Chapter 2

"Yes, my dear, here is the boundary of your picture:--this magnificent elm-tree, that seems to pay its debt to the nourishing waters, by extending its graceful branches over them."

"And don't fail, mother," said Edward, "to mark the deep shadow it casts on that pier of the bridge they are building--and oh, do put in that little skiff so snugly moored in the shade, and hooked to the tree--and that taper church spire that stretches above the thick wood on the left;--oh, if you could but paint it as it looks now, with that bright gleam from the setting sun on it. And see, mother, just at this instant, what a golden mist there is in the topmost branches of that tree."

"Stop your chattering one moment, Ned, till I get in this little brook on the left, that is creeping so softly into the bosom of the Mohawk. Oh, my children, it is an easy task to draw these lines so as to convey a correct idea of forms and distances, but very difficult to imitate the colouring of nature, the delicate touch of her skilful hand. How shall I represent the freshness and purity that marks the youth of the year?--like childhood, Ned, smiling and promising, and as yet unchanged by time."

"If not changed, not perfected by time, dear mother," said Edward, kissing his mother. His manner expressed a mixture of admiration and tenderness that went to her heart.

"You have spoiled my picture, Ned," she said, "I cannot make another straight line. Come, Julia, take up the port-folio, and we will return to the inn."

* * * * *

We hope our readers will not complain that we have not kept good faith with them, if we have been tempted to loiter longer than we promised on the banks of the Mohawk. To reward them for their patience (if perchance they have exercised that difficult virtue, without availing themselves of the skipping right--the readers' inalienable right) we shall make but one stage of it from Palatine to Oneida, not once halting at any of the beautiful grounds, waterfalls, or villages, that intervene.

It was mid-day, and a hot day too, when our travellers entered this Indian town, which presents a striking aspect, situated as it is in the heart of a cultivated and civilized country.

Huts are planted irregularly at some distance from the road, in fields overgrown with rank grass. Half-naked Indians, yelling and hallooing, were riding to and fro without saddles or bridles; on horses that looked as wild as themselves. Some were stretched along the road-side, in a state of brutal intoxication; others were lying under the shadows of the noblest patriarchs of their woods, showing their patent right to indolence as lords of the creation, while their women and girls were sitting around them, busily making baskets and brooms. On the green were groupes of men shooting arrows at a mark, playing at jack-straws, football, and the various games of skill and chance by which the savage drives away ennui--that demon that persecutes most fiercely at the extremes of the human condition.

"One might almost fancy here," said Mr. Sackville, "that the march of time had been stayed, and the land spell-bound, by some mighty magician. The log-huts of these poor Indians are as rude structures as the bark wigwams of their forefathers, and these rich lands are a complete waste, except where we see here and there a little patch of corn or potatoes. The savages certainly evince their faith in the traditionary saying that 'the Great Spirit gave a plough to the white man, and a bow and arrow to the Indian.'"

"And there," said Mrs. Sackville, pointing to some women who were hoeing, "there is an illustration of another of their proverbs--'men were made for war and hunting, and squaws and hedge-hogs to scratch the ground.'"

Edward interrupted the conversation, to beg his father to stop in the village long enough to allow him time to look into the interior of some of the huts. While Mr. Sackville hesitated whether to incur the delay necessary to afford this gratification to his son, the driver announced that his off-leader had lost his shoe, and asked leave to stop at a blacksmith's to have it replaced.

This request was readily granted; and while Mrs. Sackville entered into some conversation with the blacksmith, who was a white man, Edward bounded over a fence and across a field, towards a hut which was scarcely perceptible except by a smoke that rose from it, and curled through the branches of a lofty oak which stood before it.

