, his haughty name\n      Will never hide thy maiden shame--\n      And though he swear it on his life,\n      Thou'lt never be Fitch Moreland's wife!\n\n      \"Farewell, my own, my waiting bride!\n      Though I am wandering from thy side,\n      And from these favourite haunts afar,\n      I see thine eyes in every star,\n      I hear thy voice in every breeze,\n      That floats through summer's radiant trees;\n      And thou shalt wear our bridal ring,\n      And wear it as a holy thing,\n      Till, to the sacred altar led,\n      It be the seal by which we wed.\"\n\n      Years rolled down Time's resistless tides\n      Where Time, Eternity divides;\n      Fitch Moreland, high in hall and state,\n      Cared not that by the elm tree sate\n      Poor Alice Hill, to reason lost,\n      Like oarless bark on ocean tost;\n      Not wildly crazed to tear her hair,\n      But mute and sad, as if despair\n      Had worn away life's tuneful strings,\n      And sealed to Thought its gushing springs.\n      But on that ring mute Alice Hill\n      For ever looks, as if a thrill\n      Of reason shot across her brain,\n      And darted gleams of mental pain.\n\n      Bold Winter lay on Moreland Vale.\n      His bearded crown of ice and hail,\n      And columns wreathed in feathery snow,\n      How childhood dreams of glory show.\n      Fast by these piles, on reeking steed,\n      A post-boy checked his furious speed,\n      And whispered to a gaping wight,\n      \"Fitch Moreland takes a wife to-night.\"\n      Mute Alice Hill the echo caught,--\n      With stealthy steps the town she sought,\n      That three leagues off in beauty lay\n      Along Wamphassock's lovely bay--\n      With hair arranged and graceful dress,\n      None would have dreamed such loveliness\n      Concealed a heart to reason lost,\n      Like oarless bark on ocean tost.\n\n      Light, glorious light, streamed clear and wide,\n      Through the proud dome of Moreland's bride,\n      And mirth and music chid the hours\n      Lost in a maze of thornless flowers.\n      His eye erect in manly pride,\n      Fitch Moreland stood beside his bride,\n      Nor dreamed he that his Eden bough\n      Hung on a false and perjured vow.\n      The holy priest in scarf and bands\n      With holy words had joined their hands,\n      And as to make more strong an oath,\n      When each had pledged their plighted troth,\n      A gleaming ring in diamonds set,\n      That hid a lock of glossy jet,\n      The fragile finger graceful pressed,\n      As sunlight lies on ocean's crest.\n\n      A maddened brain, a spirit strong,\n      Has pressed aside that startled throng.\n      With glaring eyes and purple cheeks,\n      Fitch Moreland's side a woman seeks,\n      While o'er her half-ethereal frame\n      The altar sheds its holy flame.\n      The grasp on Moreland's arm was light,\n      But those wild eyes, so wildly bright,\n      His craven soul with terror fill,\n      For now he knows crazed Alice Hill.\n      A ring she from her finger drew,\n      And held it forth to Moreland's view,\n      And murmured low, in tones that thrilled\n      His thickly throbbing pulse, and stilled\n      The awe-struck guests, as if a breath\n      Had touched them from the wing of death:\n      \"Four times twelve months have quickly fled--\n      This be the seal by which we wed,\n      And in this light empyreal bow,\n      To consecrate, our bridal vow!\n      I sit beneath the elm alone\n      Since thou, my own, my love, art gone.\n      Where hast thou trifled on the way,\n      Like truant-boy forbid to stay?\n      But hush, my heart, thou needst not chide:\n      Fitch Moreland claims his waiting bride!\n      My beating heart, what raptures thrill,\n      Tumultuous heart, be still! be still!\"\n\n      A sturdy arm grasped Alice Hill,\n      Who struggling fiercely, shrieking shrill,\n      Out from the door was rudely cast,\n      Though storms were out and tide and blast.\n      There shivering on the pavement cold\n      Sat Alice Hill, with spirit bold,\n      Roused by a blow, revenge to claim\n      For reason lost and peace and name.\n      The holy priest completes his task,\n      And bride and groom his blessing ask.\n\n      What benediction can reverse\n      A wronged and ruined woman's curse?\n      With fettered hands and ringlets shorn,\n      Poor Alice Hill, a maniac, borne\n      On to the mad-house's gloomy walls,\n      For ever on Fitch Moreland calls,--\n      \"I am not mad! Unloose these bands!\n      See here my tortured, bleeding hands!\n      On Moreland's ring a crimson stain:\n      It shall not plead my wrongs in vain;\n      For in my heart revenge lies deep--\n      Its glassy eyes shall never sleep,\n      Till at the altar, live or dead,\n      This be the seal by which we wed!\"\n\n      A pallet, undisturbed by night,\n      Fell on the careful matron's sight.\n      And Alice Hill from thence had fled,\n      With shoeless feet and naked head.\n      Long was the search, and every track\n      Pursued to bring crazed Alice back.\n      But vain pursuit, reward in vain,\n      To bring crazed Alice back again.\n      Wrapped in a cloak of faded red,\n      With shoeless feet and naked head,\n      And ringlets shorn, a woman stood\n      Half muttering, in a crazy mood,\n      And watched with glazed and jealous eye\n      A gorgeous equipage move by.\n      Reined in the light of glaring lamps\n      The restless steed his bridle champs.\n\n      A form alights with agile bound,\n      But reeling, totters to the ground.\n      They said, who passed, a weapon's gleam\n      Danced in the moonlight's silvery beam.\n      Crowds gathered round, a crimson tide\n      Was slowly ebbing from his side,\n      When on their sight a weapon flashed,\n      And feet that living current plashed,\n      Till bending o'er his shivering frame\n      A woman wildly shrieked his name.\n      \"Turn on me now your treacherous eyes!\n      Speak, lying lips, while perjury dies,\n      See what a work a falsehood wrought,\n      My love with life were dearly bought,\n      But peace and reason with it fled--\n      Eternal curses on your head!\n      You stole my love, an artless child\n      By sacred promises beguiled,\n      Then left me to a blighted name,\n      To add new laurels to your fame;--\n      To death's avenging altar led,\n      This be the seal by which we wed.\"\n\n      Upraised, the weapon gleamed again\n      On coward hearts and awe-struck men:\n      Beside Fitch Moreland, fainting, dead,\n      Lay Alice Hill, their spirits wed\n      In that eternal, dreamless sleep,\n      Where souls their solemn bridals keep.\n\n\n\n\nDR. VANDORSEN AND THE YOUNG WIDOW.\n\nBY ANN E. PORTER.\n\n\nTo assure my readers that I am telling them what is truth, and\nnot drawing upon the treasury of fancy for a sketch, I will first\nrelate to them in what manner I became acquainted with the Doctor\nand the Widow. I was once a teacher: yes, for seven years I held\nsway in the school-room, and learned by severe discipline the art\nof self-government, and to bear in secret many a sorrow of which\nthe cherished daughter in the domestic circle remains in blissful\nignorance. Whenever I see a young lady, at the close of school-hours,\nturning with a weary step to her solitary room in some boarding-house,\nmy first impulse is to go and ask her to share my own fireside, sit\ndown at my table, and forget for a while, in my little family circle,\nthat she is away from the loved ones of her own home.\n\nI shall never forget my first preparations for leaving home. I was\nto go eight hundred miles,--a long journey in the days of stages and\ncanal-boats. My little purse grew thin and lank under the unusual\nexertion. I had a trunk and a large bandbox (the latter article I have\nsince learned to dispense with): in this was placed all the \"varieties\"\nof my wardrobe, as Parson Milton would call them; or the accessories to\nstrengthen the arsenal, as Bonaparte termed the feminine requisites\nto the toilet. My little store of collarets, ribbons, and cravats, my\nlace capes and fancy handkerchiefs were all folded in one box, and\nplaced inside the larger one. They were few in number; but what girl\nof eighteen does not cherish her own small hoard of treasures? I was\nto go as far as Pittsburg in the company of a lady and her brother,\na boy of sixteen. Three days and nights we were to travel by stage,\nstopping only for meals, and occasionally an hour for rest, besides the\nintervals caused by changing horses. Two strangers, young gentlemen\nfrom Philadelphia, joined us at the latter city, and remained with the\nparty to Pittsburg. Nothing, perhaps, makes people better acquainted\nwith the disposition of their companions, than the old-fashioned mode\nof coach-travelling; the petty troubles and peculiar annoyances excite\nthe mirth of some, but elicit only the grumbling of others, so that for\ndays together we are entertained by the fun of laughter-loving girls,\nand gallant young gentlemen, with growling interludes from some gouty\nold man, or the groans of an epicure, who talks only to condemn the\ndinner, and curse the cooks.\n\nI had never spent a whole night out of my bed before, and though the\nexcitement kept me up at first, I found myself so exhausted by the\nmiddle of the second night, that it was with difficulty I could retain\nmy seat.\n\nOne of the passengers, perceiving my situation, and alarmed by my\nalmost deadly paleness, requested the driver to stop, and ordered a\ncup of tea. This, and a resting-place for my poor head, relieved me a\nlittle; but with what joy did we hail, the next day at evening, the\nsmoky city of Pittsburg.\n\n\"Ladies, shall we have the pleasure of meeting all our little party\ntogether in the parlour this evening?\" said one of the gentlemen. The\nnext morning we were to separate, taking three different routes. We\ntherefore cheerfully acquiesced, and Miss S. and myself repaired to our\nrooms to dress. What was my astonishment to find my treasures gone, and\nwith them a valuable breastpin, the gift of my grandfather, shortly\nbefore his death! I was weary, sick, and sad; but at the earnest\nrequest of my companion, I put on a black silk dress, and felt not a\nlittle refreshed by my bath, and the privilege of using thoroughly the\nbrush and comb, which, denied me for two days and nights, had given\nto my head, with its exuberance of hair, a most moppish appearance on\nthe outside, while the brain within seemed to share the entanglement\nwithout.\n\nBut the efforts of my companions could not chase away the homesickness\nof the heart. The morning would find me alone in the world. Sixty miles\nof my journey were yet to be travelled: and, wearied in body and faint\nin spirit, I longed to see my dear father, and be at home again under\nhis protection. I shrunk, too, from the duties before me: they seemed\nmore arduous and difficult as I approached them; and with a sad feeling\nof my own incompetency and the lack of personal charms, which might\nprepossess my employers, I laid my head upon my pillow that night and\nwatered it with my tears. Sleep! blessed, blessed Sleep! Thou dost take\nthe burdens from the weary and fling them into the waters of oblivion;\nthe infant, in its guileless rest, is pillowed on thy lap, and the\naged lean lovingly on thy shoulder. Merciful was the great Father of\nall, that he did permit thee to follow Adam from Paradise, and travel\nwith his children in this world of guilt,--thus are we permitted to\nforget, for a while, at least, our sorrows and our sins. Early the next\nmorning I went on board a steamboat for Wheeling, and though shrinking\nand timid, I still found protection and kindness when needed; but when\nwe arrived, at midnight, in the village of P., and I found myself alone\nin a large, desolate-looking room of the hotel, all the former feeling\nof sadness came over me, and with them an indefinable dread of the\nfuture.\n\nI must send word to the patrons of the school that I had arrived:\nand fearful that their expectations would be disappointed, I could\nnot sleep. The next morning I despatched a messenger, and two of the\ntrustees called. They were polite, but said little, excepting what\nrelated to business; but when they left me, remarked, \"We will procure\na more agreeable home for you than this.\" I thanked them with my lips,\nbut they little comprehended how earnestly the heart craved for a home\nagain. The day passed, and I saw no one till the twilight shadows were\ncreeping into that lonely room, and with them also dim visions of home\nand friends, bringing with them that sad heart-longing which the young\nfeel during their first absence from home, when I was startled from\nmy reverie by a gentle knock at my door. I opened it, and an old lady\nstood before me, so kind, so motherly in her appearance, and so plainly\nyet tastefully dressed, that my heart clung to her at first sight. If\nmy Father in heaven had sent an angel to me, I should certainly have\nchosen just such a face and garb, in my present condition, rather than\nthe white robes and bright-winged cherubs of Raphael's glorious fancy.\n\n\"Why, my dear child,\" said she, as if struck at once by my girlish\nfigure and pallid face, \"you must have been lonely here to-day, and you\nneed a mother to nurse and take care of you after your long journey.\nMy name is Warner, and I am going to take you home with me, if you\nwill go. My brother called this morning, and my husband would have\naccompanied me, but he was very busy; and I was so fearful that you\nwould be homesick, that I thought I would come and introduce myself.\"\n\nMy heart bounded with delight, and I could hardly speak for gratitude;\nand I said so little, and that in such a blundering way, that I was\nafraid she would not know how much relief she had brought me.\n\n\"Come, my dear, get your bonnet,\" said she pleasantly, \"and I will send\nfor your baggage.\"\n\nI obeyed, and in a few minutes we stopped at a large but neat\nresidence, almost hid in a profusion of shrubbery. The climbing\nmultiflora rose covered one side of the house, and, with welcome\nintrusiveness, peeped into the chamber windows, while a honeysuckle and\nwoodbine threw their mantle of green over the door, and mingled their\nblossoms with those of a tall snowball tree, which had grown high, and,\nclinging to the house, showered a white welcome upon every corner. A\nfew steps from the house, on the right side, but in the same enclosure,\nwas a small brick office;--on the other side a cottage, shaded by two\nlarge beech trees, children of the forest, spared by some merciful\nwoodman when the land was cleared. Such was the outward appearance of\nmy new home--a word as to its inmates. My companion ushered me into a\nsmall sitting-room, prettily furnished, and occupied at the time by two\npersons,--one a tall, white-haired old gentleman, with spectacles on\nnose, reading the newspaper--the other Mrs. Travis, a young widow, the\ndaughter of Mr. and Mrs. Warner, who had returned again to the home of\nher youth. She was sewing as we entered, but, laying aside her work,\nrose to greet us. Her countenance was plain, but a pair of sparkling\nblack eyes gave animation and expression to her features; and, as I\nreturned her salutation, I thought her welcome not quite so cordial as\nher mother's. It seemed to express this--\"Whether you and I like each\nother will depend on circumstances.\" But the old gentleman looked at\nme for an instant over his spectacles; then, laying them aside with\nhis paper, rose, and taking my hand, welcomed me to the West with a\nhearty greeting; then, placing a chair near to his own, begged me to be\nseated. His whole countenance was expressive of goodness; and, as I sat\ndown by his side in all the timidity of a girlish stranger, I felt, for\nthe first time since leaving home, a delicious sense of security and\npeace. It seemed as if the wing of some guardian angel was over me, and\na refuge opened in time of sorrow.\n\nAnd here, _en passant_, I must add, those first impressions never\nchanged; and, from that hour till the day when that blessed spirit\nwas carried by angels to its own pure home in heaven, I always found\nconsolation in trouble, advice in perplexity, and gentle reproof in\nerror, by the side of the good old man. How sweet was the fragrance\nof his daily life, and how precious the kiss he imprinted upon my\nforehead, and the blessing he implored upon my head when I bade him\nfarewell! Oh! the hopeless darkness of atheism, which draws the veil\nof oblivion between us and all further intercourse with such spirits!\nNo, no!