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God that their dangers were now over; that they might now sow and reap in safety. Four months passed by, and but one of the circle remained alive. He was a boy, about ten years old; a true backwoodsman — bold, resolute, quick, and fearless. When the savages burst into his father's cabin, and the Wyandot chieftain, throwing open the door of their sleeping-room, buried his tomahawk in the old man's brain, the boy Emanuel had caught down a pistol from the shelf, and, standing upon the bed, dealt the Indian a blow across the eyes that he felt for weeks. His followers would have tortured the child, but the Deep-river said: “No! he is Indian ; he shall live.'

So the boy remained through the fall, among the many captives that thronged the Indian towns upon the Scioto, most of whom were afterward delivered up to Col. Bouquet; and early in the winter of ’64 was taken by the Wyandot to his own country; for the chief saw that the efforts of the red men would be in vain. Fort Pitt had been relieved, and Pontiac had been foiled at Detroit. Dark and gloomy were the thoughts of both captor and captive, as they journey the frozen home of the Wyandots.

While Emanuel had been among the other white children, he had not realized bis losses, but when he reached the villages on the Maumee, and saw about him only the grim features of the warriors, the scowl. ing squaws, and the dark faces of the Indian boys, he felt that he had indeed lost all he once clung to, and his buoyant spirit drooped at length. So one evening he came home, and sitting down at the feet of the Deep-river, who was musing bitterly over the embers, he said:

Chief, I have no father; will you be my father ? The heart of the Indian was touched, and he determined to adopt as his own the son of the man he had murdered.

While the Wyandot warriors had been gone to the war, a new dweller had built his wigwam in their village. It was a Jesuit priest, named Du Quesne, a relative, I think, of the old governor. He was young, ardent, full of faith, and void of all worldliness. Upon the banks of the little Rhone-stream that sung by his father's door, he had read of the labors of the Catholics in China, India, and America, among the mountains of Mexico, and by the mighty lakes of Canada; and his quick spirit had been wrought to that point that crowns and kingdoms, wealth, power, and fame were as dust in the balance, against the sufferings and labors, the trials and glories, of a missionary. And now that he was amid those trials, he walked as one worthy of them; and so kindly, so loving, so true, were all his words and ways, that the young Wyandot women, who understood but one word in ten, came with their children and listened to him, as we listen to a sweet song in a foreign tongue.

But the Deep-river was no woman; and when he heard, at his return, of the hold Father Louis had taken on the affections of his people, he would almost have driven him from the village, had he not been French, the foe of his foe; for he felt as Red Jacket felt and said, in after years: 'If you wish us well, keep away; do not disturb us; we like our religion, and do not want another.”

I have said that the Wyandot chief meant to adopt the boy Emanuel; and though the ceremonies of adoption were still delayed, he treated him as a son, and as a son expected him to fear and obey

him. But the Virginia lad was little disposed, at times, to do any one's will but his own, and bis Indian father then punished bim, Indian fashion - broke a hole in the ice, and thrust hiin in. Such treatment brought on contests, and the contests produced ill-feeling. The young Long-knife, as his red play-mates called him, was hot and quick, and the Deep-river was one who would be obeyed.

Upon an occasion of this kind, the Wyandot, thinking he was ruining the boy by too great mildness, pulled forth a buffalo thong, and gave him a scourging, that went through muscles and bones to the soul itself. Noon came, and Emanuel was not in the wigwam. Night came, and still he was not in the wigwam. The chief needed to reflect but one moment, and his own feelings told him that the beaten child had left his lodge. The mind of the savage is like a nicely poised weight, and for a while the Deep-river balanced between admiration and enmity; affection stronger than ever, and more deadly hate.

The boy had, as he supposed, left him full of the agony and impotence of boyish resentment. He had seen, while at play, another white face in the village, and went at once to the hut of the Jesuit. His story was soon made intelligible to one that read English as well as Father Louis did, and they slept, that night, side by side.

With the first dawning of day, the Wyandot chief was abroad. His mind balanced no longer. 'It was the part of a squaw to spare him as I did,' he said. "The Great Spirit is angry; he would smell the blood of the Long-knife.' He stood for an instant in the centre of the Indian town; then, with unerring instinct, went straight to the Frenchman's door.

Emanuel lay upon the arm of his new protector, dreaming of that quiet vale upon the Green-briar, where he had chased butterflies with his sisters, and where the bones of those sisters now whitened in the rains of winter. Suddenly the dim light of morning broke through the opened door, and was hid again by the form of the Deep-river. He bent over the sleepers, and seeing it to be as he supposed, ehook the priest by the arm.