As he drew near the hut, he heard a low voice, broken by sobs; he paused for a moment, and then cautiously and softly advanced, till he came so near as to hear distinctly what was said, and to see enough, through a small aperture where the clay had fallen away from the logs, to prevent his proceeding farther, and to excite his curiosity to its highest pitch. An old Indian woman was sitting on the hearth-stone, her arms folded, and her blanket wrapped close around her. It appeared that she had seated herself there for the purpose of watching an Indian cake that was baking on a shovel before the fire; but her attention had been so abstracted, that the cake was burnt to a cinder. Her face and person were withered by age; but her eye, as if lit up by an undying spark, retained a wild brightness, and was steadfastly fixed on two young persons who stood before her, apparently too much occupied with their own emotion to notice her observation of them. The one was a young girl, dressed in a riding habit and Leghorn travelling bonnet. Edward was not very well situated for accurate observation; but though he was at the first glance deceived by the brilliancy of the girl's colour, heightened as it was by the excitement of the moment, his unpracticed eye soon detected unequivocal marks of the Indian race, accompanied and softened by traits of fairer blood. A young Indian stood beside her, who, as Edward fancied, had a certain air of dignity and heroism, that characterised a warrior chief;--still there was something in his attitude and motions, that bespoke the habits of civilized life. His dress, too, was a singular mixture of the European and Indian costumes. He wore a jacket with long sleeves made of deer skin, and closely fitted to his arms and breast. He had a mantle of blue broad cloth, lined with crimson, made long and full, hanging over one shoulder, and confined at the waist by a wampum belt. On a table beside him was lying a cap, like the military undress cap of a British officer, with a plume of black feathers tinged with crimson, and attached to the cap by a silver arrow.

The conversation between him and the girl was in French, and made up of ejaculations and vehement protestations, from which Edward could not at first gather any thing intelligible to him. The girl wept excessively; the Indian's passion seemed too powerful for such an expression.

"You promise," he said, "Felice; but our old men say the winds are not more changing than a woman's mind."

"Others may change; I cannot, Nahatton; you know I would not leave you if I could help it."

"Could help it! can your father's right control nature's law? Oh, Felice!" he added, smiting his breast, "that which I feel for you is like the fires from the sun--the hurricane from the south--the tide of the ocean;--I cannot resist it."

"Nahatton! Nahatton! you know I will return to you."

"Let me place this around your neck then," said he, detaching from his own a chain made of porcupine quills, and curiously woven. "My mother made it. She said it was a charm, and would keep me true to my own people. I wore it in France, and I have returned to my tribe."

"Not about my neck, Nahatton," said Felice, as he raised his hands to clasp the chain; "it looks too savage--bind it on my arm.----Why do you hesitate?" she asked, as she stood with her arm extended, and her sleeve pushed up.

"It looks too savage! Already ashamed of your mother's blood! Oh, there is poison in your veins!" and as he said this he broke the chain, threw it down, and crushed it under his foot.

"Oh, Nahatton, I did not mean that;--I am not ashamed of my indian blood--I will make you any promise--I will swear, on my knees I will swear to return to you."

"Swear then upon this," said he; and he took from his bosom a silver crucifix, and offered it to her lips.

At this moment the old woman, who, as they spoke in French, only understood as much as she could interpret from their gestures, rose, and darting towards them, she laid her hand on the crucifix. "No, no, Felice; swear not!" she said; "the oath will be written there," and she pointed upward, "when you have broken and forgotten it."

Edward, in the intensity of his interest in the scene, had forgotten the necessity of secrecy. He carelessly leaned his arm on some rails that had been placed against the hut, one of them fell; the party within started and looked around them, and Edward instinctively retreated. If he went as swiftly as the wind, and once or twice thought he heard an arrow whirring through the air behind him, we hope our readers will impute it to the excited state of his imagination, and not deem him a coward, 'even upon instinct.'

"Just in time, Edward, my son," said Mr. Sackville, who was standing by the carriage in which the rest of the party were already seated; "but what in the world ails you? you look as wild as if you had met a bear up in the wood there."

"Oh, you would look wild too, father, if you had seen and heard what I have. Oh, mother! Oh, Julia! you never will believe what I have to tell you."

