LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
I 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA; 
 
 WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 "THE YEMASSEE," "GUY RIVERS," &c. 
 
 C~ \ w\ |> f 
 
 <rr.\ 
 
 4 The ancient tales 
 Which first I learn'd, 
 Will I relate." 
 
 EDDA OF SAVMDNO. 
 
 ABERDEEN: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY GEORGE CLARK AND SON. 
 LONDON : W. BRITTAIN, 54, PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 
 MDCGCXLTIII. 
 
Bancroft Ubratf 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THE Talei which follow have been the accumulation of several years. They 
 were mostly written for the annuals, an expensive form of publication which 
 kept them from the great body of readers. la this form, however, they met with 
 favour, and it is thought that their merits are such as will justify their collection 
 in a compact volume. The material employed will be found to illustrate, in a large 
 degree, the border history of the South. I can speak with confidence of the 
 general truthfulness of its treatment. The life of the planter, the squatter, the 
 Indian, and the negrothe bold and hardy pioneer, and the vigorous yeomen 
 these are the subjects. In their delineation, I have mostly drawn from living 
 portraits, and, in frequent instances, from actual scenes and circumstances within 
 the memories of men. More need not be said. I need not apologise for the 
 endeavour to cast over the actual, that atmosphere from the realms of the ideal, 
 which, while it constitutes the very element of fiction, is neither inconsistent 
 with intellectual truthfulness, nor unfriendly to the great policies of human 
 society. 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 GRAYLING; OR, "MURDER WILL OUT." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE world has become monstrous matter-of-fact in latter 
 days. We can no longer get a ghost story, either for love or 
 money. The materialists have it all their own way; and 
 even the little urchin, eight years old, instead of deferring 
 with decent reverence to the opinions of his grandmamma, 
 now stands up stoutly for his own. He believes in every 
 " ology" but pneumatology. a Faust" and the " Old Woman 
 of Berkeley" move his derision only, and he would laugh in- 
 credulously, if he dared, at the Witch of Endor. The whole 
 armoury of modern reasoning is on his side ; and, however he 
 may admit at seasons that belief can scarcely be counted a 
 matter of will, he yet puts his veto on all sorts of credulity. 
 That cold-blooded demon called Science has taken the place 
 of all the other demons. He has certainly cast out innumera- 
 ble devils, however he may still spare the principal. Whether 
 we are the better for his intervention is another question. 
 There is reason to apprehend that in disturbing our human 
 faith in shadows, we have lost some of those wholesome 
 moral restraints which might have kept many of us virtuous, 
 where the laws could not. 
 
 The effect, however, is much the more seriously evil in all 
 that concerns the romantic. Our story-tellers are so resolute 
 
8 LIFE IN AMERICA, 
 
 to deal in the real, the actual only, that they venture on no 
 subjects the details of which are not equally vulgar and sus- 
 ceptible of proof. With this end in view, indeed, they too 
 commonly choose their subjects among convicted felons, in 
 order that they may avail themselves of the evidence which 
 led to their conviction ; and, to prove more conclusively their 
 devoted adherence to nature and the truth, they depict the 
 former not only in her condition of nakedness, but long before 
 she has found out the springs of running water. It is to be 
 feared that some of the coarseness of modern taste arises from 
 the too great lack of that veneration which belonged to, and 
 elevated to dignity, even the errors of preceding ages. A love 
 of the marvellous belongs, it appears to me, to all those who 
 love and cultivate either of the fine arts. I very much doubt 
 whether the poet, the painter, the sculptor, or the romancer, 
 ever yet lived, who had not some strong bias a leaning, at 
 least. to a belief in the wonders of the invisible world. 
 Certainly, the higher orders of poets and painters, those who 
 create and invent, must have a strong taint of the superstitious 
 in their composition. But this is digressive, and leads us 
 from our purpose. 
 
 It is so long since we have been suffered to see or hear of a 
 ghost, that a visitation at this time may have the effect of 
 novelty, and I propose to narrate a story which I heard more 
 than once in my boyhood, from the lips of an aged relative, 
 who succeeded, at the time, in making me believe every word 
 of it ; perhaps, for the simple reason that she convinced me 
 she believed every word of it herself. My grandmother was 
 an old lady who had been a resident of the seat of most fre- 
 quent war in Carolina during the Revolution. She had fortu- 
 nately survived the numberless atrocities which she was yet 
 compelled to witness; and, a keen observer, with a strong 
 memory, she had in store a thousand legends of that stirring 
 period j which served to beguile me from sleep many and many 
 a long winter night. The story which I propose to tell was 
 
IJFE IN AMERICA^ S 
 
 one of these ; and when I say that she not only devoutly be- 
 lieved it herself, but that it was believed by sundry of her 
 contemporaries, who were themselves privy to such of the 
 circumstances as could be known to third parties, the gravity 
 with which I repeat the legend will not be considered very 
 astonishing. 
 
 The revolutionary war had but a little while been concluded. 
 The British had left the country ; but peace did not imply re- 
 pose. The community was still in that state of ferment which 
 was natural enough to passions, not yet at rest, which had 
 been brought into exercise and action during the protracted 
 seven years' struggle through which the nation had just 
 passed. The state was overrun by idlers, adventurers, profli- 
 gates, and criminals. Disbanded soldiers, half-starved and 
 reckless, occupied the highways, outlaws, emerging from 
 their hiding-places, skulked about the settlements with an 
 equal sentiment of hate and fear in their hearts ; patriots 
 were clamouring for justice upon the tories, and sometimes 
 anticipating its course by judgments of their own ; while the 
 tories, those against whom the proofs were too strong for de- 
 nial or evasion, buckled on their armour for a renewal of the 
 struggle. Such being the condition of the country, it may 
 easily be supposed that life and property lacked many of their 
 necessary securities. Men generally travelled with weapons 
 which were displayed on the smallest provocation ; and few 
 who could provide themselves with an escort ventured to 
 travel any distance without one. 
 
 There was, about this time, said my grandmother, and 
 while such was the condition of the country, a family of the 
 name of Grayling, that lived somewhere upon the skirts of 
 " Ninety-six" district, Old Grayling, the head of the family, 
 was dead. He was killed in Buford's massacre. His wife 
 was a fine woman, not so very old, who had an only son 
 named James, and a little girl, oply five years of age, named 
 A 5 
 
10 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 Lucy. James was but fourteen when his father was killed, 
 and that event made a man of him. He went out with his 
 rifle in company with Joel Sparkman, who was his mother' g 
 brother, and joined himself to Pickens's Brigade. Here he 
 made as good a soldier as the best. He had no sort of fear. 
 He was always the first to go forward ; and his rifle was 
 always good for his enemy's button at a long hundred yards. 
 He was in several fights both with the British and tories ; and 
 just before the war was ended he had a famous brush with the 
 Cherokees, when Pickens took their country from them. But 
 though he had no fear, and never knew when to stop killing 
 while the fight was going on, he was the most bashful of boys 
 that I ever knew ; and so kind-hearted that it was almost 
 impossible to believe all we heard of his fierce doings when he 
 was in battle. But they were nevertheless quite true for all 
 his bashfulness. 
 
 Well, when the war was over, Joel Sparkman, who lived 
 with his sister Grayling, persuaded her that it would be better 
 to move down into the low country. I don't know what 
 reason he had for it, or what they proposed to do there. They 
 had very little property, but Sparkman was a knowing man, 
 who could turn his hand to a hundred things ; and as he was 
 a bachelor, and loved his sister and her children just as if they 
 had been his own, it was natural that she should go with him 
 wherever he wished. James, too, who was restless by nature 
 and the taste he had enjoyed of the wars had made him 
 more so he was full of it ; and so, one sunny morning in 
 April, their waggon started for the city. The waggon 
 was only a small one, with two horses, scarcely larger than 
 those that are employed to carry chickens and fruit to 
 the market from the Wassamaws and thereabouts. It was 
 driven by a negro fellow named Clytus, and carried Mrs. 
 Grayling and Lucy. James and his uncle loved the saddle too 
 well to shut themselves up in such a vehicle ; and both of 
 them were mounted on fine horses which they had won from 
 
MFE IN AMERICA, 11 
 
 the enemy. The saddle that James rode on and he was very 
 proud of it was one that he had taken at the battle of Cow- 
 pens from one of Tarleton's own dragoons, after he had tum- 
 bled the owner. The roads at that season were excessively 
 bad, for the rains of March had been frequent and heavy, the 
 track was very much cut up, and the red clay gullies of the 
 hills of " Ninety-six" were so washed that it required all 
 shoulders, twenty times a day, to get the waggon wheels out 
 of the bog. This made them travel very slowly perhaps not 
 more than fifteen miles a day. Another cause for slow travel- 
 ling was, the necessity of great caution, and a constant look- 
 out for enemies both up and down the road. James and his 
 uncle took it by turns to ride a-head, precisely as they did 
 when scouting in war, bat one of them always kept along 
 with the waggon. They had gone on this way for two days, 
 and saw nothing to trouble and alarm them. There were fe w 
 persons on the high road, and these seemed to the full as shy 
 of them as they probably were of strangers. But just as they 
 were about to camp, the evening of the second day, while 
 they were splitting light-wood, and getting out the kettles 
 and the frying-pan, a person rode up and joined them without 
 much ceremony. He was a short thick-set man, somewhere 
 between forty and fifty : had on very coarse and common gar- 
 ments, though he rode a fine black horse of remarkable strength 
 and vigour. He was very civil of speech, though he had but 
 little to say, and that little showed him to be a person with- 
 out much education and with no refinement. He begged per- 
 mission to make one of the encampment, and his manner was 
 very respectful and even humble ; but there was something 
 dark and sullen in his face his eyes, which were of a light 
 grey colour, were very restless, and his nose turned up sharply, 
 and was very red. His forehead was excessively broad, and 
 his eyebrows thick and shaggy white hairs being freely 
 mingled with the dark, both in them and upon his head. Mrs. 
 Grayling did not like the man's looks, and whispered her dis- 
 
12 LIFE IN AMERICA? 
 
 like to her son ; but James,, who felt himself equal to any 
 man said promptly 
 
 " What of that, mother ? we can't turn the stranger off and 
 say 'no;' and if he means any mischief, there's two of us, 
 you know." 
 
 The man had no weapons none, at least, which were then 
 visible ; and deported himself in so humble a manner, that the 
 prejudice which the party had formed against him when he first 
 appeared, if it was not dissipated while he remained, at least 
 failed to gain any increase. He was very quiet, did not men- 
 tion an unnecessary word, and and seldom permitted his eyes 
 to rest upon those of any of the party, the females not ex- 
 cepted. This, perhaps, was the only circumstance that, in the 
 mind of Mrs. Grayling, tended to confirm the hostile impres- 
 sion which his coming had originally occasioned. In a little 
 while the temporary encampment was put in a state equally 
 social and warlike. The waggon was wheeled a little way 
 into the woods, and off the road ; the horses fastened behind 
 it in such a manner that any attempt to steal them would be 
 difficult of success, even were the watch neglectful which was 
 yet to be maintained upon them. Extra guns, concealed in 
 the straw at the bottom of the waggon, were kept well 
 loaded. In the foreground, and between the waggon and the 
 highway, a fire was soon blazing with a wild but cheerful 
 gleam ; and the worthy dame, Mrs. Grayling, assisted by the 
 little girl, Lucy, lost no time in setting on the frying-pan, and 
 cutting into slices the haunch of bacon, which they had pro- 
 vided at leaving home. James Grayling patrolled the woods, 
 meanwhile, for a mile or two round the encampment, while 
 his uncle, Joel Sparkman, foot to foot with the stranger 
 seemed if the absence of all care constitutes the supreme of 
 human felicity to realize the most perfect conception of 
 mortal happiness. But Joel was very far from being the care- 
 less person that he seemed. Like an old soldier, he simply 
 hung out false colours, and concealed his real timidity by an 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA^ 13 
 
 extra show of confidence and courage. He did not relish the 
 stranger from the first, any more than his sister ; and having 
 subjected him to a searching examination, such as was con- 
 sidered, in those days of peril and suspicion, by no means in- 
 consistent with becoming courtesy, he came rapidly to the 
 conclusion that he was no better than he should be. 
 
 " You are a Scotchman, stranger," said Joel, suddenly 
 drawing up his feet, and bending forward to the other with 
 an eye like that of a hawk stooping over a covey of partridges. 
 It was a wonder that he had not made the discovery before. 
 The broad dialect of the stranger was not to be subdued ; but 
 Joel made slow stages and short progress in his mental jour- 
 neyings. The answer was given with evident hesitation, but 
 it was affirmative. 
 
 " Well, now, it's mighty strange that you should ha' fou't 
 with us and not agin us/' responded Joel Sparkman. " There 
 was a precious few of the Scotch, and none that- 1 knows on, 
 saving yourself, perhaps, that didn't go dead agin us, and 
 for the tories, through thick and thin. That < Cross Creek 
 settlement' was a mighty ugly thorn in the sides of us whigs . 
 It turned out a raal bad stock of varmints. I hope I reckon, 
 stranger you aint from that part." 
 
 " No," said the other ; "oh, no! I'm from over the other 
 quarter. I'm from the Duncan settlement above." 
 
 " I've hearn tell of that other settlement, but I never know'd 
 as any of the men fou't with us. What giniral did you fight 
 under ? What Carolina gineral ?" 
 
 " I was at Gum Swamp when Genera] Gates was defeated;" 
 was still the hesitating reply of the other. 
 
 " Well, I thank God, I warn't there, though I reckon things 
 wouldn't ha' turned out quite so bad, if there had been a leetle 
 sprinkling of Sumter's, or Pickens's, or Marion's men, among 
 them two-legged critters that run that day. They did tell 
 that some of the regiments went off without ever once 
 
14 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 emptying their rifles. Now, stranger, I hope you warn't 
 among them fellows." 
 
 "I was not," said the other, with something more of 
 promptness." 
 
 " I don't blame a chap for dodging a bullet if he can, or be- 
 ing too quick for a bagnet, because, I'm thinking, a live man 
 is always a better man than a dead one, or he can become so ; 
 but to run without taking a single crack at the inimy, is down- 
 right cowardice. There's no two ways about it, stranger." 
 
 This opinion, delivered with considerable emphasis, met 
 with the ready assent of the Scotchman, but Joel Sparkman 
 was not to be diverted, even by his own eloquence, from the 
 object of his inquiry. 
 
 " But you ain't said," he continued, "' who was your Caro- 
 lina gineral. Gates was from Virginny, and he stayed a 
 mighty short time when he come. You didn't run far at Cam- 
 den, I reckon, and you joined the army ag'in, and come in with 
 Greene ? Was that the how ? 
 
 To this the stranger assented, though with evident disincli- 
 nation. 
 
 " Then, mou'tbe, we sometimes went into the same scratch 
 together ? I was at Cowpens and Ninety-Six, and seen sar- 
 vice at other odds and eends, where there was more fighting 
 than fun. I reckon you must have been at ' Ninety-Six,' 
 perhaps at Cowpens too, if you went with Morgan ?" 
 
 The unwillingness of the stranger to respond to these ques- 
 tions appeared to increase. He admitted, however, that he 
 had been at " Ninety-Six," though, as Sparkman afterwards 
 remembered, in this case, as in that of the defeat of Gates, at 
 Gum Swamp, he had not said on which side he had fought. 
 Joel, as he discovered the reluctance of his guest to answer 
 his questions, and perceived his growing doggedness, forbore 
 to annoy him, but mentally resolved to keep a sharper look- 
 out than ever upon his motions. His examination concluded 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 1 5 
 
 with an inquiry, which, in the plain-dealing regions of the 
 south and south-west, is not unfrequently put first. 
 
 " And what mout be your name, stranger?" 
 
 " Macnab," was the ready response, " Sandy Macnab." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Macnab, I see that my sister's got supper ready 
 for us ; so we mou't as well fall to upon the hoecake and 
 bacon." 
 
 Sparkman rose while speaking, and led the way to the spot, 
 near the waggon, where Mrs. Grayling had spread the feast. 
 " "We're pretty nigh on the main road here, but I reckon there's 
 no great danger now. Besides, Jim Grayling keeps watch for 
 us, and he's got two as good eyes in his head as any scout in 
 the country, and a rifle that, after you once know how it 
 shoots, 'twould do your heart good to hear its crack, if so be . 
 that twa'n't your heart that he drawed sight on. He's a per- 
 digious fine shot, and as ready to shoot and fight as if he had 
 a nateral calling that way." 
 
 " Shall we wait for him before we eat ?" demanded Mac- 
 nab, anxiously. 
 
 " By no sort o' reason, stranger," answered Sparkman. 
 He'll watch for us while we're eating, and after that I'll 
 change shoes with him. So fall to, and don't mind what's a 
 coming." 
 
 Sparkman had just broken the hoecake, when a distant 
 whistle was heard. 
 
 " Ha ! that's the lad now !" he exclaimed, rising to his feet 
 " He's on trail. He's got sight of an inimy's fire, I reckon. 
 'Twon't be onreasonable, friend Macnab, to get our we'pons 
 in readiness;" and, so speaking, Sparkman bid his sister get 
 into the waggon, where the little Lucy had already placed 
 herself, while he threw open the pan of his rifle, and turned 
 the priming over with his finger. Macnab, meanwhile, had 
 taken from his holsters, which he had before been sitting 
 upon, a pair of horseman's pistols, richly mounted with figures 
 in silver. These were large and long, and had evidently seen 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 service. Unlike his companion, his proceedings occasioned no 
 comment. What he did seemed a matter of habit, of which 
 he was himself scarcely conscious. Having looked at his 
 priming, he laid the instruments beside him without a word, 
 and resumed the bit of hoecake which he had just before re- 
 ceived from Sparkman. Meanwhile, the signal whistle, sup- 
 posed to come from James Grayling, was repeated. Silence 
 then ensued for a brief space, which Sparkman employed in 
 perambulating the grounds immediately contiguous. At 
 length, just as he had returned to the fire, the sound of a 
 horse's feet was heard, and a sharp, quick hallo from Grayling 
 informed his uncle that all was right. The youth made his 
 appearance a moment after, accompanied by a stranger on 
 horseback, a tall, line-looking young man, with a keen, flash- 
 ing eye, and a voice whose lively, clear tones, as he was heard 
 approaching, sounded cheerily like those of a trumpet after 
 victory. James Grayling kept along on foot beside the new- 
 comer ; and his hearty laugh, and free, glib, garrulous tones, 
 betrayed to his uncle, long ere he drew nigh enough to de- 
 clare the fact, that he had met unexpectedly with a friend, or, 
 at least, an old acquaintance. 
 
 " Why, who have you got there, James ?" was the demand 
 of Sparkman, as he dropped the butt of his rifle upon the 
 ground. 
 
 "Why, who do you think, uncle ? Who but Major Spencer 
 our own major ?" 
 
 " You don't say so ! what! well ! Li'nel Spencer, for sar- 
 tin ! Lord bless, you, major, who'd ha' thought to see you in 
 these parts ; and jest mounted too, for all natur, as if the war 
 was to be fou't over ag'in. Well, I'm raal glad to see you. 
 I am, that's sartin !" 
 
 " And I'm very glad to see you, Sparkman," said the other, 
 as he alighted from his steed, and yielded his hand to the cor- 
 dial grasp of the other. 
 
 " Well, I knows that, major ; without you saying it. But 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA: 17 
 
 you've jest come in the right time. The bacon's frying, and 
 here's the bread ; let's down upon our haunches, in right good 
 airnest, camp fashion, and make the most of what God gives 
 us in the way of blessings, I reckon you don't mean to ride 
 any further to-night, major ?" 
 
 "No," said the person addressed, "not if you'll let me 
 lay my heels at your fire. But who's in your waggon ? My 
 old friend, Mrs. Grayling, I suppose ?" 
 
 " That's a true word, major," said the lady herself, making 
 her way out of the vehicle with good-humoured agility, and 
 coming forward with extended hand. 
 
 "Really, Mrs. Graylin, I'm glad to see you." And the 
 stranger, with the blandness of a gentleman and the hearty 
 warmth of an old neighbour, expressed his satisfaction at once 
 more finding himself in the company of an old acquaintance. 
 Their greetings once over, Major Spencer readily joined the 
 group about the fire, while James Grayling though with some 
 reluctance disappeared to resume his toils of the scout while 
 the supper proceeded. 
 
 " And who have you here ?" demanded Spencer, as his eye 
 rested on the dark, hard features of the Scotchman. Spark- 
 man told him all that he himself had learned of the name and 
 character of the stranger, in a brief whisper, and in a moment 
 after formally introduced the parties in this fashion 
 
 " Mr. Macnab, Major Spencer. Mr. Macnab says he's true 
 blue, major, and fou't at Camden, when General Gates run so 
 hard to ' bring the d d militia back.' He also fou't at Ninety- 
 Six, and Cowpen so I reckon we had as good as count him 
 one of us." 
 
 Major Spencer scrutinized the Scotchman keenly a scrutiny 
 which the latter seemed very ill to relish. He put a few ques- 
 tions to him on the subject of the war, and some of the actions 
 in which he allowed himself to have been concerned ; but his 
 evident reluctance to unfold himself a reluctance so unatural 
 to the brave soldier who has gone through his toils honourably 
 
18 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 had the natural effect of discouraging the young officer > 
 whose sense of delicacy had not been materially impaired 
 amid the the rude jostlings of a military life. But, though he 
 forebore to propose any other question to Macnab, his eyes 
 continued to survey the features of his sullen countenance 
 with curiosity and a strangely increasing interest. This he 
 subsequently explained to Sparkman, when, at the close of 
 supper, Janes Grayling came in, and the former assumed the 
 duties of the scout. 
 
 " I have seen that Scotchman's face somewhere, Sparkman, 
 and I'm 'convinced at some interesting moment : but where, 
 when, or how, I cannot call to mind. The sight of it is even 
 associated in my mind with something painful and unplea- 
 sant ; where could I have seen him ?" 
 
 " I don't somehow like his look myself," said Sprakman, 
 " and I mislists he's been rether more of a tory than a whig ; 
 but that's nothing to the purpose now ; and he's at our fire 
 and we've broken hoecake together ; so we cannot rake up 
 the old ashes to make a dust with." 
 
 " No, surely not," was the reply of Spencer. " Even though 
 we know him to be a tory, the cause of former quarrel should 
 occasion none now. But it should produce watchfulness and 
 caution. I'm glad to see that you have not forgot your old 
 business of scouting in the swamp." 
 
 " Kin I forget it, major ?" demanded Sparkman, in tones 
 which, though whispered, were full of emphasis, as he laid 
 ear to the earth to listen. 
 
 " James has finished supper, major that's his whistle to 
 tell me so ; and I'll jest step back to make it cl'ar to him how 
 we're to keep up the watch to-night." 
 
 " Count me in your arrangements, Sparkman, as I am one 
 of you for the night," said the major. 
 
 " By what sort of means," was the reply. " The night must be 
 shared between James and myself. If so you wants to keep 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 company with one or t'other of ns, why that's another thing, 
 and, of course, you can do as you please." 
 
 " We'll have no quarrel on the subject, Joel," said the 
 officer, good-naturedly, as they returned to the camp together. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE arrangements of the party were soon made. Spencer 
 renewed his offer at the fire to take his part in the watch ; and 
 the Scotchman, Macnab, volunteered his services also ; but 
 the offer of the latter was another reason why that of the 
 former should be declined. Sparkman was resolute to have 
 everything his own way ; and while James Grayling went out 
 upon his lonely rounds, he busied himself in cutting bushes and 
 making a sort of tent for the use of his late commander. Mrs. 
 Grayling and Lucy slept in the waggon. The Scotchman 
 stretched himself with little effort before the fire ; while Joel 
 Sparkman, wrapping himself up in the cloak, crouched under 
 the waggon body, with his back resting partly against one of 
 the wheels. From time to time he rose and thrust additional 
 brands into the fire, looked up at the night, and round upon 
 the encampment, then sunk back into his perch and stole a 
 few moments, at intervals, of uneasy sleep. The first two 
 hours of the watch were over, and James Grayling was reliev- 
 ed. The youth, however, felt in no mood for sleep, and taking 
 his seat be the fire, he drew from his pocket a little volume of 
 Easy Reading Lessons, and by the fitful flame of the resinous 
 light- wood, he prepared, in this rude manner, to make up for 
 the precious time which his youth had lost of its legitimate 
 employments, in the stirring events of the preceding seven 
 years consumed in war. He was surprised at this employment 
 by his late commander, who, himself sleepless, now emerged 
 from the bushes and joined Grayling at the fire. The youth 
 
20 4 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 had been rather a favourite with Spencer. They had 
 both been reared in the same neighbourhood, and the first 
 military achievments of James had taken place under the eye, 
 and had met the approbation of his officer. The difference of 
 their ages was just such as to permit of the warm attachment 
 of the lad without diminishing any of the reverence which 
 should be felt by the inferior. Grayling was not more than 
 seventeen, and Spencer was perhaps thirty-four the very 
 prime of manhood. They sat by the fire and talked of olden 
 times and told old stories with the hearty glee and goodnature 
 of the young. Their mutual inquiries led to the revelation of 
 their several objects in pursing the present journey. Those of 
 James Grayling were scarcely, indeed, to be considered his 
 own. They were plans and purposes of his uncle, and it does 
 not concern this narrative that we should know more of their 
 nature than has already been revealed. But whatever they 
 were, they were as freely unfolded to his hearer as if the parties 
 had been brothers, and Spencer was quite as frank in his re- 
 velations as his companion. He, too, was on his way to 
 Charleston, from whence he was to take passage for England. 
 
 " I am rather in a hurry to reach town," he said, " as I 
 learn that the Falmouth packet is preparing to sail for Eng- 
 land in a few days, and I must go in her." 
 
 "For England, major!" exclaimed the youth with unaf- 
 fected astonishment. 
 
 "Yes, Jamed, for England. But why what astonishes 
 you ?" 
 
 " Why, lord !" exclaimed the simple youth, " if they only 
 knew there, as I do, what a cutting and slashing you did use 
 to make among their red coats, I reckon they'd hang you to 
 the first hickory." 
 
 " Oh, no ! scarcely," said the other, with a, smile. 
 
 "But I reckon you'll change your name, major?" continued 
 the youth. 
 
 (< NO," responded Spencer, *' if I did that, I should lose the 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA,' 21 
 
 object of my voyage. You must know, James, that an old 
 relative has left me a good deal of money in England, and I 
 can only get it by proving that I am Lionel Spencer ; so you 
 see I must carry my own name, whatever may be the risk." 
 
 " Well, major, you know best ; but I do think if they could 
 only have a guess of what you did among their sodgers at 
 Hobkirk's and Cowpens, and Eutaw, and a dozen other 
 places, they'd find some means of hanging you up, peace or 
 no peace. But I don't see what occasion you have to be 
 going cl'ar away to England for money, when you've got a 
 sight of your own already." 
 
 " Not so much as you think for," replied the major, giving 
 an involuntary and uneasy glance at the Scotchman, who was 
 seemingly sound asleep on the opposite side of the fire. 
 " There is, you know, but little money in the country at any 
 time, and I must get what I want for my expenses when I 
 reach Charleston. I have just enough to carry me there." 
 
 "Well, now, major, that's mighty strange. I always 
 thought that you was about the best off of any man in our 
 parts ; but if you're strained so close, I'm thinking, major, 
 if so be you wouldn't think me too presumptuous, you'd 
 better let me lend you a guinea or so that I've got to spare 
 and you can pay me back when you get the English money." 
 
 And the youth fumbled in his bosom for a little cotton wal- 
 let, which, with its limited contents, was displayed in ano- 
 ther instant to the eyes of the officer. 
 
 " No, no, James," said the other, putting back the generous 
 tribute ; I have quite enough to carry me. to Charleston, and 
 when there I can easily get a supply from the merchants. 
 But I thank you, my good fellow, for your offer. You are a 
 good fellow, James, and I will remember you." 
 
 It is needless to pursue the conversation farther. The 
 night passed away without any alarms, and at dawn of the 
 next day the whole party was engaged in making prepara- 
 tion for a start, Mrs, Grayling was soon busy in getting 
 
22 LIFE IN AMERICA.' 
 
 breakfast in readiness. Major Spencer consented to remain 
 with them until it was over ; but the Scotchman, after re- 
 turning thanks very civilly for his accommodation of the 
 night, at once resumed his journey. His course seemed, like 
 their own, to lie below; but he neither declared his route 
 nor betrayed the least desire to know that of Spencer. The 
 latter had no disposition to renew those inquiries from which 
 the stranger seemed to shrink the night before, and he ac- 
 cordingly suffered him to depart with a quiet farewell, and 
 the utterance of a good-natured wish, in which all the parties 
 joined, that he might have a pleasant journey. "When he was 
 fairly out of sight, Spencer said to Sparkman, 
 
 " Had I liked that fellow's looks, nay, had I not positively 
 disliked them, I should have gone with him. As it is, I will 
 remain and share your breakfast." 
 
 The repast being over, all parties set forward ; but Spencer, 
 after keeping along with them for a mile, took his leave also. 
 The slow waggon-pace at which the family travelled, did not 
 suit the high-spirited cavalier ; and it was necessary, as he 
 assured them, that he should reach the city in two nights 
 more. They parted with many regrets, as truly felt as they 
 were warmly expressed ; and James Grayling never felt the 
 tedium of waggon travelling to be so severe as throughout the 
 whole of that day when he separated from his favourite cap- 
 tain. But he was too stout-hearted a lad to make any com- 
 plaint ; and his dissatisfaction only showed itself in his un- 
 wonted silence, and an over-anxiety, which his steed seemed 
 to feel in common with himself, to go rapidly ahead. Thus 
 the day passed, and the wayfarers at its close had made a pro- 
 gress of some twenty miles from sun to sun. The same pre- 
 cautions marked their encampment this night as the last, and 
 they rose in better spirits with the next morning, the dawn of 
 which was very bright and pleasant, and encouraging. A 
 similar journey of twenty miles brought them to a place of 
 bivouac as the sun went down; and they prepared as usual 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 23 
 
 for their securities and supper. They found themselves on the 
 edge of a very dense forest of pines and scrubby oaks, a portion 
 of which was swallowed up in a deep bay so called in the 
 dialect of the country a swamp-bottom, the growth of which 
 consisted of mingled cypresses and bay-trees, with tupola, 
 gum, and dense thickets of low stunted shrubbery, cane grass, 
 and dwarf willows, which filled up every interval between 
 the trees, and to the eye most effectually barred out every hu- 
 man intruder. This bay was chosen as the background for 
 the camping party. Their waggon was wheeled into an area 
 on a gently rising ground in front, under a pleasant shade of 
 oaks and hickories, with a lonely pine rising loftily in occa- 
 sional spots among them. Here the horses were taken out, 
 and James Grayling prepared to kindle up a fire ; but, looking 
 for his axe, it was unaccountably missing, and after a fruitless 
 search of half an hour, the party came to the conclusion that 
 it had been left on the spot where they had slept last night. 
 This was a disaster, and, while they meditated in what man- 
 ner to repair it, a negro boy appeared in sight, passing along 
 the road at their feet, and driving before him a small herd of 
 cattle. From him they learned that they were only a mile or 
 two from a farmstead where an axe might be borrowed ; and 
 James, leaping on his horse, rode forward in the hope to obtain 
 one. He found no difficulty in his quest ; and, having obtained 
 it from the farmer, who was also a tavern-keeper, he casually 
 asked if Major Spencer had not stayed with him the night be- 
 fore. He was somewhat surprised when told that he had not. 
 
 " There was one man stayed with me last night," said the 
 farmer, " but he didn't call himself a major, and didn't much 
 look like one." 
 
 " He rode a fine sorrel horse, tall, bright colour, with white 
 fore foot, didn't he ?" asked James. 
 
 " No, that he didn't! He rode a powerful black, coal black, 
 and not a bit of white about Mm." 
 
 " That was the Scotchman ! But I wonder the major didn't 
 
 
24 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 stop with you. He must have rode on. Isn't there another 
 house near you, below !" 
 
 " Not one. There's ne'er a house either above or below for 
 a matter of fifteen miles. I'm the only man in all that distance 
 that's living on this road ; and I don't think your friend could 
 have gone below, as I should have seen him pass. I've been 
 all day out there in that field before your eyes, clearing up the 
 brush." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 SOMEWHAT wondering that the major should have turned aside 
 from the track, though without attaching to it any importance 
 at that particular moment, James Grayling took up the bor- 
 rowed axe and hurried back to the encampment, where the toil 
 of cutting an extra supply of light- wood to meet the exigen- 
 cies of the ensuing night, sufficiently exercised his mind as well 
 as his body, to prevent him from meditating upon the seeming 
 strangeness of the circumstance. But when he sat down to 
 his supper over the fire that he had kindled, his fancies crowded 
 thickly upon him, and he felt a confused doubt and suspicion 
 that something was to happen, he knew not what. His con- 
 jectures and apprehensions were without form, though not al- 
 together void ; and he felt a strange sickness and a sinking at 
 the heart which was very unusual with him. He had, in short, 
 that lowness of spirits, that cloudy apprehensiveness of soul 
 which takes the form of presentiment, and makes us look out 
 for danger even when the skies are without a cloud, and the 
 breeze is laden, equally and only, with balm and music. His 
 moodiness found no sympathy among his companions. Joel 
 Sparkman was in the best of humours, and his mother was so 
 cheery and happy, that when the thoughtful boy went off into 
 the woods to watch, he could hear her at every moment break- 
 ing out into little catches of a country ditty, which the gloomy 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA* 25 
 
 events of the late war had not yet obliterated from her memory 
 " It's very strange !" soliloquized the youth, r ashe wandered 
 along the edges of the dense bay or swamp-bottom, which we 
 have passingly referred to, " it's very strange what troubles 
 me so ! I feel almost frightened, and yet I know I'm not to 
 be frightened easily, and I don't see anything in the woods to 
 frighten me. It's strange the major didn't come along this 
 road! Maybe he took another higher up that leads by a dif- 
 ferent settlement. I wish I had asked the man at the house 
 if there's such another road. I reckon there must be, how- 
 ever, for where could the major have gone ?" 
 
 The unphilosophical mind of James Grayling did not, in his 
 farther meditations, carry him much beyond this starting 
 point ; and with its continual recurrence in soliloquy, he pro- 
 ceeded to traverse the margin of the bay, until he came to its 
 junction with, and termination at, the high road. The youth 
 turned into this, and, involuntarily departing from it a mo- 
 ment after, soon found himself on the opposite side of the 
 bay thicket. He wandered on and on, as he himself de- 
 scribed it, without any power to restrain himself. He knew 
 not how far he went ; but, instead of maintaining his watch 
 for two hours only, he was gone more than four ; and, at 
 length, a sense of weariness which overpowered him all of a 
 sudden, caused him to seat himself at the foot of a tree, and 
 snatch a few moments of rest. He denied that he slept in 
 this time. He insisted to the last moment of his life that 
 sleep never visited his eyelids that night, that he was con- 
 scious of fatigue and exhaustion, but not drowsiness, and 
 that this fatigue was so numbing as to be painful, and effectu- 
 ally kept him from any sleep. While he sat thus beneath the 
 tree, with a body weak and nerveless, but a mind excited, he 
 knew not how or why, to the most acute degree of expecta- 
 tion and attention, he heard his name called by the well- 
 known voice of his friend, Major Spencer. The voice called 
 B 
 
2& LIFE Iff AMERICA. 
 
 him three times, " James Grayling! James ! James Gray- 
 ling !" before he could muster strength enough to answer. It 
 was not courage he wanted, of that he was positive, for he 
 felt sure, as he said, that something had gone wrong, and he 
 Was never more ready to fight in his life than at that moment, 
 could he have commanded the physical capacity; but his 
 throat seemed dry to suffocation, his lips effectually sealed 
 up as if with wax, and when he did answer, the sounds 
 seemed as fine and soft as the whisper of some child just born. 
 
 " Oh ! major, is it you ?" 
 
 Such, he thinks, were the very words he made use of in re- 
 ply ; and the answer that he received was instantaneous, 
 though the voice came from some little distance in the bay, 
 and his own voice he did not hear. He only knows what he 
 meant to say. The answer was to this effect. 
 
 " It is, James ! It is your own friend, Lionel Spencer, that 
 speaks to you ; do not be alarmed when you see me ! I have 
 been shockingly murdered !" 
 
 James asserts that he tried to tell him that he would not be 
 frightened, but his own voice was still a whisper, which he 
 himself could scarcely hear. A moment after he had spoken, 
 he heard something like a sudden breeze that rustled through 
 the bay bushes at his feet, and his eyes were closed without 
 his effort, and indeed in spite of himself. When he opened 
 them, he saw Major Spencer standing at the edge of the bay, 
 about twenty steps from him. Though he stood in the shade 
 of a thicket, and there was no light in the heavens save that 
 of the stars, he was yet enabled to distinguish perfectly, and 
 with great ease, every lineament of his friend's face. 
 
 He looked very pale, and his garments were covered with 
 blood ; and James said that he strove very much to rise from 
 the place where he sat and approach him ; "for in truth," 
 said the lad, " so far from feeling any fear, I felt nothing but 
 fury in my heart ; but I could not move a limb. My feet were 
 fastened to the ground; my hands to my sides ; and I could 
 
IFE IN AMERICA. 27 
 
 only bend forward and gasp. I felt as if I should have died 
 with vexation that I could not rise ; but a power which I 
 could not resist, made me motionless, and almost speechless. 
 I could only say, ' Murdered !' and that one word I believe I 
 must have repeated a dozen times. 
 
 " ' Yes, murdered ! murdered by the Scotchman who slept 
 with us at the fire the night before last. James, I look to you 
 to have the murderer brought to justice ! James ! do you 
 hear me, James ?' " 
 
 " These," said James, " I think were the very words, or near 
 about the very words, that I heard ; and I tried to ask the 
 major to tell me how it was, and how I could do what he re- 
 quired ; but I didn't hear myself speak, though it would ap- 
 pear that he did, for almost immediately after I had tried to 
 speak what I wished to say, he answered me just as if I had said 
 it. He told me that the Scotchman had waylaid, killed, and hid- 
 den him in that very bay ; that his murderer had gone to 
 Charleston ; and that if I made haste to town, I would find 
 him in the Falmouth packet, which was then lying in the har- 
 bour and ready to sail for England. He farther said that 
 everything depended on my making haste, that I must reach 
 town by to-morrow night if I wanted to be in season, and go 
 right on board the vessel and charge the criminal with the 
 deed. * Do not be afraid,' said he, when he had finished ; ' be 
 afraid of nothing, James, for God will help and strengthen 
 you to the end.' When I heard all I burst into a flood of tears, 
 and then I felt strong. 1 felt I could talk, or fight, or do al- 
 most anything ; and I jumped up to my feet, and was just 
 about to run down to where the major stood, but, with the 
 first step which I made forward, he was gone. I stopped and 
 looked all around me, but I could see nothing ; and the bay 
 was just as black as midnight. But I went down to it, and 
 tried to press in where I thought the major had been standing; 
 but I couldn't get far, the brush and bay leaves were so close 
 and thick. I was now bold and strong enough, and I called 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA; 
 
 out, loud enough to be heard half a mile. I didn't exactly 
 know what I called for, or what I wanted to learn, or I have 
 forgotten. But I heard nothing more. Then I remembered 
 the camp, and began to fear that something might have hap- 
 pened to mother and uncle, for I now felt, what I had not 
 thought of before, that I had gone too far round the bay to be of 
 much assistance, or indeed, to be in time for any, had they been 
 suddenly attacked. Besides, I could not think how long I 
 had been gone ; but it now seemed very late. The stars were 
 shining their brightest, and the thin white clouds of morning 
 were beginning to rise and run towards the west. Well, I 
 bethought me of my course, for I was a little bewildered and 
 doubtful where I was ; but, after a little thinking, I took the 
 back track, and soon got a glimpse of a camp-fire, which was 
 nearly burnt down ; and by this I reckoned I was gone consider- 
 ably longer than my two hours. When I got back into the 
 camp, I looked under the waggon, and found uncle in a sweet 
 sleep, and though my heart was full almost to bursting 
 with what I had heard, and the cruel sight I had seen, yet 
 I wouldn't waken him ; and I beat about and mended the 
 fire, and watched, and waited, until near daylight, when 
 mother called to me out of the waggon, and asked who 
 it was. This wakened my uncle, and then I up 
 and told all that had happened, for if it had been to 
 save my life, I couldn't have kept it in much longer. Bat 
 though mother said it was very strange, Uncle Sparkman con- 
 sidered that I had been only dreaming ; but he couldn't per- 
 suade me of it ; and when I told him I intended to be off at 
 daylight, just as the major had told me to do, and ride my 
 best all the way to Charleston, he laughed, and said I was a 
 fool. But I felt that I was no fool, and I was solemn certain 
 that I hadn't been dreaming ; and though both mother and he 
 tried their hardest to make me put off going, yet I made up 
 my mind to it, and they had to give up. For, wouldn't I 
 have been a pretty sort of a friend to the major, if, after what 
 
LIFE JN AMERICA, 29 
 
 he had told me, I could have stayed behind, and gone on only 
 at a waggon-pace to look after the murderer ! I don't think 
 if I had done so that I should ever have been able to look a 
 white man in the face again. Soon as the peep of day, I was 
 on horseback. Mother was mighty sad, and begged me not to 
 go, but Uncle Sparkman was mighty sulky, and kept calling 
 me fool upon fool, until I was almost angry enough to forget 
 that we were of blood kin. But all his talking did not stop 
 me, and I reckon I was five miles on my way before he had 
 his team in traces for a start. I rode as briskly as I could 
 get on without hurting my nag. I had a smart ride of more 
 than forty miles before me, and the road was very heavy. 
 But it was a good two hours from sunset when I got into 
 town, and the first question I asked of the people I met was, 
 to show me w here the ships were kept. When I got to the 
 wharf they showed me the Falmouth packet, where she lay 
 in the stream, ready to sail as soon as the wind should fa* 
 vour." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 JAMES GRAYLING, with the same eager impatience which he 
 has been suffered to describe in his own language, had already 
 hired a boat to go on board the British packet, when he re- 
 membered that he had neglected all those means, legal and 
 otherwise, by which alone his purpose might be properly ef- 
 fected. He did not know much about legal process, but he 
 had common sense enough, the moment that he began to reflect 
 on the subject, to know that some such process was necessary. 
 This conviction produced another difficulty ; he knew not in 
 which quarter to turn for counsel and assistance ; but here 
 the boatman who saw his bewilderment, and knew by his 
 dialect and dress that he was a back- countryman; came to his 
 
30 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 relief, and from him he got directions where to find the mer- 
 chants with whom his uncle, Sparkman, had done business in 
 former years. To them he went, and without circumlocution, 
 told the whole story of his ghostly visitation. Even as a 
 dream, which these gentlemen at once conjectured it to be, 
 the story of James Grayling was equally clear and curious ; 
 and his intense warmth and the entire absorption, which the 
 subject had effected, of his mind and soul, was such that they 
 judged it not improper, at least to carry out the search of the 
 vessel which he contemplated. It would certainly, they 
 thought, be a coincidence believing James to be a veracious 
 youth if the Scotchman should be found on board. But 
 another test of his narrative was proposed by one of the firm. 
 It so happened that the business agents of Major Spencer, 
 who was well known in Charleston, kept their office but a 
 few rods distant from their own ; and to them all parties at 
 once proceeded. But here the story of James was encoun- 
 tered by a circumstance that made somewhat against it. 
 These gentlemen produced a letter from Major Spencer, inti- 
 mating the utter impossibility of his coming to town for the 
 space of a month, and expressing his regret that he should be 
 unable to avail himself of the opportunity of the foreign ves- 
 sel, of whose arrival in Charleston, and proposed time of de- 
 parture, they had themselves advised him. They read the 
 letter aloud to James and their brother merchants, and with 
 difficulty suppressed their smiles at the gravity with which 
 the former related and insisted upon the particulars of his 
 vision. 
 
 t( He has changed his mind," returned the impetuous youth > 
 " he was on his way down, I tell yon, a hundred miles on 
 his way, when he camped with us. I know him well, I tell 
 you, and talked with him myself half the night." 
 
 "At least," remarked the gentlemen who had gone with 
 James, " it can do no harm to look into the business. We 
 can procure a warrant for searching the vessel after this man, 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 31 
 
 Macnab ; and should he be found on board the packet, it will 
 be a sufficient circumstance to justify the magistrates in de- 
 taining him, until we can ascertain where Major Spencer 
 really is." 
 
 The measure was accordingly adopted, and it was nearly 
 sun-set before the warrant was procured, and the proper offi- 
 cer in readiness. The impatience of a spirit so eager and so 
 devoted as James Grayling, under these delays, may be ima- 
 gined ; and when in the boat, and on his way to the packet 
 where the criminal was to be sought, his blood became so ex- 
 cited that it was with much ado he could be kept in his seat. 
 His quick, eager action continually disturbed the trim of the 
 boat, and one of his mercantile friends, who had accompanied 
 him, with that interest in the affair which curiosity alone in- 
 spired, was under constant apprehension lest he would plunge 
 overboard in his impatient desire to shorten the space which 
 lay between. The same impatience enabled the youth, though 
 never on shipboard before, to grasp the rope which had been 
 flung at their approach, and to mount her sides with catlike 
 agility. Without waiting to declare himself or his purpose > 
 he ran from one side of the deck to the other, greedily staring, 
 to the surprise of officers, passengers, and seamen, in the faces 
 of all of them, and surveying them with an almost offensive 
 scrutiny. He turned away from the search with disappoint- 
 ment. There was no face like that of the suspected man 
 among them. By this time, his friend, the merchant, with 
 the sheriff's officer, had entered the vessel, and were in con- 
 ference with the captain. Grayling drew nigh in time to hear 
 the latter affirm that there was no man of the name of Mac- 
 nab, as stated in the warrant, among Jiis passengers or crew. 
 
 " He is he must be !" exclaimed the impetuous youth. 
 " The major never lied in his life, and couldn't lie after he was 
 dead. Macriab is here he is a Scotchman " 
 
 .The captain interrupted him 
 
32 tIFE IN AMERICA^ 
 
 " We have, young gentleman, several Scotchmen on board, 
 and one of them is named Macleod " 
 
 " Let me see him which is he ?" demanded the youth. 
 
 By this time, the passengers and a goodly portion of the 
 crew were collected about the little party. The captain turn- 
 ed his eyes upon the group, and asked,, 
 
 " Where is Mr. Macleod ?" 
 
 " He is gone below he's sick !" replied one of the passen- 
 gers. 
 
 " That's he! That must be the man!" exclaimed the 
 youth. " I'll lay my life that's no other than Macnab. He's 
 only taken a false name." 
 
 It was now remembered by one of the passengers, and re- 
 marked, that Macleod had expressed himself as unwell, but a 
 few moments before, and had gone below even while the boat 
 was rapidly approaching the vessel. At this statement, the 
 captain led the way into the cabin, closely followed by James 
 Grayling and the rest. 
 
 " Mr. Macleod," he said with a voice somewhat elevated, 
 as he approached the berth of that person, " you are wanted 
 on deck for a few moments." 
 
 " I am really too unwell, captain," replied a feeble voice 
 from behind the curtain of the berth. 
 
 " It will be necessary," was the reply of the captain. 
 " There is a warrant from the authorities of the town, to look 
 after a fugitive from justice." 
 
 Macleod had already begun a second speech declaring his 
 feebleness, when the fearless youth, Grayling, bounded before 
 thr captain and tore away, with a single grasp of his hand, 
 the curtain which concealed the suspected man from their 
 sight. 
 
 " It is he !" was the instant exclamation of the youth, as he 
 beheld him. "It is he Macnab, the Scotchman the man 
 that murdered Major Spencer !" 
 
LIFE IN AMEK1CA. 33 
 
 Macnab, for it was he, was deadly pale. He trembled 
 like an aspen. His eyes were dilated with more than mortal 
 apprehension, and his lips were perfectly livid. Still, lie found 
 strength to speak, and to deny the accusation. He knew no- 
 thing of the youth before him nothing of Major Spencer his 
 name was Macleod, and he had never called himself by any 
 other. He denied, but with great incoherence, everything- 
 which was urged against him. 
 
 " You must get up, Mr. Macleod," said the captain ; " the 
 circumstances are very much against you. You must go with 
 the officer !" 
 
 " Will you give me up to my enemies ?" demanded the cul- 
 prit. " You are a countryman a Briton. I have fought for 
 the king, our master, against these rebels, and for this they 
 seek my life. Do not deliver me into their bloody hands !" 
 
 " Liar !" exclaimed James Grayling " Didn't you tell us at 
 our own camp-fire that you were with us ? that you were at 
 Gates's defeat, and Ninety-Six?" 
 
 " But I didn't tell you," said the Scotchman, with a grin, 
 '* which side I was on !" 
 
 " Ha ! remember that !" said the sheriff's officer. " He de- 
 nied, just a moment ago, that he knew this young man at all ; 
 now, he confesses that he did see and camp with him." 
 
 The Scotchman was aghast at the strong point which, in his 
 inadvertence, he had made against himself ; and his efforts to 
 excuse himself, stammering and contradictory, served only to 
 involve him more deeply in the meshes of his difficulty. Still 
 he continued his urgent appeals to the captain of the vessel, 
 and his fellow-passengers, as citizens of the same country, 
 subjects to the same monarch, to protect him from those who 
 equally hated and would destroy them all. In order to move 
 their national prejudices in his behalf, he boasted of the im- 
 mense injury which he had done, as a tory, to the rebel cause ; 
 and still insisted that the murder was only a pretext of the 
 
34 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 youth before him, by which to gain possession of his person, 
 and wreak upon him the revenge which his own fierce per- 
 formances during the war had naturally enough provoked. 
 One or two of the passengers, indeed, joined with him in en- 
 treating the captain to set the accusers adrift and make sail at 
 once ; but the stout Englishman, who was in command, re- 
 jected instantly the unworthy counsel. Besides, he was better 
 aware of the dangers which would follow any such rash pro- 
 ceeding. Fort Moultrie, on Sullivan's Island, had been already 
 refitted and prepared for an enemy ; and he was lying, at that 
 moment, under the formidable range of grinning teeth, which 
 would have opened upon him, at the first movement, from the 
 jaws of Castle Pinckney. 
 
 **' No> gentlemen," said he, " you mistake your man. God 
 forbid that 1 should give shelter to a murderer, though he were 
 from my own parish." 
 
 " But I am no murderer," said the Scotchman. 
 
 " You look cursedly like one, however," was the reply of 
 the captain. " Sheriff, take your prisoner." 
 
 The base creature threw himself at the feet of the English- 
 man, and clung, with piteous entreaties, to his knees. The 
 latter shook him off, and turned away in disgust. 
 
 " Steward," he cried, " bring up this man's luggage." 
 
 He was obe} T ed. The luggage was brought up from the 
 cabin and delivered to the sheriff's officer, by whom it was 
 examined in the presence of all, and an inventory made of its 
 contents. It consisted of a small new trunk, which, it after- 
 wards appeared, he had bought in Charleston, soon after his 
 arrival. This contained a few changes of raiment, twenty-six 
 guineas in money, a gold watch, not in repair, and the two 
 pistols which he had shown while at Joel Sparkman's camp 
 fire ; but, with this difference, that the stock of one was broken 
 off short just above the grasp, and the butt was entirely gone. 
 It was not found among his chattels. A careful examination 
 of the articles in his trunk did not result in anything calcu- 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 35 
 
 lated to strengthen the charge of his criminality ; but there 
 was not a single person present who did not feel as morally 
 certain of his guilt as if the jury had already declared the 
 fact. That night he slept if he slept at all in the common 
 jail of the city. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 His accuser, the warm-hearted and resolute James Grayling, 
 did not sleep. The excitement, arising from mingling and 
 contradictory emotions, sorrow for his brave young com- 
 mander's fate, and the natural exultation of a generous spirit 
 at the consciousness of having performed, with signal success, 
 an ardous and painful task combined to drive all pleasant 
 slumbers from his eyes ; and with the dawn he was again up 
 and stirring, with his mind still full of the awful business in 
 which he had been engaged. We do not care to pursue his 
 course in the ordinary walks of the city, nor account for his 
 employments during the few" days which ensued, until, in con- 
 sequence of a legal examination into the circumstances which 
 anticipated the regular work of the sessions, the extreme ex- 
 citement of the young accuser had been renewed. Macnab 
 or Macleod, and it is possible that both names were fictitious, 
 as soon as he recovered from his first terrors, sought the aid 
 of an attorney one of those acute, small, chopping lawyers 
 to be found in almost every community, who are willing to 
 serve with equal zeal the sinner and the saint, provided that 
 tlu'y can pay with equal liberality. The prisoner was brought 
 before the court under habeas corpus, and several grounds sub- 
 mitted by his counsel with the view to obtaining his discharge, 
 It became necessary to ascertain, among the first duties of 
 the state, whether Major Spencer, the alleged victim, was 
 really dead. Until it could be established that a man should 
 
36 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 be imprisoned, tried, and punished for a crime, it was first ne- 
 cessary to show that a crime had been committed, and the 
 attorney made himself exceedingly merry with the ghost story 
 of young Grayling. In those days, however, the ancient 
 Superstition was not so feeble as she has subsequently become. 
 The venerable judge was one of those good men who had a 
 decent respect for the faith and opinions of his ancestors ; and 
 though he certainly would not have consented to the hanging 
 of Macleod under the sort of testimony which had been ad- 
 duced, he yet saw enough, in all the circumstances, to justify 
 his present detention. In the meantime, efforts were to be 
 made, to ascertain the whereabouts of Major Spencer ; though, 
 were he even missing, so the counsel for Macleod contended, 
 his death could be by no means assumed in consequence. 
 To this the judge shook his head doubtfully. " 'Fore God !" 
 said he, " I would not have you to be too sure of that." He 
 was an Irishman, and proceeded after the fashion of his coun- 
 try. The reader will therefore bear with his bull. " A man 
 may properly be hung for murdering another, though the mur- 
 dered man be not dead ; ay, before God, even though he be 
 actually unhurt and uninjured, while the murderer is swinging 
 by the neck for the bloody deed !" 
 
 The judge, who it must be understood was a real existence, 
 and who had no small reputation in his day in the south, 
 proceeded to establish the correctness of his opinions by au- 
 thorities and argument, with all of which, doubtlessly, the 
 bar were exceedingly delighted ; but, to provide them in this 
 place would only be to interfere with our own progress. 
 James Grayling, however, was not satisfied to wait the slow 
 processes which were suggested for coming at the truth. 
 Even the wisdom of the judge was lost upon him, possibly, 
 for the simple reason that he did not comprehend it. But the 
 ridicule of the culprit's lawyer stung him to the quick, and he 
 muttered to himself, more than once, a determination " to lick 
 the life out of that impudent chap's leather," But this 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 37 
 
 not his only resolve. There was one which he proceeded to 
 put into instant execution, and that was to seek the body of 
 his murdered friend in the spot when he fancied it might be 
 found namely, the dark and dismal bay where the spectre had 
 made its appearance to his eyes. 
 
 The suggestion was approved though he did not need this 
 to prompt his resolution by his mother and uncle, Sparkman. 
 The latter determined to be his companion, and he was far- 
 ther accompanied by the sheriff's officer who had arrested the 
 suspected felon. Before daylight, on the morning after the 
 examination before the judge had taken place, and when 
 Macleod had been remanded to prison, James Grayling 
 started on his journey. His fiery zeal received additional 
 force at every added moment of delay, and his eager spurring 
 brought him at 'an early hour after noon, to the neighbourhood 
 of the spot through which his search was to be made. When 
 his companions and himself drew nigh, they were all at a 
 loss in which direction first to proceed. The bay was one of 
 those massed forests, whose wall of thorns, vines, and close 
 tenacious shrubs, seemed to defy invasion. To the eye of the 
 townsman it was so forbidding that he pronounced it absolute- 
 ly impenetrable. But James was not to be baffled. He led them 
 round it, taking the very course which he had pursued the 
 night when the revelation was made him; he showed 'them the 
 very tree at whose foot he had sunk when the supernatural 
 torpor as he himself esteemed it began to fall upon him ; 
 he then pointed out the spot, some twenty steps distant, at 
 which the spectre made his appearance. To this spot they 
 then proceeded in a body, and essayed an entrance, but 
 were so discouraged by the difficulties at the outset that all, 
 James not excepted, concluded that neither the murderer nor 
 his victim could possibly have found entrance there. 
 
 But, lo ! a marvel ! Such it seemed, at the first blush, to all 
 the party. While they stood confounded and indecisive, un- 
 determined in which way to move, a sudden flight of wings 
 
38 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 was heard, even from the centre of the bay, at a little distance 
 above the spot where they had striven for entrance. They 
 looked up, and beheld about fifty buzzards those notorious 
 domestic vultures of the south ascending from the interior of 
 the bay, and perching along upon the branches of the loftier 
 trees by which it was overhung. Even were the character of 
 these birds less known, the particular business in which they 
 had just then been engaged, was betrayed by huge gobbets of 
 flesh which some of them had borne aloft in their flight, and 
 still continued to rend with beak and bill, as they tottered 
 upon the branches where they stood. A piercing scream issued 
 from the lips of James Grayling as he beheld this sight, and 
 strove to scare the offensive birds from their repast. 
 
 " The poor major ! the poor major !" was the involuntary 
 and agonized exclamation of the youth. " Did I ever think he 
 would come to this !" 
 
 The search, thus guided and encouraged, was pressed with 
 renewed diligence and spirit ; and, at length, an opening was 
 found through which it was evident that a body of consider- 
 able size had but recently gone. The branch were broken from 
 the small shrub trees, and the undergrowth trodden into the 
 earth. They followed this path, and, as is the case commonly 
 with waste tracts of this description, the density of the growth 
 diminished sensibly at every step they took, till they reached 
 a little pond, which, though circumscribed in area, and full of 
 cypresses, yet proved to be singularly deep. Indeed, it was 
 an alligator-hole, where, in all probability, a numerous tribe 
 of these reptiles had their dwelling. Here, on the edge of the 
 pond, they discovered the object which had drawn the keen- 
 sighted vultures to their feast, in the body of a horse, which 
 James Grayling at once identified as that of Major Spencer 
 The carcass of the animal was already very much torn and la- 
 cerated. The eyes were plucked out, and the animal com- 
 pletely disembowelled. Yet, on examination, it was not dif- 
 ficult to discover the manner of his death. This had been 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 39 
 
 effected by fire-arms. Two bullets had passed through his 
 skull, just above the eyes, either of which must have been 
 fatal. The murderer had led the horse to the spot, and com- 
 mitted the cruel deed where his body was found. The search 
 was now continued for that of the owner, but for some time 
 it proved ineffectual. At length, the keen eyes of James Gray- 
 ling detected, amidst a heap of moss and green sedge that 
 rested beside an overthrown tree, whose branches jutted into 
 the pond, a whitish, but discoloured object, that did not seem 
 native to the place. Bestriding the fallen tree, he was enabled 
 to reach this object, which, with a burst of grief, he announced 
 to the distant party was the hand and arm of his unfortunate 
 friend, the wristband of the shirt being the conspicuous object 
 which had first caught his eye. Grasping this, he drew the 
 corse, which had been thrust beneath the branches of the tree, 
 to the surface ; and, with the assistance of his uncle, it was 
 finally brought to the dry land. Here it underwent a careful 
 examination. The head was very much disfigured ; the skull 
 was fractured in several places by repeated blows of some 
 hard instrument, inflicted chiefly from behind. A closer in- 
 spection revealed a bullet- hole in the abdomen, the first wound, 
 in all probability, which the unfortunate gentleman received, 
 and by which he was, perhaps, tumbled from his horse. The 
 blows on the head would seem to have been unnecessary, un- 
 less the murderer whose proceedings appeared to have been 
 singularly deliberate, was resolved upon making " assurance 
 doubly sure." But, as if the watchful Providence had meant 
 that nothing should be left doubtful which might tend to the 
 complete conviction of the criminal, the constable stumbled 
 upon the butt of the broken pistol which had been found in 
 Macleod's trunk. This he picked up on the edge of the pond 
 in which the corse had been discovered, and while James 
 Grayling and his uncle, Sparkman, were engaged in drawing 
 it from the water. The place where the fragment was dis- 
 covered at once denoted the pistol as the instrument by which 
 
40 LIFE IN AMEEICA. 
 
 the final blows were inflicted. " 'Fore God," said the judge 
 to the criminal, as these proofs were submitted on the trial, 
 " you may be a very innocent man after all, as, by my faith, T 
 do think there have been many murderers before you ; but you 
 ought, nevertheless, to be hung as an example to all other per- 
 sons who suffer such strong proofs of guilt to follow their in- 
 nocent misdoings. Gentlemen of the jury, if this person, Mac- 
 leod or Macnab, didn't murder Major Spencer, either you or I 
 did ; and you must now decide which of us it is ! I say, gen- 
 tlemen of the jury, either you, or I, or the prisoner at the bar, 
 murdered this man ; and if you have any doubts which of us 
 it was, it is but justice and mercy that you should give the 
 prisoner the benefit of your doubts ; and so find your verdict. 
 But, before God, should you find him not guilty , Mr. Attorney, 
 there, can scarcely do anything wiser than to put us all upon 
 trial for the deed." 
 
 The jury, it may be scarcely necessary to add, perhaps un- 
 der certain becoming fears of an alternative such as his ho- 
 nour had suggested, brought in a verdict of " Guilty," with- 
 out leaving the panel ; and Macnab, alias Macleod, was hung 
 at White Point, Charleston, somewhere about the year 178 . 
 
 " And here," said my grandmother, devoutly, "you behold 
 a proof of God's watchfulness to see that murder should not 
 be hidden, and that the murderer should not escape. You 
 see that he sent the spirit of the murdered man since, by 
 no other mode could the truth have been revealed to de- 
 clare the crime, and to discover the criminal. But for that 
 ghost, Macnab would have got off to Scotland, and probably 
 have been living to this very day on the money that he took 
 from the person of the poor major." 
 
 As the old lady finished the ghost story, which, by the way, 
 she had been tempted to relate for the fiftieth time in order to 
 combat my father's ridicule of such superstitions, the latter 
 took up the thread of the narrative. 
 
 (( Now, my son ; " said he, " as yoti have heard all that your 
 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 41 
 
 grandmother has to say on this subject,, I will proceed to 
 show you what you have to believe, and what not. It is 
 true that Macnab murdered Spencer in the manner related ; 
 that James Grayling made the discovery and prosecuted the 
 pursuit ; found the body and brought the felon to justice ; 
 that Macnab suffered death, and confessed the crime : al- 
 leging that he was moved to do so, as well because of the 
 money that he suspected Spencer to have in his possession, as 
 because of the hate which he felt for a man who had been 
 particularly bold and active in cutting up a party of Scotch 
 loyalists to which he belonged, on the borders of North Caro- 
 lina. But the appearance of the spectre was nothing more 
 than the work of a quick imagination, added to a shrewd and 
 correct judgment. James Grayling saw no ghost, in fact, but 
 such as was in his own mind ; and, though the instance was 
 one of a most remarkable character, one of singular combina- 
 tion, and well depending circumstances, still, I think it is to 
 be accounted for by natural and very simple laws." 
 The old lady was indignant. 
 
 " And how could he see the ghost just on the edge of the 
 same bay where the murder had been committed, and where 
 the body of the murdered man even then was lying ?" 
 
 My father did not directly answer the demand, but pro- 
 ceeded thus : 
 
 " James Grayling, as we know, mother, was a very ar- 
 dent, impetuous, sagacious man. He had the sanguine, the 
 race-horse temperament. He was generous, always prompt 
 and ready, and one who never went backward. What he 
 did, he did quickly, boldly, and thoroughly ! He never shrank 
 from trouble of any kind : nay, he rejoiced in the constant en- 
 counter with difficulty and trial ; and his was the temper 
 which commands and enthrals mankind. He felt deeply and 
 intensely whatever occupied his mind, and when he parted 
 from his friend he brooded over little else than their past com- 
 munion and the great distance by which they were to be se- 
 
42 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 parated. The dull travelling waggon-gait at which he himself 
 was compelled to go, was a source of annoyance to him ; and 
 he became sullen, all the day, after the departure of his friend. 
 When, on the evening of the next day, he came to the house 
 where it was natural to expect that Major Spencer would 
 have slept the night before, and he learned the fact that no 
 one stopped there, but the Scotchman, Macnab, we see that he 
 was struck with the circumstance. He mutters it over to 
 himself, " Strange, where the Major could have gone !" His 
 mind then naturally reverts to the character of the Scotchman 
 to the opinions and suspicions which had been already ex^ 
 pressed of him by his uncle, and felt by himself. They had 
 all, previously, come to the full conviction that Macnab was, 
 and had always been, a tory, in spite of his protestations. 
 His mind next, and very naturally, reverted to the insecurity 
 of the highways : the general dangers of travelling at that pe- 
 riod; the frequency of crime, and the number of desperate 
 men who were everywhere to be met with. The very em- 
 ployment in which he was then engaged, in scouting the 
 woods for the protection of the camp, was calculated to bring 
 such reflections to his mind. If these precautions were con- 
 sidered necessary for the safety of persons so poor, so wanting 
 in those possessions which might prompt cupidity to crime, 
 how much more necessary were precautions in the case of a 
 wealthy gentleman like Major Spencer! He then remembered 
 the conversation with the major at the camp tire, when they 
 fancied that the Scotchman was sleeping. How natural to 
 think then, that he was all the while awake ; and, if awake, 
 he must have heard him speak of the wealth of his companion. 
 True, the major, with more prudence than himself, denied that 
 he had any money about him, more than would bear his ex- 
 penses to the city ; but such an assurance was natural 
 enough to the lipa of a traveller who knew the dangers of the 
 country. That the man, Macnab, was not a person to be 
 trusted, wa the equal impression of Joel Sparkman and his 
 
LIFE JN AMERICA. 43 
 
 nephew from the first. The probabilities were strong that he 
 would rob and perhaps murder, if he might hope to do so with 
 impunity ; and as the youth made the circuit of the bay in the 
 darkness and solemn stillness of the night, its gloomy depths 
 and mournful shadows, naturally gave rise to such reflections 
 as would be equally active in the mind of a youth, and of one 
 somewhat familiar with the arts and usages of strife. He 
 would see that the spot was just the one in which a practised 
 partizan would delight to set an ambush for an unwary foe. 
 There ran the public road, with a little sweep, around two- 
 thirds of the extent of its dense and impenetrable thickets. 
 The ambush could lie concealed, and at ten steps command 
 the bosom of its victim. Here, then, you perceive that the 
 mind of James Grayling, stimulated by an active and sa- 
 gacious judgment, had by gradual and reasonable stages come 
 to these conclusions : that Major Spencer was an object to 
 tempt a robber ; that the country was full of robbers ; that 
 Macnab was one of them ; that this was the very spot in 
 which a deed of blood could be most easily committed, and 
 most easily concealed ; and, one important fact, that gave 
 strength and coherence to the whole, that Major Spencer had 
 not reached a well-known point of destination, while Macnab 
 had. 
 
