Chapter VIII: Part 8

It was recorded in the newspapers that the dead body of an aged man had been found, tied up in a coffee bag, and floating in the East river. His throat was cut from ear to ear, and it was supposed he had been murdered, but later developments explained the mystery. The name of the deceased was subsequently ascertained; he belonged to one of the oldest and most respectable families of Connecticut, and was related to one of its former governors. The individual in question spent the morning and noon of his life in the lap of luxury; in old age, however, his wealth, wife, children, and nearly all his kindred, were taken away from him, and he became a man acquainted with many sorrows. Some months previous to the time when his body was found, and while actually suffering from hunger, it so happened that he entered a certain dwelling for the purpose of asking alms. The principal inmate of that dwelling was a widow who had once been on the most intimate terms with the family of the beggar, having been born in the same town. The friends of other days recognized each other, a long conversation ensued, which recalled a thousand recollections of childhood, and they were very happy. The only thought which oppressed the spirit of the mendicant was, that his bones, when he came to die, would be deposited in the soil of strangers, and his only prayer was that he might be buried among his kindred. His kind friend assured him that, if her own life was spared, the desire of his heart should be fully gratified.

Weeks passed on, and, contrary to the wishes of his friend, the old man became an inmate of the almshouse. In process of time the silver cord of the pilgrim’s life was broken, and he was buried in the public graveyard. Subsequently to this his body was disinterred, used for purposes of dissection, and rudely thrown into the river. In the meanwhile the widow had sent to the coroner to inquire how she might obtain the pauper’s body, as she wished to bury him elsewhere than in Potter’s Field, but she could meet with no encouragement. A number of days was the man’s body tossed to and fro in the East River, but by the hand of Providence it was washed ashore and given in charge to the coroner. This gentleman suspected that the deceased was the friend of the widow who had consulted him some days before, and it so happened that his suspicions were well founded, for the body in due time was recognized. It was given into the custody of the good woman, who had it placed in a decent coffin, and the aged pauper was buried in the vault of the W——, in Connecticut, by the side of his wife and children. It is indeed a fact that fiction is often not one-half so strange as truth; and it is also certain that human life is but a dream, and the ways of God unsearchable.

Beautiful were the orphan minstrels of whom we are now to speak; beautiful in mind and heart. The party was composed of three individuals, two sisters and a little brother, the eldest of whom had not yet seen her thirteenth summer. Remarkable singers they were not, but yet there was something wild and plaintive in their voices which cannot easily be forgotten. The instruments they used, however—the harp, the tamborin, and flute—were uncommonly musical, and played upon with facility and taste.

We became acquainted with these minstrels in this wise. They had stopped for a few moments, about nine o’clock in the evening, in the hall of Rathbun’s hotel. After delighting a crowd of listeners, and receiving a few pennies, they courtesied and bowed, and then continued on their way. We had an hour’s leisure at the time, and resolved as a matter of curiosity, that we would follow the children. We did so, and saw them enter two or three hotels, where they performed a number of pieces. The night was now far advanced, and they turned Barclay Street on their way home. Onward did they trip, with gladness in their hearts, talking together in the French tongue; and, in a few moments after, we saw them turn down Washington street into an emigrant boarding house. We were now in a predicament, and afraid to lose our game. But resolving to defend our conduct by inquiring after some imaginary person, we bolted into the house and followed the children up two flights of stairs. They entered a room where were seated a very old man and an equally old woman. The meeting between this aged pair and the little children was quite touching, for, when the money was counted and laid away, the latter were rewarded by a loving embrace. Soon as this scene was ended we made our appearance, and introduced ourselves by asking the intended question. This having been promptly and politely answered, we proceeded a little further in our queries, and obtained the following information: The senior members of this family were the grandparents of the children, and their only relatives in the world. The old man said they were all natives of France; that they had been in this country four months; and that their only support was derived from the _unwearied labors of the minstrel children_. As the old man told his story his eyes were filled with tears; he was mourning over his own helplessness, and yet rejoicing over the _living blessings_ of his old age. Having apologized for my rudeness, and uttered what I thought would be a word of comfort, we bade each member of the family a kind good night, and left them to obtain the repose they needed, and to dream perchance of church bells ringing in one of the beautiful valleys of their native land.

We happened to be out at an unusually late hour on a certain night, and while on our way home witnessed the following picture. In passing one of the more splendid mansions in the upper part of Broadway our attention was attracted by a singular looking object, which we thought was attempting to effect an entrance into the house. Curiosity led us to draw near, when we beheld a group of three little girls nestled in the corner of the marble doorway. One of them appeared to be about twelve years of age, and the other two had perhaps seen seven and nine years. The former was seated in the Turkish fashion on the coarse matting, apparently half asleep, whilst the heads of the other two were pillowed on her lap, and both evidently enjoying a dream of peace and comfort. As we remembered the sumptuous and fashionable entertainment in which we had just participated, and reflected upon the picture before us, we were almost disposed to doubt the evidence of our senses. It was already past midnight, and the sleet which beat upon our head assured us that we ought to make an effort to relieve the vagrant children from their miserable condition, for they were almost naked and barefooted.

