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PREFACE.

A few of the following Tales have been heretofore published in periodicals, but have not, it is supposed, been circulated to such an extent as to have been generally read; while the natural partiality which a writer feels towards his literary offspring has induced the author to wish to preserve them in a form less perishable than that in which they first appeared. The larger portion, however, of this volume is now presented for the first time to the public.

Although the garb of fiction has been assumed, as that which would afford the greatest freedom of description, the incidents which are related in these and other tales of the author are mostly such as have actually occurred; and he has only exercised his own invention in framing the plots, so as to bring together, in one sketch, the adventures which may not have occurred in the connection in which he has chosen to place them, or which may have happened to different individuals. In the descriptions of scenery he has not, in any instance, intentionally departed from nature, or exercised his own fancy in the creation of a landscape, or in the exaggeration of the features which he has attempted to draw; and if the fidelity of his pictures shall not be recognised by those who have traveled over the same ground, the deficiency will have resulted in the badness of the execution, and not in any intentional deviation from the originals.

In two of the tales, which occupy the largest space in the volume, the author has had an object in view, which will be readily understood by those who are conversant with American history, and especially by those whose sympathies have been strongly enlisted in behalf of the aborigines of our country. Few are ignorant of the existence of that mutual antipathy which has drawn a broad line of separation between the white and red races, and kept alive a feud as deadly as it has been interminable. Yet all are not so well acquainted with the causes of that unhappy animosity, nor with the numberless irritating circumstances by which the passions of each party have been excited, and a jealousy so deplorable handed down from generation to generation. We have selected a few of those facts, such as most commonly occur, and have given them with little embellishment, and, we hope, without partiality.

The preparation of these sketches have cost the author but little labour; they are plain recitals of the traditions collected by other travellers upon our border, or of the legends which have amused his own hours while sitting by the hospitable fireside of the western farmer. Their brevity will probably secure them a perusal, in common with the similar productions of the press. Should any read them with instruction, the author will be satisfied; should the critic pass them over without censure, he will esteem himself fortunate.

THE PIONEER.

I was travelling a few years ago, in the northern part of Illinois, where the settlements, now thinly scattered, were but just commenced. A few hardy men, chiefly hunters, had pushed themselves forward in advance of the main body of emigrants, who were rapidly but quietly taking possession of the fertile plains of that beautiful state; and their cabins were so thinly scattered along the wide frontier, that the traveller rode many miles, and often a whole day together, without seeing the habitation of a human being. I had passed beyond the boundaries of social and civil subordination, and was no longer within the precincts of any organized country. I saw the camp of the Indian, or met the solitary hunter, wandering about with his rifle and his dog, in the full enjoyment of that independence, and freedom from all restraints, so highly prized by this class of our countrymen. Sometimes I came to a single log hut, standing alone in the wilderness, far removed from the habitations of other white men, on a delightful spot, surrounded by so many attractive and resplendent beauties of landscape, that a prince might have selected it as his residence; and again I found a little settlement, where a few families, far from all other civilised communities, enjoyed some of the comforts of society among themselves, and lived in a state approaching that of the social condition.

But whether I met the tawny native of the forest, or the wild pioneer of my own race, I felt equally secure from violence. I found them always inoffensive, and usually hospitable. That state of continual warfare, which marked the first settlements upon the shores of the Ohio, had ceased to exist. The spirit of the red man was broken by repeated defeat. He had become accustomed to encroachment, and had learned to submit to that which he could not prevent. However deeply he might feel the sense of injury, and however fiercely the fires of revenge might burn within his bosom, too many lessons of severe experience had taught him to restrain his passions. Bitter experience had inculcated the lesson, that every blow struck at the white man recoiled with ten-fold energy upon himself.

I found the pioneers a rude but a kind people. The wretched hovels, built of rough logs, so carelessly joined together as to afford but a partial protection from the storm, afforded a welcome shelter, when compared with the alternative of "camping out," which I had been obliged to adopt more frequently than was agreeable. Their tables displayed little variety, but they were spread with a cheerful cordiality that was delightful to the weary traveller. There were venison, poultry, rich milk, and excellent bread, in abundance. There was honey too, for those that liked it, fresh and fragrant from the cell of the wild bee. But the smile of the hostess was that which pleased me most; her hospitable reception of the tired stranger— the alertness with which she prepared the meal—her attention to his wants—the sympathy she expressed for any misadventure that had befallen him, and the confidence with which she tendered the services of "her man," when it happened that the more slowly spoken host faltered in the performance of any of the rites of hospitality;—all these, while they afforded the evidence of a noble trait of nationality, which I recognised with pride as a western American, reminded me also of the delicacy and quickness of perception with which a woman recognises the wants of him who "has no mother to bring him milk, no wife to grind his corn."

I halted once upon the "Starved Rock," a spot rendered memorable by a most tragic legend which has been handed down in tradition. It is a stupendous mass of insulated rock, standing upon the brink of the Illinois river, whose waters wash its base. Viewed from this side, it is seen to rise perpendicularly, like the ramparts of a tall castle, frowning over the still surface of that beautiful stream, and commanding an extensive prospect of low, but richly adorned, and quiet, and lovely shores. Passing round, the bulwark of rock is found to be equally precipitous and inaccessible on either side, until the traveller reaches the rear, where a narrow ledge is found to slope off from the summit towards the plain, affording the only means of access to this natural fortress. Here a small tribe of Indians, who had been defeated by their enemies, are said to have taken refuge with their wives and children. The victorious party surrounded the rock, and cut off the wretched garrison from all possibility of retreat, and from every means of subsistence. The siege was pressed with merciless rigour, and the defence maintained with undaunted obstinacy—exhibiting, on either side, those remarkable traits of savage character: on the one, the insatiable and ever vigilant thirst for vengeance; on the other, unconquerable endurance of suffering. The position is so inaccessible, that any attempt to carry it by assault was wholly impracticable, and the dreadful expedient was adopted of reducing it by starvation—an expedient which was rendered inevitably and rapidly successful, by the circumstance that the summit of the rock afforded no water, and that the besieged party had laid in no supply of provisions.

It is shocking to reflect on such warfare. There is nothing in it of the pomp, or pride, or circumstance, which often deceive us into an admiration of deeds of violence. In reading of the stern conflict of gallant men who meet in battle, our feelings are enlisted by the generosity which exposes life for life. The "plumed troops, and the big wars," stir up the soul to a momentary forgetfulness of the vices they engender, and the wretchedness they produce, though we cannot agree with the poet, that they "make ambition virtue." We admire the genius which plans, and the talent that executes, a successful stratagem, and pay the homage of our respect to any bright development of military science. Courage always wins applause; we cannot withhold our approbation from a daring act, even though the motive be wrong. But bravery on a fair field, and in a good cause, becomes heroism, and warms the heart into an enthusiastic admiration. How different from all this, and from all that constitutes the chivalry of warfare, and how like the cold-blooded sordidness of a deliberate murder, was that savage act of starving to death a whole tribe,—the warriors, the aged, the females, and the children! And such, in fact, became the fate of that unhappy remnant of a nation which had once possessed the sovereignty over these beautiful plains, and had hunted, and fought, and sat in council, in all the pride of an independent people. The pangs of hunger and thirst pressed them, but they maintained their post with obstinate courage, determined rather to die of exhaustion, than to afford their enemies the triumph of killing them in battle or exposing them at the stake. Every stratagem which they attempted was discovered and defeated. When they endeavoured to procure water in the night, by lowering vessels attached to long cords into the river, the vigilant besiegers detected the design, and placed a guard in canoes to prevent its execution. They all perished—one, and only one, excepted. The last surviving warriors defended the entrance so well, that the enemy could neither enter nor discover the fatal progress of the work of death; and when, at last, all show of resistance having ceased, and all signs of life disappeared, the victors ventured cautiously to approach, they found but one survivor—a squaw, whom they adopted into their own tribe, and who was yet living, at an advanced age, when the first white men penetrated into this region.

One morning, on resuming my journey, I found that my way led across a wide prairie. The road was a narrow foot-path, so indistinct as to be scarcely visible among the high grass. As I stood in the edge of a piece of woodland, and looked forward over the extensive plain, not the least appearance of forest could be seen—nothing but the grassy surface of the broad natural meadow, with here and there a lonely tree. It was in the spring of the year, and the verdure was exquisitely fresh and rich. The undulating plain, sloping and swelling into graceful elevations, was as remarkable for the beauty of its outline as for the resplendent brilliancy of its hues. But although the prairie was so attractive in appearance, there was something not pleasant in the idea of crossing it alone. The distance over it, to the nearest point of woodland, was thirty miles. There was, of course, neither a house nor any shelter by the way—nothing but the smooth plain, with its carpet of green richly adorned with an endless variety of flowers. To launch out alone on the wide and blooming desert, seemed like going singly to sea; and it was impossible to avoid feeling a sense of lonesomeness when I looked around, as far as the eye could reach, without seeing a human being or a habitation, and without the slightest probability of beholding either within the whole day. As I rode forth from the little cabin which had given me shelter through the night, I could not avoid looking back repeatedly at the grove which surrounded it, with a wistfulness like that of the mariner as he regards a slowly receding shore. But the sun was rising in majestic lustre from the low distant horizon, shedding a flood of light over the placid scene, and causing the dew-drops that gemmed the grass to sparkle like a silver tissue—and I spurred my steed forward with mingled sensations of delight and pensiveness.

I soon became convinced that the journey of this day was likely to prove disagreeably eventful. There had recently been some heavy falls of rain, and the ravines which intersect the prairie, and serve as drains, were full of water. Some of these are broad, and many of them too deep to be crossed when filled, without obliging the horse to swim; and the banks are often so steep, that, before the rider is aware of his danger, the horse plunges forward headlong, throwing the unwary traveller over his neck into the stream. I rode on, however, wading through pools and ravines, but happily escaping accident, and meeting with no place sufficiently deep to try the skill of my steed in the useful art of swimming, though the water often bathed his sides, and sometimes reached nearly to his back. Nor was this all—"misfortunes never come single." The clouds began to pile themselves up in the west,—rolling upward from the horizon portentously black. The signs were ominous of a day of frequent and heavy showers. But how could I help myself? On a prairie there is no refuge from the fury of the storm, any more than there is upon the ocean; and to warn a traveller that the rain is soon to fall, is about as practically useful to him as would be the inculcation of that ancient canon of the church,—"No man may marry his grandmother." I looked back at the clouds, and then looked forward to a wetting. It is vexatious to be caught thus. A shower-bath is pleasant enough when taken voluntarily, but not so when it must be received upon compulsion. To be wet is no great misfortune, nor is there any thing dangerous or melancholy in the occurrence. But this only makes it the more provoking. If there was any thing pathetic in the catastrophe of a ducking, or any bravery to be evinced in bearing the pitiless peltings of the storm, it might do. But there is no sympathy for wet clothes, nor does a man earn any tribute of respect for his patient endurance, when sitting like a nincompoop under the outpourings of a thundergust. The whole affair is undignified and in bad taste. Few things so humble one's pride, and make one feel so utterly insignificant, and so like a wet rag, as to be soaked to the skin against our own consent.

