Part 11

The little boy was in distress, and he was compassionate; but what was to be done? The wharf contained no individual, but themselves and the sailors; the wind was fair, and the captain would not delay. The stranger could not speak the language of the child, but he smiled while he took his hand, and smoothed his little brow, and Charles understood him as well as if he had spoken to him in English; for he was accustomed to the sight of foreigners in his father's house, and in a similar manner he always held discourse with them. So he stopped crying, and smiled in return; and the gentleman, delighted with his pleasant looks, gave the child his watch to carry, while he carried him; for the captain, in a passion, had ordered the vessel from the shore, and the stranger was obliged to take Charles on board, or leave him on the wharf to cry, and perhaps be drowned. While the novelty of his situation amused his mind, Charles continued quiet; but after that, when he thought of his nurse, his tender parents, and his kind brother, at home, his little heart seemed ready to break; and, only for the constant tenderness of his unknown friend, I believe he would have died. But by degrees his grief became subdued, and before the vessel reached Cuba, he was the pet of all the sailors, and the delight of his kind protector; who, after this, could not bear to part with him, but having no children of his own, he adopted him, and had him educated as his son: and upon his approaching death, which happened about six years after, he left Charles his little property, under the guardianship of a Boston merchant, with whom he had been transacting business many years: and upon whom he now relied, for the discovery of the parents of the child; which he had been only anxious to avoid before.

This gentleman went to receive his charge very willingly; and, on his return to Boston, he placed Charles in a celebrated school, to which Alfred Perceval had been sent by his considerate parents when they found that grief for the loss of his little brother, had settled too much in studious habits, and aversion to companionship. Charles's guardian then went to Baltimore. He was introduced to Mr. Perceval, and invited to dine at his house. There he told the story of his little ward; when he was shocked to observe, what an effect it produced on Mrs. Perceval; for years had scarcely mitigated the agony she first felt, at the strange loss of her infant; to which the death of her eldest son, and the long torpor of his brother, were supportable distresses; since they were not aggravated by the power of imagination. But Mr. Perceval (more collected than she was) could not avoid seeing, in a similar circumstance, something to awaken his own hopes; he therefore acquainted the gentleman with their loss; and asked him if the child he spoke of, had ever told his name. "If he did, sir, my friend, not understanding the rest of his language, must have forgotten it; but he kept a little handkerchief, that had been pinned to his robe, and which I have now in my pocket-book." He drew it out, and gave it to Mrs. Perceval, who had been relieved by tears from her first emotion; but when she saw the initials, C. P., marked by her own hands, she screamed out--"Oh! my dear husband, it is our own son"--and instantly fainted away. Eva, who was still in the house, and now attending two fine little girls, was loudly called by the alarmed Mr. Perceval. She came directly, and his lady soon recovered by their united assistance.

The parents then proposed to write instantly for their sons; but before the letter was sent, they received one from Alfred, requesting permission to bring a little Spanish boy home with him, for whom he had become greatly interested, owing to a circumstance which happened in school, soon after Charles was placed there. A large boy, of greater bulk than manners, took a fancy one day to insult the feelings of the little foreigner, in a manner he could not bear; and he flew at his tormentor, who would instantly have struck him down, had not Alfred Perceval that moment appeared; who, stepping between them, pushed the elder boy aside, and then detaining the other, he said--"For shame! Roscoe, how can you, such a big boy, try the temper of a little stranger like this, who cannot answer us in our own language? I thought you had more feeling." "Now, for one cent I could knock you down, Perceval; but I don't know how it is, you get the better of us all--masters and scholars. However, you'll be going to college soon," continued the rough boy, dashing away a tear--"and, that you may go off with flying colours, as a peace-maker and a peace-keeper, here's my hand, little tawney coat, and thank him that you did not get a good drubbing." But Charles, perhaps misconceiving the intention of this action, or thinking that he ought to have the pride of a Spaniard, turned from Roscoe with disdain, and throwing himself into the arms of Alfred, he wept with such a gush of feeling, that it completely overcame the nerves of that sensitive boy, who struggled in vain against his own tears, which then flowed at one thought, and that was of his little brother. But what was his joy afterward, when his father's letter arrived, and told him that "the lost was found?" I will pass over the joy of Mr. and Mrs. Perceval, upon the first arrival of their sons, for every one can imagine it; but I must say, that their happiness increased every day; as they observed, that Charles's Spanish education had taught him to pursue every thing that was honourable in principle and practice. He soon adopted his newly discovered kindred with a strength of attachment which seemed almost to have some early recollection for its foundation. And when Eva brought his nurse, Sarah, to see him, (who was now living with her husband in comfortable circumstances,) he smiled as if he really remembered her, and Sarah was sure that he did. Mr. and Mrs. Perceval, considering maturely on the subject, at length agreed, that it would be better to keep their sons at home, with proper instructors, until Charles understood English sufficiently to understand them; when he could return to school with greater advantage; and his guardian willingly gave up the future direction of the person and fortune of his ward to his most natural directors. Before the vacation ended then, all Alfred's school companions were invited to a farewell party, which was prepared with great taste by his mother. The company assembled--all the most distinguished little people of the city; and when the carpets were thrown aside, and the lamps blazed, their light young feet gave little rest to the music. But, though the refreshments were numerous, and handed round constantly, I believe no young person was disgraced by an immoderate use of them. Indeed, I understand that a resolution has been formed by the most promising youth of our city, to "be temperate in all things," as republicans ought to be; and especially to stand always armed against every device of that treacherous spirit, which entering alone into the secret folds of inward depravity, or assailing, with the combined powers of evil example, the outward avenues to sin, saps the foundation of the soul, till man becomes a tottering ruin, and a blighting shade, over his own household; and a nation is darkened with the wreck of her sons.