After some difficulty we found a watchman, when we awoke the children and asked them about their home. They reluctantly told us where their parents resided, and it was with the utmost difficulty that we could induce them to accompany us. We succeeded, however, in taking them _home_, which was a comfortless dwelling with one room, where we witnessed the following spectacle. On a bed of straw lay the father of these children in a state of senseless intoxication, and on the bare floor in another corner of the room was the mother, moaning with pain, and bleeding from wounds which had been inflicted by her cruel husband. One of the little girls told us they had not eaten as much food as they wanted for ten days, that they had been forced into the street for the purpose of begging, and that the scene before us was an old story to them. My opulent and happy readers, it is probable, can scarcely believe that such things actually exist in the Christian city of New York; but what we assert is as true as the fact, that the scourge intemperance is annually destroying some thirty thousand souls in our land alone.

This allusion to intemperance reminds me of another melancholy picture, which we once witnessed in the great emporium. We had been enjoying a walk among the shipping in South street, when we discovered, partly hidden from view by a pile of casks and boxes, a man and two guardian angels. It was the insensible form of a poor drunkard, lying on the ground, and at his side two little girls, one of whom looked upon me with a most wo-begone expression of countenance, while the pale temples of the other were resting on the bloated bosom of the man. He was their father, and they were motherless.

We once visited the Children’s Hospital connected with the Alms-house of New York, and the spectacles we there witnessed were even more touching than those connected with the Old Brewery. The entire building (which is on Blackwell’s Island) contained over one hundred children, about one-half of whom were so ill as to be confined to their beds, and it is the room where these were harbored to which we now allude. The beds were arranged along the walls, about three feet apart, and each end of every bed or cot was occupied by a sick child. The majority of them were motherless and fatherless, and entirely dependent upon strangers for those kind and delicate attentions which commonly smooth the pathway to the grave. Some of them were the offspring of intemperate parents, now confined in the State Prison; while many of them had not even inherited a name. Not one of the whole number but presented a feeble and haggard appearance, and the pains of many were intense, for their mingled moans actually fills the room with a heart-sickening chorus. One poor little thing, about three years of age, was sitting in its bed, eating a dry crust of bread, to satisfy a morbid appetite, and the disease which preyed upon the vitals of this child was consumption in its most ghastly form. Hollow and wrinkled were its cheeks, eyes large and deeply sunken, and, while looked upon, hot tears trickled upon its pillow. In the same bed was another of these unhappy children, dying from the terrible malady of scrofula. It had been a cripple from its birth, and could hardly be recognized as a human being. We caught a glimpse of the creature’s countenance as it slumbered, and was positively startled by its surpassing beauty. It was as bright and spiritual as the light of a star. It was certain, however, that death had marked it for the grave, and we remembered the poet’s words:—

“The good die first,
And they, whose hearts are dry as summer dust,
Burn to the socket.”
Wordsworth.

This deformed but yet lovely fragment of humanity had been picked up as a foundling, and was without a name. Another child which attracted my attention, though only about twelve years of age, had the appearance of being thirty. She had been brought from an emigrant ship, suffering with fever associated with bronchitis. She had a finely developed head, a beautiful and highly intellectual face, but it was deeply marked with the lines of suffering, and her cheeks were flushed with the hue of approaching death. She was also troubled with a hollow cough, and her body was a mere skeleton. The attending physician patted her upon the head and asked her how she felt to-day; when she looked up with a smile, “made of all sweet accord,” and answered: “I am going to die, doctor. Tell them to have my coffin ready; and, dear doctor, will they not bury me by the side of my mother and little sister, in that place you call Potter’s Field?” Who now can ask the question: “And wherefore do the poor complain?”

Four Irishmen, all afflicted with the ship fever, had landed from an emigrant ship in the city of New York. The party consisted of a father and three sons. They were friendless and without money. In the company of three hundred beings, as miserable as themselves, had they landed in the city, and, in the confusion attendant upon the discharge of the ship, it so happened that they were separated, and the father knew not the fate of the sons, nor the sons the fate of the father.

A number of weeks elapsed, when the elder brother of this family called upon the commissioner of the almshouse, praying for assistance that he might find his relatives, if yet in the land of the living. The story that he told of his own sufferings since his arrival was most melancholy; for he had been living the life of a sick vagrant, in and about the Tombs. The commissioner took pity upon him and gave him all the assistance he desired, and the pauper, with a guide, started upon the hunting expedition. The first place they visited was the New York Hospital, where it was ascertained the second brother had died of the loathsome ship fever, and whence his remains had been taken to Potter’s Field. They next went to the Bellevue Hospital, and heard precisely the same story with regard to the third brother. They also visited the Lunatic Asylum, where it was ascertained that the father had been confined as a raving maniac, but had paid the debt of nature, and was now a resider in the city of the dead. As to the feelings of the forlorn man, who had thus been stripped of every tie which bound him to the earth, I cannot attempt to describe them. His only prayer was that one little spot of earth might be granted to him, where he might rebury his dead relatives, provided their bodies could be recognized, and where his own ashes might be deposited after his race was run. The commissioner promised to do all in his power to bring out this result, and in less than one week _the pauper’s prayer was answered_!