 " With these thoughts, thus closely linked together, the 
 youth forgets the limits of his watch and his circuit. This 
 fact, alone, proves how active his imagination had become. 
 It leads him forward, brooding more and more upon the sub- 
 ject, until, in the very exhaustion of his body, he sinks down 
 beneath a tree. He sinks down and falls asleep ; and in his 
 sleep, what before was plausible conjecture, becomes fact, 
 and the creative properties of his imagination give form and 
 vitality to all his fancies. These fdrms are bold, broad, and 
 deeply coloured, in due proportion with the degree of force 
 which they receive from probability. Here, he sees the image 
 of his friend ; but, you will remark and this should almost 
 
44 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 conclusive!}' satisfy any mind that all that he sees is the work 
 of his imagination, that, though Spencer tells him that he is 
 murdered, and by Macnab, he does not tell him how, in what 
 manner, or with what weapons. Though he sees him pale and 
 ghostlike, he does not see, nor can he say, where his wounds 
 are ! He sees his pale features distinctly, and his garments 
 are bloody. Now, had he seen the spectre in the true appear- 
 ances of death, as he was subsequently found, he would not 
 have been able to discern his features, which were battered, 
 according to his own account, almost out of all shape of hu- 
 manity, and covered with mud ; while his clothes would have 
 streamed with mud and water, rather than with blood." 
 
 st Ah!" exclaimed the old lady, my grandmother, " it's hard 
 to make you believe any thing- that you don't see; you are 
 like St. Thomas in the Scriptures ; but how do you propose to 
 account for his knowing that the Scotchman was on board the 
 Falmouth packet ? Answer to that !" 
 
 " That is not a more difficult matter than any of the rest. 
 You forget that in the dialogue which took place between 
 James and Major Spencer at the camp, the latter told him that 
 he was about to take passage for Europe in the Falmouth 
 packet, which then lay in Charleston harbour, and was about 
 to sail. Macnab heard all that." 
 
 " True enough, and likely enough," returned the old lady ; 
 "but, though you show that it was Major Spencer's intention 
 to go to Europe in the Falmouth packet, that will not show 
 that it was also the intention of the murderer." 
 
 " Yet, what more probable, and how natural for James 
 Grayling to imagine such a thing ! In the first place, he knew 
 that Macnab was a Briton ; he felt convinced that he was a 
 tory; and the inference was immediate, that such a person 
 would scarcely have remained long in a country where such 
 characters laboured under so much odium, disfranchisement, 
 and constant danger from popular tumults. The fact that 
 Macnab was compelled to disguise his true sentiments, and 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA, 43 
 
 affect those of the people against whom he fought so vindic- 
 tively, shows what was his sense of the danger which he in- 
 curred. Now, it is not unlikely that Macnab was quite as 
 well aware that the Falmouth packet was in Charleston, and 
 about to sail, as Major Spencer. No doubt he was pursuing 
 the same journey, with the same object, and had he not mur- 
 dered Spencer, they would, very likely, have been fellow-pas- 
 sengers together to Europe. But, whether he knew the fact 
 before or not, he probably heard it stated by Spencer, while he 
 seemed to be sleeping ; and, even supposing that he did not 
 then know, it was enough that he found this to be the fact on 
 reaching the city. It was an after-thought to fly to Europe 
 with his ill-gotten spoils ; and whatever may have appeared a 
 politic course to the criminal, would be a probable conjecture 
 in the mind of him by whom he was suspected. The whole 
 story is one of strong probabilities, which happened to be veri- 
 fied ; and if proving any thing, proves only that which we 
 know, that James Grayling was a man of remarkably saga- 
 cious judgment, and quick, daring imagination. This quality 
 of imagination, by the way, when possessed very strongly in 
 connection with shrewd common sense, and well-balanced geg 
 neral faculties, makes that particular kind of intellect which, 
 because of its promptness and powers of creation and combi- 
 nation, we call genius. It is genius only which can make ghosts, 
 and James Grayling was a genius. He never, my son, saw 
 any other ghosts than those of his own making !" 
 
 I heard my father with great patience to the end, though he 
 seemed very tedious. He had taken a great deal of pains to 
 destroy one of my greatest sources of pleasure. I need not 
 add that I continued to believe in the ghost, and, with my 
 grandmother, to reject the philosophy. It was more easy to 
 believe the one than to comprehend the other. 
 
46 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 THE TWO CAMPS. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE OLD NORTH STATE. 
 
 " These, the forest born 
 And forest nurtured a bold, hardy race, 
 Fearless and frank,u nfettered, with big souls 
 In hour of danger." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IT is frequently the case, in the experience of the professional 
 novelist or tale-writer, that his neighbour conies in to his as- 
 sistance when he least seeks, and, perhaps, least desires any 
 succour. The worthy person, man or woman, however, pro- 
 bably some excellent octogenarian whose claims to be heard 
 are based chiefly upon the fact that he himself no longer pos- 
 sesses the faculty of hearing, has some famous incident, some 
 wonderful fact, of which he has been the eye-witness, or 
 of which he has heard from his great-grandmother, which 
 he fancies is the very thing to be woven into song or 
 story. Such is the strong possession which the matter 
 takes of his brain, that if the novelist whom he seeks to bene- 
 fit does notlive within trumpet-distance, he gives him the nar- 
 rative by means of post, some three sheets of stiff foolscap, for 
 which the hapless tale- writer, whose works are selling in cheap 
 editions at twelve or twenty cents, pays a sum of one dollar 
 sixty-two cents postage. Now, it so happens; to increase the 
 evil, that, in ninety-nine cases in the hundred, the fact thus 
 laboriously stated is not worth a straw consisting of some 
 simple deed of violence, some mere murder, a downright blow 
 with gun-butt or cudgel over the skull, or a hidden thrust, 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 47 
 
 three inches deep, with dirk or bowie knife, into the abdomen, 
 or at random among the lower ribs. The man dies and the 
 murderer gets off to Texas, or is prematurely caught and stops 
 by the way and still stops by the way ! The thing is fact, 
 no doubt. The narrator saw it himself, or his brother saw it 
 himself, or his brother saw it, or more solemn, if not more 
 certain testimony still his grand-mother saw it, long before 
 he had eyes to see at all. The circumstance is attested by a 
 cloud of witnesses a truth solemnly sworn to and yet, for 
 the purposes of the tale-writer, of no manner of value. This 
 assertion may somewhat conflict with the received opinions of 
 many, who, accustomed to find deeds of violence recorded in 
 almost every work of fiction, from the time of Homer to the 
 present day, have rushed to the conclusion that this is all, and 
 overlook that labour of the artist, by which an ordinary 
 event is made to assume the character of novelty ; in other 
 words, to become an extraordinarj^ event. The least diffi- 
 cult thing in the world, on the part of the writer of fiction, is 
 to find the assassin and the bludgeon ; the art is to make them 
 appear in the right place, strike at the right time, and so adapt 
 one fact to another, as to create mystery, awaken curiosity, 
 inspire doubt as to the result, and bring about the catastrophe, 
 by processes which shall be equally natural and /unexpected. 
 All that class of sagacious persons, therefore, who fancy they 
 have found a mare's nest, when they are only gazing at a 
 goose's, are respectfully counselled that no fact no tradition 
 is of any importance to the artist, unless it embodies 
 certain peculiar characteristics of its own, or unless it illus- 
 trates some history about which curiosity has already been 
 awakened. A mere brutality, in which John beats and 
 bruises Ben, and Ben in turn shoots John, putting eleven 
 slugs, or thereabouts, between his collar-bone and vertebrse 
 or, may be, stabs him under his left pap, or any where you 
 please, is just as easily conceived by the novelist, without the 
 help of history. Nay, for that matter, he would perhaps 
 
% LIFE IN AMERICA, 
 
 rather not have any precise facts in his way, in such cases, as 
 then he will be able to regard the picturesque in the choice of 
 his weapon, and to put the wounds in such part of the body 
 as will better bear the examination of all persons. I deem it 
 right to throw out this hint, just at this moment, as well for 
 the benefit of my order as for my own protection. The times 
 are hard, and the post-office requires all its dues in hard money. 
 Literary men are not proverbially prepared at all seasons for 
 any unnecessary outlay and to be required to make advances 
 for commodities of which they have on hand, at all times, the 
 greatest abundance, is an injustice which, it is to be hoped, 
 this little intimation will somewhat lessen. We take for 
 granted, therefore, that our professional brethren will concur 
 with us in saying to the public, that we are all provided with 
 " disastrous chances" for some time to come that our " mov- 
 ing accidents by flood and field" are particularly numerous, 
 and of " hair-breadth 'scapes" we have enough to last the cen- 
 tury. Murders, and such matters, as they are among the 
 most ordinary events of the day, are decidedly vulgar ; and, 
 for mere cudgelling and bruises, the taste of the belles-lettres 
 reader, rendered delicate by the monthly magazines, has voted 
 them to be equally gross and unnatural. 
 
 But, if the character of the materials usually tendered to the 
 novelist by the incident-mongers, is thus ordinarily worthless 
 as we describe it, we sometimes are fortunate in finding an 
 individual, here and there, in the deep forests, a sort of re- 
 cluse, hale and lusty, but white-headed, who unfolds from 
 his own budget of experience a rare chronicle, on which we 
 delight to linger. Such a one breathes life into his deeds. 
 We see them as we listen to his words. In lieu of the dead 
 body of the fact, we have its living spirit subtle, active, 
 breathing and burning, and fresh in all the provocations and 
 associations of life. Of this sort was the admirable charac- 
 teristic narrative of Horse- Shoe Robinson, which we owe to 
 Kennedy, and for which he was indebted to the venerable 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA, 4$ 
 
 hero of the story. When we say that the subject of the 
 sketch which follows was drawn from not dissimilar sources, 
 we must beg our readers not to understand us as inviting any 
 reference to that able and national story with which it is by 
 no means our policy or wish to invite or provoke comparison. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THERE are probably some old persons still living upon 
 the upper dividing line between North and South Carolina, 
 who still remember the form and features of the venerable 
 Daniel Nelson. The old man was still living so late as 1817. 
 At that period he removed to Mississippi, where, we believe, 
 he died in less than three months after his change of residence. 
 An old tree does not bear transplanting easily, and does not 
 long survive it. Daniel Nelson came from Virginia when a 
 youth. He was one of the first who settled on the southern 
 borders of North Carolina, or, at least in that neighbourhood 
 where he afterwards passed the greatest portion of his days. 
 
 At that time the country was not only a forest, but one 
 thickly settled with Indians. It constituted the favourite 
 hunting-grounds for several of their tribes. But this circum- 
 stance did not discourage young Nelson. He was then a stal- 
 wart youth, broad-chested, tall, with a fiery eye, and an almost 
 equally fiery soul certainly with a very fearless one. His 
 companions, who were few in number, were like himself. 
 The spirit of old Daniel Boone was a more common one than 
 is supposed. Adventure gladdened and excited their hearts, 
 danger only seemed to provoke their determination, and 
 mere hardship was something which their frames appeared to 
 covet. It was as refreshing to them as drink. Having seen 
 
60 lit E ifc AMERICA: 
 
 the country, and struck down some of its game, tasted of its 
 bear-meat and buffalo, its deer and turkey, all, at that time, 
 in the greatest abundance, they returned for the one thing most 
 needful to a brave forester in a new country, a good brisk, fear- 
 less wife, who, like the damsel in Scripture, would go whitherso- 
 ever went the husband to whom her affections were surrendered. 
 They had no fear, these bold young hunters, to make a home and 
 rear an infant family in regions so remote from the secure walks 
 of civilization. They had met and made an acquaintance and a 
 sort of friendship with the Indians, and, in the superior vigour of 
 their own frames, their greater courage, and better weapons, 
 they perhaps had come to form a too contemptuous estimate of 
 the savage. But they were not beguiled by him into too 
 much confidence. Their log houses were so constructed as to 
 be fortresses upon occasion, and they lived not so far re- 
 moved from one another, but that the leaguer of one would be 
 sure, in twenty-four hours, to bring the others to his assist- 
 ance. Besides, with a stock of bear-meat and venison always 
 on hand, sufficient for a winter, either of these fortresses 
 might, upon common calculations, be maintained for several 
 weeks against any single band of the Indians, in the small 
 numbers in which they were wont to range together in those 
 neighbourhoods. In this way these bold pioneers took pos- 
 session of the soil, and paved the way for still mightier gene- 
 rations. Though wandering, and somewhat averse to the 
 tedious labours of the farm, they were still not unmindful of 
 its duties ; and their open lands grew larger every season, and 
 increasing comforts annually spoke for the increasing civiliza- 
 tion of the settlers. Corn was in plenty in proportion to the 
 bear-meat, and the squatters almost grew indifferent to those 
 first apprehensions, which had made them watch the ap- 
 proaches of the most friendly Indian as if he had been an 
 enemy. At the end of five years, in which they had suffered 
 jio hurt and but little annoyance of any sort from their wild 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA^ 51 
 
 neighbours, it would seem as if this confidence in the security 
 of their situation was not without sufficient justification. 
 
 But, just then, circumstances seemed to threaten an inter-* 
 ruption of this goodly state of things. The Indians were be- 
 coming discontented. Other tribes, more frequently in contact 
 with the larger settlements of the whites, wronged by them 
 ir ^e, or demoralized by drink, complained of their suffer- 
 " injuries, or, as is more probable, were greedy to 
 treasures, in bulk, which they were permitted to 
 1 to enjoy, but only in limited quantity. Their 
 ^mplaints were transmitted, by inevitable 
 ^brethren of the interior, and our worthy 
 v were rendered anxious at signs which 
 in the peaceful relations which had 
 Intercourse between the differing 
 
 ^^^ k T. or describe these signs, with 
 
 es of like character, our people 
 
 y aliar. They were easily understood 
 
 .id by none more quickly than Daniel 
 Nelson, 'n,. ^red him anxious, it is true, but not ap- 
 
 prehensive ; an* , like a good husband, while he strove not to 
 frighten his wife by what he said, he deemed it necessary to 
 prepare her mind for the worst that might occur. This task 
 over, he felt somewhat relieved, though, when he took his 
 little girl, now five years old, upon his knee that evening, and 
 looked upon his infant boy in the lap of his mother, he felt his 
 anxieties very much increase ; and that very night he resumed 
 a practice which he had latterly abandoned, but which had 
 been adopted as a measure of strict precaution, from the very 
 first establishment of their little settlement. As soon as 
 supper was over, he resumed his rifle, thrust his couteau de 
 chasse into his belt, and, taking his horn about his neck, and 
 calling up his trusty dog Clinch, he proceeded to scour the 
 woods immediately around his habitation. This task, per- 
 ^ormed with the stealthy caution of the hunter, occupied some 
 
52 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 time, and, as the night was clear, a bright starlight, the 
 weather moderate, and his own mood restless, he determined 
 to strike through the forest to the settlement of Jacob Ransom ? 
 about four miles off, in order to prompt him, and, through 
 him, others of the neighbourhood, to the continued exercise of 
 a caution which he now thought necessary. The rest of this 
 night's adventure we propose to let him tell in his own words, 
 as he has been heard to relate it a thousand times in his old 
 age, at a period of life when, with one foot in his grave, to 
 suppose him guilty of falsehood, or of telling that which he 
 did not himself fervently believe, would be, among all those 
 who knew him, to suppose the most impossible and extrava- 
 gant thing in the world. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "WELL, my friends," said the veteran, then seventy, drawing' 
 his figure up to its fullest height, and extending his right arm, 
 while his left still grasped the muzzle of his ancient rifle, 
 which he swayed from side to side, the 'butt resting on the 
 floor " Well, my friends, seeing that the night was cl'ar, and 
 there was no wind, and feeling as how I didn't want for 
 sleep, I called to Clinch, and took the path for Jake Ransom's. 
 I knew that Jake was a sleepy sort of chap, and if the red- 
 skins caught any body napping, he'd most likely be the man. 
 But I confess, 'twarn't so much for his sake, as for the sake of 
 all of my own as well as the rest ; for, when I thought how 
 soon, if we warn't all together in the business, 1 might see, 
 without being able to put in, the long yellow air of Betsy and 
 the babies twirling on the thumbs of some painted devil of the 
 tribe I can't tell you how I felt, but it warn't like a human, 
 though I shivered mightily like one 'twas wolfish, as if the 
 the hair was turned in and rubbing agin the very heart within 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 53 
 
 me. I said my prayers where I stood, looking up at the stars, 
 and thinking that, after all, all was in the hands and the marcy 
 of God. This sort o' thinking quieted me, and I went ahead 
 pretty free, for I knew the track jest as well by night as by 
 day, though I didn't go so quick, for I was all the time on the 
 look-out for the enemy. Now, after we reached a place in 
 the woods where there was a gully and a mighty bad cross- 
 ing, there were two roads to get to Jake's one by the hol- 
 lows, and one jest across the hills. I don't know why, but I 
 didn't give myself time to think, and struck across the hill, 
 though that was rather the longest way. 
 
 " Howsomedever, on I went, and Clinch pretty close behind 
 me. The dog was a good dog, with a mighty keen nose to 
 hunt, but jest then he didn't seem to have the notion for it. 
 The hill was a sizeable one, a good stretch to foot, and I 
 began to remember, after awhile, that I had been in the 
 woods from the blessed dawn ; and that made me see how it 
 was with poor Clinch, and why he didn't go for 'ad ; but I was 
 more than half way, and wasn't guine to turn back till I had 
 said my say to Jake. Well, when I got to the top of the hill, 
 I stopped, and rubbed my eyes. I had cause to rub 'em, for 
 what should I see at a distance but a great fire. At first I 
 was afeard lest it was Jake's house, but I considered, the 
 next moment, that he lived to the left, and this fire was cl'ar 
 to the right, and it did seem to me as if 'twas more near to 
 my own. Here was something to scare a body. But I 
 couldn't stay there looking, and it warn't now a time to go to 
 Jake's ; so I turned off, and, though Clinch was mighty on- 
 willing, I bolted on the road to the fire. I say road, but there 
 was no road ; but the trees warn't over-thick, and the land 
 was too poor for undergrowth ; so we got on pretty well, 
 considering. But, what with the tire I had had, and the scare 
 I felt, it seemed as if I didn't get for'ad a bit. There was the 
 fire still burning as bright and almost as far off as ever. When 
 I saw this I stopt and looked at Clinch, and he stopt and 
 
4 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 looked at me, but neither of us had any thing to say. Well, 
 after a moment's thinking, it seemed as if I shouldn't be 
 much of a man to give in when I had got so far, so I pushed 
 on. We crossed more than one little hill, then down and 
 through the hollow, and then up the hill again. At last we 
 got upon a small mountain the Indians called Nolleehatchie, 
 and then it seemed as if the fire had come to a stop, for it was 
 now burning bright, on a little hill below me, and not two 
 hundred yards in front. It was a regular camp fire, pretty 
 big, and there was more than a dozen Indians sitting round it. 
 ' Well,' says I to myself, ' it's come upon us mighty sudden, 
 and what's to be done ? Not a soul in the settlement knows 
 it but myself, and nobody's on the watch. They'll be sculped, 
 every human of them, in their very beds, or, motitbe, waken up 
 in the blaze, to be shot with arrows as they run.' I was in 
 a cold sweat to think of it. I didn't know what to think and 
 what to do. I looked round to Clinch, and the strangest 
 thing of all was to see him sitting quiet on his haunches, 
 looking at me, and at the stars, and not at the fire jest before 
 him. Now, Clinch was a famous fine hunting dog, and jest 
 as good on an Indian trail as any other. He know'd my 
 ways, and what I wanted, and would give tongue, or keep it 
 still, jest as I axed him. It was sensible enough, jest then, 
 that he shouldn't bark, but, dang it ! he didn't even seem to 
 see. Now, there warn't a dog in all the settlement so quick 
 and keen to show sense as Clinch, even when he didn't say a 
 word ; and to see him looking as if he didn't know and 
 didn't care what was a-going on, with his eyes sot in his 
 head and glazed over with sleep, was, as I may say, very on- 
 natural, jest at that time, in a dog of any onderstanding. So 
 I looked at him, half angry, and when he saw me looking at 
 him, he jest stretched himself off, put his nose on his legs, and 
 went to sleep in 'arnest. I had half a mind to lay my knife- 
 handle over his head, but I considered better of it, and though 
 it did seem the strangest thing in the world that he shouldn't 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 55 
 
 even try to get to the fire, for warm sake, yet I recollected 
 that dog natur', like human natur', can't stand every thing, 
 and he hadn't such good reason as I had, to know that the 
 Indians were no longer friendly to us. Well, there I stood, a 
 pretty considerable chance, looking, and wondering, and on- 
 beknowing what to do. I was mighty beflustered. But at 
 last I felt ashamed to be so oncertain, and then again it was 
 a needcessity that we should know the worst one time or an- 
 other, so I determined to push for'ad. I was no slouch of a 
 hunter, as you may suppose ; so, as I was nearing the camp> 
 I begun sneaking; and, taking it sometimes on hands and 
 knees, and sometimes flat to the ground, where there was 
 neither tree nor bush to cover me, I went ahead, Clinch keep- 
 ing close behind me, and not showing any notion of what I 
 was after. It was a slow business, because it was a ticklish 
 business ; but I was a leetle too anxious to be altogether so 
 careful as a good srieak ought to be, and I went on rather 
 faster than I would advise any young man to go in a time of 
 war, when the inimy is in the neighbourhood. "Well, as I 
 went, there was the fire, getting larger and larger every 
 minute, and there were the Indians round it, getting plainer 
 and plainer. There was so much smoke that there was no 
 making out, at any distance, any but their figures, and these, 
 every now and then, would be so wrapt in the smoke, that 
 not more than half of them could be seen at the same moment. 
 At last I stopped, jest at a place where I thought I could 
 make out all that I wanted. There was a sizeable rock be- 
 fore me, and I leaned my elbows on it to look. I reckon I 
 warn't more than thirty yards from the fire. There were some 
 bushes betwixt us, and what with the bushes and the smoke, 
 it was several minutes before I could separate man from man, 
 and see what they were all adoing, and when I did, it was 
 only for a moment at a time, when a puff of smoke would 
 wrap them all, and make it as difficult as ever. But when I 
 did contrive to see clearly, the sight was one to worry me to 
 
56 LIFE IN AMEK1CA. 
 
 the core ; for, in the midst of the redskins, I could see a white 
 one, and that white one a woman. There was no mistake. 
 There were the Indians, some with their backs, and some 
 with their faces to me ; and there, a little a one side, but still 
 among them, was a woman. When the smoke blowed off, I 
 could see her white face, bright like any star shining out of the 
 clouds, and looking so pale and ghastly, that my blood crud- 
 dled in my veins to think lest she might be dead from fright. 
 But it couldn't be so, for she was sitting up and looking about 
 her. But the Indians were motionless. They jest sat or lay 
 as when I first saw them doing nothing saying nothing, but 
 jest as motionless as the stone under my elbow. I couldn't 
 stand looking where I was, so I began creeping again, getting 
 nigher and nigher, until it seemed to me as if I ought to be 
 able to read every face. But what with the paint and smoke, 
 I couldn't make out a single Indian. Their figures seemed 
 plain onough in their buffalo-skins and blankets, but their faces 
 aeemed always in the dark. But it wasn't so with the 
 woman. I could make her out clearly. She was very young; 
 I reckon not more than fifteen, and it seemed to me as if I 
 knew her looks very well. She was very handsome, and her 
 hair was loosed upon her back. My heart felt strange to see 
 her. I was weak as any child. It seemed as if I could die 
 for the gal, and yet I hadn't strength enough to raise my rifle 
 to my shoulder. The weakness kept on me the more I 
 looked; for every moment seemed to make the poor child 
 more and more dear to me. But the strangest thing of all 
 was to see how motionless was every Indian in the camp. Not 
 a word was spoken not a limb or finger stirred. There they 
 sat, or lay, round about the fire, like so many effigies, looking 
 at the gal, and she looking at them. I never was in such a 
 fix of fear and weakness in my life. What was I to do ? I 
 had got go nigh that I could have stuck my knife, with a jerk, 
 into the heart of any one of the party, yet I hadn't the soul to 
 lift it; and before I knew where I was, I cried like a chilcl. 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 61 
 
 But my crying didn't make 'em look about 'em. It only 
 brought my poor dog "Clinch leaping upon me, and whining, as 
 if he wanted to give me consolation. Hardly knowing what 
 I did, I tried to set him upon the camp, but the poor fellow 
 didn't seem to understand me ; and in my desperation, for it 
 was a sort of madness growing out of my scare, I jumped 
 headlong for'ad, jest where I saw the party sitting, willing to 
 lose my life rather than suffer from such a strange sort of 
 misery. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 e< WILL you believe me ! there were no Indians, no young wo- 
 man, no fire ! I stood up in the very place where I had seen 
 the blaze and the smoke, and there was nothing! I looked 
 for'ad and about me there was no sign of fire any where. 
 Where I stood was covered with dry leaves, the same as the 
 rest of the forest. I was stupefied. I was like a man roused 
 out of sleep by a strange dream, and seeing nothing. All was 
 dark and silent. The stars were overhead, but that was all 
 the light I had. I was more scared than ever, and, as it is 
 a good rule when a man feels that he can do nothing himself, 
 to look to the great God who can do every thing, I kneeled 
 down and said my prayers the second time that night that I 
 had done the same thing, and the second time, I reckon, that 
 I had ever done so in the woods. After that I felt stronger. 
 I felt sure that this sign hadn't been shown to me for nothing ; 
 and while I was turning about, looking and thinking to turn 
 on the back track for home, Clinch began to prick up his ears 
 and waken up. I clapped him on his back, and got my knife 
 ready. It might be a painter that stirred him, for he could 
 scent that beast a great distance. But, as he showed no fright, 
 c 5 
 
58 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 only a sort of quickening, I knew there was nothing to fear. 
 In a moment he started off, and went boldly ahead. I fol- 
 lowed him, but hadn't gone twenty steps down the hill and 
 into the hollow, when I heard something like a groan. This 
 quickened me, and keeping up with the dog, he led me to the 
 foot of the hollow, where was a sort of pond. Clinch ran 
 right for it, and another groan set me in the same direction. 
 When I got up to the dog, he was on the butt-end of an old 
 tree that had fallen, I reckon, before my time, and was half 
 buried in the water. I jumped on it, and walked a few steps 
 for'ad, when, what should I see but a human, half across the 
 log, with his legs hanging in the water, and his head down. 
 I called Clinch back out of my way, and went to the spot. 
 The groans were pretty constant. I stooped down and laid 
 my hands upon the person, and, as I felt the hair, I knew it 
 was an Indian. The head was clammy with blood, so that 
 my fingers stuck, and when I attempted to turn it, to look at 
 the face, the groan was deeper than ever ; 'twarn't a time to 
 suck one's fingers. I took him up, clapped my shoulders to it, 
 and, fixing my feet firmly on the old tree, which was rather 
 slippery, I brought the poor fellow out without much trouble. 
 Though tall, he was not heavy, and was only a boy of fourteen 
 or fifteen. The wonder was how a lad like that should get 
 into such a fix. Well, I brought him out and laid him on the 
 dry leaves. His groans stopped, and I thought he was dead, 
 but I felt his heart, and it was still warm, and 1 thought, 
 though I couldn't be sure, there was a beat under my fingers. 
 What to do was the next question. It was now pretty late 
 in the night. I had been all day a-foot, and, though still will- 
 ing to go, yet the thought of such a weight on my shoulders 
 made me stagger. But "twouldn't do to leave him where he 
 was to perish. I thought, if so be I had a son in such a fix, 
 what would I think of the stranger who should go home and 
 wait till daylight to give him help ! No, darn my splinters, 
 said I, though I had just done my prayers, if I leave the 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA*. 59 
 
 lad and, tightening my girth, I give my whole soul to it, and 
 hoisted him on my shoulders. My cabin, I reckoned, was 
 good three miles off. You can guess what trouble I had, and 
 what a tire under my load, before I got home and laid the poor 
 fellow down by the fire. I then called up Betsy, and we both 
 set to work to see if we could stir up the life that was in him. 
 She cut away his hair, and I washed the blood from his head, 
 which was chopped to the bone, either with a knife or hatchet. 
 It was a God's blessing it hadn't gone into his brain, for it was 
 fairly enough aimed for it, jest above the ear. When we come 
 to open his clothes, we found another wound in his side. This 
 was done with a knife, and, I suppose, was pretty deep. He 
 had lost blood enough, for all his clothes were stiff with it. 
 We knew nothing much of doctoring, but we had some rum in 
 the cabin, and after washing his wounds clean with it, and 
 pouring some down his throat, he began to groan more freely, 
 and by that we knew he was coming to a nateral feeling. We 
 rubbed his body down with warm cloths, and after a little 
 while, seeing that he made some signs, I give him water as 
 much as he could drink. This seemed to do him good, and 
 having done every thing that we thought could help him, we 
 wrapped him up warmly before the fire, and I stretched myself 
 off beside him. 'Twould be a long story to tell, step by step, 
 how he got on. It's enough to say that he didn't die that 
 bout. We got him on his legs in a short time, doing little or 
 nothing for him more than we did at first. The lad was a 
 good lad, though, at first, when he first came to his senses, he 
 was mighty shy, wouldn't look steadily in our faces, and, I do 
 believe, if he could have got out of the cabin, would have done 
 so as soon as he could stagger. But he was too weak to try 
 that, and, meanwhile, when he saw our kindness, he was soft- 
 ened. By little and little, he got to play with my little Lucy, 
 who was not quite six years old ; and, after a while, he seemed 
 to be never better pleased than when they played together. 
 The child, too, after her first fright, leaned to the lac 1 , and was 
 
<6Q ,JL1FE IN AMERICA. 
 
 jest as willing to play with him as if he had been a cl'ar white 
 like herself. He could say a few words of English from the 
 beginning, and learnt quickly ; but, though he talked tolerable 
 free for an Indian, yet I could never get him to tell me how 
 he was wounded, or by whom. His brow blackened when I 
 spoke of it, and his lips would be shut together, as if he was 
 ready to fight sooner than to speak. Well, I didn't push him 
 to know, for I was pretty sure the head of the truth will be 
 sure to come some time or other, if you once have it by the 
 tail, provided you don't jerk it off by straining too hard upon 
 it. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " I SUPPOSE the lad had been with us a matter of six weeks, 
 getting better every day, but so slowly that he had not, at the 
 end of that time, been able to leave the picket. Meanwhile^ 
 our troubles with the Indians were increasing. As yet, there 
 had been no bloodshed in our quarter, but we heard of murders 
 and scalpings on every side, and we took for granted that we 
 must have our turn. We made our preparations, repaired the 
 pickets, laid in ammunition, and took our turns for scouting 
 nightly. At length, the signs of Indians got to be thick in our 
 parts, though we could see none. Jake Ransom had come 
 upon one of their camps after they had left it ; and we had rea- 
 eon to apprehend every thing, inasmuch as the outlyers didn't 
 show themselves, as they used to do, but prowled about the 
 cabins, and went from place to place, only by night, or close 
 skulking in the thickets. One evening after this, I went out 
 as usual to go the rounds, taking Clinch with me, but I hadn't 
 got far from the gate, when the dog stopped and gave a low 
 bark ; then I knew there was mischief, so I turned round 
 quietly, without making any show of scare, and got back 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 61 
 
 eafely, though not a minute too soon. They trailed me to the 
 gate the moment after it had got fastened, and were pretty 
 mad, I reckon, when I found their plan had failed for sur- 
 prising me. But for the keen nose of poor Clinch, with all 
 our skill in scouting, and it was not small, even in that 
 early day, they'd 'a had me, and all that was mine, before the 
 un could open his eyes to see what they were after. Finding 
 they had failed in their ambush, they made the woods ring 
 with the war-whoop, which was a sign that they were guine 
 to give us a regular siege. At the sound of the whoop, we 
 could see the eyes of the Indian boy brighten, and his ears 
 prick up, jest like a hound's when he first gets scent of the 
 deer, and hears the horn of the hunter. I looked closely at 
 the lad, and was dubious what to do. He mout be only an 
 enemy in the camp, and while I was fighting in front, he 
 might be cutting the throats of my wife and children within. 
 I did not tell you that I had picked up his bow and arrows 
 near the little lake where I had found him, and his hunting- 
 knife was sticking in his belt when I brought him home. 
 Whether to take these away from him, was the question > 
 Suppose I did, a billet of wood would answer the purpose 
 pretty near as well. I thought the matter over while I watched 
 him. Thought runs mighty quick in time of danger ! Well, 
 after turning it over on every side, I concluded 'twas better to 
 trust him jest as if he had been a sure friend. I couldn't 
 think, after all we had done for him, that he'd be false, so I 
 said to him ' Lenatawa ! 'twas so he called himself ( those 
 are your people !' < Yes l' he answered slowly, and lifting 
 himself up as if he had been a lord he was a stately-looking 
 lad, and carried himself like the son of a Micco,* as he was 
 ' Yes, they are the people of Lenatawa must he go to them ?' 
 and he made a motion of going out. But I stopped him. I 
 was not willing to lose the security which I had from his being 
 a sort of prisoner. ' No,' said I ; ( no, Lenatawa, not to-night 
 * A prince or chief. 
 
62 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 To-morrow will do. To-morrow you can tell them I am a 
 friend, not an enemy, and they should not come to burn my 
 wigwam.' * Brother friend !' said the lad, advancing with a 
 sort of freedom, and taking my hand. He then went to my 
 wife, and did the same thing, not regarding she was a wo- 
 man, c Brother friend !' I watched him closely, watched 
 his eye and his motions, and I said to Betsy, < The lad is true ; 
 don't be afeard!' But we passed a weary night. Every now 
 and then we could hear the whoop of the Indians. From the 
 loop-holes we could see the light of three fires on different 
 sides, by which we knew they were prepared to cut off any 
 help that might come to us from the rest of the settlement. 
 But I didn't give in or despair. I worked at one thing or 
 another all night, and though Lenatawa gave me no help, yet 
 he sat quietly, or laid himself down before the fire, as if he 
 had nothing to do in the business. Next morning, by day- 
 light, I found him already dressed in the same bloody clothes 
 which he had on when I found him. He had thrown aside all 
 that I gave him, and though the hunting-shirt and legging 
 which he now wore, were very much stained with blood and 
 dirt, he had fixed them about him with a good deal of care 
 and neatness, as if preparing to see company. 1 must tell you 
 that an Indian of good family always has a nateral sort of 
 grace and dignity that I never saw in a white man. He was 
 busily engaged looking through one of the loop-holes, and 
 though I could distinguish nothing, yet it was cl'ar that he 
 saw something to interest him mightily. I soon found out 
 that, in spite of all my watchfulness, he had contrived to have 
 some sort of correspondence and communication with those 
 outside. This was a wonder to me then, for I did not recol- 
 lect his bow and arrows. It seems to me that he had shot an 
 arrow through one of the loop-holes, to the end of which he 
 had fastened a tuft of his own hair. The effect of this was 
 considerable, and to this it was owing that, for a few hours 
 afterwards, we saw not an Indian. The arrow was shot at 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 63 
 
 the very peep of day. What they were about, in the mean 
 time, I can only guess, and the guess was only easy, after I 
 had known all that was to happen. That they were in council 
 what to do was cl'ar enough. I was not to know that the 
 council was like to end in cutting some of their own throats 
 instead of ours. But when we did see the enemy fairly, they 
 came out of the woods in two parties, not actually separated, 
 but not moving together. It seemed as if there was some 
 strife among them. Their whole number could not be less 
 than forty, and some eight or ten of these walked apart under 
 the lead of a chief, a stout, dark-looking fellow, one half of 
 whose face was painted black as midnight, with a red circle 
 round both his eyes. The other party was headed by an old 
 white-headed chief, who couldn't ha' been less than sixty 
 years a pretty fellow, you may be sure, at his time of life, to 
 be looking after scalps of women and children. While I was 
 kneeling at my loop-hole, looking at them, Lenatewa came to 
 me, and touching me on the arm, pointed to the old chief, say- 
 ing ( Micco Lenatewa Glucco,' by which I guessed he was 
 the father or grandfather of the lad.' ' Well,' I said, seeing 
 that the best plan was to get their confidence and friendship if 
 possible ' Well, lad, go to your father, and tell him what 
 Daniel Nelson has done for you, and let's have peace. We can 
 tight, boy, as you see ; we have plenty of arms and provisions ; 
 and with this rifle, though you may not believe it, I could pick 
 off your father, the king, and that other chief, who has so de- 
 villed himself up with paint.' i Shoot!' said the lad, quickly, 
 pointing to the chief of whom I had last spoken. ' Ah ! he is 
 your enemy, then ?" The lad nodded his head, and pointed to 
 the wound on his temple, and that in his side. I now began 
 to see the true state of the case. < No,' said I ; ' no, Lena- 
 tewa, I will shoot none. I am for peace. I would do good 
 to the Indians, and be their friend. Go to your father and tell 
 him KO. Go, and make him my friend. The youth caught my 
 hand, placed it on the top of his head, and exclaimed, ( Good!' 
 
64 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 I then attended him down to the gate, but, before he left the 
 cabin, he stopped and put his hand on the head of little Lucy, 
 and I felt glad, for it seemed to say, ' You shan't be hurt 
 not a hair of your head !' I let him out, fastened up, and then 
 hastened to the loop-hole. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " AND now came a sight to tarrify. As soon as the Indians 
 saw the young prince, they set up a general cry. I couldn't 
 tell whether whether it was joy, or what. He went for'ad 
 boldly, though he was still quite weak, and the king at the 
 head of his party advanced to meet him. The other and 
 smaller party, headed by the black chief, whom young 
 Lenatewa had told me to shoot, came forward also, but very 
 slowly, and it seemed as if they were doubtful whether to 
 come or go. Their leader looked pretty much beflustered. 
 But they hadn't time for much study, for, after the young 
 prince had met his father, and a few words had passed be- 
 tween them, I saw the finger of Lenatewa point to the black 
 chief. At this, he lifted up his clenched fists, and worked his 
 body as if he was talking angrily. Then, sudden, the war- 
 whoop sounded from the king's party, and the other troop of 
 Indians began to run, the black chief at their head ; but he 
 had not got twenty steps when a dozen arrows went into 
 him, and lie tumbled for'a'ds, and grappled with the earth. 
 It was all over with him. His party was scattered on all 
 sides, but were not pursued. It seemed that all the arrows 
 had been aimed at the one person, and when he sprawled, 
 there was an end to it: the whole affair was over in five 
 minutes. 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA! 65 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " IT was a fortunate affair for us. Lenatewa soon brought 
 the old Micco to terms of peace. For that matter, he had 
 only consented to take up the red stick because it was re- 
 ported by the black chief who was the uncle of the young 
 Micco, and had good reasons for getting him out of the way 
 that he had been murdered by the whites. This driv' the old 
 man to desperation, and brought him down upon us. When 
 he knew the whole truth, and saw what friends we had been 
 to his son, there was no end to his thanks and promises. He 
 swore to be my friend while the sun shone, while the waters 
 run, and while the mountains stood, and I believe, if the good 
 old man had been spared so long, he would have been true to 
 his oath. But, while he lived, he kept it, and so did his son 
 when he succeeded him as Micco Glucco. Year after year 
 went by, and though there was frequent war between the 
 Indians and the whites, yet Lenatewa kept it from our doors. 
 He himself was at war several times with our people, but 
 never with our settlement. He put his totem on our trees, 
 and the Indians knew that they were sacred. But, after a 
 space of eleven years, there was a change. The young prince 
 seemed to have forgotten our friendship. We now never saw 
 him among us, and, unfortunately, some of our young men 
 the young men of our settlement murdered three young war- 
 riors of the Ripparee tribe, who were found on horses stolen 
 from us. I was very sorry when I heard it, and began to 
 fear the consequences ; and they came upon us when we least 
 looked for it. I had every reason to think that Lenatewa 
 would still keep the warfare from my little family, but I did 
 not remember that he was the prince of a tribe only, and not 
 of the nation. This was a national warfare, in which the 
 
66 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 whole Cherokee people were in arms. Many persons, living 
 still, remember that terrible war, and how the Carolinians 
 humbled them at last ; but there's no telling how much blood 
 was shed in that war, how many sculps taken, how much 
 misery suffered by young and old, men, women, and children. 
 Our settlement had become so large and scattered that we 
 had to build a sizeable blockhouse, which we stored, and to 
 which we could retreat whenever it was necessary. We 
 took possession of it on hearing from our scouts that Indian 
 trails had been seen, and there we put the women and chil- 
 dren, under a strong guard. By day we tended our farms, 
 and only went to our families at night. We had kept them 
 in this fix for five weeks or thereabouts, and there was no 
 attack. The Indian signs disappeared, and we thought the 
 storm had blown over, and began to hope and to believe that 
 the old friendship of Lenatewa, had saved us. With this 
 thinking, we began to be less watchful. The men would 
 stay all night at the farms, and sometimes, in the day, would 
 carry with them the women, and sometimes some even the 
 children. I cautioned them agin this, but they mocked me, 
 and said I was gitting old and scary. I told them, ' Wait 
 and see who'll scare first.' But, I confess, not seeing any In- 
 dians in all my scouting, I began to feel and think like the 
 rest, and to grow careless. I let Betsy go now and then 
 with me to the farm, though she kept it from me that she had 
 gone there more than once with Lucy, without any man pro- 
 tector. Still, as it was only a short mile and a half from the 
 block, and we could hear of no Indians, it did not seem so 
 venturesome a thing. One day we heard of some very large 
 b'ars among the thickets a famous range for them, about 
 four miles from the settlement ; and a party of us, Simon 
 Lorris, Huge Darling, Jake Ransom, William Harkless, and 
 myself, taking our dogs, set off on the hunt. We started the 
 b'ar with a rush, and I got the first shot at a mighty big she 
 b'ar the largest I had ever seen lamed the critter slightly, 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 67 
 
 and dashed into the thickets after her ! The others pushed, 
 in another direction, after the rest, leaving me to finish my 
 work as I could. 
 
 " I had two dogs with me, Clap and Claw, but they were 
 young things, and couldn't be trusted much in a close brush 
 with a b'ar. Old Clinch was dead, or he'd ha' made other 
 guess-work with the varmint. But, hot after the b'ar, I didn't 
 think of the quality of the dogs till I found myself in a fair 
 wrestle with the brute. I don't brag, my friends, but that was 
 a fight. I tell you my breath was clean gone, for the b'ar had 
 me about the thin of my body, and I thought I was doubled 
 up enough to be laid down without more handling. But my 
 heart was strong when I thought of Betsy and the children, 
 and I got my knife, with hard jiiyging though I couldn't use 
 my arm above my elbow through the old critter's hide, and 
 in among her ribs. That only seemed to make her hug closer, 
 and I reckon I was clean gone, if it hadn't been that she 
 bio wed out before me. I had worked a pretty deep window 
 in her waist, and then life run out plentiful. Her nose dropped 
 agin my breast, and then her paws ; and when the strain was 
 gone, I fell down like a sick child, and she fell on top of me. 
 But she warn't in a humour to do more mischief. She roughed 
 me once or twice more with her paws, but that was only be- 
 cause she was at her last kick. There I lay a matter of half 
 an hour, with the dead b'ar alongside o' me. I was almost as 
 little able to move as she, and I vomited as if I had taken 
 physic. When I come to myself and got up, there was no 
 sound of the hunters. There I was with the two dogs and 
 the b'ar, all alone, and the sun already long past the turn. My 
 horse, which 1 had fastened outside of the thicket, had slipped 
 his bridle, and, I reckoned, had either strayed off grazing, or 
 had pushed back directly for the block. These things didn't 
 make me feel much better. But, though my stomach didn't 
 feel altogether right, and my ribs were as sore as if I had been 
 sweating under a coating of hickory, I felt that there was no 
 
68 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 use and no time to stand there grunting. But I made out to 
 skin and to cut up the b'ar, and a noble mountain of fat she 
 made. I took the skin with me, and, covering 1 the flesh with 
 bark, I whistled off the dogs, after they had eat to fill, and 
 pushed after my horse. I followed his track for some time, 
 till I grew fairly tired. He had gone off in a scare and at a 
 full gallop, and, instead of going home, had dashed down the 
 lower side of the thicket, then gone aside, to round some of 
 the hills, and thrown himself out of the track, it mout be seven 
 miles or more. When I found this, I saw there was no use to 
 hunt him that day and afoot, and I had no more to do but turn 
 about, and push as fast as I could for the block. But this was 
 work enough. By this time the sun was pretty low, and there 
 was now a good seven miles, work it how I could, before me. 
 But I was getting over my b'ar-sickness, and though my legs 
 felt weary enough, my stomach was better, and my heart 
 braver ; and, as I was in no hurry, having the whole night 
 before me, and knowing the way by night as well as by light, 
 I began to feel cheerful enough, all things considering. I 
 pushed on slowly, stopping every now and then for rest, and 
 recovering my strength this way. I had some parched meal 
 and sugar in my pouch which I ate, and it helped me mightily. 
 It was my only dinner that day. The evening got to be very 
 still. I wondered I had seen and heard nothing of Jake Ran- 
 som and the rest, but I didn't feel at all oneasy about them, 
 thinking that, like all other hunters, they would naterally fol- 
 low the game to any distance. But, jest when I was thinking 
 about them, I heard a gun, then another, and after that all got 
 to be as quiet as ever. I looked to my own rifle and felt for 
 my knife, and put forward a little more briskly. I suppose I 
 had walked an hour after this, when it came on close dark, 
 and I was still four good miles from the block. The night was 
 cloudy, there were no stars, and the feeling in the air was 
 damp and oncomfortable. 1 began to wish I was safe home, 
 and felt queerish, almost as bad as I did when the Var 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA.' 69 
 
 'bracing me ; but it warn't so much the body-sickness as 
 the heart-sickness. I felt as if something was going wrong. 
 Jest as this feeling was most worrisome, I stumbled over a 
 human. My blood cruddled, when, feeling about, I put my 
 hand on his head, and found the sculp was gone. Then 1 knew 
 there was mischief. I couldn't make out who 'twas that was 
 under me, but I reckoned 'twas one of the hunters. There was 
 nothing to be done but push for'ad. I didn't feel any more 
 tire. I felt ready for fight, and when I thought of our wives 
 and children in the block, and what might become of them, I 
 got wolfish, though the Lord only knows what I was minded 
 to do. I can't say I had any raal sensible thoughts of what 
 was to be done in the business. I didn't trust myself to think 
 whether the Indians had been to the block yet or no ; though 
 ugly notions came across me when I remembered how we let 
 the women and children go about to the farms. I was in a 
 complete fever and agy. I scorched one time and shivered 
 another, but I pushed on, for there was now no more feeling 
 of tire in my limbs than if they were made of steel. By this 
 time I had reached that long range of hills where I first saw 
 that strange camp-fire, now eleven years gone, that turned out 
 to be a deception, and it was nateral enough that the thing 
 should come fresh into my mind, jest at that moment. While 
 I was thinking of the wonder, and asking myself, as I had 
 done over and often before, what it possibly could mean, I 
 reached the top of one of the hills, from which I could see, in 
 daylight, the whole country for a matter of ten miles or more 
 on every side. What was my surprise, do you reckon, when 
 there, jest on the very same hill opposite where I had seen that 
 apparition of a camp, I saw another, and this time it was a 
 raal one. There was a rousing blaze, and though the woods 
 and undergrowth were thicker on this than on the other side, 
 from which I had seen it before, yet I could make out that 
 there were several figures, and them Indians. It sort o' made 
 me easier to see the enemy before, and then I could better tell 
 
70 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 what I had to do. I was to spy out the camp, see what the 
 red-devils were thinking to do, and what they had already 
 done. I was a little better scout and hunter this time than 
 when I made the same sort o' search before, and I reckoned 
 that I could get nigh enough to see all that was going on, 
 without stirring up any dust among 'em. But I had to keep 
 the dogs back. I couldn't tie 'em up, for they'd howl ; so I 
 stripped my hunting-shirt and put it down for one to guard 
 and I gave my cap and horn to another. I knew they'd never 
 leave 'em, for I had 1'arned 'em all that sort of business to 
 watch as well as to fetch and carry. I then said a sort of 
 short running prayer, and took the trail. I had to work for'ad 
 slowly. If I had gone on this time as I did in that first camp 
 transaction, I'd ha' lost my sculp to a sartainty. Well, to 
 shorten a long business, I tell you that I got nigh enough, 
 without scare or surprise, to see all that I cared to see, and a 
 great deal more than I wished to see ; and now, for the first 
 time, I saw the meaning of that sight which I had, eleven 
 years before, of the camp that come to nothing. I saw that 
 first sight over again, the Indians round the fire, a young wo- 
 man in the middle, and that young woman my own daughter, 
 my child, my poor, dear Lucy. ! 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 "THAT was a sight for a father. I can't tell you and I 
 won't try how I felt. But I lay there, resting upon my 
 hands and knees, jest as if I had been turned into stone with 
 looking. I lay so for a good half hour, I reckon, without 
 stirring a limb ; and you could only tell that life was within 
 me, by seeing the big drops that squeezed out of my eyes now 
 and then, and by a sort of shivering that shook as you some- 
 times see the canebrake shaking with the gust of the pond in- 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 side. I tried to pray to God for help, but I couldn't pray, and 
 as for thinking, that was jest as impossible. But I could do 
 nothing by looking, and, for that matter, it was pretty cla'r 
 to me, as I stood, with no help by myself one rifle only and 
 knife I couldn't do much by moving. I could have lifted 
 the gun, and in a twinkle, tumbled the best fellow in the gang, 
 but what good was that guine to me ? I was never fond of 
 blood-spilling, and if I could have been made sure of my 
 daughter, I'd ha' been willing that the red devils should have 
 had leave to live for ever. What was I to do ? Go to the 
 block ? Who know'd if it warn't taken, with every soul in 
 |t ? And where else was I to look for help ? Nowhere, no- 
 where, but to God ! I groaned I groaned so loud that I 
 dreadful 'feared that they'd hear me ; but they were too busy 
 among themselves, eating supper, and poor Lucy in the midst, 
 not eating, but so pale, and looking so miserable jest as I 
 had seen her, when she was only a child in the same fix, 
 though 'twas only an appearance eleven years ago ! Well, 
 at last I turned off. As I couldn't say what to do, I was too 
 miserable to look, and I went down to the bottom of the hill 
 and rolled about on the ground, pulling the hair out of my head 
 and groaning, as if that was to do me any good. Before I 
 knew where I was, there was a hand on my shoulder. I 
 Jumped up to my feet, and flung my rifle over my head, mean- 
 ing to bring the butt down upon the stranger but his voice 
 stopped me. 
 
 " 'Brother,' said he, ' me Lenatewa !' 
 
 " The way he talked, his soft tones, made me know that 
 the young prince meant to be friendly, and I gave him my 
 hand ; but the tears gushed out as I did so, and I cried out 
 like a man struck in the heart, while I pointed to the hill 
 * My child, my child !' 
 
 '' ' Be man !' said he, ( come !' pulling me away. 
 
 " * But, will you save her, Lenatewa ?' 
 
 " He did not answer instantly, but led me to the little 1 ake 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA* 
 
 and pointed to the old tree over which I had borne his lifeless 
 body so many years ago. By that I knew he meant to tell 
 me, he had not forgotten what I had done for him ; and would 
 do for me all he could. But this did not satisfy me. I must 
 know how and when it was to be done, and what was his 
 hope ! for I could see from his caution, and leading me away 
 from the camp, that he did not command the party, and had 
 no power over them. He then asked me, if I had not seen 
 the paint of the warriors in the camp. But I had seen nothing 
 but the fix of my child. He then described the paint to me, 
 which was his way of showing me that the party on the hill 
 were his deadly enemies. The paint about their eyes was 
 that of the great chief, his uncle, who had tried to murder 
 him years ago, and who had been shot, in my sight, by the 
 party of his father. The young chief, now in command of 
 the band on the hill was the son of his uncle, and sworn to 
 revenge the death of his father upon him, Lenatewa. This he 
 made me onderstand in a few minutes. And he gave me fur- 
 ther to onderstand, that there was no way of getting my 
 child from them onless by cunning. He had but two followers 
 with him, and they were even then busy in making prepara- 
 tions. But of those preparations he either would not or could 
 not give any account ; and I had to wait on him with all the 
 patience I could muster; and no easy trial it was, for an In- 
 dian is the most cool and slow-moving creature in the world, 
 unless he's actually fighting, and then he's about the quickest. 
 After awhile, Lenatewa led me round the hill. We fetched 
 a pretty smart reach, and before I knew where I was, he led 
 me into a hollow that I had never seen before. Here, to my 
 surprise, there were no less than twelve or fourteen horses 
 fastened, that these red devils had stolen from the settlement 
 that very day, and mine was among them. I did not know it 
 till the young prince told me. 
 
 " ' Him soon move,' said he, pointing to one on the outside, 
 which a close examination showed me to be my own < Him 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. f$ 
 
 soon move/ and these words gave me a notion of his plan. 
 But he did not allow me to have any hand in it not jest then, 
 at least. Bidding me keep a watch on the fire above, for the 
 hollow in which we stood was at the foot of the very hill the 
 Indians had made their camp on -though the stretch was a 
 long one between he pushed for 'ad like a shadow, and so 
 slily, so silently, that, though I thought myself a good deal of 
 a scout before, I saw then that I warn't fit to hold a splinter 
 to him. In a little time he had unhitched my horse, and quietly 
 led him farther down the hollow, half round the hill, and then 
 up the opposite hill. There was very little noise, the wind 
 was from the camp, and, though they didn't show any alarm, 
 I was never more scary in my life. I followed Lenatewa, and 
 found where he had fastened my nag. He had placed him 
 several hundred yards from the Indians, on his way to the 
 block ; and, where we now stood, owing to the bend of the 
 hollow, the camp of the Indians was between us and where 
 they had hitched the stolen horses. When I saw this, I be- 
 gan to guess something of his plan. Meantime, one after the 
 other, his two followers came up, and made a long report to 
 him in their own language. This done, he told me that three 
 of my hunting companions had been sculped, the other, who 
 was Hugh Darling, had got off cl'ar, though fired upon twice, 
 and had alarmed the block, and that my daughter had been 
 made prisoner at the farm to which she had gone without any 
 company. This made me a little easier, and Lenatewa then 
 told me what he meant to do. In course, I had to do some- 
 thing myself towards it. Off he went, with his two men, 
 leaving me to myself. When I thought they had got pretty 
 fairly round the hill, I started back for the camp, trying my 
 best, you may be aure, to move as slily as Lenatewa. I got 
 within twenty-five yards, I reckon, when I thought it better 
 to lie by quietly and wait. I could see every head in the hud- 
 dle, and my poor child among them, looking whiter than a 
 
74 tW E IH 
 
 sheet, beside their ugly painted skins. Well, I hadn't long to 
 wait, when there was such an uproar among the stolen horses 
 in the hollow on the opposite side of the hill such a tramp- 
 ling, such a whinnying and whickering, you never heard the 
 like. Now, you must know, that a stolen horse, to an In- 
 dian, is jest as precious as a sweetheart to a white man ; and 
 when the rumpus reached the camp, there was a rush of every 
 man among them, for his critter. Every redskin, but one, 
 went over the hill after his horses, and he jumped up with the 
 rest, but didn't move off. He stood over poor Lucy with his 
 tomahawk, shaking it above her head, as if guine to strike 
 every minute. She, poor child I could see her as plain as 
 the fire-light, for she sat jest on one side .of it her hands were 
 clasped together. She was praying, for she must have looked 
 every minute to be knocked on the head. You may depend, I 
 found it very hard to keep in. I was a'most biling over, the 
 more when I saw the red devil making his nourishes, every 
 now and then, close to the child's ears, with his bloody we'pon. 
 But it was a needcessity to keep in till the sounds died off 
 pretty much, so as not to give them any scarce this side, till 
 they had dashed ahead pretty far 'pon the other. I don't know 
 that 1 waited quite as long as I ought to, but I waited 
 as long as my feelings would let me, and then I dropped the 
 sight of my rifle as close as I could fix it on the breast of the 
 Indian that had the keeping of my child. I took aim, but I 
 felt I was a little tremorsome, and I stopped. I know'd I had 
 but one shoot, and if I didn't onbutton him in that one, it 
 would be a bad shoot for poor Lucy. I didn't fear to hit her, 
 and I was pretty sure I'd hit him. But it must be a dead shot 
 to do good, for I know'd if I only hurt him, that he'd sink the 
 tomahawk in her head with what strength he had left him. I 
 brought myself to it again, and this time I felt strong. I could 
 jest hear a little of the hubbub of men and horses afar off. I 
 knew it was the time, and, resting the side of the muzzle 
 against a tree, I give him the whole blessing of the bullet. I 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 7 
 
 didn't stop to ask what luck, but run in, with a sort o' cry, to 
 do the finishing with the knife. But the thing was done a'ready. 
 The beast was on his back, and I only had to use the knife in 
 cutting the vines that fastened the child to the sapling behind 
 her. The brave gal didn't scream or faint. She could only 
 say, ' Oh, my father !! and I could only say, ' Oh ! my child !' 
 And what a precious hug followed ; but it was only for a mi- 
 nute. We had no time to waste in hugging. We pushed at 
 once for the place where I had left the critter, and if the good 
 old nag ever used his four shanks to any purpose, he did that 
 night. I reckon it was a joyful surprise to poor Betsy when 
 we broke into the block. She had given it out for sartin that 
 she'd never see me or the child again, with a nateral sculp on 
 our heads. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " THERE'S no need to tell you the whole story of this war be- 
 tween our people and the redskins. It's enough that I tell 
 you of what happened to us, and our share in it. Of the gre & 
 affair, and all the fights and burnings, you'll find enough in the 
 printed books and newspapers. What I tell yon, though you 
 can't find it in any books, is jest as true, for all that. Of our 
 share in it, the worst has already been told you. The young 
 chief Oloschottee for that was his name the cousin and the 
 enemy of Lenatewa, had command of the Indians that were 
 to surprise our settlements ; and though he didn't altogether 
 do what he expected and intended, he worked us quite enough 
 of mischief as it was. He soon put fire to all our farms to 
 draw us out of the block, but finding that wouldn't do, he 
 left us ; for an Indian gets pretty soon tired of a long siege 
 where there is neither rum nor blood to get drunk on. His 
 force was too small to trouble us in the block, and no he 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA, 
 i 
 
 drawed off his warriors, and we saw no more of him until the 
 peace. That followed pretty soon after General Middleton gave 
 the nation that licking at Echo tee, a licking, I reckon, that 
 they'll remember long after my day. At that affair Lenatewa 
 got an ugly bullet in his throat, and if it hadn't been for one 
 of his men, he'd ha' got a bag'net in his breast. They made 
 a narrow run with him, head foremost down the hill, with a 
 whole swad of the mounted men from the low country at 
 their heels. It was some time after the peace before he got 
 better of his hurt though the Indians are naterally more skil- 
 ful in cures than white men. By this time we had all gone to 
 our farms, and had planted and rebuilt, and begun to forget 
 our troubles, when who should pop into our cabin one day, but 
 Lenatewa. He had got quite well of his hurts. He was a 
 monstrous fine-looking fellow, tall and handsome, he was 
 dressed in his very best. He wore pantaloons, like one of us, 
 and his hunting shirt was a raally fine blue, with a white 
 fringe. He wore no paint, and was quite nice and neat with 
 his person. We all received him as an old friend, and he 
 stayed with us three days. Then he went, and was gone for a 
 matter of two weeks, when he came back and stayed with us 
 another three days. And so, off and an, he came to visit us, 
 until Betsy said to me one day, f Daniel, that Indian, Lena- 
 tewa, comes here after Lucy. Leave a woman to guess these 
 things.' After she told me, I recollected that the young 
 prince was quite watchful of Lucy, and would follow her 
 out into the garden, and leave us, to walk with her. But 
 then, again, I thought c What if he is favourable to my 
 daughter ? The fellow's a good fellow ; and a raal, noble- 
 hearted Indian, that's sober, is jest as good, to my thinking, 
 as any white man in the land.' But Betsy wouldn't hear to 
 it. 'Her daughter never should marry a savage, and a hea- 
 then, and a redskin, while her head was hot :' and while her 
 head was so hot, what was I to do ? All I could say was 
 this only, < Don't kick, Betsey, till you're spurred. 'Twill be 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 7T 
 
 time enough to give the young Chief his answer when he asks 
 the question; and it won't do for us to treat him rudely, 
 when we consider how much we owe him.' But she was of the 
 mind that the boot was on the other leg, that it was he and 
 not us that owed the debt ; and all that I could do couldn't 
 keep her from showing the lad a sour face of it whenever he 
 came. But he didn't seem much to mind this, since I was 
 civil and kind to him. Lucy too, though her mother warned 
 her against him, always treated him civilly as I told her; 
 though she naterally would do so, for she couldn't so easily 
 forget that dreadful night when she was a prisoner in the 
 camp of the enimy, not knowing what to expect, with an In- 
 dian tomahawk over her head, and saved, in great part, by 
 the cunning and courage of this same Lenatewa. The girl 
 treated him kindly, and I was not sorry she did so. She 
 walked and talked with him jest as if they had been brother 
 and sister, and he was jest as polite to her as if he had been a 
 born Frenchman. 
 
 " You may be sure, it was no pleasant sight to my wife to 
 see them two go out to walk. < Daniel Nelson,' she says, ( do 
 you see and keep an eye on those people. There's no knowing 
 what may happen. I do believe that Lucy has a liking for 
 that redskin, and should they run !' ( Psho !' said 1, but that 
 wouldn't do for her, and so she made me watch the young 
 people sure enough. 'Twarn't a business that I was overfond 
 of, you may reckon, but I was a rough man and didn't know 
 much of woman natur'. I left the judgment of such things 
 to my wife, and did pretty much what she told me. When- 
 ever they went out to walk, I followed them, rifle in hand ; but 
 it was only to please Betsy, for if I had seen the lad running 
 off with the girl, I'm pretty sure, I'd never ha' been the man 
 to draw trigger upon him. As I said before, Lenatewa was 
 jest as good a husband as she could have had. But, poor fel- 
 low, the affair was never to come to that. One day, after he 
 had been with us almost a week, he spoke softly to Lucy, 
 
8 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 and she got up, got her bonnet and went out with him. I 
 didn't see them when they started, for I happened to be in the 
 upper story, a place where we didn't so much live, but 
 where we used to go for shelter and defence whenever any 
 Indians came about us. * Daniel,' said my wife, and I knew 
 by the quickness and sharpness of her voice what 'twas she 
 had to tell me. Bat jest then I was busy, and, moreover, I 
 didn't altogether like the sort of business upon which she 
 wanted me to go. The sneaking after an enimy, in raal war- 
 fare, is an onpleasant sort of thing enough ; but this sneaking 
 after one that you think your friend is worse than running in 
 a fair fight, and always gave me a sheepish feeling after it. 
 Besides, I didn't fear Lenatewa, and I didn't fear my daugh- 
 ter. It's true, the girl treated him kindly and sweetly, but 
 that was owing to the nateral sweetness of her temper, and 
 because she felt how much sarvice he had been to her and all 
 of us. So, instead of going out after them, I thought I'd 
 give them a look through one of the loop-holes. Well, there 
 they went, walking among the trees, not far from the picket, and 
 no timo out of sight. As I looked at them, I thought to my- 
 self, * Would n't they make a handsome couple!' Both of 
 them were tall and well made. As for Lucy, there wasn't, 
 for figure, a finer set girl in all the settlement, and her face was 
 a match for her figure. And then she was so easy in her mo- 
 tion, so graceful, and walked, or sate, or danced, jest for all 
 the world, as if she was born only to do the particular thing 
 she was doing. As for Lenatewa, he was a lad among a 
 thousand. Now, a young Indian warrior, when he don't 
 drink, is about the noblest-looking creature, as he carries 
 himself in the woods, that God ever did make. So straight, 
 so proud, so stately, always as if he was doing a great action 
 as if he knew the whole world was looking at him. Le- 
 natewa was pretty much the handsomest and noblest Indian 
 I had ever seen ; and then, I know'd him to be raally so noble. 
 As they walked together, their heads a little bent downwards, 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 79 
 
 and Lucy's pretty low, the thought flashed across me that, 
 jest then, he was telling her about his feelings ; and perhaps, 
 said I to myelf, the girl thinks about it pretty much as I do. 
 Moutbe now, she likes him better than any body she has ever, 
 seen and what more nateral ? Then I thought, if there is any 
 picture in this life more sweet and beautiful than two young 
 people jest beginning to feel love for one another, and walking 
 together in the innocence of their hearts, under the shady trees, 
 I've never seen it ! I laid the rifle on my lap, and sat down 
 on the floor and watched 'em through the loop until I felt the 
 water in my eyes. They walked backwards and for'ads, not 
 a hundred yards off, and I could see all their motions, though 
 I couldn't hear their words. An Indian don't use his hands 
 much generally, but I could see that Lenatewa was using his, 
 not a great deal, but as if he felt every word he was say- 
 ing. Then I began to think, what was I to do, if so be he 
 was raally offering to marry Lucy, and she willing! How 
 was I to do? what was I to say? how could I refuse him 
 when I was willing ! how could I say ' yes,' when Betsy said 
 'no!' 
 
 "Well, in the midst of this thinking, what should I hear but 
 a loud cry from the child, then a loud yell, a regular war- 
 whoop, sounded right in front, as if it came from Lenatewa 
 himself I looked up quickly, for, in thinking, I had lost 
 sight of them, and was only looking at my rifle ; I looked out, 
 and there, in the twinkling of an eye, there was another 
 sight. I saw my daughter flat upon the ground, lying like one 
 dead, and Lenatewa staggering back as if he was mortally 
 hurt ; while, pressing fast upon him, was an Indian warrior, 
 with his tomahawk uplifted, and striking once, twice, three 
 times hard and heavy, right upon the face and forehead of 
 the young prince. From the black paint on his face, and the 
 red ring about his eyes, and from his figure and the eagle fea- 
 thers in his head, I soon guessed it was Oloschottee, and I 
 knew it was the old revenge for the killing of his father ; for 
 
80 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 an Indian never forgets that sort of obligation. Of course, I 
 didn'nt stand quiet to see an old friend, like Lenatewa, tum- 
 bled in that way, without warning, like a bullock ; and there 
 was my own daughter lying flat, and I wasn't to know that he 
 hadn't struck her too. It was only one motion for me to draw 
 sight upon the savage, and another to pull the trigger ; and I 
 reckon he dropped jest as soon as the young Chief. I gave 
 one whoop for all the world as if I was an Indian myself, and 
 run out to the spot ; but Lenatewa had got his discharge from 
 further service. He warn't exactly dead, but his sense was 
 swimming. He couldn't say much, and that warn't to the 
 purpose. I could hear him, now and then, making a sort of 
 singing noise, but that was soon swallowed up in a gurgle 
 and a gasp, and it was all over. My bullet was quicker in its 
 working than Oloschottee's hatchet ; he was stone dead before 
 I got to him. As for poor Lucy, she was not hurt, either by 
 bullet or hatchet ; but she had a hurt in the heart, whether 
 from the scare she had, or because she had more feeling for the 
 young prince than we reckoned, there's no telling. She warn't 
 much "given to smiling after that. But, whether she loved 
 Lenatewa, we couldn't know, and I never was the man to 
 ask her. It's sartan she never married, and she had about as 
 many chances, and good ones, too, of any girl in our settle- 
 ment. You've seen her some among you and warn't she a 
 beauty though I say it myself the very flower of the forest!" 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. $1 
 
 THE LAST WAGER, 
 
 OR THE GAMESTER OF THE MISSISSIPPI. 
 
 i i ." I have set my life upon a cast, 
 And I will stand the hazard of the die." 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OUR story will be found to illustrate one of the current com- 
 monplaces of the day. Ever since my Lord Byron, in that 
 poem of excellently expressed commonplaces, Don Juan, 
 declared that " truth was stranger than fiction," every news- 
 paper witling rings the changes upon the theme, until there is 
 no relief to its dull-toned dissonance. That truth should fre- 
 quently be found to be much stranger than any fiction, is nei- 
 ther so strange nor out of the course of things ; but is just in 
 accordance, if we bestow any thought upon the matter, with 
 the deliberate convictions of every reasoning mind. For, what 
 is fiction, but the nice adaptation, by an artist, of certain or- 
 dinary occurrences of life, to a natural and probable conclu- 
 sion ? It is not the policy of a good artist to deal much in the 
 merely extravagant. His real success, and the true secret of 
 it, is to be found in the naturalness of his story, its general 
 seemliness, and close resemblance of its events to those which 
 may or must take place in all instances of individuals subjected 
 to like influences with those who figure in this narrative. The 
 naturalness must be that of life as it is, or with life as it is 
 shown in such picturesque situations as are probable seem- 
 ingly real and such as harmonize equally with the laws of 
 nature, and such as the artist has chosen for his guide. Ex- 
 D 5 - 
 
JOZ LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 cept in stories of broad extravagance ghost stories for exam- 
 ple in which the one purpose of the romancer that of 
 exciting wonder is declared at the outset except in such 
 stories, or in others in the broad grin such as are common 
 and extravagant among the frontier raconteurs of the West, it 
 were the very worst policy in the world for the writer of fic- 
 tion to deal much in the marvellous. He would soon wear out 
 the patience of the reader, who would turn away, with a dis- 
 satisfaction almost amounting to disgust, from any author 
 who should be found too frequently to employ what is merely 
 possible in human progress. We require as close reasoning, 
 and deductions as logically drawn, in tale or novel, as in a 
 case at law or in equity; much more close, indeed, than is 
 often found to be the case in a Congressional harangue, and 
 a far more tenacious regard to the interest of the reader than is 
 shown in the report of a modern secretary. Probability, un- 
 restrained, must be made apparent at every step ; and if the 
 merely possible be used at all, it must be so used only, as, in 
 looking like tho probable, it is made to lose all its ambiguous 
 characteristics. What we show must not only be the truth, 
 but it must also seem like the truth ; for, as the skill of the 
 artist can sometimes enable him to make what is false appear 
 true, so it is equally the case, that a want of skill may trans- 
 mute the most unquestionable truth into something that nine 
 persons in ten shall say, when they behold it, " it looks mon- 
 strous like a lie !" 
 