"I have something to tell you, too, Mr. Edward," said his mother; "and as you are out of breath, and out of your wits, I will tell my story first, which I assure you is quite a romantic little tale to pick up by the way-side."

"Well, do be quick, mother, if you please, for what I have to say is so wonderful."

"No doubt; each one always thinks his own wonder the most wonderful. But I will not try your patience any longer. Do you remember our speculating on an empty carriage, which we saw drawn up under a tree with a man standing by it, about half a mile back?"

"Yes, very well--but what of that, mother?"

"It was an idle inquiry about that carriage of the good-natured communicative blacksmith that led to the story, which I am going to tell you. It seems that carriage is to convey a young woman to New-York, whence she sails for France."

"Oh, I saw her--I saw her," exclaimed Edward. "It can be none other."

"Well, Edward," said Mrs. Sackville, "I will give place to you; for I see you are in such a state of fermentation, that I am afraid your story will evaporate in exclamations, while I am telling mine."

Edward thus relieved from restriction, proceeded to recount with the animation of an eye-witness, all he had seen and heard. His audience listened to him with the most flattering attention, and at the conclusion, repaid him with exclamations, that proved they were adequately impressed with the extraordinary scene he had witnessed.

Julia wished he had noticed whether the chief (for thus he had chosen throughout his narrative to designate his hero) wore moccasins or shoes, and whether his legs below his mantle, were bare, or covered with leggins. She thought too, he might just have staid to see whether the girl made the vow or not: and his mother congratulated him that the Indians had not executed summary justice on him, and shot him flying for a spy.

"My story," said Mrs. Sackville, "will serve, Ned, as a sequel to yours, or rather, an explanation of it. It seems that this young girl, who is a Miss Bernard, had left the carriage when we saw it, on the pretence of going to take leave of her mother's sister, who is doubtless the old woman you saw. You were so fortunate as to discover her real errand. She is the daughter of a Frenchman--Rodolph Bernard. His family was noble and rich: they and their fortunes were sacrificed in the convulsions of the French revolution, and Bernard alone escaped and reached America, with nothing but his life. It appears from my blacksmith's story, that young Bernard had a good deal of spirit and enterprise, and more education than most of the young nobles of that time. I wish you to observe, my children, that knowledge is a treasure not impaired by a change of circumstances, but an immutable good in every extreme of fortune. Bernard remained in New-York for a year or two, and subsisted by teaching French to some Americans, and mathematics to his own countrymen. He was then employed by a company of French gentlemen, to explore the western part of this State, then a wilderness, and to furnish them such information as should enable them to make an advantageous purchase of the government. This was not quite thirty years ago: and then the cultivated country and beautiful villages through which we have passed, were for the most part a trackless wilderness.

"At a wigwam in Oneida, where he had been compelled to ask for such hospitality as it afforded, he was seized with the fever of the country that usually attacked strangers. For weeks and months he was nursed by an indian girl, famed among her people for her skill in such remedies as their native wilds supply. You know, that in the history of the early periods of all ages, we find the healing art assigned to women. You will remember, Ned, in your favorite old ballads, many a kill or cure, performed by cruel or tender leeches.

"Whether it was the indian maid's skill in medicine, that prevailed over the disease at last, or her devoted kindness, it might be difficult to determine; probably, Bernard thought the latter; for though she was, as my narrator's tradition says, 'an uncouth maiden to look upon,' he declared his love to her, and asked her hand of her father. The father consented, but not till after some delay, nor till he had ascertained that Bernard's rank entitled him to wed the daughter of a distinguished chief. She was an only child too, and she was heir to enough land within this Oneida reservation, to make a principality.

"The Frenchman understood how to manage it. His ties to his own country were broken. All his affections and interests were concentrated here. He has been a good husband and father--so indulgent as to permit his wife on ordinary occasions, to wear her indian dress, to which it seems she has a bigoted attachment. His children are well educated: and, Ned, our blacksmith thinks, that your heroine Felice, would be a perfect beauty, if she had such hair as your sister's, and the olive tinge could be washed out of her skin.