It was an emigrant ship, and when boarded by a New York pilot he was informed that she had left England with two hundred poverty-stricken passengers, some twenty-five of whom had died on the passage, and been buried in the deep. Among the departed were a father and mother, who had left behind them a little girl nine years old. Desolate indeed was her lot before she became an orphan; but when the “silver cord” which bound her to her parents was broken, her condition became more deplorable than ever; and, as the ship glided into the noble bay of New York, the child was also numbered with the dead—none knowing whence she came, none knowing even her baptismal name.

In due time the ship was safely moored, and, while the usual discharging bustle was going on, an almshouse coffin was sent for, into which the pauper child was placed (with her ragged clothes carefully tucked round her body), and then given into the charge of the alms-house sextons. Not one tear was shed as they mounted the hearse, and not one word of regret or sorrow was uttered by the multitude around as the sextons started for Potter’s Field.

Long was the way to the crowded city of the dead. The sextons were in a merry mood, and, as their carriage rattled over the stony streets, they cracked their jokes and laughed as if going to a wedding instead of the tomb. But how could these men be blamed? They were following their vocation and receiving liberal pay. Once in a while, however, a troublesome thought seemed to pass their minds, but it was only when fearful that they might lose their dinner on account of the great number of paupers who were to be buried before the coming on of night. They hurried by a school-house, before which a flock of little girls were playing and laughing in their glee, but these happy children thought not upon the sister spirit whose remains were going to the grave. Onward rattled the hearse, and after turning the corner of a street it came to a halt, and the senior sexton stepped into his house for a drink of water. A number of laughing children met him at the door, and after he had satisfied his thirst he gave each one of them a kiss, and again, in a jovial mood, started for the public grave-yard. Another mile and the hearse reached the margin of the East River, where the Potter’s Field boat was in waiting, managed by the keeper of the field. Carelessly was the coffin transferred from the hearse to the boat, and the journey of the dead was continued. The boat was now moored at the landing place on Randall’s Island, where the coffin was taken away on a man’s shoulder, and deposited in a deep trench covered with a few shovels full of sand, and lying in the midst of a multitude of unknown dead from every nation on the globe. And thus endeth the story of the pauper child, who crossed the ocean only to find a grave _in a land she never saw, and where the very name she bore is utterly unknown_.

It was the twilight hour, and we saw an old and deformed woman standing in front of St. Paul’s, asking alms. We happened to be in the mood just then, and tarried for a few moments to watch the charity of the world. Many, in the passing tide of human life, were to us unknown, but of the few that we recognized the following attracted our particular attention:

First came a gentleman whom we knew to be a merchant of great wealth; and, as he approached the beggar, we surely thought that he would listen to her petition. But no—he was thinking of his last importation, or the sum total of his rents, and he passed on with these words as a donation: “You must go to the poor-house, my good woman.” We thought upon the days of darkness.

Then came a scholar-like looking young man, whom we knew to be a struggler with poverty; but he approached the beggar with a smile upon his countenance, dropped a shilling into her withered hand, called for God’s blessing to rest upon her head, and resumed his way. My fancy now wandered to that blessed region where ever floweth the river of life.

Next came an intemperate and selfish man. When the imploring look of the cripple met his own, he coolly frowned upon her, uttered a wicked curse, and reeled onward to a hall of sinful revelry. And now we pondered on the worm that never dieth.

Finally came a little flock of boys and girls, returning from school. The woman smiled upon them, but spoke not a single word. The children knew her to be a beggar, and paused to talk with her a moment. She told them briefly the story of her life, and they were melted to tears. All the pennies that the children could raise were given to the woman; and each child, with an immortal jewel in its heart, passed on its way to receive a shower of kisses from its fond parents. And now our mind reveled in a dream of heaven-born loveliness.

