Part 4

“Leave that to us.” And, with the doctor, I went directly to the tavern, and without circumlocution informed the landlord that we were about to bring a small pox patient to his house, and desired a room!

He, too, stormed and threatened, but we insisted. The terror among the residents had now grown intense, for the rumor had spread; and they having collected, with one voice demanded that the house should be taken. It stood apart from the rest, and was in all respects eligible for the purpose.

“If you do bring the child here,” said he, “I will leave.”

“Do so before, if you choose,” I answered, “for in one hour she will be here.” And I further informed him that upon his future quietness and good behavior it would depend whether he should be proceeded against for the sale of spirits to minors and his other misdeeds.

A new cause of alarm was now discovered. The mother of the child lay sick in another house; and investigation into the nature of her illness developed the fact that, in a stolen interview with poor little Bessie, it was she who had communicated to the child the infection. Both mother and daughter were removed to the tavern, a nurse was provided, and all proper steps were taken for their comfort. Yorkshire John, having become subdued by these events, was suffered to be their attendant. The landlord, having received Mariot’s assurance that his reasonable charges should be met, sullenly acquiesced, and did not carry out the threat of removal. The customers, however, fortunately for themselves, avoided the “Pest House,” and his business was reduced completely to that of an infirmary. Thus, what fear of moral contagion could not accomplish, was effected by the dread of physical infection.

III.—THE VISION.

Pass over a couple of years, and behold me, the energetic actor—perhaps almost unclerical—in the events of the preceding narrative, now domiciled permanently in the “Mariotdale Hotel.” The old landlord—a good weaver—has resumed his place in the works, and frequently avows his satisfaction at the change which circumstances compelled him to make in his pursuits. Yorkshire John, his very self, is my landlord—and a quieter dwelling there is not in the country. Perhaps much of this is due to the good management of his wife—for she, after all, is the man of the house.

And Bessie?

Poor Bessie! We laid her down to rest in the churchyard two years since, for the illness she had was unto death. It was this shock which recalled the father to his senses; and rest assured I did not spare him. He was not a man who could _bear consolation_, for it seemed as if he could almost strike the person who offered it. He rebelled against the blow, but found that he was in the hands of a God who will reach those by affliction who refuse to be persuaded by mercy.

Poor Bessie—did I say? Blessed child! If the dead can look on earth, she knows that her father and mother have been reformed and reconciled through her death; that father and mother have learned to believe that the early lost are early saved.

And Mariot, my warmer friend than before, admits that my counsel was sound—that the souls as well as the bodies of his people are in some sense in his charge, and that he who neglects his duty in regard to the first cannot atone for that neglect by care of the last.

I often float in the evening down to Bessie’s rock, and seldom fail to see in the twilight, THE VISION. Nor does it now prove to be of the earth, earthly, as once it did—for I know that she is in Heaven.

* * * * *

SORROW.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

I saw at sunrise, in the East, a cloud— A form upon the sky; at first it seemed Gloomy and threatening, but at length it beamed Into a glow of tender light endowed By the soft rising light. How mild and sweet It shone! how full of holy tenderness! How like some hovering Angel did it greet My heart until I almost kneeled to bless! It brightened more and more, but less and less It melted, leading further still my gaze Into the heavens; with lovelier, lovelier dress It shrunk, until it vanished in a blaze. Thus sorrow, kindled by Religion’s light; Turns to a tender joy, pointing toward heaven our sight.

* * * * *

SONNET.—MORAL STRENGTH.

BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.

The spirit that in conscious right is strong, By Treachery or Rage may be assailed; But over single-handed RIGHT, hath WRONG Never by art or multitude prevailed; As Samson, shaking off the withes that failed To hold the Titan, rose all free among The weak Philistines that before him quailed, And bade defiance to the coward-throng! So the Titanic soul through moral power Rending the toils of Calumny, doth tower— A host within itself—sublimely free, Above the foes that in their weakness cower. Shorn of its strength the human soul must be, Ere overcome by truth’s worst enemy.

* * * * *

TAMAQUE.

A TALE OF INDIAN CIVILIZATION.

BY HENRY C. MOORHEAD.