--let us rather say with St. Paul, \"I _know_ in whom I have\nbelieved;\" and with Job, \"I _shall_ live again.\"\n\nBut my limits forbid any extended notice of the members of the family,\nthough the years I spent under that charmed roof are marked in my life\nwith a white stone. There I emerged from the bashful, timid girl, into\nthe more active, energetic woman; and under the blessed influence of\nlove I trust I grew wiser and happier.\n\nWhen, at nine o'clock, the family Bible was opened, and father\n\n      \"Read a portion with judicious care,\n      And 'Let us worship God,' he said with solemn air;\"\n\nand all knelt at the family altar in prayer, my own heart was full,\nand I was thankful that no eye could see my face. Soon afterwards the\nold lady said, \"You look tired, and must retire; I will show you to\nyour room.\" Then, leading me through a small entry, she opened the door\nof a commodious room, saying, as she did so, \"This will be yours.\" It\nwas carpeted, a centre-table was in the middle of the room, an open\nstove with its grate, ready at any chilly hour for coal, and a nice,\ncosy-looking bed in one corner of the apartment. The old lady lighted\na candle, and bade me good night. Did she, or did she not, think I was\na cold-hearted little thing, that I said good night in such a low,\ntremulous tone? I know not; but this I do know, that, as soon as she\nhad left the room, I sat down, and, laying my head on the table, burst\ninto tears.\n\nThey were tears of thankfulness and joy, and they refreshed the heart,\nas a summer shower the parched earth.\n\nI seemed a child again, and, with my childhood's prayer upon my lips, I\ndropped to sleep that night. I would love to sit and write till night\nabout my after-life there, but I have limited myself to one little\nepisode, and to that I will proceed. I had been there some months;\nElizabeth had learned that we were so unlike that we could love, and\nneither be enemies nor rivals. Her high, ambitious, buoyant spirit had\nnothing to fear from the timid, yielding, sensitive girl who was to\nbe her companion. Not a single trait in the character of each came in\ncollision. One was self-reliant, could keep her own secrets, extricate\nherself from her own difficulties, feared none but God, cared little\nfor the opinion of others, loved deeply, hated cordially. The other\nhad an inordinate \"love of approbation,\" lacked hope and courage, but,\nsupported by a stronger arm, could endure the bitterest trial even to\nthe end. The one was proud to uphold, the other loved to trust.\n\nAnd thus we moved on, loved and loving, whereas, had we resembled each\nother more closely, bitter heart-burnings and jealousies might have\nbeen the result. One day we sat together in the little sitting-room.\nWe were reading \"Deerbrook,\" by Miss Martineau, and wondering that\nsuch want of trust and faith should ever take place between sisters,\nwhen the door-bell rang, and a young gentleman, a total stranger to\nus, was ushered in. He was a tall young man, with a fresh countenance,\na somewhat diffident manner, and gray eyes, which had a downcast\nexpression. It was difficult for him to observe that simple rule of\npoliteness, \"Look directly at the person to whom you speak.\" Mr. Warner\nendeavoured to make him more at his ease by casual remarks upon the\nweather, and other topics of the day; but he elicited little besides\n\"Yes, sir,\" \"No, sir,\" \"I agree with you perfectly, sir,\" and suchlike\nreplies. At last he drew a card from his pocket, and handed it to Mr.\nWarner, saying, \"I have been in town some days, and am looking out for\nan office. Learning that the one near your house is unoccupied, I have\nmade an early application.\"\n\n\"I will think of it,\" said the old gentleman. \"This is Dr. Vandorsen,\nladies, come to take up his residence in our village.\" This somewhat\nawkward introduction over, I took the opportunity to slip out of the\nroom, just as they commenced talking upon the terms of rent and other\nbusiness matters.\n\n\"Well, now,\" said Elizabeth, as she came hastily into my room, an hour\nafterwards; \"what do you think of the Doctor?\"\n\n\"Why, I haven't thought of him since I left the room; I have been\npreparing my lesson in Butler's Analogy, and I assure you it requires\nall the strength of my feeble brain to grasp his arguments and make\nthem clear to my class.\"\n\n\"A truce to such work! I thought you had been studying the young\nstranger's physiognomy, and were prepared to give me an analysis of his\ncharacter.\"\n\n\"Let me see,\" I said; \"I cannot give you his character, but I believe\nhis personal appearance I can remember; cheeks like your rusty-coat\napples, rusty brown with a touch of red, foxy eyes, slick, _very_\nslick hair, as the Yankees say, an inflexible spine, and in one respect\nonly like St. Paul.\"\n\n\"Pray what is that?\"\n\n\"Brethren, I came unto you in much _weakness of speech_.\"\n\nLizzy's eyes snapped, and she looked, for a moment, almost angry.\n\"Then,\" said she, \"I really thought you had some penetration of\ncharacter, but I must be mistaken. Did you not see the evidence of\nfine feelings beneath that bashful exterior? And then he was so modest\nand unassuming; why I no sooner heard his errand than my fancy drew a\nbeautiful picture in perspective. He seemed so much like yourself,--you\nthat we are beginning to love so much, that I thought it would be love\nat first sight. Father will let him have the office, and then here's\nthe cottage: a nice, snug place it would be for you, and we could have\nyou always with us, and a doctor handy to cure 'the ills to which flesh\nis heir.'\"\n\n\"You have a vivid imagination, truly; but let me tell you that you are\nright in supposing that I have very little penetration of character.\nI have none; but sometimes, though I cannot account for it, I have a\nstrong aversion to a person on the first meeting; and when it is so, I\nnever overcome it.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said Lizzy, \"that is all imagination; a belief without\nreason, but it cannot be so in this case.\"\n\n\"We will leave this for the present,\" I said; \"and I will take more\nparticular notice of the Doctor the next time. If you like him, I have\nno doubt I shall also. But why so disinterested? why not take the good\nDoctor yourself, and then the office and cottage will follow as a life\npossession for him?\"\n\n\"Why, don't you know, my dear child, he is not the man for me? I should\nbe the death of so amiable a personage in two years. If I marry again,\nit must be a man of boldness and spirit. I care not if he have the\ntemper of Bonaparte, if he have his courage and spirit.\"\n\n\"And could you endure like Josephine? You forget the broken vows and\ncrushed hopes.\"\n\nA shade passed over her countenance a moment.\n\n\"Let us not talk about marriage now,\" said she.\n\n\"Agreed,\" I replied. \"I must study, and bury all other aspirations for\nthe present in my school.\"\n\nThe next day the Doctor took possession of the office, and long rows\nof vials and boxes of bones usurped the place of law books and deeds.\nThe boy pounded medicines in the morning, and the Doctor played on his\nflute at night.\n\nHe was neighbourly, and very attentive to both the young ladies,\nevidently studying to make no difference in his attentions. To be sure,\nhe talked most with myself, and I noticed whenever an opportunity\noccurred, Lizzy would direct the conversation to some subject in\nwhich I was especially interested. Every Wednesday evening we went to\na lecture, and he was usually present to accompany the family. The\nwhole family seemed interested in him, and good old Mr. Warner too,\nespecially as he now spoke of his intention to join the church. When\nthat event did take place, I found some excuse for staying at home. The\nmore I tried to overcome it, the stronger my aversion became. I thought\nit must be groundless--the rest of the family had more experience\nand wisdom than myself,--why then should I feel such an unaccountable\nprejudice towards an innocent young gentleman who had done me no harm?\n\nI determined to overcome it, and most severely did I blame myself for\nsuspecting that any other than holy motives led to this public act\nof consecration. The next evening, when he proposed to me that we\nshould take a short walk, I cheerfully consented. As we passed a large\nflouring mill, he said, \"This, I believe, is Mr. Warner's?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I replied.\n\n\"It seems, to be a very valuable one.\"\n\n\"One of the most so in the region. The old gentleman came to this\ncountry many years ago. Like Abraham, he went forth, not knowing\nwhither he went, and like him has he been prospered. He has flocks and\nherds, houses and lands, and, what shall I call _those_?\" I asked, as a\ndrove of swine marked by him came grunting along with their snub noses\nin the gutter.\n\n\"Oh, that is but one species of property,\" he remarked, \"and has its\nvalue. The good old man seems to be very worthy.\"\n\n\"Worthy!\" I repeated to myself--what harm in that, and yet I didn't\nlike the question, or rather the tone of the remark.\n\n\"He is one of the excellent of the earth--belonging to that species of\nsalt which never loses its savour.\"\n\n\"They seem to be a very affectionate family, no wonder they feel almost\nidolatry for their interesting daughter. Did you know her husband?\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" I replied, and by my silence indicated that I had no wish\nto continue this conversation.\n\nThe very next morning I had occasion to go into the private room or\nstudy of the old gentleman, to deposit in his hands a sum of money,\nthe proceeds of my labour, and for which he gave me good interest\nand security. I found the old lady there, and as I opened the door\nshe remarked, \"Oh yes, husband, lend him freely if he needs; he is\nyoung, and a hundred dollars may aid him greatly now; I have perfect\nconfidence in the Doctor.\"\n\nI bit my lip, for I found myself inclined to smile, and did not wish\nto be observed. But the old gentleman remarked the expression of my\nface, and looking over his spectacles archly said, \"Ay, ay, my little\nschoolma'am! and so you don't think so highly of the Doctor as the rest\nof us, or do you sail under false colours just now?\"\n\n\"I have no cause for that,\" I replied, \"and if I had, your penetration\nwould find it out; so honesty is really my best policy, for no other\nreason than because I can have no other.\"\n\n\"Well, time works wonders; I only desire that you settle among us, and\nI must say, prudence would hardly advise the Doctor at present; so\ntake good care of yourself and all will come right,\" so giving me my\nreceipt and a kiss on the cheek, I left the good couple in the act of\ncounting out a hundred dollars for the Doctor. Weeks passed, and Lizzy,\ndelighted at every new patient the Doctor had and at the increasing\nreputation she thought he was gaining, always had some interesting fact\nto relate to me when I returned from school at night. At one time he\nhad refused all pay from a sick old woman, one of Lizzy's prot\u00e9g\u00e9s,\nwhom he visited daily. At another time, he had spent half a day in\nthe garden with her good mother, budding, trimming, and tying up her\nbushes; again, he had gone into the field and mowed for three hours, to\nhelp her father, when there was a prospect of rain. \"And wouldn't he\nmake a good husband, Sissy dear?\" she said.\n\n\"Yes, love, if he was only a little more fiery, like Bonaparte, and had\nthe courage and spirit of a hero.\"\n\nLizzy looked annoyed. In the mean time, common report had, to my great\nvexation, coupled the Doctor's name with mine; but to attempt to stem\nthe current of village gossip is like using Dame Partington's broom\nto sweep the sea. Firmness and patience are the only salves for such\nannoyances. Happily, a vacation of a week occurred, and I was to spend\nit with one of my pupils.\n\nOn my return, it was a pleasant summer's evening, the doors were open,\nand the same vines and trees which the year before looked so inviting\nto the little homesick girl, were again loaded with blossoms. The old\nfolks sat just inside the door enjoying the mild air, and Lizzy on an\nottoman, which stood on the broad step. The Doctor, with a hideous\nblack patch on the side of his forehead, and one arm in a sling, stood\nleaning in a picturesque attitude by her side. Lizzy's eyes looked\nmilder than I ever saw them before, and when she turned them upon the\nDoctor, there was an expression of interest and sympathy which I had\nnever noticed before. \"The victory is won,\" I said to myself, and then,\nlike a shadow on my heart, came those first impressions, which no after\nacquaintance had removed. Mr. Warner came forward to welcome me, and\nwait upon me into the house, saying to the Doctor, with a smile, \"We\nwill excuse all want of gallantry this evening.\"\n\n\"And excuse me, also,\" he replied, \"I will do myself the pleasure of\ncalling on Miss Porter to-morrow,\" he said.\n\n\"What in the name of wonder has happened?\" I said to Lizzy, who had\nflown to my side as the Doctor left.\n\n\"Oh, it is quite a story, I assure you; but I ought not to tell you,\nfor I shall spoil it for the Doctor to-morrow. He tells it so well;\nyou'll find that your stammering St. Paul can speak with the tongue of\nan angel sometimes.\"\n\nBut my curiosity would not allow me to wait: and in truth, neither\nwould Lizzy's enthusiasm permit her to do the same; so she gave the\noutlines, promising that the Doctor should fill them up in the morning.\n\n\"Would you believe it,\" she commenced, \"the Doctor has been robbed and\nshot at, and\"--\n\n\"Shot at, and then robbed, Sis,\" said the old gentleman.\n\n\"There, I knew I should spoil the story.\"\n\n\"Never mind, do go on,\" I said, \"where, pray?\"\n\n\"Why, on the turnpike road to McConnelsville; don't you remember a\npiece of woods there?\"\n\n\"Why, yes; but honest black Gassoway's house is near about half way as\nyou pass the woods. I came from there on horseback, at eight o'clock in\nthe evening, only two weeks ago.\"\n\n\"You must never go there again, my child,\" said Mrs. Warner, in a sort\nof sepulchral tone; \"it may be the death of you.\"\n\n\"Just as the Doctor came to where the woods commenced, two\nhorrible-looking ruffians with masks came out of the woods, and while\none seized the horse's bridle, the other pointed a pistol to his heart,\nand demanded his money. He had two hundred dollars by him, which he was\nthen taking to a man he owed. It was all the spare money he had; you\nknow the Doctor is just commencing his profession, and he does not wish\nto urge his debtors too hard at present. But he was too brave to yield\nat once; he knocked the pistol aside, but it went off, grazing his arm;\nbut after a hard fight with his opponents, he found they were too much\nfor him, and after resigning all his money he came back home. Isn't it\ntoo bad, so industrious and prudent as he seems to be?\"\n\n\"It is a hard case surely; but for the life of me I cannot imagine how\nrobbers dared come so near the town; the pistol-shot must have been\nheard at Gassoway's.\"\n\n\"No, it was midnight, and they were sound asleep, probably. I wish they\nhad heard and gone in pursuit.\"\n\nThe next day was Sunday, and, as usual, I went to meeting in the\nevening. Lizzy complained of slight indisposition, and did not\naccompany us; but when we returned we found the two invalids together,\nand one at least looking very agreeable, though Lizzy's face expressed\nembarrassment whenever she caught my eye.\n\nThe next morning the good old lady called me into her room a little\nwhile before the hour of school, and, bidding me sit down by her side,\nsaid affectionately, but seriously,\n\n\"My child, do you love the Doctor?\"\n\nThough not naturally mirthful, I could scarce refrain from laughing\nin the old lady's face. Respect forbade, and I answered, with all the\nseriousness I could command,\n\n\"Dear Aunty, because you and Lizzy wished it, I have tried hard to do\nso; but I do not love him, and I am convinced I never can.\"\n\nThe good woman looked relieved, and said, \"I am glad it is so; you are\nfar away from home and friends, and I should be sorry to have you in\ntrouble while with us. Come to me at all times with your sorrows, and I\nwill try and be a mother to you.\"\n\nThe smiles were now exchanged for tears. What in the world does any one\nwish to cry for, when they are grateful? But some seem to have that\nunfortunate propensity.