And now, by way of giving our readers an idea of _self-inflicted_ poverty, we will furnish them with a brief sketch of an old miser residing in the Empire city:

He is an old man—a very old man; he is also a strange man—a very strange man; whose history and name are alike unknown. His business is that of a paper scavenger, and the spoil which he collects in his journeying about the city he disposes of at the rate of one cent per pound. Many pounds does he often gather in a single day; but, as it only costs him four shillings per week to live, it is certain he lays up a few shillings at the close of every day. He commences his daily business in the down-town streets even when the day is breaking, and continues at his monotonous employment until the dark hours. He never goes home to dinner, but, when hungry, generally purchases a dry crust of bread, and eats it sitting upon the lower steps of the Custom-house or the City Hall. Never does he utter a word to a living soul; and when the stranger looks upon him he feels disposed to exclaim, “what a poor miserable being!” He is, indeed, a pitiable object to look upon, for his leather clothes are glossy and hard with the accumulated filth of many years, and his countenance is furrowed all over with deep wrinkles which no one could believe were ever moistened with a tear. He is a hard-visaged man, repulsive and even terrible to look upon. For fifteen years have we known this singular being, and “even then he was so old he seems not older now.” There are people in this great city who have been familiar with his form for upwards of twenty years, and they affirm that he has been a paper scavenger during all that time. At all times, when the winds of winter howl through the streets, and also when the dog-star reigns, does he pursue his laborious and degrading employment.

And now, that I have introduced my hero to the reader, it is meet that we should mention what we know of his actual condition. He is a miser—a narrow-minded and mean miser, who can count his dollars by tens of thousands. If the reader doubts my word, let him, when next he meets the miserable man in the public highway, ask him the time of day, and he will be promptly answered, on the authority of a superb gold watch, hidden in his filthy vestments. A dry crust of bread, and a cast-off bone constitute his daily food, and yet this man carries the deeds in his pocket which prove him to be the proprietor of at least five handsome dwelling houses, located in a fashionable part of the city; certificates of bank stock and other valuable papers are also hidden in his pockets. He is a widower, but the father of an only daughter, whom he has established over a superbly furnished house as the sole mistress and only tenant. She has all she needs in the way of household things, and every luxury of the season, and, though her servants may prepare a sumptuous feast, none participate with her in its enjoyment. Though it would add to her happiness on such occasion to call in a neighboring friend, yet the privilege of giving an invitation is denied by her father in the most positive and imperative manner. In the rear of this daughter’s dwelling is located a rickety shell of a cabin, resembling more the appearance of a sty than a human habitation, and this is the only dwelling-place of our miser; and here he spends the precious hours of his leisure life, counting his gold and examining the signatures of his deeds by the light which rests upon his oaken table, and seldom is it extinguished until after the hour of midnight; and when exhausted with his strange vigils, carefully does he fasten, with heavy iron bolts, the door of his den, and sink to sleep upon his bed of rags.

THE FATAL VALENTINE.

Mary Marlowe was a beautiful girl, and the only child of devoted parents. Her father was a merchant in moderate circumstances, and resided in one of the more secluded streets of the great emporium of our land. The society to which they belonged was of the highest respectability, but the life led by each member of this family was distinguished for its peacefulness.

All the young men who were acquainted with the only daughter, were charmed by her accomplished mind, personal beauty, and the sweetness of her voice. But among those who aspired to win her hand and heart, was one who had been received as an accepted lover. The parties were worthy of each other, and the love which was daily uniting them almost into one being, was eminently refined and pure. Charming beyond compare were the scenes which the lover was constantly picturing to his mind, but the smiles of his lady constituted the sunlight of every scene; and she, too, cherished many a vision of unalloyed happiness, and the thought never entered her mind that the world contained a single cloud that could possibly cast a shadow over her heart. Like a young and vigorous tree of the forest, the young man stood among his fellows; and like a flower in a remote dell dwelt the heroine of our story, in her quiet home.

It was the evening of St. Valentine’s Day, and Mary Marlowe was seated before a comfortable fire; now thoughtfully peering into the glowing grate, and anon enjoying some of the fine passages of her favorite authors. Her father was absent from home on some charitable errand, while her mother and a country cousin, who was making her a winter visit, were spending the evening with a neighboring family. And it so happened, too, that Mary’s lover was absent from the city, so the beautiful damsel was entirely alone. Yes, she was indeed alone, but far from being in a lonely mood, for her thoughts were with her lover, and she amused herself by dwelling upon the treasures of her newly-discovered ideal world.

But now the damsel is startled by the sudden ringing of the street door bell, and the servant presently makes his appearance in the parlor with a note addressed to Mary Marlowe. She recognizes the hand-writing—it is from her lover, and quickly does she fix herself comfortably in the old arm-chair to enjoy the anticipated luxury. She opens the letter, and reads as follows:—

“My dear Mary—You are indeed dear to me, but at the same time I think
you are a cold-hearted girl, and I fear that you possess a timid and
bashful disposition, which would never be reconciled to my sterner
nature. In view of this deeply-rooted belief, I have conceived the
idea of bringing our intimacy of half a year to an immediate close.
And what more appropriate season could be selected for our separation
than the present, when, as I doubt not, you are well-nigh overwhelmed
with the missives of St. Valentine, and can, in a moment, select a
worthy lover from the many who have sought your hand? And now that I
may be in the fashion, I subscribe myself,
Your Friend and Valentine.”