It was thus that I felt on this unlucky day. The clouds rolled on until the whole heavens became overcast. That splendid sun which had risen so joyously, and lighted up the landscape, and gladdened the face of nature, was obscured, and heavy shadows pervaded the plain. The clouds settled down, until the low arch of suspended fluid appeared to rest upon the prairie. I drew on my great coat. A blast of wind swept past me—then the rain fell in torrents upon my back, as if poured out from ten thousand water buckets. What a dunce was I to put on my over-coat, which only served as a spunge to suck in the descending cataract, and load me down with an accumulated weight. The rain poured in streams from the eaves of my hat—it beat upon my neck, and insinuated itself under my clothes—it ran down into my boots, and filled them until they overflowed. I felt cowed, crest-fallen, hen-pecked—I compared myself to a drowned rat— to a pelted incumbent of the pillory—to any thing but an honest man, a republican, and a gentleman. I got vexed, and kicked my spurs into my horse, who, instead of mending his pace, only threw up his head indignantly, as if to reproach me for the supplementary torture thus gratuitously bestowed upon my companion in trouble. I relented, drew in my rein, stopped short, and just sat still and took it—and presently the rain stopped also. It cannot rain always.

I drew a long breath, and looked around me, as the war of the elements ceased. My saturated garments hung shapelessly about my person, and I had the cold comfort of knowing that there they must continue to hang, and I to shiver under them, until all the particles of moisture should be carried away by the slow process of evaporation—for the rain had penetrated my saddle-bags and soaked my whole wardrobe. The clouds still looked watery, and were rolling up in heavy masses, portentous of new and repeated showers. If it would not have been unmanly, and unlucky too, I should have turned back, and regained the shelter of my last night's lodgings—but I was as wet as I could be, and—as General Washington said when he was sitting for his portrait—"in for a penny, in for a pound."

As I looked about me I perceived, at a great distance, a horseman approaching in my rear, and travelling in the same direction with myself. I determined to wait for him,—the more readily, as I had just arrived at the brink of a ravine which was broader and apparently deeper than any I had passed, and in which, in consequence of the recent shower, the water was rushing rapidly. Any company at such a time was better than none: I was willing to run the risk of being scalped by a Winnebago, talked out of my senses by a garrulous Kentuckian, or questioned to death by a travelling Yankee, rather than ride any further alone.

As the traveller approached me and halted, with the courtesy usual in the country, I was struck with his appearance. From his countenance one would have pronounced him to be a soldier, but his garb was that of a methodist preacher. Dressed in the coarse homespun fabric which is made, and almost universally worn, in this region, there was yet a dignity in the air and conduct of this stranger which was independent of apparel. His coarse and sunburnt complexion was that of a person who had been exposed to the elements from childhood. It was not scorched and reddened by recent exposure, but regularly tanned and hardened, until its texture would have bid defiance to the attacks of a musquito, or any other insect or reptile of less muscular powers than the rattlesnake. His features were composed, but the air of perfect calm that rested upon them was that of reason and reflection operating upon a vigorous mind, which had once been violently excited by passion. There could be no mistake in the expression of these thin compressed lips, indicating unalterable resolution and sternness of purpose. The high relief, and strong development of the muscles of the face, evinced the long continued impulse of powerful emotion. But the small gray eye was that which most attracted attention. It was fierce, and bold, yet subdued. Time and the elements had driven the blood from the cheeks, but the eye retained all the fire of youth. There was an intensity in its glance which caused another eye to sink or turn aside, rather than gaze at it directly; and this was not in consequence of any thing sinister or repulsive in the expression, but because the power of vision seemed to be so concentrated and intense as to defy concealment. There was a vigilance, too, about that eye, as I had afterwards occasion to observe, which seemed never to sleep, and suffered nothing to escape its attention. Without at all disturbing the sedate demeanour of the body, and the nearly motionless position of the head—the eye, moving quietly and almost imperceptibly under the lid, watched all that passed around, while the ear caught the slightest sound with an acuteness which was extraordinary to one not accustomed to this perfect exercise of the faculty of attention.

In the wilderness, it is well understood that strangers who meet may address each other with frankness: it was soon discovered that we were travelling in the same direction, and agreed that we should go together. The stranger took the lead; and if I was at first struck with his appearance, I was now even more surprised at his perfect composure, under circumstances which were certainly unpleasant, and perhaps dangerous. He rode into the ravine before us, as carelessly as if it had formed a part of the hard path, neither changed position nor countenance as his horse began to swim, managed the animal with the most perfect ease and expertness, and, on reaching the opposite shore, continued to move quietly forward, without seeming to notice the splashing and puffing which it was costing me to effect the same operation.

As we rode on we found the earth saturated, and the surface of the plain flowing with water. Throughout the day the showers were frequent and heavy, gust after gust passed over us, each as furious as the last. We had to wade continually through pools, or to swim our horses through torrents. My companion minded none of these things, and I became astonished at the imperturbable gravity with which he encountered those difficulties, which had not only fatigued me nearly to death, but so worried my patience that I had grown nervous and irritable. On he plunged, through thick and thin, selecting the best paths and crossing places—guiding his horse with consummate skill—favouring the animal by avoiding obstacles, and taking all advantages which experience suggested,—yet pushing steadily on through impediments which, at first sight, seemed to me impassable. On such occasions he took the lead, as he did generally along the narrow path which we could only travel comfortably in single file; but, when the ground permitted, we rode abreast and engaged in conversation.

Towards evening we arrived at the brink of a small river, not wide, but brim-full, and whose stream swept along impetuously, bearing logs and the recently riven branches of trees upon its foaming bosom. The idea of swimming on the backs of our tired horses, over such a torrent, was not to be entertained; and I actually groaned aloud, in despair, at the thought of being obliged to spend the night upon its banks. But my companion, without halting, observed calmly, that a more favourable place for crossing might possibly be found; and, turning his horse's head along the brink of the river, began to trace its meanders. Presently we came to a spot where a large tree had fallen across, the roots adhering to one bank while the top rested upon the other. My companion dismounted and began to strip his horse, leaving nothing on him but the bridle, the reins of which he fastened carefully over the animal's head, and then leading him to the water, drove him in. The horse, accustomed to such proceedings, stepped boldly into the flood, and, stemming it with a heart of controversy, swam snorting to the opposite shore, followed by my trusty steed. We then gathered up our saddles, and other "plunder," and mounting the trunk of the fallen tree, crossed with little difficulty, caught our steeds who were waiting patiently for us, threw on our saddles, and proceeded.

It was night when we reached a cabin, where we were hospitably entertained. Kindly as strangers are always received in this region, I could not but observe that the ecclesiastical character of my companion excited, on this occasion, an unusual assiduity of attention and homage of respect. The people of our frontier are remarkable for the propriety of their conduct in this particular. However rude or careless their demeanour towards others may sometimes be, a minister of the gospel is always received at their houses with a mixture of reverence and cordiality, which shows the welcome given him to be as sincere as it is liberal. They seem to feel unaffectedly grateful for the labours of these devoted men in their behalf, and to consider themselves honoured, as well as obliged, by their visits. And none deserve their gratitude and affection in a greater degree than the preachers of that sect to which my companion belonged. They are the pioneers of religion. They go foremost in the great work of spreading the gospel in the desolate places of our country. Wherever the vagrant foot of the hunter roams in pursuit of game—wherever the trader is allured to push his canoe by the spirit of traffic— wherever the settler strikes his axe into the tree, or begins to break the fresh sod of the prairie, the circuit-riders of this denomination are found mingling with the hardy tenants of the wilderness, curbing their licentious spirit, and taming their fierce passions into submission. They carry the Bible to those, who, without their ministry, would only "See God in clouds, or hear him in the wind."

They introduce ideas of social order, and civil restraint, where the injunctions of law cannot be heard, and its arm is not seen. And these things they do at the sacrifice of every domestic comfort, and at the risk of health and life. At all seasons, and in all weathers, they go fearlessly on; riding through trackless deserts, encamping in the open air, crossing rivers, and enduring the same hardships which beset the hunter in the pursuit of his toilsome calling, or the soldier in the path of victory.

These reflections occurred to my mind when I recalled the superiority over myself, young and vigorous as I thought I was, which my companion had shown in surmounting the difficulties of a border journey. As I saw him seated at the cheerful fireside of the woodsman, I was surprised to perceive how little he seemed affected by the fatigues of the day, how totally he appeared to forget them, and with what ease and earnestness he conversed with the family on serious topics suggested by himself. He sat with them as their equal and their friend. He enquired familiarly about their health, their crops, their cattle, and all their concerns—led them gradually to speak of their moral habits, and, finally, of their religious opinions. As the time to retire approached, he drew the sacred volume from his pocket, and proceeded to the performance of that service which has always struck me as the most solemn and affecting of religious exercises—the worship of the family—where those united by the tenderest ties of affection kneel together before the throne of grace, to render their humble tribute of thanks for blessings received, and to invoke for each other the continued protection of Heaven.

On the following morning we departed at the dawn. I accompanied my new acquaintance several days, during which we experienced a variety of adventures and hardships; and I had many opportunities for observing the courage of my companion, his perfect self-possession under every vicissitude, and his skill in all the arts of the backwoodsman. He was the most accomplished woodsman that I have ever met. No danger could daunt him, no obstacle impeded our way which he had not some expedient to obviate or avoid. He was never deceived as to the points of the compass or the time of day. If our path became dim, or seemed to wind away from the proper direction, he struck off without hesitation across the prairie, or through the forest, and always reached the place which he sought with unerring certainty. Community of peril and adventure soon begets friendship, and our casual acquaintance ripened speedily into intimacy. I became struck with the conversational powers of my companion; though habitually taciturn, he sometimes grew social and communicative, and then his language was energetic, his train of thought original, and his figures bold and rhetorical. He seemed to have no acquaintance with books, but had studied nature, and had stored his mind with a fund of allusions drawn from her ample volume. There was something mysterious about him that excited my curiosity. His peaceful garb and holy calling were entirely inconsistent with his military bearing, his keen jealous eye, his intimate acquaintance with the artifices of the hunter, and the wistful glances which I sometimes saw him throw at the rifles of the persons we occasionally met. At last I ventured to suggest the impressions made upon my mind by these seeming contradictions, and was gratified by a frank relation of his history. It was minutely detailed in the course of several conversations. I cannot pretend to repeat his wild emphatic language, but will give the story as nearly as I can in his own manner.

THE PIONEER'S TALE.

There are some events in my life, said my friend, to which I cannot look back without shuddering. Although time has cooled my feelings, and given a better tone to the decisions of my judgment, it has not destroyed the vividness of those impressions which were made upon my memory in childhood. They still present themselves with all the familiarity of recent transactions; and there are times when a peculiar combination of circumstances awakens them with a freshness that seems to partake more of reality than of recollection, and when I can hardly persuade myself that the same scenes are not again about to be acted over. Sometimes a particular state of the atmosphere, the position of the clouds, and the distribution of light and shade, give a character to the landscape which transports me back in a moment to the days of childhood, and pictures, in living truth upon my imagination, an event which occurred under such circumstances, as to have connected it indissolubly with those natural appearances. A sound has suddenly poured in a train of associations: the song of the bird in some distant tree, the hooting of an owl, the long dissonant bay of the wolf, borne on the still air when the moonlight reposed on the tops of the trees, has awakened reminiscences which reach back almost to infancy.