\n\n\"I was only to add,\" said the old lady, \"that the Doctor loves Lizzy;\nand I feared,\" she said, \"it might make one heart sad. We fancied you\nfelt more interest in the Doctor than you are willing to acknowledge.\"\n\n\"I now give you a solemn promise,\" I said, and it was sealed with a\nkiss, \"that I will always speak the truth to yourself.\"\n\nThis conversation only gave me new cause for regret. I could not see my\ndear Lizzy married to the Doctor, so long as I was unable to shake off\nmy own dislike to him, and my own mouth was fettered by the suspicions\nconcerning myself. For two days I was pondering in my own mind what\ncould be done; and learning that Mr. Warner would permit no engagement\nto take place at present, concluded that time and patience would bring\nall right.\n\nThus I mused, with my book open, but my mind wandering, when Lizzy\nburst into the room.\n\n\"Heigh-ho! my little hypocrite, you never can keep a secret, you say.\nIs that the truth?\" And she held a card towards me.\n\n\"I never had any secrets to keep, Lizzy, so I don't know how much\nstrength I possess.\"\n\n\"Well here, then--'Joseph Dushey, St. Louis, Mo.'\"\n\n\"Upon my word, Lizzy, I know no more about this gentleman than\nyourself. Does he wish to see me?\"\n\n\"That he does, and is waiting your ladyship's presence in the parlour.\"\n\n\"Some business relating to the school,\" I said. \"I must not keep him\nwaiting.\"\n\nSo to the parlour I went, and soon found myself in the presence of a\ngentleman upon whom nature had put her unmistakeable sign of nobility.\nHis address and manner were those of one accustomed to refined\nsociety, and his ease and suavity quite overcame my own timidity. But,\nafter a few minutes' general conversation, it was his turn to become\nembarrassed; and, after apologizing for interference in my private\naffairs, he said that, hearing that an engagement of marriage existed\nbetween myself and Dr. Vandorsen, he had felt it his duty to expose the\ncharacter of the Doctor. It was painful, but it seemed to him an act of\njustice and mercy. He then related the history of this adventurer--a\nreckless swindler, ingratiating himself into the favour of others,\nand then repaying kindness with black ingratitude. \"I have often,\" he\nsaid, \"from regard to his father, helped him to money. He is owing me\nnow; and, learning that I was in the vicinity, he invented the account\nof the sham robbery, which he says took place on Saturday evening.\"\nHe then placed in my hands the papers containing proofs of that which\nhe had asserted, and again, with much delicacy, apologized for his\nintrusion.\n\nI thanked him most sincerely for what he had done, and assuring him\nthat no such engagement existed between us, yet these papers were\nvaluable as guarding against future trouble for others.\n\nHe allowed me to retain them. On going to my room I sat down and\nexamined them carefully, and blessed God that I had it in my power to\nsave Lizzy from a dreadful sacrifice. I laid them aside, determined to\nplace them in the hands of Mr. Warner in the morning.\n\nWhen morning came, the Doctor's office was found deserted; the key hung\nupon the outside, his valuables were removed, and from that time to\nthis I have heard nothing from Dr. Vandorsen, nor has my good mother\nWarner or her family. Neither have the two hundred dollars, which they\nat different times loaned him, ever been returned.\n\nLizzy is most delightfully situated, and I know of but one drawback\nto her perfect happiness, viz., that her husband is one of the most\namiable of men, never allowing his temper to conquer his reason, and\nnever likely to allow ambition to overpower the deep affection he bears\nhis wife.\n\n\n\n\nA CENOTAPH.\nAUGUST, 1776.\n\nBY ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH.\n\n    \"It was a notion of the ancients, that if one perished at sea, or\n    where his body could not be found, the only way to procure repose\n    for him was to build an empty tomb, and by certain rites and\n    invocations, call his spirit to the habitation prepared for it.\"\n\n  ESCHENBURG.\n\n\nI.\n\n1.\n\n      The memory of Nathan Hale,\n        Who, in the days of strife,\n      For freedom of our native land,\n        Laid down his noble life.\n\n      Lord Howe, Cornwallis, Percy earl\n        Were come in wide array,\n      And from Long Island to New York\n        Had pushed our guns away.\n\n      Our Father looked across the Sound,\n        Disaster groaned behind,\n      And many dubious, anxious thoughts\n        Were labouring in his mind.\n\n      \"Knowlton,\" said he, \"I need a man,\n        Such as is hard to meet,\n      A trusty, brave, and loyal man,\n        And skilful in deceit.\n\n      \"The British, now in Brooklyn lodged,\n        May divers plans pursue:\n      Find me a man to go and spy\n        What Howe intends to do.\"\n\n      Said Knowlton, \"Sir, I make no doubt\n        Many apt men have we.\"\n      He went. At nightfall he returned\n        With Hale in company.\n\n2.\n\n      \"Young friend,\" said Washington to Hale,\n        \"It much imports to know\n      What mischief Howe is brooding on;\n        Which way intends to go.\n\n      \"But though you might, with help of Grace,\n        Unmask his schemes of ill,\n      I will not risk your generous blood\n        Without your perfect will.\"\n\n      \"Grave Sir,\" said Hale, \"I left my home,\n        Not for the love of strife,\n      But for my country's cause resolved,\n        Knowing I risked my life.\n\n      \"Between my duty and my will,\n        In service light or sore,\n      It is not now for me to choose,\n        For that was done before.\n\n      \"Let not your Excellency poise\n        What may to me ensue;\n      But weigh the service to be done,\n        And judge my power to do.\"\n\n      \"Well said; then briefly thus:--Put on\n        Some other self-disguise--\n      And by to-morrow morning be\n        Among our enemies.\n\n      \"Go safely curious how you will,\n        And spy whate'er you may,\n      Of how their troops have borne the bruise\n        They gave us yesterday.\n\n      \"And deeper else--our chief concern,\n        And study at this hour--\n      Find if their guns are hither aimed;\n        Or, with divided power,\n\n      \"Cleft from the rearward of their force,\n        While we stand here attent;\n      Or farther south, or farther north,\n        They mean to make descent.\n\n      \"Brooklyn to them is vantage-ground.\n        Find what you can. To know\n      The mischief in a foeman's thought\n        Is half to foil a foe.\n\n      \"The moon goes down\"--\"By nine,\" said Hale.\n        Said Knowlton: \"Nay, at ten.\"\n      \"Can you be off so soon as that?\"\n        \"I hardly think by then:\n\n      \"Nor would--for let me plead that I,\n        Herein, may yield my breath;\n      And mine affairs I would devise\n        As if before my death.\n\n      \"God knows what hearts may crack for this.\n        But failure, or no fail,\n      To-morrow morning I'll be there,\n        As I am Nathan Hale.\"\n\n      \"Bravely, my boy! Such soul as this\n        Is better than a host.\n      To dare is little, if to dare\n        Unmindful of the cost.\"\n\n3.\n\n      The night was broadly overcast,\n        And the scant moon and stars,\n      From the dim dungeons of the clouds,\n        Looked through their iron bars.\n\n      \"My worthy lad,\" said Washington,\n        \"We seek without despair,\n      Although we find, in all yon arch,\n        No sign of morning there.\"\n\n      \"And know whose gracious hand it is\n        That times the darkest sky,\"\n      Said Hale. \"Adieu!\" said Washington,\n        \"God keep you,--go,--good-bye!\"\n\n\nII.\n\n1.\n\n      The flitting Hours, with golden brands\n        Once more adorned with flame,\n      Beheld our land in busy act,\n        Where war was all the game.\n\n      Out of his cups of deep carouse,\n        That reeled till morning shine,\n      The Provost of the Lion camp\n        Came forth the tented line.\n\n      An ugly man,--a tiger soul,\n        Lodged in a human house,--\n      With whiskey fuming from his hide,\n        And hair about his brows.\n\n      And Hale had hid his skiff, and now\n        Was coming by the shore,\n      Thinking of many serious things\n        He never thought before.\n\n      He mused of all the hard assays\n        Of this our mortal state;\n      The bitter bruise, and bloody blows\n        Of Virtue matched with Fate.\n\n      He heard the larks and robins sing,\n        And tears came in his eyes,\n      To think how man, and man alone,\n        Was cast from Paradise.\n\n2.\n\n      \"Well Hodge, how's turnips? What's in this?\"\n        \"Now who be you?\" said Hale,\n      \"I aint no Hodge,--taint turnips,--stop,--\n        Let go,--this here's for sale.\"\n\n      \"Powder and grog! be quiet, lad.\n        Tobacco! by my soul!\n      Rebel, we've come to take the land,--\n        Hands off!--I seize the whole.\"\n\n      The Provost wheeled towards the camp.\n        Hale followed with a cry:\n      \"Give me my pack--now--come--you sir!\"\n        \"Clod-shoes, get home!--not I.\"\n\n      But epaulettes were on the road.--\n        The trick was getting worse.\n      The Provost dumped the pack aside,\n        With a substantial curse.\n\n      \"Wa'al, mister, that's the han'some thing!\n        That are tobaker's prime.\n      I knowed you didn't mean to grab,--\n        I knowed it all the time.\n\n      \"I'm goin' to peddle, up to camp,\n        And if you only would\n      Go snacks, and help me sell, you might.\n        Come, I should say you could.\"\n\n      \"Yorky, pick up your pack, hook on,\n        Hook on, we'll make it even.\"\n      The lines were passed, the countersign,--\n        \"Whither away,\"--was given.\n\n      \"I see,\" said Hale, within himself,\n        \"This man's internal shape,--\n      The Devil can do a gracious turn,\n        To shy a graceless scrape.\"\n\n3.\n\n      Gay was the camp with liveried men;\n        Some trimmed the gun and blade,\n      Some chatted in the morning sun,\n        Some slept along the shade.\n\n      And some bore out the soldier dead\n        On his unfollowed bier--\n      The soldier dead, the hapless dead,\n        Who died without a tear.\n\n      So lately wept from England's shore,\n        And winged with prayers afar,\n      To feel the piercing thunder-shock,\n        Gored by the horns of War.\n\n4.\n\n      Cried Hale, \"Who buys? who buys? who buys?\n        Hearts! Boys! My lads! Hooraw!\n      Thrippence a junk, Britannia rule--\n        Don't any of you chaw?\"\n\n      And all the while his wily eye\n        Was taking curious notes\n      Of men, and arms, and sheeted carts,\n        And guns with stoppered throats.\n\n      \"Boys, what you goin' to doin' on?\n        Hello!--this way that beer.\n      You goin' to captivate New York?\n        Pine-shillin' piece--look here--\"\n\n      \"Sing us a song.\" \"'Bout what?\" said Hale.\n        \"Sing us 'All in the Doons'--\n      'Britannia Rule'--'God save the King'\"--\n        Said Hale, \"Don't know the tunes.\"\n\n      Cornwallis now came walking by,--\n        \"The Capting, hey?\" \"It is.\"\n      Hale folded up an ample slice:\n        \"D'ye s'pose he'd 'xcept of this?\"\n\n      Mad with the thought, to see the clown\n        Break his own pate with fun,\n      \"Do it,\" said they. Said Hale, \"I will.\"\n        \"Jerry's respects\"--'twas done.\n\n      And back he came with open grin;\n        \"Took it like ile!\" said he.\n      \"I swow! I done the handsome thing--\n        He done it, too, to me.\"\n\n\nIII.\n\n1.\n\n      Sins are like waters in a gap;\n        Like flames to leap a check;\n      If cable Conscience crack a strand,\n        A man may go to wreck.\n\n      Sins never shut the doors of hearts\n        That give good cheer to sin,\n      But always leave them open wide,\n        For others to come in.\n\n      Disdaining ours, for England's camp,\n        There lurked a man about,\n      Who, flushed with shame and rage of heart,\n        Like Judas, had gone out.\n\n      He left us, and he swore revenge,\n        And vengeance did not fail.\n      The courteous fiend, who led his steps,\n        Conducted him to Hale--\n\n      His kinsman--one whose generous hand,\n        Impelled by bold desire,\n      Had saved him once, and still endured\n        The seal of it in fire.\n\n      He met him coming from the camp;\n        He saw--he knew the hand--\n      He saw the whole--and in the road\n        He made a sudden stand.\n\n      \"Hum! ha!--It's Captain Hale, I think.\n        Nathan, how do you do?\n      Sorry I am to see you here--\n        Sorry I am for you.\"\n\n      Off from the sudden heart of Hale\n        All his disguises fell:\n      \"Cousin! good God!--go back with me.\n        And all shall yet be well.\"\n\n      \"It cannot be. You came to dare,\n        And you must take the rod.\"\n      Said Hale, \"This hand, at Judgment day,\n        Will fan the wrath of God.\"\n\n      \"Speak not of God,\" the traitor said;\n        \"A good French faith have I--\n      'No man hath seen Him,' Scripture saith,\n        And 'all is vanity.'\"\n\n      Hale, finding how the scoundrel feared\n        Nor God's nor man's award,\n      Looked for a handy stick or stone,\n        To quicken his regard.\n\n      But, tiger-soon, the renegade\n        Had gripped his arms around:\n      \"Ah, ha!--yes, yes--help! help!\" he cried,\n        And crushed him to the ground.\n\n2.\n\n      Fettered on straw, with soldier guards,\n        The tent-lamp trembling low,\n      The morrow was his day of doom,\n        That night a night of woe.\n\n      And half the night the gallows sound\n        Of hammers filled his ears,\n      Like strokes upon a passing-bell,\n        Telling his numbered years.\n\n      His numbered years--alas! how brief!\n        And Memory searched them back,\n      Like one who searches, with a light,\n        Upon a midnight track.\n\n      The fields, the woods, the humming school,\n        The idly-pondered lore,\n      And the fair-fingered girl that shared\n        His dinner at the door;\n\n      His room, beneath the homestead eaves,\n        Wherein he laid his head;\n      His mother, come to take the light,\n        And see him warm in bed.\n\n      These, and their like, distinct and bright,\n        Came back, and fired his brain\n      With visions, all whose sweetness now\n        Was but exalted pain.\n\n\nIV.\n\n1.\n\n      Ere silence droops her fluttering wing,\n        The pang may all be past;\n      And oft, of good men's latter hours,\n        The easiest is their last.\n\n      The morn was up, the flickering morn\n        Of summer, towards the fall.\n      \"Bravely is all,\" the guardsman said;\n        Said Hale, \"God's grace is all.\"\n\n      And now the Provost-Marshal came\n        With soldiers--all was ripe;\n      But out of Hale's tobacco, first,\n        He filled and smoked a pipe.\n\n      Forth passed the man, through all disguise,\n        With look so sweet and high;\n      He showed no sort of dread, at all,\n        Of what it was to die.\n\n      Come to the cart, whose doleful planks\n        Beneath his feet did creak,\n      He bowed, and looked about, and stood\n        In attitude to speak.\n\n      \"Holloa! hoa! drummer, bring your drum,\n        Play Yankee Doodle here--\n      Play, while we crack the rebel's neck.\"\n       Earl Percy then drew near:\n\n      \"Provost,\" said he, \"I shame at this.\n        Let the lad have his say,\n      Or you shall find who rules the camp;\"\n        And so he walked away.\n\n2.\n\n      \"Soldiers,\" said Hale, \"you see a man\n        Whom Death must have and keep;\n      And things there are, if I should think,\n        I could not help but weep.\n\n      \"But since in darkness, evermore,\n        God's providences hide,\n      The bravely good, in every age,\n        By faith have bravely died.\n\n      \"That man who scorns his present case,\n        For glorious things to be,\n      I hold that in his scorn he shows\n        His soul's nobility.\n\n      \"Though George the Third completely scourge\n        Our groaning lives away,\n      It cannot, shall not be in vain\n        That I stand here to-day.\n\n      \"Oh take the wings of noble thought!\n        Run out the shapes of Time,\n      To where these clouds shall lift, nor leave\n        A stain upon the clime.\n\n      \"Behold the crown of ages gone,\n        Sublime and self-possessed;\n      In empire of the floods and shores\n        None so completely blest.