One day, during a ramble in the interior of Pennsylvania with my gun and dog, I found myself on the top of a high mountain, which commanded an extensive view of the surrounding country. The charms of the landscape soon drew off my attention from the pursuit on which I had set out so zealously in the morning; and leaving my dog to chase the game at his pleasure, I indulged myself in pursuing the phantoms of my imagination. In this mood of mind I approached the end of the mountain, whose rugged cliffs overhung the river which washed their base. My dog running to the brink, looked over, but instantly bounded back again, ran to and fro, looking up in my face then crept back cautiously to the spot, and gazed intently at some object below him. Curious to learn what it was that so deeply interested my faithful companion, and anxious to secure it, if worth shooting, I looked to the priming of my gun, and stretching myself on the rock, projected my head over the precipice. A single glance made me follow my dog’s example, and draw back; for, on a kind of shelf, formed by a projecting rock, a few feet below me, sat an old man, his white hairs flowing over his shoulders, calmly surveying the scene around him. From his dress and whole appearance, I judged that he was, like myself, a stranger in that neighbourhood, which made me still more desirous to seek his acquaintance. I soon found a winding path which led to the front of the bluff, and in a few moments brought me to the side of the stranger. To my increased surprise I found that he was sitting at the mouth of a cavern, which had been scooped out of the solid rock by the hand of Nature. Here was as convenient a cell, and as profound a solitude as any hermit could desire. But it was clear that he was no hermit. His was neither the garb, nor the look, nor the address of a man living in seclusion from his fellows. When a sudden turn in the path brought me close to his side, he rose calmly, and saluted me as blandly and as kindly as if we had been old acquaintances. Stammering out a few words of apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw, when he interposed with a courteous gesture.

“Would you not like to have a look at my hermitage?” said he; then, perhaps, noticing my look of incredulity, he added, “It is mine now, at least, by the right of possession.”

“Pardon me,” said I, “but I should not take you for an inhabitant of these mountains.”

“And why not, pray?”

“It is not customary, I think, for wild men of the woods and rocks to wear white neckcloths and polished boots,” said I.

The old gentleman laughed at this remark, and then said, “you may call me a _temporary_ hermit, then; for you certainly found me alone, and sitting at the mouth of my cave. Indeed, if I were to assert my claim to it, I doubt whether there is any man living who could show a prior right; for I knew this place when few white men had ever penetrated what was then considered a remote wilderness.”

“The prospect must have changed very much since then,” said I.

“In some respects it certainly has,” he replied; “but the main features of a scene like this continue ever the same. The plough cannot level mountains, nor cultivation change the course of rivers. I have been tracing the windings of this stream with my eye, and find them just as they were; and I recognize every soaring peak, and every projecting rock as an old acquaintance; I saw broken clouds just like these floating above the mountain tops fifty years ago; and I would almost swear that yonder eagle is the same which then sailed so majestically through the air.”

“Those villages and forms, however, must be new to you.”

“Ah, yes!” said he, “there we see the hand of civilization. Where now our eyes take in no less than four neat and thriving villages, there were not then as many clusters of rude wigwams; and these green fields and blooming orchards were an unbroken wilderness.”

“A most happy change,” said I.

“So reason doubtless tells us,” he replied. “Better the peace and industry which now reign here, than the war-whoop, or the listless indolence of savage life. And yet it is melancholy to think how quickly these old lords of the forest have disappeared. Many a league was made in their rude fashion to endure between the parties and their descendants, as long as these mountains should continue to stand, or this river to run. The eternal hills still cast their shadows on the ever-rolling waters; but the powerful tribes who appealed to them as perpetual witnesses of their faith are extinct, or live only in a few wretched stragglers, thousands of miles away in the far west. We have possessed ourselves of their heritage; and to show our gratitude, we abuse them for not having made a better use of their own possessions, and congratulate ourselves on the happy change we have effected.”

“There will never be wanting romantic persons,” I remarked, “to celebrate the glories of savage life, and the felicity of spending a northern winter half naked and half starved, under the precarious shelter of a wigwam.”

“Well,” said he, with enthusiasm, “let them embalm the memory of the Red Man! It will appease the manes of those ambitious warriors to be renowned in song and story. The noblest spirits of the world have gained but a few lines in a Universal History, or a single page in a Biographical Dictionary, and have deemed themselves well paid for a life of toil. Ambition is everywhere the same; and its essence is a desire to be remembered. It may happen that the sad fate of the Indian will perpetuate his memory when the achievements of all his conquerors have been forgotten.”

“I cannot help suspecting,” said I, smiling, “that you have yourself been a warrior, perhaps the adopted son of the chief who presided over these hunting-grounds.”

“No,” said he, “I was not so great a favorite with the chief of these hunting-grounds.”

“Ah, then,” continued I, “your sympathy is that of a generous conqueror for an unfortunate adversary.”

“Not exactly that either,” said he; “I was neither for nor against them. If you are inclined to hear my story, I will relate it here, in sight of every spot to which it refers.”

We then sat down on the rock together, and he proceeded as follows.

