Chapter L: H. S

_Hartford._

CHILD ON THE SEA BEACH.]

THE EAGLE OF THE WEST.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE LAUNCH OF THE FRIGATE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

OCTAVIA.--Oh! indeed, dear mother, this is quite a warm day.

MRS. CAMELFORD.--To persons in health I know it is, but though the air is clear and mild, it may be chilly to poor Cornelia, who is enfeebled by sickness, and who has been so long shut up in her room. She has suffered so much already, that I am sure she must dread every thing that might cause a relapse.

ADRIAN.--But, dear mother, how will it be possible for Cornelia to take cold if she is well wrapped up in her large shawl, and if she wears her close bonnet?

MRS. CAMELFORD.--Indeed, I am afraid she ought not to venture the slightest risk. Lieutenant Osbrook has politely offered accommodation for the whole family, in one of the gun-boats at Kensington, and I have accepted the invitation for Adrian and Octavia, as Junius is to be on board the frigate. I believe my dear Cornelia must content herself with hearing a description of the launch from her brothers and sister. I cannot consent to her sitting an hour or two on the deck of the gun-boat, in the open air, with the breeze from the river blowing round her.

CORNELIA.--Indeed, mother, I am very sorry, I hoped to be quite well and able to go any where, before the launch took place.

JUNIUS.--Still, I think there can be no danger. Her delight at the spectacle will set her blood in a glow, as it has mine already, and that will prevent her taking cold.

MRS. CAMELFORD.--My dear children, do not urge me any farther. The sight will no doubt be highly interesting, but it will be dearly purchased by the return of Cornelia's late illness.

Cornelia did not reply, but she kissed her mother in token of acquiescence, and seated herself in a corner of the sofa with her sewing. In a few minutes her brother Adrian brought her in a new and entertaining book, which he had just purchased with the hope that it would divert her mind from dwelling on her disappointment. Cornelia took the book very gratefully, but though it was extremely amusing, her thoughts still wandered, at times, to Kensington and the new frigate.

In the course of the morning Mrs. Camelford had a visit from her friend, Mrs. Dimsdale, who expressed great pleasure at finding Cornelia down stairs, and hoped she was well enough to go to see the ship launched.

Mrs. Camelford explained that she had refused Cornelia her permission to join the little party in the gun-boat, being afraid of her taking cold if exposed to the air of the river. "Oh! if that is all," said Mrs. Dimsdale, "the difficulty, I hope, can be easily obviated. Mr. Dimsdale and myself are going to take the children up to Kensington in one of the steam-boats. You know the boats are all put in requisition for the accommodation of persons that wish to see the show. If you will permit Cornelia to accompany our family, she can stay all the time in the cabin, and have an excellent view from the stern windows, without any exposure at all."

Cornelia's eyes turned upon her mother, with a look of entreaty. Mrs. Camelford hesitated a few moments, and Octavia ventured again to supplicate in behalf of her sister. At last, Cornelia obtained permission to go with the Dimsdales: and it was arranged that Mrs. Camelford's carriage was to take them down to the steam-boat, after which it was to return immediately and convey the other party to Kensington.

When Adrian came home from school, and Junius from the ship-yard, (where he had almost lived for several days,) the boys were delighted to find that Cornelia was, at last, allowed an opportunity of seeing the launch. They had an early dinner, of which Lieutenant and Mrs. Osbrook had been invited to partake, and in a short time after the carriage was at the door. Cornelia was carefully wrapped in her large shawl, and Mrs. Camelford said to her, "Now, my dear, you must promise me that you will remain all the time in the cabin of the boat, and not allow yourself to be tempted to go on deck, even for a few moments." "Certainly, dear mother," replied Cornelia, "I will cheerfully make that promise, for I am thankful that you will allow me to see the frigate on any terms." Mrs. Camelford kissed Cornelia, and her brothers put her into the carriage, which, on its way down to the wharf, stopped to take up Mr. and Mrs. Dimsdale and their two children.

Cornelia felt very happy at finding herself once more riding through the streets, after so long a confinement to her chamber. Every well known store and house seemed to interest her as she passed, and all the people she saw appeared to her to look unusually well. She soon found herself seated in the after-cabin of the steam-boat, which was crowded with females, and so warm that Cornelia had no occasion to wear her shawl: her mother having told her that she might take it off, if she found it oppressive.