The cruel arrow has pierced the maiden’s heart, and by the calm despair now resting on her brow, we tremble for her fate. Tears come not to her relief—the crimson current in her veins has ceased to flow, and she falls into the hollow of her chair in a deep swoon. And now she is visited by a dream, and if we are to believe the story of her countenance, strange and fearful must be the character of that dream.

* * * * * * * *

It is now ten o’clock; the family have all returned, and our Mary has recovered from her swoon. Laughingly does her mother talk to her about her housekeeping duties, for her drooping eyelids intimate the idea that she has enjoyed a comfortable nap. To this a pleasant reply is returned, accompanied with a kiss for all present, but none, save our poor Mary, can see the heavy cloud brooding upon the household. A few moments more, and the family have all retired to their several apartments, and the house is shrouded in silence.

As usual, Mary and her cousin are to occupy the same bed, and the latter, being uncommonly drowsy, is soon lost in a sweet slumber. And now let us watch with care the movements of her companion, who, when last noticed by the sleeper, was poring over the pages of her Bible. Noiselessly do her footsteps fall upon the carpet, as she goes to a closet for a small vial, which she examines, and then places upon her dressing-case. Drawer after drawer is opened, and on one or two chairs are displayed the various articles which compose the dress of a bride. And now the lady retires to her bath, and then comes forth with a ruddy glow upon her cheek; her flowing hair is bound into its beautiful folds, and in a short time she stands before her mirror decked in spotless white, as if for a virgin festival. What does all this mean? Alas! our Mary is “the queen of a fantastic realm.”

But, lo! another change. The lamp has been extinguished, and our Mary is upon her knees at prayer, with her hands closely clasped, and her full liquid eyes turned heavenward. The mellow moonlight steals sweetly through the open curtains, adding an unwonted brightness, as it were, to the figure of the praying girl. Not a sound is there to break the holy silence of the place—no sound save the almost inaudible words of this strange prayer:—

“Father in heaven, I cannot understand the decree of thy Providence, but I submit to thy dispensation without a murmur. I knew that in my womanly idolatry I was forgetting thee, and I now beseech thee, in thine infinite love, to have mercy upon me, and wash my soul from every transgression. Have mercy also, O God, upon him who has broken my heart; comfort my parents in their declining years, and answer my prayer through the merits of thy Son, the Redeemer of the world. I come to dwell with Thee, if thou wilt receive me to thy bosom. Amen and Amen.”

* * * * * * * *

Morning dawned, and the pleasant sunshine was flooding the world with beauty. Our Mary’s cousin was the first to awaken from slumber, when she encircled her bedfellow with her arms, and imprinted an affectionate kiss upon her lips; one moment more, and she was petrified with horror—for Mary Marlowe was numbered with the dead.

On the third day after that of St. Valentine, the lover of the unhappy suicide returned to the city. He found not his beloved in the pleasant parlor of her father, but a sleeper in the voiceless and desolate tomb. The fatal valentine was found and submitted to his inspection. He avowed his utter ignorance of it, and having fallen into a settled melancholy, is now a raving maniac. As to the thoughtless and wicked man who wrote the foolish valentine, his name and purpose are alike unknown.

Note.—The prominent features of this incident actually occurred in the
city of New York in February, 1847.

INDIAN LEGENDS.

NOTE PRELIMINARY.

The following romantic but authentic legends have been collected by the writer from a variety of sources, and are now presented to the public as an addition to the aboriginal lore, already published in his several books of travel.

INDIAN LEGENDS.

THE SHOOTING METEORS.

Among the Indians who live upon the north-eastern shore of Lake Huron, a remnant of the Iroquois, it is believed that the heavens contain only four meteors which have the power of shooting through the sky. It is thought they severally occupy the four quarters of the compass, and that they never perform their arrowy journey excepting for the purpose of warning the Huron Indians of approaching war. The meteors in question, or Pun gung-nung, are recognized by their peculiar brilliancy, and universally considered the Manitoes or guardian spirits of the entire Indian race. They came into existence at the same period of time which witnessed the creation of Lake Huron itself, and the legend which accounts for their origin is distinguished for the wild and romantic fancies of the aborigines. I obtained it from a chief named _On qwa-sug_, or Floating Wood.

It was the winter time, and an Indian with his wife and two children, a daughter and a son, were living in a wigwam on a bleak peninsula of the Great Lake. The game of that section of country had nearly all disappeared, and the fish were spending the season in such deep water, that it was quite impossible to secure any of them for food. Everything seemed to go wrong with the poverty-stricken Indian, and he was constantly troubled with the fear that the Master of Life intended to annihilate his family and himself by starvation. He expressed his anxiety to his wife, and was surprised to hear her answer him with a song.