I have but an indistinct recollection of my father. I have endeavoured to preserve the impression, for there is a sacredness connected with his memory, which renders it dear to my heart; but it is so dim, and so shadowed over by other images, that I know not whether it be the real impress made by his kindness on my young nature, or the offspring of fancy. He was one of the pioneers who came to the forests of Kentucky, among the first adventurers to that scene of disastrous conflict. My mother followed his footsteps to the wilderness, bearing me, an infant, in her arms, resolved to participate in the vicissitudes of his fortune, however precarious, and to brave all the dangers and hardships of a border life, rather than endure the greater pain of separation. Their cabin was reared upon the shores of the Kentucky river, in one of the most blooming valleys of that Eden, which nature seems to have created in a moment of prodigal generosity. They were happy; though destitute of all that constitutes the felicity of the larger portion of mankind. Without society, with no luxuries, and with few of the comforts of civilised life, they were content in the society of each other. My father was a bold and successful hunter; he delighted to rove over those fertile plains, whose magnificent forests, abounding in game, and rich in beauty, were so alluring to every lover of sylvan sport. Having selected an excellent tract of land, from which he began to clear the trees, he indulged, like others, in flattering anticipations of the wealth and independence which would crown his labours, when these broad lands should become the seat of an industrious population, and when Kentucky, then the paradise of hunters, should be the garden of Western America. These were not visionary dreams; though he and others who indulged them did not live to behold their accomplishment, their descendants have seen them abundantly fulfilled.

This spot was the birth-place of my sister. I remember her too, with a fondness that no subsequent emotion has equalled or effaced. I cannot forget her, for she was my only playmate. The bitter moment when I realised the truth, that this sweet child was separated from us, to be restored no more in this world, caused a gush of anguish, almost too strong for the tenderness of my young affections, and left a wound which saddened my spirits throughout the years of my early life.

Year after year rolled away, and my parents continued in the wilderness, almost alone, and exposed to continual danger. At first, the frequent alarms caused by the incursions of the savages, and the many vicissitudes incident to their situation, produced discontent, and they would probably have returned to North Carolina, had it not been for the shame of turning their backs on danger, and leaving others exposed to that which they would have avoided. But the burthen gradually grew lighter, and their strength to bear it increased. The little cabin appeared more and more comfortable, because its inmates became accustomed to its narrow dimensions, and its meagre accommodations. It was their HOME; it was the spot where they began to live for each other, to enjoy the endearments of conjugal affection, and to accumulate the comforts of domestic life around them; and every year brought some addition to their little circle of enjoyments, and added new links to the chain of agreeable associations, which at last rendered this retreat, savage as it was, the dearest place to them on earth. So my mother has told me; and I well remember the glow of feeling with which she spoke of those years, and of that spot which was her first home in the wilderness.

She had to endure many sufferings; but they were light when placed in the balance against the pleasures that sweetened her existence. Her husband cherished her with tenderness; and with the shield of his affection around her, the clouds of sorrow, though they might sadden her heart for a moment, could not chill it with the withering blight which falls on those who are alone in the world. In the labours of husbandry, they toiled as others toil: their hopes were sometimes disappointed—the frost blasted their grain, a drought shortened their crops, the enemy ravaged their fields, or drove away their cattle, and they found themselves as poor as when they first began the world. But they lived in a plentiful country; their neighbours, though few, were hospitable, and they never knew want. The pangs of hunger— the deeper anguish of listening to the cries of famishing children, are not among the evils which infest the dwelling of the American borderer. She had her hours of solitude; when my father was employed in wielding the axe, or guiding the plough, with his loaded rifle at hand, and his dog keeping watch, to prevent surprise by the Indians, she pursued her appropriate duties in silence and pensiveness at home. But she was working for him, and this reflection supported her in his absence, until his return brought an ample recompense for the temporary deprivation of his society. Those who reside in towns, or in thickly settled neighbourhoods, cannot understand the full force of this language; but thousands of matrons are daily realising upon the frontiers of our country, that which I describe. The young wife has left father and mother to cleave unto her husband—she has abandoned the parental roof, the home of childhood, the companions of her infancy—the tenderness of a proud father, the care of an experienced mother, are hers no longer—she has left the circle of intimate friends by whom she is known and appreciated— and she has followed cheerfully, in the buoyancy of hope and love, the footsteps of the husband of her choice, to some spot beautifully embellished by the hand of nature, where they anticipate all the joys of Arcadian felicity. But their dwelling stands alone, separated from all others by miles of forest, or uninhabited prairie. All her affections are concentrated upon him who is her only friend and sole companion; and that tie which is ordinarily so sweet, so strong, and so indissoluble, becomes more powerful by the absence of all other objects of attachment or companionship. The office of the husband assumes a tenderer and holier character,—for he is the only adviser, friend, and protector, of her who has forsaken all for him. In his absence she sits alone, for the time being a widowed and desolate creature. If disease suddenly invade the dwelling there is no friend nor neighbour at hand; if an accident befal her infant, she has perhaps no messenger to send for assistance; and in those early times, in which the scenes that I relate occurred, there was the continual terror of the savage, pressing like the hideous monster of an unquiet dream, upon the bosom of the wife, who, in the absence of her husband, was terrified alike by his exposure to danger, and her own unprotected condition. Often did the young mother, of those days, hide her infant in some secret place, while she pursued her domestic labours.

My father, fearless himself, placed too little confidence in the reality of such perils; and although generally at home, suffered himself occasionally to be persuaded to join a hunt, or a war party. Sometimes a longer hunt than usual, or an accident, detained him from home all night, and then my mother passed the sleepless hours in listening to catch the sound which might announce his return, and dreading the moment when the stealthy footstep of the Indian might invade the sanctity of her dwelling. On such occasions, she would hide her sleeping infants, in some secret spot, not likely to be suspected, and then retire to her own bed, awaiting the result in anxious suspense. But the severest of all the trials of her fortitude came, when the pioneers were summoned to the field, and my father joined the parties of armed rangers, who drove the savages from our settlements, or pursued them to their own villages. Then it was, that day after day, and night after night, she watched, and wept, and prayed, and felt herself already bowed down in anticipation, under the hopeless grief of an imaginary widowhood.

At length the blow came. The storm, whose voice had often been heard at a distance, and which had thrown its lengthened shadow over our little dwelling, burst over us in the fulness of its destructive energy. One day my father had gone out to a piece of ground which he was clearing, not far from the house, accompanied by a few of the neighbouring men, who had assembled to assist him in rolling some large logs into heaps, for burning. My mother was employed in sewing, while my little sister and myself played on the floor. She heard the crack of a rifle, in the direction of the newly cleared ground, and as this was always a sound which excited interest in the mind of the wife of a pioneer, in those days of continual warfare, she hastily stepped to the door to listen. A single report did not necessarily imply danger, for the farmers always carried their rifles with them to the field of labour; and they might have fired at one of the wild animals with which the forest abounded. But another and another report followed in quick succession—and then the shrill war-whoop of the Indian—that terrific sound, which once heard, is never forgotten. The little party had been attacked by the savages. My mother rushed out of the house. Her first impulse was to hasten to the scene of action, to aid her husband with her feeble strength, or die by his side. But the recollection of her children, and the conviction that she could render no service in the battle, but might endanger the safety of her little ones by abandoning the spot which was her post of duty, restored her presence of mind; and she climbed to the top of a high fence, to catch, if possible, a view of the combatants. The guns continued to be discharged in rapid succession; she saw the smoke rising in thin columns from each explosion, and settling in a dense cloud over the field of conflict, and, under the dark shadow of the edge of the forest, even the flashes were visible. What a scene for a wife to witness! The yells of the Indians were mingled with the shouts of the white men—the screams of anguish, and the horrible exclamations of revenge, were borne together to the ear of the affrighted and only spectator of this bloody drama.

In this moment of horror, the distracted mother heard the piercing screams of one of her children, and rushed instinctively to the house, expecting to find that the savages had also approached in that direction. My little sister had fallen into the fire, and was severely burned. She snatched up her child, began to tear the blazing clothes away from it, and soon ascertained, that the injury, though severe, was not dangerous. While thus employed, she became conscious that the war-whoop had died away, and the firing ceased. What a moment for the wife and mother! What excruciating torments are inflicted upon the helpless dependents, and inoffensive companions of man, by his ambition, his fierce passions, and his reckless prodigality of life! The battle was over, and the slain were lying upon the field. She knew not certainly that any had fallen, but the probability was, that even if the white men were victorious, the triumph had been purchased by a heart-breaking loss to some unhappy wife, or wretched mother—perhaps to herself. But if the Indians had prevailed, how accumulated the horror of her situation! The tomahawk might even now be performing its brutal office in despatching the vanquished, or mutilating the dead, and in a few moments she might be compelled to witness the expiring agonies of her children!

She wept bitterly over her screaming infant, and almost blamed the unconscious child that detained her from rushing to her husband. Unable to restrain her impatience, she hastened to the door with the babe in her arms, and saw the little party of backwoods-men slowly returning. Why came they with such tardy steps—why thus closely crowded together—why did they halt so often? Alas! they bore one of their number a corpse in their arms! She ran to meet them. As she came near, the men laid down their burthen under the shade of a large tree, and then stood respectfully back—while my poor mother, recognising her husband in the agonies of death, threw herself on the ground beside him, and had only time to attract one look from the dying man, by her shriek of agony, ere his eyes were closed for ever.

The remains of my father were buried near the house, and my mother could not be prevailed upon to quit the spot around which her affections lingered. After spending a few weeks at the house of a neighbour, who had kindly taken us home during the confusion of the melancholy event, she returned to her deserted cabin, havings, in the mean while, written to an unmarried brother in North Carolina to come to her. He came and remained with us, carrying on the business of our farm, and acting as a kind protector to us all.

From this period I date the commencement of my recollections. I remember well the care-worn figure and broken-hearted countenance of my mother. She was so bowed down under affliction that her voice had acquired a tremulous tone, which was very touching to those who knew the cause, and especially to the few who participated in her grief. The neighbours were kind to her; they gathered her corn, looked after her affairs, and provided for her until my uncle's arrival; and continued ever afterwards to treat her with considerate attention. There are few who do not feel deep sympathy for the utter desolation of the widow's heart, and for the helpless wretchedness of her unprotected situation; nor do any people exhibit, in the indulgence of this natural feeling, a more manly benevolence than our backwoodsmen. Continually exposed to danger, and dependent on each other for a thousand charitable offices, which are always rendered without remuneration, they do not become callous to the misery of others, but learn to feel and act as if bound to those around them by the ties of fraternity. They visited my mother often; and the story of my father's death was repeated so frequently as to be deeply impressed upon my memory. In the higher circles of life, where a great degree of refinement is said to prevail, it is not customary, I believe, to converse with the parties interested upon those sad topics which deeply affect the heart, and throw a gloom over the family circle. In humble life it is different: the fountains of grief are familiarly approached and thrown open, and the bitter waters of affliction suffered to flow freely out. The heart relieves itself by these discussions, and, instead of brooding over its sorrows, gives them vent, and does better than adding imaginary ills to those which are real, by learning to consider the subject in the same practical light in which it is viewed by others.

My sister and myself often strolled to the woods to gather nuts, or to hunt for the nests of birds— or stole away to a neighbouring stream to wade in the water. But we never went far from the house without having the fear of the Indians before our eyes. We had heard the story of our father's death so often repeated—had listened to so many similar legends—had so often witnessed the alarm created by a rumoured appearance of the Indians in the vicinity,—that our hearts had learned to quail in terror at the thought of a savage. The word Indian conveyed to our minds all that was fierce, and dangerous, and hateful. We knew what we had ourselves suffered from this ferocious race, and we saw that others lived in continual fear of them. We heard the men talk of "hunting Indians," as they would speak of tracking the beast of prey to his lair—and the women never met without speaking of the abduction of children, or the murder of females,—repeating tale after tale, each exceeding the former in horror, until the whole circle became agitated with fear, the candles seemed to burn blue, and the slightest sound was considered as a prognostic of instant massacre.

Many were our childish discussions and surmises on this all absorbing subject, as we played together.

"What made the Indians kill our father?" my little sister would ask, and we would guess and guess, without coming to any other conclusion than that it was "because they were bad people."