C. M. B.

CHILD LEFT ON THE SEA-SHORE.

ADAPTED TO A PICTURE BY SULLY.

Why dost thou sport amid those swelling waves, Child of the frolic brow? The billows rush Foaming and vexing with a maniac's wrath, To do unuttered deeds, and the wild clouds Muster and frown, as if bold midnight rear'd Her throne at noon-day. Hear'st thou not the winds Uttering their ruffian threats? Is this a time To lave that snowy foot? Away! away! ----What!--have all fled?--and art thou left alone?-- By those who wandered with thee on the beach, In the fair sun-light of a summer's morn, Forgotten thus! Had'st thou a mother, sweet? Oh, no--no--no! _She_ had not turn'd away, Though the strong tempest rose to tenfold wrath,-- She had not fled without thee,--had not breath'd In safety or at ease save when she heard Thy murmur'd tone beside her,--had not slept Until thy drench'd and drooping curls were dried In her fond bosom. _Nature never made A mother to forget._ Why, she had dared Yon fiercest surge to save thee, or had plung'd, Clasping thee close and closer, down,--down,--down,-- Where thou art going. Lo! the breakers rush Bellowing, to demand thee. Shrink not, child! Innocence need not fear. Sweet shalt thou sleep 'Mid ocean's sunless flowers. The lullaby Of the mermaiden shall thy requiem be, And the white coral thou didst love to mix Among thy pencill'd shells, shall lightly rear A canopy above thee. Amber drops Shall gem thy clustering tresses, and thy ear No more the echoes of the wavering main Appall'd shall hear. Thy God shall guard thy rest.

L. H. S.

_Hartford._

THE EAGLE OF THE WEST.

"It is the spot I came to seek, My father's ancient burial place, Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, Withdrew our wasted race. It is the spot--I know it well-- Of which our old traditions tell.

"This bank, in which the dead were laid, Was sacred when its soil was ours; Hither the artless Indian maid Brought wreaths of buds and flowers; And the gay chief and gifted seer Worshipped the God of thunders here.

"But now the wheat is green and high On clods that hid the warrior's breast, And scattered in the furrows lie The weapons of his rest, And there, in the loose sand, is thrown, Of his large arm the mouldering bone."--BRYANT.

You have read, said General Lawrence to his children, of the numerous ancient forts and mounds found in different parts of the now populous state of Ohio. Some incidents which I shall relate, have rendered most of them, to me, subjects of great interest.

I was subordinate to General Rufus Putnam, when he gave directions for the first settlement of Marietta, by a colony from New-England, in 1788. Ohio, you know, at that time was called a district, including the present territories of Michigan, Illinois, and Indiana, and owned by the general government--Virginia having ceded it, seven years before, to the United States, reserving only some tracts of land as military bounties for such officers and soldiers as had been distinguished in the reduction of the British forts on the Ohio river.

The Chippewas, Miamis, Wyandots,[1] and other native tribes, looked, as they well might, with jealous eyes on the annual encroachments of the whites upon their hunting-grounds. It is true that they reluctantly receded as we advanced, but it was under the stern law of necessity, not a free-will abdication. I cannot, and do not, pretend to excuse the selfish rapacity with which many of our ancestors, throughout the whole country, seized on the soil of the aborigines;[2] that is an account which it is not our business to settle, though we cannot read the true page of our history without a crimsoning blush of shame.

[1] Grimshaw's History, p. 213.

[2] Those who think the relations of such facts (for they are many) exaggerated, are referred to the 1st and 2d volumes of American Annals, and Belknap's Biography, where they will find ample proof of their truth. Other authentic works might be cited, but these are all-sufficient.

I remember an act of cold-blooded wickedness, perpetrated by our people in Ohio about this period, which I never could either palliate or forgive. There was a small encampment of the Wyandots a few miles from where some of our emigrants had settled. They were soon apprised of the neighbourhood of the new residents, and came over to view their works, sometimes three, four, or more, together.

