University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

“You know then, I presume,” said Catherine,
beginning her narrative, ominously, with a sigh,—
“you know, I suppose, all about old Mr. Gilbert,
and his”—

“My dear creature,” said Miss Falconer, “I
know no more of Mr. Gilbert than the Grand
Turk; and all that I can boast of knowledge in
relation to his cut-throat children, is that they
were the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow; but whether
they were real kites, with claws and feathers, or
only the philosopher's two-legged birds, human
chanticleers, I could never yet determine. My
father is not always so communicative as might
be expected in a dutiful parent; and, once or
twice, when I have been curious to come at some
of his early exploits on the frontiers, (for they say
he was a great Indian-fighter,) he has not hesitated
to assume a severe countenance, and scold
me in the most paternal manner imaginable. Nay,
my dear, he once assured me that, as it became a

woman rather to garnish the outside of her head
than the interior, I would do well never to trouble
myself by searching after information that could
not make me a whit more handsome. I bowed
my head at the reproof, and ran straightway to
my brother. But Harry, poor fellow, knew no
more about these matters than he cared,—that is,
nothing. Ah! he is a jewel of a man, and will
make the best husband in the world, having nothing
of the meddler about him. I have often
thought, if pa were to commit a murder, or even
break his neck, Harry would not trouble himself
with either wonder or lamentation; and this, not
from any want of affection, but simply because he
would consider the thing his father's affair, not
his. A good easy temper is an excellent thing in
men,—as excellent indeed as the `voice soft, gentle,
and low,' in woman. So, now, you perceive
the necessity of beginning just where your story
begins. Take up the father,—the grandfather, if
you choose,—of this savage brood; give me their
genealogy, if they have any, and if it be german
to the matter; draw all sorts of parallels, make all
kinds of reflections, and, in fine, do and say any
thing you may think proper,—only conceal nothing.
My curiosity is as capacious of appetite
as the Moor's revenge, (so much for ruralizing,
when one must kill time with Shakspeare!) and
demands that its gratification should be as complete.”

Thus adjured and instructed, Miss Loring began
the narration of Gilbert's story, and the description
of his family, as they have been already recorded;
into both which, however, she entered in greater
detail than it was thought necessary to attempt.

The first part of the history, which was without
melancholy, and related chiefly to the dilemmas
into which the founder of Hawk-Hollow Hall was

thrown by the sudden accession of wealth, and his
vain struggles to refine the character of his children,
long since determined by early habits upon
rude and adventurous lives, Miss Loring, naturally
a merry and waggish maiden, with strong talents
for mimicry, delivered in a manner that soon
became humorous, and, at last, highly diverting;
so that the hollow forest began to peal with the
approving merriment of her companion. Her benevolence
to the poor widow had so opened Elsie's
heart, that she had cast aside most of the reserve
with which she was accustomed to speak of the
Gilberts; and, in consequence, Catherine was provided
with an ample store of anecdotes, illustrative
of their characters and habits, with which she
now amused her friend. She related with what
surprise the good Elsie, one autumn evening, (while
Mr. Gilbert was yet in England with his whole
family,) beheld the adventurous Oran, in ragged
attire, and with a bundle at his back, come trudging
up to the Traveller's Rest, looking as bold and
resolute, to use her own whimsical illustrations, as
a soldier marching up to the mouth of an empty
cannon, or a militia-man returning from a campaign
without battles; and she even mimicked,
with voice, gesture, and looks, the appearance
and bearing of the two friends, in the dialogue that
followed as soon as the truant was recognized by
the widow.

“ `Heaven bless us!' said Elsie, with uplifted
hands, `is that you, Oran Gilbert?' ”—Thus her
story went on: “ `What a foolish question!' muttered
the hero of two lustres and a half, who had
never affected much of the dulcet submissiveness
of a child to any one, either in word or action;
`what a foolish question for you, goody Elsie!
Here I am in Pennsylvany, and hungry, I reckon!'
and with that, without waiting for invitation, he

plumped himself down at the table, already set out
for the widow's evening meal, and straightway
fell to work with a zeal and industry that showed
he had not mistaken the condition of his appetite.
The widow regarded him with undiminished astonishment,
crying out, for she feared lest some
dreadful accident, by shipwreck or otherwise, had
destroyed the rest, `But your father and brothers,
Oran,—where are they?' `In Bristol,' mumbled
the boy, scowling at her over a bone, but still
making the most of it,—`in Bristol,—that is, the
big English Bristol, and not our Pennsylvany town,
down the river.' `In Bristol,' echoed Elsie Bell;
`and what are you doing here without them?'
`Why, eating my supper, don't you see?' replied
the juvenal. `And how did you get here?' demanded
Elsie. `I came in a big ship to Philadelphy,'
replied the boy, scarce intermitting his agreeable
employment for a moment, `and then, to be
sure, I footed it.' `You have run away from your
father, Oran?' said Elsie. `Yes, I have,' said the
boy, grumly; `let me eat my supper, and I'll tell
you all about it.'