 That we are not at liberty to use too freely what is merely 
 possible in the material brought before us, is a fact more par- 
 ticulary known to painters, who have often felt the danger of 
 any attempt to paint the sky as it sometimes appears to them. 
 They dread to offend the suspicious incredulity of the cold and 
 unobserving citizen. They see, with equal amazement and 
 delight but without daring to delineate those intenser hues 
 and exquisite gradations of light and shadow, those elaborate 
 and graceful shapes of cloud, born of the rainbow carnation, 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA* 83 
 
 green, and purple, which the sun sometimes, in fantastic 
 mood, and as if in equal mockery of human faith and art, 
 makes upon the lovely background of the sky which he leaves 
 at setting. The beautiful vision gone from sight, who would 
 believe the poor artist, whatever his accuracy and felicity of 
 touch and taste, who had endeavoured to transfer, before it 
 faded, the vanishing glory to his canvass? Who could suppose, 
 and how admit, that there had ever been such a panorama, of 
 such super-artistical splendour, displayed before his eyes, 
 without commanding his admiration and fixing his attention ? 
 The very attempt to impose such an exhibition upon him as 
 natural, would be something of a sarcasm, and a commentary 
 upon the dull eye and drowsy mind which had failed to discern 
 it for themselves. Nay, though the artist grappled the dull 
 citizen by the arm at the very instant, and compelled his gaze 
 upon the glorious vision ere it melted into the thin gray haze 
 of evening, would he not be apt to say, " How strange ! how 
 very unnatural !" Certainly, it would be a truth infinitely 
 more strange than the most audacious fiction that ever grew 
 up at the touch of the most fantastic votary of art. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE sketch which I propose will scarcely justify this long di- 
 gression ; and its character will be still less likely to corres- 
 pond with the somewhat poetic texture of the introduction. It 
 is simply a strange narrative of frontier life ; one of those nar- 
 ratives, in which a fact will appear very doubtful, unless the 
 artist shall exhibit such sufficient skill in his elaborations, as 
 to keep its rude points from offending too greatly the sus- 
 picious judgment of the reader. This is the task before me. 
 The circumstances were picked up, when, a lad of pi ^h teen, I 
 first wuinik- red UVLT tlrj .! /TOUS wastes of 
 
84 LIFE IN AMERICA? 
 
 the Mississippi border. Noble, indeed, though wild and savage, 
 was the aspect of that green forest country, as yet only 
 slightly smitten by the sharp edges of the ranger's axe. I 
 travelled along the great Yazoo wilderness, in frequent 
 proximity with the Choctaw warriors. Most frequently I rode 
 alone. Sometimes, a wayfarer from the East, solitary with 
 myself, turned his horse's head, for a few days' space, on the 
 same track with mine ; but, in most cases, my only companion 
 was some sullen Choctaw, or some still more sullen half- 
 breed, who, emerging suddenly from some little foot-path, 
 would leave me half in doubt whether his introduction would 
 be made first with the tomahawk or the tongue. Very few 
 white men were then settled in the country ; still fewer were 
 stationary. T rode forty and fifty miles without sign of hu- 
 man habitation, and found my bed and supper at night most 
 generally in the cabin of the half-breed. But there was one, 
 and that a remarkable exception to this universal necessity ; 
 and in this exception my story takes its rise. I had at length 
 reached the borders Of the nation, and the turbid waters of the 
 Mississippi, at no great distance, flowed down towards the 
 Gulf. The appearances of the white settler, some doubtful 
 glimmerings of a more civilized region, were beginning to dis- 
 play themselves. Evening was at hand. The sun was fast 
 waning along the mellow heights of heaven ; and my heart was 
 beginning to sink with a natural sense of loneliness which such 
 a setting is apt to inspire in the bosom of the youthful 
 wanderer. It was also a question with me, where I should 
 find my pillow for the night. My host of the night before, a 
 low, dark-looking white squatter, either was, or professed to 
 be, too ignorant to give ipe any information on this head, 
 which would render the matter one of reasonable certainty. In 
 this doubtful and somewhat desolate state of mind, I began to 
 to prick my steed forward at a more rapid pace, to cast my 
 eyes up more frequently to the fading light among the tree- 
 tops, and, occasionally, to send a furtive glance on either 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA.' 85 
 
 hand, notal together assured that my road was as safe as it was 
 lonely. The question " where shall I find my bed to-night P" was 
 beginning to be one of serious uncertainty, when I suddenly 
 caught a glimpse of an opening on my right, a sort of waggon- 
 path, avenue like, and which reminded me of those dear,-dim 
 passages in my own Carolina, which always promised the 
 traveller a hot supper and happy conclusion to his wanderings 
 of the day. Warmed with the notion, and without a farther 
 doubt or thought, I wheeled my sorrel into the passage, and 
 pressed him forward with a keener spur. A cheery blast of 
 the horn ahead, and the dull heavy stroke of an axe imme- 
 diately after, were so many urgent entreaties to proceed ; and 
 now the bellow of a cow, and next the smoke above the cot- 
 tage roof-trees, assured me that my apprehensions were at an 
 end. In a few seconds I stood before one of the snuggest little 
 habitations which ever kindled hope and satisfied hunger. 
 
 This was one of those small log-cabins which are common 
 to the country. Beyond its snug, trim and tidy appearance, 
 there was nothing about it to distinguish it from its class. 
 The clearing was small, just sufficient, perhaps, for a full 
 supply of corn and provisions. But the area in front of 
 the dwelling was cleanly swept, and the trees were trim- 
 med, and those which had been left were evergreens, and 
 so like favourite domestics, with such an air of grace, and 
 good-nature, and venerable ness about them, that one's heart 
 warmed to see them, as at sight of one of " the old familiar 
 faces." The aspect of the dwelling within consisted 
 happily with that without. Every thing was so neat, and 
 snug, and comfortable. 
 
 The windows were sashed and glassed, and hung with the 
 whitest curtains of cotton, with fringes fully a foot deep. 
 The floors were neatly sanded, the hearth was freshly 
 brightened with the red ochrous clay of the country, and chairs 
 and tables, though made of the plainest stuffs, and by a very 
 rude mechanic, were yet so clean, neat and well-arranged, 
 
86 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 that the eye involuntarily surveyed them again arid again with 
 a very pleased sensation. Nor was this all in the shape of 
 unwonted comforts. Some other matters were considered in 
 this cottage, which are scarcely even dreamed of in the great 
 majority. In one corner of the hall stood a hat-stand ; in ano- 
 ther there were pins for cloaks ; above the fire-place hung a 
 formidable rifle, suspended upon tenter-hooks made of three 
 monstrous antlers, probably those of gigantic bucks which had 
 fallen beneath the weapon which they were now made to sus- 
 tain. Directly under this instrument, and the only object be- 
 side which had been honoured with a place so conspicuous, 
 was a pack of ordinary playing cards not hung or suspended 
 against the wall, but nailed to it ; driven through and through 
 with a tenpenny nail, and so fastened to the solid log, the 
 black head of the nail showing with a particular prominence 
 in contrast with the red spot of the ace of hearts, through 
 which it had been driven. Of this hereafter. On this pack of 
 cards hangs my story. It is enough, in this place, to add, 
 that it was only after supper was fairly over, that my eyes 
 were drawn to this very unusual sort of chimney decoration. 
 
 At the door of the cottage sat a very venerable old man, be- 
 tween seventy and eighty. His hair was all white, but still 
 thick, betraying the strength of his constitution and the ex- 
 cellence of his health. His skin was florid, glowing through 
 his white beard, which might have been three days old, and his 
 face bore the burden of very few wrinkles. He had a live]/, 
 clear blue eye, and good' humour played about his mouth in 
 every movement of his lips. He was evidently one of those 
 fortunate men, whose winters, if frosty, had always proved 
 kindly. A strong man in his youth, he was now but little bent 
 with years ; and when he stood up, I was quite ashamed to 
 find he was rather more erect than myself, and quite as tall. 
 This was the patriarch of the family, which consisted of three 
 members besides himself. .The first of these was his only son, 
 a man thirty-eight or forty years of age, of whom it will be 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 87 
 
 quite explicit enough to say, that the old man, in his youth, 
 must very nearly have resembled him. Then, there was the 
 wife of the son, and her son, a lad now ten years old, a smart- 
 looking lad enough, but in no wise resembling his male parent. 
 Instead of the lively, twinkling blue eye of his father, he had 
 the dark, deep, oriental sad ones of the mother ; and his cheeks 
 were rather pale than rosy, rather thin than full ; and his hair 
 was long, black and silky, in all respects the counterpart of 
 his mother's. A brief description of his lady may assist us in 
 our effort to awaken the interest of the reader. 
 
 Conducted into the house by the son, and warmly welcomed 
 by the old man as well as himself, I was about to advance 
 with the bold dashing self-possession of a young cavalier, con- 
 fident in his course, and accustomed to win " golden opinions 
 of all sorts of people." But my bold carriage and sanguine 
 temper were suddenly checked, not chilled, by the appearance 
 of the lady in front of whom I suddenly stood. She sat beside 
 the fire-place, and was so very different a looking person from 
 any I had expected to see in such a region, that the usual au- 
 dacity of my temperament was all at once abashed. In place 
 of the good, cheerful, buxom, plain country housewife whom I 
 looked to see, mending Jacky's breeches, or knitting the good 
 man's hose, I found myself confronted by a dame whose aris- 
 tocratic, high-bred, highly composed, easy and placid demean- 
 our, utterly confounded me. Her person was small, her com- 
 pl< xion darkly oriental, her eye flashing with all the spiritual 
 fires of that region; habitually bright and searching, even 
 while the expression of her features would have made her 
 seem utterly emotionless. Never did features, indeed, appear 
 so thoroughly inflexible. Her beauty, for she was all beauty, 
 was not, however, the result of any regularity of feature. 
 Beauties of her order, brunette and piquant, are most usually 
 wanting in preciseness, and mutual dependance and sympathy 
 of outline. They are beautiful in spite of irregularity, and in 
 consequence of the paramount exquisiteness of some particular 
 
S8 LIFE IN AMERICA^ 
 
 feature. The charm of the face before me grew out of the 
 piercing, deep-set, and singularly black eye, and the wonder- 
 ful vitality about the lips. Never was mouth so small, or so 
 admirably delineated. There was witchcraft enough in the 
 web of it to make my own lips water. But I speak like the 
 boy I was then, and am no longer. 
 
 Let me not be understood to mean that there was any 
 levity, any lightness of character betrayed in the expression of 
 those lips. Very far otherwise. While soft, sweet, beautiful, 
 and full of life, they were the most sacred and sad-looking 
 forms, drooping blossoms of beauty, mourning, as it would 
 seem, because beauty does not imply immortality; and this 
 expression led me to observe more closely the character of the 
 eye, the glance of which, at first, had only seemed to denote 
 the brilliance of the diamond, shining through an atmosphere 
 of jet. I now discerned that its intense blase was not its only 
 character. It was marked with the weight of tears, that, 
 freezing as they had birth, maintained their place in defiance 
 of the light to which they were constantly exposed. It was 
 the brightness of the ice-palace, in the Northern Saga, which, 
 in reflecting the bright glances of Baldar, the God of Day, 
 still gives defiance to the fervour of his beams. 
 
 But a truce to these frigid comparisons, which suit any age 
 but ours. Enough to say that the lady was of a rare and sin- 
 gular beauty, with a character of face and feature not common 
 to our country, and with a deportment seldom found in the 
 homely cabin of the squatter. The deep and unequivocal -sad- 
 ness which marked her looks, intense as it was, did not affect 
 or impair the heightened aristocratic dignity of her subdued 
 and perfectly assured manner. To this manner did she seem 
 to have been born ; and, being habitual, it is easy to under- 
 stand that she could not be divested of it, except in a very 
 small degree, by the pressure of any form of affliction. You 
 could see that there had been affliction, but its effect was sim- 
 ply to confirm that elevated social tone,, familiar to all mental 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA, 89 
 
 superiority, which seems, however it may feel, to regard the 
 confession of its griefs as perhaps something too merely human 
 to be altogether becoming in a confessedly superior caste. 
 Whether the stream was only frozen over, or most effectually 
 crystallized, it does not suit our purpose to inquire. It is, at 
 all events, beyond my present ability to determine the doubt. 
 She was introduced to me, by the husband, as Mrs. Bayner. 
 I afterwards discovered that her Christian name was Rachel ; 
 a circumstance that tended to strengthen the impression in my 
 mind that she might be of Jewish parents. That she was a 
 Christian herself, I had reason to believe, from her joining 
 freely and devoutly, and on bended knee, in the devotions of 
 the night. She spoke seldom, yet looked intelligence through- 
 out the conversation, which was carried on freely between the 
 old man, the husband, and myself. When she spoke, her 
 words and accents were marked by the most singular propri- 
 ety. There was nothing in her utterance to lessen the con- 
 viction that she was familliar with the most select circles of 
 city life ; and I could see that the husband listened to her 
 with a marked deference, and, though himself, evidently a 
 rough honest backwoodsman, I detected him, in one or two 
 instances, checking the rude phrase upon his lips, and substi- 
 tuting for it some other, more natural to the ear of civiliza- 
 tion and society. There was a touching something in the 
 meekness and quiet deportment of the boy who sat by his mo- 
 ther's knee in silence, her fingers turning in his hair, while he 
 diligently pored over some little trophy of juvenile literature, 
 looking up timidly at moments, and smiling sadty, when he 
 met the deep earnest gaze of the mother's eyes, as she seemed 
 to forged all around in the glance at the one object. I need 
 not say that there was something in this family picture so en- 
 tirely out of the common run of my woodland experience in 
 the Southwest, at that early day, that I felt my curiosity 
 equally excited with my pleasure. I felt assured that there 
 wag some thing of a story to be learned, which would amply 
 
$0 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 recompense the listener. The old patriarch was himself a 
 study the husband a very noble specimen of the sturdy, frank, 
 elastic frontier-man a race too often confounded with the 
 miserable runagates by whom the first explorations of the 
 country are begun, but who seldom make the real axe-marks 
 of the wilderness. You could see at a glance that he was just 
 the man whom a friend could rely upon and a foe must fear 
 frank, ardent, firm, resolute in endurance, patient, perhaps, 
 and slow to anger, as are all noble-minded persons who have 
 a just confidence in their own strength ; but unyielding when 
 the field is to be fought, and as cheerful in the moment of dan- 
 ger as he was good-humoured in that of peace. Every thing 
 in his look, language and bearing, answered to this descrip- 
 tion ; and I sat down at the supper-table beside him that 
 night, as familiar and as much at my ease as if we had jumped 
 together the first moment of existence. 
 
 I pass over much of the conversation preceding, and at the 
 evening repast ; for, though interesting enough at the time, 
 particularly to me, it would only delay us still longer in the 
 approach to our story. It was after the table had been with- 
 drawn, when the family were all snugly huddled about the fire- 
 place, and the dialogue, which had been rather brisk before, 
 had begun to flag, that I casually looked up over the chimney- 
 place, and discovered, for the first time, the singular orna- 
 ment of which I have already spoken. Doubtful of what I 
 saw, I rose to my feet, and grasped the object with my fingers. 
 I fancied that some eccentric foreign genius, choosing for his 
 subject one of the great agents of popular pastime in the West, 
 might have succeeded in a delineation sufficiently felicitous, 
 as, at a short distance, to baffle any vision. But, paljiable, the 
 real I had almost said, the living things were there, unlike 
 the dagger of Macbeth, as " sensible to feeling as to sight." 
 A complete pack of cards, none of the cleanest, driven through 
 with a tenpenny nail, the ace of hearts, as before said, being 
 the top card ; and very fairly covering the retinue of its own 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 91 
 
 and the three rival houses. The corners of the cards were 
 curled, and the ends smoked to partial blackness. They 
 had evidently been in that situation for several years. I 
 turned inquiringly to my hosts 
 
 " You have a very singular ornament for your mantle-place, 
 Mr. Rayner ;" was my natural remark, the expression of curi- 
 osity in my face being coupled with an apologetic sort of 
 smile. But it met with no answering smiles from any of the 
 family. On the contrary, every face was grave to sadness, 
 and in a moment more Mrs. Rayner rose and left the room. 
 As soon as she was gone, her husband remarked as follows : 
 
 " Why, yes, sir, it is uncommon ; but there's a reason why 
 it's there, which I'll explain to you after we've gone through 
 prayers." 
 
 By this time the wife had returned, bringing with her the 
 family Bible, which she now laid upon a stand beside the 
 venerable elder. He, good old man, with an action that 
 seemed to be perfectly habitual, drew forth the spectacles from 
 the sacred pages, where they Deemed to have been left from 
 the previous evening, and commenced reading the third chap- 
 ter of Ecclesiastes, beginning, " Hear me, your father, O chil- 
 dren ! and do thereafter, that ye may be safe." Then, this 
 being read, we all sunk devoutly upon our knees, and the 
 patriarch put up as sweet and fervent a prayer as I should 
 ever wish to listen to. The conceited whipster of the school 
 might have found his pronunciation vulgar, and his sentences 
 sometimes deficient in grammatical nicety; but the thought 
 was there, and the heart, and the ears of perfect wisdom 
 might well be satisfied with the good sense and the true mo- 
 rality of all that was spoken. We rose refreshed, and, after a 
 lapse of a very few moments which were passed in silence, 
 the wife, leading the little boy by the hand, with a kind nod 
 and courtesy took her leave, and retired to her chamber. 
 Sweetness and dignity were most happily blended in her part- 
 ing movements ; but I fancied, as 1 caught the glance of her 
 
92 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 eye, that there had been a freshening and overflowing there of 
 the deep and still gathering fountains. Her departure was 
 followed by that of the old man, and the husband and myself 
 were left alone. It was not long after this, before he, himself, 
 without waiting for any suggestion of mine, brought up the 
 subject of the cards, which had been so conspicuously elevated 
 into a mantel ornament. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " STRANGER,'* said he, " there is a sort of history in those cards 
 which I am always happy to tell to any young man that's a 
 beginner in the world like yourself. I consider them as a sort 
 of Bible, for, when I look at them and remember all that I 
 know concerning them, I feel as if I was listening to some 
 prime sermon, or may be, hearing just such a chapter as the 
 old man read to us out of the good book to-night. It's quite 
 a long history, and I'll put on a fresh handful of lightwood be- 
 fore I begin." 
 
 The interruption was brief, and soon overcome, and the nar- 
 rative of the husband ran as follows : 
 
 " It is now," said he, " going on to twelve years since the 
 circumstances took place which belong to the story of those 
 cards, and I will have to carry you back to that time before 
 you can have a right knowledge of what I want to tell. I 
 was then pretty much such a looking person as you now see 
 me, for I haven't undergone much change. I was a little 
 sprightlier, perhaps always famous for light-headedness and 
 laughing fond of fun and frolic, but never doing anything out 
 of mischief and bad humour. The old man, my father, too, 
 was pretty much the same. We lived here where you find us 
 now, but not quite so snugly off not so well settled rather 
 poor, I may say, though still with a plentiful supply to live on 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA; 93 
 
 and keep warm and feel lively. There was only us two, and 
 we had but two w orkers, a man and woman, and they had two 
 children, who could do nothing for us and precious little for 
 themselves. But we were snug, and worked steadily, and 
 were comfortable. We didn't make much money, but we al- 
 ways spent less than we made. We didn't have very nice 
 food, but we had no physic to take, and no doctor's bills to 
 pay. We had a great deal to make us happy, and still more 
 to be thankful for ; and I trust in God we were thankful for 
 all of his blessings. I think we were, for he gave us other 
 blessings ; and for these, stranger, we are trying to be thank- 
 ful also. 
 
 <( Well, as I was saying, about twelve years ago, one hot 
 day in August, I rode out a little piece towards the river bluff 
 to see if any goods had been left for us at the landing. We 
 had heard the steamboat gun the night before, or something 
 like it, and that, you know, is the signal to tell us when to 
 look after our plunder. When I got there I found a lot of 
 things, some for us, and some for other people. There was a 
 bag of coffee, a keg of sugar, three sacks of salt, and a box 
 of odds and ends for us. But the chaps on board the steam- 
 boat which was gone had thrown the stuff any where, and 
 some of the salt was half melted in a puddle of water. I 
 turned in, aud hauled it out of the water, and piled it up in a 
 dry place. What was wet belonged chiefly to our neighbours, 
 and the whole of it might have been lost if I had not got there 
 in season. This kept me a good hour, and as I had no help, 
 and some of the sacks were large and heavy, I was pretty nigh 
 tired out when the work was done. So I took a rest of half 
 an hour more in the shade. The heat was powerful, and I had 
 pretty nigh been caught by sleep I don't know but I did 
 sleep, for in midsummer one's not always sure of himself in a 
 drowsy moment when I was suddenly roused up by a noise 
 t most like the halloo of a person in distress. I took the saddle 
 on the spur, and went off in the quarter that the sound came 
 
94 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 from. It so happened that my route homeward lay the same 
 way, and on the river road, the only public road in the settle- 
 ment; and I had only gone two hundred yards or thereabout, 
 when in turning an elbow of the path, I came plump upon a 
 stranger, who happened to be the person whom I heard call- 
 ing. He was most certainly in distress. His horse was flat 
 upon his side, groaning powerfully, and the man was on his 
 knees, rubbing the creature's legs with a pretty hard hand. 
 A little way behind him lay a dead rattlesnake, one of the 
 largest I ever did see, counting twenty-one rattles besides the 
 button ; and the sight of the snake told me the whole story. 
 I jumped down to see what I could do in the way of help, but 
 I soon discovered that the nag had the spasms, and was 
 swelled up to her loins. I however cut into her leg with my 
 knife, just where she was bitten, and when I had dug out the 
 poisoned flesh, as much as I thought was reasonable, I got or, 
 my horse and rode back to the salt bags at full speed, and 
 brought away a double handful of the salt. I rubbed it into 
 the animal's wound, I really believe, a few minutes after she 
 had groaned her last and stiffened out, but I wasn't rubbing 
 very long. She was about the soonest killed of any creature 
 that I ever saw snakebit before. 
 
 " It was only after I was done with the mare, that I got a 
 fair look at her owner. He was a small and rather oldish man, 
 with a great stoop of the shoulders, with a thin face, glossy 
 black hair, and eyes black too, but shining as bright, T reckon, 
 as those of the rattlesnake he had killed. They had a most 
 strange and troublesome brightness, that made me look at 
 them whether I would or not. His face was very pale, and 
 the wrinkles were deep, like so many seems, and, as I have 
 said, he was what I would call a rather oldish man ; but still 
 he was very nicely dressed, and wore a span-new velvet vest, 
 a real English broad-cloth coat, gold watch with gold seals; 
 and every now and then he pulled out a snuff-box made like 
 a horn, with a curl at the end of it, which was also set with 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA* 95 
 
 a gold rim, and had a cap of the same precious stuff upon it. 
 He was taking snuff every moment while I was doctoring his 
 mare, and when the creature went dead, he offered it to me ; 
 but I had always thought it work enough to feed my mouth, 
 and had no notion of making another mouth of my nose, so I 
 refused him civilly. 
 
 " He didn't seem to be much worried by the death of his 
 creature, and when I told him how sorry I was on his account, 
 he answered quickly, 
 
 " ' Oh ! no matter ; you have a good horse ; you will let me 
 have him ; you look like a good fellow.' 
 
 " I was a little surprised, } r ou may reckon. I looked at the 
 old man, and then at my creature. He ivas a good creature ; 
 and as prime an animal as ever stepped in traces ; good at any 
 thing, plough, waggon, or saddle ; as easy-going as a girl of 
 sixteen, and not half so skittish. I had no notion of giving 
 him up to a stranger, you may be sure, and didn't half like the 
 cool, easy, impudent manner with which the, old man spoke to 
 me. I had no fears I didn't think of his taking my nag from 
 me by force but, of a sudden, I almost begun to think he 
 might be a wizard, as we read in Scripture, and hear of from 
 the old people, or mou't be, the old devil himself, and then I 
 didn't well know what I had to expect. But he soon made 
 the matter clear to me. Perhaps he saw that I was a little 
 beflustered. 
 
 " i Young man,' says he, ' your horse is a fine one. Will 
 you sell him ? I am willing to pay you a fair price give you 
 his full value.' 
 
 " There was something to consider in that. When did you 
 ever find a Western man unwilling for a horse-barter ? Be~ 
 sides, though the creature was a really first-rate nag, he was 
 one more than I wanted. One for the plough, and one for the 
 saddle as the old man did'nt ride often was enough for us ; 
 and we had three. But Rainbow that was his name was 
 so sleek an animal ! He could a'most do any thing that you'd 
 
9 tIFE IN AMEKICA. 
 
 tell him. I didn't want to sell him, but I didn't want to keep 
 a mouth too many. You know a horse that you don't want 
 begins by gnawing through your pockets, and ends by eating 
 off his own head. That's the say, at least. But I raised 
 Kainbow, fed him with my own hands, curried him night and 
 morning myself, and looked upon him as a sort of younger 
 brother. I hated powerful bad to part with him ; but then 
 there was no reason to keep him when he was of no use. 
 'Twas a satisfaction, to be sure, to have such a creature ; and 
 'twas a pleasure to cross him, and streak it away, at a brush- 
 ing canter, of a bright morning, for a good five miles at a 
 stretch; but poor people can't afford such pleasures and satis- 
 factions ; and when I thought of the new waggon that we 
 wanted, and such a smart chance of other things about the 
 farm, I looked at the old man and thought better of his offer. 
 I said to him, though a little slowly, 
 
 " ' It's a famous fine horse this, stranger.' 
 
 " ' I know it,' said he ; 'I never saw one that better pleased 
 my eyes. I'll pay you a famous fine price for him.' 
 
 " ' What'll you give ?' said I. 
 
 " ' Pshaw !' said he, ' speak out like a man. I'm no baby, 
 and you are old enough to know better. What's your price ?' 
 
 " He's low,' said I, ' at one hundred and seventy dollars.' 
 
 " ' He is,' said he, ' he's worth more will you take that ?' 
 
 "'Yes.' 
 
 "' You shall have it,' he answered, ' and I'll throw the dead 
 horse into the bargain ; she was a famous fine animal too, in 
 her day,, and her skin's worth stuffing as a keepsake. You 
 can stuff it and put it up in your stables, as an example to 
 your other horses. 
 
J,IFE IN AMERICA , 97 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " ALL the time he was talking, he was counting out the money, 
 which was almost all in gold. I was a little dub'ous that it 
 wasn't good money ; but I smelt it, and it had no smell of 
 brass, and I was a leetle ashamed to let on that I didn't know 
 good money from bad ; besides, there was a something about 
 the old gentleman so much like a gentleman, so easy, and so 
 commanding, that I couldn't find the heart to doubt or to dis- 
 pute any thing he said. And then, every thing about him 
 looked like a gentleman : his clothes, his hat, the watch he 
 wore, the very dead horse and his coverings, saddle, bridle, 
 and so forth, all convinced me that there was nothing of 
 make-believe. 
 
 " * There/ said he, i my good fellow,' putting the money in 
 my hand, ' I reckon you never handled so much gold in your 
 life before.' 
 
 "' No,' said I, ' to tell you the truth, though I've hearn a 
 good deal of gold, and know it when I see it by what I've 
 hearn, I never set eyes on a single piece till now. 
 
 " ' May it do your eyes good now, then,' said he ; ( you look 
 like a good fellow. Your horse is sound ?' 
 
 " ' Yes, 1 said I, < I can answer better for him than I can for 
 your gold.' 
 
 " < That's good.' 
 
 "'"Well,' said < I, I'm not sure that I've dealt fairly with 
 you, stranger. I've asked you little more than I've been ask- 
 ing other people. My price on Rainbow has been only one 
 hundred and fifty dollars, before.' 
 
 " e And your conscience troubles you. You are an honest 
 fellow,' said he, c but never mind, my lad, I'll show you a 
 way to relieve it.' 
 
 
98 LIFE IN AM3RICA* 
 
 " With these words he pulled out a buckskin roll from his 
 pocket, and out of this he tumbled a pack of cards ; the very 
 cards which you see nailed above my fireplace. 
 
 "'We'll play for that twenty dollars/ said he, throwing 
 down two gold pieces on the body of the dead mare, and, be- 
 ginning to shuffle the cards immediately. Somehow, I did as 
 he did. I put down two ten dollar pieces along with his. I 
 couldn't help myself. He seemed to command me. I felt 
 scared I felt that I was doing wrong ; but he seemed to take 
 every thing so much as a matter of course, that I hadn't the 
 courage to say ( no ' to any thing he did or said. 
 
 "'What do you play ?' said he, and he named some twenty 
 games of cards, some in French, I believe, and some in Span- 
 ish, but no one of which did I know any thing about. He 
 seemed beflustered. 
 
 " ' Do you play any thing at all ?' he asked. 
 
 " ' Yes a little of old sledge that's all.' 
 
 "'Oh! that will do. A common game enough. I wonder 
 I should have omitted it ! Here ! you may shuffle them, and 
 we'll cut for deal.' 
 
 " I didn't shuffle, but cut at once. He cut after me, and 
 the deal fell to him. He took up and then put the cards down 
 again put his hand into his pocket, and drew out a little 
 silver box, about the size of a small snuff-box, that had in 
 it a good many little pills of a dark gray gummy look. One 
 of these he swallowed, then began to deal, his eye growing 
 brighter every moment, and looking into mine till I felt quite 
 dazzled and strange. Our table was the belly of the dead 
 horse. He sat on one of the thighs. I knelt down upon the 
 grass on the opposite side, and though it pained me, I couldn't 
 take my eyes from him to save my life. He asked me a great 
 many questions while he was throwing out the cards how 
 old I was what was my name what family I had how far 
 I lived where I came from every thing, indeed, about me, 
 and my way of life, and what I had and what I kne^ : and 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 99 
 
 all this in no time as fast as I tell it to you. Then he said, 
 ' You are an honest fellow, take up your cards, and let us see 
 if you are as lucky as you are honest.' It seemed as if I was, 
 for I beat him. I played a pretty stiff game of old sledge, or 
 as he called it, ' all fours,' for I used to play, as long as I 
 could remember, with the old man, my father, every night. 
 Old people like these plays, and it's good for them to play. 
 It keeps 'em lively, keeps them from sleeping too much, and 
 from drinking. It's good for them, so long as it makes their 
 own fireside sweet to them. Well! I was lucky. I won the 
 game, and it worried me mightily when I did so, I didn't 
 touch the money. 
 
 " ' I suppose,' said the stranger, ' that I must cover those 
 pieces,' and before I could guess what he was about, he flung 
 down four other gold pieces, making forty dollars, in the pile 
 with mine, and began again shuffling the cards. If I was 
 scared and unhappy before, I was twice as much so now. I 
 could scarcely breathe, and why, I can't say exactly. It 
 wasn't from any anxiety about the winning or the losing, for 
 I preferred not to have the stranger's money ; but it was his 
 very indifference and unconcern that worried and distressed 
 me. It seemed so unnatural, that I half the time thought that 
 I was dealing with nothing human ; and though I could shuf- 
 fle, and cut, and play, yet it seemed to me as if I did it with- 
 out altogether knowing why, or how. As luck would have it, 
 I won the second time ; and the third time he pulled out his 
 purse and put down as many more pieces as lay there. I 
 looked at the growing heap with a heart that seemed ready to 
 burst. There was eighty dollars before me, and I felt my face 
 grow red when I caught his eye looking steadily at mine. I 
 began |o feel sort 'o desperate, and flung about the cards like 
 a person in liquor. The old man laughed, a low chuckle 
 like, that made my blood crawl in my veins, half frozen, as it 
 were. But, neither his skill and coolness, nor my fright, al- 
 tered the luck at all. I again won, and trembled all over, to 
 
100 LI^E IX AMERICA. 
 
 see the pile, and to see him take out his purse, and empty every 
 thing upon it. 
 
 " < Stranger/ said I, < don't think of it ; keep your money, 
 and let me go home.' 
 
 " < Pshaw ! said he, ' you're a good fellow, and as lucky as 
 you are good. Why shouldn't you be my heir? I prefer that 
 a good fellow should win my money if any body. It'll do your 
 sight good.' 
 
 " ' But not my heart, I'm afraid,' was my answer. 
 
 " < That's precisely as you use it,' said he ; ' money's a good 
 creature, like every other good creature that God gives us. 
 It's a good thing to be rich, for a rich man's always able to do 
 good, when a poor man can only wish to do it. Get money, 
 my lad, and be wise with it ; wiser, I trust, than I have been.' 
 
 " With these words, he took out his silver box, swallowed 
 another of the pills, and was busy dealing out the cards in 
 another moment. I, somehow, was better pleased with him 
 for what he said. The mention of God convinced me that he 
 wasn't the devil, and what he said seemed very sensible. But 
 I didn't feel any more right and happy than before. I only 
 wanted the strength to refuse him. I couldn't refuse him. I 
 took up the cards as he threw them, and it did seem to me 
 that I scarcely saw to make out the spots when I played them. 
 I hardly knew how the game was played ; I didn't count ; I 
 couldn't tell what I made. I only heard him say at the close 
 of the second hand, 
 
 ' " The money's yours. You are a lucky fellow.' 
 
 " With these words he pushed the gold heap to me, and 
 threw me the empty purse. 
 
 " < There's something to put it in.' 
 
 " ' No !' said I : ' no, stranger I can't take this money.' 
 
 " < Why, pray ?' 
 
 " ' It's not right. It don't seem to me to be got honestly. 
 I haven't worked for it.' 
 
 " ( Worked, indeed ! If nobody used money but those who 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 101 
 
 worked for it, many a precious fellow would knaw his finger 
 ends for a dinner. Put up your money !' 
 
 " I pushed it to him, all but the two eagles which I begun 
 with ; but he pushed it back. I got up without touching it. 
 ' Stay,' said he, ' you are a good fellow ! Sit down again ; sit 
 down.' I sat down. ' I can't take that money,' said he, ( for 
 it is yours. According to my way of thinking, it is yours it 
 is none of mine. There is only one way in which it may be- 
 come mine ; only one way in which I could take it or make 
 use of it, and that is by winning it back. That may be done, 
 I will put the horse against the gold.' 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MY heart beat quicker than ever when he pointed to Rainbow. 
 Not that I expected or wished to win him back, for I would 
 only have taken him back by giving up all the money, or all 
 except the hundred and fifty dollars ; but it now seemed to 
 me as if I looked on the old man with such feelings as would 
 have made me consent to almost any thing he wished. I 
 had a strange sort of pity for him. I considered him a sort 
 of kind-hearted rich old madman. I said, ' Very well ;' and 
 he took another pill out of his box, and begun again at the 
 cards. 
 
 " ' You are a very fortunate fellow,' said he, ' and seem a 
 very good one. I really see no reason why you should not be 
 my heir. You say you are not married.' 
 
 ' No.' 
 
 " ' But you have your sweetheart, I suppose. A lad of 
 twenty-five, which I suppose is much about your age, is sel- 
 dom without one.' 
 
 " ' It's not the case with me,' said I. ' In these parts we 
 have mighty few folks and fewer women, and I don't know 
 
102 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 the girl among them that's ever eeemed to me exactly the one 
 that I should be willing to make my wife.' 
 
 " < Why, you're not conceited, I hope ? You don't think 
 yourself too fine a fellow for a poor girl, do you ?' 
 
 " e No, by no means, stranger ; but there's a sort of liking 
 that one must have before he can think of a wife, and 1 haven't 
 seen the woman yet to touch me in the right way.' 
 
 " ' You are hard to please, and properly. Marriage is easier 
 found than lost. A man is too noble an animal to be kept in a 
 mouse- trap. But there are women ' 
 
 " He stopped short. I waited for him to say something 
 more, but by this time the cards had been distributed, and he 
 was sorting his hand. 
 
 " f There are women !' he said again, though as if he was 
 talking to himself. There he stopt for a minute, then looking 
 up, and fixing his bright eyes upon mine, he continued : 
 
 " ' Come, Rayner,' said he, good-humouredly. ' The cards 
 are in your hands, and remember to play your best, for that 
 famous fine horse may become your own again. I warn you, 
 I have a good hand. What do you do ?' 
 
 " ' Good or not,' said I, something more boldly, ' I will 
 stand on mine.' 
 
 " I had a most excellent hand, being sure of high and low, 
 with a strong leading hand for game. 
 
 " c Play then !' he answered ; and at the word, I clapped 
 down the ace of hearts, the very ace you see atop of the pack 
 over the chimney now. 
 
 " ' You are a lucky fellow, Rayner,' said he, as he flung 
 down the Jack upon it, the only heart he held in his hand. 
 The game ended : I was owner of horse and money. But I 
 jumped to my feet instantly. 
 
 " ' Stranger,' said I, ' don't think I'm going to rob you of 
 your horse or money-. I don't : exactly know why I played 
 with you so long, unless it be because you insisted upon it, 
 and I didn't wish to disoblige an old gentleman like yourself. 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 103 
 
 Take your money, and give me my horse ; of, if you want the 
 horse, leave me the hundred and fifty, which is a fair price for 
 him, and put the rest in your own pocket. I won't touch a 
 copper more of it.' 
 
 <( ' You are a good fellow, Rayner, but, with some persons, 
 younger and rasher persons than myself, your words would be 
 answered with a bullet. Nay, were I the boy I have been, it 
 would be dangerous for you to speak, even to me, in such a 
 manner. Among gentlemen, the obligation to pay up what is 
 lost by cards is sacred. The loser must deliver, and the win- 
 ner must receive. There is your money, and that is your horse 
 again ; but I am not yet done with you. As I said before, you 
 are a good fellow, and most certainly a lucky one. I like you, 
 though your principles are scarcely fixed yet not certain ! 
 Still, I like you ; and there's some chance that you will be my 
 heir yet. A few more trials at the cards must determine that. 
 I suppose you are not unwilling to give me a chance to win 
 back my losses ?' 
 
 " I caught at the suggestion. 
 "'Surely not,' I replied. 
 
 " ( Very good,' says he. ' Don't suppose that, because you've 
 emptied my purse, you've cleaned me out quite. I have a dia- 
 mond ring and a diamond breast-pin yet to stake. They are 
 worth something more than your horse and your heap of mo- 
 ney. We will place them against your eagles and horse.' 
 
 " ' No,' said I, quickly. c I'm willing to put down all the 
 eagles, but not the horse ; or I'll put down the horse and all 
 the money, except a hundred and fifty.' 
 
 " ' As you please,' said he; ( but, my good fellow, you must 
 take my word for the ring and breast-pin. I do not carry 
 them with me. I know it's rather awkward to talk of playing 
 a promised stake against one that we see, but I give you the 
 honour of a gentleman that the diamonds shall be forthcoming 
 if I lose.' 
 " I began to think that what he said was only a sort of 
 
104 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 come-off but I didn't want his money, and was quite willing 
 that he should win it back. If he had said, ' I'll stake my 
 tooth-pick against the money/ I'd have been just as willing, 
 for all that I now aimed at was to secure my horse, or the 
 price of him ! I felt very miserable at the thoughts of winning 
 the man's money such a heap of it ! I had never played cards 
 for money in all my life before, and there's something in the 
 feeling of winning money, for the first time, that's almost like 
 thieving. As I tell you, if he had said his tooth-pick, or any 
 worthless thing, instead of his diamonds, I'd have been- will- 
 ing. I didn't say so, however, and I thought his offer to stake 
 diamonds that he couldn't show, was pretty much like a come- 
 off. But I was willing enough, for the money seemed to scald 
 my eyes to look upon. He took out a pencil, the case of 
 which I saw was gold also, and wrote on a slip of paper, 
 < Good for two brilliants, one a ring, the other a breast-pin, the 
 latter in form of a Maltese cross, both set in gold, with an 
 inner rim of silver, valued at seven hundred dollars.' This was 
 signed with two letters only, the initials of his name. I have 
 the paper now. He bade me read it, and when I did so, I 
 thought him madder than a March hare ; but if I thought so 
 then, I was more than ever convinced of it, when, a moment 
 after, and when we were about to play, he spoke to this 
 effect : 
 
 "'There's one thing, Rayner. There's a little incumbrance 
 on these jewels.' 
 
 " < Well, sir,' I said. 
 
 " I didn't care a fig for the incumbrance, for I didn't believe 
 a word of the jewels. 
 
 " < If you win them, you win a woman along with them. 
 You win a wife.' 
 
 " I laughed outright. 
 
 " ' Don't laugh,' said he ; ' you don't see me laugh. I'm se- 
 rious ; never more so. You are unmarried. You need a wife. 
 Don't you want one ?' 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 105 
 
 " ( Yes, if I could get a good one one to my liking.' 
 
 " ' You are a good fellow. You deserve a good wife, Ray- 
 ner ; and such is the very one I propose to give you.' 
 
 " ' Ay, ay,' said I ; * but will she be to my liking ?' 
 
 " ' I hope so ; I believe so. She has all the qualities which 
 should command the liking of a sensible and worthy young 
 man. She, too, is sensible ; she is intelligent ; she has know- 
 ledge ; she has read books ; she has accomplishments ; she sings 
 like an angel; plays on several instruments piano and 
 guitar !' 
 
 "' Piano and guitar!' said I. 
 
 " I didn't know what they were. I felt sure that the old 
 fellow was mad, just out of a hospital, perhaps ; but then , 
 where did he get the money and the gold things ? I begun to 
 think more suspiciously of him than ever. 
 
 " ( Yes, piano and guitar,' said he ; 'she draws and paints, 
 too, the loveliest pictures she can make these trees live on 
 canvass ; ah ! can she not ? Money has not been spared > 
 Rayner, to make Rachel what she is.' 
 
 " ( Rachel is that her name ?' I asked. 
 
 " ' Yes, it is.' 
 
 " ' What's the other name ?' 
 
 " ' You shall know, if you win the diamonds.' 
 
 "'Yes but how old is she? how does she look? is she 
 young and handsome ? I wouldn't want an ugly wife, be- 
 cause she happened to be wise. I've heard that your wise 
 women are generally too ugly for any thing else than wis- 
 dom.' 
 
 " ' You are a fool, Rayner, though a good fellow. But Ra- 
 chel is beautiful and young not more than seventeen the 
 proper age for you. You, I think you say, are twenty-eight 
 In this climate a man's wife should always be ten or twelve 
 years younger than himself provided he be a sober and 
 healthy man, and if he be not, he has no business with a wife, 
 E 5 
 
106 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 nor a wife with him. You are both sober and healthy. You 
 are a good fellow I see that. I like you, Rayner, and for 
 this reason I am willing to risk Rachel on the cards, playing 
 against you. My loss will probably be her gain, and this 
 makes me rather regardless how it ends. You shall be my 
 heir yet.' 
 
 " ' Thank you, old gentleman/ said I, beginning to feel a 
 little bold and saucy, for I now couldn't help thinking that the 
 stranger was no better than a good-naturned madman who had 
 got away from his friends. ' Thank you,' said I. * If Rachel's 
 the girl you make her out to be, you can't bring her along a 
 day too soon. But, may I ask, is she your daughter ?' 
 
 " ' My daughter !' he answered sharply, and with something 
 of a frown on his face, ' do I look like a man to have chil- 
 dren ? to be favoured with such a blessing as a daughter ? 
 a daughter like Rachel ?' 
 
 " ' Now/ said I to myself, ( his fit's coming on,' and I began 
 to look about me for a start. 
 
 " ' No, Rayner,' he continued, ' she is no daughter of mine, 
 but she is the daughter of a good man, and of honourable pa- 
 rents. You shall have sufficient proof of that. Have you any 
 more questions ? ' 
 
 "'No, sir.' 
 
 " ' And you will take Rachel as your wife? You have heard 
 my description of her. If she comes up to it, I ask you, will 
 you be willing to take her as your wife ?' 
 
 " I looked at him queerly enough, I reckon. He fixed his 
 keen black eyes upon me, so that I couldn't look upon him 
 without shutting my own. I didn't know whether to laugh 
 or to run. But, thinking that he was flighty in the upper 
 story, I concluded it was best to make a short business of it, 
 and to agree with any thing he wished ; so I freely told 
 him f yes,' and he reached out his hand to mine, which he 
 squeezed nervously for a minute, and then took out his box 
 of pills, swallowed a con pie of them, and began dealing out 
 
IN AMERICA. 107 
 
 the cards. I had the strangest luck the same sort of luck 
 that had kept with me from the start. I won the diamonds, 
 and won Rachel ! 
 
 " ' Well,' said he, ' I'm glad, Rayner, that you are the man. 
 I've long been looking for an heir to my diamonds. They are 
 yours all is yours ; and I shall have to be indebted to you 
 for the loan of the horse, in order to go and bring you your 
 wife.' 
 
 " ' Ay,' said I, ' stranger, the horse is at your service, and 
 half of the money, too. I never thought to take them from 
 you, at the first; I shouldn't have felt easy in my conscience 
 to have used the money that I got in this way.' 
 
 " ' Help yourself to the rest,' said I, taking, as I spoke, 
 fifteen of the eagles to myself, and leaving the rest on the dead 
 body of the horse, where they had been growing from our first 
 commencing to play. 
 
 " ( You are my heir,' he answered, * and behave yourself as 
 you should. Between persons so related there should be no 
 paltry money scruples ;' and, while he said these words, he 
 stooped to take the money. I turned away, that he shouldn't 
 suppose I watched him, but I couldn't help laughing at the 
 strange sort of cunning which he showed in his conceit. Says 
 I to myself, ' You will take precious good care, old fellow, I 
 see that, that I will carry off no more than my own poor 
 hundred and fifty.' But he was too quick in mounting and 
 riding off, to give me much time to think about it, or to change 
 in my disposition. It was only after he was off, out of sight, 
 and in a full gallop, that, looking round upon the dead horse, I 
 saw the eagles still there, nearly all of them, just as I had 
 heaped them up. He had only taken two of them, just enough, 
 as he said, to bear his necessary expenses. 
 
 " I was a little surprised, and was now more sure than ever 
 that the stranger had lost his wits. I gathered up the money, 
 and walked home, mighty slowly, thinking all the way of what 
 had taken place. It seemed more like a strange dream than 
 
lOtf LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 any thing else. Was there any man ? Had I played oldskdge 
 with a stranger ? I was almost inclined to doubt ; but there 
 was the dead horse. I went back to look at it, and when I 
 thrust my hand down into my breeches pocket, I brought it 
 up full of the precious metal ; but was it precious metal ? I 
 began to tremble at this thought. It might be nothing better 
 than brass or copper, and my horse was gone gone off at a 
 smart canter. My heart grew chilled within me at this reflec- 
 tion. I felt wild scared half out of my wits, and instead of 
 regarding the old man as a witless person escaped from his 
 keepers, I now began to consider him a cunning sharper, who 
 had found one more witless than I had fancied him. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 BUT such reflections, even if well founded, came too late for 
 remedy. The old man was gone beyond present reach, and 
 when I reflected that he had taken two of the gold pieces for 
 his own expenses, I began to feel a little reassured on the 
 subject of their value. When I got home, I told my father of 
 the sale of the horse, and the price, though I took precious 
 good care to say nothing of the gambling. The old man, 
 though he himself had taught me to play cards, was mighty 
 strict against all play for money. I showed him only the fifteen 
 pieces that I got for Rainbow, and the rest I put away quietly, 
 meaning to spend them by degrees upon the farm, as chances 
 offered, so as to prevent him from ever getting at the real 
 truth. I felt myself pretty safe with regard to the strange 
 gentleman. I never counted on his coming back to blow me, 
 though, sometimes, when I wasn't thinking, an odd sort of 
 fear would come over me, and I would feel myself trembling 
 with the notion that, after all, he might return. I had heard 
 of rich people having strange ways of throwing away their 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 105 
 
 money, and taking a liking for poor people like myself; and 
 then, there was a serious earnest about the strange gentleman, 
 in spite of all his curiousnesses, that made me a little appre- 
 hensive, whenever the recollection of him came into my head. 
 " But regular work, day after day, is the best physic for 
 mind and body ; and, after three days had gone by, I almost 
 ceased to bother myself with the affair. I passed the time so 
 actively that I didn't think much about any thing. I took a 
 trip down the river, some eighteen miles, to a wheelwright's, 
 and bought a prime two-horse waggon, for ninety-five dollars, 
 which made a considerable hole in the price of Rainbow ; and, 
 one thing with another, the week went by almost without 
 giving me time to count if the right number of days was in it. 
 Sunday followed, and then Monday. That Monday I was 
 precious busy. I was always an industrious man doing 
 something or other making this, or mending that. To be 
 doing nothing was always the hardest work for me. But that 
 Monday I out-worked myself, and I was really glad when I 
 saw the sun sink suddenly down behind the woods. I threw 
 down the broad-axe, for I had been hewing out some door- 
 facings for a new corn-crib and fodder-house, and went to- 
 wards the gallery (piazza) where the old man was sitting, 
 and threw myself, at full length, along the entrance, just at his 
 feet. I was mighty tired. My jacket was off. My sleeves 
 rolled up, my neck open, and the perspiration standing thick 
 on my breast and forehead. At that very moment, while I 
 was lying in this condition, who should I see ride into the 
 opening but the strange old gentleman. I knew him at a 
 glance, and my heart jumped into my mouth, as if it was try- 
 ing to get out of it. Behind him came another person riding 
 upon a pretty little bay filly. Though it was darkening fast, 
 I could make out that this other person was a woman, and I 
 never felt so scared in all my life. I looked up at my father, 
 and he at me. .He saw that I was frightened, but he hadn't 
 time to ask me a question, and I shouldn't have had the 
 
110 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 strength to answer if he had. Up rode the strange old gentle- 
 man, and close behind him came the lady. Though I was 
 mightily frightened, I looked curiously at her. I could make 
 out that she was a small and delicate-framed person, but her 
 face was covered with a thick veil. I could see that she 
 carried herself well, sat her horse upright like a sort of queen, 
 and when the old man offered to take her off, yielded herself 
 to him with a slow but graceful stateliness, not unlike that of 
 a young cedar bending to the wind. 
 
 " For my part, though I could see this, I was never more 
 confounded in my life. I was completely horror-struck. To 
 see the old gentleman again was a shocking surprise ; but that 
 he should really bring the lady that I had won, and that she 
 should catch me in that condition my coat off, my breast 
 open, my face covered with dust and perspiration ! If the 
 work made me sweat before, this surprise increased it. I got 
 up, and made out to get a few steps towards the strangers. 
 I said something by way of apology for being caught in that 
 shabby fix ; but the old gentleman stopped me. 
 
 " ' Never mind, no apologies, Mr. Kayner. The proofs of 
 labour are always honourable, and if the heart can show that 
 it works as well as the body, then the labourer is a gentleman. 
 How are you and this is your father ?' 
 
 " I introduced him to the old man as the person who had 
 bought Rainbow, and we conducted them into the house. 
 
 " ' My ward, Mr. Rayner,' said the stranger, when we had 
 entered, ' this is the young friend of whom I spoke to you.' 
 
 " At these words the young lady threw up her veil. I stag- 
 gered back at the sight. I won't talk of her beauty, my 
 friend, for two reasons ; one of which is, that I haven't got 
 words to say what I thought and felt what I think and feel 
 now. The other but I needn't speak of the other reason. 
 This one is sufficient. The old gentleman looked at me in- 
 quiringly, and then he looked at my father. 1 could see that 
 there was a little doubt and anxiety upon his face, but they 
 
LIFE IN AMEBICA. Ill 
 
 soon passed away as he examined the face of my father. There 
 was something so good, so meek, so benevolent about the 
 looks of the old man, that nobody could mistrust that all was 
 right in the bottom of his heart. As for my heart, the strange 
 gentleman seemed to see into it quite as quickly as into that 
 of my father. He was not so blunt and abrupt now in his 
 manner of speaking to me as he had been when we first met. 
 His manner was more dignified and reserved. There was 
 something very lofty and noble about it, and in speaking to 
 the lady his voice sunk almost into a whisper. 
 
 " ' Mr. Rayner,' said he, looking to my father, ' I trust that 
 you will give my ward a chamber for the night. I have 
 heard of you, sir, and have made bold to presume on your 
 known benevolence of character in making this application.' 
 
 " ( Our home is a poor one, stranger,' said the old man ; 
 ' but such as it is, it is quite at the service of the young 
 lady.' 
 
 " ' Good ! ' said the other ; e you are the man after my own 
 heart. I am known,' he continued, where men speak of me 
 at all, as Mr. Eckhardt. My ward is the daughter of a very 
 near and dear friend. Her name is Herder Rachel Herder. 
 So much is necessary for convenience in conversation ; and 
 now, sir, if you can tell Rachel where she is to find her cham- 
 ber, so thaf she may arrange her dress, and get rid of the dust 
 of travel, she will be very much obliged to you.' 
 
 " All this was soon arranged and attended to, and while 
 the lady disappeared in our best chamber, Mr. Eckhardt pro- 
 ceeded to disburthen the horses, on both of which were sad- 
 dle-bags that were stuffed almost to bursting. These were 
 brought into the house, and sent to the chamber after the lady. 
 Then the stranger sat down with. my father, the two old men 
 chatting quite briskly together, while I stripped the horses of 
 their saddles, and took them to the stable. When I returned 
 to the house I found them as free-spoken and good-humoured 
 
112 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 as if they had been intimate from the first day of clearing in 
 that country. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " You may suppose what my confusion must have been, for I 
 can't describe it to you. I can only say that I felt pretty 
 much like a drunken man. Every thing swum around me. I 
 was certain of nothing ; didn't know what to believe, and 
 half the time really doubted whether I was asleep or awake. 
 But there were the horses there was Rainbow. I couldn't 
 mistake him, and if I had, he didn't mistake me. When he 
 heard my voice as I led him to the stable, he whinnied with a 
 sort of joy, and pricked up his ears, and showed his feeling as 
 plainly as if he had a human voice to speak it in words. And 
 I reckon, too, it was a more true feeling than many of those 
 that are spoken in words. I threw my arms round the good 
 creature's neck, and if it hadn't been for thinking of Rachael 
 Herder, I reckon I should have kissed him, too, it did me so 
 much good to see him again. But I hadn't much time for 
 this sort of fondness, and when I remembered the whole affair 
 between the strange old gentleman, Mr. Eckhardt, and my- 
 self, I was too much worried to think any more of Rainbow. 
 I couldn't bring myself to believe it true about the diamonds 
 and the wife ; and when I remembered the sight that I had 
 caught, though a glimpse only, and for a single moment, of 
 the great beauty of the young lady, I couldn't help thinking 
 that the stranger was only making merry with me running 
 his rigs upon a poor, rough, backwoodsman. But this notion 
 roused up my pride and feeling. ' Not so rough,' says I to 
 myself; * poor it may be, but not mean : not more rough than 
 honest labour makes a man. And poor as you please, and 
 rough as you please, when the heart's right, and the head's no 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 11$ 
 
 fool's head, the man's man enough for any woman, though she 
 walks in satin! 1 With this I considered that I ought, at 
 least, to make myself rather decent before I sat down to sup- 
 per. My cheeks burned me when I looked at myself and re- 
 membered how she had caught me. I knew that good soft 
 spring water, and my best suit, would turn me into quite 
 another sort of looking man : but here again was difficulty. 
 It was my chamber which my father had given up to the 
 young lady, and all my clothes were in it. My new coat and 
 blue pantaloons hung upon pegs behind the door ; and all my 
 shirts were in an old chest of drawers on which the looking- 
 glass stood ; and to get these things without her seeing was 
 impossible. But it had to be done ; so I called up the old 
 negro woman servant we had, and told her what to do, and 
 sent her for the clothes, while I waited for them at the back 
 of the house. When she brought them, I hurried down to the 
 branch (brooklet) and made a rapid and plentiful use of the 
 waters. I then got in among the bushes, and made a tho- 
 rough change in my dress, taking care to hide the old clothes 
 in the hollow of a gum. I combed my hair smoothly over the 
 branch, which answered me at the same time for a looking- 
 glass, and had the effect of making me much more satisfied 
 with my personal appearance. I needn't blush, my friend, at 
 my time of life, to say that I thought myself then, and was, a 
 tolerable comely fellow ; and I couldn't help feeling a sneak- 
 ing secret notion that the young lady would think so too. 
 Well, I got in time enough for supper. Mr. Eckhardt looked 
 at me, as I thought, with real satisfaction. He and my father 
 had been keeping company all the time I was gone, and I 
 could see, among other things, that they were mightily 
 pleased with one another. By and by, supper was brought 
 in, and Rachel Herder came out of her chamber. If I thought 
 her beautiful before, I thought her now ten times more so. 
 Once I caught her eyes fixed upon me, but she turned them 
 away without any flurry or confusion, and I don't think that I 
 
114 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 saw her look at me in particular once again that night. This 
 worried me, I confess. It seemed to show that she wasn't 
 thinking of me ; and, moreover, it seemed to show that Mr. 
 Eckhard, hadn't said a word to her about the business ; and this 
 made me more ready to believe that he had only been running 
 his rigs upon me. Yet there was something about his looks 
 and in his words, whenever he spoke to me something so real, 
 serious, earnest, that I couldn't help believing, after all, that 
 the affair wasn't altogether over. Nor was it, as you will see 
 directly. 
 
 " Supper went forward. You know what a country supper 
 is, out here in Mississippi, so it don't need to tell you that 
 cornbread, and a little eggs and bacon, and a smart bowl of 
 milk, was pretty much the amount of it. The young lady ate 
 precious little ; took a little milk, I believe, and a corn biscuit. 
 As for me, I'm very sure I ate still less. My heart was too 
 much in my mouth to suffer me to put in any thing more ; for, 
 whichever way I thought of the matter, I was worried half to 
 death. If the old gentleman was serious, it was still a mighty 
 terrifying thing to have a wife so suddenly forced upon a 
 body, a wife that you never saw before and didn't know any 
 thing about ; and if he wasn't serious, it was very hard to lose 
 so lovely a creature, just too after your heart had been tanta- 
 lized and tempted by the promise that she was all for yourself. 
 As I tell you, my friend, whichever way I could think of it, I 
 was still worried half to death. 
 
 " After supper, Mr. Eckhardt asked me to walk out with 
 him ; so, leaving the young lady with my father, who, by 
 the way, had already grown mightily pleased with her, off 
 we went into the woods. We hadn't gone very far when the 
 old gentleman spoke, pretty abruptly : 
 
 " ' Well, Rayner, my lad, you've seen the lady whom I in- 
 tend as your wife. Does she suit you ?' 
 
 " ' Why, sir, you're rather quick. I can answer for her beau- 
 ty : she's about the beautifullest creature I ever did see, but 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 115 
 
 it's not beauty altogether that makes a good wife, and I 
 ha'n't had time yet to judge whether she'll suit me.' 
 
 " ' How much time do you want ?' said he shortly. 
 
 " < Well, I can't say.' 
 
 " c Will a week or ten days answer ?' 
 
 " ' That's as it happens,' said I. ' Some men yon can under- 
 stand in an hour, just as if you had been with 'em all your life* 
 I'm pretty much such a person myself, but with some you 
 can't get on so rapidly. You'll be with them a year, and 
 know just as little of their hearts at the end of it, as you did 
 at the beginning. ' 
 
 " i Humph ! and whose fault will that be but your own ? 
 There's an eye to see, Rayner, as well as a thing to be seen. 
 It depends very much upon the seeker whether he shall ever 
 find. But enough. There's no need in this case for much 
 philosophy. You are easily read, and so is Rachel. A week 
 will answer to make you both acquainted, and I'll leave her 
 with you for that time.' 
 
 " ' But are you serious ?' I asked. 
 
 " ' Serious ! But your question is natural. I am a man of 
 few words, Rayner. You see something in my proceedings 
 which is extraordinary. As the world goes, and acts, and 
 thinks, perhaps it is ; but nothing was ever more deliberate or 
 well advised, on my part, than this proceeding. Hear me, 
 lad ! this lady is a ward of mine ; the daughter of a very dear 
 friend, who gave her to my trust. I swore to do by her as a 
 father. I am anxious to do so ; but I am an old man, not 
 long for this world, an erring man, not always sure of doing 
 right while I am in it. I wish to find the child a protector, 
 a good man, a kind man, a man whom I can trust. This 
 has been my desire for some time. I fancy I have found in 
 you the very person I seek. I am a man to look keenly, judge 
 quickly, and act in the same manner. As you yourself have 
 remarked, you are a person easily understood. I understood 
 you in a little time, and was pleased with what I saw of you. 
 
116 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 I have chosen you out as the husband of Rachel. She knows 
 nothing yet of my purpose. You, I see, have kept your father 
 in partial ignorance of our adventure. Perhaps you were 
 right in this case, though, as a general rule, such secrecy be- 
 tween two persons placed as you are would have been an 
 error. Well, Rachel shall stay with you a week. 1 know 
 her so well that I fancy you will in that time become intimate 
 and remain pleased with each other sufficiently pleased to 
 make the rest easy.' 
 
 " There was some more talk between us, as we went to- 
 ward the house, but this was the substantial part of what was 
 said. Once I made some remark on the strangeness of such a 
 preference shown to me, when in the great cities he might 
 have found so many young men better suited by education for 
 a young lady whom he represented to be so accomplished ; but 
 he had his answer for this also ; and so quickly uttered, and 
 with such a commanding manner, that, even if I had not been 
 satisfied, I should still have been silenced. 
 
 " ' Your remark is natural. Half the world, having such a 
 child to dispose of, would have gone to the great city, and 
 have preferred a fashionable husband. But I know her heart. 
 It is her heart, and not her accomplishments, that I wish to 
 provide for. I want a man, not a dandy, a frank, noble- 
 hearted citizen, however plain, not a selfish, sophisticated 
 calculator, who looks for a wife through the stock market. 
 Enough, my good fellow ; no more words.' 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " THAT very night Mr. Eckhardt contrived, after the young 
 lady had gone to bed, to let my father know that he would 
 be pleased if his ward could be suffered to remain in his family 
 
IJFB IN AMERICA, H7 
 
 for a few day 3, until he should cross the river, in order to look 
 after a man on the west of the Mississippi, who owed him 
 money. He was unwilling to carry her with him into so very 
 wild a region. He made every thing appear so natural to the 
 old man, that he consented out of hand, just as if it had been 
 the most reasonable arrangement in the world ; and it was 
 only after Mr. Eckhardt had set out, which he did by day- 
 light the next morning, that my father said to me : 
 
 " It's very strange, now I come to think of it, that Mr. 
 Eckhardt should leave the young lady in a family where 
 there's none but men.' 
 
 " ' But she's just as safe here, father,' said I, ' as if she had 
 fifty of her own sex about her.' 
 
 " ( That's true enough, William,' said the old man, ' and if 
 the child feels herself at home, why there's ^nothing amiss. 
 I'm thinking she's about the sweetest looking creature I ever 
 laid eyes on.' 
 
 " I thought so too, but I said nothing, and followed the old 
 man into the house, with my feelings getting more and more 
 strange and worrisome every moment. I was in the greatest 
 whirl of expectation my cheeks a-burning, my heart as 
 cold as ice, and leaping up and down, just as scarily as a rab- 
 bit's when he's finding his way through the paling into a 
 garden patch. I felt as if the business now upon my hands 
 was about the most serious and trying I had ever undertaken ; 
 and it took all my thinking, I tell you, to bring my courage to 
 the right pitch, so as to steady my eyes while I spoke to the 
 young lady as she came out to the breakfast- table. My father 
 had a message to her from Mr. Eckhardt, telling her of his ab- 
 sence ; and though she looked a little anxious when she heard 
 that he was already gone, she soon seemed to become quiet 
 and at ease in her situation. Indeed, for that matter, she was 
 the most resigned and easy person I ever met in my life. She 
 seemed quite too gentle ever to complain, and I may say now 
 with some certainty, that, whatever might be her hurts of 
 
118 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 mind or body, she was the most patient to submit, and the 
 most easy to be pacified of all human beings. 
 
 "Now, if you know any thing of a man of my description, 
 if you're any thing of a judge of human nature, you'll readily 
 understand that, if I was scary and bashful at first, in meeting 
 with a young and beautiful creature like her, and knowing 
 what I did know of what was before me, it didn't take very 
 long for the fright to wear off. The man whose feelings are 
 very quick, gets mightily confused at first, but give him time, 
 don't hurry him, and he'll come to his senses pretty soon, and 
 they'll come to him, and they'll be the sharper and the more 
 steady, from the scare they had at first you can't scare them 
 in the same manner a second time. Before that day was well 
 out, I could sit down and talk with Rachel, and hear her talk, 
 without growing blind, dumb, and deaf in an instant. Her 
 mildness gave me encouragement, and when I got used to the 
 sound of my own voice, just after hers, I then found out, not 
 only that I had a good deal to say, but that she listened very 
 patiently, and I think was pleased to hear it. I found her so 
 mild, so 10nd, so encouraging, she seemed to take so much in- 
 terest in every thing she saw, that I was for showing her 
 every thing. Our cows, the little dairy, the new waggon, 
 even to the fields of corn, cotton, and potatoes, were all sub- 
 jects of examination one after the other. Then, I could carry 
 her along the hill slopes, through as pretty a grove, too, as you 
 would wish to lay eyes on ; and down along just such ano- 
 ther, even to the river banks ; and we had odd things enough 
 to show, here and there, to keep up the spirits and have some- 
 thing to talk about. These rambles we'd take either in the 
 cool of the morning, or towards sunset in the afternoon ; and, 
 sometimes the old man would go along with us but, as he 
 couldn't go very far at one time, we had pretty much the 
 whole chance to ourselves ; and what with talking and walk- 
 ing with Rachel, and thinking about her when I wasn't with 
 her, I did precious little work that week. To shorten a long 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA^ 119 
 
 atory, my friend, I now began to think that there was nothing 
 wrong in my gambling with Mr. Eckhardt, and to agree in 
 his notion that the loser was always bound to pay, and the 
 winner to receive. Before he got back, which he did not until 
 ten days were fully over, I had pretty much concluded that I 
 should find it the most trying business in nature to have to 
 give up my winnings. I don't mean the diamonds ; for them 
 I had not seen, and hadn't cared^ to see ; but I mean the in- 
 cumbrance that came with them, which, by this time, was 
 more than all the gold or diamonds, in my sight, that the 
 whole world could show. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " I WAS now as anxious to see Mr. Eckhardt as I had before 
 been afraid of his coming. He overstayed his time a little, 
 being nearer two weeks gone than one. He was a keen- 
 sighted man. His first words, when we were again alone to- 
 gether, were, " Well, all's right on your part, Rayner. You 
 are a good fellow I see that you will be my heir. You find 
 that what I said of Rachel is true ; and nothing now remains 
 but to see what she will say. Have you been much together?' 
 