The carriage having returned, Mr. and Mrs. Osbrook, with Adrian and Octavia, got into it and rode to Kensington; Junius, in a new suit of uniform, and with a new cockade in his hat, having long before set out on foot, as he despised riding when it was practicable to walk, and the distance from his mother's house to the ship-yard now seemed almost nothing, having been so often traversed by him. In a very short time, he was on the deck of the frigate, with a number of officers and other gentlemen, beside the shipwrights.

That afternoon, almost all the stores in Philadelphia were shut up, and few of the inhabitants remained in their houses. Till near three o'clock, the whole population of the city seemed to be pouring toward the Northern Liberties: all the streets in the direction of Kensington being crowded with people.

When the party from Mrs. Camelford's arrived at the river-side, the vast concourse far exceeded their expectations, though Junius had told them that the crowd had begun to assemble as early as twelve o'clock. They were soon seated on chairs, on the deck of the gun-boat, and Lieutenant Osbrook left the ladies under the care of another gentlemen, while he went on board the frigate.

The river was covered with boats of every description, filled with people. The roofs, as well as the windows of the houses and stores that commanded a view of the water, were crowded with spectators; and so also were the trees. Scaffolds, which had been erected for the purpose, were lined with tiers of occupants, one row above another. All the ships, then in port, had gone up to Kensington, and their decks were covered with ladies and gentlemen; the sailors taking their stations in the rigging. In two or three vessels were bands of military music, and a third band was playing in the frigate that was the object of so much interest. All the officers then in the city (and many had come thither on purpose) were present: and all, both of army and navy, were in full uniform. Nothing could be more gay and animated than the whole scene. Every one was attired to the best advantage, and the white dresses and green parasols of the ladies added much to the picturesque effect of the scene. The steam-boats came up filled with passengers, and were anchored at a convenient distance.

The gentlemen took out their watches frequently, as the time approached when the tide was to turn; for the frigate was to be launched on the top of high water. As the moment drew near, every eye was fixed on the noble vessel, and there was a breathless anxiety of the most intense interest. The carpenters stood with their arms raised, ready to knock away the blocks that held her. The signal was given, and it was done. The frigate began to move--every hat was simultaneously taken off--the guns from all the armed vessels fired a salute--the music struck up, "The Tars of Columbia"--and loud huzzas resounded from thousands of voices. The frigate glided gracefully and rapidly along, amidst repeated shouts of acclamation, with the colours of her country flying at her stern: and, when she plunged into the water, (which she threw up tremendously about her,) the violent agitation of the river, for a considerable distance round, announced that she had reached the element which she was never more to leave. On her bowsprit stood the boatswain, who christened her by breaking a bottle of liquor over her head, and shouting, "Hurra for the Guerrier!" And the shout was repeated by every man present: thousands of hats waving round from the river and from the shore.

The moment "the gallant Guerrier" was afloat, she turned round majestically with the tide, and an anchor, for the first time, descended from her bow, mooring her, for the present, in the place where she had entered the water. The music continued for some time to play the favourite national airs, and at length the vast concourse of spectators began to turn their steps toward home. Adrian and Octavia could talk of nothing in the carriage but the scene they had just witnessed, and they gave their mother a most animated account of it. Mr. and Mrs. Osbrook took their leave and returned to their own residence: and soon after Junius came home in a state of the highest excitement, his eyes sparkling, his cheeks glowing, and full of the honour and glory, as he called it, of having been on board of the new Guerrier when she was launched. He inquired almost immediately for Cornelia. The carriage had been sent down to the steam-boat to bring her home, and in a short time she arrived, but looking very pale.

"Well, my dear Cornelia," said Junius, as he led her to the sofa, "was it not a glorious sight? Was it not a show worth looking at? I never was so delighted in all my life, except when we heard the lee-gun of the _British_ Guerrier, as a signal of surrender, after her colours had been shot away."

"Tell me, dearest girl," said Adrian, "were not your expectations more than realized? Did you ever see any thing so interesting as the launch of the frigate?"

Cornelia's eyes filled with tears, and her lips trembled, as she replied, in a faltering voice, "I did not see it at all."

"Not see it!" was the general exclamation.