\n\n      \"This land shall come to vast estate,\n        In freedom vastly grow,\n      And I shall have a name to live,\n        Who helped to build it so.\n\n      \"Ye patriots, true and sorely tried,\n        When the dark days assail,\n      I seem to see what tears ye shed,\n        At thought of Nathan Hale.\n\n      \"Where is that man among ye all,\n        Who come to see me die,\n      That would not glory in his soul,\n        If he had done as I?\n\n      \"Judge, then, how I have wrecked my life.\n        And in what cause begun.\n      I sorrow but in one regret,\n        That I can lose but one.\n\n      \"In Thee, O Christ! I now repose--\n        Thou art my All to me;\n      And unto Thee, thou Triune God--\n        Oh make my country free!\"\n\n      Then turning to a guard, who wept\n        Like sudden April rain,\n      And scattered from his generous eyes\n        The drops of holy pain.\n\n      \"Unto your honest tears I trust\n        These letters to convey.\"\n      Then, to the Provost-Marshal, Hale\n        Did mildly turn, and say:\n\n      \"Before from underneath my feet\n        The fatal cart is gone,\n      I fain would hear the chaplain pray;\n        Sir Provost have you none?\"\n\n      As when a dreadful lion roams\n        The torrid sands, and sees\n      A fawn among the valleys drink,\n        Beneath the tuneful trees;\n\n      If, 'chance, he sees the tender hind\n        Just move behind an oak,\n      He snaps his teeth, and snaps his tail,\n        And makes the desert smoke.\n\n      So, when the Provost witnessed Hale\n        To softer hands convey\n      His parting love, and heard him ask\n        To hear the chaplain pray,\n\n      He jumped like mad, he danced about,\n        Did dance, and roar, and swear--\n      The furies in his furnace eyes,\n        And in his rampant hair.\n\n      \"Dog of a thief! ere you shall have\n        Priest, book, or passing-bell,\n      Your rebel hide shall rot in air,\n        Your soul shall roast in hell!\"\n\n      \"God's will be done!\" said Nathan Hale:\n        \"Farewell to life and light!\"\n      They pulled the cloth about his eyes,\n        And the slack cord was tight.\n\n\nV.\n\n1.\n\n      Once more the rack, along the Sound,\n        Curled to the mounting sun,\n      That kissed, with mercy's beams, a world\n        Where such strange things are done.\n\n      Along our lines the sentry walked;\n        The dew was on his hair;\n      He felt the night in every limb,\n        But kept his station there;\n\n      And watched the shimmering spires, and saw\n        The swallows slide away;\n      When, o'er the fields, there came a man,\n        Rough, and in rough array.\n\n      \"Holla, you Yankee scout!\" said he,\n        \"They've caught your Captain Hale,\n      And choked him for a traitor spy,\n        Dead as a dead door-nail.\n\n      \"Run--use your rebel soldier legs--\n        Tell General Washington.\n      Don't wait--you'll be promoted for't--\n        I'll stand and hold your gun.\"\n\n      Out spake the guard--\"You British crow,\n        Curse on your croaking head!\n      Move off, or else, I swear, you'll get\n        The cartridge and the lead.\"\n\n2.\n\n      Full of his news, the sentry soon\n        To Knowlton told the same.\n      Knowlton, with tears in either eye,\n        To the head-quarters came,\n\n      And told to General Washington\n        Poor Hale's unhappy case.\n      Nought answered he, but bowed awhile,\n        With hands upon his face.\n\n      Then rising, steadfast and serene,\n        The same great master still--\n      Curbing a noble sorrow down\n        With a more noble will--\n\n      \"Bring me,\" said he, \"my writing-desk,\n        And maps last night begun;\n      Send hither Putnam, Lee, and Greene,\n        For much is to be done.\"\n\n      So perished Nathan Hale. God grant\n        Us not to die as he;\n      But, for the glorious Stripes and Stars,\n        Such iron loyalty.\n\n\n    NOTE.--Nathan Hale was a native of the town of Coventry, in\n    Connecticut; and graduated at Yale College, in 1773. He entered the\n    army of the Revolution at an early period, as a captain in a light\n    infantry regiment, under command of Colonel Knowlton. After the\n    defeat of the 27th August, 1776, and the retreat of the Americans\n    from Long Island, Washington became exceedingly desirous to gain\n    some information respecting the future operations of the enemy, and\n    applied to Colonel Knowlton, through whom Hale was introduced, and\n    volunteered his services.\n\n    He disguised himself, crossed to Long Island, procured admission to\n    the British camp, obtained the information desired, and was about\n    leaving the Island, when a refugee and a relative recognised, and\n    betrayed him.\n\n    The case was clear. Hale confessed; and Sir William Howe ordered\n    him hung the next morning. He suffered like a patriot and a\n    Christian. \"I lament,\" said he, \"that I have but one life to\n    lose for my country.\" The provost-marshal, who superintended the\n    execution, was a savage-hearted man, and refused him the attendance\n    of a clergyman, and the use of a Bible, and destroyed letters which\n    he had written to his mother, and other friends, making the remark,\n    that \"the rebels should not know that they had a man in their army\n    who could die with so much firmness.\"\n\n    An aged physician, recently deceased, was accustomed to relate an\n    anecdote that is worthy of preservation. The Doctor, when a small\n    boy, attended a school taught by Hale in the town of East Windsor,\n    Connecticut. One day Hale was standing at his desk, in a deep\n    study, when certain wide-awake boys began to take advantage of his\n    inattention.\n\n    The narrator thereupon went softly to his side, touched him, and\n    pointed to the scene of mischief. Hale, without turning his head,\n    dropped a look[25] upon the little informer--a mild look, but full\n    of rebuke,--\"Go back to your seat,\" said he. The boy slunk away,\n    and neither misunderstood nor forgot this rebuke of the ungenerous\n    and disloyal, from his true-hearted teacher; and associated as the\n    incident became with the subsequent fate of Hale, it made a deep\n    and affecting impression upon his memory.\n\n[Footnote 25: The Doctor described Hale as having had remarkably fine\nand expressive blue eyes.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE DREAMER.\n\nBY MARY E. HEWITT.\n\n\n      Last night he kissed me,--kissed me in my dream!\n        He unto whom I with pure flame aspire,--\n      His eyes poured down on mine love's kindling beam,--\n        Through all my being ran the immortal fire,\n        I felt cold doubt within my breast expire,--\n      I felt his clasp, as gently he enwound me;\n      I felt his heart beat, as he closer bound me;\n        He kissed me! measure of my soul's desire;\n      He kissed my down-drooped eyelids,--kissed my brow;\n        Felt he no thrill, my well beloved one,\n      While passed the vision that enchains me now?\n        Ah, no! the ecstasy was mine alone;\n      And, while the memory on my spirit lies,\n      I fear, lest he should read my dream within my eyes.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  C. Schuessele del.      Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.\n        Chromolith of P. S. Duval Phil.\n\nFALLS OF S^{T.} ANTHONY]\n\n\n\n\nWHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.\nA LEGEND OF THE FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY.\n\nBY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nThe glowing noonday's sun was resting over the rocks that lay and the\nwaters that dashed in the region of St. Anthony's Falls. The long row\nof hills in the distance was tinged with gold, which mixed gaudily\nwith their purple hues. The dark green of the trees that grew on the\nopposite shore interposed between the brightness of the hills beyond\nand the white glare of the foaming waters.\n\nAbove the Falls, large trees lay fixed in the river, notwithstanding\nthe efforts the waves appeared to be making to remove every obstacle\nthat lay in their way, which led to the edge of the precipice, where\nthey threw themselves into the abyss below.\n\nLarge and small fragments of rocks dotted the water in every direction,\nand in the centre of the Falls lay a number of rocks reposing against\neach other, with rich, luxuriant shrubs and trees rising from among\nthem.\n\nNotwithstanding the noise of the falling waters, and the roaring of the\nboiling waves below, there was great beauty mingled with the grandeur\nof the scene. The width of the river at this point made the height of\nthe Falls appear less than it really was. The association connected\nwith the death of Wenona,[26] the injured, but loving wife, gave a\nromantic cast to the red man's thoughts, as he rested from the toils of\nthe chase near this beautiful scene. He could identify the very spot\nwhere she raised her arms, while the notes of her death-song pealed\nabove all other sounds, as her slight canoe bent towards her child's\nand her own grave. He marvelled that the boiling of the waters did not\nappal her, or that the voice of her husband did not rouse her from her\nfatal purpose.\n\nBut now there is no person near, to take from the solitary beauty of\nthe scene. If the screaming of the loon were heard, it was immediately\nfollowed by the flapping of her wings, as she passed to the spirit\nlakes, over whose quiet surface she loved better to rest. The deer were\nall far distant;--the shade of the forest trees was more acceptable now\nthan the rays of the summer's sun. Whatever might be the burden of the\nsong of the waters, it was unheard, save by the spirits that are ever\nassembled in numbers around this hallowed spot.\n\nWhen the intense heat had passed away, a fresh, invigorating wind was\nfelt among the rocks and waves. Evening was unfolding her mantle, and\nher breath was playing over the bright flowers that even here enjoy\ntheir short season of life. The flitting clouds were gathering towards\nthe horizon, constantly changing their hues, and resting in golden\nlines above the hills. Large fish, the bass, and the pike, moved at\ntheir ease in the restless waters, as if there were no fear of being\nbearded in this their stronghold. The beautiful red deer, too, has\nbeen tempted to come and be refreshed,--ever on their guard, though,\nas might be seen by the tossing of their heads when the winds rose and\nwhispered over the earth.\n\nNow they start and flee like lightning, for the light sound of woman's\nstep is heard; and in the very spot where one of them rested, looking\nover the waves, stands a slight figure, bearing in her face and form\nthe marks of youth, while her short and richly embroidered skirt, and\nthe crimson okendokenda, that partly covered her arms and chest, showed\nher to belong to a family at least not unimportant among her people.\n\nShe stood still for some moments in a listening attitude, her face\npale, and every feature fixed in intense thought. She carried a bundle\nof small size: this she seemed to think of value, for she grasped it as\nif her life depended on the preservation of what it contained.\n\nTurning towards the course of the rocks by the river's edge, she\nsurveyed their way; then, bending where she stood, she looked\nunappalled at the waters becoming dark by the shadows of evening.\n\nThere was but little current where she stood, for the position of the\nrocks prevented this, though quite near them the impetuous stream\nhurried on like one tired of existence, eager only to reach and be\nlost in the great ocean of forgetfulness.\n\nThere was evidently some great difficulty in her position, for her\ncolour flushed and left her, and she pressed her hands across her\nbosom, without quelling its tumult: yet it was equally evident her\nobject was self-preservation. Life was dear to the young and active\nblood that animated her veins. There was too much brightness in the\ndepths of those dark eyes to be quenched by death. She looked all\naround her; and well might she have asked if the red man's heaven\nboasted a more beautiful picture than the one now before her.\n\nThe sound of voices has recalled her from her meditations. Loud, stern\nvoices, speaking in tones of anger and disappointment. They were not\nyet very near, but she knew them well. The language was her own, but\nthe lips that spoke it were threatening death to her. She recognised\nhis voice--her husband's--he was the pursuer. And she smiled a bitter\nsmile as she listened to the harsh sounds. Notwithstanding the perils\nthat surrounded her, she was as calm as when she sat by her mother's\ndoor, in the far-off home of the Indians, who live by \"Le Lac qui\nParle.\" All her terror, all her restlessness was forgotten. She raised\nher arm to its greatest height, and elevating her lithe frame too, she\nthrew her bundle as far as her strength enabled her; listening till\nthe voices sounded nearer, and the steps could be distinguished in the\ndead leaves that lay in their path, she swayed her form to and fro, and\nsprung, laughing as she did so, from the rocks. Then swimming round\nthem, disappeared, concealed by the overhanging precipices, as well as\nby the thick foliage that grew close to the water's edge.\n\nHardly was she out of sight when her place was again occupied. A large,\nfierce-looking Sioux stood where she had been standing. He looked round\nas if the object of his search might be hid among the rocks and bushes.\nThe waters laughed just as she had, as he complained of fatigue and\ndisappointment. He looked like a fiend who had forced himself where\nbut a moment ago some gentle spirit had been resting. The passions in\ntheir prime worked in his haughty face. Stripes of different-coloured\npaint lay across his cheeks and around his eyes. His broad chest and\nbrawny arms were uncovered--he raised his hand, and moving it in a half\ncircle, as he turned towards his companions, \"I have looked for her\nuntil I am tired,\" he said; \"perhaps she has killed herself; if she is\nliving, my vengeance shall yet reach her,--I will tear her heart from\nher breast.\"\n\nThen turning, wearied and angered beyond endurance, he strode back\ntowards his home. His giant figure rose far above his companions. His\neye flashed like the lion's deprived of his prey. Well might they call\nhim the Fiery Man.\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nWe must go back two days before this incident occurred. In a large\nwigwam were two persons. The one, a young, pale woman, seated on a\nmat. The white lips and the black shadows beneath the eyes, told of\nwatchings and despair. No tear moistened the colourless eyelids, no\nsigh relieved the overburdened heart. Still as death itself, the young\nmother gazed on the unconscious cause of her agony.\n\nThere it lay, peaceful and calm, against her throbbing heart. There it\nlay, as it was wont, when seated on the high rocks by the Mississippi,\nit heard the sweet tones of a mother's voice. There it lay, never to\nhear even them again.\n\nAbsorbed in her grief, the mother knew not that there was another in\nthe wigwam. She was recalling, as she gazed on the crushed flower thus\nrudely torn from her love, the many and strange changes of the past\nyear. She had once looked forward to the future, as the young always\ndo. She loved and was promised to the one she loved.\n\nFiery Man came from afar, with his powerful, athletic frame, and his\ndeep and piercing eyes, and his voice so low and solemn. He stopped at\nher father's village, returning from a successful expedition against\nthe Sacs; and he was full of proud boastings. He said he was \"a great\nwarrior, and hunter too, for his lodge was always full of game; that he\nhad taken more scalps than any brave of his band; that when he held his\nenemies, they were like children in his large hand.\"\n\nIn an evil hour his eye fell upon White Moon. He loved her because\nshe was the opposite of himself. He fancied the gentle and submissive\nway in which she received the directions of her parents. When he saw\nher eyes droop and her cheek mantle when the warriors danced--when he\nwatched her and marked that she only looked at one--when he inquired,\nand learned that to that one was she destined, then did he mark her for\nhis own; he was as cool and determined as if he had been aiming his\narrow at the frightened grouse; as sure of his prey as if the bird lay\nalready bleeding at his feet.\n\nHe went to her mother, and showed her the rich crimson cloth he had\nreceived from the traders on his way.