Nearly half a moon had passed away, and the sufferings of this unfortunate family were melancholy in the extreme. Whole days did the father spend roaming through the forests, with his bow and arrows, and on four several evenings had he returned without even a pair of tiny snow-birds for a supper. The ill-luck which attended him in his expeditions made him very miserable, but he was frequently astonished and alarmed, on such occasions, by the conduct of his wife and children. When he gave them an account of his ill-luck in obtaining game, instead of manifesting any anxiety, they usually ran about the wigwam with their fingers on their mouths, and uttering a singular moan. He noticed with fear that they were becoming greatly emaciated for the want of food. So deeply grieved was the poor man, that he almost resolved to bury himself in the snow and die. He made a better resolution and again went out to hunt.

On one occasion he had wandered into the woods to an unusual distance, and, as fortune would have it, was successful in finding and shooting a single rabbit. With the speed of a deer did he return to his cabin (with his braided shoes over the crusted snow), but he now met with a new disappointment. On entering his lodge he found the fire entirely out, and the simple utensils for cooking all scattered about in great confusion; but what was far more melancholy, his wife and children were gone, and he knew not where to find them. The more he thought upon what had happened for many days past, the more bewildered did he become. He threw down his game almost in despair, and hurried out of his cabin in search of his missing family. He looked in every direction, but could see no signs of their appearing, and the only noise that he could possibly hear was a singular and most doleful moan, resembling the wail of a loon, which seemed to come from the upper air. By a natural instinct he raised his eyes towards the heavens, and beheld perched upon the dry limb of a tall tree which stood a short distance off, all the members of his family. He shouted with delight at the unexpected spectacle, and, rushing towards the tree, told his wife and children that they must come down, for he had killed a rabbit and they would now have a good feast. But again was he astonished to find his words unheeded. Again did he beseech them to come down, but they replied not a single word, and looked upon him with eyes that seemed made of fire. And what was still more wonderful it was evident that they had thrown aside their beaver and deer-skin dresses, and were now decked out in newly fashioned robes made of the fur of the white fisher and the white fox. All this was utterly inexplicable, and the poor husband re-entered his lodge, bewildered and perplexed to a marvelous degree.

Then it was that the idea entered his head that he would try an experiment, by appealing to the hunger of his obstinate wife and children. He therefore cleaned the rabbit and boiled a sweet soup which he carried out, and with which he endeavored to allure his friends to the earth. But this attempt was all in vain. The mother and her children expressed no desire for the food, and still remained upon the tree, swaying to and fro like a flock of large birds. Again in his wretchedness was he about to destroy himself, but he took the precaution to appropriate the soup to its legitimate purpose. Soon as this business was accomplished, he relapsed into his former state of melancholy, from which he was suddenly aroused by the moans of his wife, which he was sure had an articulate tone. Again was he riveted to his standing place under the magic tree, and from the moaning of his wife he gathered the following intelligence. She told him that the Master of Life had fallen in love with her and her two children, and had therefore transformed them all into spirits, with a view of preparing them for a home in the sky. She also told him that they would not depart for their future home until the coming spring, but would in the meantime roam in distant countries till the time of his own transportation should arrive. Having finished her communication, she and her children immediately commenced a song, which resembled the distant winds, when they all rose gracefully from the tree, and leaning forward upon the air, darted away across the lake toward the remote South.

A cheerless and forlorn moon did the poor Indian spend in his lonely lodge on the margin of the Great Lake. Spring came, and just as the last vestige of snow had melted from the woods, and at the quiet evening hour, his spirit-wife again made her appearance, accompanied by her two children. She told her husband that he might become a spirit by eating a certain berry. He was delighted with the idea, and, complying with her advice, he suddenly became transformed into a spirit, and having flown to the side of his wife and children, the party gradually began to ascend into the air, when the Master of Life thought proper to change them into a family of Shooting Stars. He allotted to each a particular division of the heavens, and commanded them to remain there forever, as the guardians of the great nation of Lake Huron.

THE MAIDEN OF THE MOON.

The following legend was obtained from the lips of a Chippeway woman
named Penaqua, or the Female Pheasant, and I hardly know which to
admire most, the simple beauty of the plot, or the graphic and unique
manner of the narrative, of which, I regret to say, I can hardly give
a faithful translation.

Among the rivers of the North, none can boast of more numerous charms than the St. Louis, and the fairest spot of the earth which it waters is that where now stands the trading post of Fond du lac. Upon this spot, many summers ago, there lived a Chippeway chief and his wife, who were the parents of an only daughter. Her name was Weesh—Ko-da-e-mire, or the Sweet Strawberry, and she was acknowledged to be the most beautiful maiden of her nation. Her voice was like that of the turtle-dove, and the red deer was not more graceful and sprightly in its form. Her eyes were brilliant as the star of the northern sky, which guides the hunter through the wilderness, and her dark hair clustered around her neck like grape vines around the trunk of the tree they loved. The young men of every nation had striven to win her heart, but she smiled upon none. Curious presents were sent to her from the four quarters of the world, but she received them not. Seldom did she deign to reply to the many warriors who entered her father’s lodge, and when she did, it was only to assure them that while upon earth she would never change her condition. Her strange conduct astonished them, but did not subdue their affection. Many and noble were the deeds they performed, not only in winning the white plumes of the eagle, but in hunting the elk and the black bear. But all their exploits availed them nothing, for the heart of the beautiful girl was still untouched.