"Bernard, since the late reverses in France, has returned there, and recovered an immense property which had been sequestered by Napoleon.

"Last year his family received dispatches from him, by your 'chief,' Ned--who, if not in reality a chief, is the son of a distinguished sachem of the Seneca tribe, which is located some where on the shores of Lake Erie. The old Seneca chief was converted to the Romish religion, by a Catholic missionary, who persuaded him to resign his son into his hands, to be educated a priest.

"It appears that neither European intercourse, nor the strict discipline of a catholic school, have overcome the young man's preference of the wild and lawless life of his tribe. As I said, on his return from France, he brought letters from Bernard to his family, and here he has played successfully the part of Othello the Moor, with this young Desdemona; and the blacksmith thinks that Bernard will play the enraged father to the life, as it has been his declared resolution from his daughter's birth, that she should not wed an indian.

"For the rest of my story, it is explained by what you have witnessed, Edward. The Seneca youth has visited his people, and returned here just as Felice is on the eve of departure for France, in compliance with her father's requisition. As to the future, whether she will remain constant to her lover, as we are not seers, we cannot predict--we can only guess."

Edward and Julia professed unbounded confidence in Felice's fidelity. Mr. Morris did not see what the girl could do better. Indian she undoubtedly was, and he thought it was a clear case for the application of the Scottish proverb, 'hawks won't pick out hawks' een;' at any rate it would be a piece of effrontery for her to turn her back upon her indian lover, and expect to win a white one.

Mr. and Mrs. Sackville thought it possible that Julia might find Frenchmen in whose estimation an ample fortune would atone for the slight dishonour of her maternal ancestry.

Our travellers proceeded without accident or adventure along the accustomed route through fine villages, whose rapid growth to maturity remind one of the construction of a fairy palace by the touch of a magician's wand. A few years ago this country was unexplored save by the indian hunter, or perhaps a devoted missionary, or lawless trader. A wheel had never entered it--a _shodden_ horse was a curiosity; now, the road is thronged with market-waggons, stage coaches, and carriages filled with idle, curious, or classic travellers, who go to 'the Falls' to kill time, to increase their stores of knowledge, or to gratify taste.

Mr. Sackville was constantly directing his children's observation to the prompt enterprise and industry so conspicuous in a new country, and stimulating their patriotism by pointing out to them the increasing riches and resources of their native land. "For my own part," he said, "I prefer the sentiment that is inspired by the peaceful triumphs of man over nature, to the patriotism that is kindled on battle-grounds--if not as romantic, it is certainly more innocent."

"Then I suppose, papa," said Edward, "that you prefer Virgil's georgics to his epic."

"Thank you, Ned," replied his father, "for an illustration which proves that your travels have not quite put your school out of your head. I certainly do prefer the aspect of our cheerful dwellings, blooming gardens, and fruitful fields, associated as they are in my mind with innocent occupation and moral cultivation; to the ivy-mantled towers and triumphal arches of the old world--they are the records of feudal grandeur and high heroic deeds, but deeds too often of doubtful virtue, and of fatal consequences. The melancholy poet may exult in describing the 'spectres that sit and sigh' amid their ruins; but if I had the _gifted eye_, my children, I should rather look upon the spirit of Contentment that hovers over our land, and her sweet sister Hope, who points with her finger of promise to the smiling prosperity produced by busy hands and active independent minds."

* * * * *

When the travellers reached Black-rock, where they were to cross the Niagara, they were compelled to await for some time the return of the ferry-boat, which was then plying towards the Canada shore. While they were detained, they amused themselves with a company of Irish people--raw emigrants, who had just entered our territory, and were awaiting the departure of the Erie steam-boat to convey them to the State of Ohio. They had spread tents for their temporary accommodation--Edward and Julia went from one to another, asking questions, and giving cakes and dried fruit from their travelling stores to the children.