• What want you ?' said Du Quesne, alarmed, and half awake. The Wyandot pointed to the child, who, with pale cheek, but set teeth, drew back from his dreaded father. The Frenchman shrugged, and shook his head.

'He is my son!' said the savage, sternly.

• Those words drove fear from Emanuel's heart, for the night of his father's death was fresh before his mind. •It 's a lie !' he said, ‘you murdered my father you stole me !

•Shall I take him ? said the Deep-river, calmly. •For what ? asked the doubting priest. 'Death !' was the brief, but all-comprehending answer. • Never! I will die myself sooner !' said the Jesuit, his clear eye dilating

• It is well!' and the chief turned on his heel as he spoke.

It lacks half an hour of full noon. The Indian children have left their sports on the frozen river, and stand silent about the door of the council-house. The warriors are met in judgment; the club,

his own.

whose blow upon the earth is the note for death, stands by the side of the great war-chief, the Deep river. Opposite are the pale priest, and the wondering but undaunted boy Emanuel.

An aged Wyandot chief rises, a long-tried friend of the French. • Brother,' he says, “I have something to say to you. My father over the big water fought, and his red children with him; but the Longknives were strong, and my father fell asleep. Then his red children fought alone; they took many scalps; they took prisoners ; they drank the life-blood of my father's enemies. Was this wrong? My father has a religion, and worships the Great Spirit in a way of

The Long-knives hate his religion; I have heard that they killed the friends of my father, because they prayed with him. Was it a lying bird that told me this? * Brother! The boy you hold by the hand, hates

my

father's religion, and would shed his blood. Look! does not my brother put a rattlesnake in his bosom ?

* Brother! Our chief would crush that snake, but he will not tear it from him that shelters it; he will crush both together. He tells us my brother wills it so.

"See! when the sun is on this line, it is noon. Till then, my brother may think if he will yet hold the reptile; or he may show us why he holds it. When it is noon, the club must go round, and my brother will live or die, as the council pleases.'

For some moments the breath of the Jesuit came too fast for his feelings to find words; but his enthusiasm was too pure, too deep, to let the weak body rule long; and, dropping the English boy's hand, and throwing back his robe, he answered them in their own tongue.

• Warriors,' he said, I had thought you brave; I had heard of bold deeds done by you; but I must have erred. Perhaps it was the Senecas that did these things; and the Wyandots sit at home, and spill the blood of priests and children! No?- no you say? What means this council ? Is not the Deep-river strong enough to tear this boy from me, if he wishes him? Does he fear a white man,

that he does not do it? Let him do it, and he shall see that I can die in the boy's cause!

• But my brother says the boy is my enemy. Then why did he come to me for help? No human being is my enemy, that asks my assistance; red or white, man or child. I care not what tongue he speaks, or what dress he wears; if he is helpless, he is my

friend. My brother says this boy hates his father's religion, my religion. Does my brother care for that religion ? and if not, why came I to this place ?. To make him care for it. I love him, though he know nothing of it; I love him, even though, in his ignorance, he hate it. My brother worships the Master of Life, and I worship him, and this child worships him ; more than that I care not to know. You, my brother, and I, have one father in France, and' so we are brothers, though we dress differently, live differently, and speak not the same language; and

you, and I, and this boy, have one Father in Heaven ; and let us differ in other things as we may, we are brothers still. is enough! He is helpless, and is my friend; he is, like me, a child of the Great Spirit, and as such, I will die for him!”

Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and not a word more was spoken

It

in that assembly. Then the hands of the priest were bound together, and a belt drawn over his eyes. That was the moment of agony. In the darkness of that moment, his father's cottage rose before him, and he saw the old man kneeling, and heard his prayer for the chosen and best beloved one in the wilderness. "Then, indeed, was the heart of the missionary faint. All that he had labored for, and looked forward to, was in that moment to be lost forever. But the hand of Emanuel sought his again, and the touch was relief. He felt that he died for a great principle, and that his death would not be in vain ; that he was about gaining, not losing, what he had labored for, and looked forward to.

The word passed that it was noon. The belt fell from the Jesuit's eyes, and before him, with a keen and polished knife, stood the Deep-river. · Is my

brother yet strong ?' said the chieftain. He is stronger than ever, Wyandot,' replied the ready victim; 'he rejoices to die for an enemy, and one that hates his faith.