 " ( Pretty often. I reckon I've done little else than look 
 after her since you've been gone.' 
 
 " ' What ! you hav'n't neglected your business, Rayner ?' 
 said he, with a smile ( the cows, the horses ?' 
 
 " ' They've had a sort of liberty/ says I. 
 
 " ' Bad signs for farming, however good for loving. You 
 must change your habits when you are married.' 
 
 " ' Ah ! that's not yet,' said I, with a sigh. ' I'm dub'ous, 
 Mr. Eckhardt, that Miss Rachel won't fancy me so soon as I 
 do her !" 
 
 " He looked a little anxious, and didn't answer so quickly 
 
120 LitfE IN AMERICA.' 
 
 as usual, and my heart felt as heavy then as if it was borne 
 down by a thousand pounds of lead. It wasn't much light- 
 ened when he answered, with a sort of doubting, 
 
 " ( Rachel,' said he, 'has always heeded my counsel. She 
 knows my love for her she has every confidence in my judg- 
 ment. You, Rayner, have some of those advantages which 
 young women are apt to admire. You are well made, youth- 
 ful, manly, and with a masculine grace and beauty which you 
 owe to the hunter life. These are qualities to recommend the 
 young of one sex to the young of the other. You have some- 
 thing more. You are a sensible youth, with a native delicacy 
 of feeling which, more than any thing beside, will be apt to 
 strike Rachel. It struck me. I will not presume to say that 
 you have won either her eye or her heart the eye of a wo- 
 man is easy won at all times, the heart slowly. Perhaps it 
 may be safe to say that hearts are not often won till after 
 marriage. But, at all events, with your personal claims, 
 which I think considerable, and the docility of Rachel, I have 
 hopes that I can bring about an arrangement which, I confess 
 to you, I regard as greatly important to my future purposes. 
 We shall see.' 
 
 " At that moment I was quite too full of Rachel and my 
 own hopes, to consider the force of the remark which he last 
 made. I never troubled myself to ask what his purposes 
 might be, beyond the single one which we both had in view. 
 When Mr. Eckhardt met with Rachel, and, indeed, while he 
 spoke with me, I could observe that there was a gravity, like 
 sadness, in his voice and manner, which was not usual with 
 him, or at least had not shown itself in our previous meetings. 
 He hesitated more frequently in what he had to say. His 
 eye was less settled, though even brighter than before ; and 
 I noted the fact that he took his pills three times as frequently 
 as ever. Even when he spoke with a show of jesting or 
 playfulness, I noted that there was a real sadness in what he 
 looked, and even something of sadness in what he said, or in 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 121 
 
 his manner of saying it. Nothing but this seriousness of 
 look and manner kept me from thinking that he was playing 
 upon my backwoods ignorance, when he was speaking my 
 own good name and good qualities to my teeth, But when I 
 doubted and began to suspicion that he was running rigs upon 
 me, I had only to look into his face and see that he was 
 talking in the way of downright, matter-of-fact business. 
 
 " When he came, Rachel went to him and put her hand in 
 his, but she didn't speak. Nor did he at first. He only bent 
 down and kissed her forehead ; and so he stood awhile, hold- 
 ing her hand in his, and talking to my father. It was a sight 
 to see them two. I couldn't stand it. There was something 
 in it, I can't tell you what, that looked so sadful. I went 
 out and wiped the water from my eyes. It seemed to me 
 then, as if the old gentleman was meditating something very 
 distressing, and as if poor Rachel was half dub'ous of it 
 herself. After a little while, my father came out and joined 
 me, and we walked off together to the stable. 
 
 "' William,' says the old man, ' these are strange people. 
 They seem very sweet, good people ; at least the girl seems 
 very good; and is a very sweet girl ; but there's something 
 very strange and very sorrowful about them.' 
 
 " I conld't say any thing, for my heart was very full, and 
 the old man went forward. 
 
 " ' Now what's more strange than for him to leave her here 
 with us ? though, to be sure, we wouldn't see her harmed 
 even to the falling of a hair of her head and 1 can answer 
 for you, Bill, as I can for myself; but it's not every body that 
 will say for us what we might feel for ourselves, and precious 
 few fathers would leave an only daughter here, in strange 
 woods, with such perfect strangers.' 
 
 " < But she's not his daughter,' said I. 
 
 " ' It don't matter. It's very clear that he loves her as if 
 she was his daughter, and I reckon she's never known any 
 
122 , LIFE IN AMERICA^ 
 
 other father. Poor girl ! I'm sure I like her already so much 
 that I wish he would leave her here altogether.' 
 
 " These last words of my father seemed to untie my tongue, 
 and I up and told him every syllable of what had taken place 
 between me and Mr. Eckhardt, from my first meeting with 
 him the day when I went to the river landing, up to the very 
 moment when we were talking. I didn't hide any thing, but 
 told the whole story of the cards, the gold, and the diamonds ; 
 and ended by letting him know that if he should be so sorry to 
 lose Rachel, now that we both knew so much about her, it 
 would go a mighty deal harder with me. I told him all that 
 Mr. Eckhardt had said since his return, and what hopes I had 
 that all would go as he wished it. But the old man shook 
 his head. He did't like what he heard about Mr. Eckhardt's 
 gambling, and was very tight upon me for letting myself be 
 tempted to deal with him in the same business. He didn't 
 think the worse of Rachel, of course, but he looked upon it 
 as a sort of misfortune to be in any way connected with a 
 gambler. 
 
 " We hadn't much longer time for confabulating, for Mr. 
 Eckhardt now came from the house and joined us. He was 
 a man who came always jump to the business, whatever it 
 was, that he had in hand. But he wasn't a rough man, 
 though a quick one. He had a way of doing the bluntest 
 things without roughing the feelings. When he drew nigh, 
 he took my father's arm to lead him aside, speaking to me at 
 the same time ' Rayner, go to Rachel ; I have prepared her 
 to see you. I will explain every thing to your father, if you 
 have not already done it ; and if you have, I still have some- 
 thing to say.' 
 
 " You may reckon I didn't stop to count the tracks after 
 that. I verily think that I made the door of the house in a 
 hop-skip-and-jump from the stable. Yet, when I got to the 
 threshold, I stuck I stuck fast. I heard a low sweet sort of 
 moaning from within, and oh ! how my heart smote me when 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 123 
 
 I heard it. I thought to myself, it's so cruel to force this poor 
 girl's inclination. What can she see in me? That was my 
 question to myself, and it made me mighty humble, I tell you* 
 when I asked it. But that very humbleness did me good ? 
 and gave me a sort of strength. ' If she don't see any thing 
 in me to favour,' was my thought, ' at least I'll show her that 
 I'm not the mean-spirited creature to take advantage of her 
 necessity ;' and when I thought in this manner, I went for- 
 ward with a bound, and stood before her. I took her hand 
 in mine, and said, but Lord bless me, it's no use to try and 
 tell you what I said, for I don't know myself. The words 
 poured from me free enough. My heart was very full. I 
 meant to speak kindly and humbly, and do the thing gene- 
 rously, and I reckon that, when the heart means what is right, 
 and has a straight purpose before it, the tongue can't go very 
 far out of the way. Nor did mine, if I am to judge of the 
 effects which followed it. It's enough for me to tell you, 
 that, though the tears wasn't altogether dried up in Rachel's 
 eyes, her lips began to smile ; she let her hand rest in mine, 
 and she said something, but what it was, I can't tell you. 
 It's enough to say that she let me know that she thought that 
 all that had been proposed by Mr. Eckhardt was for her good 
 and happiness, and she was willing to consent to whatever 
 he had said. He came in a little while after, and seemed 
 quite satisfied. He talked, as if he himself was particularly 
 pleased, but there was a very great earnestness in his looks 
 that awed and overpowered me. His eyes seemed very 
 much sunk, even in the short time he had been gone, the 
 wrinkles seemed to have doubled in number on his face ; his 
 form trembled very much, and I could perceive that he took 
 his pills from the little box of silver twice as often as ever. 
 He didn't give himself or me much time to think over what 
 was to happen, for he hadn't been ten minutes returned to 
 the house, after the matter was understood all round, before 
 he said to me in a whisper ; 
 
124 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 " ( Rayner, my lad, you are a good fellow ; suppose you ride 
 eff at once for your parson. You have one, your father tells 
 me, within a few miles. A smart gallop will bring him back 
 with you before sunset, and I would see you married to-night. 
 I shall have to leave you in the morning.' 
 
 " Ah ! stranger, don't wonder if I made the dust fly after 
 that ! That night we were married. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " THE next morning, just as breakfast was over, Mr. Eck- 
 hardt rose and buttoned his coat. 
 
 " ' Rachel, my child,' said he, ' I shall now leave you. It 
 will be perhaps some time before I see you again. For that 
 matter, I may never see you again. But I have fulfilled my 
 promise to your dear father. You are the wife of a good man 
 a gentle and kind-hearted man. He will make you a good 
 husband, I believe and hope. You, I know, will make him a 
 good wife. The seeds of goodness and happiness are here in 
 this cottage may they grow to fruits. Kiss me, my child ! 
 Kiss me ! It may be for the last time !' 
 
 ' " No !' said she ; ( oh, no !' and she caught and she clung 
 to him. It was a time to bring tears, stranger, not to talk. 
 There was a good many words said by all of us, but not much 
 talking. It was a cry and an exclamation like, with poor 
 Rachel, and then she sunk off in the arms of Mr. Eckhardt. 
 I was monstrous frightened ; but he carried her into the room 
 and laid her on the bed. c She will soon get over it,' said he, 
 ' and in the mean time I'll steal away. When she recovers, 
 
 follow me. You will find me ' He told me where to 
 
 find him at the place where we had played together on the 
 dead horse but the sentence he finished in a whisper. Then 
 he stooped and kissed her, gave her one long look, and his 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA^ 125 
 
 lips moved as if he was speaking a blessing over her. After 
 this he turned from me hurriedly, as if to conceal the tear in 
 his eye. But I saw it. It couldn't be concealed. It was 
 about the largest tear I ever did see in the eye of a man, but 
 I reckon there was only that one. He was gone before 
 Rachel come to herself. Till that happened I was about the 
 most miserable creature on earth. When she opened her eyes 
 and found that he was already gone, her troubles somewhat 
 softened ; and when I found that, I set off to follow Mr. Eck- 
 hardt, as he had directed me. I found him at the place 
 appointed, but he had no horse and no cloak, and didn't ap- 
 pear to have made any of the usual arrangements for travel- 
 ling. I expressed my surprise. 'Where's your horse?' I de- 
 manded. 'I shall need none. Besides, I have none^^Fbti 
 seem to forget, Rayner, that the horse is yours.' < Mine !' 
 
 ' Yes ! you won him !' ' But you can't mean, sir ' I was 
 
 beginning to expostulate, when he put his hand on my mouth. 
 ' Say no more, Rayner. You are a good fellow. The horse is 
 yours, whether you have him by your skill or my generosity. 
 Did I not tell you that I intended to make you my heir ?' 
 
 "I looked bewildered, and felt so, and said, 'Well, you 
 don't intend to leave us then ?' ' Yes, I do.' c How do you 
 mean to go by water?' Remember, the river was pretty 
 near us, and though I didn't myself expect any steamboat, yet 
 I thought it likely he might have heard of one. ' Very pos- 
 sible, he answered, with something of a smile upon his coun- 
 tenance. He continued, after a short pause, ' It is difficult to 
 say by what conveyance a man goes when he goes out of the 
 world, Rayner. The journey I propose to take is no other. 
 Life is an uncertain business, Rayner. Uncertain as it is, 
 most people seem never to have enough of it. I am of a dif- 
 ferent thinking. I have had only too much. I am neither 
 well in it, nor fit for it, and I shall leave it. I have made all 
 my arrangements, settled my concerns, and, as I promised, 
 you shall be my heir.' I began to speak and expostulate with 
 
126 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 him, but he stopped me. ' Rayner, you are a good fellow, but 
 you shouldn't interrupt me. As I have but little time for talking, 
 you should let me enjoy it all. You can say what you have 
 to say when I am gone, and I promise you / shall never inter- 
 rupt you then. You have heard me, you understand my 
 words. 1 
 
 " ' I think I do,' was my answer ; ' you mean to take your 
 own life !' 
 
 '" True, Rayner! but you speak as if it was yours I were 
 about to take !' 
 
 " I told him I felt almost as bad as if it was, and asked 
 him why he should think of such a deed. 
 
 " ( It's a long story, Rayner, and you would probably under- 
 stand it as thoroughly in ten words as in ten thousand. Per- 
 haps I should say enough in telling you that I am sick of life, 
 and that life sickens me. Every moment that I live humbles 
 and degrades me. I have been the master of three princely 
 fortunes ; and now I have only the means to carry me on my 
 last journey. I have had the the reputation of talents, wit, 
 and wisdom in high degree, but lack the strength to forbear 
 the companionship of the basest, and the wit to keep from 
 being the victim of the vilest. Had I been the only victim, 
 Rayner ! But that poor child, now your wife the child of a 
 dear relative and friend entrusted to my guardianship in the 
 confidence of love, which, at dying, demanded of me no 
 pledge, but that which it fancied was speaking through my 
 eyes that child has been the victim also ! Start not ! The 
 child is pure as any angel. It was the robbery of her fortune 
 of which I speak. I squandered hers with my own. I did 
 not bring her to beggary, Rayner. No ! But I have lived in 
 perpetual dread that 1 should do so ! Now that she is yours, 
 I have no such fears. I know that she is safe that she will 
 do well that you will both do well. Do not fancy, my good 
 fellow, when I tell you this, that I have been seeking in vain 
 for a husband for the child. The thing is otherwise. Hus- 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 127 
 
 bands have sought for her. Men of rank and substance, for 
 whose attentions the mothers of most daughters would have 
 worked their wits and fingers to the bone. But if I squan- 
 dered Rachels fortune mark me I was resolved that she 
 should not be sacrificed. I resolved that I would do her 
 justice, at least in that one respect that she should never be 
 yielded, if I could help it, to the shallow witling, the profli- 
 gate, or the brute let their social rank and worldly posses- 
 sions be what they might. I knew her, and fancied I could 
 tell what sort of person would suit her. I have found that 
 person in you so I believe and my work is ended. The 
 labourer knocks off when his work is done, and so will I. 
 There is one thing, Rayner ' 
 
 " He took from his pocket the buckskin roll which contained 
 his pack of cards. 
 
 " ' Do you see these ? I will not say that they have been 
 my bane. I were a fool to say so. My own weakness was 
 my bane. They were only the unconscious instruments in my 
 hands, as innocent as the dirk or pistol in the hands of the 
 assassin. But they have their dangers, Rayner ; and I would 
 protect you against them. Take them; I promised you 
 should be my heir. Take them, but not to play with them. 
 Keep them in your eyes as an omen. Show them to your 
 children as a warning. Tell them what I have told you ; and 
 while you familiarize their eyes with their forms, familiarize 
 their hearts with their dangers. There ! do not lose sight of 
 them. Leave me now. Farewell ! You see I am at the 
 bottom of my box.' 
 
 " He thrust the cards into my hands, and as he spoke, he 
 drew out his little silver box, and took from it the only pill 
 which remained. This he swallowed, and then handed me 
 the box also. I refused to take it. ' Pshaw !' said he, ' why 
 not ? your refusal to take it can have no effect on my deter- 
 mination ! Take it and leave me !' But I still refused. He 
 turned from me, saying : ' You're a foolish fellow, Rayner ; 
 
128 LIFE IN AMERICA, 
 
 and walked down the road leading to the river. I followed 
 hirii closely. He turned half round, once or twice, muttered, 
 and seemed discontented. I still kept close with him, and 
 and began to expostulate. But he interrupted me fiercely ; 
 and I now perceived that his eyes began to glisten and to 
 glare very wildly. It had not escaped my observation, that 
 the last pill which he he had taken was greatly larger than 
 any he had used before ; and I then remembered, that before 
 the marriage ceremony was performed, on the previous night, 
 he had opened the box more than once, in my presence, and I 
 noted that it contained a good many. By this time we 
 reached the banks of the river. He turned full upon me. 
 ' Rayner,' said he, < you're a good fellow, but you must go 
 home to your wife/ ' It's impossible,' said I, ' to leave you.' 
 'We'll see to that," said he, and he turned towards the 
 river. I took it for certain he was going to plunge in, and I 
 jumped forward to seize him, but, just as my arms were ex- 
 tended to embrace him, he wheeled about and clapped a pistol 
 to my head. I started back, quickly enough, as you may 
 suppose ; and he exclaimed < Ah ! Rayner, you are a good 
 fellow, but you cannot prevent the journey. Farewell!' 
 With these words he flung me the pistol, which I afterwards 
 found was unloaded, and, before I could speak or think, he 
 sprang from the bluff into the stream. It appeared to me as 
 if I heard the splash before I saw the motion. I ran up the 
 bluff where he had stood, as soon as I could recover myself, 
 and saw where the water-rings were spreading in great 
 circles where he had gone down. I didn't give myself a mo- 
 ment after that. I could swim like a duck and dive like a 
 serpent, and had no fear of the water for myself; so in I 
 jumped, and fished about as long as I could stand it under- 
 neath ; but I could find nothing of him. He had given himself 
 up to the currents so entirely, that they whirled him out of 
 sight in a minute. When I rose and got to the shore, Lsaw 
 his hat floating among some bushes on the other shore. But as 
 
MFE IN AMERICA. IgjJT 
 
 for poor Mr. Eckhardt, he was gone, sure enough, upon his 
 last journey ! 
 
 " You see our little family. The boy is very much like him 
 in looks, and I reckon in understanding. He's very thoughtful 
 and smart. We are happy, stranger, and I don't believe that 
 Mr. Eckhardt was wrong in his notion that I would make Ra- 
 chel happy. She tells me she is, and it makes me happy to 
 believe her. It makes her sad to see the cards, and sad to hear 
 of them, but she thinks it best for our boy to learn the tale, 
 and learn it all by heart ; and that makes her patient, and pa- 
 tience brings a sort of peace along with it that's pretty much 
 like happiness. T could tell you more, my friend, but it's not 
 needful, and your eyes look as if they had kept open long 
 enough for one sitting. So come with me, and let me show 
 you where you are to lie down !" 
 
 These words roused me ! I half suspect that I was drows- 
 ing in my chair. I can hardly suppose that, dear reader, you 
 could be capable of an act of like forge tfulness. 
 
 F 5 
 
130 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 THE ARM-CHAIR OF TUSTENUGGEE. 
 A TRADITION OF THE CATAWBA. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE windy mouth had set in, the leaves were falling, and the 
 light-footed hunters of Catawba, set forth upon the chase. 
 Little groups went off in every direction, and before two 
 weeks had elapsed from the beginning of the campaign, the 
 whole nation was broken up into parties, each under the guid- 
 ance of an individual warrior. The course of the several 
 hunting bands was taken according to the tastes and habits of 
 these leaders. Some of the Indians were famous for their skill 
 in hunting the otter, could swim as long with head under 
 water as himself, and be not far from his haunches, when he 
 emerged to breathe. These followed the course of shallow 
 waters and swamps, and thick, dense bays, in which it was 
 known he found his favourite haunts. The bear hnnter pushed 
 for the cane brakes and the bee trees, and woe to the black 
 bear whom he encountered with his paws full of honeycomb, 
 which he was unwilling to leave behind him. The active 
 warrior took his way towards the hills, seeking for the brown 
 wolf and the deer ; and, if the truth were known, smiled with 
 wholesale contempt at the more timorous, who desired less 
 adventurous triumphs. Many set forth in couples only, avoiding 
 with care all the clamorous of the tribe ; and some few, the 
 more surly or successful, the inveterate bachelors of the nation, 
 were content to make their forward progress alone. The old 
 men prepared their traps and nets, the boys their blow guns 
 and followed with the squaws slowly, according to the divi- 
 sion made by the hunters among themselves. They carried 
 the blankets and bread stuffs, and camped nightly in noted 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA^ J31 
 
 places, to which, according to previous arrangement, the 
 hunters might repair at evening, and bring their game. In this 
 way, some of the tribes followed the course of the Catawba, 
 even to its source. Others darted off towards the Pacolet and 
 Broad rivers, and there were some, the most daring and swift 
 of foot, who made nothing of a journey to the Tiger river, and 
 the rolling mountains of Spartanburg. 
 
 There were two warriors who pursued this course. One of 
 them was Conattee, and a braver man and more fortunate 
 hunter never lived. But he had a wife who was a greater 
 scold than Xantippe. She was the wonder and terror of the 
 tribe, and quite as ugly as the one-eyed squaw of Tus- 
 tenuggee, the grey demon of Enoree. Her tongue was the 
 signal for "slinking" among the bold hunters of Turkey- 
 town ; and when they heard it, " Now," said the young wo- 
 men, who sympathised, as all proper young women will do, 
 with the handsome husband of an ugly wife, " now," said they, 
 " we know that poor Conattee has come home." The return 
 of the husband, particularly if he brought no game, was sure 
 to be followed by a storm of that u dry thunder," so well 
 known, which never failed to be heard at the farthest end of 
 the village. 
 
 The companion of Conattee on the present expedition was 
 named Selonee one of the handsomest lads in the whole 
 nation. He was tall and straight like a pine tree ; had proved 
 his skill and courage in several expeditions against the Chow- 
 annee red sticks, and had found no young warriors of the 
 Cherokee, though he had been on the war path against them, 
 and had stricken all their posts, who could circumvent him in 
 stratagem, or conquer him in actual blows. His renown as a 
 hunter was not less great. He had put to shame the best 
 wolf-takers of the tribe, and the lodge of his venerable father, 
 Chifonti, was never withput meat. There was no good reason 
 why Conattee, the married man, should be so intimate with 
 Selonee, the single; there was no particular sympathy between 
 
13 LIFE IN AMERICA.' 
 
 the two ; but, thrown together in sundry expeditions, they had 
 formed an intimacy, which, strange to say, was neither de- 
 nounced nor discouraged by the virago wife of the former. 
 She who approved of but few of her husband's movements, 
 and still fewer of his friends and fellowships, forbore all her 
 reproaches, when Selonee was his companion. She was the 
 meekest, gentlest, sweetest tempered of all wives, whenever 
 the young hunter came home with her husband ; and he, poor 
 man, was consequently never so well satisfied, as when he 
 brought Selonee along with him. It was on such occasions, 
 only, that the poor Conattee could persuade him to regard 
 Macourah as a tolerable personage. How he came to marry 
 such a creature such a termagant, and so monstrous ugly 
 was a mystery which none of the damsels of Catawba could 
 elucidate, though the subject was one on which, when mend- 
 ing the young hunter's mocassins, they expended no small 
 quantity of conjecture. Conattee, we may be permitted to 
 say, was still quite popular among them, in spite of his bad 
 taste, and manifest unavailableness : possibly, for the very rea- 
 son that his wife was universally detested ; and it will, per- 
 haps, speak something for their charity, if we pry no deeper 
 nto their motives, to say that the wish was universal among 
 them, that the Optichi Maneyto, or Black Devil of their be- 
 lief, would take the virago to himself, and leave to the poor 
 Conattee some reasonable hope of being made happy by a 
 more indulgent spouse. 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA: 133 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 WELL, Conattee and Selonee were out of sight of the smoke 
 of " Turkey- town/' and, conscious of his freedom as he no 
 longer heard the accents of domestic authority, the henpecked 
 husband gave a loose to his spirits, and made ample amends to 
 himself, by the indulgence of joke and humour, for the sober 
 restraints which fettered him at home. Selonee joined with 
 him in his merriment, and the resolve was mutual that they 
 should give the squaws the slip and not linger in their progress 
 till they had thrown the Tiger-river behind them. To trace 
 their course till they came to the famous hunting ground 
 which bordered on the Pacolet, will scarcely be necessary, 
 since, as they did not stop to hunt by the way, there wer e 
 necessarily but few incidents to give interest to their move- 
 ments. When they had reached the river, however, they made 
 for a cove, well known to them on previous seasons, which lay 
 between the parallel waters of the Pacolet, and a little stream 
 called the Thicketty a feeder of the Eswawpuddenah, in 
 which they had confident hopes of finding the game which they 
 desired. In former years the spot had been famous as a 
 sheltering place for herds of wolves ; and, with something like 
 the impatience of a warrior waiting for his foe, the hunters 
 prepared their strongest shafts and sharpest flints, and set 
 their keen eyes upon the closest places of the thickest, into 
 which they plunged fearlessly. They had not proceeded far be- 
 fore a single boar-wolf, of amazing size, started up in their 
 path ; and, being slightly wounded by the arrow of Selonee, 
 which glanced first upon some twigs beneath which he lay, he 
 darted off with a fearful howl in the direction of Conattee, 
 whose unobstructed shaft, penetrating the side beneath the 
 fore shoulders, inflicted a fearful, if not a fatal wound, upon 
 the now thoroughly enraged beast. He rushed upon Conattee 
 
134 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 in his desperation, but the savage was too quick for him ; 
 leaping behind a tree, he avoided the rashing stroke with 
 which the white tusks threatened him, and by this time was 
 enabled to fit a second arrow to his bow. His aim was true, 
 and the stone blade of the shaft went quivering into the 
 shaggy monster's heart ; who, under the pang of the last con- 
 vulsion, bounded into the muddy water of the Thicketty Creek, 
 to the edge of which the chase had now brought all the parties. 
 Conattee beheld him plunge furiously forward twice thrice 
 then rest with his nostrils in the water, as the current bore 
 him from sight around a little elbow of the creek. But it was 
 not often that the Indian hunter of those days lost the game 
 which he had stricken. Conatte stripped to it, threw his 
 fringed hunting shirt of buckskin on the bank, with his bow 
 and arrows, his mocasins and leggings beside it, and reserving 
 only his knife, he called to Selonee, who was approaching 
 him, to keep them in sight, arid plunged into the water in pur- 
 suit of his victim. Selonee gave little heed to the movements 
 of his companion, after the first two or three vigorous strokes 
 which he beheld him make. Such a pursuit, as it promised 
 no peril, called for little consideration from this hard and fear- 
 less race, and Selonee amused himself by striking into a thick 
 copse which they had not yet traversed, in search of other 
 sport. There he started the she-wolf, and found sufficient 
 employment on his own hands to call for all his attention to 
 himself. When Selonee first came in sight of her, she was 
 lying on a bed of rushes and leaves, which she had prepared 
 under the roots of a gigantic oak. Her cubs, to the number 
 of five, lay around her, keeping a perfect silence, which she 
 had no doubt enforced upon them after her own fashion, and 
 which was rigidly maintained until they saw him. In was 
 then the instincts of the fierce beasts could no longer be sup- 
 pressed, and they joined at once in a short chopping bark, or 
 cry, at the stranger, while their little eyes flashed fire, and 
 their red jaws, thinly sprinkled with the first teeth, were 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA* 135 
 
 gnashed together with a show of that ferocious hatred to man, 
 which marks their nature, but which, fortunately for Selonee, 
 was too feeble at that time to make his approach to them 
 dangerous. But the dam demanded greater consideration. 
 With one sweep of her fore-paw she drew all the young ones 
 behind her, and showing every preparedness for flight, she 
 began to move backward slowly beneath the overhanging 
 limbs of the itree, still keeping her keen fiery eye fixed upon 
 the hunter. But Selonee was not disposed to suffer her to get 
 off so easily. The success of Conattee had just given him suf- 
 ficient provocation to make him silently resolve that the she- 
 wolf who is always more to be dreaded than the male, as, 
 with nearly all his strength, she was twice his swiftness, and, 
 with her young about her, more than twice his ferocity 
 should testify more completely to his prowess than the victory 
 just obtained by his companion could possibly speak for his. 
 His eye was fixed upon hers, and hers, never for a moment, 
 taken from him. It was his object to divert it, since he well 
 knew, that with his first movement, she would most probably 
 spring upon him. Without lifting his bow, which he neverthe- 
 less had in readiness, he whistled shrilly as if to his dog ; and 
 answered himself by a correct imitation of the bark of the In- 
 dian cur, the known enemy of the wolf, and commonly his 
 victim. The keen eye of the angry beast looked suddenly 
 around as if fearing an assault upon her young ones from be- 
 hind. In that moment, the arrow of Selonee was driven 
 through her neck, and when she leaped forward to the place 
 where he stood, he was no longer to be seen. 
 
 From a tree which he had thrown between them, he watched 
 her movements and prepared a second shaft. Meanwhile she 
 made her way back slowly to her young, and before she could 
 again turn towards him a second arrow had given her another 
 and severer wound. Still, as Selonee well knew the singular 
 tenacity of life possessed by those fierce animals, he pru- 
 dently changed his position with every shaft, and took espe- 
 
136 LIFE IN AMERICA: 
 
 * cial care to place himself in the rear of some moderately 
 sized tree, sufficiently large to shelter him from her claws, 
 yet small enough to enable him to take free aim around 
 it. Still he did not," at any time, withdraw more than 
 twenty steps from his enemy. Divided in her energies by the 
 necessity of keeping near her young, he was conscious of her 
 inability to pursue him far. Carrying on the war in this man- 
 ner he had buried no less than five arrows in her body, and it 
 was not until his sixth had penetrated her eye, that he 
 deemed himself safe in the nearer approach which he now 
 meditated. She had left her cubs, on receiving his last shot, 
 and was writhing and leaping, blinded, no less than maddened 
 by the wound, in a vain endeavour to approach her assailant. 
 It was now that Selonee determined on a closer conflict. It 
 was the great boast of the Catawba warriors to grapple with 
 the wolf, and while he yet struggled, to tear the quick quiver- 
 ing heart from his bosom. He placed his bow and arrows be- 
 hind the tree, and taking in his left hand a chunk or fragment 
 of a bough, while he grasped his unsheathed knife in his right, 
 he leapt in among the cubs, and struck one of them a severe 
 blow upon the head with the chunk. Its scream and the confu- 
 sion among the rest, brought back the angry dam, and though 
 she could see only imperfectly, yet guided by their clamour, 
 she rushed with open jaws upon the hunter. With keen, 
 quick eyes, and steady resolute nerves, he awaited for her ap- 
 proach, and when she turned her head aside, to strike 
 him with her sharp teeth, he thurst the pine fragment 
 which he carried in his left hand, into her extended jaws, and 
 pressing fast upon her, bore back her haunches to the earth. 
 All thjs while the young ones were impotently gnawing at the 
 heels of the warrior, which had been fearlessly planted in the 
 very midst of them. But these he did not heed. The larger 
 and fiercer combatant called for all his attention, and her 
 exertions, quickened by the spasms of her wounds, rendered 
 necessary all his address and strength to preserve the ad van- 
 
LIFE JN AMERICA; 137 
 
 tage he had gained. The fierce beast had sunk her teeth by 
 this into the wood, and leaving it in her jaws, he seized her 
 with the hand, now freed, by the throat, and bearing her up- 
 ward, so as to yield him a plain and easy stroke at her belly 
 he drove the deep knife into it, and drew the blade upwards 
 until resisted by the bone of the breast. It was then, while 
 she lay writhing and rolling upon the ground in the agonies of 
 death, that he tore the heart from the opening he had made, 
 and hurled it down to the cubs, who seized on it with avidity. 
 This done, he patted and caressed them, and while they strug- 
 gled about him for the meat, he cut a fork in the ears of each, 
 and putting the slips in his pouch, left the young ones without 
 further hurt, for the future sport of the hunter. The dam he 
 * scalped, and with this trophy in his possession, he pushed 
 back to the place where he had left the accoutrements of Co- 
 nattee, which he found undisturbed in the place where he had 
 laid them. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 BUT where was Conattee himself during all this period ? Some 
 hours had elapsed since he had taken the river after the tiger 
 that he had slain, and it was something surprising to Selonee 
 that he should have remained absent and without his clothes 
 so long. The weather was cold and unpleasant, and it could 
 scarce be a matter of choice with the hunter, however hardy, 
 to suffer all its biting bleaknesses when his garments were 
 within his reach. This reflection made Selonee apprehensive 
 that some harm had happened to his companion. He shouted 
 to him, but received no answer. Could he have been seized 
 with the cramp while in the stream, and drowned before he 
 could extricate himself. This was a danger to which the very 
 best of swimmers is liable at certain seasons of the year, and 
 
138 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 in certain conditions of the body. Selonee reproached himself 
 that he had not waited beside the stream until the result of 
 Conattee's experiment was known. The mind of the young 
 hunter was troubled with many fears and doubts. He went 
 down the bank of the river, and called aloud with all his lungs, 
 until the woods and waters re-echoed, again and again, the 
 name of Conattee. He received no other response. With a 
 mind filled with increasing fears, each more unpleasant than 
 the last, Selonee plunged into the creek, and struck off for 
 the opposite shore, at the very point at which the tiger had 
 been about to turn, under the influence of the current, when 
 Conattee went in after him, He was soon across, and soon 
 found the tracks of the hunter in the gray sands upon its mar- 
 gin. He found, too, to his great delight, the traces made by the 
 carcass of the tiger the tract was distinct enough from the 
 blood which dropped from the reeking skin of the beast, and 
 Selonee rejoiced in the certainty that the traces which he fol- 
 lowed would soon lead him to his friend, But not so. He 
 had scarcely gone fifty yards into the wood when his tracks 
 failed him at the foot of a crooked, fallen tree, one of the most 
 gnarled and complicated of all the crooked trees of the forest ; 
 here all signs disappeared. Conattee was not only not there 
 but had left no sort of clue by which to follow him further, 
 This was the strangest thing of all. The footprints were dis- 
 tinct enough till he came to the spot where lay the crooked 
 tree, but there he lost them. He searched the forest around 
 him, in every direction. Not a copse escaped his search not 
 a bay not a thicket not an island and he came back to the 
 spot where the tiger had been skinned, faint and weary, and 
 more sorrowful than can well be spoken. At one time he 
 fancied his friend was drowned, at another, that he was 
 taken prisoner by the Cherokees. But there were his tracks 
 from the river, and there were no other tracks than his own. 
 Besides, so far as the latter supposition was concerned, it was 
 scarcely possible that so brave and cunning a warrior would 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 139 
 
 suffer himself to be so completely entrapped and carried off by 
 an enemy, without so much as being able to give the alarm ; 
 and, even had that been the case, would it be likely that the 
 enemy would have suffered him to pass without notice. 
 " But," here the suggestion naturally arose in the mind of 
 Selonee, " may they not even now be on the track !" With 
 the suggestion the gallant youth bounded to his feet. " It is 
 no fat turkey that they seek !" he exclaimed, drawing out an 
 arrow from the leash that hung upon his shoulders, and fitting 
 it to his bow, while his busy, glancing eye watched every 
 shadow in the wood, and his keen, quick ear noted every 
 sound. But there were no signs of an enemy, and a singular 
 and mournful stillness hung over the woods. Never was 
 creature more miserable than Selonee. He called aloud, until 
 his voice grew hoarse, and his throat sore, upon the name of 
 Conattee. There was no answer, but the gibing echoes of his 
 own hoarse accents. Once more he went back to the river, 
 once more he plunged into its bosom, and with lusty sinews 
 struck out for a thick green island that lay some quarter of a 
 mile below, to which he thought it not improbable that the 
 hunter might have wandered in pursuit of other game. It 
 was a thickly wooded but small island, which he traversed in 
 an hour. Finding nothing, he made his weary way back to 
 the spot from which his friend had started on leaving him. 
 Here he found his clothes where he had hidden them. The 
 neighbourhood of this region he traversed in like manner with 
 the opposite going over ground, and into places, which it 
 was scarcely in the verge of physical possibility that his friend's 
 person could have gone. 
 
 The day waned and night came on, and still the persever- 
 ing hunter gave not up his search. The midnight found him 
 at the foot of the tree, where they had parted, exhausted but 
 sleepless, and suffering bitterly in mind from those apprehen- 
 sions which every moment of hopeless search had necessarily 
 helped to accumulate and strengthen. Day dawned, and his 
 
1 40 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 labour was renewed. The unhappy warrior went resolutely 
 over all the ground which he had traversed the night before . 
 Once more he crossed the river, and followed, step by step, 
 the still legible foot tracks of Conattee. These, he again 
 noted, were all in the opposite direction to the stream, to 
 which it was evident he had not returned. But, after reaching 
 the place where lay the fallen tree, all signs failed. Selonee 
 looked round the crooked tree, crawled under its sprawling 
 and twisted limbs, broke into the hollow which was left by 
 its uptorn roots, and again shouted, until all the echoes gave 
 back his voice, the name of Conattee, imploring him for an 
 answer if he could hear him and reply. But the echoes died 
 away, leaving him in a silence that spoke more loudly to his 
 heart than before, that his quest was hopeless. Yet he gave it 
 not up until the day had again failed him. That night, as before' 
 he slept upon the ground. With the dawn, he again went 
 over it, and with equally bad success. This done, he deter- 
 mined to return to the camp. He no longer had any spirit to 
 pursue the sports for which alone he had set forth. His heart 
 was full of sorrow, his limbs were weary, and he felt none of 
 that vigorous elasticity which had given him such great renown 
 as a brave and a hunter, among his own and the neighbouring 
 nations. He tied the clothes of Conattee upon his shoulders' 
 took his bow and arrows, now sacred in his sight, along with 
 him, and turned his eyes homeward. The next day, at noon, 
 he reached the encampment. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE hunters were all in the woods, and none but the squaws 
 and the papooses left in the encampment. Selonee came 
 within sight of their back settlements, and seated himself upon 
 a log at the edge of the forest with his back carefully turned 
 
LIFE IN AMERIG'A, 141 
 
 towards the smoke of the camp. Nobody ventured to ap- 
 proach him while in this situation ; but, at night, when the 
 hunters came dropping in, one by one, Selonee drew nigh to 
 them. He called them apart from the women, and then told 
 them his story. 
 
 " This is a strange tale which the wolf-chief tells us," said 
 one of the old men, with a smile of incredulity. 
 
 "It is a true tale, father," was the reply. 
 
 " Couattee was a brave chief!" 
 
 "Very brave, father," said Selonee. 
 
 "Had he not eyes to see ?" 
 
 " The great bird, that rises to the sun, had not better," was 
 the reply. 
 
 "What painted jay was it that said Conattee was a fool ?" 
 
 " The painted bird lied, that said so, my father," was the 
 response of Selonee. 
 
 " And comes Selonee, the wolf-chief, to us, with a tale that 
 Conatte was blind, and could not see ; a coward that could 
 not strike the she- wolf; a fool that knew not whereto set 
 down his foot ; and shall we not say Selonee' lies upon his 
 brother, even as the painted bird that makes a noise in my 
 ears. Selonee has slain Conattee with his knife. See, it is the 
 blood of Conattee upon the war-shirt of Selonee." 
 
 " It is the blood of the she- wolf," cried the young warrior, 
 with a natural indignation. 
 
 " Let Selonee go to the woods behind the lodges, till the 
 chiefs say what shall be done to Selonee, because of Conattee, 
 whom he slew." 
 
 "Selonee will go, as Emathla, the wise chief, has com- 
 manded," replied the young warrior. " He will wait behind 
 the lodges, till the chiefs have said what is good to be done to 
 him, and if they say that he must die because of Conattee, it 
 is well. Selonee laughs at death. But the blood of Conattee 
 is not upon the war-shirt of Selonee. He has said it is the 
 blood of the wolf's mother." With these words the young 
 
142 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 chief drew forth the skin of the wolf which he had slain, to- 
 gether with the tips of the ears taken from the cubs, and leav- 
 ing them in the place where he had sat, withdrew, without 
 further speech, from the assembly which was about to sit in 
 judgment upon his life. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE consultation that followed was close and earnest. There 
 was scarcely any doubt in the minds of the chiefs that Conat tee 
 was slain by his companion. He had brought back with him 
 the arms and all the clothes of the hunter. He was covered 
 with his blood, as they thought ; and the grief which filled his 
 heart and depressed his countenance, looked, in their eyes, 
 rather like the expression of guilt than suffering. For a long 
 while did they consult together. Selonee had friends who 
 were disposed to save him ; but he had enemies also, as merit 
 must have always, and these were glad of the chance afforded 
 them to put out of their reach, a rival of whom they were 
 jealous, and a warrior whom they feared. Unfortunately for 
 Selonee, the laws of the nation but too well helped the malice 
 of his foes. These laws, as peremptory as those of the Medes 
 and Persians, held him liable in his own life for that of the 
 missing hunter ; and the only indulgence that could be ac- 
 corded to Selonee, and which was obtained for him, was, that 
 he might be allowed a single moon in which to find Conattee, 
 and bring him home to his people. 
 
 " Will Selonee go seek Conattee the windy moon is for 
 Selonee let him bring Conattee home to his people." Thus 
 said the chiefs, when the young warrior was again brought 
 before them. 
 
 " Selonee would die to find Conattee," was the reply. 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 143 
 
 "He will die if he finds him not!" answered the chief 
 Emathla. 
 
 " It is well !" calmly spoke the young warrior. " Is Selonee 
 free to go ?" 
 
 " The windy moon is for Selonee. Will he return to the 
 lodges if he finds not Conattee ?" was the inquiry of Emathla. 
 
 " Is Selonee a dog, to fly !" indignantly demanded the war- 
 rior. " Let Emathla send a young warrior on the right and 
 * on the left of Selonee, if he trusts not what is spoken by 
 Selonee." 
 
 " Selonee will go alone, and bring back Conattee." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE confidence thus reposed in one generally esteemed a mur- 
 derer, and actually under sentence as such, is customary 
 among the Indians ; nor is it often abused. The loss of caste 
 which would follow their flight from justice, -is much more 
 terrible among them than any fear of death which an Indian 
 may avoid, but not through fear. Their loss of caste among 
 themselves, apart from the outlawry which follows it, is, in 
 fact, a loss of the soul. The heaven of the great Manneyto is 
 denied to one under outlawry of the nation, and such a person 
 is then the known and chosen slave of the demon, Opitchi- 
 Manneyto. It was held an unnecessary insult on the part of 
 Emathla, to ask Selonee if he would return to meet his fate. 
 But Emathla was supposed to favour the enemies of Selonee. 
 
 With such a gloomy alternative before him in the event of 
 his proving unsuccessful, the young hunter retraced his steps 
 to the fatal waters where Conattee had disappeared. With a 
 spirit no less warmly devoted to his friend, than anxious to 
 avoid the disgraceful doom to which he was destined, the 
 youth spared no pains, withheld no exertion, overlooked no 
 
144 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 single spot, and omitted no art known to the hunter, to trace 
 out the mystery which covered the fate of Conattee. But days 
 passed of fruitless labour, and the last faint slender outlines of 
 the moon which had been alloted him for the search, gleamed 
 forth a sorrowful light upon his path, as he wearily traced it 
 onward to the temporary lodges of the tribe. 
 
 Once more he resumed his seat before the council and 
 listened to the doom which was in reserve for him. When the 
 sentence was pronounced, he untied his arrows, loosened the 
 belt at his waist, put a fillet around his head, made of the 
 green bark of a little sapling which he cut in the neighbour- 
 ing woods, then rising to his feet, he spoke thug, in language, 
 and with a spirit, becoming so great a warrior. 
 
 " It is well. The chiefs have spoken, and the wolf-chief 
 does not tremble. H> loves the chase, but he does not weep 
 like a woman, because it is forbidden that he go after the deer 
 he loves to fright the young hares of the Cherokee, but he 
 laments not that ye say ye can conquer the Cherokee without 
 his help. Fathers, I have slain the deer and the wolf my 
 lodge is full of their ears. I have slain the Cherokee, till the 
 scalps are about my knees when I walk in the cabin. I go 
 not to the dark valley without glory I have had the victories 
 of grey hairs, but there is no grey hair in my own. I have no 
 more to say there is a deed for every arrow that is here. Bid 
 the young men get their bows ready, let them put a broad 
 stone upon their arrows that may go soon into the life I wil 1 
 show my people how to die." 
 
 They led him forth as he commanded, to the place of execu- 
 tion a little space behind the encampment, where a hole had 
 been already dug for his burial. While he went, he recited his 
 victories to the youths who attended him. To each he gave 
 an arrow which he was required to keep, and with this arrow, 
 he related some incident in which he had proved his valour* 
 either in conflict with some other warrior, or with the wild 
 beasts of the woods, These deeds, each of them was required 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 145 
 
 to remember and relate, and show the arrow which was given 
 witli the narrative on occasion to this great state solemnity. 
 In this way, their traditions are preserved. When he reached 
 the grave, he took his station before it, the executioners, with 
 their arrows, being already placed in readiness. The whole 
 tribe had assembled to witness the execution, the warriors and 
 boys in the foreground, the squaws behind them. A solemn 
 silence prevailed over the scene, and a few moments only re- 
 mained to the victim ; when the wife of Conattee darted for- 
 ward from the crowd bearing in her hands a peeled wand^ 
 with which, with every appearance of anger, she struck 
 Selonee over the shoulders, exclaiming as she did so : 
 
 " Come, thou dog, thou shalt not die thou shalt lie in the 
 door-way of Conattee, and bring venison for his wife. Shall 
 there be no one to bring meat to my lodge ? Thou shalt do 
 this, Selonee thou shalt not die." 
 
 A murmur arose from the crowd at these words. 
 
 " She hath claimed Selonee for her husband, in place of Co- 
 nattee well, she hath the right." 
 
 The enemies of Selonee could not object. The widow had, 
 in fact, exercised a privilege which is recognized by the In- 
 dian laws almost universally ; and the policy by which she 
 was governed in the present instance, was sufficiently appa- 
 rent to all the village. It was evident, now that Conattee 
 was gone, that nobody could provide for the w r oman who had 
 no sons, and no male relations, and who was too execrably 
 ugly, and too notorious as a scold, to leave it possible that 
 she could ever procure another husband so inexperienced or so 
 flexible as the one she had lost. Smartly striking Selonee on 
 his shoulders, she repeated her command that he should rise 
 and follow her. 
 
 " Thou wilt take this dog to thy lodge, that he may hunt 
 thee venison ?" demanded the old chief, Emathla. 
 
 "Have I not said?" shouted the scold "hear you not? 
 The dog is mine I bid him follow me." 
 
146 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 " Is there no friendly arrow to seek my heart ?" murmured 
 the young warrior, as, rising slowly from the grave into 
 which he had previously descended, he prepared to obey the 
 laws of his nation, in the commands of the woman who 
 claimed him to replace the husband who was supposed to 
 have died by his hands. Even the foes of Selonee looked on 
 him with lessened hostility, and the pity of his friends was 
 greater now than when he stood on the precipice of death. 
 The young women of the tribe wept bitterly as they beheld so 
 monstrous a sacrifice. Meanwhile, the exulting hag, as if 
 conscious of her complete control over the victim, goaded him 
 forward with repeated strokes of her wand. She knew that 
 she was hated by all the young women, and she was delighted 
 to show them a conquest which would have been a subject of 
 pride to any among them. With this view she led the cap- 
 tive through their ranks. As they parted mournfully, on either 
 hand, to suffer the two to pass, Selonee stopped short and 
 motioned one of the young women who stood at the greatest 
 distance behind the rest, looking on with eyes which, if they 
 had no tears, yet gave forth an expression of desolateness 
 more woful than any tears could have done. With clasped 
 hands, and trembling as she came, the gentle maiden drew 
 nigh. 
 
 " Was it a dream," said Selonee sorrowfully, "that told me 
 of the love of a singing bird, and a green cabin by the 
 rickling waters ? Did 1 hear a voice that said to me sweetty* 
 wait but a little, till the green corn breaks the hill, and Me- 
 doree will come to thy cabin and lie by thy side ? Tell me, 
 is this thing true, Medoree ?" 
 
 " Thou sayest, Selonee the thing is true," was the reply of 
 the maiden, uttered in broken accents that denoted a breaking 
 heart. 
 
 " But they will make Selonee go to the lodge of another 
 woman they will put Macourah into the arms of Selonee." 
 
 "Alas! Alas!" 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 147 
 
 " Wilt thou see this thing, Medoree ? Can'st thou look upon 
 it, then turn away, and going back to thy own lodge, con'st 
 thou sing a gay song of forgetfulness as thou goest?" 
 
 " Forgetfulness ! Ah, Selonee." 
 
 " Thou art the beloved of Selonee, Medoree thou shalt not 
 lose him. It would vex thy heart that another should take 
 him to her lodge !" 
 
 The tears of the damsel flowed freely down her cheeks, and 
 she sobbed bitterly, but said nothing. 
 
 " Take the knife from my belt, Medoree, and put its sharp 
 tooth into my heart, ere thou sufferest this thing! Wilt thou 
 not ?" 
 
 The girl shrunk back with an expression of undisguised hor- 
 ror in her face. 
 
 " I will bless thee, Medoree," was the continued speech of 
 the warrior. She turned from him, covering her face with her 
 hands. 
 
 " I cannot do this thing, Selonee I cannot strike thy heart 
 with the knife. Go let the woman have thee. Medoree 
 cannot kill thee she will herself die." 
 
 "It is well," cried the youth, in a voice of mournful self- 
 abandonment, as he resumed his progress towards the lodge 
 of Macourah. 
 
148 LIFE TN AMERICA. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 IT is now time to return to Conattee, and trace his progress 
 from the moment when, plunging into the waters, he left the 
 side of Selonee in pursuit of the wolf, whose dying struggles 
 in the stream he had beheld. We are already acquainted with 
 his success in extricating the animal from the water, and pos- 
 sessing himself of its hide. He had not well done this when 
 he heard a rushing noise in the woods above him, and fancy- 
 ing that there was a prospact of other game at hand, and in- 
 flated with the hope of adding to his trophies, though without 
 any weapon but his knife, Conattee hastened to the spot. 
 When he reached it, however, he beheld nothing. A gigantic 
 and singularly deformed pine tree, crooked and most irregular 
 in shape, lay prostrate along the ground, and formed such an 
 intricate covering above it, that Conattee deemed it possible 
 that some beast of prey might have made its den among the 
 recesses of its roots. With this thought, he crawled under the 
 spreading limbs, and searched all their intricacies. Emerging 
 from the search, which had been fruitless, he took a seat upon 
 the trunk of the tree, and spreading out the wolf's hide before 
 him, proceeded to pare away the particles of flesh which, in 
 the haste with which he had performed the task of flaying 
 him, had been suffered to adhere to the skin. But he had 
 scarcely commenced the operation, when two gigantic limbs 
 of the fallen tree upon which he sat, curled over his thighs 
 and bound him to the spot. Other limbs, to his great horror, 
 while he strove to move, clasped his arms and covered his 
 shoulders. He strove to cry aloud, but his jaws were grasped 
 covered in his primitive integrity. But how improbable that 
 this discovery should be made. He had no voice to declare 
 his bondage. He had no capacity for movement by which he 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 149 
 
 before he could well open them, by other branches ; and, with 
 his eyes, which were suffered to peer through little openings 
 in the bark, he could see his legs encrusted by like coverings 
 with his other members. Still seeing, his own person yet es- 
 caped his sight. Not a part of it now remained visible to 
 himself. Abed of green velvet-like moss rested on his lap. 
 His knees shot out a thorny excrescence : and his hands, flat- 
 tened to his thighs, were enveloped in as complete a casing of 
 bark as covered the remainder of the tree around him. Even 
 his knife and wolf skin, to his great surprise, suffered in like 
 manner, the bark having contracted them into one of those 
 huge bulging knobs that so numerously deformed the tree. 
 With all his thoughts and consciousness remaining, Conattee 
 had yet lost every faculty of action. When he tried to scream 
 aloud, his jaws felt the contraction of a pressure upon them, 
 which resisted all their efforts, while an oppressive thorn 
 growing upon a wild vine that hung before his face, was 
 brought by every movement of himself or of the tree into his 
 very mouth. The poor hunter immediately conceived his si- 
 tuation he was in the power of Tustenuggee, the Grey De- 
 mon of Enoree. The tree upon which he sat was one of these 
 magic trees which the tradition of his people entitled the 
 " Arm-chair of Tustenuggee." In these traps for the unwary 
 the wicked demon caught his victim, and exulted in his mi- 
 series. Here he sometimes remained until death released 
 him ; for it was not often that the power into whose clutches 
 he had fallen, suffered his prey to escape through a sudden 
 feeling of lenity or good humour. The only hope of Conattee 
 was that Selonee might suspect his condition; in which event 
 his rescue was simple and easy enough. It was only to hew 
 off the limbs, or bare away the bark, and the victim was un- 
 might reveal the truth to his comrade's eyes ; and unless some 
 divine instinct should counsel his friend to an experiment 
 which he would scarcely think upon, of himself, the poor pri- 
 soner felt that he must die in the miserable bondage into 
 
150 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 which he had fallen. While these painful convictions were 
 passing through his mind, he heard the distant shoutings of 
 Selonee. In a little while he beheld the youth anxiously 
 seeking him in every quarter, following his trail at length to 
 the very tree in which he was bound, crawling like himself 
 beneath its branches, but not sitting like himself to be caught 
 upon its trunk. Vainly did the poor fellow strive to utter 
 but a few words, however faintly, apprising the youth of his 
 condition. The effort died away in the most imperfect 
 breathing, sounding in his own ears like the faint sigh of some 
 budding flower. With equal ill success did he aim to struggle 
 with his limbs. He was too tightly grasped, in every part, to 
 stir in the slightest degree a single member. He saw the 
 fond search, meanwhile, which his comrade maintained, and 
 his heart yearned the more in fondness for the youth. But it 
 was with consummate horror that he saw him depart as night 
 came on. Miserable, indeed, were his feelings that night. 
 The voice of the Grey Demon alone kept him company, and 
 he and his one-eyed wife made merry with his condition, 
 goading him the livelong night with speeches of cruel gibe 
 and mischievous reflection, such as the following: 
 
 " There is no hope for you, Conattee, till some one takes 
 your place. Some one must sit in your lap, whom you are 
 willing to leave behind you, before you can get out of mine," 
 was the speech of the Grey Demon, who, perched upon Co- 
 nattee's shoulders, bent his huge knotty head over him, while 
 his red eyes looked into the half-hidden ones of the environed 
 hunter, and glared upon him with the exultation of the tyrant 
 at last secure of his prey. Night passed away at length, and, 
 with the dawn, how was the hopeless heart of Conattee re- 
 freshed as he again saw Selonee appear. He then remembered 
 the words of Tustenuggee, which told him that he could not 
 escape until some one sat in his lap whom he was willing to 
 leave behind him. The fancy rose in his mind that Selonee 
 would do this ; but could it be that he would consent to leave 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 151 
 
 his friend behind him. Life was sweet, and great was the 
 temptation. At one moment he almost wished that Selonee 
 would draw nigh, and seat himself after his fatigue. As if 
 the young huMer knew his wish, he drew nigh at that instant ; 
 but the better feelings in Conattee's heart grew strong as he 
 approached, and, striving to twist and writhe in his bondage, 
 and labouring at the same time to call out in warning to his 
 friend, he manifested the noble resolution not to avail himself 
 of his friend's position to relieve his own ; and, as if the warn- 
 ing of Conattee had really reached the understanding of 
 Selonee, the youth retraced his steps, and once more hurried 
 away from the place of danger. With his final departure the 
 fond hopes of the prisoner sunk within him ; and when hour 
 after hour had gone by without the appearance of any of his 
 people, and without any sort of change in his condition, he 
 gave himself up utterly for lost. The mocks and jeers of the 
 Grey Demon and his one-eyed squaw filled his ears all night, 
 and the morning brought him nothing but flat despair. He 
 resigned himself to his fate with the resolution of one who, 
 however unwilling he might be to perish in such a manner, 
 had yet faced death too frequently not to yield him a ready 
 defiance now. 
 
152 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 EOT hope had not utterly departed from the bosom of Selonee. 
 Perhaps the destiny which had befallen himself had made him 
 resolve the more earnestly to seek farther into the mystery of 
 that which hung above the fate of his friend. The day which 
 saw him enter the cabin of Macourah saw him the most 
 miserable man alive. The hateful hag, hateful enough as the 
 wife of his friend, whose ill treatment was notorious, was now 
 doubly hateful to him as his own wife ; and now, when, alone 
 together, she threw aside the harsh and termagant features 
 which had before distinguished her deportment, and, assuming 
 others of a more amorous complexion, threw her arms about 
 the neck of the youth and solicited his endearments, a loath-* 
 ing sensation of disgust was coupled with the hate which had 
 previously possessed his mind. Flinging away from her em- 
 brace, he rushed out of the lodge with feelings of the most un- 
 speakable bitterness and grief, and bending his way towards 
 the forest, soon lost sight of the encampment of his people. 
 Selonee was resolved on making another effort for the recovery 
 of his friend. His resolve went even farther than this. He 
 was bent never to return to the doom which had been fastened 
 upon him, and to pursue his way into more distant and un- 
 known forests a self-doomed exile unless he could restore 
 Conattee to the nation. Steeled against all those ties of love 
 or of country, which at one time had prevailed in his bosom 
 over all, he now surrendered himself to friendship or despair. 
 In Catawba, unless he restored Conattee, he could have no 
 hope ; and without Catawba he had neither hope nor love. 
 On either hand he saw nothing but misery; but the worst 
 form of misery lay behind him in the lodge of Macourah. But 
 Macourah was not the person to submit to such a determina- 
 tion. She was too well satisfied with the exchange with 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA, 153 
 
 which fortune had provided her, to suffer its gift to be lost so 
 easily ; and when Selonee darted from the cabin in such fear- 
 ful haste, she readily conjectured his determination. She hur- 
 ried after him with all possible speed, little doubting that 
 those thunders could she overtake him with which she had 
 so frequently overawed the pliant Conattee, would possess 
 an effect not less influential upon his more youthful successor. 
 Macourah was gaunt as a greyhound, and scarcely less fleet of 
 foot. Besides, she was as tough as a grey-squirrel in his 
 thirteenth year. She did not despair of overtaking Selonee, 
 provided she suffered him not to know that she was upon his 
 trail. Her first movements therefore were marked with cau- 
 tion. Having watched his first direction, she divined his aim 
 to return to the hunting grounds where he had lost or slain 
 his companion ; and these hunting grounds were almost as 
 well known to herself as to him. With a rapidity of move- 
 ment, and a tenacity of purpose, which could only be accounted 
 for by a reference to that wild passion which Selonee had 
 unconsciously inspired in her bosom for himself, she followed 
 his departing footsteps ; and when, the next day, he heard 
 her shouts behind him, he was absolutely confounded. But 
 it was with a feeling of surprise and not of dissatisfaction 
 that he heard her voice. He good youth regarding Conat- 
 tee as one of the very worthiest of the Catawba warriors, 
 seemed to have been impressed with an idea that such also 
 was the opinion of his wife. He little dreamed that she had 
 any real design upon himself; and believed that, to show her 
 the evidences which were to be seen, which led to the fate of 
 her husband, might serve to convince her that not only he was 
 not the murderer, but that Conattee might not, indeed, be 
 murdered at all. He coolly waited her approach, therefore, 
 and proceeded to renew his statements, accompanying his 
 narrative with the expression of the hope which he entertained 
 of again restoring her husband to herself and the nation. But 
 
 she answered his speech only with upbraidings and entreaties ; 
 G 5 
 
154 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 and when she failed, she proceeded to thump him lustily with 
 the wand by which she had compelled him to follow her to 
 the lodge the day before. But Selonee was in no humour to 
 obey the laws of the nation now. The feeling of degradation 
 which had followed in his mind, from the moment when he 
 left the spot where he had stood up for death, having neither 
 fear nor shame, was too fresh in his consciousness to suffer 
 him to yield a like acknowledgment to it now ; and though 
 sorely tempted to pummel the Jezabel in return for the lusty 
 thwacks which she had already inflicted upon his shoulders, 
 he forebore, in consideration of his friend, and contented him- 
 self with simply setting forward on his progress, determined 
 to elude her pursuit by an exercise of all his vigour and elas- 
 ticity. Selonee was hardy as the grisly bear, and fleeter than 
 the wild turkey ; and Macourah, virago as she was, soon dis- 
 covered the difference in the chase when Selonee put forth his 
 strength and spirit. She followed with all her pertinacity 
 quickened as it was by an increase of fury at that presumption 
 which had ventured to disobey her commands ; but Selonee 
 fled faster than she pursued, and every additional moment 
 served to increase the space between them. The hunter lost 
 her from his heels at length, and deemed himself fortunate 
 that she was no longer in sight and hearing, when he again 
 approached the spot where his friend had so mysteriously dis- 
 appeared. Here he renewed his search with a painful care 
 and minuteness, which the imprisoned Conattee all the while 
 beheld. Once more Selonee crawled beneath those sprawling 
 limbs and spreading arms that wrapped up in their solid and 
 coarse rinds the person of the warrior. Once more he emer- 
 ged from the spot disappointed and hopeless. This he had 
 hardly done when, to the great horror of the captive, and the 
 annoyance of Selonee, the shrill shrieks and screams of the too 
 v/ fill-known voice of Macourah rang through the forests. Se 
 loncc dashed forward a* be heard the sounds, and when 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 155 
 
 Macourah reached the spot, which she did unerringly in fol- 
 lowing his trail, the youth was already out of sight. 
 
 " I can go no further," cried the woman " a curse on him 
 and a curse on Conattee, since in losing one I have lost both. 
 I am too faint to follow. As for Selonee, may the one-eyed 
 witch of Tustenuggee take him for her dog." 
 
 With this delicate imprecation, the virago seated herself in 
 a state of exhaustion upon the inviting bed of moss which 
 formed the lap of Conattee. This she had no sooner done, than 
 the branches relaxed their hold upon the limbs of her husband. 
 The moment was too precious for delay, and sliding from 
 under her with an adroitness and strength which were beyond 
 her powers of prevention, and, indeed, quite too sudden for 
 any effort at resistance, she had the consternation to behold 
 her husband starting up in full life before her, and, with the 
 instinct of his former condition, preparing to take flight. She 
 cried to him, but he fled the faster, she strove to follow him, 
 but the branches which had relaxed their hold upon her hus - 
 band had resumed their contracted grasp upon her limbs. 
 The brown bark was already forming above her on every 
 hand, and her tongue, allotted a brief term of liberty, was 
 alone free to assail him. But she had spoken but few words 
 when the bark encased her jaws, and the ugly thorn of the 
 vine which had so distressed Conattee, had taken its place at 
 their portals. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE husband looked back but once, when the voice ceased 
 then, with a shivering sort of joy that his own doom had un- 
 dergone a termination, which he now felt to be doubly fortu- 
 natehe made a wide circuit that he might avoid the fatal 
 neighbourhood, and pushed on in pursuit of his friend, whom 
 
156 LIFE IN AMERICA, 
 
 his eyes, even when he was surrounded in the tree, had fol- 
 lowed in his flight. It was no easy task, however to overtake 
 Selonee, flying, as he did, from the supposed pursuit of the 
 termagant. Great however was the joy of the young warriors 
 when they did encounter, and long and fervent was their mu- 
 tual embrace. Conattee described his misfortunes, and related 
 the manner in which he was taken ; showed how the bark had 
 encased his limbs, and how the intricate magic had even en- 
 grossed his knife and the wolf skin which had been the trophy 
 of his victory. Conattee said not a word of his wife and her 
 entrapment, and Selonee was left in the conviction that his 
 companion owed his escape from the toils to some hidden 
 change in the tyrannical mood of Tustenuggee, or the one- 
 eyed woman, his wife. 
 
 "But the skin and the knife, Conattee, let us not leave 
 them," said Selonee, " let us go back and extricate them from 
 the tree." 
 
 Conattee showed some reluctance. He soon said, in the 
 words of Macbeth, which he did not use however as a quota- 
 tion, " I'll go no more." But Selonee, who ascribed this re- 
 luctance to very natural apprehensions of the demon from 
 whose clutches he had just made his escape, declared his 
 readiness to undertake the adventure if Conattee would only 
 point out to his eyes the particular excrescence in which the 
 articles were enclosed. When the husband perceived that 
 his friend was resolute, he made a merit of necessity ." 
 
 " If the thing is to be done," said he, " why should you 
 have the risk, I myself will do it. It would be a woman-fear 
 were I to shrink from the danger. Let us go." 
 
 The process of reasoning by which Conattee came to this 
 determination was a very sudden one, and one, too, that will 
 not be hard to comprehend by every husband in his situa- 
 tion. It was his fear that if Selonee undertook the business, 
 an unlucky or misdirected stroke of his knife might sever a 
 limb, or remove some portions of the bark which did not merit 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 157 
 
 or need removal. Conattee trembled at the very idea of the 
 revelations which might follow such an unhappy result. 
 Strengthening himself, therefore, with all his energies, he 
 went forward with Selonee to the spot, and while the latter 
 looked on and witnessed the 'operation, he proceeded with a 
 nicety and care which amused and surprised Selonee, to the 
 excision of the swollen scab upon the tree in which he had 
 seen his wolf skin encompassed. While he performed the 
 operation, which he did as cautiously as if it had been the ex- 
 traction of a mote from the eye of a virgin ; the beldam in the 
 tree, conscious of all his movements, and at first flattered 
 with the hope that he was working for her extrication, main- 
 tained the most ceaseless efforts of her tongue and limbs, but 
 without avail. Her slight breathing, which Conattee knew 
 where to look for, more like the sighs of an infant zephyr than 
 the efforts of a human bosom, denoted to his ears an overpow- 
 ering but fortunately suppressed volcano within ; and his 
 heart leaped with a new joy, which had been unknown to it 
 for many years before, when he thought that he was now safe, 
 and, he trusted, for ever, from any of the tortures which he 
 had been fain to endure patiently so long. "When he had 
 finished the operation by which he had re-obtained his treasures, 
 he ventured upon an impertinence which spoke surprisingly 
 for his sudden acquisition of confidence ; and looking up 
 through the little aperture in the bark, from whence he had 
 seen every thing while in the same situation, and from whence 
 he concluded she was also suffered to see, he took a peep a 
 quick, quizzical and taunting peep, at those eyes which he 
 had not so dared to offend before. He drew back suddenly 
 from the contact so suddenly, indeed, that Selonee, who saw 
 the proceeding, but had no idea of the truth, thought he had 
 been stung by some insect, and questioned him accordingly. 
 
 "Let us be off, Selonee," was the hurried answer, "we 
 have nothing to wait for now." 
 
158 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 " Yes," replied Selonee, " and I had forgotten to say to 
 you that your wife, Macourah, is on her way in search of you. 
 I left her but a little way behind, and thought to find her 
 here. I suppose she is tired, however, and is resting by the 
 way." 
 