The snows of winter were all gone, and the pleasant winds of spring were blowing over the land. The time for making sugar had arrived, though the men had not yet returned from the remote hunting grounds, and in the maple forests bright fires were burning, and the fragrance of the sweet sap filled all the air. The ringing laugh of childhood and the mature song of women were heard in the valley, but in no part of the wilderness could be found more happiness than on the banks of the St. Louis. But the Sweet Strawberry mingled with the young men and maidens of her tribe in a thoughtful mood and with downcast eyes. She was evidently bowed down by some mysterious grief, but she neglected not her duties; and though she spent much of her time alone, her buchère-bucket was as frequently filled with the sugar juice as any of her companions.

Such was the condition of affairs when a party of young warriors from the far North came upon a frolic to the St. Louis River. Having seen the many handsome maidens of this region, the strangers became enamored of their charms, and each one succeeded in obtaining the love of a maiden, who was to become his bride during the marrying season of summer.

The warriors had heard of the Sweet Strawberry, but, neglected by all of them, she was still doomed to remain alone. She witnessed the happiness of her old playmates, and, wondering at her own strange fate, spent much of her time in solitude. She even became so unhappy and bewildered that she heeded not the tender words of her mother, and from that time the music of her voice was never heard.

The sugar making season was now rapidly passing away, but the brow of the Sweet Strawberry was still overshadowed with grief. Everything was done to restore her to her wonted cheerfulness, but she remained unchanged. Wild ducks in innumerable numbers arrived with every southern wind, and settled upon the surrounding waters, and proceeded to build their nests in pairs, and the Indian maiden sighed over her mysterious doom. On one occasion she espied a cluster of early spring flowers peering above the dry leaves of the forest, and, strange to say, even these were separated into pairs, and seemed to be wooing each other in love. All things whispered to her of love, the happiness of her companions, the birds of the air, and the flowers. She looked into her heart, and, inwardly praying for a companion whom she might love, the Master of Life took pity upon her lot and answered her prayer.

It was now the twilight hour, and in the maple woods the Indian boys were watching their fires, and the women were bringing in the sap from the surrounding trees. The time for making sugar was almost gone, and the well-filled mokucks, which might be seen in all the wigwams, testified that the yield had been abundant. The hearts of the old women beat in thankfulness, and the young men and maidens were already beginning to anticipate the pleasures of wedded life and those associated with the sweet summer time. But the brow of the Sweet Strawberry continued to droop, and her friends looked upon her as the victim of a settled melancholy. Her duties, however, were performed without a murmur, and so continued to be performed until the trees refused to fill her buchère-bucket with sap, when she stole away from the sugar camp and wandered to a retired place to muse upon her sorrows. Her unaccountable grief was very bitter, but did not long endure; for, as she stood gazing upon the sky, the moon ascended above the hills and filled her soul with a joy she had never felt before. The longer she looked upon the brilliant object, the more deeply in love did she become with its celestial charms, and she burst forth into a song—a loud, wild, and joyous song. Her musical voice echoed through the woods, and her friends hastened to ascertain the cause. They gathered around her in crowds, but she heeded them not. They wondered at the wildness of her words, and the airy-like appearance of her form. They were spell-bound by the scene before them, but their astonishment knew no limits when they saw her gradually ascend from the earth into the air, where she disappeared, as if borne upward by the evening wind. And then it was that they discovered her clasped in the embraces of the moon, for they knew that the spots which they saw within the circle of that planet were those of her robe, which she had made from the skins of the spotted fawn.

Many summers have passed away since the Sweet Strawberry became the Maiden of the Moon, yet among all the people of her nation is she ever remembered for her beauty and the mystery of her being.

THE GHOSTLY MAN-EATER.

There is an idea existing among the Chippeway Indians, which corroborates a statement made by the early travelers on this continent relative to the belief that there once existed among the aboriginal tribes, a species of vampire, or ghostly man-eater. The Chippeways do not assert that there ever lived more than one of these unearthly beings; but they pretend that such an one did, and does exist, and that he has his residence upon an island in the centre of Lake Superior—which island can never be seen by mortal man, excepting when darkness has settled upon the world. The stories they relate of his appearance and deeds, are horrible in the extreme, and resemble much the creations of a mind suffering under the influence of the nightmare. For example, they describe this monster as possessing the material appearance of the human form—but of such a nature as not to be susceptible to the touch. He is said to have the body of a serpent, with human legs and arms—all supplied with immense nails, which he employs for the double purpose of digging up the earth, and dissecting the bodies upon which he feeds; his head is like that of the wolf, and his teeth of a peculiar sharpness.