They were particularly struck with one buxom young girl with laughing eyes and ruddy cheeks, who seemed to be a favorite with the whole company, and not to belong to any one; for she went from tent to tent kneading an oat-meal cake for one woman--dressing a lame arm for another, and performing sundry miscellaneous offices that always fall to the lot of those most useful people who have nothing in particular to do. Julia offered her a piece of cake, by way of introduction, and then asked her name:--"My name is Biddy Burns, an' please you, miss."

"And who did you come with, Biddy?"

"I left home with my cousin; but it pleased the Lord to take her to himself before we came to Quebec, and she has left such a pretty complement of children to her husband to take care of, that I must e'en shift for myself."

"Do you like our country, Biddy?" asked Edward.

"Och, my master, I could not miss liking it, ye are all so free and hospitable."

"But Biddy," said Julia, "how could you leave your father and mother, and all your friends?"

"Sure it is, miss, if it thrives well with me they will all come after."

"Sure enough," said Mrs. Sackville, "these poor Irish do all come _after_, sooner or later. Are you a catholic, Biddy?"

"I come from the north of Ireland, my leddy."

"You are a protestant, then?"

"Yes, my leddy; thank God and my mother, that taught me the rasonable truth."

"Can you read, my good girl?"

"Indeed can I, my leddy. Thanks to the Sunday school, I could read in the bible if I had one, without a blunder."

"Well, Biddy," said Mrs. Sackville, who thought it a good opportunity to give a God-speed to the girl's pilgrimage--"here is a bible in my basket--take it, and may it be the guide of your life."

Biddy poured forth her thanks in many a God-reward-ye, and then after hesitating for a moment, she said, "I wish my leddy would condescend to walk up here a bit, to a poor woman who needs a kind christian word, poor crater." Mrs. Sackville and the children followed Biddy to a tree which stood a little above the encampment of the Irish, where a woman was sitting on a log with a sick child in her arms, and a boy of five or six beside her.

She was a middle-aged woman, with a face originally plain, and deeply seamed with the small-pox; but withal, there was an expression of honesty and goodness, and of deep sadness, that interested Mrs. Sackville, though at first it failed to draw the attention of the children from their good-humored blithe companion.

"Does this woman belong to your company, Biddy?"

"Bless you, no, my leddy."--"I thought not," said Mrs. Sackville, who was struck with the extreme neatness of the woman's appearance, which presented a striking contrast to all the Irish, even to our friend Biddy.--Her child's head was covered with a linen handkerchief--coarse and patched, but white as the driven snow. There was scarcely a thread of the original cloth in her children's clothes--neither was there a hole in them--their faces and hands were perfectly clean, and their hair neatly combed.

"You seem to find it possible, my friend," said Mrs. Sackville, patting the little boy's face, "to keep your children clean in the most difficult circumstances." "I try my best, ma'am," replied the woman. "And a slave, my leddy," interposed Biddy, "she makes of herself for it. Do you know that when I offered this morning to stay by the childer while she took a bit of sleep, that instead of resting her soul and body, she went and washed her things in the river, and got leave to iron in the house yonder, and did it all as particular as it might have been done for you, my leddy."

The poor woman was wetting the sick child's lips from a cup of water that stood by her; and she took no notice of Biddy's remark. Mrs. Sackville inquired into the particulars of the child's sickness, which she thought would yield to some common restoratives which she had at hand; and just as she was dispatching Julia for the dressing case which contained them, a little rugged impish looking boy came towards them, throwing himself heels over head, with a segar in his mouth, which he continued smoking while he was making his somersets.--"Come, come, Goody Barton," said he, without heeding Mrs. Sackville's presence, "come, we must be up and moving. If we don't get over in this boat, I shall disappoint the company at Chippewa to-night."

"Don't speak so loud, Tristy," replied the woman, "but take the pack to the boat, and I will follow you."

"That surely is not your child?" said Mrs. Sackville, as the boy walked off with the bundle singing, at the top of his voice, a very vulgar song, and affecting to reel like a drunken man.