He might talk christianity for years, and your ears be deaf; but, see! he dies for a stranger and foe! This is a sermon that will sink into your hearts, though it were stone. Strike !'

The blade descended, but it was to cut the bonds, not to pierce the heart. My brother,' said the Indian, “is no coward.

He has spoken good words. He has acted like a man. We believe the Great Spirit has whispered wisdom in his ear. Look!

my

brother is free ; the boy of the Long-knives is free; they may go! The Deep-river will shed no blood this day.'

J. H. P.

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DEATH.

A PARAPH R A 8E OF 'DEATH,' BY

THE AUTHOR OF 'LACON.'

Thou King of Terrors ! better termed

The terror chief of kings;
Like them, what art thou but a name,

If stripped of outward things?
The grief, the conflict, and the pain,

These, these belong to life;
The tempest hers, the mandate thine,

That instant stills the strise.

The slimy worm, the mouldering vault,

The ghastly grinning head,
These, these with freezing horror chill

The living - not the dead.
But wretched man, of fabled woes

Or fancied fears the prey,
Thy coming dreads, yet blindly bears

What's heavier, thy delay !
Enough we know to make the best

Life's giftless gift decry,
But not enough on death to gaze

With Cato's Roman eye.
Hence, still life's battered bark we steer,

Of doubts or fears the sport;
Would fain the tempest Ay, but dread

More than the storm the port !

THE MISSISSIPPI VALLEY AND THE WEST INDIA ISLANDS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE TIDES OF

THE OCEAN AND THE GULF STRE A N."

It has been recorded as the opinion of that enlightened revolutionary patriot, CHARLES THOMPSON, Secretary of the old American Congress, that at some former but very remote period of time, all that large part of the earth known as the West India Islands, the Caribbean Sea, and the Gulf of Mexico, was a continuous and connected portion of North and South America, the whole comprising one vast continent. Singular as this suggestion may now appear, abundant reasons, which to my mind seem unanswerable and conclusive, can be brought forward in support of the position. The numerous earthquakes which have occurred within the last thirty years, the accounts of which are fresh in the recollection of many of my readers, and which have been felt from near St. Genevieve, on the Mississippi, to Caraccas, in South America, (a large portion of which city was destroyed, and several thousand people buried in the ruins,) show incontestably, that for an extent of more than two thousand miles, this immense region reposes on materials that shield it from the destructive explosions of hidden but eternal fires. How long they are to remain in subjection, or whether there will be partial irruptions merely, can only be known when years shall have rolled on, and are numbered with those beyond the food.

But that wonderful revolutions have heretofore taken place in this grand division of the world, we have numerous proofs. The whole western hemisphere abounds with these proofs. North America itself is full of them. The passages of our great Atlantic rivers through granite mountains, furnish indisputable evidence in point; nor is it less evident that, anterior to these disruptions, the extensive valleys beyond them embosomed lakes of corresponding dimensions. This leads me more particularly to the object I had in view, namely, to make some observations and offer some opinions concerning that portion of America which is spread out to an almost limitless distance west of the Alleghany ridges, and now even familiarly known as the Valley of the Mississippi. A valley indeed! --and such an one as has no parallel on the earth. Its length may be estimated at not less than two thousand five hundred miles, and its mean breadth at from twelve to fifteen hundred. In attempting to grasp dimensions of such magnitude, the mind loses its comprehensive scope, and falls back on itself, overwhelmed and powerless.*

1

* An eloquent western writer, Dr. T. N. Caulkins, has recently drawn a forcible sketch of the changes which will be effected in the Great West, in the short space of fifty years. No one who bears in mind that the boldest flights of the imagination fifty years ago, could scarcely have been equal to the reality at the present hour, but must regard the prophecy as one based only upon rational premises. Dr. FRANKLIN was pronounced "wild,' when, in the old Congress, he predicted that in sixty years Ohio would have a population of a hundred thousand souls. In half that time, his prediction was exceeded more than ten fold. What,' says Dr. Caulkins, 'will ihis, Union be, fifty years from this day? The cloud by day, the pillar of fire by night, for the world to follow in their march of civilization and refinement! The morning of 1887 will dawn upon this nation doubled in extent, with Michigan and lowa as the centre of civilization, and the unbegotten states of Oregon, Macedon, Columbia, and Pacificus, stretching along the ocean, called the Pacific States, with another tier of sisterhood lying along the Rocky Mountains, by the name of the Middle or Mountain States

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