For some time all things went on well;--and I have thought, with the excellent Heckewelder,[3] that they need never have done otherwise, had the whites been just and true to their duty. "They are remarkable," says he, "for their _domestic_ and _social_ virtues, and know how to _practice_ that precept which we so well teach in _theory_, viz. '_To love their neighbour as themselves_.'"

[3] See Heckewelder's Account of the North American Indians.

"The Indians," says one of our early and most respectable historians, "on their first acquaintance with the whites, proved themselves kind, generous, and hospitable, so long as they were treated with justice and humanity. But so they were not long, and the consequences are well known to all. In the particular case of the Wyandots I was unfortunately witness--first to the imprudence, and then to the wickedness of my countrymen."

Evident symptoms of dissatisfaction appeared whenever they afterward met. Our company began seriously to fear an attack, (no wonder, they had given provocation,) and accordingly laid a plan for cutting off the Indians at once, instead of attempting a reconciliation, though I own the latter would not have been easily effected. The great fault of the Indian is his thirst for _revenge_, which, when injured, he will always seek.

The purpose of the whites was carried into effect one night, after they had freely supplied the unfortunate Wyandots with rum. All fell of this portion of the tribe, save two or three children, who were saved by one of the party, more humane than his companions, and an Indian youth, of about fifteen years of age, called Tecumsoit, and also often known by the proud appellation of "the Eagle of the West," for thus early did he discover traits of remarkable strength and courage. He fought boldly and long, when his people were sacrificed almost unresistingly around him, and fled only when so wounded that he could do no more. He fled--but in the hope of returning in power, and making perfect his dreadful vengeance. His purpose was frustrated but by the constant watchfulness of the military force which we were compelled to station wherever there were any white settlements.

Near Marietta, as I have told you, are remains of ancient fortifications and mounds, in which the Indians deposited their dead.

Many such mounds, in different parts of the country, were laid open by these Indians as the whites advanced; and the bones of their ancestors, wrapt in skins, were carried with them as they retired farther into the vast forests of the west, where these remains were sacredly preserved, and guarded with holy care. Some, however, were left untouched.

I have often examined these very singular sepulchral monuments, both in the vicinity of Marietta, and those at Circleville, and I own that I have never seen one of them demolished without pain.

There was one, near the broken up settlement of the Wyandots, which offered peculiar interest; it appeared to have been raised with greater care than the others, and was evidently of more ancient origin. This pyramid was in the midst of a grove of noble forest trees, and brought to mind the solemn Druidical times of England. When we first discovered it, it was at an hour when the young Indian girls were performing round it some religious rites; fruits of the forest, skins, and flowers, were deposited in profusion on the pyramidal summit; and the wild notes of their songs echoed through the grove, giving back those peculiar strains, softened, but not lost. I often resorted thither, and when I was summoned to New-York, that was the last spot which I visited.

I did not return to that part of the country, continued General Lawrence, for more than ten years, and then, indeed, could hardly recognise, in the rapid settlement of the new states, those wide forest-tracts which I had left; but I own I felt not all the enthusiasm which filled one of our old historians, when he declares that "the wilderness had been made to blossom as the rose." No, the circumstances of its first settlement were too recent on my memory for that, and I had too strong a sympathy for the outcast Indians. Verily do I believe in that clause of the fourth commandment, as applied to my countrymen, "the sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children to the third and fourth generation;"--even now behold its partial fulfilment in the troubles which have sprung up, and are still gaining accumulated power, in the rapid increase of our slave population: "as we have measured, so shall it be measured to us again."

But, as I was telling you, I revisited Ohio. I hardly recognised Marietta as I passed through it to revisit my former station; and the first spot I sought with real interest, was the ancient mound in the giant grove. My search was, at first, utterly vain:--at length I thought I saw some traces of that which had once presented a scene of grandeur and beauty, but I was doubtful long,--for the grand and lofty trees "which spread their arms abroad so that all the birds of the air might have found rest in their branches,"--the trees were not there. No, not one had been spared of that whole sacred grove. The mound, too, where was it?--the husbandman had passed over it with his ploughshare,--the sower had strown the seed,--and the fields were now ripe for the harvest. I turned away sorrowfully, and my eye suddenly caught the figure of an Indian. The red son of the forest could not be mistaken; he gazed, as I had done, on the place where his ancestors of many generations had been laid with reverent care; his look was proud, sorrowful, and often changing to one of bitter hate. He did not see me, for his mind was absorbed in one deep feeling of lofty desolation, if one may be allowed the use of such a term. I cannot describe his countenance, for it varied with every varying thought; but no one could have contemplated the wild warrior as he stood erect and alone, his keen eye regarding what was, and his thought reverting to what had been--none, I say, could have seen him without a sentiment of respect, almost of homage. How few of the race now retain their original grandeur and lofty character! Civilization seems only to have weakened and degraded the Indian mind; his moral state, at least, is now far more debased than when, with his tribe, he roamed at will through the immense wilds of the American continent.