"Would they kill us?"—"Do they kill every body they meet?"—"Do they eat people?" were some of the questions which naturally occurred to us, and it will be readily believed that the agitation of them always led to inferences the most unfavourable to the Indian. If a bush rustled, or a footstep was heard as we strolled abroad, we imagined that the Indians were near; but, instead of running and screaming, as more civilised children would have done, we crept silently under the nearest cover, or dropped quietly in the high grass, with the instinct which teaches the young partridge a similar device—lying perfectly motionless, and throwing our little wild eyes vigilantly about until the danger had passed. We should not have moved had an Indian stepped over us; nor have betrayed any signs of life, so long as silence would have afforded concealment. Such are the habits of cunning and of self-command acquired, even in infancy, by those who live on a frontier exposed to hostile incursions—who are often in danger, and who hear continually of stratagems and deeds of violence.

Thus two years of my mother's widowhood had rolled away, when one day my sister and myself were amusing ourselves by dabbling in the water of a small branch not far from the house. She was at a distance from me—and, being intent on different objects, we had not spoken for some time—when suddenly I heard her utter a most piercing shriek. I looked up, and beheld her in the grasp of an Indian warrior. Instinctively I recoiled behind a thick bush, where I sat in breathless silence, keeping my eye fixed on the savage, who, not having discovered me, began to retreat with his terrified prisoner in his arms. Poor child! I shall never forget the dreadful screams which she uttered—until the Indian, placing his hand on her mouth and menacing with his knife, gave her to understand that he would kill her unless she ceased to cry. Nor shall I ever fail to remember my own agony when I saw her borne away sobbing, stretching out her little arms, and gazing wildly towards her home for the last time. What rage and grief filled my young heart as I witnessed her pangs, and felt my own impotence— as the most beloved object in existence was torn from me, while I could neither prevent nor revenge the violence.

No sooner was the savage out of sight, than I started up and hurried to the house, taking care to follow the most concealed path, and treading with the stealthy caution of the prowler of the night. My uncle was not at home, and my poor mother—my widowed, mourning mother, whose infants were all that were left to her in this world— words cannot describe the acuteness of the grief with which she was overwhelmed. But she acted with courage and prudence: displaying, in this moment of affliction, a self-possession which never forsook her under any circumstances. After my father's death, I was perhaps the dearest object of her affection. She felt at that moment the sentiment expressed by the patriarch of Israel: "If I be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved." Apprehending that the Indians still hovered around the dwelling, and would soon appear to complete their ferocious purpose, she closed the door and placed the heaviest articles of furniture against it, determined to defend herself to the last. She said to me, "Your father is dead, your sister is gone, and you are all that is left to me—I must save your life if I lose my own;" and then raising one of the puncheons which formed the floor, she thrust me under it, and charging me to lie still, and neither move nor speak—whatever might happen—restored the puncheon to its place. The floor was sufficiently open to enable me to see what passed, and sometimes to catch a glimpse of the actors. It was now past sunset. In a few minutes the Indians came to the door, and attempted to force their way in; but my mother having a loaded rifle, presented it through a crevice of the logs, upon which they retired, uttering as they went the most horrible yells. They soon returned, bearing lighted torches, which they threw upon the roof—in a few minutes the house was in flames—the rifle dropped from my mother's hands, and, before she could determine what to do, the door was burst open, and she was dragged out. The savages, finding no other object upon which to vent their fury, departed, carrying her with them.

I cannot pretend to convey any adequate idea of my own emotions during this scene. The loss of my little sister had gone to my heart—the self-possession and energy of my mother had awakened my admiration—and in the tumult of other feelings, my own danger had scarcely been the subject of a thought. I was naturally bold; and I was not given to the indulgence of selfish reflections. But what a moment of horror was it, when the house was fired, and the savages rushed in! When they laid their brutal hands upon my mother, I experienced a sensation of agony such as I had never known before. How sacred is the person of a mother! What pure and hallowed affections cling around her! What sacrilege in the eyes of a sound hearted child, is an act of violence against that parent, whose sex claims the respect of her son, while her tenderness, her watchful solicitude, her devotion, her maternal pride, have entwined a thousand fond associations among the tendrils of his heart. Besides that intuitive love, which every mother kindles in the bosom of her offspring even before the will begins to exist, I had learned, young as I was, to reverence mine on account of her superior worth. Devoted to her children, I had witnessed more than one instance of her self-denial, which had penetrated my heart. I had seen her on several occasions display a degree of calmness in the presence of danger, and of patient fortitude under extreme suffering, which amounted, in my eyes, to heroism. I had beheld her widowed and in sorrow; and had begun to look forward to the time when I should be her protector. I had seen the involuntary tear trickling secretly down her cheek, and had listened, deeply affected, to the midnight prayer for her children, intended for the ear of Him only to whom it was addressed. A deed of violence perpetrated towards any other woman, would have struck me as brutal,—but there was a sacredness thrown around the person of my mother which gave to this proceeding a character of desecration. When I saw her forced away, I struggled to release myself from my confinement—I screamed—but the shouts of the infuriated incendiaries drowned my cries. The flames were raging over my head, but I thought alone of my mother. The love of life was smothered by more powerful emotions, and I only wished to share her captivity, or to die in her arms.

The sounds of war died away. I no longer heard the footsteps of men, nor the yells of vengeance. The crackling of flames over my head, and the falling of firebrands upon the floor under which I was lying, alone met my ear. I was confused and stupefied by the ferocious deeds I had witnessed. A vague sense of my own danger began to stir within me. I looked round, and discovered that the space between the floor and the ground was sufficient to allow me room to crawl out. I crept from beneath the blazing pile, and found myself the sole spectator of that heart-rending scene of desolation. The perpetrators of that dark deed of aggression against the widow and the orphan, had fled with their captives. The flames were consuming the home which had sheltered me all the years of my existence of which I had any recollection—where I had played with my little sister, and had so often fallen asleep with my head upon my mother's bosom, and felt her warm kiss upon my lips, and had been awakend in the morning by her caresses. Here, morning and evening, had we knelt by her side, with our little hands pressed in hers, as she prayed God to protect the bereaved and the helpless. A gush of tenderness overwhelmed my heart, as the contemplation of my own desolate wretchedness contrasted itself with past endearments. Around me was the darkness of the night, rendered more black by the brightness of the fire. I ran to my father's grave—for I could not resist the conviction that the spirits of my murdered mother and sister would hover over a spot which was so sacred to us all. All was silent here. The hand of the murderer, though it may strike terror into the heart of the living, cannot disturb the repose of the dead. I threw myself on the ground. The reflection that I was alone in the world became almost insupportable— tears came to my relief—I wept bitterly.

In a little while I recovered my composure. I had been reared in habits which were not calculated to enervate my faculties; on the contrary, I was thoughtful and daring. The idea occurred to me that my mother and sister might still be living, and could be rescued from captivity. No sooner had this thought flashed upon my mind, than I rushed, regardless of my own safety, towards the house of our nearest neighbour. It was two miles distant; but I was intimately acquainted with the path, and proceeded with a speed which soon brought me to the place. Pale, trembling, and in tears, I presented myself before the astonished family, unable, at first, to articulate any thing but the word "Indians!"

The effect produced by this alarming name, so often heard, and so fraught with danger, was instantaneous. All started up and prepared for defence. The doors were closed, and the rifles grasped. Consternation was painted on every face; but the men evinced a martial bearing, in the alacrity with which they subdued their apprehensions, and flew to arms. When I told my tale, however, in broken fragments, but intelligibly enough for the comprehension of those who were accustomed to such recitals, and it was rendered probable that the savages were already on their retreat, a different direction was given to the feelings of this worthy family. Its head, a strong, muscular man, slow, heavy, and apparently indolent, seemed to be inspired with a new life.

"We must be after them, boys," said he, "they haint got much start of us, no how—there'll be a nice fresh trail in the morning that can't be missed, and we can out travel the varmints, let 'em do their best."

"John!" exclaimed the wife, "you're a good soul! I wish I was a man, and could go along. Can't you go to-night? Poor Sally Robinson— she'll suffer a heap of misery before morning—the distressed creetur!"

"Its no use to try to hunt Indians in the night," replied the man; "and besides, it will take 'til morning to get the neighbours warned in."

"Don't cry, Billy," said the woman, putting her arms round my neck, and kissing me affectionately, "don't cry, my little man—they'll bring your mammy back afore to-morrow night—no mistake about that—its mighty hard for Indians to get away from our people. You shall sleep with my little boys, and be my son, 'til your mammy comes back."

The backwoodsman now directed several young men, his sons and others, who were present, to mount their horses and spread the alarm through the neighbourhood, and to summon all the men to meet at his house the next morning. The young fellows caught his ardour, and in a few minutes were dashing off, through the woods, in different directions.

There was little sleep among the inmates of this cabin on that eventful night. The children were afraid to go to bed. The man of the house, whose name was Hickman, aware of the necessity of husbanding all his powers for the approaching chase, which might last several days, threw himself down in his clothes, and soon appeared to slumber. His wife sat by the fire, sighing, pouring out bitter anathemas upon the Indians, and giving utterance to her lively sympathy in the afflictions of her neighbour, while the children crowded around her, squatted upon the floor with their bare feet gathered under them, each clinging to some part of her dress, gazing at one another in mute terror, or asking questions in whispered and tremulous accents about the savages;— and all of them in turns casting glances of pity at myself, as I sat, sometimes weeping bitterly, and at other times staring in tearless agony at the terrified group. At intervals, the kind-hearted matron would articulate my mother's name, accompanied by passionate expressions of grief and affection.

"Poor Sally Robinson! she has had her own troubles, poor thing! And she sich a good creetur! It was sorrowful enough to be a lone woman,— and her man murdered the way he was, right before her eyes, as a body may say! The dear knows how she did to stand it! Law, children, don't pull my gownd so,—you'll tear every stitch of clothes off of my back. What are you afeard of? the Indians aint comin' here, no how,—the varmints—they know better than for to go where there's men about the house, 'drot their vile skins! the 'bominable riff-raff cowardly scum of creation! they haint got the hearts of men, no how! they haint no more courage nor a burnt cracklin, no way they can fix it! Poor Sally! ah me!—and the dear child—the poor, poor little child!"

"Did the Indians kill little Sue, mammy?"

"I don't know, child—they carried her off, and Him that's above only knows what has become of her. And they have burnt the very roof over the heads of them that had no one to take care of them."

"Did they burn Miss Robinson's house up, mammy?"

"To be sure they did—the cabin, and a beautiful piece of cloth that she had in the loom, and all the plunder that the poor thing has been scrapin together by the work of her own hands."

"Mammy,—"

"Hush, what's that?"

Then they would all crowd together and listen.

"It's daddy snoring."

It was past midnight when the tramping of a horse was heard rapidly approaching. The dogs barked fiercely, as if conscious of the necessity of unusual vigilance, and then ceased all at once. A loud voice called, "Who keeps house?"

Those who were sitting up were afraid to move; but Mr. Hickman, accustomed to awake at the slightest alarm, started up, and proceeded, with his gun in his hand, to open the door cautiously. My uncle entered. He had heard the rumour vaguely repeated, had hurried home, and found, in the smoking embers of his dwelling, a fatal confirmation of his worst fears.