\n\nOther presents he laid before her, very valuable then; for traders were\njust coming in the country, and articles for use or adorning were rare\namong the Sioux.\n\nThe mother told him her child was promised,--that White Moon loved\nthe noble young warrior she was to marry, and she could not break her\ndaughter's heart.\n\nThe father came in, and Fiery Man showed him his new gun,--they were\nscarce then, and were deemed wakun (supernatural). Fiery Man enlarged\nupon its merits, and he pressed on the foolish old man the advantages\nof securing him as a friend, by giving him his daughter in marriage.\n\nWhite Moon's mother interfered, saying, \"her daughter was a good girl,\nand deserved to be happy. She was not like the other girls, always\nrunning away to look among the rocks in the water for young beavers;\nbut she was steady and industrious, and should make herself happy by\nmarrying the man she loved.\"\n\nFiery Man stamped, and his eyes were bloodshot with rage. He showed the\nparents his medicine-bag; he would make them know what it was to refuse\na medicine-man; he would charm them; he would dry up the red rivers of\nlife; he would make their steps feeble.\n\nAlready would White Moon have trembled, had she been present.\n\nFiery Man saw his advantage, and continued: he was the friend of\nChat-o-tee-dah, the forest god, and he could go where no other Indian\ncould, protected by this powerful friend. He was strong and brave, and\nit was well for the woman who married him, and for her family too.\n\nThe old man had kept his eyes fixed on the gun. Fiery Man told him to\nfollow him; he did so, but could hardly keep pace with the strides of\nthe tall warrior. Fiery Man led him towards the lowlands, where, among\nthe trees, the woodcock were in numbers. They seated themselves on a\nmound, the work of their more enlightened ancestors; they were quiet at\nfirst, only listening to the passing of the birds through the low trees.\n\nFiery Man pointed the gun, and fired; the birds fell to the ground. The\nold man laughed, and Fiery Man showed him the powder and shot.\n\nHe took the gun and explained to his companion the mode of preparing\nit to fire. \"Ha!\" said he, \"you cannot shoot as well as I; but try and\nbring down one.\" The old man pointed, and fired; his aim was sure:\nagain a bird fell before his astonished gaze.\n\n\"It is yours,\" said Fiery Man, \"and the girl is mine. We will go back\nand tell her mother what we have agreed upon.\"\n\nAgain he led the way, and the old man followed him back to the wigwam.\nThere they found mother and daughter. There were tears upon the cheek\nof the latter; she was soon to know how vainly they were shed. She\nturned away from the gaze of her tall lover, and hid her face against\nher mother's bosom.\n\n\"Tell her,\" said Fiery Man to White Moon's father; but the old man\nknew of the bitter dregs he would stir up in the fountain of life\nbefore him: he could not find words to tell the young maiden her doom.\n\nFiery Man could not brook the delay. He laid his brawny hand on the\nyoung head that had not yet been lifted from its refuge-place. \"She is\nmine,\" he said to the mother; \"I have bought her. That wakun gun is\nher father's, that red cloth is yours. White Moon must go with me to\nmy lodge: she must give me warriors like myself for sons. She will be\nobedient and happy, because her husband is powerful, and feared.\"\n\nWhite Moon raised her head and looked in his face; for hope? as well\nmight she have asked it in the glancing of the tomahawk of a Chippeway.\n\nThat dark, stern face was softened, it is true: but it was from\nthe contemplation of her attractive features; pride was changed to\nsatisfaction: but it was because he knew that the graceful figure which\nclung to her mother for protection would soon lean only on him. She\nsighed and turned away her face; she trembled and sank upon the mat\nwith weakness; no hope--all her bright visions changed: darkness and\ngloom had come where day had presided in all her brightness.\n\nA short time saw Fiery Man lead to his wigwam his sad young wife,\nwearied to death with her long journey. Could love have consoled her,\nshe had been happy: for she was as dear as life to the heart of the\npassionate, overbearing man. As he led her into the wigwam, he pointed\nto its present occupant. He said she was his sister, but the first\nglance did the same. There was the tall, gaunt figure; the fierce,\nflashing eye; the passionate, commanding countenance; but far more\nrepelling in her than in him. White Moon read her own fate; she was to\nendure hatred as well as love. She could see no shelter from the storm\nthat was settling over her head.\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nThe sister of Fiery Man stood unnoticed, we have said, in the lodge\nwhere White Moon sat with her dead child. On her back she carried a\nlarge bundle of wood. As she threw it to the ground, the noise roused\nWhite Moon from her dreams. She rose from her mat, clasping the child\nyet more closely to her breast. Giving one look towards her sister, in\nwhich was concentrated all the passion and all the harshness of which\nshe was capable, she left the lodge. The crimson flush soon died away\nfrom her face, and she was calm and pale as before.\n\nAssisted by several of the women, she proceeded to place her child upon\nits last resting-place. It was at some distance from the lodge, yet in\nsight. She returned, and carried to the place of burial the cradle and\nsome little trinkets belonging to the child, and hung them in reach of\nthe infant's hand, on the scaffolding.\n\nAll day she sat on the ground near it. She wept there, as only a mother\ncan weep, for her first and only child. She refused the food the women\noffered her; she had not eaten since its death.\n\nEven when night came, she was still there, through its long watches\ngiving vent to her violent grief. The breaking of the morn found\nher sleeping for a short interval on the ground; on awakening, she\nremembered there were duties that still claimed her care. Her new\nbuffalo-skin lodge was still unfinished, and she had promised her\nhusband she would be in it on her return. The one they were living in\nwas her sister's; it was an old one, torn, and admitting the rain, so\nthat it was not comfortable. Some of the women had assisted her in\nmaking it, and she had still to finish and set it up before the evening.\n\nOn the day of the child's death she had been obliged to leave her work,\nto go out at some little distance to cut wood. She did not, as usual,\ntake her child with her: it was asleep in its carved board cradle,\nand she left it in charge of a girl, the child of one of her friends.\nFiery Man's sister had gone out, telling White Moon she should be away\nall day. So great was her dread of this proud woman--so fearful was\nshe that she would revenge on her child the hatred she felt towards\nherself--that otherwise she would not have left the infant at home.\n\nThe anticipations of White Moon at her first interview with her\nhusband's sister were all realized. This woman possessed all the bad\nqualities of Fiery Man, without any of his redeeming ones.\n\nShe had been married, and was a widow. Both of her children were dead:\nthere was no avenue by which kindness could find its way to her heart.\nShe disliked White Moon, because she had so won her brother's love. But\nthere needed to assign no reason, for she disliked all who were better\noff than she.\n\nIt is not only in civilized life that the dread passion of envy\nhas full sway: the human heart, the same by nature, varies only by\nassociation and circumstance.\n\nHad it not been for the unhappy disposition of Fiery Man's sister,\nWhite Moon had been happy. She could not but be proud of her husband,\nand of his affection for her: it was not in the nature of a Sioux woman\nto see unmoved the many trophies of his skill and bravery. But the\ncurse of envy was about her; and when White Moon smiled over her boy,\nand Fiery Man exulted in the pride and affection of a Sioux father for\nhis son, his sister could not rejoice with them--she envied and hated\nthem.\n\nFiery Man exacted the most implicit obedience from his wife, and from\nall around him. He would not have brooked the slightest contradiction\nfrom her; but she did not attempt it.\n\nIn most cases an Indian wife is little more than a serving-woman to\nher husband. To this White Moon was accustomed from observation,\nand from her short experience. She trembled at her husband's voice,\nthough against her it had never been raised in anger. But the violent\npassions, the abusive language, the frequent blows--these, coming from\none who ought to have no power over her, made her often wish for death.\nYet so great was the likeness of brother and sister, that she bowed to\nthe tyranny of the one, from having done so to the other. Her spirit,\ntoo, was broken. She could easily submit, but not forget. When she left\nher child in the wigwam it was quietly sleeping; when she returned it\nstill slept. She had been a long time away, and yet the rest of the\ninfant appeared to have been unbroken.\n\nShe missed the girl who had promised to remain with the child. She had\nbrought a heavy burden of wood to her lodge, and she sat down by the\nchild to rest, and to watch its awakening.\n\nIts unusual paleness alarmed her; she held her own breath that she\nmight distinguish the breathing of the child, but in vain. She placed\nher hand before its parted lips; the warm breath of infancy did not\nplay upon it.\n\nShe thought it strange; but death did not present itself to her mind.\nGoing to the door of the lodge, she looked around, and saw her sister\ngazing, with fixed attention, towards the wigwam. This alarmed her,\nand she returned to her child; again she listened for its breath: she\npressed its small and clammy hand. Then did the real truth flash across\nher. She took in her arms the infant and rushed with it into the open\nair.\n\nAs she stood outside calling for help, the Indians collected around her.\nHer sister, calm and unconcerned, approached with them and looked on.\n\nThe Indian doctors were there, and White Moon, under their direction,\ncarried her child back to the lodge. She placed it on a buffalo-robe,\nwhich was folded on the floor. Red Head, the great medicine-man, seated\nhimself near it. He held the sacred rattle, shaking it, and chaunting\nin a loud voice. He shouted to the women to stand off, for near him, on\nthe ground, he had laid his pipe and medicine-bag.\n\nWhite Moon alternately wept and hoped; she knew Red Head was a\npowerful medicine-man: but still her baby showed no signs of life.\nDespairing, at last, and frantic with grief, she broke in upon his\nincantations. She raised her child, and placed its little face against\nher breast. She knew this test would be decisive.\n\nThere was no motion, on its part, to receive the offered sustenance.\nShe raised her despairing eyes, and they met the cold glances of her\nsister. Then she told Red Head there was no hope. She asked to be left\nalone with her dead; she wept until the power of weeping was gone: and\nthen, until the time was come to place it in its cradle grave, she held\nit to her heart. She did not dare reflect on the passionate grief of\nthe father, when he should return, and ask of her his son.\n\nShe could not rouse herself to say, what she believed to be the case,\nthat his sister had destroyed it. There was no mark,--no apparent cause\nfor its sudden death.\n\nOn returning to the wigwam, after the burial of the child, she found\nher sister there, more than usually bent upon an altercation. She\nendeavoured to avoid it by employing herself in silence. She eat for\nthe first time since her child's death, and then applied herself to the\ntask of finishing her lodge. Her bereaved condition might have excited\nthe pity of her companion; but there was no sympathy in that breast.\nFor a time, White Moon would not reply to her taunts. This the more\nenraged the other, who at length charged the heart-broken mother with\nthe murder of her child!\n\nWhite Moon heard her in stupified horror and amazement. That a\nmother could destroy her infant,--no such sentiment could reach her\nunderstanding or her heart. Yet again and again did her sister repeat\nthe charge, dwelling upon the impossibility of the child's dying\nwithout a cause. No one, she said, had been with the infant during her\nabsence; the young girl, who had promised to take care of it, having\ngone off soon after White Moon left. She then insisted, that as White\nMoon had been forced to marry her brother, she had thus resented upon\nhim her wrong. She had killed his child, forgetting it was her own.\n\nThe despairing woman was roused by a sense of the injustice done her.\nShe saw, too, her position,--the danger in which she stood. She felt,\nin anticipation, the reproaches, the hot anger of her husband.\n\nShe was roused even to madness. Her many wrongs stood up in witness\nagainst the woman who, in her deep sorrow, thus goaded her. Her slight\nframe expanded; the gentle and obedient wife, the submissive woman,\nhad become a murderer; her knife lay in the heart of her husband's\nsister,--the strong had bowed before the weak!\n\nThe act was so instantaneous, that White Moon stood alone to behold the\nconsequences of her passion. It was during the hottest part of the day,\nand their lodge stood apart from the rest. Most of the men were on the\nhunt with Fiery Man; the women, some sleeping away the sultry hours,\nothers off at their different employments.\n\nThe hoarse groans of the dying woman were not heard outside the\nlodge, so that White Moon was not detected. On one of the mats lay\nthe embroidered dress of a young warrior that Fiery Man's sister had\njust finished. She immediately determined upon making her escape,\nand taking these clothes with her as a disguise. She made them into\na bundle before the eyes of the dying woman, and resolved upon flying\nfrom her husband's resentment.\n\nHow often she had called for death, yet how closely she now clung\nto life. The violent excitement through which she had passed had\nbrought again the colour to her cheek. Brightness had succeeded to the\nexpression of languor in her eyes. There was no tie to keep her in\nher husband's home. She now only thought of him as the avenger of his\nsister's blood.\n\nShe left the lodge without even a glance towards the cause of her\nmisery and her sin. She turned from the places which would now know her\nno more.\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nFiery Man and the large party of hunters came in sight of their home\non the evening of the same day. They had brought a large number of\nbuffalo, and were glad to reach the vicinity of their village, where\ntheir wives and other women came forward to relieve them of their\nburden. Merry work it was to them on this occasion, until they learned\nsome of the hunters were missing.\n\nFiery Man looked to see his wife and child among them, and was\ndisappointed and irritated at not seeing them; but he remembered White\nMoon was always backward in joining these noisy parties, and thus he\naccounted for her absence.\n\nHis tall figure was slightly clad, for the weather was warm--in his\nright hand he held a spear, and on its top was a scalp recently taken.\nHe strode on without waiting to explain the occasion of this, only\nthinking of his wife and son. He did not miss his sister, though he\nmight well have done so, for she was always ready with her strong arm\nto assist the hunters, and her loud voice to give directions to the\nwomen.\n\nThere was a great deal of confusion as they entered the village, for\nthe absence of the three hunters had been accounted for, though not by\nFiery Man, who had passed forward towards his lodge.\n\nThe hunters, enthusiastic with their success, (for the number of\nbuffalo they had killed was unusually great,) were surprised by a party\nof Iroquois, and in the sudden terror three of the Sioux, who had laid\ndown their arms, intending to sleep, were killed and scalped. These\nIroquois had come from a great distance; their villages were in the\nwestern part of New York. They were then in the height of their power,\nand constantly performed exploits that astonished other Indian nations.\n\nBut that a small party should have travelled four hundred leagues,\nliving by chance, surrounded by their enemies; that they should venture\namong so powerful a people with such an object, is indeed remarkable;\nthat they should have been successful, is still more so.\n\nThey lost one of their party. Fiery Man pursued them, with some others,\nas they endeavoured to make their escape, and killed one, whose scalp\nadorned his spear.