"Indeed, I did not," repeated Cornelia.

JUNIUS.--What! _nothing_ of it! _nothing_.

CORNELIA.--Nothing whatever.

JUNIUS.--Oh! Cornelia, you are certainly jesting. What! go on purpose to see the launch, and still _not_ see it!

MRS. CAMELFORD.--My beloved Cornelia, you alarm me. I hope you have not been ill.

CORNELIA.--No, my dear mother, not at all. But, indeed, I have been very much disappointed.

OCTAVIA.--Oh! pray tell us how.

CORNELIA.--Mrs. Dimsdale sat with me in the ladies' cabin of the steam-boat, till her husband, who had been on deck with the children, came to conduct her up stairs, as the time for the frigate to go off was drawing very near. She then tried to persuade me that no harm could possibly arise from my going on deck for a few minutes, and, to own the truth, I thought so myself. But I told her that I had obtained permission to go in the steam-boat, only upon condition of remaining all the time in the cabin, and I could, on no account, break my promise and disobey my mother. She then complimented me by saying that I was the most obedient and conscientious child she had ever known, and expressing her regret that I could not accompany her, she ran hastily on deck with Mr. Dimsdale, lest she should be too late.

OCTAVIA.--But could you have no view from the cabin?

CORNELIA.--I had anticipated no difficulty, but when I rose to look out, I found the windows entirely blocked up with women and babies, of whom there are always so many in steam-boats. The shelves or high seats at the stern were covered with them, crowded so closely that they seemed almost wedged into a mass. I climbed up and tried to get a peep between their heads, but all in vain, for they were pressing on each other's shoulders. For a moment, I was tempted to go on deck; but I remembered my promise. Suddenly, I heard an exclamation of "There she goes," and I knew by the shouts, the firing, and the music, that the frigate was moving. In vain I stretched my neck and strained my eyes, to catch a glimpse between the heads and bonnets; all the windows were entirely filled, and I had not the smallest chance of seeing any thing. I soon gave up all hope; I sat down in a chair, and I acknowledge that I could not help crying a little, though I took care to conceal my tears as much as I could. And perhaps I would not have cried, only that my long illness had weakened my spirits.

JUNIUS.--(Taking her hand)--Oh! yes, my poor Cornelia, you would have cried all the same, even if you had not been weak and ill. I am certain you would, for it was a disappointment worth crying for.

Mrs. Camelford was so much affected that it was some time before she could speak, and then embracing Cornelia most tenderly, she said, "You are a dear good girl, and from this instance of obedience and self-denial, at so early an age, I anticipate the most happy results when you are older. If the pleasure of knowing how much gratification your conduct has afforded your mother, and how much more than ever she loves you, can compensate for your disappointment, you may now enjoy that reward." Cornelia threw herself into her mother's arms, and kissing her affectionately, wept in silence while Octavia sobbed aloud, tears dropped on the cheeks of Adrian, and Junius drew his hand across his eyes.

"Oh!" said Octavia, "how little did we think, when we were all enjoying the sight from the gun-boat, with ample room and an uninterrupted view, that our poor sister, after being three months shut up in her chamber, was seeing nothing at all."

ADRIAN.--Yes, and when we were riding home,

I wished that Cornelia were with us, that she might tell us what she thought of it; supposing, of course, that she had seen all that we did.

JUNIUS.--Well, dear Cornelia, be comforted. There is no danger of your having taken cold, since you so scrupulously kept your promise and obeyed your mother; and, as you will now, no doubt, continue well, I hope you will yet be able to see the frigate before she sails on her first cruise, though you _have_ missed the launch, which was certainly one of the finest sights ever seen in the whole world. Do not smile, Octavia. You are not, as I am, one of the "Tars of Columbia."

ADRIAN.--No, indeed. And if she was a sailor, I hope she would feel like one upon such occasions.

Cornelia continued every day to improve in health, and when the frigate was completely fitted up and ready for sea, Lieutenant Osbrook came to invite the Camelford family on board, and Mrs. Camelford herself was prevailed upon to be one of the party. Junius, taking Cornelia's hand, led her carefully through the vessel, explaining to her its different parts and their uses, and replying, kindly and satisfactorily, to all the various questions which she would not have ventured to ask, except of her brother.

E. L.