Between that time and the dawn of day the neighbours poured in, all armed, and prepared to pursue the Indians. Some were ready for action: others, who had repaired more hastily to the rendezvous, upon the moment of receiving the summons, now employed themselves in wiping out their guns, cleaning the locks, changing the flints, and supplying their pouches with all the munitions required for several days' service. Mr. Hickman seemed to be tacitly agreed upon as the leader. I watched all his motions, and, young as I was, saw with admiration the coolness and precision with which he made his arrangements. He examined every part of his rifle with the most severe scrutiny. He placed a handful of bullets on the table, and passed them rapidly through his fingers, one by one, to ascertain that they were perfectly round and smooth, rejecting those that were in the slightest degree defective. His flints and patches underwent the same close inspection. The tomahawk and knife were placed in his belt— then withdrawn and placed again—until the wary pioneer was satisfied that each was so arranged as to be capable of being quickly grasped by the hand, in case of sudden need, and so secured as not to be liable to be lost while the rider was dashing rapidly through the bushes. Grave and taciturn all the time, he was as cool as if preparing for a hunt.

His wife hung round him during these operations,— now officiously tendering her services— now leaning on his shoulder, and speaking to him in a low voice,—then retiring, as if overcome by her fears, and sometimes secretly wiping away a tear with the corner of her apron.

"John," she would say, "you won't lose no time, I hope. Poor Sally! she will be mighty bad off 'till she sees you comin—it's sich a dreadful bad fix for any body to be in."

"We sha'nt be long, I reckon."

"Take mighty good care of yourself, John— you know, dear, what a poor broken-hearted body I'd be without you. Don't ride Ball,—you know he stumbles powerful bad, and falls down sometimes— and his sight's so bad, he aint no account, no how, in the night."

"I shall ride Dick—no mistake in him."

"No two ways about Dick," reiterated the wife; "boys, go and feed Dick, and clean him, and fix him good for your daddy to ride. And, John, when you get up to the miserable varmints, don't be too ambitious—you know you're apt to be sort o' quick when you're raised—don't be too brash; if you can only get poor Sally Robinson away from them, don't run no risks. You don't reckon you'll have to fight with them, do you?"

"It's a little mixed," replied the husband.

"It would be a droll way to hunt Indians, and not kill any of them," interrupted one of the party.

"I'll be dogged if I don't save one of them," added another.

"I allow to use up one or two," continued a third.

"I'll never agree to return 'til we use up the whole gang—stock, lock, and barrel," added another.

"They are the darndest puteranimous villyens on the face of the whole yearth—and I go in for puttin the pewter to 'em, accordin' to law," chimed in a little dried up old man, who was whetting his knife against the side of the fire-place, and looking as savage as a meat-axe. It was very obvious that the Indians would get no quarter.

At daylight the party began to mount. All were completely equipped. Under every saddle was a blanket, to save the horse's back—behind it was tied either a great coat or a blanket to sleep in—on this was lashed a wallet, containing several days' provisions, and a tin cup dangled on the top of the whole. Each man carried a good rifle, in complete order, and had a knife and a tomahawk in his belt. Their legs were covered, to protect them from the briars, with dressed deer-skin—not made into any garment, but rolled tightly round the limb and tied with strings. Some wore shoes, others moccasins—some had hats, others rejected this covering, and wore only a cotton handkerchief bound closely round the head. When mounted they bade adieu to their friends, and set out in high spirits—not observing any particular order of march at first, but falling gradually into the single file, as the most convenient arrangement for passing rapidly through the forest.

Towards evening two of the party returned. They brought the clothes of my sister which had been found by the way, near the bank of the Ohio, torn and bloody, but yet in a state to be identified. There was other evidence, abundant and conclusive, that the poor child had been murdered, and her body thrown into the river. I cannot express the poignancy of my sensations on receiving the intelligence of this catastrophe. I had, until now, sustained my spirits by the hope of her escape. I would not believe that even a savage could wantonly give pain, much less inflict death, upon my innocent companion—a sweet, rosy, laughing girl. A girl! a little girl—I could not imagine it possible that any human creature, with the form of manhood, would touch the life of a thing so winning, so gentle, so helpless. I dreamed away the day in painful excitement—in feverish visions of hope and fear; but when the truth came I sunk down in an agony of grief and horror. I had not realised the possibility of a catastrophe so terrible.

Another day was drawing near to a close. I was withering under the pressure of affliction. Grief, watching, excitement, and loss of appetite, had produced a bodily exhaustion, attended with extreme nervous sensibility. I had wandered off by myself, and came, I hardly know how, to the blackened ruins of our cabin. I seated myself under a tree, in the desolated yard. It was a bright calm evening; the sun was sinking towards the horizon, and the long shadows of the forest extended over the spot. The cool air fanned my burning brow, and brought a momentary sense of relief from pain. Before me was a silent heap of ashes—but all else wore the air of home. A few fruit trees that stood scattered around, were in full blossom, and the bees were humming busily among the flowers—the birds sang, and the domestic animals seemed to welcome my return. The cow, that had been standing unmilked, came lowing towards me—the pigs ran to meet me— and the fowls gathered about the place where I sat, as if they recognised a master whose protection had been withdrawn from them. Oh! how many ties there are to bind the soul to earth! When the strongest are cut asunder, and the spirit feels itself cast loose from every bond which connects it with mortality, how imperceptibly does one little tendril after another become entwined about it, and draw it back with gentle violence! He who thinks he has but one love is always mistaken. The heart may have one overmastering affection, more powerful than all the rest, which, like the main root of the tree, is that which supports it; but if that be cut away, it will find a thousand minute fibres still clinging to the soil of humanity. An absorbing passion may fill up the soul, and while it lasts, may throw a shade over the various obligations, and the infinite multitudes of little kindnesses, and tender associations, that bind us to mankind; but when that fades, these are seen to twinkle in the firmament of life, as the stars shine, after the sun has gone down. Even the brute, and the lilies of the field, that neither toil nor spin, put in their silent claims; and the heart that would have spurned the world, settles quietly down again upon its bosom. A moment before, I was in despair;—and now I was caressing the dumb animals around me. They seemed like friends; and a something like joy revived within me, as I reflected that I was not entirely forsaken. I raised my eyes and my heart to Heaven, with a feeling of thanksgiving, and melted into tenderness.

I looked up and gazed around me. In the edge of the forest, an object attracted my attention. It was the dim and shadowy representation of a human figure. It moved; and then seemed to lean against a tree; again it moved, and halted. Could it be an Indian? Was the savage thirst for blood not yet sated? Were they not to be satisfied until all, even the last, of my unhappy family, should have fallen under the tomahawk? I did not fly: I would not have moved from that spot had a myriad of savages appeared,—a legion of devils could not have daunted my spirit in that moment of stubborn desperation. The figure moved along under the shade of a long point of timber, which approached to within a few yards of the house—advancing, and then halting, cautiously as an insidious enemy, or painfully like a friend, who came the bearer of unwelcome tidings. I watched it with intense interest, until it came near, and stepped from under the woody covert, which had rendered the form indistinct,—and then I recognised, with unerring instinct, the person of my mother. I rushed towards her, and in a moment was in her arms. I gazed at her with an overwhelming gush of joy and fondness— but, oh! how changed, how wretched was she! Her bare feet were torn and bloody—her clothes were tattered into shreds—her eyes red—her face pale and emaciated—her frame exhausted with fatigue. After being driven forward a whole day, she had effected her escape in the night, and had wandered back to the home which had been desolated by the ruthless hand of the murderer and incendiary. With my assistance she was enabled, with much difficulty, to crawl to the house of our kind neighbour, where she sunk down under her bodily and mental sufferings, and remained some days dangerously ill.

The party who had gone to her assistance, had missed her on the way, but had overtaken the Indians, and attacked them with such spirit, that one half the savages were slain in the first onset. The remainder dispersed, and found safety in flight.

We did not return to the spot which had proved so calamitous to our unhappy family, but removed to a place which was supposed to be less exposed to danger. I had now no companion. The loss of my little sister preyed upon my spirits. She was continually the subject of my thoughts. I often sat for hours together absorbed in visionary speculations, founded upon the possibility of my sister's escape from death. As is the case with all dreamers, I did not examine the evidence for the purpose of learning the truth, nor did I permit the certainty of the catastrophe which had befallen her to interfere with my theories; but assuming the premises which were necessary, I proceeded to erect an airy superstructure, and to luxuriate in the enjoyment of the "baseless fabric of a vision." I exercised my ingenuity in imagining a variety of modes in which she might have escaped from her captors, fancied for her some present state of existence under the protection of kind benefactors, and realised the joy of her sudden and unexpected restoration. Sometimes I supposed her to be living in captivity, and fancied myself leading an armed party to her rescue— I went through all the stratagems and perils of border warfare—signalised myself by a series of acts of almost miraculous daring—delivered my beloved sister from bondage, and filled the heart of my bereaved mother with joy and pride. When I slept, the same fancies were ever present. I strolled about with my sister, embarrassed by the endeavour to reconcile the appearances of my dream with the facts indelibly engraved upon my memory. Sometimes she sat by me, with her hand clasped in mine, and narrated a series of adventures, which she had passed through since our parting; but more frequently she seemed to laugh at my credulity, and pronounced our misfortunes to have been all a dream. Often did I awake in tears.

As I grew older, my tenderness began to give way to sterner feelings. Accustomed to fear the Indians from infancy, I began at last to hate them with intense malignity. I had never heard them spoken of but as enemies, to extirpate whom was a duty. I had been taught to consider the slaying of an Indian as an act of praiseworthy public spirit. As my sorrow for the sufferings of those who were dear to me began to harden into indignation, the desire of revenge was kindled in my bosom. This feeling was rapidly developed, because it was the only one connected with my reveries which I could trace out to any practical result. I could not bring my sister to life, nor dispel the cloud of grief from the face of my widowed mother: but I could strike the savage, I could burn his dwelling, and desolate his fireside, as he had desolated mine. This passion soon gained a predominating mastery over my mind— as a rank weed shoots up and overshadows those around it, the desire of revenge struck deep its roots, grew rapidly into vigour, and smothered the better emotions of my heart.

I procured a gun, and began to roam the forest. In this country boys are permitted, at an early age, to mingle in the sports of men, and my propensity for hunting did not excite any particular remark. The hunters sometimes took me with them; but more often I wandered about alone. I soon learned to shoot with precision, and became expert in many of the devices of the backwoodsman.

When I was about twelve years old, a village was laid out in the neighbourhood in which we then resided. The country was settling rapidly; several wealthy families from Virginia were among the emigrants; the frontier had been further west, and with it had rolled the tide of war. Society began to be organised, and many of the luxuries of social life were introduced. Among other improvements was a school, conducted by a person of some erudition, who brought with him a good many books, and was looked upon as a prodigy of knowledge.

I was sent to school; entered upon my studies with eagerness, and made rapid advances in learning. With a mind naturally inquisitive, and accustomed to rely upon itself, I had no difficulty in mastering any task which was given me, and soon became fond of reading. My teacher had in his possession a number of volumes of history, which I perused with avidity. A few classics, which fell into my hands, I read over and over, with the delight of a newly awakened admiration. I commenced the study of the Latin language, and gained a slight acquaintance with the mythology and history of the ancients. In three years, my character was much changed; my mind was enlarged, my affections softened, and the tone of my morals considerably ameliorated. I still loved my gun, and indulged my propensity for wandering in the forest; while my hatred of the Indians, and that thirst for vengeance over which I had so long brooded, were by no means blunted by the perusal of those histories, in which the recitals of military daring form a prominent part, and martial accomplishments are held up as exemplary virtues worthy of the highest admiration.