\n\nThe lamentations of the families whose relatives had been killed, their\naffectionate but melancholy reception of their dead bodies--for they\nhad been wrapped in skins and brought home--the loud talking of those\nengaged in caring for the immense quantities of buffalo-meat and the\nvaluable skins,--all these were unnoticed and indeed unheard by Fiery\nMan.\n\nEven his stout heart quailed before the silent and gloomy appearance of\nhis lodge. There was not even an evidence of habitation.\n\nThe lodge on which White Moon had been engaged lay heaped up near it;\nbut there was no one there to welcome him.\n\nHe threw up the door and looked in; then started almost affrighted at\nwhat he saw. His sister lay dead--and the only creature near her was\nthe small dog that had been always by her side during life. He could\nnot mistake the horrible symptoms,--the fallen jaw, the dark-looking\nblood, the face calm and composed in its expression, as it never had\nbeen in life.\n\nHe turned again from the lodge to seek his wife and child,--the former\nwith her timid and almost fearful salutation, the latter with his merry\ninfant laugh, as he reached forth his hands to be taken close to his\nfather's heart.\n\nHe looked around among the groups talking here and there. They were\ngazing at him, with doubt and consternation in every countenance;\nfor who would dare tell him of all?--who would expose himself to the\nviolence of his wrath?--who but feared to see that iron frame bowed\nwith the tale of horror he must hear?\n\nHe hastened towards them, and shook Harpstinah roughly by the arm.\n\"Where is my wife?--my child? Speak!\" he said, as the woman, in her\nfright, seemed to have lost the power of speech.\n\nAn old man, who had not accompanied the hunting party, on account of\nhis age, came forward. \"There is your son,\" he said, pointing to the\nburial-ground. \"Your wife left him asleep, and your sister--\"\n\nHarpstinah, having recovered herself, interrupted him: he had but a\nconfused notion of the state of things. She told Fiery Man all the\ncircumstances, even to her going to the lodge, drawn thither by the\ncontinual crying of the dog, and finding his sister there in her\ndeath-pangs. She had tried to make Harpstinah comprehend a message to\nher brother, but had expired with the effort. Previous to that she had\ntold several persons that White Moon had killed her child, but no one\nbelieved it. The affectionate care of the mother was too well known;\nbesides, the girl who had been left in charge of her, said the infant\nhad awakened a short time after White Moon had left, and had then\nfallen asleep again.\n\nWhite Moon had been seen as she hurried from the village, but no one\nhad seen her return. Harpstinah had heard angry words passing between\nthem, but did not know that anything more serious had occurred,\nuntil some time after, when she entered the lodge, as she had before\ndescribed. All presumed it must have been the act of White Moon, as she\nhad expressed previously her intention of remaining at home, in order\nto finish her lodge.\n\nThis was the substance of the intelligence, to which Fiery Man listened\nwith an ashy countenance and a trembling frame. His wife, whom he had\nso loved--his boy, the noble, healthy child, whose growth he had\nwatched day by day! As he bent forward to listen, large tears rested on\nhis cheek. The women moved off affrighted at the spectacle, that tears,\nsuch as women shed, should be seen there.\n\nThere was one who still remained beside him. Fiery Man had not heard\nthe charge brought against his wife of the murder of her child. So\nstricken was he, that he only heard and felt that they were gone.\nThe Fawn still remained beside him: she had loved Fiery Man, and had\nhoped to be his wife. She waited to speak when he should arouse from\nthe first stupor of his grief. He turned to go, he knew not where; he\nheard his name called, and saw the Fawn beside him. \"Your sister said\nthat White Moon had never loved you, and was now revenged; that you had\ntorn her from all she had loved; that even her old mother had wept, and\nasked you to leave her with her, but in vain; and it was for this White\nMoon had killed your child, that you might have sorrow too.\"\n\nThen came back the colour to the bronzed cheek of Fiery Man, and the\nflashing to his eye. Then did he stand erect, like one that had never\nknown grief--then did love change to bitter hatred. The wife of his\nbosom was his worst enemy. There were no more tears, but loud threats\nof vengeance--no trembling, but firm purposes of revenge.\n\nHe went again to the lodge, to look at his sister's body. He left her,\nand stood by the grave of his child. He laid his hand upon the little\nbody, and stood thus while he decided what to do. He shouted for the\nyoung men, and told them to go and hunt for his wife, and bring her\nback to him.\n\nIt was fearful to see the paroxysms of his hot anger. He lay down on\nthe grass near his child; he rested, but not with sleep. He sought his\nwife through the night, but in vain. He went into the thick forests;\nhe remembered Chat-o-tee-dah, the god of the woods, was his friend; he\nprayed to the god; he sacrificed to the wakeen-stone; but still he was\nunsuccessful.\n\nHe knew neither sleep nor rest until the evening of the next day, when\nhe was forced to yield to his overtaxed condition. There did he stand,\nby the Laughing Waters, where she had stood. The White Moon was making\nher way, slowly and sadly, but clinging to life--full of grief, but\nfearing the avenger--living on the berries of the woods, and sleeping\nwhere the red deer and its young lie down to rest.\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nA short time after the events we have noticed, a young and\nslight-looking Sioux warrior entered one of the villages of that\nnation. He was a stranger and alone. This was enough to insure him a\nhospitable reception. On approaching the lodges which were nearest him,\nhe seemed to hesitate as to what course he should pursue as regards\nmaking himself known. In the mean time his appearance had attracted a\ngood deal of attention.\n\nHis limbs were slight but well formed, his figure denoting agility\nrather than strength. His dress was new and handsomely ornamented;\nhis leggins were of very fine deer-skin, dressed so as to be white and\nsoft, and these, as well as his coat, were richly embroidered with\nporcupine quills. He had no blanket, nor were there any war-eagle\nfeathers in his head; his pipe, made of an earthen material, was\nlarge and heavy. He was without arms of any kind: this was the most\nremarkable feature in his appearance.\n\nHe was pale, as if he had been ill, and there was at times an\nexpression of wildness, almost amounting to ferocity, in his\nappearance. He advanced towards a lodge outside of which stood the\nfamily; they spoke to him at once, telling him to sit down and rest\nhimself. One of the women seeing his mocassin was torn, untied it,\nsaying she would mend it.\n\nBefore asking him his name or errand, they insisted upon his eating,\nknowing from his features and dress he was a Sioux.\n\nHis feet they found blistered and inflamed. The women of the lodge got\nsome herbs, laid them in cold water, and applied them to the inflamed\nparts.\n\nThey gave him wild rice, in an earthen bowl of a kind manufactured\nby themselves, the art being now lost. They were then destitute of\nmetallic vessels of any kind.\n\nThe young warrior, after he had eaten, proceeded to give an account of\nhimself. He said he had come a great distance in search of an uncle who\nhad suddenly disappeared from among them. He was a very important man\namong them, famous for his wisdom, and for knowing all the history of\ntheir people, the Mendewakantonwau Dacotas. He could always tell them\nthe year when buffalo would be the most plentiful; he could direct\nthem to the very spot where the largest herds could be found.\n\nHis people, he said, lived on the banks of the Minesota; the mouth\nof this river, his uncle said, lay immediately over the centre of\nthe earth, and under the centre of the heavens: the Great Spirit had\nordered this, that they might know they were his favourite people,\nsuperior to all other nations.\n\nAll these things his uncle had learned in dreams; and often he spoke of\nthem to the young people, that they might be proud of their country,\nand might remember who was their Great Father and friend.\n\nOn one occasion he had assembled the young people, and told them of\nthe bloody battles they had fought with the Sacs and Foxes and other\nnations. Some of the Dacota bands had been destroyed by them, but they\nhad been saved because they were under the centre of the heavens, and\nthe eye of the Great Spirit was always upon them. They knew more too\nthan the other bands, and were in consequence much better off.\n\nOn that occasion he had talked nearly all night, and after that they\nall retired to rest. On awaking, the old warrior had disappeared, and\nsince then had never been seen. Whether Unk-ta-he had drawn him into\nthe deep, or Chat-o-tee-dah, the god of the woods, had drawn him under\nthe earth, or the Great Spirit had taken him, no one knew. He was no\nmore among them.\n\nThe young man went on to say he had had a dream, in which he was told\nto array himself in new clothing, and to go in search of his uncle. He\nwas forbidden to take arms or provisions of any kind; and in a short\ntime he would have an interview with his uncle. This he had done in\nspite of the objections of his friends, who urged him at least to take\nhis bow and arrows, but he had refused to do so, preferring to follow\nimplicitly the directions he had received in his dream. He had been in\nthe woods a long time, and was almost despairing, when one night he\nfell into a deep sleep, and his uncle stood before him; not old and\nwrinkled and time-worn, as he remembered him, but erect and firm. His\nvoice was strong too, and he could have been heard a long way off, he\nspoke so loud and distinctly.\n\nHe said that the Sioux need not any more look for his return, for\nthat in the far-off country where he lived, he had none of those\nweaknesses and pains to contend with, which are constantly among the\naged on earth: he had wanted to try the bravery of his young nephew,\nto see whether or not he would have courage to do as he was told. He\nwas glad he had done so, for now he would be a favourite of the gods,\nwho delighted in courageous acts. He directed him as to what route he\nshould take, telling him of everything that would happen to him on his\nway to the village, and charged him to say to them, that he should be\nfurnished with a lance, bow, and arrows, and also have given to him a\ncomrade, and be allowed to stay in the band. The Indians were overcome\nwith admiration at the courage shown in these adventures, and they\nimmediately presented him with the arms he required, and in every other\nway gratified his wishes.\n\nHe accepted these things proudly, as a right, rather than a favour;\nthis bearing made him still more popular with his new friends.\nOne of them came forward and told him he should have his oldest\ndaughter--pointing to the well-pleased maiden--for a wife: the stranger\nsaid he had promised his uncle he would not marry until he had killed\nthree Winnebagoes, and wore the feathers of honour he had thus earned.\n\nHe continued to grow in their favour, and was preparing to accompany\nsome of their braves on a war-party, when, one morning, a party of\nSioux approached the village. One of the men was much taller and larger\nthan all the rest, his eagle feathers towering above their heads. The\nhospitable people pressed forward to welcome them: and when they were\nrested, and had eaten and smoked, the chief missed their stranger\nfriend. He was not to be seen; when they found he did not return to\nthem, they told his strange story to Fiery Man and his band.\n\nThe wretched man knew it was his wife who had thus baffled him. He\nwent on his way, but some evil spirit stood between him and the\naccomplishment of his purpose. She was not to be given to his vengeance\nor his love. There was happiness yet in store for White Moon.\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nChat-o-tee-dah, the god of the woods and forests, holds a high rank\namong the Sioux; by some he is considered even greater than the\nThunder-Bird. Were it not for the great number of Thunder-Birds, that\nrace would long since have been extinct; so many battles have they had,\nand so powerful is the god whose home is in the dark woods, whose\nguardians and servants are every bird that rests itself in the branches\nof the trees, whose notes welcome the coming of the day.\n\nChat-o-tee-dah passes by the shrubbery of the lowlands, and makes his\nhome on the largest tree on the highest eminence of the forest; his\ndwelling is in the root of the tree. He is not confined to this part of\nit, but comes out when occasion may require.\n\nIs he hungry? he takes his seat upon the branch of the tree, and, by\nhis power of attraction, he is soon surrounded by the winged messengers\nof the forest, ready to do his bidding. While he is thus holding his\ncourt, the limb of the tree on which he is seated becomes smooth as\nglass.\n\nChat-o-tee-dah and the Thunder-Bird, as I have said, are enemies: and\nmany hard battles have been fought between them, the god of the woods\nbeing generally the victor.\n\nThis is to be ascribed, in a great measure, to the attachment and\nvigilance of his body-guard, the birds of the forest.\n\nAt the slightest commotion in the heavens, whose stormy portents\nindicate the coming of the Thunder-Bird, Chat-o-tee-dah is roused from\nhis sleep, or whatever occupation may engage him at the time, by his\nservants; he has thus ample time to make his arrangements.\n\nWhile the clouds roll swiftly and angrily towards the habitation of the\nwater god, and streaked lightning plays in vivid flashes on the earth,\nChat-o-tee-dah is coolly making his preparations for the work of death,\nassured, by his very calmness, of victory. The little birds, hid in\nthe dark branches of the trees, are faithful sentinels, momentarily\nmaking their report, while the god of the woods keeps safely hid in the\nroot of the tree, his stronghold in time of danger.\n\nThe Thunder-Bird resorts to cunning. He takes the form of a large bird,\nbut his disguise is always penetrated by the smallest forest-bird; they\nknow him, and, like faithful servants, keep near their lord. Again and\nagain the thunder rolls, and the lightning plays about the branches\nof the tree. The waters swell and rise up to anger the Thunder-Bird,\nand to tempt him to do battle, but he has too many quarrels to resent\nagainst the forest gods, and the day of his vengeance is come. It is\nnot often that he has courage to tempt the forest god to battle, for he\nknows his power; but now he will show him his own strength, when he is\nroused.\n\nThere is a stillness of the elements, and now again the deafening sound\nis heard, and the lightning pierces the home of the forest god; but\nChat-o-tee-dah is safe, for there is a communication with the roots of\nthe tree and the waters, and he passes through it safely, hearing the\nwhile the noise of the elements, while he descends to the great waters\nbelow.\n\nAgain the earth shakes, for the Thunder-Bird has cast forth his\nlightning, and pierced the root of the tree; but he is again defeated\nby the cunning of the god, who has found a refuge in the dominions of\nUnk-ta-he.\n\nBut at last the forest god is angry, and he has determined to come\nforth from his watery retreat, and beard the Thunder-Bird with his own\nweapons. He hurls back at him the lightning;--in an instant the daring\ninvader is dead at his feet.\n\nThe battles of their gods are unending themes of adventure among the\nSioux. Conversing upon them, the hours are whiled away from evening\nuntil midnight, and often from midnight to morn. The intellect must\nhave occupation. How many a noble mind has thus gone to waste!\n\nWe may judge, from the importance attached to these fanciful stories,\nhow hard must be the work of the Indian missionary. What a system of\nerror to uproot! We may also look into our own hearts:--which is the\ngreater absurdity, the worship of Chat-o-tee-dah or mammon?--the bowing\ndown to the glorious works of the hand of God, or devotions paid to the\ngilded idol of this world?\n\nFiery Man no more boasted of his intercourse with the gods; they seemed\nto have forgotten they were his friends.