The deeds which he performs are worthy of his personal appearance—and some of them are as follows: When the Indian mother, during a long journey, has lost her infant child, and placed it on the rude scaffold, that she may return to it at some future day, the Ghostly Man-Eater only waits until she is fairly out of his sight, and then proceeds to the sacred place, and feasts himself upon the tender flesh and blood of his victim. And therefore it is, that the traveler sometimes sees, in the remote wilderness, fragments of human bones scattered on the ground, as if a wolf had been suddenly interrupted, while devouring his prey. But the Man-Eater sometimes enters the house, or half-buried receptacle of the dead; and, after digging his way to the decaying body, coils himself up, as if in delight, and gluts his appetite with the unholy food. How it is that he travels, with lightning speed, from one distant place to another, has never been ascertained; but the strange sounds which the Indian occasionally hears, high in the air above his wigwam, is thought to be the song of the Man-Eater, as he hurries upon the wings of the wind, from a recent banquet, to his mysterious island on the lake.

But I once heard a legend in the Chippeway country, which accounted for the origin of the man-eating monster—and I now record it in the English tongue, for the benefit of those who feel an interest in the mythology of the Indian, and the peculiarities of his mind. The individual from whom I obtained this story was named Ka-yon-kee-me, or the Swift Arrow; and his words, as near as we can remember them, were as follows:—

I ask the white man to listen. At an early period in the history of the world, an old Indian hunter and a little boy who was his grandson, lived in an isolated cabin on the north shore of Lake Superior. They were the only remnants of a once powerful tribe of Indians, whose name is not now remembered. It was the middle of a long and dreary winter, and the entire country was covered with snow, to the height of the tallest wigwam. The section of country where resided the hunter and child was particularly desolate, and destitute of almost every species of game; and whilst the former was too feeble to wander far, after the necessary food, the latter was too young and inexperienced. The very wood which the unequal pair collected to keep them warm, was brought to their cabin with the greatest difficulty; and the thought occasionally entered the old man’s mind, that the Great Spirit was about to give him up to the pains of starvation. He uttered not a murmur, however; but, as he reflected upon his impending fate, he bit his lips with a scornful smile.

One, two, and three days had passed away and the old man, as well as the child, had not tasted a particle of food. But, on the evening of the fourth day, the boy came tottering into the comfortless lodge and threw at the feet of his grandfather the lifeless body of a white partridge, which he had fortunately killed with his own arrow. Immediately was the bird divested of its feathers—and, while yet its very blood was warm, it was devoured by the starving man and child.—Sweet was the slumber of the noble boy on that night—but, as the story goes, that aged man was visited by a dreadful dream at the same time, which made him a maniac.

Another day was nearly gone, and the unhappy pair were standing in front of their wigwam watching the western sky, as the sun enlivened it with his parting beams. The old man pointed to the bright picture, and told the boy that there was the gateway to the Spirit Land, where perpetual summer reigned, and game was found in great abundance. He spoke too of the child’s father and mother, and of his little brother, whom he described as decked out in the most beautiful of robes, as they wandered through the forests of that distant, shadowy land. The boy, though suffering with the pangs of hunger, clapped his little hands in glee, and told his grandfather that it would make him very happy if he could go to the land of perpetual summer. And then it was that the old man patted the boy upon his head, and told him that his desires should be realized before the sun again made its appearance above the snow-covered mountains and plains of the east.

It was now the hour of midnight. Intensely cold was the wind which swept over the wilderness, but the sky was very blue, and studded with many stars. No sound broke upon the air, save the occasional groan of the ice along the lake shore, and the hissing whisper of the frost. Within the Indian lodge, which was the very home of desolation, the child was sweetly sleeping, enveloped in his robes, while the old man bent over the burning embers as if in despair. Some inhuman thought had crazed his brain, and he was nerving himself for an unheard of crime. One moment more, and in the dim light of that lonely lodge, gleamed the polished blade of a flinty weapon—a sudden groan was heard—and the Indian maniac was feeding upon the body of his child.

I have given the white man a sorrowful history, but it is one which the Chippeway nation believe. On the morning which followed the event I have now narrated, a party of Indian hunters came to the cabin of the unknown man, and they found him lying dead upon the ground, with the mangled remains of the boy at his side. This was the most terrible deed which ever happened in the Chippeway country—and the one which so greatly offended the Great Spirit, that he pronounced a curse upon the man who had destroyed his child for food—and he, therefore, doomed him to live upon the earth forever, tormented with an appetite which nothing can ever appease, but the decaying flesh of the human race.

THE FIRE-WATER SACRIFICE.

The historical tradition which I am now to narrate, is said to have occurred at an early day on the extreme western point of what is now called Drummond’s Island, in the northern waters of Lake Huron. I obtained it from the lips of Kah-ge-ga-gah-bowh, or _Upright Standing_, a young chief of the Chippeway nation, who assured me that it commemorated the first introduction of the baneful Fire-water into the Indian country.