I was little more than fifteen years of age, when a number of the poorer families in the neighbourhood formed a party for the purpose of removing to the settlements upon the Mississippi, in Illinois— a new country, which just then began to be spoken of. My uncle and mother determined to accompany them. I know not what infatuation induced them to brave again the perils of the wilderness, after all their fatal experience. It is probable that their only inducement was that love of new lands, of fresh wild scenery, and of the unconstrained habits of border life, which forms a ruling passion with the people of the backwoods, and which no chastening from the hand of adversity can eradicate.

The only settlements of the Americans in Illinois, at that time, were in the neighbourhood of the French villages, which were scattered along the American Bottom, on the Mississippi, from Kaskaskia to the vicinity of St. Louis. We embarked in two large boats; and, after floating quietly down the Ohio to the Mississippi, began to ascend that wonderful river, proceeding slowly against its powerful current. Sometimes a fair wind invited us to hoist our sails, and enabled us for a while to move forward without labour; but usually our boats were pushed with poles, by the most severe manual exertion. To get forward at all in opposition to the current, it was necessary to creep along close to the shore. But there were places where it became impossible to make any headway even by this method: where the bank was perpendicular, the water too deep to allow the use of poles, and the headlong stream swept foaming against the shore. In such emergencies it was impossible to proceed, except by means of the cordelle, a strong cable attached to the boat, by which the boatmen, walking on the shore, dragged it past these dangerous places. The shores, on both sides, were inhabited by Indians, and our labours were rendered the more burthensome, by the necessity of keeping up a continual watch to prevent surprise.

One day we reached a place where the river is closely hemmed in by rock on either side, and the stream, confined within a more narrow space than it usually occupies, rushes with great impetuosity through the strait. It is one of the most difficult passes on the river for ascending boats. Here, of course, neither oars nor poles could be of any avail, and arrangements were made for using the cordelle. My uncle and mother were in the foremost boat—I had happened to be, for the moment, in the other, which, by some accident, was detained, so as to fall a short distance into the rear. The leading boat passed round a little point of land, which concealed it from our view, and immediately afterwards we heard the reports of several rifles. The Indians had formed an ambuscade at the point where they knew the crew must land to use the cable, and had fallen upon them at a moment when the difficulties of the navigation absorbed their attention so entirely, that they had forgotten their usual precautions, and were not prepared either to fight or fly. On hearing the alarm we endeavoured to hasten to their assistance, aided by a breeze which filled our sail, and bore us rapidly along. But we were too late; and, on turning the point, beheld the other boat moored fast to the shore, and in possession of a hellish band of savage warriors, who were dashing furiously about on the deck and on the bank, uttering the most hideous yells. We came near enough to see the bodies of our friends stretched lifeless on the ground, or struggling in the agonies of death—surrounded by the monsters, who were still beating them with clubs, and gratifying their demoniac thirst for blood in gashing with their knives the already mutilated corpses. Never did I behold a scene of such horror: language has no power to describe it, nor the mind capacity to obliterate its impressions. Men, women, and children, were alike the victims of an indiscriminating carnage. The hell-hounds were literally tearing them in pieces,—exulting, shouting, smearing themselves with blood, and trampling on the remains of their wretched victims.

On our approach, they prepared for a new triumph; for their numbers so greatly exceeded our own as to render victory certain. We had advanced so near as to be within the range of a heavy fire which they poured in, and the foaming current seemed to be dashing us upon the rocks on which they stood—when our steersman, a cool experienced man, suddenly threw the head of the boat across the river, in the opposite direction, and causing the sail to be trimmed suitably, shot rapidly away from the scene of the massacre. A shout of rage and disappointment burst from our crew, who were thoughtlessly preparing to revenge their friends. It was well that a more prudent head directed our motions. The dead were beyond the reach of our aid, and the infuriated savages, mad with victory, greatly outnumbered ourselves. We found safety on the opposite shore, where we remained in painful suspense until the murderers retired, when we repaired to the melancholy spot, and rendered, in silent agony, the last sad rites to the remains of the fallen. Not one of all that crew had escaped. I recognised, with difficulty, the mangled bodies of my mother and my uncle; and kneeling beside the remains of my parent, swore eternal vengeance against her murderers—against that race who had poisoned the cup of her existence,—and, not content with robbing her of all that made life dear, and of life itself, had insulted her inanimate remains.

Enough of this. I cannot express the feelings of a son under such circumstances—the only son of a widowed mother—who had been almost her sole companion, had shared her adversity, witnessed her afflictions, and appreciated her maternal fondness. I pass them over.

I began to lead a new life. I found myself at Kaskaskia, a stranger. I had not a relative living, and in this place I had no acquaintances. But my story gained me much sympathy; I was kindly received—every door was open to me, and every heart seemed to feel that I had claims upon my countrymen.

No degree of kindness, however, could soothe my excited feelings. The determination to avenge my mother's death,—to be revenged for the loss of a father, a sister, and an uncle, was unalterably formed, and thirst for the blood of the savage was become an uncontrollable passion. I wandered about in the woods and over the prairies—spending my whole time in hunting, in increasing my skill in the use of the rifle, and in rendering more perfect my proficiency in the various devices of the hunter. In my wanderings I became acquainted with a Frenchman, who lived almost entirely in the forest. He was a small, slender, quiet man, past the meridian of life. Taciturn and inoffensive, he subsisted by hunting and fishing, and had little communion with his own species. He was never engaged in war, or in any kind of altercation. Equally friendly with the whites and the Indians, he visited the villages and the camps of both, and was well received, although occasionally suspected by each of acting as a spy for the other. This suspicion was founded on the singularity of his character, in which a great degree of ignorance and childish simplicity was combined with a remarkable shrewdness in matters connected with his own vocation. The latter was very naturally supposed to arise from native sagacity, and the former to be the result of profound dissimulation. What the truth might be, I never knew; but, to me, Peter seemed to be the most unsophisticated of human beings. How it happened that I gained his confidence, does not now occur to me; for he was unsocial in his habits— and although, when he visited the French villages, he cheerfully partook of the hospitality of his countrymen, conversed freely, and was a delighted spectator of their festivities, he soon wandered off, and was not seen again for weeks, or even months.

To this singular being I attached myself, and became the companion of his voluntary banishment from society. We retired far from the settlements, avoiding equally the hunting grounds of the Indians and the haunts of the white people. Sometimes we encamped at a secluded spot on the margin of a river, and spent our time in fishing. Then we wandered away to the pastures of the deer, living upon venison, and drying the skins of our game. Again, we sought the retreats of the beaver, and, setting our traps, reposed quietly in the neighbouring coverts to witness the success of our arts. Occasionally we crept upon the elk or the buffalo, and engaged, with the hunter's ardour, in the pursuit of these noble animals; and sometimes we circumvented the cunning of the wild cat, or planned the destruction of the wolf or the panther. To add variety to our meals, we plundered the hoard of the wild bee; and Peter soon taught me to trace the industrious insect through the air, from the flowery prairie, to his distant home in the forest. When our supply of furs became considerable, we collected them from their different places of deposit at some point on the river, and, embarking in a canoe, floated down to the nearest village, where we exchanged them for powder, lead, and other necessaries.

But I did not spend all my time in hunting and fishing. Naturally observant, the little education I had received had quickened my mental powers, and rendered me keenly inquisitive into all the arcana of nature. I noticed every thing around me;—the appearances of the clouds, and the changes of the weather—the foliage of the trees, and the growth of the multitudinous vegetation of the wilderness—the habits of animals, and the various notes of the inhabitants of the forest,— but especially all the appearances of nature—all the varieties of sunlight and shade—all the diversities in the aspect of the natural scenery, from midnight to noon, attracted my attention. Peter, although not a naturalist, was an admirable teacher in these studies. Accustomed to observe nature from his infancy, he had become acquainted with the secrets of the great volume, which all profess to admire and but few understand. He could anticipate the changes of the weather. He knew when the moon would rise, and when the deer would be stirring. He could select, with ready tact, the most suitable pool for fishing, and could tell the hour at which the fish would bite. His ear was acute in distinguishing sounds: if a wolf stole past in the dark, he could detect the fall of his stealthy footstep in the rustling of the leaf or the cracking of the twigs; and when the owl hooted at midnight, he knew whether that scream denoted the presence of an intruder, or was the ordinary note with which the solitary bird solaced his hour of recreation. There were few appearances, and few sounds, which Peter could not explain. He knew the points of the campass and the landmarks of the country, and could find his way in the dark as well as in the daylight, and under a clouded atmosphere as easily as in the blaze of noon.

Under such tuition, I soon became also an expert woodsman. With an enterprising mind, a frame naturally vigorous, and habits formed from infancy upon the frontier, I had little to learn. I only needed experience, and this I now gained in the school of practice. The backwoodsman acquires great skill in the use of the rifle, because he employs that weapon not merely in sport, but in the pursuit of a serious occupation. It was particularly so in those early times. If he made war, it was usually at his own cost; if he hunted, it was to procure a livelihood. In his long marches through the woods, when he is absent several days, or perhaps weeks, from home, he can carry but little ammunition, and has no means of renewing his supply when it becomes expended. Powder and lead are scarce and costly in these secluded neighbourhoods. He is therefore cautious not to throw away a charge, and seldom fires at random. He creeps upon his enemy, or his game, gains every available advantage, measures his distance, and takes his aim, with great deliberation and accuracy. In any attainment, it is not practice merely which secures perfection, but it is the habit of careful practice, of always doing well that which is to be done, and of aiming continually at improvement. Such is the habit of our hunters, who seldom discharge their rifles unnecessarily, and who feel their own characters, and that of their guns, at stake in every shot which they fire.

There was one subject, however, which occupied my mind especially—one master purpose, to which every feeling of my heart, and every employment of my life, was subservient. My thirst for revenge was unbounded. It filled up my whole soul. I thought of little else than schemes for the destruction of the savage. I was maturing a stupendous plan of vengeance, and bringing all the resources of my mind to bear upon this one subject. The feet of men are swift to shed blood. I improved rapidly in the arts of destruction. I practised all the deceptive stratagems, by which the hunter conceals himself from an enemy, or baffles the instinct of the brute. I could lie for hours so still, that a person, within a few feet of me, would not have suspected that a living creature was near him; and concealed myself so successfully, that even the Indian would not have discovered me, unless he stepped by accident on my body. I could swim, and dive, and lie all day in the water, with my head hidden among the rushes, watching for prey. I learned especially that patience, that forbearance, that entire mastery over my appetites, fears, and passions, which enables the Indian to submit to any privation, and to delay the impending blow until all his plans are ripe, however alluring may be the temptation for premature action.

I concealed my design from all, even from my companion, Peter, while I was every day getting from him the information requisite to advance my purpose. I ascertained the names of the surrounding tribes, their dispositions in respect to the whites, and the location of their villages. I obtained the names of their most celebrated warriors, and particularly of such as were distinguished by deeds of violence against my countrymen. But the information to which I listened with the most thrilling interest, and treasured in my inmost heart, related to the massacre of my mother. I learned from the Frenchmen, that the party which perpetrated that bloody deed, consisted of a number of desperate individuals from different villages, led by a lawless chief, who still occasionally assembled the band for similar out-rages. I treasured with pertinacious care the names of those Indians, and the distinctive marks by which they might be known. More than once, when I heard that they were hunting in our neighbourhood, I left my companion, silently tracked their footsteps day after day, laid concealed by the path along which they passed, or crept secretly upon their camp; until by close observation I made myself acquainted with their persons. All this was the more difficult, because this band, aware of the indignation which that unprovoked murder had excited, avoided the white people, and were constantly on their guard against surprise. But what vigilance can guard against the watchful cunning of revenge—revenge for the cold-blooded butchery of a mother, a sister, and a father, and the disruption of every tie which binds a young and generous heart to existence!