\n\nHe had sought far and near for his wife. At times his heart was full\nof revenge: that she should have destroyed his son was the bitterest\nreflection of all. His sister's blood seemed still to be flowing before\nhim; vengeance was called for on her who had made his lodge dark for\never. Then a different mood would affect him. She would stand before\nhim, obedient, docile, and timid, with her soft, fearful voice, so\ndifferent from the loud tones of his sister's. He could remember her\nso distinctly, as she held up her child for him to see, as he left the\nlodge to go with the hunting party. Her long, braided hair, falling\nabout her shoulders, as her infant's cheek lay pressed against hers.\nFor the first time he thought she looked sad at parting with him, and\nhe had treasured the thought. He knew _then_ she never raised her hand\nagainst her child. He would have crushed his evil-minded sister for the\nsuggestion, had she stood before him in life. He would sit buried in\nthought, the storms of passion breaking away from his heart; but this\ndid not last, and woe to the man who came before him in his fierce mood.\n\nHe died in battle; but the Indians said he gave his life away, for he\nmet his enemy as if he were in a dream, and shouted no cry as he was\nwont. They brought his body back and buried it by the side of his son:\nand even death did not break the spell of awe connected with him, for\nthe women were afraid to sit and plait grass near his grave. Harpstinah\nmoved her lodge from where it stood, saying, she must live farther off\nfrom the graves, that she might not hear Fiery Man in the night calling\nfor vengeance on his wife, who had deserted him, and murdered his child.\n\nNo one could tell the fate of White Moon. Her parents died soon after\nher disappearance. But the Black Eagle, who some years after visited\nthe Sioux who live among the thousand isles at the head of Rum River,\nsaid, that when he arrived there, White Moon's old lover took him to\nhis lodge, and that his wife helped him off with his snow-shoes, and\nmade him broth, for he was nearly perished with cold and hunger, having\nbeen at one time covered with snow for several days and nights, as his\nonly chance of life.\n\nWhen he told them he had come for some of the stone that lay on the\nshores of that river, to make knives, the war-chief asked him what band\nhe belonged to, and that while he was answering, the woman ceased her\nemployment, listening intently to him. That the war-chief asked him\nwhat had become of that tall chief called the Fiery Man; and that while\nhe was telling of his death, and of his strange condition before it,\nthe woman laughed, and said that after all Chat-o-tee-dah had not been\nas true a friend as the warrior thought, for a weak woman had escaped\nfrom his fiercest anger; and that when he asked her if she had ever\nknown Fiery Man, her husband was angry, and told her to hush, saying,\nwomen always talked too much, and that it was time she had done his\nleggins, which he wanted to wear in the morning, when he met the wise\nmen of their band in council; that when she returned to her work, as\nshe was told, that he was reminded of the quiet obedience with which\nWhite Moon ever listened to the commands of her husband, that tall\nwarrior, Fiery Man, who had gone to that country where thousands of\nwarriors assemble and shout through the heavens their song, as they\ncelebrate the medicine feast.\n\n[Footnote 26: The story of Wenona is given in \"Dacota, or Legends\nof the Sioux,\" in almost the words of the Sioux themselves. It has\nbeen often told by travellers, and there is no doubt but it actually\noccurred. [N. B. This tradition, as given in a letter from Miss Bremer\nto myself, during her visit to the Falls of St. Anthony, will be found\nat the end of this story.--J. S. H.]]\n\n\nNOTE.\n\n    A TRADITION OF THE FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY.--There is a little island,\n    just below the Falls, surrounded by their spray, with picturesque\n    rocks and dark cedars, looking lonely and romantic, more attractive\n    than the Falls, through its peculiar looks, and its story,\n    connected with the Falls and with the people which still hovers\n    around them, on the territory of Minesota, raising tents of one\n    night soon to depart, kindling fires soon to be quenched. It is\n    called the _Spirit Island_, and its tale is that of many an Indian\n    woman,--is in fact the poetic truth of woman's fate among the red\n    men. It tells:\n\n    There was once a hunter of the tribe of the Dacotas (or Sioux)\n    living near the Falls of St. Anthony. He had but one wife, and\n    loved her and was loved by her so well, that the union and the\n    happiness of the hunter and his wife, Ampota Sampa, was talked\n    of among the tribe as wonderful. They had two children, and lived\n    lonely and happy for several years. But as he became known as a\n    great hunter, and grew rich, several families came and raised their\n    tipis (lodges) near that of the happy pair. And words and whispers\n    came to the young man that he ought to have more wives, so that he\n    might enjoy more happiness. He listened to the tempters, and soon\n    made a choice among the daughters of his new friends. But when he\n    had to tell his first wife thereof, his heart smote him, and, to\n    make the news less painful to her, he began by telling her that he\n    had bethought himself that she had too many household cares, and\n    that she wanted somebody to help her in them, and so he would bring\n    her that help in the form of a young girl, who was to be his second\n    wife.\n\n    Ampota Sampa answered \"No!\" She had not too many cares. She was\n    happy to have them for him and his children. She prayed and\n    besought him, by their former love and happy life, by every tender\n    tie, by the love of their little ones, not to bring a new love, a\n    new wife, to the lodge. He said nothing. But this same night he\n    brought home to the lodge his new wife.\n\n    Early next morning a death-song was heard on the waters of the\n    Mississippi, and a canoe was seen gliding swiftly down the rapids,\n    above the Falls of St. Anthony, and in the canoe was sitting a\n    young woman with two little children folded to her bosom. It was\n    Ampota Sampa; and in her song she told the cause of her despair,\n    of her death, of her departure for the spirit-land. So she sat,\n    singing her death-song, swiftly borne onward by the rapids to the\n    edge of the rocks. Her husband, her friends, heard her and saw her,\n    but too late. In a few moments the canoe was at the top of the\n    Falls; there it paused a second, and then, borne on by the rush\n    of the waters, down it dashed, and the roaring waves covered the\n    victims with their white foam.\n\n    Their bodies were never seen again; but tradition says that on\n    misty mornings, the spirit of the Indian wife, with the children\n    folded to her bosom, is seen gliding in the canoe through the\n    rising spray about the Spirit Island, and that the sound of\n    her death-song is heard moaning in the wind and in the roar\n    of the Falls of St. Anthony. Such is the legend of the Indian\n    wife.--FREDRIKA BREMER.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RAIN-DROP.\n\nBY MISS E. W. BARNES.\n\n\n      It quivered on a bended spray--\n        A rain-drop, bright and clear--\n      Though beautiful, it waked sad thoughts,\n        'Twas so like sorrow's tear.\n\n      And on its crystal surface lay\n        Reflected, calm as heaven,\n      The glories of the summer sky,\n        With purple tints of even;\n\n      And earth's transcendent loveliness\n        Was also on its breast,\n      As with her dewy smiles she made\n        The parting sunbeam blest.\n\n      I loved the rain-drop, as it hung\n        So trustingly the while--\n      The verdant earth, the glowing heaven\n        Reflected in its smile.\n\n      A symbol seemed it to mine eye\n        Of the loving human heart,\n      That lives but in the smile of God,\n        Which earth and heaven impart.\n\n      I gazed into its tiny sphere--\n        In miniature it lay,\n      A world of beauty, trembling there,\n        And soon to pass away--\n\n      To pass from earth, and leave no trace,\n        But the memory divine\n      Of beauty, which, within the heart,\n        Erects its own pure shrine.\n\n      The breeze passed by; it swayed the bough\n        Where the sweet gem was hung;\n      But, with tenacious grasp, it still\n        Fondly and closely clung.\n\n      Nor, till with a resistless power\n        The mighty wind swept by,\n      Did the frail thing, so beautiful,\n        In shattered fragments lie.\n\n      And thus, though moved by every breeze\n        That sweeps along our way,\n      Our hearts still cling to life, and still\n        The world asserts its sway.\n\n      But, like the rain-drop, pure and clear,\n        That hangs upon the bough,\n      Oh! soul of mine, give back earth's light,\n        Reflect its glories, thou!\n\n      Give back the summer's rosy tints,\n        The verdant tree, the flower;\n      Give back the mountain and the mead,\n        The summer sun and shower.\n\n      But ah! in thy far deeper depths\n        May heaven reflected lie;\n      Its holy calm--its voiceless wave,\n        Serene as yon soft sky.\n\n      Unruffled be those silent depths--\n        Calm, though the tempest lower.\n      My Saviour! walk thou on the wave,\n        And let it feel thy power.\n\n      Speak to the troubled waters, _Peace_,\n        And passion ne'er shall rise,\n      Nor doubt, nor care, to dim the light\n        That greets me from the skies.\n\n\n\n\nA PLEA FOR A CHOICE PICTURE.\nTO A GENTLEMAN WHO UNDERVALUED IT.\n\nBY MISS L. S. HALL.\n\n\n      Nay, do not say my favourite is tame--\n      Her soul lies dreaming in its tranquil depths,\n      And 'tis not every passive breeze can wake\n      The slumberer from her peaceful reverie.\n      The sheltering wings of Faith, and Hope, and Love\n      Are folded round the temple of her heart,\n      Perpetual guardians of its altar place;\n      And they, of wing\u00e9d feet, who go and come,\n      Must pass beneath their penetrating gaze;\n      Unhallowed sentiments may enter not,--\n      Where these stand sentinels, 'tis hallowed ground.\n\n      Speak but a thrilling word, and you shall meet\n      In those so dreamy eyes, that heed you not,\n      The shadow of your own ecstatic thoughts,--\n      Those lips, so passive now, shall echo back\n      The earnest tones of your own eloquence.\n      But do not measure her internal strength\n      By any standard of man's magnitude.\n      Nor think to fathom what no eye can reach,--\n      She hath a woman's heart, and it hath been\n      The constant struggle of her watchful life,\n      To curb her will, and bend her energies,\n      And train her nature for her destiny;\n      And conscious that she hath a marshalled host,\n      Obedient to the mandates of her soul,\n      She wears a placid brow, and dreads no foe.\n\n      A thoughtless word upon affection's tongue,\n      A look of coldness from a cherished friend,\n      A hardened thought, that wrongs her of her due,\n      And makes her seem what she would scorn to be,\n      Imputing motives she would blush to own,--\n      Her spirit, safe from storms and rude alarms,\n      Is too susceptible to wounds like these;\n      But that calm face will ne'er reveal to thee,\n      Nay, from her dearest friends she'll most conceal,\n      The bitter anguish they can measure not.\n\n      Then do not say her tranquil brow is tame.\n      A passive soul hath ne'er the dignity\n      That sits, a queen, upon her passive face;\n      'Tis nobler far to rule the spirit realm,\n      Than gather laurels from the battle-field.\n\n\n\n\nLOST AND WON.\n\nBY CAROLINE EUSTIS.\n\n\n      Lost the freshness of life's morning;\n        Lost the tints of rosy light,\n      Which like daylight, perfect dawning,\n        Covered all with glory bright;\n      Lost the golden locks which shaded\n        Brow so smooth, and eyes so blue,\n      And the happy smile has faded\n        Round those lips of rosy hue.\n            I have lost,--but I have won.\n\n      Lost the kind oblivious sleeping,\n        Which enshrouds the little child,\n      Like the holy angels keeping\n        Saintly watches,--calm and mild.\n      Lost the dreams of sunny hours,\n        Where no terror dare intrude;\n      Lost the dreams of love and flowers,\n        Of the beautiful and good.\n            I have lost,--but I have won.\n\n      Lost!--oh, most of all the losses!--\n        Lost the childlike, earnest faith,\n      Loving on mid joys and crosses,\n        Thankful still for all it hath.\n      I have lost youth's simple pleasures,\n        Each departed, one by one;\n      But--oh, blessing without measure!--\n            I have lost,--but I have won.\n\n      I have won, through earnest striving,\n        Guerdons above all the loss,\n      Hopes once faded, now reviving\n        Twining round the sacred Cross:\n      Sorrow pale hath been my teacher;\n        Hopes bereft, my gentle friends;\n      Graves of the loved, my silent preacher,\n        Where dust with dust so sadly blends.\n            I have lost,--but I have won.\n\n      I have won, through tribulation,\n        Title to a heavenly home,\n      Working out my own salvation\n        Through the blood of Christ alone.\n      Oh, my future brightest seemeth,\n        Eye of faith, exchanged for sight,\n      With celestial splendour beameth\n        On through darkness into light.\n            I have lost,--but I have won.\n\n      I have won bright hopes immortal\n        Of a heaven of peace and rest;\n      E'en now I linger at the portal,\n        As a kindly bidden guest.\n      Lost and won!--oh earth! oh heaven!\n        Hark!--I list the angels' strain,\n      Voices in the silence even!\n        Small the loss, and great the gain!\n            I have lost,--but I have won.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MISTRUSTED GUIDE.\nA WESTERN SKETCH.\n\nBY A MISSIONARY.\n\n\nIt was the close of a cloudy afternoon, about sunset, in February,\n1818, and I began to think it high time to seek a lodging-place. The\nprairie--the first I had seen, unless it might have been a patch of\na few acres, the day before--was covered with snow; and, although a\ngood many bushes grew on it, and it was somewhat \"rolling\"--I hope my\nreaders know what _that_ is--I confess its aspect was to me, just then,\nmore dreary than picturesque. Our road is best described by the term\nwhich designated it, \"The old Rocky Trace,\" by which may be understood\nthe \"blazed\" road usually travelled from Shawneetown to Kaskaskia.\nThe dwellings were not very numerous--indeed, we had the privilege of\nconsiderable exercise in passing from one to another. Now and then\na block-house, in good condition, showed the rather recent Indian\ntroubles, which had frequently compelled the inhabitants to \"fort.\"\n\nThe sight of a cabin, after a while, was quite cheering. My wife was\nsomewhat tired of carrying the babe all day, and was glad to see a\nprospect of rest and shelter. We drove up, and inquired, as usual, if\nwe \"could get to stay,\" not doubting an affirmative answer. And so we\nhad; yet there was difficulty in the case.\n\n\"I'm afeard, stranger, you'll have to go furder. _Our_ childer's got\nthe hoopin'-cough, and maybe you moughtn't like yourn to go whar it\nmought git it--'less it's had it. You may stop, ef you're a mind to\nresk it, for I don't never turn anybody away; but I didn't like to let\nyou carry your baby in without lettin' you know.\"\n\nHere _was_ a difficulty. We had had the child vaccinated at\nPittsburg, on our way, but had used no precautionary measure against\nhooping-cough, and in \"the dead of winter\" there was some hazard in\nit. I looked at my wife: she looked troubled. Our friend--for he _was_\nfriendly--told us there was \"a house on the Turkey Hill Road, a mile or\ntwo ahead; but it was a smart little bit on the _Rocky Trace_, afore\nwe'd git any place to stop.\" The roads forked just where we stood, and\nwe might choose either, to go to St. Louis; but some circumstance made\nit necessary for me to go through Kaskaskia.\n\n\"What shall we do, wife?\"\n\n\"I really don't know what to advise. I am afraid to expose Amy to the\nhooping-cough, and I am afraid to go on far. It will soon be dark.