* * * * *

I came out as bearer of despatches to what was then the frontier settlement; but an errand of my own induced me to come on here. It was at the time that the Moravians were making zealous and apparently very successful efforts to civilize and Christianize the Indians; and they had a station, under the care of the venerable Luten, which I know must be somewhere in this neighborhood. Although I had known and honored Luten from my boyhood, I should scarcely have ventured on such an expedition for the mere pleasure of seeing _him_; but he had brought his wife with him, and what is more to our present purpose, his daughter, Mary. Well, it was a rash undertaking to penetrate this wilderness without a guide, just then, for the Indians were in a state of angry hostility toward the whites, in consequence of some real or supposed injuries lately received; but what will not an enterprising young fellow risk in such a cause? Even the bold hunter often carries his life in his hand; and the game I was pursuing was better worth the risk than a wolf or a panther.

Having struck on this chain of mountains, and finding that they commanded a view of the surrounding country, I followed them up until I reached the brow above us, when I caught a glimpse of a figure suddenly gliding down the face of the hill toward where we are now sitting. I cautiously followed, and saw a man whom I knew, from his appearance, to be an _Indian conjurer_, enter this cave. Without disturbing him, I returned to the hill above, and carefully explored the country round for the station I was in search of. I had given up the search, with the full conviction that there was no settlement in sight, when the light breeze wafted to my ear the sound of human voices. I soon made out that it was a familiar strain of sacred music, and sweeping over the valley again with my telescope, discovered an encampment just where yonder creek empties into the river. It was the hour of evening worship; and the savages were tuning their voices to the unwonted notes of a Christian hymn. Of the venerable missionary, it might emphatically be said, that he pointed to heaven, and led the way. He had left country, home, and friends; the habits of a lifetime, and the tastes of a highly cultivated mind, for the sake of the poor Indian; and it mattered little to him whether his head reposed in a palace or a wigwam, or whether his bones were laid in the Fatherland or in some wild glen of the New World, so that his Master’s work was sped. If such thoughts passed through my mind whilst my eye rested for a moment on him, they were instantly put to flight when I saw another figure in the group. But he would have forgiven my irreverence, if he had known of it, for the love he also bore his gentle Mary.

I quickly descended the mountain, and reached the encampment just as the sun was setting. Luten received me as a son; Mary as a brother, except that the blush which suffused her face and the agitation of her nerves were something more than fraternal—so, at least, I flattered myself. When I inquired for the missionary’s wife a tear started into the eye of both father and daughter. I understood it all—she had found a grave in the wilderness.

I had many questions to ask as well as to answer, and much news to tell, and the evening wore away before curiosity had been satisfied on either side. But I felt anxious to know their plans and prospects for the future; I therefore inquired of Luten how he was succeeding with the Indians.

“Far beyond my most sanguine expectations,” he replied.

“You really think, then, that it is possible to change their savage natures,” said I.

“Why should it be thought doubtful?” said he. “Are we not all descended from the same parents—all partakers of the same fallen nature—all hastening to the same bourne? But you would scarcely recognize the gnarled and stunted oak, springing from the scanty earth afforded by a crevice in the rock, as belonging to the same species with the monarch of the forest, striking his roots deep in a generous soil, and spreading his branches proudly toward heaven. Pour into the minds of these poor heathen savages the light of civilization and Christianity, and in a few generations they will have become the noblest race of men in the world.”

“It is a very common belief, however,” said I, “that they are incapable of civilization; and does not experience seem to justify this opinion?”

“_My_ experience proves the contrary,” said he, with emphasis. “The people now in this encampment were lately fierce and blood-thirsty warriors; I wish the docility and meekness they now exhibit were more common among white men.”

“But has there been time,” I asked, “to warrant the conclusion that the change will be permanent?”

“I have no fear as to that,” he said; “the change is radical—the savage nature is extinct in them; and, like children, their plastic minds can now be moulded into any form by education.”

“I hope it will prove so,” said I; “but do their chiefs go with them?”

“Their favorite young chief, Tamaque, now leads them as zealously in the path of peace, as he formerly did in the war-path,” he replied. “A noble young fellow he is, too.”

“Indeed he is,” said Mary, who had hitherto been listening to our conversation in silence; “he is always so kind and gentle. I love him as my own brother.”

The very bluntness of her words might have satisfied me that she meant _only_ what she said; but somehow or other I did not like her form of expression, and I began to feel anything but partial toward the person they referred to. “Pray what does he look like?” I inquired.

“Oh, he is very handsome,” said she, with the same provoking simplicity.

“And no doubt very accomplished,” said I, drily.

“Why, yes,” she replied, “he is by no means wanting in accomplishments. He was educated at one of our own schools, and, it is said, proved a very apt scholar. Indeed, his civilized accomplishments are very respectable; and as to his savage ones,” she added, laughing, “he is foremost in all the exercises of his tribe.”

I joined in the laugh, rather faintly, and then added, maliciously:

“No doubt even his copper color is unusually bright.”

“By no means,” she replied; “his color is that of a white man a little tanned by exposure to the sun.”