“The widow held her peace for awhile, until the
lad had satisfied his ravenous appetite; and then,
assuming a friendly and coaxing air, for well she
knew nothing else would have any effect on that
singular young reprobate, she drew from him a
confession of his whole adventure, and the causes
that led to it.”

“It appeared, that, besides an extraordinary
attachment to his native home among the wild
woods, Oran had another cause to be discontented
with his residence in England; and this he discovered
in the public school, to which he was sent
with his brother next in age, called Hyland.
`He sent me,' said Oran, expatiating upon the
barbarity of his father, `to a school, to learn

grammar, and Latin, and reading and writing, and
all that sort of thing!'—For you must know,” said
Catherine, speaking to her friend, “that the want
of a teacher, or perhaps hard poverty, had prevented
Gilbert sending his children to any school,
before he fell heir to his fortune; which was the
reason perhaps, that they got such wild notions
and propensities among them as could never after
be eradicated. `Yes,' the urchin went on, `he
sent me to school, and Hy, too; for he has been a
sort of crazy man ever since he came to his money.
Well, the boys at school called me an Indian
papoose, and I thumped 'em; and the man that
was master he thumped me, and Hy also; for Hy
came to help me. So, when school was out, I took
Hyland along; and we went to a corner, and got
a great heap of stones; and when the master came
out, we pelted him!' `You did?' cried Elsie, in
alarm: `I hit him one polt on the shin,' said Oran,
warming with the recollection,—`I hit him one
polt—it was what I call a sogdolloger,—that made
him dance like a ducked cat; and just as he stooped
down to scratch it, we blazed away again, me
and Hy; and if you ever heard two hailstones
rattle on a well-bucket, you may tell how his head
sounded, I reckon!'

“ `But your father, Oran?' said Elsie,--`you
have not told me what made you leave your
father?' `Father chose to take the master's part,'
said Oran, sulkily; `he said as how I must learn to
be a gentleman, now I was in England, and never
behave like a young savage no more, because I
was never more to come home, meaning to Pennsylvany;
and so I must go back to the master, and
be thumped again; for nobody could be a gentleman,
without having it thumped into him. Well, Goody,
you see, I couldn't stand that; I was not going to a
school to be called papoose, and trounced too; and

I was mighty sick of England, which is just like a
big garden,—you can't turn out of the road, without
treading on somebody's strawberry-patch, and
having 'em holla after you with dogs, and men, and
such things; and I got into a great pickle once,
for killing a thumping big rabbit that I saw in a
stubble. They called it a hare; I killed it with a
stone; they made father pay money about it.
Well, I made up my mind to come home, without
making any more words about it. So I went
down to the river among the docks, and there I
saw a ship that was going to said to Philadelphy
next day. I told Hy about it, and he agreed we
should go over. I went to the captain, and I said,
`Captain, I want to go to Philadelphy,' but he
called me hard names, and swore at me—there
was no getting any thing out of him. I looked
about, and saw them putting boxes, and barrels
and baskets, and all sorts of things, into the big
hole below. I went ashore, and laid out the shilling
father gave me to go back to school, in gingerbread.
But Hy's heart failed him: I never
thought he would come to much, he's too much of
a coward; he began to cry, and said he would go
home to father. I gave him a thumping for being
such a fool; but that only made him cry harder.
So I gave him half my gingerbread, and told him
to go, letting him know, if he told on me, I would
give him another banging. Then I clomb into the
ship again, and slipped into the hole among the
boxes. But before I went down, I looked back to
Hy, and there he was on the wharf, eating his gingerbread
and crying. I shook my fist at him, as
much as to say, `If you tell, mind you!' and then
I went below, and after awhile they fastened me
up.'

“ `It was as dark down there as the dickens,'
said Oran, in reply to the piteous ejaculations of

the widow; `but there was plenty of rats—I tell
you what, they scared me! They stole my gingerbread,
and whenever I got to nodding, they
seized me by the nose and fingers, and I thought I
should have been nibbled up, like an ear of corn.
But I knew I must stand 'em as long as I could; or
it would be all up with me.—Well, after awhile
they came to a place, I don't know where it was;
but there was a great clatter on the deck, and
swearing and trampling, and they opened the trapdoors,
as I saw by the great flash of light. Then
there was a heap of voices, and father's among
them, and Hyland's too. The great villain Hy,
was telling on me, for all I gave him half the
gingerbread! When I catch him, I'll pay him up,
I will, Goody, if I wait ten years!'—And here the
young scape-gallows, as he revolved the treachery
of his fellow truant, clenched his fist, and looked as
fierce and savage as a young bantam in his first
fit of valour.