At length the long sought opportunity presented itself. In the fall of the year succeeding that of the massacre, I discovered that the hated band were hunting on the margin of the Mississippi, and were in the custom of retiring for safety, every night, to an island in that river—first making their fire, and arranging their camp on the shore of the main land, as if with the intention of spending the night there, and then secretly stealing away to the island under the cover of darkness.

I went to the nearest settlement—where my story was well known, and had awakened a generous sympathy—and laying aside my usual reserve, boldly announced my plan, and asked for a band of volunteers to assist in its execution. Such a call was, at that period, seldom made in vain. Warlike in their habits, and inveterately hostile to the savages, the people of the frontier were always ready for excursions of this character. On this occasion the excitement was the more easily kindled, because others had been bereaved of relatives and friends, in the same catastrophe which deprived me of my last parent, and all were indignant at that outrage. The plan was well matured, and rapidly executed. A company was raised, equal in number to the Indians, all picked men, and completely equipped. At midnight, we assembled secretly on the bank of the river, far above the island, and embarking in canoes, floated quietly down. The night was cloudy, and so perfectly dark, as to render it impossible that we should be discovered from either shore. The stream bore us along, and the noiseless paddle accelerated and directed the motion of the canoe, without creating the slightest sound which could awaken alarm. We landed on the island without confusion, and pursued the meanders of the shore until we found the canoes of the enemy. These we cut adrift, and pursuing a dim path, came to the camp where the savages were lying asleep, around the embers of a fire,—all but a sentinel, who, half awake, sat upon a log. Each man selected his object, in accordance with a preconcerted plan—took a deliberate aim, and fired;— and then drawing our tomahawks, we rushed in, and grappled the astonished savages as they sprung to their feet. So complete was the surprise, that they had not time to grasp their arms before the tomahawk was busy among them. A few seized the nearest weapon, and fought with desperation. But the conflict was soon over:— not one of that fated band escaped to tell of their defeat. Morning dawned over a scene reposing in beautiful and majestic quiet; its rosy light streaming over the variegated foliage, and glancing from the eddies and ripples of the turbid river— and there we sat, a grim and bloody company, brooding over the gashed and mutilated bodies of the slain, while a few scouts were busily exploring the island, to ascertain whether any of the enemy were yet lurking in the bushes. Not one was found; and we departed in triumph,—in that silent and subdued triumph which the sight of the slain inspires in the bosom of the generous victor, but yet with the emotions of satisfaction which men feel, who believe that they have performed a duty.

I had supposed, previous to this event, that the gratification of my revenge would give peace to my bosom; but this is a passion which grows stronger by indulgence; and no sooner had I tasted the sweets of vengeance, than I began to feel an insatiable thirst for the blood of the savage. Resuming my secluded habits, but without rejoining my former companion, I now lived entirely in the woods, occupied with my own thoughts, and pursuing, systematically, a plan of warfare against that hated race whom I regarded with invincible animosity. I followed the footsteps of their hunting parties, eagerly watching for an opportunity to cut off any straggler who might wander away from the others. For whole days I would lie concealed by the paths which they travelled, or near a spring which they frequented; and if a single Indian presented himself, I shot him down without remorse, as I would have slain a wolf, or crushed a rattlesnake. Sometimes I met a single warrior openly, and we fought manfully, hand to hand: that I was successful in those conflicts, is proved by the fact that I am alive—for those single combats are usually fatal to one of the parties. But more frequently I sought to engage them under every advantage which might ensure success, not feeling the obligation of any point of honour which obliged me to meet an Indian on fair terms. It happened, of course, that the advantage was sometimes on their side; occasionally, I fell in, accidentally, with several of their warriors, or was tracked and pursued by a party—and then I eluded them by cunning, or escaped by superior swiftness of foot. They soon learned to know me as their enemy, and scoured the woods in search of me, with an eagerness equal to my own; but while they sought my life by every artifice known to savage warfare, few of them were willing to meet me single-handed; for it is well understood, that where the white man is trained to this species of hostility, he is superior to the Indian, because his physical powers are greater, and his courage of a higher and more generous tone.

At length, tired of the monotony of the life I led, and sated with carnage, I retired from the woods, and betook myself to farming, living a quiet and industrious life, and only resuming my former habits to join a hunting party, or to assist with others in the defence of the frontiers, in case of an alarm. Once in a great while, however, after a longer interval of quiet than usual, I took my rifle, and strolled off to the woods to kill an Indian, as another man would seek recreation in hunting a deer or a panther.

It seems unnatural that a man should pursue a life that may appear so ferocious and even unprincipled. But you must not forget that I had been raised upon the frontier; that I had been accustomed from infancy to hear the Indian spoken of as an enemy—as a cowardly, malevolent, and cruel savage, who stole upon the unprotected, in the hour of repose, and murdered without respect to age or sex; that many atrocities had been perpetrated within my own knowledge, or related, to me by those who had seen them; and that I had suffered more than others by this detested race. Those who know the relations of mutual aggression, and continual alarm, which existed between the pioneers and the Indians, in the first settlement of the country, can easily imagine that the hatred they felt towards each other was intense and permanent; and that an individual, who considered himself more deeply injured than the rest, might naturally have supposed himself justifiable in seeking a more than ordinary measure of retaliation.

I come now to a circumstance which changed the tone of my feelings, and the whole colour of my life. One day, towards the close of summer, I had gone out bee-hunting. Our practice was to find the bee-trees, at our leisure, during the summer, and mark them with a tomahawk; each hunter used his own mark, and respected those of others; and at the proper season, we went out with some axe-men, and proper vessels, cut down the trees, and collected the honey. I had set out early, and spent the day in roaming over a wild unfrequented tract, in search of trees. To find them, I watched the bees, observing, as they left the flowers, clogged with honey, the course they flew—or I set bee-bait, usually a little salt and water, in an open vessel, which these insects sip greedily, and then marked the direction of their flight. The bee, in returning home, always flies in a direct line; and the experienced hunter, having observed the course, can follow it so accurately, that he seldom fails to find the tree. This he is enabled to do, partly by knowing the kind of trees to examine, and partly by the acuteness of his eye and ear, which enables him, when near the place, to see the insects hovering about it, or to hear the hum of those busy labourers.

I delighted in this employment. I loved to sit in the edge of the prairie, and gaze upon its undulating surface, to see the waving of the tall grass as the wind swept over it, to mark the various colours of the flowers, to follow the laborious bee in her active flight along the plain, to behold the celerity and skill with which she gathered her harvest of sweets from this immense garden, and to trace her through the air as she darted away, laden with spoil, to her forest home. I loved the quiet of this solitary sport. The admirer of nature always reaps instruction in gazing upon her scenes of native luxuriance. The wisdom of Providence is so infinite, the ingenuity displayed in all the arcana of the animal and vegetable creation is so diversified, that every day thus spent discloses new facts, and suggests a novel train of reflection. In the few years I had spent at school, I had read enough to excite curiosity, and to invigorate the powers of thought; and so indelibly were those studies impressed upon my memory, that the classic images of the ancient writers arose continually in my mind, and furnished pleasing illustrations of those natural appearances by which I was surrounded.

On that day, my mind, thus calmed by an agreeable train of association, had wandered back to the period of childhood, and I thought of the sister who had been my companion, and whose death I had so amply revenged. I tried to recall her features, and the sports in which we had engaged together. I speculated on what she might have become, had the ruthless hand of the savage spared her to grow up to maturity. She would now have attained the bloom of womanhood, and her softness would have restrained those fierce passions, the long indulgence of which had hardened my heart, and thrown a gloom over my mind. She would perhaps have been a wife and a mother; my affections would have become entwined with those of other beings, and, instead of being a solitary man, standing alone in the world, like the blasted and wind-shaken tree of the prairie, I should have grown up surrounded by hearts allied to my own, and have struck down my roots into the soil, and interlocked my branches with those of my kindred.

I had begun, very recently, to doubt the propriety of cherishing those feelings of implacable resentment, which I had indulged through my whole life, of brooding over the melancholy disasters of my youth, and of pursuing that systematic plan of destruction, which kept my hand continually imbued in blood, and my mind agitated by the tempest of passion. Not that I questioned for a moment my right to destroy the savage:— that was a principle too deeply ingrained in my nature to be eradicated—the dreadful maxim of revenge was pricked upon my heart with the point of a sharp instrument, and the characters stood there indelibly recorded. Filial piety sanctioned the promptings of nature; and I believed that in killing a savage I performed my duty as a man, and served my country as a citizen. But I had begun to discover the injurious effects of my mode of life upon my own character and happiness. It had rendered me moody and unsocial. It kept me estranged from society, encouraged a habit of self-torture, and perpetuated a chain of indignant and sorrowful reflections. I saw that others forgave injury, and forgot bereavement; the cloud passed over them, like the storm of the summer day, black and terrible in its fury, but brief in its continuance, and the sunshine of peace beamed out again upon them—while I had disdained consolation, had fled the kindness of fellow-creatures, and had repelled the healing balm which Providence pours into the wounds of the afflicted.

Occupied by such thoughts, the day wore away, the sun was sinking in the west, and I entered a thick wood, for the purpose of making my camp for the night, on the margin of a small river that meandered through it. Habitually cautious, I approached the place with noiseless steps, when I perceived, on the bank of the stream, the hunting-lodge of an Indian—a slight shelter, made by throwing a few mats over some poles which were stuck in the ground. I examined the priming of my rifle, loosened my knife in its sheath, changed a little my direction, so as to advance against the wind, and crept stealthily upon the unguarded hunter. He was stretched on the ground, lazily sleeping away the afternoon, and was not armed nor painted—having evidently sought this quiet spot, with his family, for the purpose of supporting them by fishing. His wife, whose back was towards me, was busily engaged in some domestic employment; a child, perfectly naked, was wallowing in the sand, and another, an infant, was lashed to a board which leaned against a tree near the mother. All were silent. I crept up with the noiseless motion of a disembodied spirit, intending to despatch the hunter as he lay inert upon the ground. I had never yet spared a warrior of that race; and, as my contempt for them prevented me from feeling any pride in such exploits, I exulted in the prospect of an easy victory. All the reasoning of that day faded at once from my mind; but the recollections of my childhood, which had been called up, gave a freshness to my desire for revenge. I had never aimed a blow against a woman or a child; they were sacred from any violence at my hand. But when I saw that Indian father, with his wife and his two children, the coincidence in the number and ages of the family reminded me of the fireside of my father, as it must have been when desolated by his death; and I felt a malignant delight in the idea of invading this family as mine had been invaded, and blasting their peace by crushing their protector, there, on that very spot, in the presence of his innocent and helpless dependents. He was completely in my power: I could shoot him from the spot where I stood. There was no chance for his escape. But I approached still nearer. We were separated but a few paces, and I stood behind the trunk of a large tree, which completely concealed me. Once he expanded his nostrils, as if the scent of a white man had reached him—and once he turned his ear towards the ground, as if the sound of a footstep vibrated upon it; but his indolence prevailed over his vigilance.

I was about to raise my rifle, for the purpose of firing, when the woman turned her face towards me and stood erect. I had before remarked that her stature was taller than that of the squaws, who are usually short, and that her hair, which hung plaited in one thick roll down her back, was not black,—and I now saw that she was not of Indian descent. Although browned by long exposure to the weather, her features and complexion were those of my own countrywomen. But what struck me most, and almost deprived me of my self-possession, was her likeness to my deceased mother. Had it not been for the difference of age, I should have been persuaded that my parent stood before me. The height, the figure, the complexion, the expression of countenance, were all so similar, that, notwithstanding the Indian costume in which the female before me was clad, she was the exact representation of my mother, as I recollected her in my early years—not as I remembered her in after times, when broken down by widowhood and suffering.