 (< Let her rest," said Conattee, " which is an indulgence 
 much greater than any she ever accorded me. She will find 
 me out soon enough, without making it needful that I should 
 go in search of her. Come." 
 
 Selonee kindly suppressed the history of the transactions 
 which had taken place in the village during the time when 
 the hunter was supposed to be dead , but Conattee heard the 
 facts from other quarters, and loved Selonee the better for the 
 sympathy he had shown, not only in coming again to seek for 
 him, but in not loving his wife better than he did himself. 
 They returned to the village, and every body was rejoiced to 
 behold the return of the hunters. As for the termagant 
 Macourah, nobody but Conattee knew her fate ; and he, like 
 a wise man, kept his secret until there was no danger of its 
 being made use of to rescue her from her predicament. Years 
 had passed, and Conatte had found among the young squaws 
 one that pleased him much better than the old. He had 
 several children by her, and years and honours had alike fallen 
 numerously upon his head, when, one day, one of his own 
 sons, while hunting in the same woods, knocked off one of 
 the limbs of the Chair of Tustenuggee, and to his great horror 
 discovered the human arm which they enveloped. This led 
 him to search farther, and limb after limb became detached 
 under the unscrupulous action of his hatchet, until the entire 
 but unconnected members of the old squaw became visible. 
 The lad knocked about the fragments with little scruple, 
 never dreaming how near was his relation to the form which 
 he treated with so little veneration. When he came home to 
 (fie lodge and told his story, S.-lonee looked at Conattee, bu 
 said nothing. The whole truth was! at once apparent to his 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA, 159 
 
 mind. Conattee, though he still kept his secret, was seized 
 with a sadden fit of piety, and taking his sons with him, he 
 proceeded to the spot which he well remembered, and gather- 
 ing up the bleached remains, had them carefully buried in the 
 trenches of the tribe. 
 
 It may properly end this story, to say that Selonee wedded 
 the sweet girl who, though willing to die herself to prevent 
 him from marrying Macourah, yet positively refused to take 
 his life to defeat the same event. It may be well to state, in 
 addition, that the only reason Conaftee ever had for believing 
 that Selonee had not kept his secret from every body, was 
 that Medoree, the young wife of the latter ; looked on him 
 with a very decided coolness. " But we will see," muttered 
 Conattee as he felt this conviction. " Selonee will repent of 
 this confidence, since now it will never be possible for him to 
 persuade her to take a seat in the Arm-chair of Tustenuggee. 
 Had he been a wise man he would have kept his secret, and 
 then there would have been no difficulty in getting rid of a 
 wicked wife." 
 
160 L1*'E IN AMERICA. 
 
 THE SNAKE OF THE CABIN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " THEY talk," said the stranger somewhat abruptly, " They 
 talk of the crimes of wealthy people, and in high life. No 
 doubt there are very great and many wrong doers among 
 the rich. People in possession of much wealth, and seeing 
 how greatly it is worshipped, will very naturally presume 
 upon and abuse its powers : but it is not among the rich 
 only, .and in the great city, that these things happen. The 
 same snake, or one very much like it, winds his way into the 
 wigwam and the cabin and the poor silly country girl is as 
 frequently the victim, as the dashing lady of the city and city 
 fashions. For that matter she is the more easily liable to im- 
 position, as are all persons who occupy insulated positions, 
 and see little of the great struggles of busy life. The planter 
 and the farmer who dwell in the remote interior find the face 
 of the visitor too interesting, to scrutinize it very closely. A 
 pleasant deportment, a specious outside, a gentle and attrac- 
 tive manner, will win their way in our forest world, without 
 rendering necessary those formal assurances, that rigid intro- 
 duction, and those guarantees of well known persons, which 
 the citizen requires before you partake of his bread and salt. 
 With us, on the contrary, we confide readily ; and the cun- 
 ning stranger, whom other communities have expelled with 
 loathing, rendered cautious and conciliatory by previous de- 
 feat, adopts the subtlety of the snake, and winds his way as 
 artfully as that reptile, when he comes among us. We have 
 too many sad stories of this sort. Yours is one of them. 
 This poor girl, Ellen Ramsay, was abused thus, as I have 
 shown you by this scoundrel, Stanton. But finish your nar- 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 161 
 
 rative. She had a short time of it, and a sad one, I do not 
 doubt, with a creature so heartless and so vile." 
 
 " But a poor eleven months ; and the change was too 
 rapid," said young Atkins, l( not to let us see that she was 
 any thing but happy. To-day, the gayest of all God's crea- 
 tures, as much like a merry bird in spring-time, singing over 
 it young; to-morrow as gloomy and miserable as if there 
 was neither song nor sunshine in God's whole earth." 
 
 " Poor thing !" exclaimed Walter. 
 
 "It was the shortest life," said the other, "to begin so 
 well, that I ever saw, and the story which you have heard is 
 pretty much the truth." 
 
 " But the funeral ?" said Walter. 
 
 " Ah ! that was not exactly as you heard it," was the reply 
 of Atkins. " I was at the funeral of Ellen Ramsay, as indeed 
 was very nearly all the village, and I could refer you to 
 twenty who will tell you the matter just as it occurred. In 
 the first place, it is not true that any body expected Robert 
 Anderson to be present. He sent no message of any kind to 
 Stanton. It was very well known that he was sick actually 
 in bed, and had been so for more than a week before the death 
 of Ellen. People almost thought they might go off together. 
 There was a sort of sympathy between them, though I don't 
 think, from the hour of her unlucky marriage, that the eyes of 
 the two ever met, till they met in the world of spirits unless 
 it were, indeed, in their dreams. But they seemed to pine 
 away, both of them, about the same time, and though he 
 stood it longest, he did not outlast her much. When she died 
 as I tell you, he was very feeble and in bed. Nobody ever 
 expected him to leave it alive, and least of all that he should 
 leave it then, to stand among the people at her grave. The 
 circumstances of her marriage with Stanton, were too noto- 
 rious, and too much calculated to embitter his feelings and his 
 peace, to make it likely that he would be present at such a 
 scene. She had cast him off, slightingly, to give a preference 
 
162 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 to the more showy stranger, and she had spoken to him in a 
 manner not soon to be forgiven by a man of sensibility. But 
 he did forgive that I know and his love for Ellen was un- 
 impaired to the last. -She did not doubt this, when she mar- 
 ried Stan ton, though she expressed herself so. That was only 
 to find excuses to him, if not to her own conscience, for her 
 conduct. I'm sure she bitterly repented of all before very 
 long. She was just the girl to do wrong in a hurry, and be 
 sorry for it the next minute." 
 
 " But the funeral ?" said Walter. 
 
 " Ah, true the funeral. Well, as I was telling you, when 
 the coffin was brought round to the burial place you Joiow 
 the spot, among a thick grove of stunted oaks, and the under- 
 growth is always kept down by old Eamsay who should 
 come out from behind one of the largest old trees, but Kobert 
 Anderson. He was pale as a ghost, and his limbs trembled 
 and tottered as he walked, but he came forward as resolutely 
 as if he felt no pain or weakness. Stanton started when he 
 saw him. He never expected his presence, I assure you. 
 Every eye saw his agitation as Robert came forward ; and I 
 tell you, there was not a person present who did not see, as 
 well as myself, that the husband of the poor girl looked much 
 paler at that moment than her sick lover. Robert did not 
 seem to see Stanton, or to mind him as he came forward ; in- 
 deed, he did not seem to see any body, His eyes were fixed 
 on the coffin, which was carried by me, Ralph Mason, Dick 
 Rawlins, and I think Hiram Barker. He did not shed a tear, 
 which we all wondered at, for all of us expected to see him 
 crying like any child, because we knew how soft-hearted he 
 always was, and how fond he had been of Ellen. At first, we 
 thought his not crying was because of his anger at being so ill- 
 treated, which was natural enough ; but what he said after- 
 wards soon did away with that notion. He came close to 
 my side, and put his hand on the lid of the coffin near the 
 name, and though he said not a single word, to us., we seemed 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 163 
 
 to understand that he meant we should stop till he read it. 
 We did stop, and he then read the plate aloud, something in 
 this manner ( Ellen' and then he stopped a little as he came 
 to the word ' Stauton' arid you could see a deep red flush 
 grow out upon his cheek and forehead, and then he grew pale 
 as death and held upon the coffin as if to keep himself from 
 falling then he seemed to muster up strength, and he read 
 on, in very deliberate and full accents, as if he had thrown all 
 his resolution into the effort " Ellen Stanton !' These words 
 he repeated twice, and then he passed on to the rest ' WIFE 
 OF GEORGE STANTON, BORN APRIL 7, 1817. DIED,' Here he 
 stopped again, poor fellow ! as if to catch his breath. He only 
 gasped when he tried to go on with the reading. He could 
 only say e Died. Died !' and there he stopped like a man 
 choking. By this time, Stanton came up close to him and 
 looked at us, as if to say 'Why don't you go forward why do 
 you suffer him to stop you' but he said nothing. Robert did 
 not seem to mind or to notice him, but, with another effort, 
 recovering his strength arid voice, he read on to the end 
 ' DIED MARCH 27, 1836 AGED EIGHTEEN YEARS, ELEVEN 
 MONTHS AND NINETEEN DAYS.' Old John Ramsay by this 
 time came up, and stood between him and Stanton. He looked 
 up from the coffin, first at one and then at the other and said 
 quietly without any appearance of anger or passion :" 
 
 " This, Mr Ramsay, is your daughter, Ellen she was 
 to have been my wife she was engaged to me by her own 
 promise, and you gave me your consent to our marriage. Is 
 not this true, Mr. Ramsay ?" 
 
 " True," said the old man very mildly, but with a deep sigh 
 that seemed to come from the bottom of his soul ; " but you 
 know, Robert, " 
 
 Then it was that Robert seemed to lose himself for a mo- 
 ment. His eye brightened with indignation and his speech 
 came quick. 
 
 "I know that she is here!" he exclaimed " here, in her 
 
164 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 coffin, dead to you, your daughter dead to me, my wife- 
 your Ellen ! my Ellen My Ellen my poor Ellen !" And then 
 he sobbed bitterly upon the coffin. 1 believe that most of the 
 persons present and all had crowded round us sobbed too. 
 But I could not see them, for my own heart was overflowing. 
 The interruption did not continue long. Robert was the first 
 to recover himself. He had always a right idea of what was 
 proper; and no doubt, just then, he felt, that, according to 
 the world's way of thinking, he was doing wrong in stopping 
 the dead in its last progress to the place of rest. He raised 
 up his head from the coffin plate, and said to us, speaking very 
 slowly, for his breath seemed only to come in sobs, and then 
 after great efforts 
 
 " Do not think, my friends, when I speak of the pledges 
 Ellen Ramsay made to me, that I am come here to utter any 
 reproaches of the dead, or to breathe a single syllable of com- 
 plaint against the blessed creature, who was always a sweet 
 angel, now looking up in heaven. God forbid that I should 
 speak, or that you should hear, any harm of a woman that I 
 have always looked upon as the purest and truest-hearted 
 creature under the sun. No ! in telling you of this pledge, I 
 come here only to acquit her of any wrong, or evil thought, or 
 action, when she ceased to think it binding upon her. It is to 
 say to you at her grave, for you all knew that we were to be 
 married, that, as I never gave her any reason for believing me 
 to be false, or more unworthy of her heart than when she pro- 
 mised it to me, so, also, I believe that nothing but some such 
 persuasion could have made her deprive me of it. While I ac- 
 quit her, therefore of having done me any intentional injustice, 
 I tell you, in the presence of her heavenly spirit, which knows 
 the truth of what I declare, that she has been abused by some 
 false slanderer, to do me wrong, and herself wrong, and 
 to" 
 
 By this time Stanton put in, and stopped whatever more 
 Robert had to say. He had been getting more and more angry 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 165 
 
 as Robert went on, and when he came to that solemn part 
 about the slanderer, and lifted his hands to heaven and looked 
 upward with the tears just beginning to come into his eyes, as 
 if he did really see the spirit of Ellen at the moment above 
 him, then Stanton got quite furious. Those words clinched 
 him in the sore part of his soul ; and he made round the coffin 
 towards where Robert stood, and doubled his fists, and spo 
 hoarsely, as if he was about to choke. 
 
 " And who do you mean slandered you to her r" he cried to 
 Robert, "who? who?" 
 
 His face was as black as night, and his features, usually so 
 soft and pleasing to the eyes of the young women, now looked 
 rather like those of a devil than of a mortal man. We thought 
 he would have torn the poor young man to pieces, but Robert 
 did not seem at all daunted. I suppose if we had not been 
 there, and had not interfered so quickly, there would have 
 been violence ; and violence upon a frail, dying creature like 
 Robert, would have been the most shocking cruelty. But 
 Maxcy jumped in between them, and John Ramsay, Ellen's 
 youngest brother, stepped forward also, and we all cried 
 " shame," and this drove Stanton back, but he still looked 
 furious and threatening, and seemed to wish for nothing more 
 than to take Robert by the throat. Nobody seemed to mind 
 him less than the poor fellow who had most reason to fear. 
 Robert had a bold and fearless spirit, and there was a time, 
 before he grew sickly and religious, when he would have grap- 
 pled with him for death and life before the altar itself. But 
 he was now subdued. He did not seem to mind his enemy, 
 or, indeed, any thing but the coffin on which he hung. He did 
 not, I really think, hear Stanton speaking at all, though, for a 
 few moments, the fellow bullied pretty loud, and not a sylla- 
 ble that he said escaped any body else. His soul seemed to 
 be in the coffin. His eyes seemed to try to pierce the heavy 
 lid of pine, and the dark crape, and the shroud ; and one 
 would think, from the eager and satisfied gaze, that he had 
 
162 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 succeeded in doing so. No doubt his mind deluded him, and 
 he thought so for you could hear him whispering " Ellen ! 
 dear Ellen !" Then he gave way to us, and reading the plate, 
 he said " But eighteen but eighteen. Bat it is all well 
 now ! all well !" He suffered us then to go forward, and fol- 
 lowed close, and made no objection, and said no more words. 
 While we let the coffin down, he stood so nigh, that the earth 
 shelved with him, and he would have gone in with it, for he 
 made no resistance, if we had not caught him in our arms and 
 dragged him from the brink. Bat we could not soon get him 
 from the spot. When all was done, he did not seem to mind 
 that the rest were going, but stood looking down as earnestly 
 as if he could still read the writing through six feet of earth. 
 Stanton, too, did not seem willing to go, but we very well 
 knew it was for no love he had for the poor girl that he wished 
 to remain ; and Maxcy whispered to me that he would bring 
 him off before he left the ground, for fear he might do some 
 harm to Robert, who was no fighter, and was too feeble to 
 stand one so strong. This he did, and after he was gone I 
 tried to get Robert away also. It was sometime before I did 
 so, and then it seemed he went with me only to get rid of my 
 presence, for he was back at the grave as soon as night set in, 
 and there he might be found every evening at the same hour, 
 just about sunset, for several months afterwards for he lin- 
 gered strangely until they brought him to sleep beside her. 
 Though sick, and pining away fast, the poor fellow never let 
 an evening go by, whatever weather it might be, without pay- 
 ing the grave a visit ; and one day, perhaps two weeks after 
 the funeral, old Mrs. Anderson called me into her cottage as I 
 was riding by, and said she would show me something. She 
 took me up into her son's room, a little chamber in the loft, 
 and what should it be but a head-board, that the dying lad 
 had sawed out with his own hands, from a thick plank, and 
 had smoothed, and planed, and painted, all in secret, so that 
 he could print on it an inscription for the poor girl's grave } 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA? 167 
 
 and you would be surprised to see how neatly he had worked 
 it all. The poor old woman cried bitterly all the time, but 
 you could still see how proud she was of her son. She showed 
 me his books he had more than a hundred and she sighed 
 from the bottom of her heart when she told me that it was the 
 books that has made him sickly. 
 
 " But he will read," she said, " say all I can ; though he 
 knows it's a-doing him no good. ( Ah, mother,' he says, when 
 I tell him about it, ( though it may shorten my life to read, it 
 will shorten my happiness not to read, and I have too little 
 happiness now left me to be willing to lose any of it.' And 
 when he speaks so," said the old woman, " I can't blame him, 
 for I know it's all true. But I blame myself, Mr. Atkins, for 
 you see it was all my doing that he got so many books, and is 
 so fond of them. I loved to see him learning, and made him 
 read to me so constantly of an evening, and it did my heart 
 so much good to think that one day my Robert might be a 
 great lawyer, or a parson, for I could see how much smarter 
 he was than all the other boys of the village and so I never 
 looked at his pale cheeks, and had no guess how poorly he was 
 getting, till, all of a sudden, he was laid up, on my hands, 
 and pining away every hour, as you now see him. Things 
 looked better for a while when he got fond of Ellen Ramsay, 
 and she of him. But that Stanton, ever since he came among 
 us, Robert has gone backward, and I shan't wonder if it's not 
 very long before he wants his own tombstone !" 
 
 Poor old woman ! I saw in a corner, half hidden behind an 
 old trunk in the youth's chamber, what it was evident she 
 had not seen, a head board, the very fellow to that which he 
 had been making for Ellen ! but I said nothing to her at the 
 time. When they were found after his death for he said 
 nothing of them while he lived they were both neatly finished, 
 with a simple but proper inscription. On his own was but 
 one line above his name, It was this 
 
LIFE I 
 
 " Mine was wo, but mine is hope. 
 
 RORERT ANDERSON." 
 
 " You tell me of a remarkable young man," said Walter 
 " and he was but twenty when he died ?" 
 
 " No more !" 
 
 " We will go and look upon his grave." 
 
 " You will see the head board there, but that for Ellen was 
 never put up Stanton would not allow it." 
 
 " Ah ! but we shall mend that. I will pluck that scoundrel's 
 comb. Is the head-board preserved ?" 
 
 " It is : his mother keeps it in his chamber, standing up be- 
 side his little book-case ; but see, yonder is Stanton now. He 
 is on his way to Ramsay's house. They do not live together. 
 He boards at a little farm-yard about a mile from the village. 
 They say that there has been a quarrel between him and his 
 brother-in*law, young John Ramsay, something about his sis- 
 ter's property. There are eleven negroes, which were owned 
 by young John and herself, in their own right, from the grand- 
 mother's gift, which they have suffered the old man to work 
 until now. Stanton wants a division, and young John tried 
 to persuade him not to touch them till his death, which must 
 happen before long, he sharing as before from the crop. But 
 Stanton persists, and the young fellow did not stop to tell him 
 that he thought him a cruelly base fellow. This is the report. 
 It is very certain that they are separate now, and there is a 
 difference between them." 
 
 " Very likely on the score of the negroes. But we will save 
 them to the old man, and drive him from a spot which he had 
 made wretched." 
 
 " Can you do this ? Are your proofs sufficient ?" 
 
 " Ample." 
 
 " You are yourself a lawyer f i" 
 
 " Yes ! But I shall have the Assistance, if necessary, of CoL 
 Dawson, whom probably you know." 
 
 " A first-rate gentleman, and one of our best lawyers." 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 169 
 
 " I bring letters to him have already seen him on the sub- 
 ject, and he concurs with me as to the conclusiveness of my 
 proofs. Would I had been with you a year ago. Could I have 
 traced him, this poor girl had not been his victim. I should 
 at least have driven the snake from this one cabin." 
 
 " Yes, if you had come a year ago, poor Ellen would have 
 been saved. But nothing could have saved the poor young 
 man. The rot was in the heart of the tree." 
 
 " Yet !" said the other, putting his hand upon the arm of 
 Atkins " though the tree perished, it might have been kept 
 green to the last. Some hurts might have been spared it. The 
 man who died in hope, might not have found it necessary to 
 declare, at the last moment, that he had utterly lived in we. 
 Yes a little year ago, we might have done much for both 
 parties." 
 
 " You will do great good by your coming now. The poor 
 old man loves his negroes as he does his children. They say 
 he looks upon the giving up the eleven to be sold, like a break- 
 ing up of the establishment. His son says it will hurry him 
 to the grave. This was what he said to Stanton, which led to 
 the quarrel. Stanton sneered at the young man, and he, being 
 pretty passionate, blazed out at him in a way that pretty soon 
 silenced the fellow." 
 
 " This class of reptiles are all, more or less, cowards. "We 
 must not burn daylight, as, if they consent to a division, the 
 scoundrel may make off with his share. Let us go forward," 
 continued the speaker, with a show of feel ing for which Atkins 
 could not well account " I long to tread upon the viper to 
 bruise his head, and above all to tear the fangs from his jaws. 
 You will, if Stanton be there, draw the old man aside and in- 
 troduce me to him, with some quiet hint of what I may be 
 able to do." 
 
 " You say you have the papers with you ?" 
 
 " Ay, ay, here," striking his bosom " I have here that 
 which shall confoun^ kirn! Fear not! I do not deceive you. 
 
170 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 At least I cannot deceive myself. I too have wrongs that need 
 avenging I and mine ! I and mine ! Remember, I am Mr, 
 Jones from Tennessee I must surprise and confound the 
 fellow, and would see how the land lies before I declare my- 
 self." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 YOUNG John Ramsay was in the front piazza as they entered 
 the little farm-yard. He was alone, and pacing the floor in evi- 
 dent agitation. His brow was dark and discontented, and he 
 met the salutations of his visitors with the manner of a person 
 who is ill pleased with any witnesses of his disquiet. But he 
 was civil, and when Atkins asked after his father, he led the 
 way into the house, and there they discovered the old man and 
 George Stanton in close and earnest conversation. Several 
 papers were before them, and Stanton held the pen in his hand. 
 The tears stood in old Ramsay's eyes. His thin white hairs, 
 which fell, glossy and long; upon his shoulders, gave a benign 
 and patriarchal expression to a face that was otherwise marked 
 with the characters of benevolence and sensibility. He rose 
 at the appearance of the visitors. Stanton did not, but looked 
 up with the air of one vexed at interruption in the most in- 
 teresting moment. Young Ramsajr, to whom the stranger had 
 been introduced by Atkins, introduced him in turn to his fa- 
 ther, but to his father only. He gave no look to the spot 
 where Stanton was seated. Atkins took the old man into ano- 
 ther room, leaving the three remaining in the apartment. 
 Stanton appeared to busy himself over his papers. Young 
 Ramsay requested the stranger to be seated, and drew a chair 
 for himself beside him. There was no conversation. The 
 youth looked down upon the floor, in abstract contemplation 
 while the stranger, unobserved by either, employed himself in 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA, 171 
 
 a most intense watch of the guilty man. The latter looked up 
 and met this survey seemingly with indifference. He too was 
 thinking of matters which led him somewhat from the present 
 company. He resumed his study of the papers before him, 
 and scarcely noticed the return of old Ham say to the room. His 
 appearance was the signal to the son to go out, and resume 
 his solitary promenade in the piazza. The old man promptly 
 approached the stranger, whose hand he took with a cordial 
 pressure that proved how well Atkins had conveyed his sug- 
 gestion. There was a bright hopefulness in his old eyes, which 
 had it been seen by Stanton, might have surprised him, parti- 
 cularly as, just before, they had been overflowing with tears 
 and clouded with despondency. He was, however, still too 
 busy in his calculations, and possibly, in his own hopes, to 
 note any peculiar change in the aspect or manner of his fa- 
 ther-in-law. But when some minutes had passed, consumed 
 by the old man and the stranger, in the most common-place 
 conversation when he heard the former institute long in- 
 quiries into the condition of crops in Tennessee the value of 
 grain, the modes of cultivation, the price of lands and negroes ; 
 the impatient son-in-law began to show his restiveness. He 
 took up and threw down his papers, turned from them to the 
 company, from the company to the papers again, renewed his 
 calculations, again dismissed them, and still without prompt- 
 ing the visitor to bring to a close a visit seemingly totally de- 
 ficient in object and interest, but which, to his great annoy- 
 ance, all parties besides himself seemed desirous to prolong 
 At length, as with a desperate determination, he turned to the 
 old man and said 
 
 " Sir Mr. Ramsay, you are aware of my desire to bring this 
 business to a close at once." 
 
 The words reached the ears of young Ramsay, who now ap- 
 peared at the door. 
 
 " Father, pray let it be as this person desires. Give him 
 all which the law will allow give him more, if need be, and 
 
12 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 let him depart. Make any arrangement about the negroes 
 that you please, without considering me only let him leave 
 us in our homes at peace !" 
 
 " I am sorry to disturb the peace of any home," said Stanton, 
 u but am yet to know that to claim my rights is doing so. I 
 ask nothing but what is fair and proper. My wife, if I under- 
 stand it, had an equal right with Mr. John Ramsay, the 
 younger, to certain negroes, eleven in number, namely, Zekiel, 
 Abram, Ben, Bess, Maria, Susannah, Bob, Harry, Milly, Bain- 
 bridge and Nell, with their increase. This increase makes the 
 number seventeen. But you have never denied the facts, and 
 I repeat to you the proposition which I have already made to 
 you, to divide the property into two equal parts, thus :" 
 
 Here he read from the strips of paper before him, enumera- 
 ting the negroes in two lots this done, he proceeded : 
 
 " I am willing that your son should have the first choice of 
 hese lots. I will take the other. I am prepared to listen to 
 any other arrangement for a division, rather than be subject 
 to any delay by a reference to the law. I have no wish to 
 compel the sale of the property, as that might distress you." 
 
 " Distress !" exclaimed the young man " spare your sym- 
 pathy if you please. I consent to your first arrangement. Nay, 
 sir, you shall choose, first, of the lots as divided by yourself. 
 My simple wish now, sir, is to leave you wholly without 
 complaint." 
 
 " But, my son" began the old man. 
 
 " Pray, my father, let it be as I have said. "We shall never 
 have an end of it otherwise. The division is a tolerably equal 
 one, and if there be any loss it is mine." 
 
 The old man folded his hands upon his lap and looked to the 
 stranger. He, meanwhile, maintained a keen and eager watch 
 upon the features of Stanton. It could be seen that his lip 
 quivered and there was in his eye an expression of exultation 
 and scorn which, perhaps, none perceived but young Atkins. 
 Stanton, meanwhile, was again busy with his papers. 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA.' 173 
 
 "It is admitted also/' the latter continued, "that I have a 
 right to one half of a tract of uncleared land, lying on the 
 Tombeckbe, containing six hundred and thirty acres, more or 
 less ; to one half of a small dwelling house in Linden, and to 
 certain household stuff, crockery, plate and kitchen ware. 
 Upon these I am prepared to place a low estimate, so that the 
 family may still retain them, and the value may be given me 
 in negro property. I value the land, which I am told is quite 
 as good as any in the country, at 5 dollars an acre the house 
 and lot at 500 dollars and the plate, crockery, kitchen ware, 
 etc., at 250 dollars more. I make the total of my share, at 
 these estimates, to be 2075 dollars we will say 2000 dollars 
 and I am willing to take in payment of this amount, the four 
 fellows, Zekiel, Bob, Henry and Ben named in one lot, or the 
 two fellows, Abram and Bainbridge, and the two women, 
 Milly and Maria, with their three children, named in the other 
 parcel." 
 
 " You are extremely accommodating," said young Ramsay, 
 bitterly, " but I prefer that we should sell the land on the 
 Tombeckbe, the lot in Linden, and the crockery, plate, and 
 kitchen stuff unless you prefer that these last should be di- 
 vided. This arrangement will occasion you some delay in 
 getting your money, but it will save me much less loss than I 
 should suffer by your estimates. Permit me to say that of the 
 negroes in the lot which you may leave me, you shall not have 
 a hair, and I would to God it were in my power to keep the 
 rest, by any sacrifice, from your possession." 
 
 " No doubt you do, sir, but your wishes are not the law. I 
 demand nothing from you but what is justice, and justice I 
 will have. My rights are clear and ample. You do not, I 
 trust, propose to go to law to keep me out of my wife's pro- 
 perty." 
 
 "To law!" exclaimed the young man with indignation. 
 He then strode fiercely across the floor, and confronted Stan- 
 ton, who had now risen. The strife in his soul was showing 
 
174 LIFE JN AMERICA. 
 
 itself in storm upon his countenance, when the stranger from 
 Tennessee rose and placed himself between them. 
 
 " Stay, my friend let me speak a moment. I have a ques- 
 tion to ask of Mr. Stanton." 
 
 "You, sir," said Stanton "by what right do you inter- 
 fere ?" 
 
 " By the right which every honest man possesses to see that 
 there is no wrong done to his neighbour, if he can prevent it. 
 You are making a demand upon Mr. Ramsay, for certain pro- 
 perty, which you claim in right of your wife. Now, sir, let 
 me ask you which of your wives it is, on whose account you 
 claim ?" 
 
 " The person thus addressed recoiled as if he had been struck 
 by an adder. A deep flush passed over his face, succeeded by 
 an ashey paleness. He tried to speak, stammered, and sunk 
 paralyzed back into his chair. 
 
 " What, sir, can you say nothing ? Your rights by your 
 wives ought to be numerous. You should have some in every 
 State in the Union." 
 
 " You are a liar and a slanderer," exclaimed the criminal, 
 rising from his seat, and, with a desperate effort, confronting 
 his accuser. Shaking his fist at him, he cried " You shall 
 prove what you say ! You shall prove what you say !" 
 
 The other coldly replied, while a smile of scorn passed over 
 his lips "I am here for that very purpose." 
 
 " You ! and who are you ?" demanded the accused, once 
 again stammering, and showing trepidation. 
 
 "A man ! one who has his hand upon your throat, and will 
 stifle you in the very first struggle that you propose to make. 
 Sit down, sir sit down all this business is opened before 
 ns, and we will go to it as a matter of business. You 
 sir" to Stanton "will please school your moods and tem- 
 per, lest it be worse for you. It is only by behaving with pro- f 
 per modesty, under a proper sense of your position and dan- 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. * 175 
 
 ger, that you can hope to escape from the sharpest clutches of 
 the law." 
 
 " You shall not bully me I am not the man to submit " 
 
 "You are!" said the other, sternly interrupting him "I 
 tell you, William Ragin, alias Richard Weston, alias Thomas 
 Stukely, alias Edward Stanton you are the man to submit to 
 all that I shall say to you, to all that I shall exact from you, 
 in virtue of what I know of you, and in virtue of what you 
 are." 
 
 The sweat poured in thick streams from the brow of the 
 criminal. The other proceeded. 
 
 " I am not a bully. It is not by swagger that I hope to put 
 you down, or to punish you. On the contrary, I come here 
 prepared to prove all that I assert, satisfactorily, before a 
 court of justice. It is for you to determine whether, by your 
 insolence and madness, you will incur the danger of a trial, or 
 whether you will submit quietly to what we ask, and leave 
 the country. I take for granted that you are no fool, though 
 in a moral point of view, your career would show you to be 
 an enormous one, since vice like yours is almost conclusive 
 against all human policy, and might reasonably be set down 
 by a liberal judgment, as in some degree a wretched insanity 
 If I prove to you that I can prove to others what I now as- 
 sert, will you be ready, without more ado, to yield your 
 claims here, and every where, and fly the country ?" 
 
 " You can prove nothing : you know nothing. I defy you." 
 " Beware ! T am no trifler ; and, by the God of heaven, I 
 tell you, that were I to trust my own feelings, you should 
 swing upon the gallows, or be shut in from life, by a worse 
 death, in the penitentiary, all your days. I can bring you to 
 either, if I will it, but there are considerations, due to the 
 feelings of others, which prompt me to the gentler course I 
 have indicated. It is enough for me that you have been con- 
 nected by the most solemn ties with Maria Lacy. Her wishes 
 and her memory are sacred in my sight, and these move me to 
 
176 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 spare the villain whom my own personal wrongs would prompt 
 me to drag to the gallows. You see how the matter stands. 
 Speak !" 
 
 " You then you are ' 
 
 " Henry Lamar, of Georgia, the cousin, aud once the be- 
 trothed of Maria Lacy." 
 
 There was a slight tremour in the speaker's voice, as he 
 made this answer, but his soul was very firm. He continued : 
 " I complain not of your wrong to me. It is enough that I 
 am prepared to avenge it, and I frankly tell you, I am half in- 
 different whether you accede to my proposition or not. Your 
 audacity here has aroused a feeling in me, which leaves it 
 scarcely within my power to renew the chances of escape. I 
 renew the offer, while I am yet firm to do it. Leave the coun- 
 try leave all the bounds all the territories of the United 
 States and keep aloof from them; for, as surely as I have 
 power to pursue, and hear of your presence in any of them, so 
 surely shall I hunt you out with shot and halter, as I would 
 the reptile that lurks beside the pathway, or the savage beast 
 that harbours in the thicket." 
 
 The speaker paused, resumed his seat, and, by a strong ef- 
 fort of will, maintained a calm silence, looking sternly upon 
 the criminal. Violent passions were contending in the breast 
 of the latter. His fears were evidently aroused, but his cupi- 
 dity was active. It was clear that he apprehended the dan- 
 ger it was equally clear that he was loth to forego his grasp 
 upon the property of his last victim. He was bewildered, 
 and, more in his confusion, than because of any thought or 
 courage he once more desperately denied the charges made 
 against him. 
 
 " You are a bold man," said he to the stranger, affecting 
 coolness " considering you deal in slander. You may impose 
 upon these, but it is only because they would believe any 
 thing against me now. But you have no proofs. I defy you 
 to produce any thing to substantiate one of your charges." 
 
LIFE IN AMERICi: IT? 
 
 "Fool!" said the sther coolly, I have but to call in the 
 slaves to have you stripped to the buff, and to discover and 
 display to the world the marks upon your body, to which your 
 wife swore in open court in New York State, on the trial of 
 Reuben Moore, confounded in identity with yourself as William 
 Kagin. Moore was only saved, so close was the general resem- 
 blance between you, as the scar of the scythe was not appa- 
 rent upon his leg to which all parties swore as certainly on 
 yours. Are you willing that we should examine your left leg 
 and foot?" 
 
 " My foot is as free from scar as yours ; but 1 will not suffer 
 myself to be examined." 
 
 " Did it need, we should not ask you. But it does not need. 
 We have the affidavit of Samuel Fisher, to show that he de- 
 tected the scar of the scythe upon your leg, while bathing 
 with you at Crookstone's mill-pond ; that he asked you how 
 you got such a dreadful cut, and that you were confused, but 
 said that it was a scythe cut. This he alleged of you under 
 your present name of Stanton. Here, sir, is a copy of the affi- 
 davit. Here also is the testimony of James Green, of Liberty 
 county, Georgia, who knew you there as the husband of Maria 
 Lacy. He slept with you one night at Berry's house, on the 
 way to the county court house. You played poker with a 
 party of five, consisting of the said Green, of Jennings, Folker^ 
 and Stillman their signatures are all here. You got drunk, 
 quarrelled with Folker and Stillman, whom you accused of 
 cheating you, were beaten by them severely, and so bruised, 
 that it was necessary you should be put to bed, and bathed 
 with spirits. When stripped for this purpose, while you lay 
 unconscious, the scythe cut on your leg, and a large scar from 
 a burn upon your right arm, toboth of which, your wife, Eliza- 
 zabeth Ragin, swore in New York, with great particularity 
 as appears in that reported case were discovered and at- 
 tracted the attention of all present." 
 H 5 
 
178 UFE IN AMERICA.' 
 
 " Man or devil !" exclaimed the criminal in desperation, 
 " by what means have you contrived to gather these damnable 
 proofs ?" 
 
 " You admit them, then ?" 
 
 " I admit nothing. I defy them, and you, and the devil. 
 Let me go. I will hear nothing more see nothing farther. 
 As for you, John Ramsay, let me ask, am I to have any of my 
 wife's property ? Let me have it, and I leave the cursed coun- 
 try for ever." 
 
 John Ramsay, the younger, was about to reply, when the 
 stranger silenced him. 
 
 " Stay ! You leave not this spot, unless with my consent, 
 or in the hands of the sheriff. He is here in readiness. Are 
 you willing that I should call him in ? I am serious ! There 
 must be no trifling. Here are proofs of your identity with 
 "William Ragin, who married Elizabeth Simpson, of Minden, 
 Connecticut; with Richard Weston, who married Sarah 
 Gooch, of Raleigh, N. C. : with Thomas Stukeley, who mar- 
 ried with Maria Lacy, of Liberty county, Geo. ; with Ed- 
 ward Stanton, now before us, who married with Ellen Ramsay, 
 of Montgomery county, Alabama. Of these wretched wives 
 whom you have wronged and dishonoured, two of them are 
 still living. I do not stipulate for your return to either. 
 They are sufficiently fortunate to be rid of you for ever. But 
 this I insist upon, that you leave the country. As for taking 
 the property of this wife or that, you must consider yourself 
 particularly fortunate that you escape the halter. You can 
 take nothing. Your fate lies in these papers." 
 
 In an instant the desperate hands of the criminal had 
 clutched the documents where the other laid them down. He 
 clutched them, and sprang towards the door, but a single 
 blow from the powerful fist of young John Ramsay brought 
 him to the floor. The stranger quietly repossessed himself of 
 the papers." 
 
 " You are insane, William Ragin," he remarked coolly 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA, 179 
 
 " these are all copies of the originals, and even were they 
 originals, their loss would be of little value while all the wit- 
 nesses are living. They are brought for your information to 
 show you on what a perilous point you stand and have been 
 used only to base the warrant upon which has been already 
 issued for your arrest. That warrant is even now in this vil- 
 lage in the hands of the sheriff of the county. I have but to 
 say that you are the man whom he must arrest under it, and 
 he does his duty. You are at my mercy. I see that you feel 
 that. Rise and sign this paper, and take your departure. If, 
 after forty-eight hours, you are found east of the Tombeckbe, 
 you forfeit all the chances which it affords you of escape. 
 Rise, sir, and sign. I have no more words for you." 
 
 The criminal did as he was commanded passively, as one 
 in a stupor. The stranger then waved him to the door, and 
 he took his departure without any more being spoken on 
 either side. When he was gone 
 
 " These papers," said Lamar to old John Ramsay, " are 
 yours. I leave them for your protection from this scoundrel. 
 The proofs are all conclusive, and, with his re-appearance, 
 you have but to seek the sheriff and renew the warrant." 
 
 The old man clasped the hands of the stranger and be- 
 dewed them with tears. 
 
 " You will stay with us while you are here. We owe 
 you too much to suffer it otherwise. We have no other way 
 of thanking you." 
 
 " I have another day's business here," said Lamar, " and 
 will cheerfully partake your hospitality for that time. For 
 the present I must leave you. I have an engagement with 
 Mr. Atkins. 
 
 The engagement with Atkins led the stranger to the grave 
 of poor Ellen Ramsay and to that of Robert Anderson. They 
 next visited the cottage of the widow Anderson, and ob- 
 tained her consent to the use of the head board which the 
 devoted youth had framed and inscribed, while himself dying* 
 
IN 
 
 for the grave of his beloved. The next day was employed, 
 with the consent of old Ramsay, in putting it up an occa- 
 sion which brought the villagers together as numerously as 
 the burial of the poor girl had done. The events of the 
 day had taken wind the complete exposure of the wretch 
 who had brought ruin and misery into the little settlement, 
 was known to all, and deep were the imprecations of all 
 upon his crime, and warm the congratulations at a develop- 
 ment which saved the venerable father from being spoiled 
 and left in poverty in his declining years. But there is yet 
 finish to the story another event, perhaps necessary to its 
 finish, which, as it was the offspring of another day, we 
 must reserve for another chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THAT night, while the little family at Ramsay's were sitting 
 over their evening meal, Abram, one of the plantation negroes, 
 appeared at the door of the apartment, and abruptly addressed 
 young Ramsay after the following fashion : 
 
 " Look ya, Mass Jack, I want for see you out ya a minute." 
 Abram was the driver of the plantation a sort of super- 
 intendent of details. He was a faithful negro, such as is to 
 be found on every long established plantation at the South 
 shrewd, cool, sensible perhaps forty years of age honest 
 attentive to his business, and, from habit, assuming the in- 
 terest which he managed to be entirely his own. His position 
 gave him consequence, which he felt and asserted, but never 
 abused. A trick of speaking very much what was uppermost 
 in his mind, was the fruit of a just consciousness of duties 
 well performed, leaving him in no fear of any proper authority. 
 Young Ramsay rose instantly and obeyed the summons. With 
 1 some little mystery in his manner, Abram conducted the youth 
 
IN AMERICA* '181 
 
 from the piazza into the yard, and thence into the shadow of 
 one of the gigantic shade trees by which the house was 
 literally embowered. Here, looking around him with the air 
 of one anxious neither to be seen nor overheard, he thrust a 
 paper into the hands of John Kamsay, with this inquiry 
 
 " Dis ya money, Mass Jack, good money ?" 
 
 "I will tell you when I look at it by the candle. Why ? 
 where did you get it ?" 
 
 " You look at 'em first I tell you all 'bout 'em arter- 
 ward." 
 
 John did as was required, returned and reported the bank 
 note for it was such, and for twenty dollars to be utterly 
 worthless that, in short, of a broken bank. 
 
 " I bin tink so," said the negro. 
 
 " Where did you get it, Abram ?" 
 
 ' Who you speck gib me, Mass Jack ?" 
 
 "I don't know!" 
 
 " Who but Mass Ned Stanton." 
 
 " Ha ! why when did he give you this money ?" 
 
 " To-day when you bin all busy wid de tomb stone of 
 young Missis. He come by de old creek field, call me out, say 
 I must come to 'em in de wood, and den he say to me dat he 
 sorry for see me ya working for Massa. Him will help me 
 git off work 1 shall be free man, if I will only go wid him, 
 and bring off many of the brack people as I kin. He promise 
 me heap of tings, git me 'miff tobacco for las' a mont', gib me 
 knife see dis ya and dis money which you say no good 
 money. I bin speck 'em for bad when he tell me its twenty 
 dollars. Twenty dollars is heap money, I say to myself. 
 Wha' for he gib me twenty dollars now. Wha' for he con- 
 siders my freedom, jes 1 now, and he nebber bin tink 'pon 'em 
 before. Someting's wrong, I say to myself, and Massa for 
 know but I nebber let on to 'em I 'spec 'em. I say ' da's all 
 right. I will come, Mass Ned. I will see you in de bush to- 
 night.' Den he shake my hand say he always bin lub me 
 
182 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 will take me to country whay brack man is gentleman and 
 hab white wife, and is lawyer, and schoolmosser, and preacher, 
 and hab white man for dribe he carriage. I yerry em berry 
 well, but I never le' him see I laugh. But I hab my 
 tongue ya (thrust to one side of his jaws) and the white ob 
 my eye grow large as I look 'pon 'em. I know 'em of ole. I 
 bin speck on 'em when he first came ya courting poor Miss 
 Nelly. I no like 'em den I no like 'em now. But I mak' 
 blieb I lub 'em too much. Das for you now to fix 'em. He's 
 for see me to-night by ole Robin tree in de swamp. Wha' 
 mus do wha' mus say how you gwine fix 'em ?" 
 
 " You have done right, 'Bram. Before I say any thing, I 
 will consult my father, and a stranger who is with us." 
 
 " I yerry bout 'em. He's a man, I ya. Flora bin tell me 
 how he fixed Ned Stanton." 
 
 "Well, I'll consult him and my father. Do you remain 
 here in the meantime. Do not let yourself be seen. Stanton 
 is a villain, but we have found him out. Stanton is not his 
 real name, but Ragin." 
 
 "Ragin, eh? Well, we must Ragin 'em. I'll wait 'pon 
 you ya. But mak' haste de time is pretty close, and he'll 
 'spec' somet'iug ef I aint by de tree when he come." 
 
 John Ramsay re-entered the house, and, in few words, re- 
 peated the substance of the negro's story. 
 
 " The scoundrel's bent on being hung," was the exclamation 
 of Lamar, with something like a look of exultation. " Let 
 'Bram encourage him, and give him a meeting for to-morrow 
 night, promising to bring all the negroes that he can. We 
 shall be at the meeting. 'Bram shall carry us, though we go 
 as his comrades, not as his superiors." 
 
 The scheme of Lamar was soon laid. Young Ramsay and 
 himself were to smut their faces, and, in negro habiliments, 
 were to impose upon the villain. Lamar promised that the 
 sheriff should take his hand at the game. 
 
 a Our mercy is thrown away upon such a thrice-dyed scoun- 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA: 183 
 
 drel. His destiny forces the task of vengeance upon us. Go 
 to Abram, and give him his cue." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THERE is a fatality about the wicked that, sooner or later, 
 whatever may be their precautions and their adroitness, inva- 
 riably brings about their confusion and defeat. The criminal 
 in the present instance, was one who had enjoyed a long 
 swing of good fortune using these words only to mean that 
 he had been able to gratify his wishes, of whatever sort, with- 
 out yet having been made to pay the usual penalties. This 
 very success is most commonly the source of final disaster. 
 The fortunate man is apt to presume upon his good fortune 
 to hold himself, like Sylla, a sort of favourite with the capri- 
 cious goddess, until he loses himself irrevocably in the blind 
 presumption which his confidence provokes. Edward Stanton, 
 for so we shall continue to call him, had been too often in 
 straits like the present, and had too often emerged from them 
 with profit, to fancy that he had much at hazard in the new 
 game that he had determined to pursue. He had been tempo- 
 rally daunted by the complete exposure of his career, which 
 had been made by Lamar, and felt, from all he saw and all he 
 heard, that the chances were entirely up with him where he 
 then stood. But he had not long gone from sight of his enemy, 
 before his mind began once more to recover, and to unravel 
 new schemes and contrivances for the satisfaction of his selfish 
 passions. He was a person soon to cast aside his apprehen- 
 sions, and to rise with new energies after defeat. It is a very 
 great misfortune that this admirable quality of character 
 should be equally shared, upon occasion, by the rogue and the 
 ruffian, with the honest man and the noble citizen. Stanton 
 was resolved to make the most of the forty-eight hours which 
 
184 LIFE IN AMERICA.' 
 
 were allowed him. He took for granted that, having attained 
 his object, Lamar would be satisfied ; he may have discovered, 
 indeed, that the latter would return in another day to Georgia. 
 We have seen, from the revelations of Abram, what direction 
 his scheming mind was disposed to pursue. His plans were 
 laid in a few minutes, and, while the family of Ramsay, its 
 guest, and the people of the village generally, were raising the 
 simple headboard over the grave of his injured wife, the mise- 
 rable wretch, totally insensible to all honourable or human 
 feeling, was urging the ignorant negro to a desertion of the 
 ancient homestead, in the vain hope of attaining that freedom 
 with which, when acquired, he knew not well what to do. 
 Of course, this was all a pretext of the swindler, by which to 
 get the property within his grasp. He had but to cross the 
 Tombecbe with his unsuspecting companions, and they would 
 have been sold, by public outcry, at the first popular gathering. 
 His plans laid, his artifices all complete, he waited with anxi- 
 ety t the meeting with the negro. He had already taken his 
 leave of the family with which he lodged, had mounted his 
 horse, and turned his head towards the west, using particular 
 care that his departure should be seen by several. He little 
 fancied that his return to the neighbourhood by another route, 
 and after night had set in, had also been perceived. But the 
 vigilance of Lamar had arranged for this. Young Atkins had 
 volunteered to observe the movements of Stanton, and, born 
 a hunter, and familiar with all the woods for twenty miles 
 round, he was able to report on the return of the fugitive, 
 within half an hour of the moment when it took place. Con- 
 cealing his horse in a neighbouring bay, ready for use in the 
 first emergency, Stanton proceeded, at the appointed time, to 
 the place of rendezvous. 
 
 Meanwhile, the preparations of Lamar were also in progress. 
 The sheriff had been brought, after night-fall, to the house of old 
 Ramsay. The coarse garments of the negro had been provided 
 for himself and his deputy for Lamar and the younger Ram- 
 
LIFE IN AMEBICA. 185 
 
 say. Young Atkins also insisted on going as a volunteer, and 
 old Ramsay could with difficnlty be persuaded to forbear ac- 
 companying the party. The blood of the veteran blazed up 
 as fiercely as it had done twenty years before, when he heard 
 the call for volunteers, from the lips of Andrew Jackson, to 
 avenge the butcheries of Indian warfare. The good sense of 
 Lamar succeeded in persuading him to leave the affair to 
 younger men. Abram was of the party, and, with his assist- 
 ance, a greasy preparation was procured, in which soot and 
 oil were the chief ingredients, by which our free citizens were 
 made to assume, in a very few moments, the dark and glossy 
 outside of the African. Prime stout fellows were they able 
 field hands such as would delight the unsuspecting eye of the 
 kidnapper as soon as he beheld them. They were all armed 
 with pistols all but Abram, who carried however the knife 
 a formidable couteau de chasse, which had been one of the 
 bribes of Stanton, presented to him with the bank note and 
 tobacco, at their first interview. Abram undertook the con- 
 duct of the party. They were led forth secretly, in profound- 
 est silence, by a circuitous path, to the swamp thicket, in the 
 neighbourhood of which the meeting was to take place. It is 
 needless to describe the route. Suffice it that they were there 
 in season, snugly quartered, and waiting with due impatience 
 for the signal. It was heard at last; a shrill whistle, thrice 
 repeated, followed by the barking of a hound. To this Abram 
 answered, going forth as he did so, and leaving the party in 
 the close covert to which he had conducted them. The night 
 was a bright star-light. The gleams, however, came but im- 
 perfectly through the x thick foliage, and our conspirators could 
 distinguish each other only by the sound of their voices. Their 
 faces shone as glossy as the leaves, when suddenly touched by 
 the far light of the stars. Gradually, they heard approaching 
 footsteps. It was then that Lamar said, seizing the hand of 
 young Ramsay, 
 
186 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 "No haste, now, no rashness, we must let the fellow 
 hobble himself fairly." 
 
 Deep silence folio wed, broken only by the voice of the negro, 
 and his companion. 
 
 " You have brought them ?" said Stanton. 
 
 " Da's ya !" replied the black. 
 
 " How many ?" 
 
 " Some tree or four, 'side myself." 
 
 " Could you bring no more ?" asked the eager kidnapper. 
 
 " Hab no chance you no gib me time 'nuff. Ef you left 
 tell Saturday night now, and Sunday, I get 'em all." 
 
 "No! no ! that's impossible. I dare not. These must do. 
 Where are they ?" 
 
 " In de bush ! jes' ya ! Bat look ya, Mass Ned, you are 
 gwine do wha' you promise ?" 
 
 "On my honour, 'Bram." 
 
 " You will take your Bible oat', Mass Ned ?" 
 
 " I swear it." 
 
 " Dis ya nigger I bring you is no common nigger, I tell you. 
 Mossa hab heaby lose for loss 'em. Wha' you 'spose he gwine 
 say, wha, he tink, when he get up to-morrow mornin', and 
 can't find 'Bram and the rest ob 'em. Wha' he gwine do ?" 
 
 " What can he do ? We will have the start of him by 
 twenty-five miles, and in one day more you will be free, 
 'Bram, your own master, and able to put him at defiance. I 
 will see to that." 
 
 " He will push arter us, Mass Ned, and dese ya nigger in 
 de bush look ya, Massa Ned, dese all prime nigger. Da's 
 one on 'em, a gai ya, most purty nuff for white man wife. 
 You 'member little Suzy, Mass Ned ?" 
 
 "Don't I, 'Bram? Little Luzy is a pretty girl pretty 
 enough to be the wife of any man. Bring her out, bring 
 them all out, and let us be off. We understand each other." 
 
 " Suzy is good gal, Mass Ned. I want to see 'em doing 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 187 
 
 prime when he git he freedom. You will marry 'em yourself, 
 wid parson ?" 
 
 u If she wishes it." 
 
 " He will wish 'em for true ! But wha' dis I yer 'em say 
 'bout you habing tree wife a'ready ?" 
 
 "No more of that, 'Bram." 
 
 " Wha' ! he aint true, den ?" 
 
 " A lie, 'Bram ! a black, a bloody lie !" 
 
 " What for den you let dat Georgy man run you out ob de 
 country ?" 
 
 " Ha ! who told you this ?" 
 
 " I yer dem house sarbant talk ob 'em." 
 
 " They do not understand it. I am not driven. I choose 
 to go." 
 
 "Well! you know bes', but dat's wha' I yer dem say." 
 
 " No more, 'Bram ! Where are the people ?" 
 
 " Let me dog bark tree time, and dey come. You kin bark 
 like dog, Mass Ned. Try for 'em." 
 
 The imitation was a good one. Sounds were heard in the 
 bushes, and one by one the supposed negroes appeared in the 
 starlight. They looked natural enough, and the kidnapper 
 approached them with some interest. 
 
 " These are all men, are they not ? Are there no women ? 
 Where's Little Suzy ?" 
 
 " Ha ! Mass Ned, I speck its true wha' dem people say. 
 You lub gal too much. I call little Suzy now, him take you 
 'bout de neck. Come ya, my people. Mass Ned hab make 
 'greement wid me to carry us all to fine country. He swear 
 Bible 'oat to make we all free, and gib we plenty whiskey 
 and tobacco. I tell 'em you's ready to go. You ready, eh? 
 
 There was a general grunt of assent. 
 
 'Bram was disposed to be satirical. His dry chuckle ac- 
 companied every syllable. 
 
 " Gib um you hand den on de bargain. Shake hand like 
 
188 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 brudderin. Ha ! ha ! I nebber bin speck to be bruder ob my 
 my young mossa. Shake hands, niggers, on de bargain." 
 
 " You have heard what 'Bram has said, my boys. I pro- 
 mise the same things to you. You shall go with me to a 
 country where you shall be free. I will give you plenty of 
 whiskey and tobacco. Here is my hand. Who is this 
 Zeke ?" 
 
 The hand was clutched by Lamar, with a grasp that some- 
 what startled the criminal. The voice of the supposed negro 
 in the next moment, terribly informed him of his danger. 
 
 "Villain" exclaimed the Georgian, "I have you! You 
 are sworn for the gallows ! You shall not escape us now." 
 
 A short struggle followed the doubtful light, and their 
 rapid movements, not suffering the other persons around so to 
 distinguish between them as to know where to take hold. 
 The criminal put forth all his strength, which was far 
 from inconsiderable. The combatants were nearly equally 
 matched, but in the struggle they traversed a fallen tree, 
 over which Lamar stumbled and fell, partly dragging his 
 enemy with him to the ground. To save himself only did 
 he relax his hold. Of this Stanton nimbly availed himself. 
 He recovered his feet, and, before the rest of the party 
 could interfere, had gained a dozen paces on his way to 
 the thicket. Once within its shadows, he might with good 
 heart and good fortune, have baffled their pursuit. But this 
 was not destined. He was intercepted by no less a person 
 than Abram, who rolled himself suddenty like a huge ball in 
 the path of the fugitive, and thus broke the fall which yet 
 precipitated him to the ground. In the next moment, the 
 negro had caught him by the leg, yelling at the same time to 
 the rest of the party to come to his succour. 
 
 " Ah! dog it is you then to whom I owe all this." 
 
 Such was the speech, muttered through his closed teeth, 
 with which Stanton declared his recognition of the assailant. 
 His words were followed by a pistol shot. Abram gave a cry, 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 189 
 
 released his hold, and leapt to his feet. Stanton had only half 
 risen when the whole weight of the negro was again upon 
 him. 
 
 "Where is he, 'Bram?" demanded Lamar. 
 
 " I hab em ya, Mossa, he safe," responded the other with 
 a groan. 
 
 " You are hurt ?" said young Ramsay, inquiringly. 
 
 " One arm smash wid he pistol, Mass Jack." 
 
 His young master helped the poor fellow up, while Lamar 
 and the sheriff, with young Atkins, prepared to secure the 
 criminal. 
 
 "What is this! He is lifeless!" said the former, as he 
 touched the body. " What have you done, 'Bram ?" 
 
 " I don't know, Mossa. I hab my knife in. my han% and 
 when he shoot me, I be so bex and so scare, I don't know 
 wha' I do wid em. I gib urn he knife, I speck. It's he own 
 knife." 
 
 Sure enough ! the weapon was still sticking in the side of 
 the criminal. The one blow was fatal, and his dying groan, 
 if any was uttered, was drowned in the furious exclamation 
 with which the negro accompanied the blow. 
 
 " It is a loss to the gallows," said Lamar, with an expres- 
 sion of chagrin. 
 
 " Better so !" replied young Ramsay. 
 
 " It saves me a very dirty job !" muttered the sheriff. We 
 may add that he took care to pay the usual fees to Abram, 
 who was otherwise well provided for by the Ramsay family, 
 and still lives to relate the events of that night of conflict 
 with the Snake of the Cabin. 
 
190 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 OAKATIBBE, 
 OR THE CHOCTAW SAMPSON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IT was in the year 182 , that I first travelled in the valleys 
 of the great south-west. Circumstances, influenced in no 
 slight degree by an " errant disposition," beguiled me to the 
 Choctaw nation, which, at that time, occupied the greater 
 part of the space below the Tennessee line, lying between the 
 rivers Tombeckbe and Mississippi, as low, nearly, as the town 
 of Jackson, then, as now, the capital of the State of Mississippi. 
 I loitered for several weeks in and about this region, without 
 feeling the loss or the weight of time Yet, the reader is not 
 to suppose that travelling at that day was so simple a matter, 
 or possessed many, if any of the pleasant facilities of the pre- 
 sent. Au contraire r It was then a serious business. It 
 meant travail rather than travel. The roads were few and 
 very hard to find. Indian foot-paths with the single excep- 
 tion of the great military traces laid out by General Jackson, 
 and extending from Tennessee to Lake Ponchar train formed 
 almost the only arteries known to the " Nation;" and the 
 portions of settled country in the neighbourhood, nominally 
 civilized only, were nearly in the same condition. Some of 
 the Indian paths, as I experienced, seemed only to be made 
 for the perplexity of the stranger. Like Gray's passages 
 which "led to nothing," they constantly brought me to a 
 stand. Sometimes they were swallowed up in swamps, and, 
 in such cases, your future route upon the earth was to be disco- 
 vered only by a deliberate and careful survey of the skies 
 above. The openings in the trees over head alone instructed 
 
LIFE IM AMERICA. 191 
 
 you in the course you were to pursue. You may readily ima- 
 gine that this sort of progress was as little pleasant as edify- 
 ing, yet, in some respects, it was not wanting in its attrac- 
 tions, also. To the young and ardent mind, obstacles of this 
 nature tend rather to excite than to depress. They contain 
 the picturesque in themselves, at times, and always bring out 
 the moral in the man. " To learn to rough it," is an edu- 
 cational phrase, in the dialect of the new countries, which 
 would be of great service, adopted as a rule of government 
 for the young in all. To "coon a log" a mysterious process 
 to the uninitiated swim a river experiment, at a guess, upon 
 the properties of one, and the proprieties of another route - 
 parley with an Indian after his own fashion not to speak of 
 a hundred other incidents which the civilized world does not 
 often present will reconcile a lad of sanguine temperament 
 to a number of annoyances much more serious than will at- 
 tend him on an expedition through our frontier countries. 
 
 It was at the close of a cloudy day in November, that I 
 came within hail of the new but rude plantation settlements 
 of Colonel Harris. He had but lately transferred his interests 
 to Mississippi, from one of the " maternal thirteen" had 
 bought largely in the immediate neighbourhood of the Choctaw 
 nation, and had also acquired, by purchase from the natives, 
 certain reserves within it, to which he chiefly owes that large 
 wealth, which, at this day, he has the reputation of possessing. 
 In place of the stately residence which now adorns his home- 
 stead, there was then but a miserable log-house, one of the 
 most ordinary of the country, in which, unaccompanied by his 
 family, he held his temporary abiding place. His plantation 
 was barely rescued from the dominions of nature. The trees 
 were girdled only the previous winter, for his first crop, which 
 was then upon the ground, and an excellent crop it was for 
 that immature condition of his fields. There is no describing 
 the melancholy aspect of such a settlement, seen in winter, on 
 a cloudy day, and in the heart of an immense forest, through 
 
192 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 which you have travelled for miles, without glimpse of human 
 form or habitation. The worm-fence is itself a gloomy spec- 
 tacle, and the girdled trees, erect but dead, the perishing 
 skeletons of recent life, impress you with sensations not en- 
 tirely unlike those which you would experience in going over 
 some battle-field, from which the decaying forms of man and 
 horse have not yet been removed. The fences]of Colonel Harris 
 were low in height, though of great extent. They were simply 
 sufficient to protect the fields from the random assaults of cat- 
 tle. Of his out-houses, the most respectable in size, solidity 
 and security, was the corn crib. His negro-houses, like the 
 log-house in which he himself dwelt, were only so many tem- 
 porary shanties, covered with poles and thatched with bark 
 and pine-straw. In short, every thing that met my eye only 
 tended the more to frown upon my anticipations of a cheerful 
 fireside and a pleasant arrangement of the creature-comforts. 
 But my doubts and apprehensions all vanished at the moment 
 of my reception. I was met by the proprietor with that ease 
 and warmth of manner which does not seem to be conscious 
 of any deficiencies of preparation, and is resolved that there 
 shall be none which sincere hospitality can remedy. I was 
 soon prepared to forget that there were deficiencies. I felt my- 
 self very soon at home. I had letters to Colonel Harris, which 
 made me particularly welcome, and in ten minutes we were 
 both in full sail amongst all the shallows and deeps of ordinary 
 conversation. 
 
 Not that we confined ourselves to these. Our discourse, 
 after a little while, turned upon a circumstance which I had 
 witnessed on riding through his fields and while approaching 
 his dwelling, which struck me with considerable surprise, and 
 disturbed, in some degree, certain pre-conceived opinions in 
 my mind. I had seen, interspersed with his negro labourers, 
 a goodly number of Indians of both sexes, but chiefly young 
 persons, all equally and busily employed in cotton picking. 
 The season had been a protracted one, and favourable, accord- 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 193 
 
 ingly, to the maturing of great numbers of the bolls which an 
 early and severe winter must have otherwise destroyed. The 
 crop, in consequence, had been so great as to be beyond the 
 ability, to gather in and harvest, of the " force" by which it 
 was made. This, in the new and fertile vallies of the south- 
 west, is an usual event. In ordinary cases, when this hap- 
 pens, it is the custom to buy other negroes from less produc- 
 tive regions, to consumate and secure the avails of labour of 
 the original " force." The whole of these, united, are then 
 addressed to the task of opening additional lands, which, 
 should they yield as before, necessarily demand a second pur- 
 chase of an extra number to secure and harvest, in season, the 
 surplus fruits of their industry. The planter is very readily 
 persuaded to make this purchase so long as the seeming neces- 
 sity shall re-occur ; and in this manner has he continued ex- 
 panding his interests, increasing the volume of his lands, and 
 incurring debt for these and for his slaves, at exorbitant prices, 
 in order to the production of a commodity, every additional 
 bag of which, disparages its own value, and depreciates the 
 productive power, in an estimate of profit, of the industry by 
 which it is produced. It will not be difficult, keeping this 
 fact in mind as a sample of the profligacy of western adventure 
 to account, in part, for the insolvency and desperate condi- 
 tion of a people in possession of a country naturally the most 
 fertile of any in the world. 
 
 The crop of Colonel Harris was one of this description. It 
 far exceeded the ability of his " force" to pick it in ; but instead 
 of buying additional slaves for the purpose, he conceived the 
 idea of turning to account the lazy Choctaws by whom he was 
 surrounded. He proposed to hire them at a moderate compen- 
 sation, which was to be paid them weekly. The temptation 
 of gain was greedily caught at by these hungering outcasts, 
 and, for a few dollars, or an equivalent in goods, groceries, 
 and so forth, some forty-five of them were soon to be seen, as 
 I 
 
194 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 busy as might be, in the prosecution of their unusual labour. 
 The' work was light and easy none could be more so and 
 though not such adepts as the negro, the Indian women soon 
 contrived to fill their bags and baskets, in the course of the 
 day. At dark, you might behold them trudging forward un- 
 der their burdens to the log-house, where the proprietor stood 
 ready to receive them. Here he weighed their burdens, and 
 gave them credit, nightly, for the number of pounds which 
 they each brought in. The night of my arrival was Saturday, 
 and the value of the whole week's labour was then to be 
 summed up and accounted for. This necessarily made them 
 all punctual in attendance, and nothing could be more amus- 
 ing than the interest which they severally displayed as Colonel 
 Harris took out his memorandum book, and proceeded to make 
 his entries. Every eye was fixed upon him, and an old Indian, 
 who, though he did not work himself, represented the interests 
 of a wife and two able-bodied daughters, planted himself di- 
 rectly behind this gentleman, and watched, with looks of 
 growing sagacity, every stroke that was made in this to 
 him volume of more than Egyptian mystery and hieroglyphics. 
 Meanwhile, the squaws stood about their baskets with looks 
 expressive of similar interest, but at the same time of laudable 
 patience. The negroes in the rear, were scarcely less moved 
 by curiosity, though a contemptuous grin might be seen on 
 nearly all their countenances, as they felt their superiority in 
 nearly every physical and intellectual respect, over the un- 
 tutored savages. Many Indians were present who neither had 
 nor sought employment. Of those employed, few or none 
 were of middle age. But these were not wanting to the as- 
 semblage. They might be seen prowling about the rest 
 watchful of the concerns of their wives, sons and daughters, 
 with just that sort and degree of interest, which the eagle may 
 be supposed to feel, who, from his perch on the tree-top or 
 the rock, beholds the fish-hawk dart into the water in pursuit 
 of that prey which he meditates to rend from his jaws as soon 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 195 
 
 as he shall re-ascend into the air. Their interest was decidely 
 greater than that of the poor labourer. It was in this manner 
 that these vultures appropriated the fruits of his industry, and 
 there was no remedy. They commonly interfered, the moment 
 it was declared what was due to the employee, to resolve the 
 pay into a certain number of gallons of whiskey; so many 
 pounds of tobacco ; so much gunpowder and lead. If the em- 
 ployer, as was the case with Colonel Harris, refused to furnish 
 them whiskey, they required him to pay in money. With this, 
 they soon made their way to one of those moral sinks, called 
 a grog-shop, which English civilization is always ready to 
 plant, as its first, most familiar, and most imposing standard 
 among the hills and forests of the savage. 
 
 It may be supposed that this experiment upon the inflexibi- 
 lity of Indian character and habit for it w r as an experiment 
 which had been in trial only a single week was a subject of 
 no little curiosity to me, as it would most probably be to al- 
 most every person at all impressed with the humiliating moral 
 and social deterioration which has marked this fast decaying 
 people. Could it possibly be successful ? Could a race, proud, 
 sullen, incommunicative, wandering, be persuaded, even by 
 gradual steps, and with the hope of certain compensation, to 
 renounce the wild satisfaction afforded by their desultory and 
 unconstrained modes of life ? Could they be beguiled for a 
 season into employments which, though they did not demand 
 any severe labours, at least required pains-taking, regular in- 
 dustry, and that habitual attention to daily recurring tasks, 
 which, to their roving nature, would make life a most mono- 
 tonous and unattractive possession? How far the lightness 
 of the labour and the simplicity of the employment, with the 
 corresponding recompense, would reconcile them to its tasks, 
 was the natural subject of my inquiry. On this head, my 
 friend, Colonel Harris, could only conjecture and speculate like 
 myself. His experiment had been in progress but a few days. 
 But our speculations led us to very different conclusions. He 
 
196 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 was a person of very ardent character, and sanguine, to the 
 last degree, of the success of his project. He had no question 
 but that the Indian, even at his present stage, might be 
 brought under the influence of a judicious civilization. We 
 both agreed that the first process was in procuring their labour 
 * that this was the preliminary step, without taking which, 
 no other could be made ; but how to bring them to this was 
 the question. 
 