“The truth is,” said Luten, “he is only half Indian, and he seems to be endowed with most of the virtues of both the white and red man, without the vices of either.”

The affair had now become serious, and I could no longer help regarding this accomplished half-breed chief as a formidable rival.

“On him, more than any man,” continued Luten, “rest my hopes for the regeneration of his race. I imagine to myself that I see in him the future founder of Indian civilization. Yes, my young friend, ere you have attained the age which now bears me to the ground, you will see these savage tribes every where pursuing the arts of peace; you will see them kneeling at the altar of the living God, and putting to shame the boasted civilization of the white man. My old body will be dust long before that; but this hope, and belief, have sustained me amidst all the toils and privations of a life in the wilderness.”

I looked anxiously in the speaker’s face; for the thought struck me that his mind had become unsettled. But his placid countenance and clear, steady eye, at once convinced me that what I had deemed madness, was nothing more than the enthusiasm of a bold and sanguine reformer. I could not find it in my heart to disturb the vision which afforded him so much delight by any expression of my doubts, and still less did I feel inclined to enter upon any further discussion of the merits of Tamaque. I had heard too much about them already for my repose that night; and every remark I had made on the subject had only served to call forth a fresh eulogy. I therefore gladly accepted Luten’s invitation to retire to my bear-skin couch. Many were the visions that chased each other through my brain during my broken slumbers, and Tamaque was connected with them all. Sometimes I saw him the king of a mighty people, with Mary at his side, crowned as a queen. Again I found myself engaged in deadly conflict with him, and waked just in time to escape receiving the death-blow at his hands. At another time I seemed to have got the better of him, and was about to plunge my sword into his bosom with fierce exultation, when my hand was arrested by a reproachful look from her, and started up and thanked heaven that it was only a dream. At length, however, I fell into a sound and tranquil sleep. But I was not permitted long to enjoy it; for, just at the dawn of day, a strange Indian rushed into the camp, yelling the war-whoop until the mountains echoed it back again. The whole camp was instantly in motion; in a few minutes the council-fire was blazing, and the Indians had ranged themselves around it.

The messenger soon told his story. A number of fanatic white men had banded together and sworn eternal hostility to the Indians. They professed to consider them as standing in the same relation to themselves as the Canaanites of old did to the children of Israel; and, therefore, in the name of God, they waged an exterminating war against them. They had just fallen upon an Indian village of Tamaque’s tribe, and slaughtered the inhabitants, without regard to age or sex. This messenger had alone escaped to tell the dreadful tidings. His words produced a deep sensation on these fierce warriors, just emerging into civilization. The old instincts of their natures were evidently reawakened; and it seemed as if a signal only were wanting to make them rush forth, as in former days, with tomahawk and scalping-knife.

Luten hastened to check the torrent of passion which threatened, in one moment, to sweep away the fruits of all his labors. Standing, like a venerable patriarch, among his rebellious household, he endeavored, by a skillful blending of persuasion with parental authority, to restore them to a sense of duty. Reminding them of their solemn vows, he conjured them by that regard for plighted faith which is the red man’s boast, not to forget or break them in this moment of passion. He pointed out the high destiny they had to accomplish, in spreading light and knowledge all through the wilderness, and leading the way to a great reformation of the Indian race. Then, in a more solemn tone, he spoke of the world to come; painting the happiness in store for those who persevere to the end, and the uncontrollable miseries reserved for the unfaithful. His earnest eloquence was perfectly adapted to their simple apprehensions, yet eminently calculated to strike their imaginations by the wild imagery with which he embellished it. Their stern natures relented as he spoke, and he seemed to be on the point of regaining all his influence over them, when another messenger arrived, and signified that he had important news to communicate.

He told of new outrages, more cruel, if possible, than the first; and whilst every heart beat high with rage and horror, turned to Tamaque and addressed him thus:

“These griefs are common to us all; but the words I am now to speak will fall more dismally on Tamaque’s soul than the howling of a famished wolf. Yesterday you had a father and a sister. I saw that father’s gray hairs red with blood; I saw that sister, when flying from the blazing wigwam, driven back by the white men’s spears—and she returned no more. Then I came, swift as a hunted deer, to sound the war-whoop in the ears of Tamaque and his warriors.”

Throughout the whole scene Tamaque had been sitting as impassive as a statue. It was impossible to gather from his looks any hint of what was passing in his mind; and when, at length, he rose, the fire that beamed from his eye alone enabled me to anticipate his purpose.

“Warriors!” he said, “we must listen to the song of peace no longer. The white man’s words are love, but his embrace is death. Let us return, without delay, to the customs of our fathers. Even now I hear their voices, from the land of spirits, calling us to war and vengeance.” Then turning toward me, he continued: “The stranger has come just in time—seize him and drag him to the torture.”