A thought rushed across my mind. The age of that young woman corresponded with the years to which my sister would have attained, had she lived. What a gush of feeling overwhelmed and almost burst my heart, as this suspicion arose— what delight, what indignation! Could it be possible that my sister had survived, and that I found her thus—the wife of a savage, the mother of a spurious offspring of that degraded race! My arm sunk, the gun rested on the ground, and I leaned against the tree. I stood for a long while watching the group with intense interest—pursuing the female especially with an eye of eager curiosity. In what slight circumstances do we discover resemblance! When she moved, there was the air of my mother; if she spoke to her children, there was the voice; if she smiled, there was my mother's smile. My parent had been handsomer than most women, and this young female,— though her features were hardened by toil and weather, though the wildness of the Indian glance was in her eye, and the vacancy of ignorance was in her countenance,—was yet beautiful, and like my mother!

Convinced that I saw my sister, conflicting emotions took possession of my mind, and I became irresolute of purpose. At one moment I felt more determined than ever to slay the Indian, whose alliance with my only relative I considered a new insult, and a deeper injury than all others; then I melted into tenderness as I gazed on her. I looked at her children, and recoiled at the idea of the unnatural union which had brought them into existence—I looked at herself, and felt the stirrings of a brother's affection.

At last I determined to resolve my doubts; and, subduing every appearance of emotion, I emerged from my concealment and walked slowly towards the lodge. On discovering me, the woman, without betraying her surprise, uttered a low admonition to her husband, who arose to receive me, watchful, yet assured by the pacific manner of my approach. I seated myself on a log—the Indian followed my example, with an appearance of perfect indifference, while his vigilant eye wandered covertly to my gun, and then to the lodge where his own was deposited. The woman, with a similar expression of apathy in her countenance, threw her glance hastily into the forest, and listened, as if to discover whether other footsteps were approaching. There was a silence for some minutes— all parties were equally jealous, but all assumed the same careless air of indifference. At last the Indian, who spoke English tolerably well, said,

"Is the white man hungry?"

I replied, "No."

"Does the white man require a cup of water?"

"I am not thirsty."

"Is the white hunter seeking for a place to sleep? There is my lodge, and the night is coming."

"I am not tired, and I never rest in a wigwam; when I sleep, the earth is my bed and the heavens my covering; I am not a fox, to hide myself in a hole."

"The white stranger is wise," said the Indian with a mock gravity.

"I come," said I, "with the words of peace in my mouth—I wish to hold council with a friend."

"It is not usual for friends to talk together, when one of them holds a gun in his hand."

I took the hint, and laid down my rifle.

"Let us smoke," said I, "I have something of great importance to say."

The Indian made a sign to his wife, who went into the lodge and brought a pipe. It was lighted; each smoked a few whiffs in silence, and passed it gravely to the other.

I now enquired into the lineage of the female, who had so much interested me, but found both herself and her husband very unwilling to communicate any intelligence on the subject. They affected to misunderstand my questions, and gave vague and cold replies. Determined to unveil the mystery, I threw off all reserve, told them I had lost a sister, and repeated some of the circumstances of her capture. They listened attentively, and the woman became interested. They admitted that she had been stolen from the whites when a child, but at first disclaimed all knowledge of any of the facts. At length the woman, giving way to her curiosity, which became excited, began to repeat some reminiscences which she said remained dimly impressed on her mind. She thought she remembered a little boy that used to play with her, and repeated some circumstances which I well recollected. She distinctly remembered that she was playing with her little brother near a small stream, in a valley, when the Indians seized her and carried her away. Other facts were related, which had been gathered from the Indians who composed the party—such as the burning of the house, and the capture and escape of the mother—and it was rendered certain that I had found my long lost sister! The recognition was mutual; all parties being satisfied that we were indeed the children of the same parents.

This conversation lasted until night, when I declined an invitation to sleep in the lodge, and set out in a direction towards home; but no sooner was I out of sight of the Indian camp, than I made a circuit through the woods, and having reached a spot directly opposite to the course on which I started, prepared to rest until morning. Such was my habitual caution, and such my distrust of an Indian, even though married to my sister.

Early in the morning I sought their camp. They were not surprised to see me—having understood, and no doubt applauded, the caution which induced me to lodge apart from them. We break-fasted together; and my sister conversed with me more freely than before. The Indians had treated her kindly, and she was satisfied with her condition. When I asked her if she was happy, she cast an enquiring glance at her husband, and shook her head, as if she did not understand the question. I desired to know if her husband treated her kindly, when she replied, that he was a good hunter, and supplied her well with food,—that he seldom got drunk, and had never beaten her but once, when, she had no doubt, she deserved it; to which the husband added, that she behaved so well as to require but little correction. As the restraint, caused by my presence, began to wear away, and I was left to converse with her more freely, I invited her to forsake her savage companion, to place herself under my protection, and to resume the habits of civilised life. She received my proposition coldly, and declined it with a slight smile of contempt.

The whole interview was painful and embarrassing. I could not look at the Indian husband of my sister without aversion, and her children, with their wild dark eyes, and savage features, were to me objects of inexpressible loathing. Between my sister and myself there were no points of sympathy, no common attachments, nothing to bind us by any tie of affection or esteem, or to render the society of either agreeable to the other. The bond of consanguinity becomes a feeble and tuneless chord, when it ceases to unite hearts which throb in unison; like the loosened and detached string of a musical instrument, it has no melody in itself, but only yields its delightful notes when attuned in harmony with the other various affections of the heart. There had been a time, when the name of sister was music to my ear, when it was surrounded with tender and romantic associations, and when it called up those mingled emotions of love, respect, and gallantry, with which we regard a cherished female relative. But I had seen her, and the illusion was destroyed. Instead of the lovely woman, endued with the appropriate graces of her sex, I found her in the garb of the wilderness, the voluntary companion of a savage, the mother of squalid imps, who were destined to a life of rapine; instead of a gentle and rational being, I saw her coarse, sunburned, and ignorant— without sensibility, without feminine pride, and with scarcely a perception of the moral distinctions between right and wrong. I left her. We parted as we had met, in coldness and suspicion. She gave me no invitation to repeat my visit, and I had secretly resolved never to see her again.

In sorrow did I begin to retrace my steps towards my own dwelling. Slowly, and under a sense of deep humiliation, did I wander back to the habitations of my own people. My heart was changed. A shadow had fallen upon my spirit, which gave a new hue to all my feelings. I could feel that I was an altered man.

I reached the edge of the prairie, and seated myself upon an elevated spot, under the shade of a large tree. The wide lawn was spread before me, glowing with the beams of the noon-day sun. A gentle breeze fanned my temples that were throbbing with the excitement of deep emotion. The angry passions of my heart were all hushed. The storm of the soul had ceased to rage. Revenge was obliterated. The blight of disappointment had fallen upon me, and withered all the currents of feeling. The past was a dream—a chaos. New-born feelings struggled for existence. I pronounced my sister's name, and burst into tears.

How grateful it is to weep when the heart is oppressed! How soothing is that gush of tenderness, which, as it pours itself out, seems to relieve the bursting fountains of sensibility, and to draw off a flood of bitterness from the soul!

A more calm and a more wholesome train of reflection succeeded. I had long cherished a vision, which one moment had destroyed. In the place of an infant sister who was lost to me, I had created the image of an ideal being, who became invested with all the loveliness which an ardent fancy could depict—and giving the rein to my imagination, I had alternately revenged her death, or had indulged the fond anticipation of meeting her again, not only in the bloom of womanhood, but in the possession of those virtues and attractions which give dignity and beauty to the female character. She had been the companion of my childish sports; and while I cherished an intense fondness for my early playmate, could I doubt that her heart, if still in existence, throbbed with a responsive feeling? I had seen her, and the illusion was dispelled. The murderers of our mother and our father had taken her to their bosoms, and her destiny was linked with theirs. She was the wife and mother of savages.

Yes—my sister,—she, for whom I would have willingly offered up my life, and whose image had so long been treasured in my memory, was contented, perhaps happy, in the embraces of a savage, at the very time when I was lying in ambush by the war-path, or painfully following the trace of the painted warrior, to revenge her supposed wrongs. And she had witnessed from childhood those atrocious rites, the very mention of which causes the white man's blood to curdle with horror, and had grown familiar with scenes of torture and murder,—with the slaughter of the defenceless prisoner, and the shriek of the dying victim. She had assisted in decking her warrior husband for the battle field, and received him to her arms, while the guilty flush of the midnight massacre was still upon his cheek. She had heard him recount his exploits. She had listened to the boastful repetition of his warlike deeds, wherein he spake of the stealthy march towards the habitations of the white man—of the darkness that hung around the settler's cabin—of the silence and repose within—of the sudden onset—of the anguish of that little family, aroused from slumber by the flames curling over their heads, and the yells of savages around them—of the children clinging to their mother, and the wife slaughtered upon her husband's bosom—with all the revolting particulars of those demoniac scenes of carnage. She had been an attentive and an approving auditor, for her husband was the narrator and the hero, and her children were destined to acquire reputation by emulating his achievements.

It was enough to have met her in that hated garb—to have seen her sallow cheek, her wary eye, and her countenance veiled in the insipid ignorance of an uncivilised woman—to have found her the drudge of an Indian hunter—to have learned that she had forgotten her brother, and become estranged from the people of her blood— but the conviction that she was the willing companion of murderers, the wife of a trained assassin, weighed down my heart with a pang of unutterable anguish.

"But if they were murderers, what was I?"

I was startled. I looked around; for it seemed as if a voice had addressed me. But there was no one nigh—no form was to be seen, and not a footstep rustled the grass. It was conscience that asked that question. It was the inward moving of my own spirit. There was nothing around me to suggest it. I looked abroad upon the plain, and all was silent, and beautiful, and bright. The sun was shining in unclouded lustre over the spacious lawn, the flowers bloomed in gaudy splendour, the bee was busy, and the bird sang. The face of nature was reposing in serene beauty, and every living thing was cheerful, except myself.

And why was I unhappy? A blight had fallen upon my youth, and every tie that bound me to my race was severed. True: but others had been thus bereaved, without becoming thus incurably miserable. They had formed new ties, and become re-united to humanity by other affections, while I had refused to be comforted. They had submitted to the will of God, while I had followed the devices of my own heart.

These reflections were painful, and I tried to resume my former train of thought. But conscience had spoken, and no man can hush its voice. We may wander long in error, the perverted mind may grope for years in guilt or in mistake, but there is a time when that faithful monitor within, which is ever true, will speak. That small still voice, which cannot be suppressed, again and again repeated the appalling question:

"If they are murderers, what are you?"

The difference, I replied, is that between the aggressor and the injured party. They burned the home of my childhood, and murdered all my kindred. I have revenged the wrong. They made war upon my country, ravaged its borders, and slew its people. I have struck them in retaliation.

But had they suffered no injury? Was it true that they were the first agressors? I had never examined this question. Revenge is a poor casuist; and, for the first time in my life, I began to think it possible, that mutual aggressions had placed both parties in the wrong, and that either might justly complain of the aggressions of the other.

That which gave me the most acute pain, and which was the immediate cause of the self-accusatory train of reflection into which I had fallen, was the conviction that nearly my whole life had been passed in delusion. I had imagined the death of a sister who was living—I had punished, as her destroyers, those who had treated her with kindness—I had spent years in a retaliating warfare, which, so far as she was concerned, was unjust. I had watched, and foug