 "They can be persuaded to this," was his conclusion. 
 " Money, the popular god, is as potent with them as with our 
 own people. They will do any thing for money. You se e 
 these now in the field. They have been there, and just as busy 
 and in the same number, from Monday last." 
 
 " How long will they continue ?" 
 
 " As long as I can employ and pay them." 
 
 " Impossible! They will soon be dissatisfied. The men 
 will consume and squander all the earnings of the females and 
 fclie feeble. Th3 very motive of their industry, money, to 
 which you refer, will be lost to them after the first payment. 
 I am convinced that a savage people, not as yet familiar with 
 the elements of moral prudence, can only be brought to habi- 
 tual labour, by the one process of coercion." 
 
 . " We shall see. There is no coercion upon them now, yet 
 they work with wonderful regularity." 
 
 " This week will end it. Savages are children in all but 
 physical respects. To do any thing with them, you must 
 place them in that position of respectability, and teach them 
 that law, without the due employment of which, any attempt 
 to educate a child, must be an absurdity you must teach 
 them obedience. They must be made to know, at the outset, 
 that they know nothing that they must implicitly defer to 
 the superior. This lesson they will never learn, so long as 
 they possess the power, at any moment, to withdraw from 
 his control." 
 
 " Yet, even were this to be allowed, there must be a limit. 
 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 197 
 
 There must come a time when you will be required to eman- 
 cipate them. In what circumstances will you find that time ? 
 You cannot keep them under this coercion always ; when will 
 you set them free ?" 
 
 " When they are fit for freedom." 
 
 " How is that to be determined ? Who shall decide their 
 fitness?" 
 
 " Themselves ; as in the case of the children of Israel. The 
 children of Israel went out from bondage a? soon as their own 
 intellectual advancement had been such as to enable them to 
 produce from their own ranks a leader like Moses : one whose 
 genius was equal to that of the people by whom they had 
 been educated, and sufficient for their own proper government 
 thereafter." 
 
 " But has not an experiment of this sort already been tried 
 in our own country ?" 
 
 " Nay, I think not I know of none." 
 
 ' Yes : an Indian boy was taken in infancy from his parents, 
 carried to one of the Northern States, trained in all the learn- 
 ing and habits of a Northern college and society, associated 
 only with whites, beheld no manners, and heard no morals, 
 but those which are known to Christian communities. His 
 Progress was satisfactory he learned rapidly was considered 
 something of a prodigy, and graduated with eclat. He was 
 then left, with the same option as the rest enjoyed, to the 
 choice of a profession. And, what was his choice? Do you 
 not remember the beautiful little poem of Freneau on this 
 subject ? He chose the buckshin leggins, the moccasins, the 
 bow and arrows, and the wide, wild forests, where his people 
 dwelt." 
 
 " Freneau's poem tells the story somewhat differently, The 
 facts upon which it is founded, however, are, I believe, very 
 much as you tell them. But what an experiment it was! 
 How very silly ! They take a copper- coloured boy from his 
 people, and carry him, while yet an infant, to a remote region, 
 
198 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 Suppose, in order that the experiment may be fairly tried, 
 that they withhold from him all knowledge of his origin. He 
 is brought up precisely as the other lads around him. But 
 what is the first discovery which he makes ? That he is a 
 copper-coloured boy that he is, alone, the only copper-co- 
 loured boy that wherever he turns he sees no likeness to 
 himself. This begets his wonder, then his curiosity, and finally 
 his suspicion. He soon understands for his suspicion sharpens 
 every faculty of observation that he is an object of experi- 
 ment. Nay, the most cautious policy in the world could never 
 entirely keep this from a keen- though ted urchin. His fellow- 
 pupils teach him this. He sees that, to them, he is an object 
 of curiosity and study. They regard him, and he soon regards 
 himself, as a creature set apart, and separated, for some pecu- 
 liar purposes, from all the rest. A stern and singular sense Of 
 individuality and isolation is thus forced upon him. He asks 
 Am I, indeed, alone ? Who am I ? What am I ? These 
 inquiries naturally occasion others. Does he read ? Books 
 give him the history of his race. Nay, his own story probably 
 meets his eye in the newspapers. He learns that he is de- 
 scended from a nation dwelling among the secret sources of 
 the Susquehannah. He pries in all corners for information. 
 The more secret his search, the more keenly does he pursue it. 
 It becomes the great passion of his mind. He learns that his 
 people are fierce warriors and famous hunters. He hears of 
 their strifes with the white man their successful strifes, when 
 the nation could send forth its thousand bow-men, and the 
 whites were few and feeble. Perhaps, the young- pale faces 
 around him, speak of his people, even now, as enemies ; at 
 least, as objects of suspicion, and perhaps antipathy. All 
 these things tend to elevate and idealize, in his mind, the his- 
 tory of his people. He cherishes a sympathy, even beyond the 
 natural desires of the heart, for the perishing race from which 
 he feels himself, "like a limb, cast bleeding and torn." The 
 curiosity to see his ancestry the people of his tribe and 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 199 
 
 country would be the most natural feeling of the white boy, 
 under similar circumstances shall we wonder that it is the 
 predominant passion in the bosom of the Indian, whose very 
 complexion forces him away from any connection with the 
 rest ! My idea of the experiment if such a proceeding may 
 be called an experiment is soon spoken. As a statement of 
 facts, I see nothing to create wonder. The result was the 
 most natural thing in the world, and a man of ordinary powers 
 of reflection might easily have predicted it, precisely as it 
 happened. The only wonder is, that there should be found, 
 among persons of common education and sagacity, men who 
 should have undertaken such an experiment, and fancied that 
 they were busy in a moral and philosophical problem.' 1 
 *' Why, how would you have the experiment tried ?" 
 " As it was tried upon the Hebrews upon the Saxons 
 upon every savage people who ever became civilized. It 
 cannot be tried upon an individual ; it must be tried upon a 
 nation at least upon a community, sustained by no succour 
 from without having no forests or foreign shores upon which 
 to turn their eyes for sympathy having no mode or hope of 
 escape under the full control of an already civilized people 
 and sufficiently numerous among themselves, to find sympathy 
 against those necessary rigours which at first will seem to be' 
 oppressive, but which will be the only hopeful process by 
 which to enforce the work of improvement. They must find 
 this symathy from beholding others, like themselves in aspect^ 
 form, feature and condition, and subject to the same unusual 
 restraints. In this contemplation they "will be content to pur- 
 sue their labours under a restraint they cannot displace. But 
 the natural law must be satisfied. There must be opportuni- 
 ties yielded for the indulgence of the legitimate passions. The 
 young of both sexes among the subjected people, must confer 
 and form ties in obedience to the requisition of nature and ac- 
 cording to their national customs. What if the Indian student 
 on whom the " experiment" was tried, had paid his addresses 
 
200 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 to a white maiden ! What a revulsion of the moral and social 
 sense would have followed his proposition in the mind of the 
 Saxon damsel ; and, were she to consent, what a commotion 
 in the community in which she lived. And this revulsion and 
 commotion would have been perfectly natural, and, accord- 
 ingly, perfectly proper. God has has made an obvious distinc- 
 tion between certain races of men, setting them apart, and re- 
 quiring them to be kept so, by subjecting them to the resist- 
 ance and rebuke of one of the most jealous sentinels of sense 
 which we possess the eye. The prejudices of this sense, re- 
 quire that the natural barriers should be maintained, and hence 
 it becomes necessary that the race in subjection, should be 
 sufficiently numerous to carry out the great object of every- 
 distinct community, though, perchance, it may happen to be 
 an inferior one. In process of time, the beneficial and blessed 
 effects of labour would be felt and understood by the most ig- 
 norant and savage of the race. Perhaps, not in one genera- 
 tion, or in two, but after the fifth and seventh, as it is written, 
 " of those who keep my commandments." They would soon 
 discover that, though compelled to toil, their toils neither en- 
 feebled their strength nor impaired their happiness that, on 
 the contrary, they still resulted in their increasing strength, 
 health, and comfort ; that their food, which before was pre- 
 carious, depending on the caprices of the seasons, or the un- 
 certainties of the chase, was now equally plentiful, wholesome 
 and certain. They would also perceive that, instead of the 
 sterility which is usually the destiny of all wandering tribes, 
 and one of the procseses by whichjthey perish the fecundity of 
 their people was wonderfully increased. These discoveries 
 if time be allowed to make them would tacitly reconcile 
 them to that inferior position of their race, which is proper and 
 inevitable, so long as their intellectual inferiority shall con- 
 tinue. And what would have been the effect upon our Indi- 
 ans decidedly the noblest race of aborigines that the world 
 has ever known if, instead of buying their scalps at prices 
 
LIFE IK AMERICA. 201 
 
 varying from five to fifty pounds each, we had conquered and 
 subjected them ? Will any one pretend to say that they would 
 not have increased with the restraints and enforced toils of 
 our superior genius? that they would not, by this time, have 
 formed a highly valuable and noble integral in the formation of 
 our national strength and character ? Perhaps their civiliza- 
 tion would have been comparatively easy the Hebrews re- 
 quired four hundred years the Britons and Saxons, possibly, 
 half that time after the Norman Conquest. Differing in colour 
 from their conquerors, though I suspect, with a natural genius 
 superior to that of the ancient Britons, at the time of the 
 Roman invasion under Julius Caesar, the struggle between the 
 two races must have continued for some longer time, but the 
 union would have been finally effected, and then, as in the 
 case of the Englishmen, we should have possessed a race, in 
 their progeny, which, in moral and physical structure, might 
 have challenged competition with the world." 
 
 " Ay, but the difficulty would have been in the conquest.' 1 
 " True, that would have been the difficulty. The American 
 colonists were few in number and feeble in resource. The 
 nations from which they emerged put forth none of their strength 
 in sending them forth. Never were colonies so inadequately 
 provided so completely left to themselves; and hence the 
 peculiar injustice and insolence of the subsequent exactions of 
 the British, by which they required their colonies to support 
 their schemes of aggrandizement and expenditure by submit- 
 ting to extreme taxation. Do you suppose, if the early colon- 
 ists had been powerful, that they would have ever deigned to 
 treat for lands with the roving hordes of savages whom they 
 found on the continent ? Never ! Their purchases and treaties 
 were not for lands, but tolerance. They bought permission to 
 remain without molestation. The amount professedly given 
 for land, was simply a tribute paid to the superior strength of 
 the Indian, precisely as we paid it to Algiers and the Mussel- 
 i 5 
 
202 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 men, until we grew strong enough to whip them into respect. 
 If, instead of a few ships and a few hundred men, timidly making 
 their approaches along the shores of Manhattan, Penobscot 
 and Ocracocke, some famous leader, like JEneas, had brought 
 taken place. The Indians would have been subjected would 
 his entire people suppose them to be the persecuted Irish 
 what a wondrous difference would have have sunk into 
 their proper position of humility and dependence ; and, by 
 this time, might have united with their conquerors, pro- 
 ducing, perhaps, along the great ridge of the Alleghany, the 
 very noblest specimens of humanity, in mental and bodily 
 stature, that the world has ever witnessed. The Indi- 
 ans were taught to be insolent by the fears and feebleness o 
 the whites. They were flattered by fine words, by rich pre- 
 sents, and abundance of deference, until the ignorant savage^ 
 but a single degree above the brute who until then, had never 
 been sure of his porridge for more than a day ahead took airs 
 upon himself and became one of the most conceited and arro- 
 gant lords in creation. The colonists grew wiser as they 
 grew stronger ; but the evil was already done, and we are reap- 
 ing some of the bitter fruits, at this day, of seed unwisely 
 sown in that. It may be that we shall yet see the experiment 
 tried fairly." 
 
 " Ah, indeed where ?" 
 
 "In Mexico by the Texians. Let the vain, capricious, 
 : gnorant, and dastardly wretches who occupy and spoil the 
 face and fortunes of the former country, persevere] in pressing 
 war upon those sturdy adventurers, and their doom is written. 
 I fear it may be the s \vord I hope it may be the milder fate 
 of bondage and subjection. Such a fate would save, and 
 raise them finally to a far higher condition than they have 
 ever before enjoyed. Thirty thousand Texians, each with his 
 horse and rifle, would soon make themselves masters of the 
 city of Montezuma, and then may you see the experiment 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA^ 503 
 
 tried upon a scale sufficiently extensive to make it a fair one. 
 But your Indian student, drawn from 
 
 " Susquehannah's farthest springs," 
 
 and sent to Cambridge, would present you with some such 
 moral picture as that of the prisoner described by Sterne. 
 His chief employment, day by day, would consist in notching 
 upon his stick, the undeviating record of his daily suffering. 
 It would be to him an experiment almost as full of torture, as 
 that of the Scottish Boot, the Spanish Thumb-screw or any 
 of those happy devices of ancient days, for impressing pleasant 
 principles upon the mind, by impressing unpleasant feelings 
 upon the thews, joints and sinews. I wish that some of our 
 writers, familiar with mental analysis, would make this poem 
 of Freneau, the subject of a story. I think it would yield 
 admirable material. To develope the thoughts and feelings of 
 on Indian boy, taken from his people, ere yet he has formed 
 such a knowledge of them, or of others, as to have begun to 
 discuss or to compare their difference follow him to a col- 
 lege such as that of Princeton or Cambridge watch him 
 within its walls amid the crowd, but not of it watch him 
 within himself while all others are looking into him, or try- 
 ing to do so surrounded by active, sharp-witted lad of the 
 Anglo-Norman race; undergoing an hourly repeated series of 
 moral spasms, as he hears them wantonly or thoughtlessly 
 dwell upon the wild and ignorant people from whom he is 
 chosen ; listening, though without seeming to listen, to their 
 crude peculations upon the great problem which is to be 
 solved only by seeing how well he can endure his spasms, and 
 what use he can make of his philosophy if he survives it 
 then, when the toils of study and the tedious restraints and 
 troubles of prayer and recitation are got over, to behold and 
 describe the joy with which the happy wretch flings by his 
 fetters, when he 'is dismissed from those walls which have 
 witnessed his tortures even supposing him to remain (which 
 
204 LIFE IN AMERICA*' 
 
 is very unlikely,) until his course of study is pronounced to 
 be complete ! With what curious pleasure will he stop in the 
 shadow of the first deep forest, to tear from his limbs those 
 garments which make him seem unlike his people ! How 
 quick will be the beating at his heart as he endeavours to dis- 
 pose about his shoulders the blanket robe in the manner in 
 which it is worn by the chief warrior of his tribe ! With 
 what keen effort should he have had any previous knowledge 
 of his kindred will he seek to compel his memory to restore 
 every, the slighest, custom or peculiarity which distinguished 
 them when his eyes were first withdrawn from the parental 
 tribe ; and how closely will he imitate their indomitable pride 
 and lofty, cold, superiority of look and gesture, as at evening 
 ho enters the native hamlet, and takes his seat in silence at the 
 door of the Council House, waiting, without a word, for the 
 summon of the Elders!" 
 
 " Quite a picture, I think with you, that in good hands, 
 such a subject would prove a very noble one." 
 
 " But the story would not finish here. Supposing all this to 
 have taken place, just as we are told it did supposing the 
 boy to have graduated at the college, and to have flung away 
 the distinction to have returned, as has been described, to 
 his savage costume to the homes and habits of his people . 
 it is not so clear that he will fling away all the lessons of 
 wisdom, all the knowledge of facts, which he will have ac- 
 quired for the tuition of the superior race. A natural instinct, 
 which is above all lessons, must be complied with ; but this 
 done and when the first tumults of his blood have subsided, 
 which led him to defeat the more immediate object of his so- 
 cial training there will be a gradual resumption of the edu- 
 cational influence in his mind, and his intellectual habits will 
 begin to exercise themselves anew. They will he provoked 
 necessarily to this exercise by what he beholds around him. 
 He will begin to perceive, in its true aspects, the wretched- 
 ness of that hunter-state, which, surveyed at a distance, ap- 
 
IN AMERICA; 205 
 
 peared only the embodiment of stoical heroism and the most 
 elevated pride. He will see and lament the squalid poverty 
 of his people; which, his first lessons in civilization must 
 have shown him, is due only to the mode of life and pursuits 
 in which they are engaged. Their beastly intoxication will 
 offend his tastes their superstition and ignorance the cir- 
 cumscribed limits of their capacity for judging of things and 
 relations beyond the life of the bird or beast of prey will 
 awaken in 'him a sense of shame when he feels that they are 
 his kindred. The insecurity of their liberties will awaken his 
 fears, for he will instantly see that the great body of the peo- 
 ple in every aboriginal nation are the veriest slaves in the world J 
 and the degrading exhibitions which they make in their filth 
 and drunkenness, which reduce the man to a loathsomeness 
 of aspect which is never reached by the vilest beast which he 
 hunts or scourges, will be beheld by the Indian student in 
 very lively contrast with all that has met his eyes during that 
 novitiate among the white sages, the processes of which have 
 been to him so humiliating and painful. His memory reverts 
 to that period with feelings of reconciliation. The torture if 
 over, and the remembrance of former pain, endured with 
 manly fortitude, is comparatively a pleasure. A necessary 
 reaction in his mind takes place ; and agreeably to the laws of 
 nature, what will, and what should follow, but that he will 
 seek to become the tutor and the reformer of his people? 
 They themselves will tacitly raise him from this position, for 
 the man of the forest will defer even to the negro who has 
 been educated by the white man. He will try to teach them 
 habits of greater method and industry he will overthrow the 
 altars of their false gods he will seek to bind the wander- 
 ing tribes together under one head and in one nation he will 
 prescribe uniform laws of government. He will succeed in 
 somethingshe will fail in others ; he will offend the pride 
 of the self-conceited and the mulish the priesthood will be 
 the first to declare against him and he will be murdered 
 
206 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 most probably, as was Romulus, and afterwards deified. If 
 he escapes this fate, he will yet, most likely, perish from mor- 
 tification under failure, or, in consequence of those mental 
 strifes which spring from that divided allegiance between the 
 feelings belonging to the savage, and those which have had 
 their origin in his Christian schools those natural strifes be- 
 tween the acquisition of civilization on the one hand, and 
 those instinct tendencies of the blood which distinguish his 
 connection with the inferior race. ' In this conflict, he will at 
 length, when the enthusiasm of his youthful zeal has become 
 chilled by frequent and unexpected defeat, falter, and finally 
 fail. Bat wiU there be nothing done for the people ? Who can 
 say ? I believe that no seed falls without profit by the 
 way-side. Even if the truth produces no immediate fruits 
 it forms a moral mauure which fertilizes the other wise 
 barren heart, in preparation for the more favourable season. 
 The Indian student may fail, as his teachers did, in re^- 
 alizing the object for which he has striven ; and this sort of 
 failure, is, by the way, one of the most ordinary of human al- 
 lotment. The desire of man's heart, by an especial Provi- 
 dence, that always wills him to act for the future, generally 
 aim at something far beyond his own powers of performance. 
 But the labour has not been taken in vain, in the progress of 
 successive ages, which has achieved even a small part of its 
 legitimate purposes. The Indian student has done for his peo- 
 ple much more than the white man achieves ordinarily for his 
 generation, if he has only secured to their .use a single truth 
 which they knew not before if he has overthrown only one of 
 their false gods if he has smitten off the snaky head of only 
 one of their snperstious prejudices. If he has added to their 
 fields of corn a field of millet, he has induced one farther phy- 
 sical step towards moral improvement. Nay, if there be no 
 other result, the very deference which they have all paid him, 
 as the clevc of the white man, will be a something gained of no 
 little importance, towards inducing their more ready, though 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 207 
 
 still tardy, adoption of the laws and guidance of the superior 
 race." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I AM afraid that my reader will suffer quite as much under 
 this long discussion, as did my excellent companion, Colonel 
 Harris. But he is not to suppose that all the views here ex- 
 pressed, were uttered consecutively, as they are above set 
 down. I have simply condensed, for more easy comprehen- 
 sion, the amount of a conversation which lasted some two 
 hours. I may add, that, at the close, we discovered, as is 
 very often the case among disputants, there was very little 
 substantial difference between us. Our dispute, if any, was 
 rather verbal than philosophical. On the subject of his ex- 
 periment, however, Colonel Harris fancied, that, in employing 
 some forty or fifty of the Indians, of both sexes, he had 
 brought together a community sufficiently large for the pur- 
 poses of a fair experiment. Still, I thought that the argument 
 remained untouched. They were not subordinate ; they were 
 not subdued ; they could still exercise a free and absolute will, 
 in despite of authority and reason. He could resort to no me- 
 thod for compelling their obedience ; and we know pretty well 
 what will result even among white men from the option of 
 vagrancy. 
 
 " But," I urged, "even if the objections which I have stated, 
 fail of defeating your scheme, there is yet another agent of 
 defeat working against it, in the presence of these elderly 
 Indians, who do not join in the labour, and yet, according to 
 your own showing, still prowl in waiting to snatch from the 
 hands of the industrious all the fruits of their toil. The na- 
 tural effect of this will be to discourage the industry of those 
 who work ; for, unless the labourer is permitted to enjoy a 
 
208 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 fair proportion of the fruits of his labour, it is morally impossi- 
 ble that he should long continue it." 
 
 Our conference was interrupted by the appearance of the la- 
 bourers, Indians and Negroes, who now began to come in, 
 bringing with them the cotton which they had severally ga- 
 thered during the day. This was accumulated in the court- 
 yard, before the dwelling; each Indian, manor woman, stand- 
 ing beside the bag or basket which contained the proofs of his 
 industry. You may readily suppose, that, after the dialogue 
 and discussion which is partially reported above, I felt no 
 little interest in observing the proceedings. The parties present 
 were quite numerous. I put the negroes out of the question, 
 though they were still to be seen, lingering in the background, 
 grinning spectators of the scene. The number of Indians, 
 men and women, who had that day been engaged in picking, 
 was thirty-nine. Of these, twenty-six were females ; three, 
 only, might be accounted men, and ten were boys none over 
 sixteen. Of the females the number of elderly and young 
 women was nearly equal. Of the men, one was very old and 
 infirm ; a second of middle age, who appeared to be something 
 of an idiot ; while the third, whom I regarded for this reason 
 with more consideration and interest than all the party beside, 
 was one of the most noble specimens of physical manhood that 
 my eyes had ever beheld. He was fully six feet three inches 
 in height, slender but muscular in the extreme. He possessed 
 a clear, upright, open, generous cast of countenance, as ut- 
 terly unlike that sullen, suspicious expression of the ordinary 
 Indian face, as you can possibly imagine. Good nature and 
 good sense were the predominant characteristics of his fea- 
 tures, and which is quite as unusual with Indians when in 
 the presence of strangers he laughed and jested with all the 
 merry, unrestrainable vivacity of a youth of Anglo-Saxon 
 breed. How was it that so noble a specimen of manhood 
 consented to herd with the women and the weak of his tribe 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 209 
 
 in descending to the mean labours which the warriors were 
 accustomed to despise ? 
 
 " He must either be a fellow of great sense, or he must be a 
 coward. He is degraded." 
 
 Such was my conclusion. The answer of Colonel Harris 
 was immediate. 
 
 " He is a fellow of good sense, and very far from being a 
 coward. He is one of the best Choctaws that I know." 
 
 " A man, then, to be a leader of his people. It is a singular 
 proof of good sense and great mental flexibility, to find an 
 Indian, who is courageous, voluntarily assuming tasks which 
 are held to be degrading among the hunters. What is his 
 name ?" 
 
 " His proper name is Oakatibbe ; but that by which he is 
 generally known among us his English name is Slim Samp- 
 son, a name which he gets on the score of his superior strength 
 and great slenderness. The latter name, in ordinary use, has 
 completely superseded the former, even among his own peo- 
 ple. It may be remarked, by the way, as another, proof of the 
 tacit deference of the inferior to the superior people, that most 
 Indians prefer to use the names given by the whites to those 
 of their own language. There are very few among them who 
 will not contrive, after a short intimacy with white men, to 
 get some epithet which is not always a complimentary one 
 but which they cling to as tenaciously as they would to some 
 far more valuable possession." 
 
 This little dialogue was whispered during the stir which 
 followed the first arrival of the labourers. We had no oppor- 
 tunity for more. 
 
 The rest of the Indians were in no respect remarkable. 
 There were some eight or ten women, and perhaps as many 
 men, who did not engage in the toils of their companions, 
 though they did not seem the less interested in the result. 
 These, I noted, were all, in greater or less degree, elderly per- 
 sons. One was full eighty years old, and a strange fact for 
 
210 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 one so venerable, was the most confirmed drunkard of the 
 tribe. "When the cotton pickers advanced with their baskets, 
 the hangers-on drew nigh also, deeply engrossed with the 
 prospect of reaping the gains from that industry which they 
 had no mood to emulate. These, however, were very mo- 
 derate, in most cases. Where a negro woman picked from one 
 to two hundred weight of cotton, per diem 9 the Indian woman, 
 at the utmost, gathered sixty-five ; arid the general average 
 among them, did not much exceed forty-five. Slim Sampson's 
 basket weighed eighty-six pounds an amount considerably 
 greater than any of the rest and Colonel Harris assured me, 
 that his average during the week bad been, at no time, much 
 below this quantity. 
 
 The proceedings had gone on without interruption or annoy- 
 ance for the space of half an hour. Colonel Harris had himself 
 weighed every basket with scrupulous nicety, and recorded 
 the several weights opposite to the name of the picker, in a 
 little memorandum book which he kept exclusively for this 
 purpose ; and it was amusing too $?pe with what pleasurable 
 curiosity, the Indians, men and women, watched the record 
 which stated their several accounts. The whole labour of the 
 week was to be pettled for that night (Saturday), and hence 
 the unusual gathering of those whose only purpose in being 
 present, was to grasp at the* spoils. 
 
 Among these hawks was one middle-aged Indian a stern, 
 sulky fellow, of considerable size and strength whose skin 
 was even then full of Ihpor, which contributing to the usual 
 insolence of his character, made him at times very troublesome. 
 He had more than once, during the proceedings, interfered be- 
 tween Colonel Harris and his employees, in such a manner as to 
 provoke, in the mind of that gentleman, no small degree of ir- 
 ritation. The English name of this Indian, was Loblolly Jack- 
 Loblolly Jack had a treble motive for being present and con- 
 spicuous. He had among the labourers, a wife and two dangh" 
 tors. When the baskets of these were brought to be weighed, 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 211 
 
 he could no longer be kept in the background, but, resolutely 
 thrusting himself before the rest, he handled basket, book and 
 steelyards in turn, uttered his suspicions of foul play, and in- 
 sisted upon a close examination of every movement which was 
 made by the proprietor. In this manner, he made it very dif- 
 ficult for him to proceed in his duties ; and his conduct, to do 
 the Indians justice, seemed quite as annoying to them as to 
 Colonel Harris. The wife frequently expostulated with him, in 
 rather bolder language than an Indian squaw is apt to use to 
 her liege lord ; while Slim Sampson, after a few words of re- 
 proach, expressed in Choc taw, concluded by telling him in 
 plain English, that he was " a rascal dog." He seemed the 
 only one among them who had no fear of the intruder. Lob- 
 lolly Jack answered in similar terms, and Slim Sampson, clear- 
 ing the baskets at a single bound, confronted him with a show 
 of fight, and a direct challenge to it, on the spot where they 
 stood. The other seemed no ways loth. He recoiled a pace, 
 drew his knife a sufficient signal for Slim Sampson to get his 
 own in readiness and, thus opposed, the)'' stood, glaring upon 
 each other with eyes of the most determined expression of 
 malignity. A moment more an additional word of provocation 
 from either and blows must have taken place. But Colonel 
 Harris, a man of great firmness, put himself between .them, and 
 calling to one of his negroes, bade him bring out from the 
 house his double-barreled gun. 
 
 " Now," said he, " my good fellows, the first man of you 
 that lifts his hand to strike, I'll shoot him down ; so look to 
 it. Slim Sampson, go back to your basket, and don't meddle 
 in this business. Don't you suppose that I'm man enough to 
 keep Loblolly Jack in order? You shall see." 
 
 It is not difficult for a determined white man to keep an 
 Indian in subordination, so long as both of them are sober. A 
 few words more convinced Loblolly Jack who had not yet 
 reached the reckless stage in drunkenness, that his wiser 
 course was to give back and keep quiet, which he did. The 
 
212 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 storm subsided almost as suddenly as it had been raised, and 
 Colonel Harris resumed his occupation. Still, the Indian who 
 had proved so troublesome before, continued his annoyances, 
 though in a manner somewhat less audacious. His last pro- 
 ceeding was to get as nigh as he could to the basket which 
 was about to be weighed his wife's basket and, with the 
 end of a stick, adroitly introduced into some little hole, he 
 contrived to press the basket downwards, and thus to add so 
 much to the weight of the cotton, that his squaw promised to 
 bear off the palm of victory in that day's picking. Nobody 
 saw the use to which the stick was put, and for a few mo- 
 ments no one suspected it. Had the cunning fellow been 
 more moderate, he might have succeeded in his attempt upon 
 the steelyards ; but his pressure increased with every ap- 
 proach which was made to a determination of the weight, and 
 while all was wondering that so small a basket should be so 
 heavy, Slim Sampson discovered and pointed out the trick to 
 Colonel Harris, who suddenly snatching the stick from the grasp 
 of the Indian, was about to lay it over his head. But this my 
 expostulation prevented ; and, after some delay, the proceed- 
 ings were finally ended ; but in such a manner as to make my 
 friend somewhat more doubtful than he had been before, on 
 the subject of his experiment. He paid off their accounts, 
 some in cloths and calicoes, of which he had provided a small 
 supply for this purpose ; but the greater number, under the 
 evil influence of the idle and the elder, demanded and received 
 their pay in money. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IT was probably about ten o'clock that evening. We had 
 finished supper, and Col. H. and myself had resumed the sub- 
 ject upon which we had been previously engaged. But the 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 213 
 
 discussion was languid, and both of us were unquestionably 
 lapsing into that state, when each readily receives an apology 
 for retiring for the night, when we were startled from our 
 drowsy tendencies by a .wild and terrible cry, such as made 
 me thrill instinctively with the conviction that something ter- 
 rible had taken place. We started instantly to our feet, and 
 threw open the door. The cry was more distinct and 
 piercing, and its painful character could not be mistaken. It 
 was a cry of dea'th of sudden terror, and great and angry 
 excitement. Many voices were mingled together some ex- 
 pressive of fury, some of fear, and many of lamentation. The 
 tones which finally prevailed over, and continued long after 
 all others had subsided, were those of women. 
 
 " These sounds come from the shop of that trader. These 
 rascally Choctaws are drunk and fighting, and ten to one but 
 somebody is killed among them !" was the exclamation of 
 Col. H. " These sounds are familiar to me. I have heard 
 them once before. They signify murder. It is a peculiar 
 whoop which the Indians have, to denote the shedding of 
 blood to show that a crime has been committed." 
 
 The words had scarcely been uttered, before Slim Sampson 
 came suddenly out into the road, and joined us at the door. 
 Col. H. instantly asked him to enter, which he did. When he 
 came fully into the light, we discovered that he had been 
 drinking. His eyes bore sufficiert testimony to the fact, 
 though his drunkenness seemed to have subsided into some- 
 thing like stupor. His looks were heavy, rather than calm. 
 He said nothing, but drew nigh to the fireplace, and seated 
 himself upon one corner of the hearth. I now discovered that 
 his hands and hunting shirit were stained with blood. His 
 eyes beheld the bloody tokens at the same time, and he turned 
 his hand curiously over, and examined it by the fire-light. 
 
 " Kurnel," said he, in broken English, " me is one dog fool !" 
 
 " How, Sampson ?" 
 
 " Me drunk me fight me kill Loblolly Jack ! Look ya ! 
 
24 LIFE IN AMERICA, 
 
 Dis blood 'pon my bands. 'Tis Loblolly Jack blood! He 
 dead ! I stick him wid de knife !" 
 
 " Impossible ! What made you do it ?" 
 
 " Me drunk ! Me dog fool ! Drink whiskey at liquor shop 
 hab money buy whiskey drunk come, and Loblolly Jack 
 dead !" 
 
 This was the substance of the story, which was confirmed a 
 few moments after, by the appearance of several other In- 
 dians, the friends of the two parties. From these it appeared 
 that all of them had been drinking 1 , at the shop of Ligon, the 
 white man ; that, when heated with liquor, both Loblolly 
 Jack and Slim Sampson had, as with one accord, resumed the 
 strife which had been arrested by the prompt interference of 
 Col. IT. ; that, from words they had got to blows, and the for- 
 mer had fallen, fatally hurt, by a single stroke from the other's 
 hand and knife. 
 
 The Indian law, like that of the Hebrews, is eye for eye, 
 tooth for tooth, life for life. The fate of Slim Sampson was 
 ordained. He was to die on the morrow. This was w^ell 
 understood by himself as by all the rest. The wound of Lob- 
 lolly Jack had proved mortal. He was already dead ; and it 
 was arranged among the parties that Slim Sampson was to 
 remain that night, if permitted, at the house of Col. H., and 
 to come forth at early sunrise to execution. Col. H. declared 
 his willingness that the criminal should remain in his house ; 
 but, at the same time, disclaimed all responsibility in the 
 business ; and assured the old chief, Avhose name was " Rising 
 Smoke," that he would not be answerable for his appearance. 
 
 "He won't run," said the other, indifferently. 
 
 " But you will not put a watch over him I will not suffer 
 more than the one to sleep in my house. 
 
 The old chief repeated his assurance that Slim Sampson 
 would not seek to fly. No guard was to be placed over him. 
 He was expected to remain quiet, and come forth to execution 
 at the hour appointed. 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 216 
 
 " He got for dead/' continued Rising Smoke " he know 
 the law. He will come and dead like a man. Oakatibbc got 
 big heart." Every word which the old fellow uttered went 
 to mine. 
 
 What an eulogy was this upon Indian inflexibility ! What 
 confidence in the passive obedience of the warrior ! After a 
 little farther dialogue, they departed, friends and enemies 
 and the unfortunate criminal was left with us alone. He still 
 maintained his seat upon the hearth. His muscles were com- 
 posed and calm not rigid. His thoughts, however, were 
 evidently busy ; and, once or twice, I could see that his head 
 was moved slowly from side to side, with an expression of 
 mournful self-abandonment. I watched every movement and 
 look with the deepest interest, while Col. H. with a concern 
 necessarily deeper than my own, spoke with him freely, on 
 the subject of his crime. It was, in fact, because of the af- 
 fair of Col. H. that the unlucky deed was committed. It was 
 true, that, for this, the latter gentleman was in no wise res- 
 ponsible ; but that did not lessen, materially, the pain which 
 he felt at having, however unwittingly, occasioned it. He 
 spoke with the Indian in such terms of condolence as con- 
 ventional usage among us has determined to be the most pro- 
 per. He proffered to buy off the friends and relatives of the 
 deceased, if the offence could be commuted for money. The 
 poor fellow was very grateful, but at the same time, told him 
 that the attempt wag useless. The tribe had never been 
 known to permit such a thing, and the friends of Loblolly 
 Jack were too much his enemies, to consent to any commuta- 
 tion of the penalty. 
 
 Col. H., however, was unsatisfied, and determined to try 
 the experiment. The notion had only suggested itself to him 
 after the departure of the Indians. He readily conjectured 
 where he should find them, and we immediately set off for the 
 grogshop of Ligon. This was little more than a quarter of a 
 mile from the plantation. When we reached it, we found 
 
21G LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 the Indians, generally, in the worst possible condition to be 
 treated with. They were, most of them, in the last stages of 
 intoxication. The dead body of the murdered man was 
 stretched out in the piazza, or gallery, half covered with a 
 bear-skin. The breast was bare a broad, bold, manly bosom 
 and the wound, a deep narrow gash, around which the 
 blood stood, clotted, in thick, frothy masses. The nearer re- 
 lations of the deceased, were perhaps the most drunk of the 
 assembly. Their grief necessarily entitled them to the greatest 
 share of consolation, and this took the form of whiskey. Their 
 love of excess, and the means of indulgence, encouraged ns 
 with the hope that their vengeance might be bought off with- 
 out much difficulty, but we soon found ourselves very much 
 deceived. Every effort, every offer, proved fruitless: and 
 after vainly exhausting every art and argument, old Rising 
 Smoke drew us aside to tell us that the thing was impossible. 
 
 " Oakatibbe hab for die, and no use for talk. De law is 
 make for Oakatibbe, and Loblolly Jack, and me, Rising Smoke, 
 and all, just the same. Oakatibbe will dead to-morrow " 
 
 With sad hearts we left the maudlin and miserable assem- 
 bly. When we returned, we found Slim Sampson employed 
 in carving with his knife upon the handle of his tomahawk. 
 In the space thus made, he introduced a small bit of flattened 
 silver, which seemed to have been used for a like purpose on 
 some previous occasion. It was rudely shaped like a bird, 
 and was probably one of those trifling ornaments which 
 usually decorate the stocks of rifle and shot-gun. I looked 
 with increasing concern upon his countenance. What could 
 a spectator one unacquainted with the circumstances have 
 met with there ? Nothing, surely, of that awful event which 
 had jttst taken place, and of that doom which now seemed so 
 certainly to await him. He betrayed no sort of interest in 
 our mission. His look and manner denoted his own perfect 
 conviction of its inutility ; and when we told him what had 
 taken place, he neither answered nor looked up. 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA, 217 
 
 It would be difficult to describe my feelings and those of 
 my companion. The more we reflected upon the affair, the 
 more painful and oppressive did our thoughts become. A pain, 
 little short of horror, coupled itself with every emotion. We 
 left the Indian still beside the fire. He had begun a low 
 chanting song just before we retired, in his own language, 
 which was meant as a narrative of the chief events of his life . 
 The death song for such it was is neither more nor less 
 than a recital of those deeds which it will be creditable to a 
 son or a relative to remember. In this way the valour of their 
 great men, and the leading events in their history, are trans- 
 mitted through successive ages. He was evidently refreshing 
 his own memory in preparation for the morrow. He was 
 arranging the narrative of the past, in proper form for the ac- 
 ceptance of the future. 
 
 We did not choose to disturb him in this vocation, and re- 
 tired. When we had got to our chamber, H., who already had 
 one boot off, exclaimed suddenly " Look you, S., this fellow 
 ought not to perish in this manner. We should make an effort 
 to save him. We must save him !" 
 
 " What will you do ?" 
 
 " Come let us go back and try and urge him to flight. He 
 can escape easily while all these fellows are drunk. He shall 
 have my best horse for the purpose.'* 
 
 We returned to the apartment. 
 
 " Slim Sampson." 
 
 " Kurnel !" was the calm reply. 
 
 " There's no sense in your staying here to be shot. 5 ' 
 
 " Uugh !" was the only answer, but in an assenting tone> 
 
 " You're not a bad fellow you didn't mean to kill Loblolly 
 Jack it's very hard that you should die for what you didn't 
 wish to do. You're too young to die. You've got a great 
 many years to live. You ought to live to be an old man and 
 have sons like yourself; and there's a great deal of happiness 
 
218 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 in this world, if a man only knows ^here to look for it. But 
 a man that's dead is of no use to himself, or to his friends, or 
 his enemies. Why should you die why should you be shot? 1 ' 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 " Hear me ; your people are all drunk at Ligon's blind 
 drunk deaf drunk they can neither see nor hear. They 
 won't get sober till morning perhaps not then. You've been 
 across the Mississippi, hav'nt you ? You know the way ?" 
 
 The reply was affirmative. 
 
 " Many Choctaws live over the Mississippi now on the 
 Red River, and far beyond, to the Red Hills. Go to them 
 they will take you by the hand they will give you one of 
 their daughters to wife they will love you they will make 
 you a chief. Fly, Sampson, fly to them you shall have one 
 of my horses, and before daylight you will be down the coun- 
 try, among the white people, and far from your enemies Go, 
 my good fellow, it would be a great pity that so brave a man 
 should die." 
 
 This was the substance of my friend's exhortation. It was 
 put into every shape, and addressed to every fear, hope, or 
 passion which might possibly have influence over the human 
 bosom. A strong conflict took place in the mind of the Indian, 
 the outward signs of which were not wholly suppressible. He 
 started to his feet, trod the floor hurriedly, and there was a 
 tremulous quickness in the movement of his eyes, and a dila- 
 tion of their orbs, which amply denoted the extent of his emo- 
 tion. He turned suddenly upon us, when H. had finished 
 speaking, and replied in language very nearly like the fol* 
 lowing : 
 
 " I love the whites I was always a friend to the whites. I 
 believe I love their laws better than my own. Loblolly Jack 
 laughed at me because I loved the whites, and wanted our 
 people to live like them. But I am of no use now. I can 
 love them no more. My people say that I must die. How 
 can I live ?" 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA, 219 
 
 Such was the purport of his answer. The meaning of it 
 was simple. He was not unwilling to avail himself of the 
 suggestions of my friend to fly to live but he could not 
 divest himself of that habitual deference to those laws to 
 which he had given implicit reverence from the beginning. 
 Custom is the superior tyrant of all savage nations. 
 
 To embolden him on this subject was now the joint object 
 of Col. H. and myself. We spared no argument to convince 
 him that he ought to fly. It was something in favour of 
 our object that the Indian regards the white man as so in- 
 finitely his superior ; and, in the case of Slim Sampson, we 
 were assisted by his own inclinations in favour of those cus- 
 toms of the whites, which he had already in part begun to 
 adopt. We discussed for his benefit that which may be con- 
 sidered one of the leading elements in civilization the duty 
 of saving and keeping life as long as we can insisted upon 
 the morality of flying from any punishment which would de- 
 prive us of it ; and at length had the satisfaction of seeing 
 him convinced. He yielded to our arguments and solicitations, 
 accepted the horse, which he promised voluntarily to find 
 some early means to return, and, with a sigh perhaps one of 
 the first proofs of that change of feeling and of principle 
 which he had just shown, he declared his intention to take 
 the road instantly. 
 
 " Go to bed, Kurnel. Your horse will come back." We 
 retired, and a few moments after heard him leave the house. 
 I am sure that both of us felt a degree of light-heartedness 
 which scarcely any other event could have produced. We 
 could not sleep, however. For myself I answer it was al- 
 most dawn before I fell into an uncertain slumber, filled with 
 visions of scuffling Indians the stark corse of Loblolly Jack 
 being the conspicuous object, and Slim Sampson standing up 
 for execution. 
 
220 LIFE IN AMERICA, 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 NEITHER Col. H. nor myself arose at a very early hour. Our 
 first thoughts and feelings at waking were those of exultation. 
 We rejoiced that we had been instrumental in saving from an 
 ignominious death, a fellow creature, and one who seemed so 
 worthy, in so many respects. Our exultation was not a little 
 increased, as we reflected on the disappointment of his ene- 
 mies; and we enjoyed a hearty laugh together, as we talked 
 over the matter while putting on our clothes. When we 
 looked from the window the area in front of the house was 
 covered with Indians. They sat, or stood, or walked, all 
 around the dwelling. The hour appointed for the delivery of 
 Slim Sampson had passed, yet they betrayed no emotion. We 
 fancied, however, that we could discern in the countenances 
 of most among them, the sentiment of friendship or hostility 
 for the criminal, by which they were severally governed. A 
 dark, fiery look of exultation grim anticipation of delight 
 was evident in the faces of his enemies ; while, among his 
 friends, men and women, a subdued concern and humbling 
 sadness, were the prevailing traits of expression. 
 
 But when we went below to meet them when it became 
 known that the murderer had fled, taking with him the best 
 horse of the proprietor, the outbreak was tremendous. A 
 terrible yell went up from the party devoted to Loblolly J ack ; 
 while the friends and relatives of Slim Sampson at once sprang 
 to their weapons, and put themselves in an attitude of defence. 
 We had not foreseen the effects of our interposition and ad- 
 vice. We did not know, or recollect, that the nearest connec- 
 tion of the criminal, among the Indian tribes, in the event of 
 his escape, would be required to suffer in his place ; and this, 
 by the way, is the grand source of that security which they 
 felt the night before, that flight would not be attempted by 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 221 
 
 the destined victim. The aspect of affairs looked squally. 
 Already was the bow bent and the tomahawk lifted. Already 
 had the parties separated, each going to his own side, and 
 ranging himself in front of some one opponent. The women 
 sunk rapidly into the rear, and provided themselves with 
 billets or fence rails, as they occurred to their hands ; while 
 little brats of boys, ten and twelve years old, kept up a con- 
 tinual shrill clamour, brandishing aloft their tiny bows and 
 blow-guns, which were only powerful against the lapwing and 
 the sparrow. In political phrase, "a great crisis was at 
 hand." The stealthier chiefs and leaders of both sides, had 
 sunk from sight, behind the trees or houses, in order to avail 
 themselves of all the arts of Indian strategy. Every thing 
 promised a sudden and stern conflict. At the first show of 
 commotion, Col H. had armed himself. I had been well pro- 
 vided with pistols and bowie knife, before leaving home ; and, 
 apprehending the worst, we yet took our places as peace- 
 makers, between the contending parties. 
 
 It is highly probable that all our interposition would have 
 been fruitless to prevent their collision ; and, though our posi- 
 tion certainly delayed the progress of the quarrel, yet all we 
 could have hoped to effect by our interference would have been 
 the removal of the combatants to a more remote battle ground. 
 But a circumstance that surprised and disappointed us all, 
 took place, to settle the strife for ever, and to reconcile the 
 parties without any resort to blows. While the turmoil was 
 at the highest, and we had despaired of doing any thing to 
 prevent bloodshed, the tramp of a fast galloping horse was 
 heard in the woods, and the next moment the steed of Col. H 
 made his appearance, covered with foam, Slim Sampson on 
 his back, and still driven by the lash of his rider at the top of 
 his speed. He leaped the enclosure, and was drawn up still 
 quivering in every limb, in the area between the opposing In- 
 dians. The countenance of the noble fellow told his story. 
 His heart had smitten him by continual reproaches, at the 
 
222 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 adoption of a conduct unknown in his nation ; and which all 
 its hereditary opinions had made cowardly and infamous. 
 Besides, he remembered the penalties which, in consequence 
 of his flight, must fall heavily upon his people. Life was sweet 
 to him very sweet! He had the promise of many bright 
 years before him. His mind was full of honourable and 
 speaking in comparative phrase lofty purposes, for the im- 
 provement of himself and nation. We have already sought to 
 show that, by his conduct, he had taken one large step in re- 
 sistance to the tyrannous usages of custom, in order to intro- 
 duce the elements of civilization among his people. But he 
 could not withstand the reproaches of a conscience formed 
 upon principles which his own genius was not equal to over- 
 throw. His thoughts, during his flight, must have been of a 
 very humbling character ; but his feature now denoted only 
 pride, exultation and a spirit strengthened by resignation 
 against the worst. By his flight and subsequent return, he 
 had, in fact, exhibited a more lively spectacle of moral firm- 
 ness, than would have been displayed by his simple submis- 
 sion in remaining. He seemed to feel this. It looked out 
 from his soul in every movement of his body. He leaped from 
 his horse, exclaiming, while he slapped his breast with his 
 open palm : 
 
 " Oakatibbe heard the voice of a chief, that said he must 
 die. ]Let the chief look here Oakatibbe is come. 
 
 A shout went up from both parties. The signs of strife dis- 
 appeared. The language of the crowd was no longer that of 
 threatening and violence. It was understood that there would 
 be no resistance in behalf of the condemned. Col. H. and my- 
 self, were both mortified and disappointed. Though the re- 
 turn of Slim Sampson, had obviously prevented a combat a 
 outrance, in which a dozen or more might have been slain, 
 still we could not but regret the event. The life of such a 
 fellow seemed to both of us, to be worth the lives of any hun- 
 dred of his people. 
 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 223 
 
 Never did man carry himself with more simple nobleness* 
 He was at once surrounded by his friends and relatives. The 
 hostile party, from whom the executioners were to be drawn, 
 stood looking on at some little distance, the very pictures of 
 patience. There was no sort of disposition manifested among 
 them, to hurry the proceedings. Though exulting in the pros- 
 pect of soon shedding the blood of one whom they esteemed an 
 enemy, yet all was dignified composure and forbearance. The 
 signs of exultation where no where to be seen. Meanwhile, a 
 conversation was carried on in low, soft accents, unmarked by 
 physical action of any kind, between the condemned and two 
 other Indians. One of these was the unhappy mother of the 
 criminal the other was his uncle. They rather listened to his 
 remarks, than made any of their own. The dialogue was con- 
 ducted in their own language. After a while this ceased, and 
 he made a signal which seemed to be felt, rather than under- 
 stood, by all the Indians, friends and enemies. All of them 
 started into instant intelligence. It was a sign that he was 
 ready for the final proceedings. He rose to his feet and they 
 surrounded him. The groans of the old woman, his mother, 
 were now distinctly audible, and she was led away by the 
 uncle, who, placing her among the other women, returned to 
 the condemned, beside whom he now took his place. Col. 
 H. and myself, also, drew nigh. Seeing us, Oakatibbe simply 
 said, with a smile : 
 
 "Ah, kurnel, you see Injun man ain't strong like white 
 man !" 
 
 Col. H. answered with emotion. 
 
 u I would have saved you, Sampson." 
 
 " Oakatibbe hab for dead !" said the worthy fellow, with 
 another, but a very wretched smile. 
 
 His firmness was unabated. A procession was formed, 
 which was headed by three sturdy fellows, carrying their 
 rifles conspicuously upon their shoulders. These were the ap- 
 pointed executioners, and were all near relatives of the man 
 
224 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 who had been slain. There was no mercy in their looks- 
 Oakatibbe followed immediately after these. He seemed 
 pleased that we should accompany him to the place of execu- 
 tion. Our way lay through a long avenue of stunted pines, 
 which conducted us to a spot where an elevated ridge on 
 either hand produced a broad and very prettily defined valley. 
 My eyes, in all this progress, were scarcely ever drawn off 
 from the person of him who was to be the principal actor in 
 the approaching scene. Never, on any occasion, did I behold 
 a man with a step more firm a head so unbent a countenance 
 so sweetly calm, though grave and of such quiet unconcern, 
 at the obvious fate in view. Yet there was nothing in his de- 
 portment of that effort which would be the case with most 
 white men on a similar occasion, who seek to wear the aspect 
 of heroism. He walked as to a victory, but he walked with a 
 staid, even dignity, calmly, and without the flush of any ex- 
 citement on his cheek. In his eye there was none of that 
 feverish curiosity, which seeks for the presence of his execu- 
 tioner, and cannot be averted from the contemplation of the 
 mournful paraphernalia of death. His look was like that of 
 the strong man, conscious of his inevitable doom, and pre- 
 pared, as it is inevitable, to meet it with corresponding in- 
 difference. 
 
 The grave was now before us. It must have been prepared 
 at the first dawn of the morning. The executioners paused, 
 when they had reached a spot within thirty steps of it. But 
 the condemned passed on, and stopped only on the edge of its 
 open jaws. The last trial was at hand with all its terrors. 
 The curtain was about to drop, and the scene of life, with all 
 its hopes and promises and golden joys even to an Indian 
 golden was to be shut forever. I felt a painful and numbing 
 chill pass through my frame, but I could behold no sign of 
 change in him. He now beckoned his friends around him. 
 His enemies drew nigh also, but in a remoter circle. He was 
 about to commence his gong of death the narrative of Jiis 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA! 225 
 
 performances, his purposes, all his living experience. He be- 
 gan a low chant, slow, measured and composed, the words 
 seeming to consist of monosyllables only. As he proceeded, 
 his eyes kindled, and his arms were extended. His action be- 
 came impassioned, his utterance more rapid, and the tones 
 were distinguished by increasing warmth. I could not under- 
 stand a single word which he uttered, but the cadences were 
 true and full of significance. The rise and fall of his voice, 
 truly proportioned to the links of sound by which they were 
 connected, would have yielded a fine lesson to the European 
 teacher of school eloquence. His action was as graceful as 
 that of a mighty tree yielding to, and gradually rising from, 
 the pressure of a sudden gust. I felt the eloquence which I 
 could not understand. I fancied, from his tones and gestures, 
 the play of the muscles of his mouth, and the dilation of his 
 eyes, that I could detect the instances of daring valour, or good 
 conduct, which his narrative comprised. One portion of it, as 
 he approached the close, I certainly could not fail to compre- 
 hend. He evidently spoke of his last unhappy affray with the 
 man whom he had slain. His head was bowed the light 
 passed from his eyes, his hands were folded upon his heart, and 
 his voice grew thick and husky. Then came the narrative of 
 his flight. His glance was turned upon Col. H. and myself, 
 and, at the close, he extended his hand to us both. We grasped 
 it earnestly, and with a degree of emotion which I would not 
 now seek to describe. He paused. The catastrophe was at 
 hand. I saw him step back, so as to place himself at the very 
 verge of the grave he then threw open his breast a broad, 
 manly, muscular bosom, that would have sufficed for a Her- 
 cules one hand he struck upon the spot above the heart, 
 where it remained the other was raised above his head. This 
 was the signal. I turned away with a strange sickness. I 
 could look no longer. In the next instant I heard the simul- 
 taneous report, as one, of the three rifles ; and when I again 
 K 5 
 
226 LIFE IN AMERICA^ 
 
 looked, they were shoveling in the fresh mould, upon the noble 
 form of one, who, under other more favourable circumstances, 
 might have been a father to his nation. 
 
 JOCASSEE. 
 A CHEROKEE LEGEND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " KEOWEE Old Fort," as the people in that quarter style it, is 
 a fine antique ruin .and relic of the revolution, in the district 
 of Pendleton, South Carolina. The region of country in which 
 we find it is, of itself, highly picturesque and interesting. The 
 broad river of Keowee, which runs through it, though compa- 
 ratively small as a stream in America, would put to shame, by 
 its size not less than its beauty, one half of the far-famed 
 and boasted rivers of Europe; and then the mountains, 
 through and among which it winds its way, embody more of 
 beautiful situation and romantic prospect, than art can well 
 figure to the pye, or language convey to the imagination. To 
 understand, you must see it. Words are of little avail when 
 the ideas overcrowd utterance ; and even vanity itself is con- 
 tent to be dumb in the awe inspired by a thousand prospects, 
 like Niagara, the ideals of a god, and altogether beyond the 
 standards common to humanity. 
 
 It is not long since I wandered through this interesting re- 
 gion, under the guidance of my friend, Col. G , who does 
 
 the honours of society, in that quarter, with a degree of ease 
 and unostentatious simplicity, which readily makes the visiter 
 at home. My friend was one of those citizens to whom one's 
 own country is always of paramount interest, and whose mind 
 and memory, accordingly, have been always mo&t happily em* 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 227 
 
 ployed when storing away and digesting into pleasing narra- 
 tive those thousand little traditions of the local genius, which 
 give life to rocks and valleys, and people earth with the beau- 
 tiful colours and creatures of the imagination. These, for the 
 gratification of the spiritual seeker, he had forever in readi- 
 ness ; and, with him to illustrate them, it is not surprising if 
 the grove had a moral existence in my thoughts, and all the 
 waters around breathed and were instinct with poetry. To 
 all his narratives I listened with a satisfaction which book- 
 stories do not often afford me. The more he told, the more he 
 had to tell ; for nothing staled 
 
 " His infinite variety." 
 
 There may have been something in the style of telling his 
 stories ; there was much, certainly, that was highly attractive 
 in his manner of doing every thing, and this may have contri- 
 buted not a little to the success of his narratives. Perhaps, 
 too, my presence, upon the very scene of each legend, may 
 have given them a life and a vraisemblance they had wanted 
 otherwise. 
 
 In this manner, rambling about from spot to spot, I passed 
 five weeks, without being, at any moment, conscious of time's 
 progress. Day after day, we wandered forth in some new 
 direction, contriving always to secure, and without effort, 
 that pleasurable excitement of novelty, for which the great 
 city labours in vain, spite of her varying fashions, and crowd- 
 ing, and not always innocent indulgences. From forest to 
 river, from hill to valley, still on horseback, for the moun- 
 tainous character of the country forbade any more luxurious 
 form of travel, we kept on our way, always changing our 
 ground with the night, and our prospect with the morning. In 
 this manner we travelled over or round the Six Mile, and the 
 Glassy, and a dozen other mountains ; and sometimes, with a 
 yet greater scope of adventure, pushed off on a much longer 
 rumble, such as took iw to the falls of the White Water, and 
 
228 LIFE IN AMERICA^ 
 
 gave us a glimpse of the beautiful river of Jocassee, named 
 sweetly after the Cherokee maiden, who threw herself into its 
 bosom on beholding the scalp of her lover dangling from the 
 neck of his conqueror. The story is almost a parallel to that 
 of the sister of Horatius, with this difference, that the Chero- 
 kee girl did not wait for the vengeance of her brother, and al- 
 together spared her reproaches. I tell the story, which is 
 pleasant and curious, in the language of my friend, from whom 
 I first heard it. 
 
 " The Occonies and the Little Estatoees, or, rather, the 
 Brown Vipers and the Green Birds, were both minor tribes of 
 the Cherokee nation, between whom, as was not unfrequently 
 the case, there sprung up a deadly enmity. The Estatoees 
 had their town on each side of the two creeks, which, to this 
 day, keep their name, and on the eastern side of the Keowee 
 river. The Occonies occupied a much larger extent of terri- 
 tory, but it lay on the opposite, or wesfc side of the same 
 stream. Their differences were supposed to have arisen from 
 the defeat of Chatuga, a favourite leader of the Occonies, who 
 aimed to be made a chief of the nation at large. The Estatoee 
 warrior, Toxaway, was successful ; and as the influence of 
 Chatuga was considerable with his tribe, he laboured success- 
 fully to engender in their bosoms a bitter dislike of the Esta- 
 toees. This feeling was made to exhibit itself on every possi- 
 ble occasion. The Occonies had no word too foul by which 
 to describe the Estatoees. They likened them, in familiar 
 speech, to every thing which, in the Indian imagination, is ac- 
 counted low and contemptible. In reference to war, they were 
 reputed women in all other respects, they were compared to 
 dogs and vermin ; and, with something of a Christian taste 
 and temper, they did not scruple, now and then, to invoke the 
 devil of their more barbarous creed, for the eternal disquiet of 
 their successful neighbours, the Little Estatoees, and their 
 great chief, Toxaway. 
 
 " In this condition of things there could not be much 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 229 
 
 harmony ; and accordingly, as if by mutual consent, there was 
 but little intercourse between the two people. When they 
 met, it was either to regard one another with a cold, repulsive 
 distance, or else, as enemies, actively to foment quarrel and 
 engage in strife. But seldom, save on national concerns, did 
 the Estatoees cross the Keowee to the side held by the 
 Occonies ; and the latter, more numerous, and therefore less 
 reluctant for strife than their rivals, were yet not often found, 
 on the opposite bank of the same river. Sometimes, however, 
 small parties of hunters from both tribes, rambling in one 
 direction or another, would pass into the enemy's territory ; 
 but this was not frequent, and when they met, quarrel and 
 bloodshed were sure to mark the adventure. 
 
 " But there was one young/warrior of the Estatoees, who did 
 not give much heed to this condition of parties, and who, 
 moved by an errant spirit, and wholly insensible to fear, would 
 not hesitate, when the humour seized him, to cross the river, 
 making quite as free, when he did so, with the hunting-grounds 
 of the Occonies as they did themselves. This sort of conduct 
 did not please the latter very greatly, but Nagoochie was al- 
 ways so gentle, and at the same time so brave, that the young 
 warriors of Occony either liked or feared him too much to 
 throw themselves often in his path, or labour, at any time, to 
 arrest his progress. 
 
 " In one of these excursions, Nagoochie made the acquaint- 
 ance of Jocassee, one of the sweetest of the dusky daughters 
 of Occony. He was rambling, with bow and quiver, in pur- 
 suit of game, as was his custom, along that beautiful enclo- 
 sure which the whites have named after her, the Jocassee 
 valley. The circumstances under which they met were all 
 strange and exciting, and well calculated to give her a power 
 over the young hunter, to which the pride of the Indian does 
 not often suffer him to submit. It was towards evening when 
 Nagoochie sprung a fine buck from a hollow of the wood beside 
 him, and just before you reach the ridge of rocks which hem 
 
230 LIFE IN AMERICA! 
 
 in and form this beautiful valley. With the first glimpse of 
 his prey flew the keen shaft of Nagoochie ; but, strange to say, 
 though renowned as a hunter, not less than a warrior, the 
 arrow failed entirely and flew wide of the victim. Off he 
 bounded headlong after the fortunate buck ; but though, every 
 now and then getting him within range, for the buck took 
 the pursuit coolly, the hunter still most unaccountably failed 
 to strike him. Shaft after shaft had fallen seemingly hurtless 
 from his sides ; and though, at frequent intervals, suffered to 
 approach so nigh to the] animal that he could not but hope 
 still for better fortune, to his great surprise, the wary buck 
 would dash off when he least expected it, bounding away in 
 some new direction, with as much life and vigour as ever. 
 What to think of this, the hunter knew not ;. but such repeated 
 disappointments at length impressed it strongly upon his 
 mind, that the object he pursued was neither more nor less 
 than an Occony wizard, seeking to entrap him ; so, with a 
 due feeling of superstition, and a small touch of sectional 
 venom aroused into action within his heart, Nagoochie, after 
 the manner of his people, promised a green bird the emblem 
 of his tribe in sacrifice to the tuelar divinity of Estato, if he 
 could only be permitted to overcome the potent enchanter, 
 who had thus dazzled his aim and blunted his arrows. He 
 had hardly uttered this vow, when he beheld the insolent deer 
 mincingly grazing upon a beautiful tuft of long grass in the 
 valley, just below the ledge of rock upon which he stood. 
 Without more ado, he pressed onward to bring him within 
 fair range of his arrows, little doubting at the moment that 
 the Good Spirit had heard his prayer and had granted his 
 desire. Bnt, in his hurry, leaping too hastily forward, and 
 with eyes fixed only upon his proposed victim, his foot was 
 caught by the smallest stump in the world, and the very next 
 moment found him precipitated directly over the rock and into 
 the valley, within a few paces of the deer, who made off with 
 the utmost composure 1 ; gazing back, as he did so, in the eyes 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA^ 231 
 
 of the wounded hunter, for all the world, as if he enjoyed the 
 sport mightily. Nagoochie, as he saw this, gravely concluded 
 that he had fallen a victim to the wiles of the Occony 
 wizard, and looked confidently to see half a score of Occonies 
 upon him, taking him at a vantage, Like a brave warrior, 
 however,; he] did not despond, but determining to gather up 
 his loins for battle and the torture, he sought to rise and put 
 himself in a state of preparation. What, however, was his 
 horror, to find himself utterly unable to move ; his leg had 
 been broken in the fall, and he was covered with bruises from 
 head to foot, 
 
 "Nagoochie gave himself up for lost; but he had scarcely 
 done so, when he heard a voice, the sweetest, he thought, he 
 had ever heard in his life, singing a wild, pleasant song, such 
 as the Occonies love, which, ingeniously enough, summed up 
 the sundry reasons why the mouth, and not the eyes, had been 
 endowed with the faculty of eating. These reasons were 
 many, but the last is quite enough for us. According to the 
 song, had the eyes, and not the mouth, been employed for this 
 purpose, there would soon be a famine in the land, for of all 
 gluttons, the eyes are the greatest. Nagoochie groaned aloud 
 as he heard the song, the latter portion of which completely 
 indicated the cause of his present misfortune. It was, indeed, 
 the gluttony of the eyes which had broken his leg. This sort 
 of allegory the Indians are ibnd of, and Jocassee knew all 
 their legends. Certainly, thought Nagoochie, though his leg 
 pained him wofully at the time, e certainly I never heard such 
 sweet music, and such a voice.' The singer advanced as she 
 sung, and almost stumbled over him. 
 
 " ' "Who are you ?' she asked timidly, neither retreating nor 
 advancing ; and as the wounded man looked into her face, he 
 blessed the Occony wizard, by whose management he deemed 
 his leg to have been broken. 
 
 "'Look!' was the reply of the young warrior, throwing 
 aside the bearskin which covered his bosom,' look, girl of 
 
232 LIFE IN AMERICA; 
 
 Occony ! 'tis the totem of a chief;' and the green bird stamped 
 upon his left breast, as the badge of his tribe, showed him a 
 warrior of Estato, and something of any enemy. But his eyes 
 had no enmity, and then the broken leg! Jocassee was a 
 gentle maiden, and her heart melted with the condition of the 
 warrior. She made him a sweet promise, in very pretty lan- 
 guage, and with the very same voice the music of which was 
 so delicious ; and then, with the fleetness of a young doe, she 
 went off to bring him succour. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " NIGHT, in the meanwhile, came on ; and the long howl of 
 of the wolf, as he looked down from the crag, and waited for 
 the thick darkness in which to descend the valley, came freez- 
 ingly to the ear of Nagoochie. ' Surely,' he said to himself, 
 < the girl of Occony will come back. She has too sweet a 
 voice not to keep her word. She will certainly come back.' 
 While he doubted, he believed. Indeed, though still a very 
 young maiden, the eyes of Jocassee had in them a great deal 
 that was good for little beside, than to persuade and force 
 conviction ; and the belief in them was pretty extensive in the 
 circle of her rustic acquaintance. All people love to believe 
 in fine eyes, and nothing is more natural than for lovers to 
 swear by them. Nagoochie did not swear by those of Jocas- 
 see, but he did most religiously believe in them ; and though 
 the night gathered fast, and the long howl of the wolf came 
 close from his crag, down into the valley, the young hunter of 
 the green bird did not despair of the return of the maiden. 
 
 " She did return, and the warrior was insensible. But the 
 motion stirred him ; the lights gleamed upon him from many 
 torches; he opened his eyes, and when they rested upon Jo- 
 cassee, they forgot to close again. She had brought aid 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 233 
 
 enough, for her voice was powerful as well as musical ; and, 
 taking due care that the totem of the green bird should be 
 carefully concealed by the bearskin, with which her own hands 
 covered his bosom, she had him lifted upon a litter, construct- 
 ed of several young saplings, which, interlaced with withes, 
 binding it closely together, and strewn thickly with leaves, 
 made a couch as soft as the wounded man could desire. In a 
 few hours, and the form of Nagoochie rested beneath the roof 
 of Attakulla, the sire of Jocassee. She sat beside the young 
 hunter, and it was her hand that placed the fever balm upon 
 his lips, and poured into his wounds and bruises the strong 
 and efficacious balsams of Indian pharmacy. 
 
 " Never was nurse more careful of her charge. Day and 
 night she watched by him, and few were the hours which she 
 then required for her own pleasure or repose. Yet why was 
 Jocassee so devoted to the stranger ? She never asked herself 
 so unnecessary a question; but as she was never so well 
 satisfied, seemingly; as when near him, the probability is she 
 found pleasure in her tendance. It was fortunate for him and 
 for her, that her father was not rancorous towards the people 
 of the Green Bird, like the rest of the Occonies. It might 
 have fared hard with Nagoochie otherwise. But Attakulla 
 was a wise old man, and a good ; and when they brought the 
 wounded stranger to his lodge, he freely yielded him shelter, 
 and went forth himself to Chinabee, the wise medicine of the 
 Occonies. The eyes of Nagoochie were turned upon the old 
 chief, and when he heard his name, and began to consider 
 where he was, he was unwilling to task the hospitality of one 
 who might be disposed to regard him, when known, in an un- 
 favourable or hostile light. Throwing aside, therefore, the 
 habit of circumspection, which usually distinguishes the Indian 
 warrior, he uncovered his bosom, and bade the old man look 
 upon the totem of his people, precisely as he had done when 
 Jus eye first met that of Jocassee. 
 
234 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 " ( Thy name ? What do the people of the Green Bird call 
 the young hunter ?' asked Attakulla. 
 