\"\n\nI was irresolute and anxious. We would have \"timber,\" and probably a\nstream to cross; and, with my little \"dearborn,\" it might be somewhat\nhazardous in the dark. The man sympathized with us--told us we \"were\nwelcome to stay, ef we'd a mind to resk it;\" but then, if we did stay,\nwe would have to be huddled in the same room with the family, and I\ndon't know how many of \"the childer\" had the dreaded disease.\n\nAll this while my wife was sitting in the wagon, and, if not freezing,\nwas sufficiently cold to wish for a good fire. We had hardly observed\nanother man standing near, with whom the man of the house had been\ntalking. He listened in silence for a considerable time, but at length\nspoke.\n\n\"Ef you'll put up with sech as I have--it's tol'able poor--you can go\nto my house and stay.\"\n\nI looked now at the speaker, and discovered an elderly man, in a\nmixed jeans hunting-shirt--it was not the fashion to call it a blouse\nthen--tied round the waist, a 'coon-skin cap, and \"trousers accordin'.\"\nHe had a rifle, or an axe--though I think it was the latter--lying\nacross his arm, and looked wrinkled, and rough, and all drawn up with\nthe cold. The twinkle of his deep-set eyes might be merry, or it might\nbe sinister. I inquired where he lived.\n\n\"Why, it's rayther on the _Turkey Hill_ Road, and about a mile from\nt'other; but I can go in the mornin' and show you the way. It's mighty\neasy gittin' over from thar to yon road.\"\n\nIt occurred to me that his neighbour had not once referred to _him_ to\nsolve the difficulty, and I wondered why; but he now rather intimated\nthat I might as well take up with the old man's offer. I did so,\nwithout consulting my wife's opinion.\n\nHe trudged on, and I trudged after him, leading my horse,--which I did\nmuch of the way across the State,--through the snow. After a little\nwhile I discovered that we left the road, and were winding through a\nsort of ravine, or rather depression of the prairie, almost deserving\nthe name of valley. The snow-covered ground--the brown, or bare\nbushes--the bleak, though diminutive hills--all looked cold, and wild,\nand dreary. My guide still trudged on, seldom looking round; and we\nseemed to be travelling without a road to \"nowhere.\" My wife called me\nto her. Her looks gave token of alarm.\n\n\"Do you think it safe to go on with that old man? I don't like his\nlooks, and this is a wild place. Hadn't we better go back, or try some\nother way? I feel afraid.\"\n\nI laughed at her, but her fears troubled me. She was not given to false\nalarms; or, if she ever felt them, she never annoyed me with them. I\ncannot say that I participated in her fears now. Indeed I did not. The\nold man looked anything but terrible. I thought his countenance mild\nrather than austere. Still, these backwoodsmen were famous for a quiet\nferociousness that could do a brave or terrible deed without the least\nfuss. I did not know what to think. But what to _do_ seemed to admit\nof but one answer--I must go on with him, and trust Providence, who\nhad brought us safely some fifteen hundred miles. My wife shuddered,\nperhaps trembled, and hugged the child closer; but she submitted\nquietly--I may say trustfully. She certainly gave _him_ no hint of her\nfears.\n\nAt length--for the time did not seem very short to me, and doubtless\nstretched out much longer to my wife--but at length, after a long and\nvery gradual slope down a hollow, such as I have _failed_ to describe,\nwe saw the habitation of our guide. It was a cabin of the rudest\nsort and smallest size, in what had perhaps in \"crap time\" been an\nenclosure on the ascent of a slope beyond a little wet weather brook.\nI took notice--for it was an _interesting_ fact to me--that for the\naccommodation of my horse there was a \"rail-pen,\" though, whether it\nwas covered with straw, or \"shucks,\" or prairie hay, or the cloudy sky,\nI do not now remember; for I have seen more such many a time since\nthen; but there was \"cawn\" in another rail-pen close by. So my horse\nwas supplied. But my wife and child must be got into the house first;\nand in we went.\n\nReader, in that little dearborn-wagon was all I had in this world, or\nof it; and though, to say the truth, all, except the wife and child,\nmight have been well sold for a very few hundred dollars--and probably\nthat is an enormous over-estimate--yet it was precious to me, for much\nof _their_ comfort depended on its preservation. And a _few_ hundred\ndollars--nay, a few _dollars_--would make quite an addition to the\ncomforts of the habitation we entered, and of those who dwelt in it.\nThere was neither table nor chair. The puncheon floor was not air-tight\nnor a dead level. The stick chimney and hearth were covered with clay;\nbut there was a fire in it. The bed--but we have not got to the bed yet.\n\nI suppose it happened very well that we had our provisions with us,\nfor I saw no cooking nor anything to cook. I forgot to say, that the\ninmates when we arrived were a boy, dressed something like his father,\nand a girl, whose single garment--we judged from appearances--was a\nhome-spun cotton frock, not white, though I think it had never been\ndyed. Both were barefoot. They might be twelve and fourteen years old.\n\n\"Whar's yer mammy?\"\n\n\"Mom's went over to Jake Smith's; and she haint never come home yit. I\nreckon she's agwine to stay all night.\"\n\nI don't know what made me think so, but I remember I _did_ rather\nsurmise that it was just as well for us. _Something_ made me think of a\nshrew.\n\nPresently, while my wife was spreading the table (i.e. a short bench,\nusually a seat) for our supper, I observed the old man seated on\nsomething, with a plate on his knees, plying his hunting-knife on\nsome cold meat and corn bread for his. I suppose the children had\neaten before our arrival. We had, I believe, our provision-box and an\ninverted half bushel for seats, and ate our supper with commendable\nappetites; for by this time I think my wife's fears were sensibly\nabated. At length bedtime came, and what should be done? There was\na bed, or something like one, in a corner, but that would hardly\naccommodate all five of us and the baby. Soon, however, that doubt was\nsolved. The girl spread a pallet on the floor, taking the straw bed\nfor the purpose; and the feather bed--yes, _feather_ bed--was made\nup on the bedstead for us. That bedstead would be a curious affair,\ndoubtless, in a Philadelphia furniture store. I will endeavour to\ndescribe it. It consisted of one post and three rails; or rather, what\nwas intended to correspond with those parts of a bedstead. The post\naforesaid was a round pole, with the bark on, reaching from the floor\nto the joist or rafter, inserted at top and bottom into auger-holes. At\na convenient height, a branch cut off not quite close on each of two\nsides, formed a rest for two of the poles that served for a side and\nfoot rail, the other end being inserted in auger-holes in the logs\nwhich constituted the wall of the house. One end of the other side-rail\nrested on the foot-rail. Across the two longest poles, or side-rails,\nsplit clapboards rested; and on the scaffold thus formed, the bed was\nmade. I remember that it was comparatively clean; and the bedstead\nbeing quite elastic, and my wife's fears now entirely removed by the\ncheerful consent of our host to unite in family devotion, we slept well\nand soundly: while the family reposed no doubt quite as sweetly on\ntheir bed on the floor.\n\nAfter we had breakfasted, our host, for whom we saw no more preparation\nthan on the night before, piloted us through a grove of tall trees to\nthe Kaskaskia Road, and pointed out our course; when we went on our way\nrejoicing, and saw that day, for the first time, a herd of seven wild\ndeer together.\n\nBut the old man! What became of him? Didn't you pay him?\n\nHe turned homeward, and we saw him no more. We did pay him his full\ncharge, amounting to twenty-five cents!\n\nI do not think my wife was ever afraid of a man after that, because he\nlooked rough in his dress. As for Amy, she had the hooping-cough; I\ndon't remember how soon, but she survived it; and has weaned her eighth\nbaby.\n\nDoes the reader want an apology for a dull story?\n\n\"Story--God bless you, I have none to tell.\"\n\nI could have _made_ one, embellished with various incidents; could have\nhad a rifle pointed, or frozen all our hands and feet at least, \"or\nanything else that's agreeable;\" but it would not then have been, as it\nis now, the simple truth.\n\n\n\n\nA NIGHT IN NAZARETH.\n\nBY MARY YOUNG.\n\n    \"But while he thought on these things, behold, the angel of the\n    Lord appeared unto him in a dream, saying, Joseph, thou son of\n    David, fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife; for that which is\n    conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost.\"--MATTHEW i. 20.\n\n\n      Stern passions rose, and won wild mastery\n      In Joseph's breast. He wandered darkly on,\n      From the calm fountain and the olive grove,\n      Toward the wilderness, as he would find\n      Room for the ocean tumult of his thoughts.\n      Long had he loved her with a matchless love,\n      Deep as his nature, truthful as his truth;\n      And she was his--by every sacred tie--\n      His own, espoused; though ever still had dwelt\n      On Mary's thoughtful brow a chastening spell,\n      That shamed to stillness all life's throbbing pulses:\n      Or, if his words grew passion, there would steal\n      To her large, azure eye a startled glance\n      Of sad, deep questioning, and she would turn\n      Appealingly to heaven, with trembling tears--\n      Yet was it she--the very same he saw,\n      Writ o'er with all the foul name of a wanton.\n\n      One fearful word broke from the quivering lips\n      Of the young Hebrew, as at last alone,\n      By the dark base of a high, shadowy rock,\n      He sank in agony; and then he bent\n      His forehead down to the cool, mossy turf,\n      And lay there silently. Light, creeping plants,\n      And one long spray of the white thornless rose,\n      Stooped low, and swayed above him; a soft sound\n      Of far, sweet, breezy whisperings wooed his ear,\n      Till gentler thoughts stole to him, and he wept.\n      Ere long his ear heard not: all things around,\n      The present and the past--the painful past--\n      Became as though they were not. Joseph lay,\n      With eyes closed calmly, and a strange full peace\n      Breathed to his spirit's depths; for there was one,\n      Fairer and nobler than the sons of earth,\n      Bending in kindness o'er him.\n\n                                    Calmly still,\n      Although to ecstasy his being drank,\n      The fathomless, pure music of the voice\n      Heard in that visioned hour, as once again\n      He stood by the low portal of the home\n      Of Mary. He passed in with noiseless step.\n      Through the dim vine-leaves of the lattice\n      Not a moonbeam fell, and yet a softer ray\n      Than ever streamed from alabaster lamps,\n      Lit the white vesture and the upturned face\n      Of her who knelt in meekness there. Her lips\n      Were motionless, and the slight clasping hands\n      Pressed lightly on her bosom, but a high\n      Seraphic bliss spoke in the fervent hush\n      Of the pure, radiant features; for she held\n      Unsoiled communion with her spirit's lord.\n\n      Slowly away faded that glorious trance,\n      And the white lids lifted as though reluctant.\n      She looked on Joseph, and a faint, quick flush\n      Swept shadowingly her forehead. Woman still,\n      She felt, and painfully, that at the bar\n      Of manhood's pride, earth had for her no witness.\n      But the calm mien, and broad, uncovered brow\n      Of Joseph, told no anger. He drew near,\n      And knelt beside her; and the hand she gave\n      In greeting was pressed close and silently,\n      With reverent tenderness, upon his heart.\n\n\n\n\nTEARS.\n\nBY CHARLES D. GARDETTE, M.D.\n\n\n      'Tis said, affliction's deepest sting\n      Some token of its pain will bring\n              In tears of bitter flow;\n      But they who thus judge sorrow's smart,\n      Know not the pang that wrings the heart,\n              With withering tearless woe!\n\n      The scorching grief that blasts the fount,\n      And dries its tears, ere yet they mount,\n              To soothe the burning eye;\n      That speeds the blood with torrent force\n      Through every bursting vein to course,\n              Yet leave each life-track dry!\n\n      The grief that binds with rankling chain\n      Each feeling of the heart and brain,\n              Save sternness and despair;\n      And crushes with relentless hand\n      Each hope religion's trust had planned,\n              Planting rebellion there!\n\n      Such grief, not one of these have known,\n      Who say that flowing tears alone\n              Proclaim the bosom's throes!\n      Tears are the tokens God designed\n      For lighter griefs of heart and mind,\n              Such as pure child-life knows;\n\n      And therefore, hath He so ordained\n      That infant-tears be not restrained,\n              But lightly caused to flow,\n      That these, who cannot tell their grief,\n      Shall find in weeping, such relief\n              As manhood may not know!\n\n\n\n\nINCONSTANCY.\n\nBY E. M.\n\n\n      They told me he'd forsake me; that the words\n      With which he charmed my very soul away\n      Were like the hollow music of a shell,\n      That learns to mock the ocean's deeper voice.\n      For he had listened to love's tones, until\n      His ear and lip, though not his heart, had grown\n      Familiar with their melody. Nay, more,--\n      They said his very boyhood had been marked\n      By worse than a boy's follies; that in youth,\n      The season of high hopes, when lesser men\n      Put on their manhood, as a monarch's heir\n      Rich robes and royalty, his poor ambition\n      Asked but new charms and pleasures; newer loves;\n      New lips to smile until their sweetness palled,\n      And softer hands to clasp his own, until\n      He wearied even of so light a fetter.\n      Thus did they pluck me from him, but in vain;\n      For when did warning stay a woman's heart?\n      I knew all this, and yet I trusted him.\n      Yea, with a child's blind faith I gave my fate\n      Into his hands, content that he should know\n      How absolute his power and my weakness.\n      Speak not of pride, I never felt its lash.\n      There is no place for fallen Lucifer\n      In the pure heaven of a sinless love.\n      And when he left me, as they said he would,\n      My spirit had no room for aught save grief.\n      Giving the lie to my own conscious heart,\n      I taxed stern truth with falsehood to the last.\n      But when to doubt was madness, when, perforce,\n      Even from my credulous eyes the scales were fallen,\n      What was the cold scorn of a thousand worlds\n      To the one thought, that for a counterfeit\n      I'd staked my woman's all of love--and lost!\n\n\n\n\nCROSSING THE TIDE.\n\nBY MISS PH\u0152BE CAREY.\n\n\n      Fainter, fainter, all the while\n      On us beams her patient smile;\n      Brighter as each day returns,\n      In her cheek the crimson burns;\n      And her tearful, fond caress\n      Hath more loving tenderness,--\n      Saviour, Saviour, unto her\n      Draw thou near, and minister!\n\n      And when on the crumbling sand\n      Of life's shore her feet shall stand;\n      When the death-stream's moaning surge\n      Sings for her its solemn dirge,\n      And our earthly love would shrink,\n      Trembling, backward from the brink.\n      Saviour, Saviour, take her hand,\n      That her feet may safely stand!\n\n      Firmly hold it in thine own,\n      Gently, gently lead her down;\n      And when o'er the solemn sea\n      Safely she shall walk with thee,\n      Nearing to that other shore.\n      Whence a voice hath called her o'er.\n      Saviour, Saviour, from the tide,\n      Aid her up the heavenly side!\n\n      Lead her on that burning way,\n      Brighter than the path of day,\n      Where a thousand saints have trod\n      To the city of our God;\n      Where a thousand martyrs came\n      Shining on a path of flame;\n      Saviour, till her wanderings cease\n      On the eternal hills of peace.\n\n\n  THE END.\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note\n\n\n  Footnotes have been placed at end of their respective chapter, poem or\n  note.\n\n  Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations\n  in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and\n  punctuation remains unchanged.","title":"The Iris: An Illuminated Souvenir for MDCCCLII","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":66694}