I approached the solitary chief and spoke, (though I own I felt it an intrusion on his personal feelings;)--he looked on me at first with marked disdain, but presently his countenance changed; a ray of pleasure lightened his brow,--but soon an expression of the most eloquent grief succeeded; it was evident that he recognized me,--and I, too, knew Tecumsoit,--the Eagle of the West. His words were few and brief, for his hitherto unsubdued spirit was bending beneath the weight of wrong and sorrow, and it seemed as though he could not speak to a white man, the fellow of those who had caused his wigwam to be desolate, and the grove of his fathers polluted by sacrilege. I understood the sentiment, and was silent also.

Presently Tecumsoit advanced, thrusting aside and trampling the waving grain, till he stood at the foot of the mound: then slowly he took, one by one, the articles of his dress, and laid them solemnly on the very summit of the elevation:--first, his collar of eagle's feathers,--then his robe of princely ermine and sable; to these were added his deer-skin coat, painted with the rich juices of the pucoon, and colours derived from plants by a process unknown to any save the Indians themselves; and, lastly, his wampum belt, wrought all over with the richly dyed quills of the porcupine. When these had been thus, one by one, deposited, he wrapt about him the rough skin of a panther, gave one long, long look at the sepulchre of his fathers, and turned silently and abruptly away. The Eagle was soon lost to my view behind a range of hills; he had departed for ever from the home of his childhood; he had cast off the symbols of his rank, his power, and tribe, and doubtless had gone to end his days of desolation in some far off desert, where, though he could not forget his wrongs, he would at least neither see nor be seen of the white men.

Often have I thought of Tecumsoit, as I first saw him, a young boy, the pride of all the warriors, and the fearless asserter of his rights. I was then his friend; he seemed to confide in my honour, and he never had cause to doubt it. I remember him, too, on the night when I arrived too late to save his family from the death-shot,--fearlessly defending himself and them, when no resource or hope was left. Well do I remember the mingled despair and pride of his retreat; and I remember, too, the last time we met at the mound which held the remains of his ancestors--the last look he gave--and his last shadow on the hills.

Alas, for Tecumsoit!--his glory had departed, his people had passed away, even as the dew beneath the sultry sun; he was left alone of his race, and, like Logan, could exclaim--"Who is there to mourn for Tecumsoit?--_not one!_"

THE LAUNCH OF THE FRIGATE.

Cornelia Camelford had just recovered from a long and dangerous illness, and had not received the doctor's permission to go out, when much interest was excited in Philadelphia by the expected launch of the Guerrier, which was built at Kensington, during the last war, and called after the first British frigate that surrendered to the flag of America. Junius Camelford, who was a midshipman, and the eldest of Cornelia's two brothers, was highly elated with the idea of the approaching spectacle, and extremely impatient for the glorious day (as he called it) to arrive. At last it came; and the children of Mrs. Camelford could think and talk of nothing else.

Junius was one of the midshipmen appointed to the new frigate, and every hour seemed to him an age until she should be fairly afloat in her proper element. Boy as he was, he had been on board the Constitution when she engaged and sunk the British Guerrier, and had evinced on that memorable day the courage of a man. When he was afterwards in Philadelphia, the progress of the new frigate became the leading thought of his mind. He had taken his sisters to see the keel the day after it was laid: and had furnished all the young ladies he knew, with hearts and anchors which he cut out from chips of the wood.

Mrs. Camelford had been a widow about two years, and since the death of her husband she had felt an insurmountable repugnance to appearing in public, or mixing in a crowd. Therefore she had no intention of going herself to see the frigate launched, but she knew that her children would take great pleasure in the sight, and she loved them too much to deny them this gratification because she could not enjoy it herself.

Cornelia was just getting over the same malady that two years before had been fatal to her father: and Mrs. Camelford still felt the greatest anxiety about her, as she was particularly susceptible of cold, which was always very injurious to her; and the slightest imprudent exposure might probably bring on a dangerous relapse.

For this reason, when Mrs. Camelford consented that her two sons and her daughter Octavia should go to see the frigate launched, she did not extend the same permission to the invalid. "And I, dear mother," said Cornelia, as she sat at the breakfast table the first time for near three months, "am I not also to enjoy the sight?"

MRS. CAMELFORD.--My dearest Cornelia, I am sorry to refuse you that or any other pleasure that your sister and brothers partake of. But the air from the river may be cool. Remember that it was only yesterday you left your chamber, after being confined to it more than twelve weeks.