 " ( They name Nagoochie among the braves of the Estato : 
 they will call him a chief of the Cherokee, like Toxaway,' was 
 the proud reply. 
 
 " This reference was to a sore subject with the Occonies, 
 and perhaps it was quite as imprudent as it certainly was in 
 improper taste for him to make it. But, knowing where he 
 was, excited by fever, and having to say much in little but 
 an unfavourable opinion of Occony magnanimity, he was more 
 rash than reasonable. At that moment, too, Jocassee had 
 made her appearance, and the spirit of the young warrior, de- 
 siring to look big in her eyes, had prompted him to a fierce 
 speech not altogether necessary. He knew not the generous 
 nature of Attakulla ; and when the old man took him by the 
 hand, spoke well of the Green Bird, and called him his * son, 
 the pride of Nagoochie was something humbled, while his 
 heart grew gentler than ever. His ( son !' that was the plea- 
 sant part ; and as the thoughts grew more and more active in 
 his fevered brain, he looked to Jocassee with such a passionate 
 admiration that she sunk back with a happy smile from the 
 flame-glance which he set upon her. And, day after day she 
 tended him until the fever passed off, and the broken limb was 
 set and had re-knitted, and the bruises were all healed upon 
 him. Yet he lingered. He did not think himself quite well, 
 and she always agreed with him in opinion. Once and again 
 did he set off, determined not to return, but his limb pained 
 him, and he felt the fever come back whenever he thought of 
 Jocassee ; and so the evening found him again at the lodge, 
 while the fever-balm, carefully bruised in milk, was in as 
 great demand as ever for the invalid. But the spirit of the 
 warrior at length grew ashamed of these weaknesses ; and, 
 with a desperate effort, for which he gave himself no little 
 credit, he completed his determination to depart with the 
 coming of the new moon. But even this decision was only 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 235 
 
 effected by compromise. Love settled the affair with con- 
 science, after his own fashion ; and, under his direction, fol- 
 lowing the dusky maiden into the little grove that stood be- 
 side the cottage, Nagoochie claimed her to fill the lodge of a 
 young warrior of the Green Bird. She broke the wand which 
 he presented her, and seizing upon the torch which she carried, 
 he buried it in the bosom of a neighbouring brook ; and thus, 
 after their simple forest ceremonial, Jocassee became the be- 
 trothed of Nagoochie. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "BUT we must keep this secret to ourselves, for as yet it re- 
 mained unknown to Attakulla, and the time could not come 
 for its revealment until the young warrior had gone home to 
 his people. Jocassee was not so sure that all parties would 
 be so ready as herself to sanction her proceeding. Of her fa- 
 ther's willingness, she had no question, for she knew his good 
 nature and good sense ; but she had a brother of whom she 
 had many fears and misgivings. He was away, on a great 
 hunt of the young men, up at Charashilactay, or the falls of 
 the "White Water, as we call it to this day a beautiful cas- 
 cade of nearly forty feet, the water of which is of a milky 
 complexion. How she longed, yet how she dreaded, to see 
 that brother! He was a fierce, impetuous, sanguinary youth, 
 who, to these characteristics, added another still more dis- 
 tasteful to Jocassee; there was not a man among all the 
 Occonies who so hated the people of the Green Bird as 
 Cheochee. What hopes, or rather what fears, were in the 
 bosom of that maiden ! 
 
 " But he came not. Day after day they looked for his re- 
 turn, and yet he came not ; but in his place a runner, with a 
 bearded stick, a stick covered with slips of skin, torn from 
 
236 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 the body of a wolf. The runner passed by the lodge of 
 Attakulla, and all its inmates were aroused by the intelli- 
 gence he brought. A wolf-hunt was commanded by Moitoy, 
 the great war-chief or generalissimo of the Cherokee nation, 
 to take place, instantly, at Charashilactay, where an immense 
 body of wolves had herded together, and had become trou- 
 blesome neighbours. Old and young, who had either taste 
 for the adventure, or curiosity to behold it, at once set off 
 upon the summons; and Attakulla, old as he was, and 
 Nagoochie, whose own great prowess in hunting had made it 
 a passion, determined readily upon the journey. Jocassee, too* 
 joined the company, for the maidens of Cherokee were bold 
 spirits, as well as beautiful, and loved to ramble, particularly 
 when, as in the .present instance, they went forth in company 
 with their lovers. Lodge after lodge, as they pursued their 
 way, poured forth its inmates, who joined them in their pro- 
 gress, until the company had swollen into a goodly caravan, 
 full of life, anxious for sport, and carrying, as is the fashion 
 among the Indians, provisions of smoked venison and parched 
 grain, in plenty, for many days. 
 
 " They came at length to the swelling hills, the long narrow 
 valleys of the Keocheo and its tribute river of Toxaway, 
 named after that chief of the Little Estatoees, of whom we 
 have already heard something. At one and the same moment 
 they beheld the white waters of Charashilactay, plunging over 
 the precipice, and the hundred lodges of the Cherokee hunters. 
 There they had gathered the warriors and their women 
 twenty different tribes of the same great nation being repre- 
 sented on the ground ; each tribe having its own cluster of 
 cabins, and rising up, in the midst of each, the long pole on 
 which hung the peculiar emblem of the clan. It was not long 
 before Nagoochie marshalled himself along with his brother 
 Estatoees who had counted him lost under the beautiful 
 green bird of his tribe, which waved about in the wind, over 
 the heads of their small community. 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 23? 
 
 " The number of warriors representing the Estato in that 
 great hunt was inconsiderable but fourteen and the acces- 
 sion, therefore, of so promising a brave as Nagoochie, was no 
 small matter. They shouted with joy at his coming, and 
 danced gladly in the ring between the lodges the young wo- 
 men in proper taste, and with due spirit, hailing, with a 
 sweet song, the return of so handsome a youth, and one who 
 was yet unmarried. 
 
 "Over against the lodges of the Estatoees, lay the more 
 imposing encampment of the rival Occonies, who turned out 
 strongly, as it happened, on this occasion. They were more 
 numerous than any other of the assembled tribes, as the hunt 
 was to take place on a portion of their own territory. Con- 
 scious of their superiority, they had not, you may be sure for- 
 borne any of the thousand sneers and sarcasms which they 
 were never at a loss to find when they spoke of the Green 
 Bird warriors ; .and of all their clan, none was so bitter, so 
 uncompromising, generally, in look, speech, and action, as 
 Cheochee, the fierce brother of the beautiful Jocassee. Scorn 
 was in his eye, and sarcasm on his lips, when he heard the 
 rejoicings made by the Estatoees on the return of the long- 
 lost hunter. 
 
 ' ' Now wherefore screams the painted bird to-day ? why 
 makes he a loud cry in the ears of the brown viper than can 
 strike ?' he exclaimed contemptuously yet fiercely. 
 
 " It was Jocassee that spoke in reply to her brother, with 
 the quickness of woman's feeling, which they wrong greatly 
 who hold it subservient to the strength of woman's cunning. 
 In her reply, Cheochee saw the weakness of her heart. 
 
 "'They scream for Nagoochie,' said the girl; 'it is joy 
 that the young hunter comes back that makes the great bird 
 to sing to-day.' 
 
 " Has Jocassee taken a tongue from the green bird, that 
 she screams in the ears of the brown viper ? What has the 
 
238 
 
 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 girl to do with the thoughts of the warrior ? Let her go go, 
 bring drink to Cheochee.' 
 
 " Abashed and silent, she did as he commanded, and brought 
 meekly to the fierce brother, a gourd filled with the bitter 
 beverage which the Cherokees love. She had nothing further 
 to say on the subject of the Green Bird warrior, for whom she 
 had already so unwarily spoken. But her words had not 
 fallen unregarded upon the ears of Cheochee, nor had the look 
 of the fond heart which spoke out in her glance, passed un- 
 seen by the keen eye of that jealous brother. He had long be- 
 fore this heard of the great fame of Nagoochie as a hunter, 
 and in his ire he was bent to surpass him. Envy had grown 
 into hate, when he heard that this great reputation was that 
 of one of the accursed Estatoees ; and, not satisfied with the 
 desire to emulate, he also aimed to destroy. This feeling 
 worked like so much gall in his bosom ; and when his eyes 
 looked upon the fine form of Nagoochie, and beheld its sym- 
 metry, grace and manhood, his desire grew into a furious pas- 
 sion which made him sleepless. The old chief, Attakulla, his 
 father, told him all the story of Nagoochie's accident how 
 Jocassee had found him ; and how, in his own lodge, he had 
 been nursed and tended. The old man spoke approvingly of 
 Nagoochie ; and, the better to bring about a good feeling for 
 her lover, Jocassee humbled herself greatly to her brother, 
 anticipated his desires, and studiously sought to serve him. 
 But all this failed to effect a favourable emotion in the breast 
 of the malignant young savage towards the young hunter of 
 the Green Bird. He said nothing, however, of his feelings ; 
 but they looked out and were alive to the sight, in every as- 
 pect, whenever any reference, however small, was made to 
 the subject of his ire. The Indian passion is subtlety, and 
 Cheochee was a warrior already famous among the old chiefs 
 of Cherokee. 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 23ST 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " THE next day came the commencement of the great hunt, 
 and the warriors were up betimes and active. Stations were 
 chosen, the keepers of which, converging to a centre, were to 
 hern in the wild animal on whose tracks they were going. 
 The wolves were known to be in a hollow of the hills, near 
 Charashilactay, which had but one outlet ; and points of close 
 approximation across this outlet were the stations of honour ; 
 for, goaded by the hunters to this passage, and failing of egress 
 in any other, the wolf, it was well known, would then be 
 dangerous in the extreme. Well calculated to provoke into 
 greater activity the jealousies between the Occonies and the 
 Green Birds, was the assignment made by Moitoy, the chief, 
 of the more dangerous of these stations to these two clans. 
 They now stood alongside of one another, and the action of 
 the two promised to be joint and corresponsive. Such an ap- 
 pointment, in the close encounter with the wolf, necessarily 
 promised to bring the two parties into immediate contact ; 
 and such was the event. As the day advanced, and the hun- 
 ters, contracting their circles, brought the different bands of 
 wolves into one, and pressed upon them to the more obvious 
 and indeed the only outlet, the badges of the Green Bird and 
 the Brown Viper the one consisting of the stuffed skin and 
 plumage of the Carolina parrot, and the other the attenuated 
 viper, filled out with moss, and winding, with erect head, 
 around the pole, to the top of which it was stuck were, at 
 one moment, in the indiscriminate hunt, almost mingled over 
 the heads of the two parties. Such a sight was pleasant to 
 neither, and would, at another time, of a certainty, have 
 brought about a squabble. As it was, the Occonies drove 
 their badge-carrier from one to the other end of their ranks, 
 thus studiously avoiding the chance of another collision be- 
 
HO LIFE IN AMERICA? 
 
 tween the viper so adored, and the green bird so detested. 
 The pride of the Estatoees was exceedingly aroused at this 
 exhibition of impertinence, and though a quiet people enough, 
 they began to think that forbearance had been misplaced in 
 their relations with their presumptuous and hostile neighbours. 
 Had it not been for Nagoochie, who had his own reasons for 
 suffering yet more, the Green Birds would certainly have 
 plucked out the eyes of the Brown Vipers, or tried very hard 
 to do it ; but the exhortations to peace of the young warrior, 
 and the near neighbourhood of the wolf, quelled any open 
 show of the violence they meditated ; but, Indian-like, they 
 determined to wait for the moment of greatest quiet, as that 
 most fitted for taking away a few scalps from the Occony. 
 With a muttered curse, and a contemptuous slap of the hand 
 upon their thighs, the more furious among the Estatooees satis- 
 fied their present anger, and then addressed themselves more 
 directly to the business before them. 
 
 " The wolves, goaded to desperation by the sight and sound 
 of hunters strewn all over the hills around them, were now, 
 snapping and snarling, and with eyes that flashed with a ter- 
 rible anger, descending the narrow gully towards the outlet 
 held by the two rival tribes. United action was therefore de- 
 manded of those who, for a long time past, had been conscious 
 of no feeling or movement in common. But here they had no 
 choice no time, indeed, to think. The fierce wolves were 
 upon them, doubly furious at finding the only passage stuck 
 full of enemies. Well and manfully did the hunters stand and 
 seek the encounter with the infuriated beasts. The knife and 
 the hatchet, that day, in the hand of Occony and Estato, did 
 fearful execution. The Brown Vipers fought nobly, and with 
 their ancient reputation. But the Green Birds were the hun- 
 ters, after all ; and they were now stimulated into double ad- 
 venture and effort, by an honourable ambition to make up for 
 all deficiencies of number by extra valour, and the careful ex- 
 ercise of all that skill in the arts of hunting for which they 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 241 
 
 have always been the most renowned of the tribes of Cherokee. 
 As, one by one, a fearful train, the wolves wound into sight 
 along this or that crag of the gully, arrow after arrow told 
 fearfully upon them, for there were no marksmen like the Es- 
 tatoees. Nor did they stop at this weapon. The young Na- 
 goochie, more than ever prompted to such audacity, led the 
 way ; and dashing into the very path of the teeth-gnashing 
 and claw-rending enemy, he grasped in desperate fight the 
 first that offered himself, and as the wide jaws of his hairy foe 
 opened upon him, with a fearful plunge at his side, adroitly 
 leaping to the right, he thrust a pointed stick down, deep, as 
 far as he could send it, into the monster's throat, then press- 
 ing back upon him, with the rapidity of an arrow, in spite of 
 all his fearful wri things he pinned him to the ground, while 
 his knife, in a moment after, played fatally in his heart. 
 Another came, and, in a second, his hatchet cleft and crunched 
 deep into the skull of the angry brute, leaving him senseless, 
 without need of a second stroke. There was no rivalling 
 deeds of valour so desperate as this ; and with increased bit- 
 terness of soul did Cheochee and his followers hate in propor- 
 tion as they admired. They saw the day close, and heard the 
 signal calling t hem to the presence of the great chief Moitoy, 
 conscious, though superior in numbers, they could not at all 
 compare in skill and success with the long-despised, but now 
 thoroughly-hated Estatoees. 
 
 " And still more great the vexation, still more deadly the 
 hate, when the prize was bestowed by the hand of Moitoy, 
 the great military chief of Cherokee when, calling around 
 him the tribes, and carefully counting the number of their 
 several spoils, consisting of the skins of the wolves that had 
 been slain, it was found that of these the greater number, in 
 proportion to their force, had fallen victims to the superior 
 skill or superior daring of the people of the Green Bird. And 
 who had been their leader? The rambling Nagoochie the 
 
242 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 young hunter who had broken his leg among the crags of Oc- 
 cony, and, in the same adventure, no longer considered luck- 
 less, had won the young heart of the beautiful Jocassee. 
 
 " They bore the young and successful warrior into the cen- 
 tre of the ring, and before the great Moitoy. He stood up in 
 the presence of the assembled multitude, a brave and fearless, 
 and fine looking Cherokee. At the signal of the chief, the 
 young maidens gathered into a group, and sung round him a 
 song of compliment and approval, which was just as much as 
 to say, * Ask, and you shall have.' He did ask ; and before 
 the people of the Brown Viper could so far recover from their 
 surprise as to interfere, or well comprehend the transaction, 
 the bold Nagoochie had led the then happy Jocassee into the 
 presence of Moitoy and the multitude, and had claimed the 
 girl of Occony to fill the green lodge of the Estato hunter. 
 
 " That was the signal for uproar and commotion. The Oc- 
 conies were desperately angered, and the fierce Cheochee, 
 whom nothing, not even the presence of the great war-chief, 
 could restrain, rushed forward, and dragging the maiden vio- 
 lently from the hold of Nagoochie, hurled her backward into 
 the ranks of his people ; then, breathing nothing but blood 
 and vengeance, he confronted him with ready knife and up- 
 lifted hatchet, defying the young hunter in that moment to 
 the fight. 
 
 " ' E-cha-e-cha, e-herro echa-herro-echa-herro,' 1 was the 
 war-whoop of the Occonies ; and it gathered them to a man 
 around the sanguinary young chief who uttered it. ' Echa- 
 kerro, echa-herro,' he continued, leaping wildly in air with 
 the paroxysm of rage which had seized him, ' the brown vi- 
 per has a tooth for the green bird. The Occony is athirst 
 he would drink blood from the dog-heart of the Estato. 
 Echa-e-cha-herro, Occony. 1 And again he concluded his 
 fierce speech with that thrilling roll of sound, which, as the so 
 much dreaded warwhoop, brought a death feeling to the 
 heart of the early pioneer, and made the mother clasp closely, 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA, 243 
 
 in the deep hours of the night, the young and unconscious in- 
 fant to her bosom. But it had no such influence upon the 
 fearless spirit of Nagoochie. The Estato heard him with cool 
 composure, but, though evidently unafraid, it was yet equally 
 evident that he was unwilling to meet the challenger in strife. 
 Nor was his decision called for on the subject. The great 
 chief interposed, and all chance of conflict was prevented by 
 his intervention. In that presence they were compelled to 
 keep the peace, though both the Occonies and Little Es- 
 tatoees retired to their several lodges with fever in their 
 veins, and a restless desire for that collision which Moitoy 
 had denied them. All but Nagoochie were vexed at this de- 
 nial ; and all of them wondered much that a warrior, so brave 
 and daring as he had always shown himself, should be so 
 backward on such an occasion. It was true, they knew of 
 his love for the girl of Occony ; but they never dreamed of 
 such a feeling acquiring an influence over the hunter, of so 
 paralyzing and unmanly a character. Even Nagoochie him- 
 self, as he listened to some of the speeches uttered around 
 him, when he reflected upon the insolence of Cheochee even 
 he began to wish that the affair might happen again, that he 
 might take the hissing viper by the neck. And poor Jocassee 
 what of her when they took her back to the lodges ? She 
 did nothing but dream all night of Brown Vipers and Green 
 Birds in the thick of battle. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " THE next day came the movement of the hunters, still under 
 the conduct of Moitoy, from the one to the other side of the 
 upper branch of the Keowee river, now called the Jocassee, 
 but which, at that time, went by the name of the Sarratay.- 
 The various bands prepared to move with the daylight ; and, 
 
244 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 still near, and still in sight of one another, the Occonies and 
 Estatoees took up their line of march with the rest. The long 
 poles of the two, bearing the green bird of the one, and the 
 brown viper of the other, in the hands of their respective 
 bearers stout warriors chosen for this purpose, with refer- 
 ence to strength and valour waved in parallel courses, though 
 the space between them was made as great as possible by the 
 common policy of both parties. Following the route of the 
 caravan, which had been formed of the ancient men, the wo- 
 men, and children, to whom had been entrusted the skins taken 
 in the hunt, the provisions, utensils for cooking, &c., the great 
 body of hunters were soon in motion for other and better 
 hunting-grounds, several miles distant, beyond the river. 
 
 " The Indian warriors have their own mode of doing busi- 
 ness, and do not often travel with the stiff precision which 
 marks European civilization. Though having all one point o^ 
 destination, each hunter took his own route to gain it, and in 
 this manner asserted his independence. This had been the 
 education of the Indian boy, and this self-reliance is one 
 source of that spirit and character which will not suffer him 
 to feel surprise in any situation. Their way, generally, wound 
 along a pleasant valley, unbroken for several miles, until you 
 came to Big-knob, a huge crag which completely divides it, 
 rising formidably up in the midst, and narrowing the valley on 
 either hand to a fissure, necessarily compelling a closer march 
 for all parties than had heretofore been pursued. Straggling 
 about as they had been, of course but little order was percep- 
 tible when they came together in little groups, where the 
 mountain forced their junction. One of the Bear tribe found 
 himself alongside a handful of the Foxes, and a chief of the 
 Alligators plunged promiscuously into the centre of a cluster 
 of the Turkey tribe, whose own chief was probably doing 
 the proper courtesies among the Alligators. These little cross- 
 ings, however, were amusing rather than annoying, and were, 
 generally, productive of little inconvenience, and no strife. 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA, 245 
 
 \ 
 
 But it so happened there was one exception to the accustomed 
 harmony. The Occonies and Estatoees, like the rest, had 
 broken up into small parties, and, as might have been fore- 
 seen, when they came individually to where the crag divided 
 the valley into two, some "took the one, and some the other 
 hand, and it was not until one of the paths they had taken 
 opened into a plain in which the woods were bald a sort of 
 prairie that a party of seven Occonies discovered that they 
 had among them two of their detested rivals, the Little Esta- 
 toees. What made the matter worse, one of these stragglers 
 was the ill-fated warrior who had been chosen to carry the 
 badge of his tribe ; and there, high above their heads the 
 heads of the Brown Vipers floated that detestable symbol 
 the green bird itself. 
 
 "There was no standing that. The Brown Vipers, as if 
 with a common instinct, were immediately up in arms. They 
 grappled the unoffending stragglers without gloves. They 
 tore the green bird from the pole, stamped it under foot, smo- 
 thered it in the mud, and pulling out the cone-tuft of its head, 
 utterly degraded it in their own, as well as in the estimation 
 of the Estatoees. Not content with this, they hung the dese- 
 crated emblem about the neck of the bearer of it, and, spite 
 of all their struggles, binding the arms of the stragglers be- 
 hind their backs, the relentless Vipers thrust the long pole 
 which had borne the bird, in such a manner between their al- 
 ternate arms, as effectually to fasten them together. In this 
 manner, amidst taunts, blows, and revilings, they were left in 
 the valley to go on as they might, while their enemies, inso- 
 lent enough with exultation, proceeded to join the rest of the 
 party. 
 
246 LIFE IN AMEB1CA. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " A HUNDRED canoes were ready on the banks of the river 
 Sarratay, for the conveyance to the opposite shore of the as- 
 sembled Cherokees. And down they came, warrior after war- 
 rior, tribe after tribe, emblem after emblem, descending from 
 the crags around, in various order, and hurrying all with 
 shouts, and whoops, and songs, grotesquely leaping to the 
 river's bank, like so many boys just let loose out of school. 
 Hilarity is, indeed, the life of nature. Civilization refines the 
 one at the expense of the other, and then it is that no human 
 luxury or sport, as known in society, stimulates appetite for 
 any length of time. We can only laugh in the woods society 
 suffers but a smile, and desperate sanctity, with the counte- 
 nance of a crow, frowns even at that. 
 
 " But, down, around, and gathering from every side, they 
 came the tens and the twenties of the several tribes of Che- 
 rokee. Grouped along the banks of the river, were the boats 
 assigned to each. Some, already filled, were sporting in every 
 direction over the bosom of that beautiful water. Moitoy 
 himself, at the head of the tribe of Nequassee, from which he 
 came, had already embarked ; while the venerable Attakulla, 
 with Jocassee, the gentle, sat upon a little bank in the neigh" 
 hourhood of the Occony boats, awaiting the arrival of Cheo- 
 chee and his party. And why came they not ? One after 
 another of the several tribes had filled their boats, and were 
 either on the river, or across it. But two clusters of canoes 
 yet remained, and they were those of the rival tribes a green 
 bird flaunted over the one, and a brown viper, in many folds' 
 was twined around the pole of the other. 
 
 . " There was sufficient reason why they came not. The strife 
 had begun ; for, when gathering his thirteen warriors in a 
 little hollow at the termination of the valley through which 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 247 
 
 they came, Nagoochie beheld the Blow and painful approach 
 of the two stragglers upon whom the Occonies had so prac- 
 tised when he saw the green bird, the beautiful emblem of 
 his tribe disfigured and defiled there was no longer any mea- 
 sure or method in his madness. There was no longer a thought 
 of Jocassee to keep him back ; and the feeling of ferocious in- 
 dignation which filled his bosom, was the common feeling with 
 his brother warriors. They lay in wait for the coming of the 
 Occonies, down at the foot of the Yellow Hill, where the 
 woods gathered green and thick. They were few* but half 
 in number of their enemies but they were strong in ardour 
 strong in justice, and even death was preferable to a longer 
 endurance of that dishonour to which they had already been 
 too long subjected. They beheld the approach of the Brown 
 Vipers, as, one by one, they wound out from the gap of the 
 mountain, with a fierce satisfaction. The two parties were 
 now in sight of each other, and could not mistake the terms 
 of their encounter. No word was spoken between them, but 
 each began the scalp-song of his tribe, preparing at the same 
 time his weapon, and advancing to the struggle. 
 
 " ' The green bird has a bill/ sang the Estatoees, ' and he 
 flies like an arrow to his prey,' 
 
 " ' The brown viper has poison and a fang,' responded the 
 Occonies ;' and he lies under the bush for his enemy.' 
 
 " Give me to clutch the war-tuft,' cried the leaders of each 
 party, almost in the same breath. 
 
 " < To taste the blood,' cried another. 
 
 " < And make my knife laugh in the heart that shrinks,' sung 
 another and another. 
 
 " ' I will put my foot on the heart,' cried an Occony. 
 
 " I tear away the scalp/shouted an Estato, in reply; while 
 a joint chorus from the two parties promised 
 
 " ' A dog that runs, to the black spirit that keeps in the 
 dark.' 
 
 " ' JScka-herro, echa-kerro, echa-herroj was the grand cry 
 
248 LIFE IN AMERICA,' 
 
 or fearful war-whoop, which announced the moment of onset, 
 and the beginning of the strife. 
 
 " The Occonies were not backward, though the affair was 
 commenced by the Estaotees. Cheochee, their leader, was 
 quite as brave as malignant, and now exulted in the near 
 prospect of that sweet revenge, for all the supposed wrongs, 
 and more certain rivalries, which his tribe had suffered from 
 the Green Birds. Nor was this more the feeling with him than 
 with his tribe. Disposing themselves, therefore, in readiness 
 to receive the assault, they rejoiced in the coming of a strife, 
 in which, having many injuries to redress, they had the advan- 
 tages, at the same time, of position and numbers. 
 
 " But their fighting at disadvantage was not now a thought 
 with the Little Estatoees. Their blood was up, and like all 
 usually patient people, once aroused, they were not so readily 
 quieted. Nagoochie, the warrior now, and no longer the 
 lover, led on the attack. You should have seen how that 
 brave young chief went into battle how he leapt up in air, 
 slapped his hands upon his thighs in token of contempt for his 
 foe, and throwing himself open before his enemies, dashed 
 down his bow and arrows, and waving his hatchet, signified 
 to them his desires for the conflict, a Voutrance, and, which 
 would certainly make it so, hand to hand. The Occonies took 
 him at his word, and throwing aside the long bow, they 
 bounded out from their cover to meet their adversaries. Then 
 should you have seen that meeting that first rush how they 
 threw the tomahawk how they flourished the knife how the 
 brave man rushed to the fierce embrace of his strong enemy 
 and how the tw0 rolled along the hill in the teeth-binding 
 struggle of death. 
 
 " The tomahawk of Nagoochie had wings and a tooth. It 
 flew and bit in every direction. One after another, the Occonies 
 went down before it, and still his fierce war cry of < Echa- 
 mal-OcconyJ preceding every stroke, announced another and 
 another victim. They sank away from him like sheep before 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA! 249 
 
 the wolf that is hungry, and the disparity of force was not so 
 great in favour of the Occonies, when we recollect that 
 Nagoochie was against them. The parties, under his fierce 
 valour, were soon almost equal in number, and something 
 more was necessary to be done by the Occonies before they 
 could hope for that favourable result frcm the struggle which 
 they had before looked* upon as certain. It was for Cheochee 
 now to seek out and to encounter the gallant young chief of 
 Estato. Nagoochie, hitherto, for reasons best known to him- 
 self, had studiously avoided the leader of the Vipers ; but he 
 could no longer do so. He was contending, in close strife 
 with Okonettee, or the One-Eyed a stout warrior of the 
 Vipers as Cheochee approached him. In the next moment, 
 the hatchet of Nagoochie entered the skull of Okonettee. The 
 One-Eyed sunk to the ground, as if in supplication, and, 
 seizing the legs of his conqueror, in spite of the repeated 
 blows which descended from the deadly instrument, each of 
 which was a death, while his head swam, and the blood filled 
 his eyes, and his senses were fast fleeting, he held on with a 
 death-grasp which nothing could compel him to forego. In 
 this predicament, Cheochee confronted the young brave of 
 Ettato. The strife was short, for though Nagoochie fought as 
 bravely, as ever yet he struck in vain, while the dying wretch, 
 grappling his legs, disordered, by his convulsions, not less 
 than by his efforts, every blow which the strong hand of 
 Nagoochie sought to give. One arm was already disabled, and 
 still the dying wretch held on to his legs. In another moment, 
 the One-Eyed was seized by the last spasms of death, and in 
 his struggles, he dragged the Estato chief to his knees. This 
 was the fata disadvantage. Before any of the Green Bird 
 warriors could come to his succour, the blows was given, and 
 Nagoochie lay under the knee of the Brown Viper. The knife 
 was in his heart, and the life not yet gone, when the same 
 instrument encircled his head, and his swimming vision could 
 L 5 
 
250 UFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 behold his own scalp waving in the grasp of his conqueror. 
 The gallant spirit of Nagoochie passed away in a vain effort to 
 utter his song of death the song of a brave warrior conscious 
 of many victories. 
 
 " Jocassee looked up to the hills when she heard the fierce 
 cry of the descending Vipers. Their joy was madness, for 
 they had fought with they had slain, the bravest of their 
 enemies. The intoxication of tone which Cheochee exhibited, 
 when he told the story of the strife, and announced his victory, 
 went like a death-stroke to the heart of the maiden, But she 
 said not a word she uttered no complaint she shed no tear. 
 Gliding quietly into the boat in which they were about to cross 
 4ie river, she sat silent, gazing, with the fixedness of a marble 
 statue, upon the still dripping scalp of her lover, as it dangled 
 about the neck of his conqueror. On a sudden, just as they 
 had reached the middle of the stream, she started, and her 
 gaze was turned once more backward upon the banks they had 
 left, as if, on a sudden, some object of interest had met her 
 sight, then, whether by accident or design, with a look still 
 intent in the same direction, she fell over the side, before they 
 could save or prevent her, and was burried in the deep waters 
 of Sarratay for ever. She ros.e not once to the surface. The 
 stream, from that moment, lost the name of Sarratay, and 
 both whites and Indians, to this day, know it only as the river 
 of Jocassee. The girls of Cherokee, however, contend that she 
 did not sink, but walking, < the waters like a thing of life,' 
 that she rejoined Nagoochie, whom she saw beckoning to her 
 from the shore. Nor is this the only tradition. The story 
 goes on to describe a beautiful lodge, one of the most select 
 in the valleys of Manneyto, the hunter of which is Nagoochie 
 of the Green Bird, while the maiden who dresses his venison is 
 certainly known as Jocassee." 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 251 
 
 MR. GREEN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " And to him Euronorne, Ocean's girl, gave three fair-cheeked wenches, very 
 comely-looking creature, to wit : Aglaia, and Euphrosyne, and Thalia the 
 lovely. "HE SIOD 
 
 IN relating some anecdotes of the life of Mr. Green, recent as 
 the occurrences are, and true as recent, we have no fear of 
 giving offence to himself. Bat as he has respectable relations 
 and connections, who might not relish our taking such liberties 
 with him, we have been careful as to the designation of loca- 
 lities, and as to the use of names. 
 
 As it is inartificial, even in telling a true story, to begin at 
 the beginning, the reader will please to allow himself to be 
 introduced to the family of Mr. Brown, a respectable merchant, 
 flourishing in business, and residing in the town of Short-hills, 
 He had an excellent wife, and three captivating daughters, 
 Miss Barbara, Miss Betsey, and Miss Bella Brown. Miss 
 Brown was the tallest, fairest in complexion, and stateliest in 
 carriage. The black-eyed, black-haired brunette Betsey had 
 a more immediate and probably more enduring witchcraft about 
 her than her elder sister. But the fairy, blue-eyed, yellow - 
 haired Bella bade fair to eclipse the pretensions of both. This 
 brief description must suffice, for the present, for the " cat'log 
 of their perfections." In the words of the heathen poet, quoted 
 at the head of our chapter ; " Love leaked from their eyelids 
 when they looked, melting the frame ; yea, beautifully did 
 they look from under their brows." 
 
 No wonder that there was no lack of young gentlemen for 
 them to look at jointly and severally. Not only from the im- 
 
252 LIFE IN AMERICA: 
 
 mediate neighbourhood, but from remote towns and cities, did 
 swains repair to pay their homage ; or, at least, if they came 
 on other special business, they strove to avail themselves 
 of the opportunity of so doing. 
 
 The family circle had assembled around Mr. Brown's hearth, 
 one evening, after tea. Two young gentlemen, Mr. White 
 and Mr. Black, were present very unexceptionable young 
 men, and promising to do well in the world the one a country 
 merchant, and the other a country lawyer. It would seem 
 that there could have been no objection to their paying proper 
 and civil attention to the young ladies ; and certainly they 
 did seem to do so with unaffected heartiness and sincerity. 
 
 But this con-amore mode of proceeding brought a thoughtful 
 cloud over the honest brow of Mr. Brown, after he had been 
 for some time quietly observing the delighted, and apparently 
 delightful manner, in which Mr. Black balanced himself over 
 and roundabout the fair Barbara, as she played, or tried to 
 play, one of her favourite pieces of music, which of course was 
 also his ; and also observing how Mr. White, under pretext of 
 playing chess with Betsey, was enacting the part of Ferdinand 
 in the Tempest, when engaged in enjoying a similar amuse- 
 ment with Miranda. 
 
 " Pray, my dear," said he, " when do you suppose we shall 
 see Mr. Green ?" 
 
 The abrupt mode in which the question was put startled the 
 young ladies ; or it might have been some association with the 
 person referred to. But Miss Barbara made a very vile (mu- 
 sical) shake ; Miss Betsey put her king in check ; and pretty 
 Miss Bella, who was sitting on a little Ottoman (which in 
 Short-hills was called a stool,) and was knitting a purse, 
 glancing occasionally with her kind and laughter-loving eyes 
 at the erotic net-work in which her sisters were employed, 
 lost a row of her stitches, and wounded her rosy fingers. 
 
 " Why, my love," replied Mrs. Brown, "you know brother 
 wrote that he was to come back by spring ; and we are now 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA? 253 
 
 in April. I expect you will hear from him, or we shall see 
 him in a few days." 
 
 u Green ?" asked Mr. White " is it Sap Green you speak 
 of?" 
 
 " No sir," said Brown, dryly ; " it is Mr. George Green ; a 
 near relation of my family ; and likely," he added, with a look 
 intended for one of significant revelation, " to be still nearer." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir ; but I knew him at school, and the 
 boys gave him that nickname." 
 
 " And I was acquainted with him at college," said Black. 
 " He came there in a green coat, and never had one, accord- 
 ing to my recollection, of any other colour. When one got 
 rusty, they twitted him with 'ver non semper viretj and then 
 he got another. He said he was indifferent about colours ; 
 and about most matters of indifference he would follow any- 
 body's advice. But in many things he was sensible enough." 
 
 " There certainly always was something peculiar about 
 George Green," said Mrs. Brown. " But as the Baronet says, 
 in the Man of Feeling, 'I suppose he has worn it off by 
 travel.' " 
 
 The rather sparkling serenity of the little party became 
 manifestly dulled after this interlogue. The young ladies 
 looked restrained. Good Mr. Brown, who was generally fond 
 both of talking and of hearing a little gossip, retained the 
 thoughtfulness of his expression, which operated as a spell 
 upon his daughters ; and his dame even resisted a strong pro- 
 pensity she had for making quotations. The young men with- 
 drew early, and in making their congees, felt, for the first time 
 at Brown's house, that it was a formal affair. No doubt they 
 found parting much sweeter sorrow, when leaving thepiazzaed 
 entrance of the mansion, to which two of the young ladies ac- 
 companied them, as they do in the country towns very often, 
 particularly when the nights are fine. A gentle pressure of 
 the soft hand, not altogether unphilosophically unreactive, 
 a motion for leave to sit again, which could not be denied, 
 
254 LIFE IN AMEKICAi 
 
 according to " the rules of the house/' mitigated therefore 
 the dolour of these disciples of the " porch." But they did not 
 feel as happy as they had done before the visit, because both 
 were, or thought they were, in love a speculation in which 
 it is vexatious to be crossed, as it is indeed in any speculation 
 whatever. 
 
 " Those young men," said Mr. Brown, after the re-union of 
 his family (that is, after the two young ladies had returned 
 into the sitting-room,) " seem, by all I learn, to be unexcep- 
 tionable and clever in every respect. But you know, girls, 
 that if they have any serious intentions, as I believe you call 
 it, they must not for the present receive the slightest en- 
 couragement." 
 
 " Certainly not," said Mrs. Brown. "Miss Hannah More 
 truly observes, that ' it is important not only to possess the 
 mind with the affair which is under consideration, but to be- 
 stow on it an undivided attention.' " 
 
 " We can't divide this affair among us, mamma," said Bella 
 " can we ?" 
 
 " You will be a good girl, I know," said her father, patting 
 her forehead, with an affectionate regard for her curls, which 
 were only a little differently arranged from what they would 
 have been, had there been no importation of foreign fashions, 
 in living or graven caricatured images of head-dresses, into 
 the town of Short-hills, because the fashion happened to be 
 after that of nature. "You will be a good girl, always, I 
 know, Bella. If you should be the rich lady, you must not 
 crack your jokes on your old father and mother, my little gip- 
 sey. I am going to bed directly, so kiss me for good night. 
 I know that you will do nothing without your father's and 
 mother's advice. 
 
 So much he knew about the state of his <c foreign and do- 
 mestic relations ! " 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA* 255 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Early to bed and early to rise. 
 
 Falsely luxurious, will not man awake. 
 And, springing from the bed of sloth, enjoy 
 The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour 
 To meditation due, and sacred song * 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 MR. LEWIS LAKE had been informed by a gentleman who had 
 just returned from Europe, and whom he casually met, that 
 his cousin, Mr. Green, was certainly in town, and had gone 
 that evening to take up his quarters in a certain hotel, coffee- 
 house, or drinking-shop. The gentleman added that he be- 
 lieved he had " come on shore on a raft," as the other pas- 
 sengers, who came together, knew nothing about the manner 
 of his deportation from the packet. When these tidings were 
 communicated, Lake was under the necessity of escorting a 
 party home, long after the "noon of night." 
 
 But when the light crept through his shutters in the morn- 
 ing, and moving shadows eame on the wall opposite to them, 
 he arose with a resolute effort, and indued himself drowsily in 
 his morning vestimental gear. The domestics had not yet 
 begun to kick up a dust, and he was the morning-star of the 
 family. The chimney-sweeps were singing their matins as he 
 issued forth into the street ; and the first steamboat bells had 
 just begun to agonise the ears of those who had no imme- 
 diate occasion or desire to be reminded of the flues of either 
 chimneys or boilers. A solitary milkman was watering his 
 commodity at a pump, without any fear of public criticism. 
 
 "Is it possible," mentally soliloquised Lewis, as, with a 
 sleepy and reflective look, he trod the flags of a broad street, 
 "is it possible that Green is the same < two-and-sixpence, 
 after all his travels ? If so, I should not be surprised to find 
 him in the watch-house." Presently he met with a couple of 
 
256 LIFE IN AMERICA? 
 
 dyspeptic lovers, who were walking for health and sentiment 
 to a promenade by the water's side. They looked more 
 sleepy than himself, and while he was making his manners to 
 the lady, the whole trio yawned as if they would have become 
 monumental specimens of oscitation. A dingy wench, whose 
 early rising was certified to by the Society for the supply of 
 good and useful servants, dissolved the dream, and adjourned 
 the interesting meeting, by discharging into a cross-gutter, 
 from behind an iron-railed area, a quantity of liquid miscel- 
 lanies, which lubricated their soles, and gave them an imme- 
 diate idea of separation. 
 
 The next animated object of which Lake became aware was 
 a Mercury of the Press, whose wings stuck out of his coat 
 pockets in the shape of goose-quill feathers. He was going 
 towards a building in which mistakes of the night were cor- 
 rected in the morning ; and by perusing his table of errata, 
 many honest people were enabled to find out in the evening, 
 how they had woke up in the morning with their throats cut, 
 after their most valuable property had been abstracted, with- 
 out any consciousness on their part of either accident. This 
 spectral appearance naturally led Mr. Lake to cast, what our 
 great novelist would call a furtive glance at the portal of the 
 building in question. He saw there a group of wild-looking 
 vagabonds, and was strongly tempted to make one of them 
 himself, with a view of ascertaining whether his cousin, who 
 had just crossed the Atlantic Styx, might not be trembling 
 before the Rhadamanthus of the morning, without any creden- 
 tials. But he resisted this suggestion of fancy, and kept on 
 his way until he arrived in front of the hostelrie of which he 
 was in quest. All its windows and its solitary door were 
 closed. But as the adjacent houses gave faint signs of the 
 expergiscence of some of their inhabitants, he made bold to 
 knock emphatically. The unwashed face of a sandy-haired 
 little girl, protruding through a broken window, in a hovel 
 called a grocery, which adjoined the hotel, regarded him 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 257 
 
 during this operation, and during his subsequent state of ex- 
 pectance, which lasted beyond the decent time during which 
 patience is a comfortable virtue. She then screamed out, 
 <( It's too late to go there now, Mister. They always locks 
 up at four." 
 
 However, Mr. Lake thought he heard a heteroclitical noise 
 and motion in the room into which the door opened, and took 
 the liberty of trying his open-sesame upon it again. An odd 
 confusion of noises, mingled with crashings, and with what 
 sounded too much like hard swearing, followed ; and one of 
 tbe valves was slowly turned inward by a lout three-fourths 
 asleep and one-fourth dressed, who was worse off than the 
 pilgrims who had not boiled their peas ; as his bare feet had 
 been imperfectly thrust into slippers to which their proportions 
 bore no resemblance, and he was undergoing a new species of 
 ordeal of treading among bits of broken glass, to show him- 
 self to be awake, when he was not. The appearance of the 
 bar-room, for such it was, was rueful, and disgusting was the 
 odour thereof, 
 
 " I sot up for you," said the sweet porter of this establish- 
 ment, suffering the valve to relapse briskly, and locking it, 
 while his one eye that did not squint winked dimly, like a 
 star of the least magnitude through a floating fog " I sot up 
 for you, Mr. Tardy, till a half-past four, I'm darned if I 
 didn't." 
 
 " If I was Mr. Tardy," said Lake, " I ought to be very 
 much obliged to you, and as I am his substitute, here is some- 
 thing for your trouble. But I want to see Mr. Green, who 
 lodges here, as I learn. I am his near relation, and you may 
 show me his bedroom, without any ceremony." 
 
 It was strange to see the blanket-curtains of the fellow's 
 odd eyes struggling sluggishly to uplift themselves a little, as 
 his features were exhibited in the swarthy and smoky light of 
 a foul lamp, hanging from the centre of the ceiling, and look- 
 ing, as the glorious sunshine contrived to peep in through in> 
 
258 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 perceptible crannies, like some irregular ghost which had 
 forgotten cock-crow. The expression of those features was 
 indescribably mystified being at once inquisitive, communi- 
 cative, minatory, timorous, sharp, puzzled, and ridiculous. 
 
 But oh, Sleep and Death ! as your flashy novelists would 
 exclaim, in handling this matter as the blankets fell over the 
 poor lad's windows again, what a yawn he did give ! It 
 could not have been performed by the Sleeping Beauty in the 
 "Wood, on the first centennial anniversary of her enchant- 
 ment ; nor by the Rev. Mr. Tennant, when he first objected to 
 enjoying the rites of sepulture. And as to poor Lake, no old 
 hero could have been as much scared by the looks of the grisly 
 mouth of Avernus, when projecting a jaunt to the pleasing 
 banks of Acheron no naked Egyptian, bathing for pleasure, 
 was ever as much discommoded by the uplifted upper-jaw of 
 a crocodile. It was a yawn which nature and art both 
 contributed to make superlative in its way. And Lake 
 shrewdly interpreted it. He told him that he was no sheriff's 
 officer nor constable ; but simply what he represented himself 
 to be, a relation of Mr. Green, who wished to see him as soon 
 as possible, and would be responsible for the liberty he took 
 in disturbing him at so unseasonable an hour. The valet, 
 therefore, stretched himself and yawned, yawned and stretched, 
 stretched and yawned, and yawned again. Then, hitching up 
 his lower garments, he shuffled himself out of the room, and 
 up three pair of un carpeted and uncleaned stairs, followed 
 by the young gentleman. 
 
 He opened the door of an apartment, into which the broad 
 light of day was shining through the uncurtained windows. 
 The floor, and a few melancholy chairs, that had been entire 
 strangers to each other when introduced, were strewn with 
 various garments, lying in all the graceful negligence of at- 
 titude in which they had been left when cast off from the 
 persons of their proprietors. There were three beds in the 
 apartment, each of which was occupied by an extempore 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 259 
 
 tenant; and two pictures, or coloured engravings, exactly 
 alike and the same, ornamented the chimney-piece. 
 
 " Mr. Green is in that there bed in the corner, Mister," 
 said the Virgil of our Dante. 
 
 One of the snoring triad here made a movement ; rubbed 
 his eyes, and contrived to speak as follows : " I say, Peter, 
 fetch me some cider." Peter departed to execute this com- 
 mission, and went down stairs much faster than he had come 
 up ; for his slippers playing him a trick, he went down one 
 whole flight at once. 
 
 Lake advanced to the couch in which his cousin was re- 
 cumbent, whose slumbers his intrusion had not disturbed, and 
 succeeded, with some difficulty, in waking him. Speculation 
 came gradually to his optics ; and when it did, he showed no 
 signs of surprise, or of any other emotion, at the apparition 
 before him. " Ah !" said he, is that you Lake ? What o'clock 
 is it?" 
 
 " It is rather early. But how do you do ? And what in 
 the devil's name brought you here ?" 
 
 " It was a coach. Bistre said this was a good place ; and 
 I was perfectly indifferent about it." 
 
 " Who is Mr. Bistre ? I don't admire his taste ?" 
 
 " He's a singer. He came out with me in the packet. But 
 oh ! how sleepy I am !" 
 
 " I can easily account for your not having rested well !" 
 
 " Oh ! I am indifferent about sleeping ; but we must do it 
 sometimes. They were singing and halloo-hallooing in the 
 room underneath all night ; and the people were coming into 
 and going out of this one. One man blundered half of him- 
 self into my bed. When the other noises ceased, they began 
 to kill rats with a dog. I am indifferent as to noises : but I 
 confess I don't much like that kind. But oh ! how sleepy I 
 am!" 
 
 "I thought that you would perhaps accompany me to 
 breakfast. They all want to see you very much. 
 
260 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 " If any man would bring me any thing to dress with, I 
 would as leave go as not. I might sleep it out afterwards. 
 
 St. Peter reappeared with a bottle of cider and a pint 
 tumbler, for the gentleman who thirsted. Lake asked him to 
 look after Mr. Green's servant. 
 
 " Why," said he " he's gone. He went to the play, and 
 when he came in here, he said he'd go to a better house, and 
 the boss told him he might go to * *, and they had like to 
 have fit about it." 
 
 " Ah, well," said Green, " he'll come back by-and by. Sup- 
 pose you come and breakfast with me." 
 
 " Where ?" 
 
 " Here. I suppose they have some breakfast. Come about 
 ten o'clock. Oh ! how I could sleep ! though I don't care 
 any thing about it." 
 
 "I will leave you then to your snooze," said Lake as he 
 turned on his heel, with rather a vexed and mortified air. He 
 was young and enthusiastic, and had a natural regard for 
 Green ; besides private reasons of his own for wishing to 
 intercommune with him before anybody else should do so. But 
 he ought to have reflected that it is highly improper to disturb 
 any gentleman's slumbers at such an hour ; particularly when 
 he has just returned from a voyage. 
 
 Still the utter nonchalance of Green, and his not inquiring 
 at all about any of the all who were so anxious to see him, 
 vexed Lake particularly. And at the breakfast- table of the 
 family poor Green was decided to be worse than a dolt and a 
 mooncalf, by a unamious vote. 
 
LII-E IN AMERICA. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 CELT A. Bonjour, Monsieur Le Beau, what's the news, 
 LB BEAU. Why, this that I speak of. As You Like It. 
 
 AT ten o'clock, not without covertly and shamefacedly peering 1 
 about, to watch whether he was observed by any of the 
 decent people of his acquaintance, Master Lake popped into 
 the indifferent establishment, patronised by Messrs. Bistre 
 and Green. Things had assumed a little more regular and 
 respectable aspect in this anti-temperance chapel ; and Lake 
 immediately recognised an old acquaintance, in the person of 
 the body servant of his cousin, whose Christian name was 
 Abel ; but who was generally called " Slow-and Easy," and 
 sometimes more classically " Festina Lente." He looked 
 mightily spruce, showing, that foreign travel had at least made 
 him more ambitious, as regarded his apparel. He was not 
 only finer (as was proper), but was more genteel in his ap- 
 pearance than his master, which was decidedly incorrect. 
 The latter was sitting in a box, in an adjoining apartment, 
 reading a newspaper. He wore a green frockcoat and a black 
 velvet waistcoat, and had strings of gilt or gold chains, hang- 
 ing down over his breast and below it. Though the barbers' 
 apprentices had not adopted the same practice at that time, 
 Lake could not help thinking that his cousin looked more like 
 a beau-nasty than like a gentleman. 
 
 Lake insinuated the nether part of his person into the inter- 
 space of three inches in breadth, and less, between the edge o 
 a table and the partition, opposite to his cousin, and sat him- 
 self down on the bench. On the table there was a cloth, 
 which, by no conscientious stretch of courtesy, could have 
 been called either white, or only half-dirty. It was garnished 
 with a broken mustard-pot, a bottle with a quill thrust into a 
 cork ; professing to hold pepper-vinegar, and other appliances 
 
262 LIFE IN AMflRICA, 
 
 which it is unnecessary to particularise, as it has been done so 
 much more minutely than we have room for, in several recent 
 works of imagination. 
 
 Mr. Green looked askance from his newspaper at Lake, and 
 looked at his newspaper again. Jle then said " Pray, is this 
 General Jackson the president now ? How did he get to be 
 elected?" 
 
 " Come, now," said Lake, with some tincture of morosity^ 
 " this is affectation ; you must know he was elected by the 
 people somehow or other." 
 
 " Indeed, I did not know it," said Green, in a tone rather 
 more decisive than he usually employed. " I think I did hear 
 something about it in Paris. But politics is a subject about 
 which I am totally indifferent." 
 
 " Yes our politics, I don't wonder at all. But tell me 
 where have you been ? Where have you travelled ? What 
 have you seen?" 
 
 " Oh ! I have been to several places. Chiefly to London and 
 Paris." 
 
 {< And you were in Paris during the three days ?" 
 
 " "Which three ? Oh, yes you mean when they made such 
 a disturbance in the streets ! I was there then." 
 
 " And where was you ? And how much of it did you 
 see ?" 
 
 " Oh ! I was in a snug room in the back of a house, with 
 Nicholas Umber. You know him. He said that we had no- 
 thing to do with the scrape. He got five cold hams, and plenty 
 of loaves of bread and claret ; and we shut up the windows. 
 I was perfectly indifferent, of course, about French politics ; 
 so I staid with him until they had done firing guns, and mak- 
 ing it inconvenient either to walk or ride." 
 
 " And is it possible that you know nothing of it ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. I saw the pavements all torn up, and had to 
 take a roundabout way to get clear of them. It was none of 
 my business ; but I found it very inconvenient." 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA.' 2G3 
 
 " Well, cousin Green, I doubt not that they thought you 
 shut youiself up from pure fright, You are a strange indi- 
 vidual., Did you see General La Fayette and Mr. Cooper ?" 
 
 " Yes. I went to the general's hotel one night. I saw a 
 parcel of people in soldier's clothes there, marching in with 
 great fur caps on their heads. I did not stay more than five 
 minutes. As to what they thought about me, I am entirely 
 indifferent. It was none of their business." 
 
 " Perhaps you are a Carlist. Do you not believe that the 
 elder branch of the Bourbons is effectually and for ever disin- 
 herited ? Will the new king be able to sustain himself on the 
 throne ? Is he honest in his professions to the people ?" 
 
 " I tell you I took no interest in their local politics. I really 
 forget, if I ever knew, which is the elder branch. Why, you 
 know, they cut off the oldest one's head. They said that 
 Charles the Tenth had run away somewhere, with several car- 
 riage loads of his family. I don't know whether he will think 
 it an object to go back. He seemed to me to be a gentle- 
 manly man, and they said he was something of a sportsman. 
 How they will fix it I can't tell ; and the Lord knows, I don't 
 care." 
 
 " I don't suppose you do. Now, I believe, you are honest. 
 But I cannot believe that you do not know the difference be- 
 tween good coffee and the stuff you are drinking." 
 
 It is to be noted, that the unhappy Peter, while this dis- 
 course was in progress, had put on the table a waiter, with a 
 strange assortment of crockery, and poured into two cups, 
 from a tea-pot, a brown liquid, which Mr. Green, after having 
 put into it materials representative of sugar and milk, was 
 swallowing. 
 
 " I am indifferent about the quality of coffee. But now you 
 mention it, I doubt whether this is the article at all. Slow- 
 and-Easy, is this coffee ?" 
 
 " I should say, sir," said Abel, after a deliberate inspection 
 of Lake's rejected cup, that there might be some coffee- 
 
264 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 grounds in it. But the landlord has really been so insolent to 
 me, that, unless you ^are about letting me lick him; it is of no 
 use to talk about it." 
 
 " I don't care whether you lick him or not. It will make 
 the coffee no better, either way." 
 
 " Are you going to eat that egg ?" asked Lake. 
 
 " Certainly not. I am indifferent about eggs and chickens 
 too ; but I confess I do not like this one at all." 
 
 It is unnecessary, and would be dull to record, in this place, 
 further specimens of the manner of the honest poco-curante 
 whose small gray eyes could not be made to assume expression 9 
 by the introduction of any topic whatever ; and who showed 
 himself so totally destitute of curiosity as to the situation of 
 his own family and friends, that he did not in any way advert 
 to their existences. In one point alone, Lake knew that he 
 was sensitive ; and that was, in his pocket. And, with this 
 sensitiveness, an affair in which he took a deep interest was 
 so intimately connected, that he determined to push his in- 
 quiries farther, before Green had fallen in with other company, 
 whose advice, unless it cost him something, he would be sure 
 to take, as he had done that of Mr. Bistre. Green agreed to 
 change his lodgings forthwith, and to put up at the hotel where 
 Abel had seen fit to deposit the principal part of his luggage 
 without consulting him ; and to accompany Lake home. Had 
 it not been for the reason mentioned, the latter would, with 
 pleasure and contempt, if the two sensations be compatible, 
 have left him to the enjoyment of his nil-admirari philosophy. 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 265 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " One woman is fair, yet I am well ; another is wise, yet I am well ; another 
 it virtuous, yet I am well." BENEDICT. 
 
 THE father of Green, a man of substance, had directed by his 
 will that his son should travel for a certain time after becom- 
 ing of age, and had made his right to succeed to the possession 
 of half of his property, contingent upon marrying one of the 
 daughters of Mr. Brown within a limited period after his re- 
 turn from abroad. In case he declined doing so, the moiety 
 was to be divided among the testator's other relatives. The 
 young gentleman had but rarely visited his country cousins 
 before his departure. He observed, very sensibly, that some 
 of them might die before it would be necessary for him to fulfil 
 the condition attached to the bequest ; and that it would be 
 time enough to see about it when he could make his selection 
 from the live ones. He had never written home during his 
 absence ; nor had the impressions made by the brief exhibi- 
 tions of himself, with which he had condescended to favour 
 them, been such as to create any rivalship or jealous feeling in 
 the breasts of the fair Misses Brown. This little explanation 
 is necessary here. 
 
 Green's reception at the house of his uncle Lake wag formal 
 and frigid in the extreme. That amiable family were, indeed, 
 almost too angry to indulge their natural curiosity to know 
 where their singular relative had been, and what he had been 
 about for two years. He was, however, perfectly at his ease, 
 and seemed very well pleased with himself; and when the 
 conversation, or rather the questioning on their part, and un- 
 satisfactory responses on his, ceased for some minutes, and 
 an " awful pause " ensued, he began to read the genealogy of 
 M 
 
266 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 the patriarchs, in a bible that lay on the table beside which 
 he sat. 
 
 But Miss Lucy Lake was determined to renew the attack 
 on a topic in which she took more interest than in the recent 
 events of the French revolution, in which Green had borne the 
 conspicuous part before-mentioned by himself. " George" 
 said she, " do you mean to pay a visit soon to Shorthills ? or 
 would it suit you better to have the Shorthills come to 
 you ?" 
 
 " I am indifferent about it," said Green, with an off-hand 
 air of good nature, and with perfect gravity. 
 
 Mrs. Lake regarded him with a scrutinizing glance ; and 
 seeing him unexpressive and unconcerned as before, observed 
 " You do not mean, then, to take your legacy, ' with the bur- 
 then annexed,' as the lawyers call it." 
 
 "Surely I do," said Green, with some little animation. 
 "Ah!" he added, after pondering for a moment, "when Lucy 
 spoke of Shorthills coming here, I thought she meant the peo- 
 ple. I know the hills cannot travel." 
 
 "I must say then," said Miss Lucy, "you made as con- 
 ceited and ungallant a reply as I ever heard of." 
 
 "And as abominably foolish," said her mother. 
 
 " AVhy," said Green, " I know nothing about their arrange- 
 ments ; but if it is equally convenient for them to visit the 
 town, I cannot conceive what difference it can make, as it is 
 a settled affair." 
 
 "A settled affair!" iterated Mr. Lewis, in surprise. 
 
 " Why, they cannot upset the will can they ? I believe it 
 is settled as much as the law can make it." 
 
 " But is not the consent of the lady of some little conse- 
 quence in the case?" asked Miss Lucy. 
 
 " That is their business. If I am ready as I am to com- 
 plete the arrangement on my part, some one of them must 
 consent, or I take all the property without any condition. I 
 have had advice on the subject." 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 2(5? 
 
 " Do you feel no curiosity to know which one of them, if 
 either, may be disposed to smile upon you! For I believe, 
 you must be refused by all, or united to one, if you wish to 
 enjoy the legacy." 
 
 " I have thought of the inconvenience of that. And since 
 it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, who only remem- 
 ber that they are three wholesome-looking girls (they did 
 think Barbara scrofulous, but it was a mistake), I am sure 
 they had better fix it among themselves. If the affections of 
 either are engaged, this will be decidedly more convenient. 
 And if they are all free, it will save much trouble if they will 
 toss it up." 
 
 " It certainly would have been far better for Troy, if the 
 three goddessesjiad settled their dispute in that manner," 
 said Lewis. 
 
 " Cousin George is no Paris, however," said Lucy, who was 
 considerably provoked by what she considered affectation and 
 imperturbable impatience. "I am writing to Shortfalls to- 
 day. Perhaps you would like me to communicate your views 
 and intentions on this subject : or will you write an ' epistle 
 general' to the ladies yourself. I think it would be a very 
 great curiosity." 
 
 "It would look odd on the back of the letter," said the sin- 
 gle-minded Green. " If I wrote, it should be, of course, to 
 uncle Brown, or to Aunt. But, as it will be perfectly conve- 
 nient for you, while you are writing, I wish you would say 
 that I await the commands of the family ; and that any ar- 
 rangement which will be most convenient to them, will be 
 altogether indifferent to me." 
 
 " I shall do so, most assuredly." 
 
 " I am obliged to you. We have time enough to spare ; but 
 as casualties may occur, the sooner they arrange it, the better 
 for them. As to myself, if I do not hear from them soon, I 
 believe I will take three straws of different lengths, and 
 draw them. And I will write three letters, to be sent in 
 
268 LIFE IN AMERICA; 
 
 order accordingly. I will get a lawyer to make a draught 
 for me, and request an answer, by return of mail, to each, in 
 case I have occasion to send them all. As it is a matter of 
 business, which must be attended to, it strikes me that this 
 is the least inconvenient plan. I must go to see about various 
 matters. So I wish you a good morning." 
 
 "I am sorry," said the good Mrs. Lake, "for whichever of 
 the poor girls may be so unlucky as to become the wife of 
 such a piece of asbestos. It will be hopeless to try either to 
 mend his head, or to break his heart. Perhaps, however, he 
 might be made to go tame about the house." 
 
 "Of all things," said Lucy, "to use George's favourite 
 phrase, 'that would be the least convenient.' But how do 
 you like his ' arrangements,' as he calls them, Lewis?" 
 
 " Admirably well. I hope you will do him justice in re- 
 porting what they are." 
 
 " I cannot conceive," said Mrs. Lake, " why you should be 
 particularly pleased with any way in which the bear may 
 choose to suck his paws ; and I think it may look indelicate 
 in Lucy to say any thing about it. You have been wasting 
 the morning to no purpose whatever, and your father will be 
 displeased. It is of no consequence to you which of the 
 girls is to be sacrificed ; for one of them must be ; or else I 
 do not understand Mr. Brown's character." 
 
 So much the good lady knew about her domestic relations. 
 Lewis withdrew to write a letter. Glowing, affectionate, and 
 full of amaranthine hope, were its contents. Lucy's could not 
 have been unamusing. We are authorized to publish a portion 
 of that written by Mr. Lake, senior. 
 
 " Dear Brother Brown ; 
 
 "Yours of the 16th ult. was duly received. I note what 
 you say about George Green. He has just returned from 
 France. I have not seen him, but by what I learn from my 
 family, he is as great a fool as ever ; and can give no account 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 269 
 
 of himself since his departure. You will recollect that I 
 always told you this would be the case. I never was mistaken 
 in my life in any opinion I formed from an observation of cha- 
 racter. It must be ascribed to Providence alone, and to no com- 
 mon sense of his own, that he has come back in a whole skin. 
 I cannot help using plain language, though it is in reference to 
 one who is to be your son-in-law ; for he says he will take 
 either of the girls you may choose to send him, when it suits 
 his own convenience. The puppy ! I think the property be- 
 queathed to him on this condition is estimated at twice its 
 value ; and that the title to the real estate is very doubtful. 
 He is, at any rate, an incorrigible blockead, who will soon 
 run through it, together with his own, if he has not squan- 
 dered that already. Lewis ferreted him out of a place, which 
 is a low gaming house and grog-shop, this morning. It is my 
 duty to suggest these things, and I know you will duly appre- 
 preciate the disinterestedness of my motives. Cotton is 
 rising, &c." 
 
 It was true that the only pecuniary interest which Mr. 
 Lake had in the matter was, that in case of Green's not mar- 
 rying according to the will, two-fifths of the moiety would go 
 to his own children. But it cannot for a moment be supposed 
 that such mercenary considerations were thought of, when the 
 happiness of one of his nieces was, as he believed, seriously at 
 stake. 
 
279 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous bride.' COLERIDGX, 
 
 THE sweet influence of spring, now well advanced towards 
 her young maturity, the fragrance of her prolific breast, her 
 soft delightful whispers, after she had left off the irrational 
 crying hysterics to which she was too much addicted in March 
 and April, a picturesque grove where every thing was bud- 
 ding, and the violets yet gave forth their gentle perfume, a 
 pretty brook with its most insinuating susurration the young 
 moon and the conscious stars, with their mildest, kindliest 
 sweetest aspects the impalpable dew, and the gentle air 
 which make all vegetating things quiver with joy a clean 
 trunk of a prostrate tree to sit down upon no mosquitoes 
 and the intolerable insolence of Mr. Green all these, together 
 with a more than half-ripe partiality for him, conspired to 
 favour the suit of Willis "White, as he told Betsey Brown, what 
 she had had a shrewd suspicion of before, that he loved her 
 better than any thing else he could think of in the way of com- 
 parison. 
 
 It did not hurt her feelings to be told so; for it eased her of 
 all doubts she might have had upon the subject. And though 
 White sold calicoes, tape, shad, onions, &c., and would have 
 been glad to sell any thing, except human flesh, that he could 
 come honestly by, and could make an honest profit upon, he 
 was perhaps as worthy of the handsome Betsey's love as any 
 paladin could have been who ever ran in debt to a blacksmith 
 for tinkering up his mail harness. He " told his love" with 
 the honest simplicity of a freeman and an equal, so far as birth 
 was concerned, to the object of his adoration, with unaffected 
 ardour, and with a sufficiently interesting degree of embarrass- 
 ment. He was not blind nor deaf to the spectacles and voices 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 371 
 
 of nature ; nor would he have been so had he never read any 
 poems or romances, to which, indeed, he was very little ad- 
 dicted. He knew that shad, and onions, and tape, and cali- 
 coes, and every other article that is supposed to be useful or 
 ornamental, must be sold by somebody or another in a world, 
 of which we should have more reason to be proud, if con- 
 science, honour, and faith were not also vendible commodities. 
 
 In the beginning of their ramble, Betsey had told her lover, 
 with her usual frankness, the substance of the communication 
 which had been received, relative to the arrival of Mr. Green, 
 and the manner in which he had expressed his views and in- 
 tentions. Miss Lake certainly had not given too little colour 
 to her account, not to make it faithful. 
 
 " That cousin Green of yours," said White, " must be very 
 unhappy, or must be a very foolish hypocrite, to say that he is 
 indifferent as to all things. Is there any thing in nature that 
 is always the same always insensible ? Those monastic- 
 looking evergreens are they not greener now, when you and 
 the spring are visiting them, Betsey ? Is not the moss on those 
 old rocks newer and brighter ? The power that governs all 
 the economy of creation is not indifferent even to the falling 
 of a sparrow. How can man be so, who is but a little lower 
 than the angels, and for whose companion WOMAN was made ? 
 Nature teaches us to love, and to love in the proper season 
 after her own examples. Does not that beautiful star seem to 
 oscillate with a more tremulous and liquid lustre now, than it 
 does in winter, when it coldly exhibits its diamond radiance ? 
 Does it not now seem to smile, and to be glad ? Why do the 
 birds sing more sweetly? Why do the shad come up the 
 rivers in such quantities ?" And thus he went on, innocently 
 committing a plagiarism upon the Pastor Fido, which Betsey 
 thought at least as pretty as she would have thought Linco's 
 remonstrance to Sylvio, had she read it in the sweet music of 
 Guarini. 
 
 " Good evening, Miss Brown. How do you do, Mr. White 
 
272 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 It is a charming night, isn't it ? I heard you talking about 
 shad. Will they be plenty this season ?" Thus spoke Mr. 
 Ochre, who dealt in paints and oils, and who was one of Mr. 
 White's best customers. He had fetched a walk to the same 
 romantic spot which had witnessed the confession of Mr. 
 White, and his gracious absolution by his mistress. So it is 
 always in human life. Feeling, fancy, fun, flourish, and fact 
 are jumbled together. But Betsey loved Willis none the less 
 for the interruption, and assured him as they walked home to- 
 gether, arm in arm, that she would never marry George Green 
 under any circumstances whatever. If her papa and mamma 
 assented she would marry him (White) ; and if she did not 
 marry him, she would not marry anybody else. Those, she 
 said, were her sentiments. And she was as honest and whole- 
 souled a girl, independently of her personal attractions, as any 
 virtuous democrat could wish to boast of as his bride. And 
 now that she is a matron, it would be improper, were not her 
 name and her other " circumstances" so adumbrated, that the 
 great world cannot identify her with these allusions to facts, 
 to put up in print that prayer for her happiness which all good 
 people who know her do in their hearts. May she be always 
 happy in her husband's still fond regard ! May she still have 
 cause to respect him ! May she attend no six-day meetings, 
 nor any other profanities ! May her children grow up wise, 
 and strong, and beautiful ! And may she live, during the 
 natural time of life, blessing, and being blessed and then ex- 
 pire with resignation and hope as her attendant angels ! 
 
UFE IN AMERICA? 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, 
 Who would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar. 
 
 WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 With every pleasing, every prudent part, 
 Say, what can Chloe want ! She wants a heart. 
 
 POPE. 
 
 THE same stars and groves, and pensively murmuring rivulet, 
 quivering ever and anon with silver light, through the over- 
 hanging branches and bushes, witnessed the suit of Lawyer 
 Black, as the cockneys of the village called him, to the stately 
 Barbara. He had proved himself an ingenious advocate in the 
 causes of other people, but felt considerably more embarrassed 
 in pressing his own. He managed, however, to make his ap- 
 plication sufficiently intelligible. Miss Barbara cast down her 
 eyes, and perhaps blushed. She withdrew her arm from the 
 support of her suitor, gently however, and for the ostensible 
 purpose of taking out her handkerchief from her reticule. Black 
 might have thought that it was for the purpose of allowing 
 him to make a genuflexion. He did make one, at any rate, 
 and sought to seize the hand with the handkerchief in it ; for- 
 getting that the lady might want to wipe her bright eyes, or 
 otherwise to employ her cambric . 
 
 " Rise, Mr. Black," she said, with no extraordinary show of 
 agitation. " I am honoured by your preference ; but I must re- 
 fer you to my father, by whose decision I shall wholly be 
 governed. You know in what peculiar circumstances we are 
 placed." 
 
 " I know that you have heard of the arrival of Mr. Green," 
 said Black, with anxiety, and a feeling of mortification at the 
 coolness of her manner, and set terms of her reply ; " and 
 therefore I ventured to risk, perhaps too soon, asking you to 
 decide on my happiness. Has he solicited your hand ?" 
 M 5 
 
274 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 Miss Barbara did blush in reply to this question, but Black 
 mistook the cause of the crimson suffusion, until she answered 
 hesitatingly " No !" It was uttered in a tone unsatisfactory 
 to the suitor. 
 
 " Then," said he, " indeed I know of no other peculiar reasons 
 why I should not now urge the dearest wish of my heart. He 
 may soon present himself and your father may compel you 
 either to accept him, or to be disobedient. But tell me now, 
 Barbara, tell me what have I to hope from yourself? I have 
 no presumptuous hope but I have fondly imagined that I 
 was not utterly indifferent to you. Was it a delusion ?" 
 
 "Why, certainly, Mr. Black, I highly esteem your good 
 qualities, and your society has afforded me pleasure. Nor 
 nor did I mean to intimate to the contrary. But my father's 
 will must be law to me. Want of filial piety is a bad omen 
 for matrimonial felicity." 
 
 " She got that bit of morality, with the other formal scrap 
 she uttered first, by heart at school ; or has heard her mother 
 quote it," thought Black. 
 
 " I will make my application then forthwith but, do you, 
 Barbara, do you care about its fate ? I fear that confounded 
 Mr. Green will be in its way." His vexation made him speak 
 in his usual manner, and rather technically. But, as he 
 watched the expression of the truly handsome (rather than 
 lovely) lineaments of her to whom he spoke, admiration and 
 warmth of another description returned. "I feel that I may 
 be, am unworthy of you, Barbara, except in the sincerity of my 
 love. Your image has lived in my heart, and floated before 
 my eyes, waking, musing, or dreaming, since first I saw you. 
 I have worshipped it as I have never worshipped, never can 
 worship any other. I would fain believe that some little re- 
 sponsive interest in the heart of the original may be awakened 
 as to the result of the conference with your father. Pardon 
 me if I ask too much but do you wish me success ?" 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. $75 
 
 " Indeed, I do hope that the result may be fortunate for all 
 parties. But let us return homeward." 
 
 Even this equivocal response, delivered in rather a kindlier 
 tone than the young lady had previously spoken in, gave some 
 consolation to the lover, and he chose to construe it favourably, 
 as she again took his proffered arm. But presently, notwith- 
 standing the delight with which such a construction, and still 
 more the pleasure of such contact made his veins thrill, he 
 could not help considering the case as it was made up (to use 
 the language of his profession), and, in making out his points, 
 he did not like the looks of them. He wished, therefore, to 
 have it amended. 
 
 " Should Mr. Brown make no other objection than that this 
 invisible Green may claim your hand and he will do it, that 
 is, Green will, if he has eyes are my hopes to be a contingent 
 remainder ? I beg pardon, are they to depend upon the ca- 
 price of Green, Barbara?" He began in uttered meditation, 
 and ended in an interrogatory. 
 
 Barbara was perplexed for more reasons than Black was 
 aware of, who knew nothing about the " three straws ;" on 
 the longitude of which his contingent remainder was to de- 
 pend. She had persuaded herself that this was a jest, but still 
 the pride of her spirit felt all the humiliation of her position. 
 She certainly did prefer an indifferent husband, who was very 
 rich, to an impassioned and really agreeable suitor, who had 
 his own fortune to make by a profession. She could only re- 
 sort to her own formulary. 
 
 "My actions must depend altogether on the pleasure of my 
 father, to which my feelings must be subdued." 
 
 Here, on turning into a path that led immediately to the 
 village, they were met by Bella, and a young gentleman on 
 whose arm she was leaning, who was no other than Master 
 Lake. 
 
 " We were sent to look after you," said the latter, as Miss 
 
276 LIFE IN AMERICA: 
 
 Barbara welcomed his appearance, with the most unembar- 
 rassed frankness. " Where is cousin Betsey ?" 
 
 As she asked the question, the images of Betsey and her 
 swain emerged from an alley in the hanging groves, and an- 
 swered it by a visible exhibition of themselves. They looked 
 remarkably cheerful, though Miss Betsey's cheek was rather 
 flushed, as she received her cousin's wonted salute. 
 
 " Mamma," said Bella, "sent us to find you. She thought 
 you might be lost in the woods, and did not know you had 
 found errant cavaliers to take care of you. She is alarmed to 
 death about that old influenza of yours, sister Betsey ; and 
 your pulmonary symptoms, sister Barbara ; and father is all 
 but swearing about it. 1 ' 
 
 " And so," said Betsey, laughing, " they sent you to get 
 rid of your tooth ache, did they, to look for us ?" 
 
 "I think we had better proceed homeward," said Mr. 
 Black. " The night is chilly and damp." 
 
 So he took the lead with his fair and graceful partner, while 
 White and Betsey followed at a reasonable and fluctuating 
 distance. 
 
 "We need not 'progress backwards,' Bella," said Lake. 
 " I have a thousand other things to tell you." 
 
 " You must tell them to me at home, Lewis, to-night or to- 
 morrow, you know. You are in no hurry." 
 
 They did not seem to be in any special hurry ; at any rate 
 they did not tread upon the heels of Mr. White and Betsey. 
 Mr. Black, marching at a more regulated pace, in the van, 
 said to Barbara, after a dumb silence of some minutes' dura- 
 tion, " Miss Brown, with your permission, I shall leave the 
 understanding between us subject to the exception of either 
 party. I cannot consent to the arrangement de bene essc I 
 beg pardon Barbara, I shall not speak to your father very 
 soon, nor nor until we have a better understanding." 
 
 " As you please, Mr., Black. You have a right to consult 
 
IN AMERICA; 
 
 your own feelings and I must comply with my duty. And 
 I think you need not be too precipitate. You have my best 
 wishes whenever propriety permits. Bon soir," and she 
 gracefully waved her gloved hand to him, as she discharged 
 him, and entered her father's door. 
 
 " She may remain a femme sole, for all I care," grumbled 
 Mr. Black, in his thoughts, as he stalked homeward. "I 
 want no lapsed legacies. She is a handsome girl ; but she 
 has no more heart than Bacon on Uses ; and no more utility 
 either. What use would she be of to me, except putting me 
 to useless expense ?" And, so moralizing, he went whistling 
 to his quarters, striving to feel merry, or at least indifferent ; 
 and being, in sooth, quite sad. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Rome in her Capitol saw Querno sit, 
 
 Throned on seven hills, the Antichrist of wit. POPB. 
 
 Rhyme the rudder is of verses. 
 
 ON the day after Mr. Green's interview with his relations, he 
 was sitting in a large and public room, smoking a cigar, in 
 company with Mr. Sam Sienna, clerk to a firm of wholesale 
 druggists, and Mr. Isaac Indigo, also a clerk in another estab- 
 lishment. He had just received a note, delicately folded and 
 sealed, inviting him to a soiree that evening, at the house 
 of a most respectable family, related to, and on terms of inti- 
 macy with his own. It was lying on the table that is, such 
 a portion of it as had not been used to ignite the twisted ni- 
 cotian. 
 
 " Do you mean to go to this scrape, Green ?" said Sienna. 
 
 " I don't know. I am indifferent about parties, per- 
 fectly." 
 
 " I wouldn't go. I know several who have been to these 
 
278 MFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 soirees, as they call them, and they say it is the greatest bore 
 in the world. They give no feed. There is nothing but cof- 
 fee, and lemonade, and slops. They talk about books, and 
 have foreigners who parlez-vous it in their own lingo. You 
 understand French, however, of course. 11 
 
 " No, thank God, I was indifferent about it. I got along 
 well enough without it. Slow-and-Easy picked up enough to 
 get what we wanted." 
 
 ' I can give you both an invitation to a very nice party to- 
 night," said Indigo. " You must go along with me. Mrs. 
 Vermilion is going to blaze it out. She is going the whole 
 figure. I dare say there will be a tremendous squeeze, and 
 there will be plenty of fun, and no ceremony. You must go, 
 Green." 
 
 " Well, I don't care, if you say so. But I think that squeez- 
 ing is inconvenient : and I am indifferent about fun." 
 
 " Oh ! you won't be when you get into it. If you knew 
 Polly Pink and Kate Cochiloe, they'd tickle the indifference 
 out of you." 
 
 " I must say that tickling is decidedly inconvenient. I am 
 indifferent about being introduced to them ; but I will go along 
 with you, if you wish it." 
 
 " You will be pleased, I am sure. But, as I am alive, here is 
 a kind of namesake of yours ;" in an audible whisper, meant 
 to be heard, he continued " Mr. Green-Bice, one of the most 
 distinguished poets and literary characters alive." 
 
 "I am indifferent about poets and literature," said Mr. 
 Green, " though I must confess I had rather not see such 
 verses as these" pointing to some of the then popular lines of 
 Coculus Indicus, in a newspaper of the day, which the judi- 
 cious editor characterized as strains from his lyre, far sweeter 
 than the obscurities of Wordsworth, or the foreign affectations 
 of Scott. 
 
 " It is a great pity not to be able to relish poetry," said 
 Sienna. " I cannot express myself exactly ; but there is some- 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 279 
 
 thing or other charming about them verses that I don't un- 
 derstand. " 
 
 "What is poetry ?" said Mr. Green, yawning. 
 
 " Oh !" said Indigo, " if I was sufficiently familiar with you, 
 Mr. Green, I would venture to suggest that people may treat 
 such a question from a man who has been educated, and who 
 has travelled, like you, as gross affectation. 
 
 " I am indifferent as to how people treat it, or as to know- 
 ing what poetry is. But I don't know." 
 
 " God bless me, my dear sir, don't you know that it is the 
 language of the passions, expressed in regular numbers ?" 
 
 " I did not know it, indeed. I think that cursing and 
 swearing is inconvenient. I am indifferent as to whether it is 
 donein regular or irregular numbers." 
 
 " You will never get along with Miss Pink, unless you can 
 talk to her about poetry. Certainly you can see that this ar- 
 ticle about General Jackson's conduct in vetoing the grand 
 Erie Canal is prose ?" 
 
 " I suppose it is. I am indifferent about prose ; but I must 
 say that I don't like such prose as that." 
 
 " Well now this is poetry. Hear a little of it 
 
 ' How dimly does the phantom wing, 
 
 Between the moonbeam and the wave, 
 Of many an embryo notion fling 
 
 Its radience o'er the spirit's grave ! 
 Like twilight, when the images 
 
 Extern are seen, obscure and clear, 
 So weeping memory fondly says, 
 
 Though life be dark, there's lustre here !" 
 
 Isn't that sweet? Ain't there a kind of twang about it? 
 That' s poetry, Mr. Green." 
 
 " I dare say. I don't know what it means ; but I don't care 
 about knowing. Don't trouble yourself to tell me though if 
 you want to, I am indifferent as to hearing it. If that is 
 poetry, I am satisfied that there is too much of it ; but what 
 an everlasting quantity there must be that is not burnt up !" 
 Here, whiffing off a beautiful column of blue smoke, he threw 
 
2fl LIFE IN AMERICA: 
 
 away the unconsumed end of his cigar, and took another 
 from a box of real Cabanas. Though he might have professed 
 himself indifferent as to cigars he certainly did not like any 
 other than the best. 
 
 " Mr. Green," said Mr. Sienna, who had [shovelled himself 
 around in many eccentric circles, after and with the poet to 
 make his own and their mutual consequence better understood 
 by the democrats who were lounging or walking about the 
 contiguous premises " allow me to introduce to you, and 
 you to him Mr. Green-Bice ; poetry is the subject of our 
 conversation ; and if he cannot tell you about it, there's 
 nobody can." 
 
 " I was trying," said Indigo, " by the music of this charm- 
 ing ode, as well as I could make it out, to give Mr. Green an 
 idea of the mysterious harmony which makes poetry most 
 poetical." 
 
 "What! that stuff!" said Green-Bice (who would have 
 been none the worse f@r having been indued in less sordid in- 
 teguments in the linen line), " why the poor fellow that made 
 it doesn't understand how to count his fingers. He belongs to 
 the Lake school of poetry ?" 
 
 (> I am indifferent about it," said Green, " but I did not 
 know that my uncle had set' up a charity school. I certainly 
 won't subscribe to it." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Green's uncle's [name is Lake, Mr. Bice," said 
 Indigo. " You do not mean him. I have heard before of the 
 Lake school of poetry. What is it ?'' 
 
 " Why, sir, if I was called upon to tell you what it is, I 
 should have to go through so much explanation, that I should 
 be wearied, and you would be so likewise. There are many 
 articles in the Edinburgh Review which show what it is. But I 
 can tell you one thing which you may apprehend without much 
 trouble. It is a school, sir, in which fas prosody of language is 
 sacrificed. Now, sir, you can clearly understand what 
 prosody is, if you will listen to me and mark me. Hear a 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 281 
 
 passage from the first of our poets, as last revised by him in 
 his twentieth edition. Now mark the regularity of the rymth 
 the tum-ti, tum-ti, the flowing and majestic and classical 
 tum-ti which pevades it : 
 
 " How sweet, oh, friendship ? is thy magic charm ! 
 Our souls to elevate, our hearts to warm ! 
 Within thy realm no discord's jarring sound 
 Is heard, nor Cain and Abel there are found ! 
 Congenial friendship brings the potent spell. 
 To bid the young affections softly swell, 
 The sweets of fond society impart, 
 Whose cordial balm exhilarates the heart, 
 The friendly bosom that can share our grief 
 Is the best sanctuary to yield relief ; 
 To quench the fiery aspect of despair, 
 And ease the labouring mind of half its care." 
 
 Mr. Bice illustrated his recitation by making iambics on the 
 fingers of his left hand (one of which had a crooked joint,) 
 with the forefinger of the right. 
 
 " I am indifferent about hearing any more of that, sir," said 
 Green. "If I cared about poetry, I believe I could make 
 such myself. But what is that line with a ' sanctuary' in it ?" 
 
 " Is the best sanct twer-ry to yield relief," recited Mr. 
 Bice. 
 
 " Oh! very well. That is in the new dictionary, I suppose. 
 They made me call it sanctuary when I went to school ; but 
 I am indifferent as to pronunciation. If you call it sanktery, 
 your tum-ti will answer well enough. But I thought you had 
 to double up your pinkie twice when you said it first. Won't 
 you smoke a cigar ? or are you indifferent about it ? I never 
 swear ; but for heaven's sake, if it is not inconvenient to you 
 to stop reading that, it will be very convenient to me." 
 
 Green actually seemed interested in this matter, and inspired 
 too on the occasion ; for he called for a bottle of wine, of 
 which Bice availed himself freely, while he delivered the fol- 
 lowing lecture, during which Green fell asleep for he could 
 smoke as well asleep as awake. 
 
 " Poetry, Mr. Green, is a natural art. It is both inspired 
 
282 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 and mechanical. If I say that the grass is green (begging 
 your pardon for playing on your name, which I do not mean 
 to do), do I talk poetry ? No. Why not ? Because there is 
 no curious jingle, or metrical arrangement. If I say, 
 
 " The grass is green, 
 As may be seen," 
 
 that is poetry. Why? Because it rhymes. There are no 
 epithets in it without meaning ; and there is no sentiment in it 
 without pathos. It is easy, and not careless ; polished, and 
 not laborious. Its decorations are not tawdry, and it cannot 
 be made more elegant without losing its simplicity. The 
 rersification is neittier sluggish nor rugged. All who have 
 any relish for delightful melody will be charmed with it; be- 
 cause it is congenial to the soul of every true bard. But, 
 believe me, Mr. Green, that the injudicious praise which some 
 poets have received from pretended friends and sciolous 
 editors of newspapers has been their great misfortune." 
 
 " Sci what ?" said Green. "I used to have a pointer that 
 we called Si, because his name was Syphax ; and I knew a 
 nigger called Si-Van Brunt. However, I am indifferent about 
 knowing the meaning of it; don't inconvenience yourself to 
 explain." 
 
 Mr. Bice regarded him with an air of commiseration, and 
 having got a small knot around him of tavern loungers, pro- 
 ceeded, while Green incensed the oracle by puffing volumes 
 of aromatic smoke into his eyes, nostrils, and mouth, as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 " Several of our New England poets, Mr. Green, are not 
 without talents. A species of cleverness marks many of their 
 productions ; and would, were it not deformed by the bad 
 style of the disagreeable school, which so unhappy infects it " 
 
 "Infects what?" said Mr. Green. "Oh! the species of 
 cleverness. But what infects that? Oh! the disagreeable 
 school. Go on, sir, though I am indifferent about it." 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 283 
 
 " I say, sir," said Bice, rather testily, " that the bad style 
 of the disagreeable school so unhappily infects the species of 
 cleverness natural to the race, that we do not know what it 
 means." 
 
 " Nor I either," said Mr. Green. " If the school is offensive, 
 chloride of lime is cheap enough." 
 
 " Oh, my God !" exclaimed Bice. " Do you really not know, 
 Mr. Green, that the friends of Wordsworth, Southey, Cole- 
 ridge, Shelley, and the whole tribe of intellectual poets have 
 never succeeded in making any of their works popular ?" 
 
 " Really I do not. And I am really indifferent about it." 
 
 " So I presume you are," said Bice, with a satisfied air of 
 superlative conceit. " But you have some idea of music, Mr. 
 Green of the melody of numbers." 
 
 " I know the difference between Yankee Doodle and Old 
 Hundred ; but I am very indifferent about music." 
 
 " But surely the rhythmics of the following charming and 
 original metre must strike your ear : 
 
 " And though the wintry tempest rage the while, 
 Domestic legends shall the night beguile ; 
 Or lite-ra-ry taste its charms impart 
 To please the fancy and improve the heart." 
 
 "I am indifferent about literature," said Mr. Green, " but 
 the last line is ' fished,' as the boys used to say when I werit 
 to school, from a poet named Searson, who was crazy. I re- 
 member it very well, because it had in it a picture of General 
 Washington." 
 
 " Fished from Searson ! Oh, Mr. Green !" 
 
 " Why certainly it is. I used to know a good deal of his 
 poetry by heart. I am indifferent about remembering such 
 things, but it ran somewhat in this fasion : 
 
 ' To please the fancy and divert the mind, 
 Most pleasing scenes will still the thoughts refine.' " 
 
 " That is very pretty, indeed," said Mr. Verdigris, one of 
 
284 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 the volunteers at this conclave ; and the rest laughed pro- 
 miscuously. 
 
 " You perceive, Mr. Green," said Bice, " that the company 
 are laughing, involuntarily, at your expense." 
 
 " 1 am indifferent as to laughter. It is but like the crack- 
 ling of thorns under a pot." Here he projected " involun- 
 tarily," right up into what the fancy call the " smellers " of 
 Mr. Bice, which made him sneeze, according to no rhythmus, 
 tum-ti, or Lake school that ever was heard of, or attempted to 
 be defined ; and the crackling of the thorns waxed louder, and 
 grew to be more general and obstreperous. Bice seemed to 
 understand it ; for, after saying, " Depend upon it, Mr. Green, 
 that since Wordsworth published his dull and drawling poem 
 called the Excursion, there has been nothing published like 
 this poetry in twenty editions, of which I have spoken to 
 you," he wen out in what the waiter called a miscellaneous 
 way. 
 
 But he is a great writer in one of the leading Reviews, and 
 the propriety of publishing this scrap of history during his life 
 might be questionable, were it not that of the few passages in 
 Mr Green's biography which delicacy allows us to insert, this 
 this is one about which there can be no question. 
 
 Let all laud and exclusive glory and renown be allotted to 
 him and to the great Maecenas who understands his genius. 
 
 Fortunati ambo I si quid mea carmina possint, 
 Nulla dies uuquam xnemori vos eximet mvo I 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 2$ 5 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero 
 Pulsanda tellus HOB. 
 
 Now let us tipple, and dance the double shuffle. T BANS. 
 
 Why don't you dance up'to that entire stranger ? 
 
 KENTUCKY SONG. 
 
 To describe social manners as they appear in the old cities of 
 our country, among what would be called in another the mid- 
 dling classes, or the parvenus, or by some other name here 
 totally inapplicable, may be an easy task to an English tourist 
 before he has got his land legs. It is a very hard one for a 
 native. At any rate, if the attempt has ever been made it has 
 been sufficiently successful to save the product from oblivion. 
 Broad burlesque, or faithful, gross, prosaic delineation might 
 convey a picture of particular portions of such society to the 
 reader; but it would not be recognised as characterizing 
 a species. The phases of such circles change as to their minor 
 characteristics with the changes of fashion ; but there are no 
 broad outlines which mark them always distinctly. Let us not 
 therefore attempt to describe the re-union of people of all de- 
 scriptions to which Mr. Green was taken under the auspices of 
 Sienna and Indigo. Mr. Vermilion was to fail in two or 
 three weeks, at the farthest ; and his excellent lady was de- 
 termined that the show of wealth and pomp, if it must 
 temporarily expire, should do so with eclat, " and in music 
 and perfume die away." 
 
 Green was put into the hands of the accomplished Miss 
 Pink, who had him seated by her at a piano, in a corner of 
 one of the rooms, which was sufficiently crowded to make it 
 " inconvenient" for him to change his position. The lady was 
 
 small, plump, frank, and lively, and had good laughing and 
 
 languishing eyes. 
 " Pon't you doat QU music, Mr, Green ?'> said she, as she 
 
286 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 concluded the execution of something which she unjustly al- 
 leged to be the composition of Eossini. 
 
 "No. I don't care any thing about it. But as it is just as 
 convenient for you to play now as not, you might as well 
 go on." 
 
 " What shall I sing ? said Miss Pink. " Every thing here 
 is so old." 
 
 " On ! sing any thing. It is quite immaterial to me." 
 
 " Every thing that Miss Polly sings has equal fascinations 
 for you, Green, I suppose," said Sienna. 
 
 " Oh ! yes. Sing any thing. Only I think a very great 
 shrill noise is rather inconvenient. I believe some of the 
 works of this instrument are out of order. Sing something 
 simple. 
 
 Polly accordingly chanted the following lines, to some sort 
 of an air or another, rolling her eyes occasionally at Green, in 
 a very touching manner. 
 
 " They talk of love that grows with years, 
 
 And is by time matured, 
 Budding in joy, bedewed by tears, 
 
 By accidents manured. 
 Mine, like Minerva, large as life, 
 
 Was born, and cannot grow. 
 
 " I declare I forget the next line, Mr. Green. Don't you 
 remember it ?" 
 
 " No ! I never care about remembering such verses. Wife 
 and wo will rhyme to them." 
 
 " Come, Green, you must get a place for Miss Polly for this 
 cotillion," said Sienna. 
 
 " I am totally indifferent about dancing. I don't see any 
 room." 
 
 " Oh ! there's room enough here," continued the extempore 
 master of the ceremonies ; ( ample room and verge enough,' 
 as Milton says, just where you are. Put your chair in the 
 corner." 
 
 So Mr. Green became the passive partner of Miss Polly, 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. Zo* 
 
 who was determined that he should at least seem to be some- 
 thing more, so far as pulling, and hauling, and squeezing could 
 make him so. She had no idea of " treading a measure," but 
 was for hop, skip, and jump, flings, and rapid gyrations. The 
 gallopade and mazurka had not been yet quite introduced into 
 Mrs. Vermilion's coterie. Waltzing, however, was in fashion, 
 and she announced to Green her intention of performing that 
 exercise with him, as soon as it should be practicable. Re- 
 signed to his fate, and perhaps not altogether displeased with 
 having some one to take care of him, who was willing to be 
 at all the expense of conversation, compliment and invitation ^ 
 he acquiesced, with a protestando as to its inconvenience on 
 account of the want of room. " We shall certainly," said he, 
 " get into the fire, or tread on somebody's toes." 
 
 Simon Scarlet, the scion of a prosperous and pugnacious 
 butcher, had witnessed with no pleasure the flirtation in which 
 Green played a secondary and involuntary part. He had set 
 the eyes of affection on Polly, and the pretty personality 
 which she was supposed to possess. He had had many a 
 frolic of the same kind with her, and had indeed stated that 
 he meant to heighten the colour of her name. He was a bully 
 of some notoriety, and determined to give the new Adonis of 
 his romping Venus a taste of his manners and quality. 
 
 Accordingly, after the cotillion was no longer " being 
 danced," as eminent writers of the present age would say, 
 (for the sake of brevity, perspicuity, and grammar,) Simon 
 forced his way up to the spot where Green was sitting, in the 
 corner of a sofa, in close juxtaposition to Miss Pink there 
 being, as a Hibernian lady observed, " one more in the sofa 
 than it would hold." Here he planted his six feet of perpen- 
 dicular longitude right before Polly, while his clumsy pedestals 
 interfered with the adjustment of her own plump but brief 
 extremities. He brushed up his fiery red hair with his fingers, 
 with an awkward attempt at ease, and at assuming an ex- 
 pression of contempt as he looked at Green. Miss Pink drew 
 
288 LIFE IN AMERICA, 
 
 in her feet as far as the circumstances would permit, and 
 looked at him with an air of perfect innocence, expecting 
 the opening of such polite conversation as he might be 
 pleased to indulge in. 
 
 This was exactly what he did not know how to do ; for he 
 remained standing with folded arms, in the same position, for 
 several seconds, casting his eyes down upon Green, who was 
 fastening one of Polly's bracelets, as she had desired him to do. 
 
 "Well, Mr, Scarlet," she said at length, "comment se porte 
 votre tante f as the French say. 
 
 " I don't know what that means, Miss Pink," he observed, 
 with a droll mockery of stateliness in his tone and carriage, 
 adjusting at the same time the swathes of some coloured fabric 
 which encircled his neck. " I wish you to dance with me 
 that is, if you please." 
 
 " I can't, indeed. I am going to waltz with this gentleman 
 presently." 
 
 " Waltz with who f n 
 
 " You are hurting my feet, sir," said Green, looking up to 
 the firelocks of the querist. " It is very inconvenient." 
 
 " Maybe so, sir. I would keep them out of the way then, 
 if I was you." 
 
 Here, in crossing his legs, Green slightly kicked the shin of 
 Mr. Scarlet, who became immediately more " deeply red" than 
 ever. " What do you mean, sir ?" he asked abruptly. 
 
 " Mean ? I said nothing. But I wish you would stand a 
 little further off. It is inconvenient enough sitting here as 
 it is." 
 
 " You are a puppy, sir," said Scarlet, in a loud enough voice 
 to be generally heard. " I don't believe that you have any 
 business to be here." 
 
 "Mr. Scarlet," said Sienna, coming up at this juncture, 
 " Mr. Green came here on my introduction. You must apolo- 
 gize you are under a mistake. 
 
 " I apologize to no puppies, mistake or no mistake." So 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 saying he strutted about in the elegant attitude of Lord Cas- 
 tlereagh's crocodile. 
 
 Miss Pink had the crying-and-laughing hysterics. The 
 goodly company was frightened from its propriety, or impro- 
 priety, as the refined Mrs. Trollope would probably have 
 called it. Sienna and Indigo withdrew with Mr. Green. 
 
 " You must fight that bully," observed the first of these 
 worthies to the last. 
 
 " I must have satisfaction certainly : but it is decidedly 
 inconvenient for me to shoot him, or to be shot by him at 
 present. I am indifferent about duelling, but I have got to see 
 about getting married. I think you ought to challenge him 
 first, if it is convenient; and, if necessary, I can attend to it 
 afterward." 
 
 " I ? no, I don't see why." 
 
 " You led me into the scrape." 
 
 " I invited you to go into ' good society,' and ( endorsed 
 your appearance,' as the attorneys say ; but he did not know 
 it when he affronted you." 
 
 " He called you a puppy when he did however." 
 
 " I did not understand him, or" (blaspheming) " I would 
 have knocked him down on the spot. You are altogether 
 mistaken. You will be cut, if you do not call him to an ac- 
 count instantly." 
 
 " If he should kill me, I am indifferent as to what becomes 
 of the estate after my death. But I know I can hit him, and 
 it will be dreadfully inconvenient for me to run away just 
 now from the country." 
 
 " Pshaw ! he will apologize on the ground. He is a coward 
 as well as a ruffian. I know that he will have Grey for his 
 second, and I can arrange every thing with him, for the per- 
 fect vindication of your honour, without burning any powder." 
 
 " I am indifferent, as I said before, about duelling ; but I 
 must say, that if I have to get up before sunrise, and be put 
 
 N 
 
29U 
 
 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 to so much inconvenience, I should like to have a fair crack at 
 the butcher-boy. But you may fix it as you like." 
 
 And Mr. Sienna, who desired nothing better than to have 
 the notoriety of being confidentially employed in an affair in 
 which a young gentleman of good family and of wealth was a 
 principal, and of causing Mr. Scarlet, who uniformly treated 
 him with thorough and rude superciliousness, to be either 
 humbled or made a caput mortuum, without any risk to him- 
 self, wrote a missive forthwith for Green, of which Indigo, 
 who was somewhat of a fire-eater, was the bearer ; as he 
 (Sienna) alleged that he was in some sort a second principal, 
 and must send another^ invitation on his own account, should 
 it become necessary. 
 
 CHAPTER IX, 
 
 Dabellare Superbos. ,VIRG. 
 Arms and the man ! - Jb. 
 
 IN a plain tale, which might make two volumes duodecimo, 
 but which must be here restricted to a nouvelette of some fifty 
 pages or less, we must adopt, as Mr. Black would say, the 
 legal maxim, and not care about minutest trifles ; otherwise 
 we might describe the progress of a row-boat over a glorious 
 piece of water at early dawn, and spin it out into perhaps 
 half a dozen chapters, descriptive and narrative, of adventures 
 leading to nothing before the catastrophe, excepting what the 
 said Black would have called imparlances. The fact too is, 
 that the morning was foggy and mizzly ; and that nothing 
 was to be seen at more than five yards' distance from the 
 boat, than the wave and the watery drapery of mist. It is a 
 pity that the crepusculum did not happen to be more promis- 
 ing ; and if it had been, we should have had no room to dis- 
 cuss it here. Nor can we dilate upon the risk the party ran 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 291 
 
 of being run down by a steamboat : or upon how a porpoise 
 actually liked to have turned in among 1 them, in his peculiarly 
 clumsy manner. 
 
 Their boatmen backed water, and an exceedingly spruce, 
 and indeed rather priggish-looking young gentleman, who 
 was playing cockswain, looked knowingly at a pocket-com- 
 pass. 
 
 " I must say that this is very inconvenient," said one of the 
 party, " though, since it can't be helped, I am indifferent about 
 it." And, wrapping his cloak about himself more strictly, he 
 reclined against the gunwale. 
 
 "No nor-west, Doctor," said one of the rowers to the 
 steersman. 
 
 "We shall be too late to get any breakfast," said the third 
 passenger. 
 
 " I am indifferent about breakfast," responded Mr. Green ;" 
 " but after we have settled the matter, I must say that I should 
 decidedly like to have some refreshment; hot tea, or soda- 
 water with hock in it." 
 
 " Take a taste of this," said Indigo, handing him a small, 
 flat, elliptical, metal flask. 
 
 "Faugh! It is spirits. I am indifferent about smelling 
 spirits at any time. Bat I will take a suck of it, if you say 
 so." 
 
 The rowers pulled and pulled energetically. It is marvellous 
 in the eyes of some dilettanti moralists, how when men act as ma- 
 chines they play their part so well. If hired to do a job in 
 the way of rowing, whether it be to carry the idle apprentice 
 to the transport-ship which was to take him to Botany Bay, 
 or a couple of gentlemen to shoot selon les regies, what do 
 they care about the freight they have on board, or its ultimate 
 destination, direct or contingent ? Hogarth does, to be sure, 
 make one of his Charons cast a pregnant squint at the illus- 
 trious exile who was " being" ferried by him on his way to 
 foreign parts ; which squint, coupled in the way of association 
 
292 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 with the gallows on the shore, make a very pretty unwritten 
 morality. But your regularly-bred boatmen are generally un- 
 observant altogether. 
 
 So they rowed and rowed, through and over the water, and 
 in an atmosphere which was as good as water, though thinner, 
 for the purpose of wetting people, until, through the moist 
 fogginess, a bold shore covered with evergreens, became 
 dimly visible. Previously, however, to this appearance, and 
 while they were floating in and under the influence of haze 
 and hydrogen, Mr. Green seemed to have an idea. 
 
 " This mist," said he, " puts me in mind of eternity. Did 
 you ever think about eternity, Mr. Indigo ?" 
 
 " No not a great deal. In Cato's play, that they used to 
 speak at school, I remember that he says it is a pleasingly 
 dreadful thought. What put that into your head ? O yes 
 but you are indifferent about most matters. Do you care any 
 thing about religion." 
 
 " I don't know" 
 
 Here a pause ensued, and after some time the boat shot un- 
 der a fir-clad precipice, its keel grating on the pebbles. The 
 oarsmen bestowed their implements in the usual fashion ; and 
 looked as if they were glad that so much of their business was 
 transacted. Messrs. Green and Indigo ascended the bank, and 
 presently came upon a level space, where they saw bully Scar- 
 let, with his friend Grey, sitting upon a rock. When the 
 former saw them he looked rather uneasy, and " made his 
 manners" very awkwardly. 
 
 " We have been expecting you, gentlemen," said Mr. Grey. 
 
 " Not long, I hope ; or if so it was unnecessary," said In- 
 digo (looking at his watch). u It yet wants ten minutes of 
 six. We will, however, proceed to business as soon as you 
 please." 
 
 While these two worthies were pacing the ground and ar- 
 ranging the preliminaries, it would have been amusing to a 
 spectator to see Mr, Scarlet covertly glancing upwards to the 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 293 
 
 top of the wooded eminence, at the foot of which he was 
 to be " set-up;" anticipating the interference of the old land- 
 lord, at whose house he had slept and breakfasted, and whom 
 he had taken care privately to inform of the purpose with 
 which he came, or rather did not come, to that locality. 
 Bluebeard's sister-in-law did not look more earnestly from the 
 top of the tower, when the truculent old curmudgeon was 
 trifling with her natural sister's terrors, than this poor body 
 gazed up the wall of earth and vegetation, expecting a reve- 
 lation of his hearty old host's person, in a shape either of a 
 mediator, or of a preserver of the peace. Grey told him 
 where to stand, put a pistol in his hand, and cautioned him to 
 remember his previous instructions, which there is no necessity 
 for our remembering, as Scarlet had forgotten them himself. 
 Like Guy Denzil, when he was about to be "being hanged/' 
 he was scarcely conscious of what he saw or heard ; and 
 the beautiful violet lingering in the recesses near his feet, and 
 the scarlet lichen which had begun to flaunt as a spring belle 
 among the crevices in the grey stones above him, with a, small 
 sisterhood of early blue, and white, and pink wild-flowers ; 
 and the trees, and the earth, and the waters swam dimly on 
 his sight. Lady Morgan has a crazy notion ia one of her 
 novels, which is out of print, about the Avatar of one of the 
 ugly Hindoo gods being pre-announced by the strange mys- 
 terious movement of the leaves of an old and solemn forest. 
 The heathen devotee who watched and interpreted for himsel 
 the expression of those vegetables, could not have been more 
 earnest in his gaze, than was our Bombastes Furioso for the 
 apparition of the red face of the aged and respectable Mr. 
 Orange Tawney, with a couple or more of constables, to ter- 
 minate honourably the difficulties of his position : and indeed, 
 presently, the jolly visage of mine host was protruded from 
 the bank above, between the slim trunks of two junipers, spe- 
 culating with great complacency and good-nature, through 
 vines and bushes, upon the arrangement, 
 
294 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 " Blaze away, my fine fellows," he said ; " I like spunk. I 
 like to see young lads enjoy themselves in their own way. Let 
 split ! Don't mind me." 
 
 This consolatory encouragement fell on Scarlet's ears just 
 as Indigo gave the word for the parties to fire " when they 
 pleased;" and a globe of lead passed through his body before 
 he had much time to consult his pleasure about it. He fell 
 supine, rolled over on his back with a few convulsive spasms, 
 and was a corpse. So said the doctor, whose technical ob- 
 servations on the manner in which the result had been pro- 
 duced it would be disagreeable and unprofitable to repeat. Grey 
 pinned a paper on his breast, stating his name and the re- 
 sidence of his family. The old gentleman who had witnessed 
 the transaction, then advised them all to go about their busi- 
 ness, and to keep "remarkably snug" until the affair had 
 blown over. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 And now I go, but go alone. SCOTT, 
 
 Above me are the Alps, 
 The palaces of nature, whose vast walls 
 Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
 And throned eternity in icy halls. BYRON. 
 
 " ARE you sure all my things are on board, Slow-and-Easy ?' 
 asked Mr. Green, as he stood on board of the Cundinamarca , 
 bound for the Balize Roads, in company with Messrs. Indigo 
 and Grey. " The boatmen are waiting tor you, gentlemen." 
 
 " Green," said Indigo, with an affectionate adjuration, " I 
 will not see you go off alone in this manner, to be among those 
 Indians and negroes. I have not even a change of clothes ; 
 but you seem to have trunks enough. I will go along with 
 you." 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 295 
 
 " To say the truth," said Grey, " I do not know where to 
 go. I would as lief take a run down there as not. I used to 
 know several persons in the West Indies ; and Green can get 
 money enough any where, I have no doubt, to save us all from 
 running aground'" 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Green, " I thank you infinitely for your 
 excessive kindness and politeness. Good luck to both of you. 
 I am indifferent about leading others into embarrassments, and 
 I do not see how you would get along in foreign parts, with 
 no more clothes, and linen, and funds, and things than you 
 have about you. They are weighing anchor, and the longer 
 you stay, the more inconvenient it will be for you to 
 make your arrangements. Good-by to you both." The gen- 
 tlemen shook hands very coldly with him, and looked exces- 
 sively blank, as, finding there was no other alternative, they 
 left the vessel. 
 
 " A pretty kettle of fish we have made of it," said Indigo 
 for the sake of such a cold-blooded fellow." 
 
 " He is not so great a fool as I took him for," said Grey. 
 
 It was many months after the transactions recorded in the 
 foregoing sketches, that an olive-coloured gentleman arrived 
 at the village of Short-hills, and introduced himself to Mr* 
 Brown, with a power of attorney from Mr. Green, and mis- 
 sives from that gentleman. In the latter he stated that he was 
 ready to marry either of his cousins whom it would be most 
 convenient for the family to consign to him, as it was altoge- 
 ther inconvenient for him to return to the country at that time 
 and an immediate answer was required. 
 
 Whatever might have been the soundness of the legal opi- 
 nion taken by Mr. Green, the time specified in the will had 
 elapsed. Owing to the casualties of navigation which it were 
 needless to specify, he had been detained longer in sailing from 
 a northern Atlantic port for St. Croix, than Christopher Colum- 
 bus was in finding the islands ; and his plenipotentiary had not 
 
296 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 made a quick passage. The moiety of old Green's estate had 
 been divided, with their entire consent, among the residuary 
 legatees. Miss Betsey 
 
 " Sat a smiling bride, 
 
 By Mr. White's protecting side." 
 
 Miss Bella was on the eve of her nuptials with Mr. Lewis 
 Lake, and Miss Barbara was, as she remains, " the last rose 
 of the family, left blooming alone." She is considered, how- 
 ever, an advantageous speculation ; but, notwithstanding she 
 came in for her share of the contingent spoils, no inconsider- 
 able trifle for a country practitioner of law, Black was surly 
 and unpropitiative. It is even said that he was much closeted 
 with Green's attorney-in-fact ; who rejoiced in the name of 
 Rufus-Flavus-y-Azur, Esq. ; and talked of filing a bill in 
 Chancery on behalf of that gentleman's principal. But the 
 sinews of war were a- wan ting, and Rufus Flavus, it is be- 
 lieved, had to go back to the Hesperides upon tick. 
 
 A current statement, that shortly after these adventures' 
 Mr. Green was recognised smoking a cigar on a bald rock, on 
 an exceedingly high mountain of Massachusetts, at a place 
 called Peru, is of course entitled to no credit whatever. That 
 is a place, indeed, which may be called with propriety, " the 
 bare convex of the world's orb ;" like the one spoken of in the 
 argument to the third book of the Paradise Lost, as the spot 
 where Satan alighted, when on his malicious mission. And it 
 may be a fact, as has been stated by some English travellers^ 
 who say they have ridden over it, that, in a high gale, coaches 
 full of passengers may be blown off from it into infinite space, 
 and never more seen or heard tell of, unless they are made 
 fast to the rocky rim of our planet in that quarter, by strong 
 hooks and grapples of iron. It is an undoubted fact that Mrs. 
 Trollope lost the hair off from her head, and Lieutenant Lacka- 
 day his mustachios, in tramontanisiny this sublime district, 
 and that they might as well have rummaged all the hay-stacks 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 297 
 
 in creation for a needle and tooth-pick, as to have gone in the 
 pursuit of their property. But it is not a fact that Mr. Green 
 was ever there in the whole course of his life. 
 
 He was, however, at the last accounts, much nearer the old 
 Peru, travelling under the auspices of "old India's awful 
 genius," as Warton calls it, on his way to the interesting 
 capital of Guatimala. He was reposing for a time near the 
 summit of a very huge eminence, called Mico, in company 
 with a distinguished traveller, on the mud floor of a genteel 
 unfurnished hovel. An imperfectly clad native damsel was 
 helping him to some pesso ; a beverage which Mr. Dunn de- 
 scribes as " being made of the rinds of limes, rubbed with 
 corn, and allowed to ferment, and then mixed with honey." 
 He adds that it is very insipid. 
 
 " What a magnificent prospect !" exclaimed the traveller 
 looking down on the long, crooked profile of the circuitous 
 route by which they had thus far ascended ; and upward at 
 the grand and frowning elevation which they had yet to 
 surmount. 
 
 " I am indifferent about prospects," said Mr. Green ; " but 
 I must say that it is inconvenient to get up such hills, on 
 such mules ; and I wonder why people take the trouble to 
 doit" 
 
 If it be indispensable that every moral tale should have a 
 pointed moral, the reader may punctuate this with a note of 
 exclamation or of interrogation, according to his taste. But 
 old Mrs. Brown often took occasion to remark, in relation to 
 
 her nephew " The Countess of C has truly said, in he r 
 
 reply to Mrs. Greville's prayer, 
 
 ' No grain of cold indifference 
 Was ever yet allied to sense.' " 
 
 N 5 
 
29& LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 "HOW WOULD YOU LIKE IT?" 
 
 MR. JONES had occasion, one day, to make a few trifling pur- 
 chases at a dry goods store. While standing by the counter, 
 a young woman came in, the daughter of a neighbour, and 
 asked the price of a good many articles, none of which seemed 
 to please her. At last, she turned away and left the store, 
 not, however, until she had dexterously slipped a valuable 
 piece of lace under her cloak, unseen by any one but Mr. 
 Jones, who was so confounded at the act, that he could not 
 clearly determine in his own mind what he ought to do. He 
 concluded, finally, to keep silence until he had conferred with 
 his wife on the subject, as the young woman was a particular 
 friend of Mrs. Jones. 
 
 " Something happened to-day, Mary," he said, on returning 
 home, " that I never would have believed, if I hadn't seen it 
 with my own eyes." 
 
 " Indeed ! What was it?" and Mrs. Jones was all interest. 
 
 "While I was at Mr. Smith's store to-day, Emily Jenkins 
 came in, and asked for something, that, when shown to her, 
 didn't seem to suit her fancy. She then asked to see some- 
 thing else, which pleased her about as well as the first article. 
 And so she kept on for ten or fifteen minutes, without buying 
 anything. At last, I saw her slip a whole piece of fine French 
 lace under her cloak, while the clerk's back was turned. She 
 then declined purchasing any of the articles shown to her, and 
 went out." 
 
 " You must surely be mistaken, Mr. Jones !" his wife re- 
 plied to this, incredulously. 
 
 " O no, Mary, I am not mistaken at all. I saw it done just 
 as clearly as ever I saw any thing in my life." 
 
 " Emily Jenkins, did you say ?' 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 299 
 
 " Yes. Emily Jenkins." 
 
 " It seems impossible, Mr. Jones !" 
 
 " So it does, Mary ; but seeing, you know, is believing." 
 
 "Isn't it dreadful? What could have possessed the girl to 
 do so wioked a thing ? But have you said any thing about it 
 to Mr. Smith?" 
 
 " No not yet. I thought I would see and talk with you 
 first." 
 
 " I'm glad of that," Mrs. Jones said, breathing more freely. 
 " I wouldn't have had you exposed her for the world. It is 
 bad enough as it is." 
 
 " But I am not sure, Mary," replied the husband, " that it 
 will be right for me to keep this matter from Mr. Smith. He 
 has had a piece of goods stolen, and I know the thief." 
 
 " Don't ! Don't ! Mr. Jones, talk in that way. I cannot 
 bear to hear you use such expressions in regard to Emily 
 Jenkins." 
 
 " Still, they are true expressions, Mary, and I must use 
 them. Mr. Smith has had his goods stolen, and I know the 
 thief. Now, the question for me to decide is, how far I shall 
 be justified in withholding from him the information that will 
 lead to the recovery of his property." 
 
 " Depend upon it, Mr. Jones, to do so will occasion more 
 harm than good. It will, of course, result in the exposure of 
 Emily, and the ruin of her character and what is a paltry 
 piece of lace compared with such a consequence? No no 
 you must not say a word on the subject." 
 
 " I am not so clear about that," Mr. Jones said, " She is a 
 thief in heart, or she never would have stolen that lace. If 
 she is a deliberate thief, she is as bad as any other deliberate 
 thief, and she ought to be classed with them and be treated 
 like them." 
 
 " Why will you talk so, Mr. Jones ? You distress me to 
 death ! Suppose she were your daughter, and any one should 
 talk in that way about her, even if she had been guilty of a 
 
CO LIFE IN AMERICA. 1 
 
 like indiscretion, how would you like it ? How would you 
 like to have Tier exposed ? 
 
 This at once settled the question in Mr. Jones' mind. It 
 was coming right down to his home and his heart, and it scat- 
 tered all his abstract principles of justice to the four winds. 
 
 " Well, perhaps it would be best to remain quiet," he said, 
 after musing for some time. " There is no telling what Mr. 
 Smith might do, for he is a hasty man. Still Emily ought not 
 to be suffered to go on unchecked. She will certainly be 
 found out, sooner or later, and meet with an exposure and its 
 dreadful consequences. Suppose you talk to her on the 
 subject." 
 
 <( Me ? Goodness ! No ! I wouldn't name it to her for the 
 world!" 
 
 " But she ought to be spoken to about it, Mary, and shown 
 the evil of it, as well as the great risk she runs." 
 
 " I can readily agree to that, Mr. Jones. But / can't do it. 
 Suppose you break the matter to her father ?" 
 
 " I shouldn't like to do that, somehow or other," Mr. Jones 
 replied its rather a delicate affair. It would hurt him dread- 
 fully." 
 
 " Not half so much as to have her exposed !" 
 
 " True But I can't make up my mind to do it. How would 
 / feel were any one to mention such a thing to me about my 
 own child?" 
 
 " You wouldn't believe it, of course." 
 
 "No, of course not. For our daughter couldn't be guilty 
 of stealing. And now it occurs to me, that Mr. Jenkins 
 wouldn't believe such a story about Emily if I were to tell 
 him. It would be natural enough for him to conclude that I 
 was mistaken. So you see that no good could possibly grow 
 out of my speaking to him on the subject. So upon the 
 whole, perhaps it would be just as well not to meddle at all 
 in the matter. Let Mr. Smith and his clerk keep a better look 
 
LIFB JN AMERICA! 301 
 
 out, and let Mr. Jenkins teach his children how to keep the 
 Commandments." 
 
 " I agree with you, that our best plan is not to meddle at al^ 
 in the matter. We'll get no credit for our pains, depend upon 
 it!" 
 
 And here the thing was allowed to rest by Mr. Jones and 
 his wife though, to tell the truth, the former did not feel by 
 any means satisfied with himself. 
 
 "How should /like it?" he would often ask himself, "if 
 Mr. Smith were to see any one stealing goods from my store, 
 and not say any thing about it to me ? Would he be acting 
 towards me justly ? I'm afraid not !" 
 
 This argument of " how would /like it?" had a strong in- 
 fluence over the mind of Mr. Jones. He could see clearly 
 enough what would be his neighbour's duty, were he the suf- 
 ferer of wrong. But when the case was reversed, his mind 
 relapsed into its former obscurity and he again became unde- 
 cided how he should act. 
 
 About a week after the occurrence of the incident that had 
 disturbed his mind, Mr. Jones came home one day, and found 
 Miss Jenkins in the parlour with his wife. It was the first 
 time he had seen her since her light-fingered operations in Mr. 
 Smith's store. He felt confused, while the blood instantly 
 mounted to his face ; but Emily's smiling countenance, that 
 had in it so much of conscious innocence, brought back his 
 self-possession in a moment. Joining in the conversation, he 
 chatted for half an hour with her, in quite a familiar way, 
 and when she arose to go, joined with his wife in urging her 
 to come and see them oftener than she had been in the habit 
 
 of doing. iCK?ft Librat 
 
 " You certainly must have been wrong about Emily," -Mrs. 
 Jones said as soon as her visitor had departed. 
 
 " I only wish I could think so. But when any one sees a 
 thing with his own eyes, he is bound to believe it. And I saw 
 
302 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 her take a piece of Mr. Smith's lace as plainly as ever I saw 
 any thing in my life." 
 
 " Well, it passss belief, really how can she put on such an 
 innocent face, and she conscious all the while of being a " 
 
 But Mrs. Jones could not utter the word that rose to her 
 lips. After a pause she added 
 
 " I'm really afraid that she'll be caught one of these days 
 and then just to imagine the consequences. Isn't it dreadful ?" 
 
 " Really, Mary, I think you ought to go to her, and tell 
 frankly what you know. It may save her from the terrible con- 
 sequences of an open exposure." 
 
 " Perhaps I ought. But then I can't do it. That's set- 
 tled. How could I look her in the face, and accuse her of 
 stealing ?" 
 
 " You could look her in the face well enough, I should 
 think. The difficulty would be for her to look you in the 
 face." 
 
 " It's no use to talk, Mr. Jones I can't do it!" Mrs. Jones 
 said, at once silencing her husband on the subject. But I do 
 think you ought to speak to her father !" 
 
 But Mr. Jones shook his head, and looked grave. He was 
 a man of too much feeling to wound Mr. Jenkins, by making 
 to him so painful a disclosure. Still his mind was much trou- 
 bled, for he was conscious of acting unjustly towards Mr. 
 Smith, in not taking some steps to have his property restored 
 to him, or to apprise him of the wrong he had suffered. Thus 
 matters went on for some months, during which time Emily 
 Jenkins visited as usual at the house of Mr. Jones, and was 
 treated with the same kindness and attention that she had al- 
 ways received, notwithstanding Mr. and Mrs. Jones had such 
 good reasons for believing her guilty of the crime of taking 
 what did not belong to her. 
 
 " What do you think, Mrs. Jones," said a neighbour, about 
 this time. " 1 saw Emily Jenkins take a beautiful ring to-day, 
 while we were in Armand's jewelry store. We were out 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA* 30$ 
 
 shopping together, and she proposed going into Armand's to 
 look at some rings. She asked to see a good many, and at 
 last slipped one under her glove I saw it distinctly then she 
 declined buying any, and we went away. Mr. Armand's clerk 
 looked very hard at us and I am much inclined to think sus- 
 pected the theft." 
 
 " Did you say any thing to her about it ?" eagerly asked 
 Mrs. Jones. 
 
 " Oh no, indeed! I didn't let on that I saw her take the 
 ring. But you'll never catch me in any store again with Emily 
 Jenkins, I know. Suppose Armand misses the ring. He'll be 
 just as likely to suspect me as he will her." 
 
 " Well, it is too much !" Mrs. Jones said. " That girl will 
 get herself into trouble yet. I wonder what she can be think- 
 ing about ! My husband saw her take a piece of lace from 
 Mr. Smith's store with his own eyes." 
 
 " He did ?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed ! And if it hadn't been such a pity for the 
 family, he would have exposed her. As it was, we thought 
 it best to say nothing about it." 
 
 The lady acquaintance who had seen the purloining of the 
 ring, came to a like conclusion. How would she like to have 
 a member of her family a sister, for instance exposed, un- 
 der like circumstances? settled the question in regard to 
 how she ought to act. It was deemed far best to say nothing 
 further on the subject, at least not in a way that would be 
 likely to lead to an exposure. 
 
 When Mr. Jones came home on that evening, his wife men- 
 tioned this subject, when there ensued a long discussion as to 
 what was their duty. Mr. Jones contended, that true charity 
 required him at least to inform Mr. Smith of the wrong he 
 had suffered some months before. His wife did not think so. 
 She could not bear the thought of the terrible exposure, and 
 perhaps punishment, of Miss Jenkins that might ensue. 
 
 " But see here, Mary," argued her husband, " Just think 
 
304 LIFE IN AMERICA.' 
 
 for a moment how the innocent might be made to suffer for 
 the guilty? Emily Jenkins and another lady, as the case 
 happened to-day, might be out shopping together, and a ring 
 or some other article be stolen. Suppose, after they had gone 
 out, this article were missed, and suspicion falling upon one of 
 the two ladies, the innocent were arrested for the guilty, and 
 subjected to the mortifying exposure and suspicion conse- 
 quent upon this arrest ? How, for instance, would yon like 
 such an exposure, if you should happen to be in company 
 with her ?" 
 
 Mrs. Jones shuddered involuntarily at this suggestion ; and 
 for a moment, felt like yielding to her husband's evident de- 
 sire to rid his conscience of the secret burden that rested 
 upon it. The question of How would you like it ? bright- 
 ened her ideas a good deal. But a mist soon obscured her 
 perceptions. 
 
 " How would it look, Mr. Jones/' she said, " for you to in- 
 form on Emily Jenkins ? What would people think ? Oh, no, 
 I wouldn't have you do it for the world." 
 
 This brought a new idea to the mind of Mr. Jones. " Sure 
 enough! How would it look? What would be said about 
 it ? How could he ever look Mr. Jenkins in the face after 
 having destroyed his peace, and that of his family ?" 
 
 And again the subject was laid aside, and an effort made to 
 forget it. But this was not so easily done. 
 
 One day, about six months after the period of the last men- 
 tioned incident of the ring, Mrs. Jones, per request, received 
 from her husband a twenty dollar bill, and, with this in her 
 pocket-book, went out upon a shopping expedition. She had 
 completed about half her purchases, when she fell in with 
 Miss Jenkins, who was, of course, very glad to see her, and 
 who, as she was going the same way, and on the same errand 
 very naturally went along with her. Mrs. Jones watched her 
 companion very closely at every store where they called ; but 
 saw no act positively confirmatory of previous charges against 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 305 
 
 her honesty, although she could not help acknowledging to 
 herself that Emily sometimes acted very strangely. She asked 
 to see a great many articles, which she examined with appa- 
 ent interest, and desire to be suited, and yet purchased 
 nothing. At length Mrs. Jones completed her list of indis- 
 pensables and superfluities. During the first half hour suc- 
 ceeding her arrival at home, with her purchases, she was en- 
 gaged in the pleasing employment of examining the various 
 articles she had bought, as to quality and style, and congratu- 
 lating herself upon her fine bargains and the beautiful goods 
 she had selected. While thus engaged a servant came in and 
 told Mrs. Jones that a gentleman was below, who wished to 
 speak to her, but wouldn't give his name. 
 
 "A strange way for a gentleman to act" muttered Mrs* 
 Jones, as she descended to the parlour. There she found a 
 stout, rough-looking man, who seemed slightly embarrassed, 
 as he said to her on her entrance 
 
 " I am sorry to disturb you, madam. But I have to do my 
 duty. 1 ' 
 
 " What do you mean, sir ?" Mrs. Jones said, instantly turn- 
 ing pale, for the strange speech, tone, appearance, and manner 
 of her visiter, inspired her with a sudden fear. 
 
 te I have a writ, commanding me to bring you before a magis- 
 trate, on the charge of taking unlawfully from the store of 
 Jacob Jackson, six linen cambric handkerchiefs." 
 
 Mrs. Jones sank upon a chair, pale as death, and ready to 
 faint. 
 
 " Surely, sir, you must be mistaken in the person ! You can- 
 not mean me ?" she half gasped, after the first few moments of 
 painful surprise had elapsed. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am. I mean Mrs. Mary Jones, at 100 street,' 
 
 replied the constable for a constable he was, sure enough. 
 " I am very sorry, but you will have to go with me to the ma- 
 gistrate's." 
 " But I know nothing about the linen cambric. I never took 
 
306 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 it. I am not a thief !" Mrs. Jones said, with indignant em- 
 phasis, though her face continued very pale. 
 
 " That, you will no doubt be able to make clear enough at 
 the office," returned the officer, respectfully, but firmly. 
 
 " At the office ! Surely you will not drag me to a magis- 
 trate's office ? f ' Mrs. Jones said imploringly. " I am as inno- 
 cent as a child unborn !" 
 
 " No doubt of it, madam. But I am a sworn officer, and 
 must do my duty." 
 
 The distinct consciousness at length came to the mind of 
 Mrs. Jones, that there was no escape for her. That she had 
 been charged with stealing, and that she was really in the 
 hands of the law, and must abide its behests. This brought 
 forth a flood of tears, for the subsidence of which the constable 
 waited with becoming patience. At length he said 
 
 " You see, madam, that there is only one course for me to 
 pursue, and that is to bring you before a magistrate. I am 
 sorry that the unpleasant task has fallen to my lot, but as it 
 has become my duty, I must discharge it. You will, there- 
 fore, please to make yourself ready as quickly as possible, and 
 go with me." 
 
 " You will wait until I send for my hushand, will you not P* 
 the distressed woman asked, looking with tearful appealing 
 eyes into the face of the rough minister of the law. 
 
 " O certainly madam. Send for him and I will wait until 
 he comes." 
 
 A servant was instantly despatched with a note to Mr. 
 Jones, who soon made his apperance. His wife flung herself 
 into his arms, tearful and trembling 1 , on his entrance, and with 
 a choking voice, explained to him, incoherently, the dreadful 
 accusation against her. Mr. Jones was painfully shocked at 
 this. But he endeavoured to soothe the terrors of his wife, by 
 assuring her, that no such charge could be substantiated. This 
 was well enough, so far as it went. To be obliged to appear 
 before a magistrate, and be tried on such a foul and disgrace- 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 307 
 
 ul charge, was the terrible ordeal from which she shrunk. 
 But even from this, there was no escape ; and to this, she 
 was compelled, reluctantly, to make up her mind. While her 
 husband went for a carriage, Mrs. Jones retired to her chamber 
 to prepare herself to obey the imperious summons. On hi 8 
 return, she came down deeply veiled. Some delay occurred 
 in the arrival of the carriage, during which time Mrs. Jones 
 remained seated upon the sofa in a dejected attitude. The 
 muff which she had brought down with her was placed by her 
 side. A movement threw it down, when a small roll of some- 
 thing fell upon the floor. As she stooped to pick it up, the 
 officer, whose quick eye observed it, stepped forward and 
 lifted it before she could reach it, 
 
 "What is that?" eagerly asked Mr. Jones. 
 
 " Six linen cambric handkerchiefs, I believe/' said the offi- 
 cer, coolly, as he counted over the number he had named of 
 beautiful handkerchiefs, yet uncut. 
 
 " Mary !" exclaimed the husband, turning to his wife, and 
 regarding her for a few moments, with a fixed, sorrowful, yet 
 rebuking look. 
 
 For a moment poor Mrs. Jones was unable to speak. Then 
 rising quickly, she said, in a firm voice, 
 
 " I never saw that piece of goods before ! How it came 
 into my muff, I cannot tell. Certainly, I never put it there. 
 And, certainly, no one could possibly believe for a moment, 
 that if I had, I would have left it there under these circum- 
 stances. 
 
 This was conclusive to Mr. Jones, and caused the instant 
 suspicion that had crossed his mind, as instantly to give place 
 to a clear consciousness of his wife's innocence. She had 
 been made the victim of a conspiracy, or the scape-goat to 
 bear the half-discovered iniquity of some petty shop-purloiner. 
 The carriage now drove up, and the whole party entered, and 
 proceeded to the office of a city magistrate, where the store- 
 keeper and his clerk stood ready to bring their accusations 
 
308 LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 against poor Mrs. Jones, who, closely veiled, and in tears, 
 presented herself before the grave looking Justice of the Peace. 
 The production of the goods alleged to have been stolen, and 
 which were sworn to by the clerk as the property of Mr. Jack- 
 son, at once settled, in the mind of the Justice, the question of 
 the culprit's guilt or innocence, and he was, in quite a summary 
 way, about to pronounce a decision, when Mr. Jones asked 
 the right of having counsel, even in these preliminary pro- 
 ceedings against his wife, and also of having the testimony of 
 her accusers adduced, so soon as his counsel should arrive, as 
 to the causes which led them to prefer against her the charge 
 of stealing. A moment's deliberation led the magistrate to 
 acquiesce in this request. A messenger was then sent for a 
 lawyer of distinction a personal friend of Mr. Jones who 
 came immediately. A few brief statements gave to his in- 
 tuitive mind a full knowledge of the case and its merits. And 
 a few questions to the clerk, who was the witness for the pro- 
 secution, soon placed the whole matter in a different light. 
 
 " Did you see Mrs. Jones take that piece of goods ?" was 
 his first question to the witness. 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " What led you, then, to suppose that she had it in her pos- 
 session ?" 
 
 " I saw the lady who came into the store with her, slip it 
 into her muff, which she had laid upon the counter a moment 
 before, and then, so soon as this had heen done, Mrs. Jones 
 took it up again, and in a little while after they left the store 
 together." 
 
 " Indeed ! Then there was another lady with her, and this 
 other lady took the goods ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. 
 
 " Do you know that lady ?" 
 
 " Not by name. But I often see her in our store." 
 
 " What reason had you for supposing that Mrs. Jones knew 
 the handkerchiefs had been put into her muff?" 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 309 
 
 " None other than that the two ladies came in together ; 
 appeared acquainted with each other, and evidently, to my 
 mind at least, were acting in concert." 
 
 " Who was that lady ?" asked the counsel, turning to the 
 accused. 
 
 " Emily Jenkins," was the reply. 
 
 " That explains the whole matter !" exclaimed Mr. Jones, 
 striking his hand hard upon the magistrate's desk, beside 
 which he stood. 
 
 " Let Emily Jenkins be summoned," said the lawyer. 
 
 An officer, who was handed a summons, immediately de- 
 parted. In half an hour Miss Jenkins appeared, with her fa- 
 ther ; both looking pale and alarmed. As soon as the former 
 had presented herself, the magistrate asked the clerk if she 
 was the woman who had taken the handkerchiefs and thrust 
 them into Mrs. Jones' muff ? He replied, promptly, in the 
 affirmative. 
 
 Poor Emily burst into tears and sank half fainting into a 
 chair, while a thrill of joy ran through the breast of Mrs. 
 Jones at this declaration, which she saw was leading to the 
 establishment of her own innocence. 
 
 " Have you any reason to believe, that she was induced so 
 to conceal the article taken, from any fear lest you had disco- 
 vered the theft ?" asked the lawyer of the witness. 
 
 " I am not certain of this. But I saw the goods in her 
 hand, and from a look which I gave her, am inclined to be- 
 lieve that she was conscious that I had detected her slipping 
 the article she had taken, under her cloak. She asked me, 
 just as I had made the discovery, to let her see a piece of 
 goods on the shelf. I reached up for it, and turned as quickly 
 as I could to watch her. It was then that I saw her put the 
 handkerchiefs in Mrs. Jones' muff. The muff was taken from 
 the counter immediately after by its owner, and very soon 
 after both ladies left the store without making any purchases." 
 
 " Is that true ?" asked the father of Miss Jenkins, in an 
 
oiO LIFE IN AMERICA. 
 
 excited tone, catching hold of the arm of his daughter with a 
 tight grasp. 
 
 "It is," murmured the unhappy creature. 
 
 " You took the goods ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " And Mrs. Jones is innocent ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "Wretched girl!" exclaimed the father, letting go of her 
 arm, and clasping his hands tightly upon his forehead," And 
 unhappy father of so wicked a child !" 
 
 The scene was painful in the extreme to all present though 
 mingled with joy to Mr. and Mrs. Jones, who had so narrowly 
 escaped wretchedness and disgrace. 
 
 " Let the innocent go" at length Mr. Jenkins said, recover- 
 ing himself. " She has suffered enough for the guilty !" 
 
 The magistrates at once dismissed the case first brought be- 
 fore him ; but required bail for the appearance of the true 
 culprit at the next session of the criminal court, to answer 
 the charge of petty larceny. 
 
 " We have both been deser.vedly punished," was the first 
 remark made by Mr. Jones on their arrival at home. 
 
 " How so ?" asked Mrs. Jones, in surprise. 
 
 " For not having acted with true charity toward our neigh- 
 bour. We knew that Emily Jenkins was addicted to stealing 
 from the stores. We knew whom she had wronged, and when 
 she had done it. But for fear of what others might think of 
 us, or lest the feelings of some might be injured, we suffered 
 this wrong to continue either unrebuked or unexposed. We 
 knew that every lady who might happen to be seen with 
 Emily in a store was liable to the very accusation that has 
 been brought against you, and yet we lifted no warning voice ; 
 but left the innocent exposed, from false feelings of regard to- 
 ward the guilty. Therefore, I say we have been justly 
 punished. It is but right that we should bear the conse- 
 quences of our own act." 
 
LIFE IN AMERICA. 311 
 
 Mrs. Jones wss silent. She felt the truth of what her hus- 
 band had said ; and yet she found it hard to say, or even ac- 
 knowledge to herself, that her punishment had been just. 
 
 As for Emily Jenkins, when the trial came on, she could 
 not be found in the city. Her father, who of course knew 
 where she was, paid the bail which had become forfeited, and 
 there the matter rested. His daughter has not, however, re- 
 turned to her family, as it would not be prudent for her to 
 do so. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 James Clark, Printer, Aberdeen.