“ `Then,' continued this hopeful junior to the
astonished widow, `there was father, saying his
son Oran was hid in the ship, and he would have
him out, or bring the captain to the gallows for
kidnapping him, meaning me; and there was Hy,
the villain, telling him how I was to hide among
the boxes; and there was the captain and the other
folks, swearing that father was crazy, and ought
to stay at home; though to make him easy, they
had opened the traps, or the hatches, as they call
them, and he might see for himself. Then father
came down, and bawled out after me, and so did
Hy; and Hy said, if I would come out, father
would not send me to the grammar school, to be
thumped no more; but he said nothing about
father sending me back to Pennsylvany! no, not
so much as a word! I was not to be caught by
any such talking; so I laid snug and as mum as a

rabbit. Then father took on as though I was dead,
squeezed to pieces among the boxes, because I
would not answer him—as if I was such a fool!
Then he wanted the captain to take out the boxes,
and the captain would not; then he went after
constables; and when he was gone, they clapped
down the hatches, and sailed away with all their
might, and I never heard any thing more of father.'

“ `Poor fellow!' said Elsie, her sympathy for
the anticipated sufferings of her young protegé
driving from her mind all disapprobation of the
hard-hearted perverseness that caused them, `did
they keep you long in that dismal, dreadful place?'
`You may say so,' replied the boy; `they kept
me down there till I was more tired of it than ever
I had been of the grammar-school. I don't know
how long it was, but I was mighty tired of it.
Dickens, goody, but I was dry! I was in such a
hurry to get down, that I forgot I should want
water as well as gingerbread: I eat up all my
gingerbread, but I was as dry as ever. Goody,
you don't know what it is to be dry! I was always
thinking and dreaming of springs, and wells, and
pumps, and the big Delaware there, and even the
ditches and gutters. But I held out as well as I
could, till I thought we were clear of that hateful
old England; and then I hollaed to 'em to let me
out; but they did not hear me at all. There was a
power of big baskets, that were rolled all about
me; for you must know, a ship never holds still a
minute at a time, but is always pitching and tumbling,
now up and now down, like a cart in a cornfield;
so the baskets rolled all over me; I thought
they would have squeezed the life out of me, and
I could not get out from among them. So there I
pulled and hollaed, till I was tired of it, or fell
asleep; but no good came of it. I tell you what,

goody, I would have taken a thumping for a drink
of water! but there was no coming at it. I bawled
out, `Water! water!' and `Fire! fire!' but it was
no good; nobody heard me; and it set me to crying,
to think what a hard time I had of it. Well,
I reckon!—I was scraping about among the baskets,
and some gave way, they were so rotten. I
scraped among the willow twigs, and got my hand
among the straw, without so much as thinking
what I was about, when, all of a sudden, I found I
had hold of a glass bottle. `Oho!' said I; it was a
great long-necked thing, with wax over the cork.
I did not mind that; I knocked the neck off against
the basket, and, good dickens! such a fizzing and
spluttering as it made! It foamed all over my face,
and some fell on my lips, and it tasted good, like
cider—you may be sure I drained it.' `It was
wine!' cried Elsie. `I reckon,' said the juvenal;
`and I reckon it made my head sing, too!' he exclaimed,
smacking his lips over the grateful recollection;
`such stuff as that I never tasted before.
It made me feel good,—all comical, and merry,
and ticklish-like,—I don't know how, but all as if
I was rolling up hill and down hill,—huzzy-buzzy,
sleek, and grand! Then I seemed as if I was
dreaming, but such merry dreams, and talking,
and roaring, and laughing; and then some of them
opened the traps, and dragged me out; and then I
had a tussle with some of them, for I felt big
enough to fight them all; and then somehow I fell
fast asleep.'

“ `When I came to, the captain said I was
drunk, and he beat me: it was worse than the
grammar-man. First, he thumped me for stealing
into the ship, then for putting him to a bother, and
then for drinking his cider, or champagne, as he
called it.' `He beat you, the villain!' cried Elsie;
`and you the son of Thomas Gilbert!' `He did,'

said the boy, with edifying coolness; `he treated
me like a dog, and he thumped me every day. I
suppose the grammar-man could not have been
harder on me than the captain of that big ship—
they called her the Prince of Whales, for, you
must know, a whale is a very big fish; but I could
never get a peep at one. Goody! I never was so
mauled in my life! If I crawled about the quarter-deck,
as they call it, (because that's a place
where the ship-boy's never get any quarter,) why
the captain cuffed me off; and it was pretty much
the same with the mates, for they cuffed too, and
every now and then, some one or other beat me
with a rope's end, because I would not go up the
ropes, or do any thing else to make myself useful.
I never did believe a Christian man's son
could be treated so! but that's the way they treat
boys on board a ship, only that the regular ship-boys
were not handled so hard. They all beat
me, captain, sailors, and all; the cook boxed my
ears when I went to the caboose;—and if I hid
on the forecastle, as they call it, the sailors run
me up a rope and plumped me into the sea; and
even the ship-boys tried their hands at me, but I
reckon they got as much as they gave. They all
beat me but Jackey Jones, an old fellow that had
but one eye; and if it had not been for him, I believe
they would have killed, or starved, or drowned
me among them. One night he was washed
overboard: and after that I was beat worse than
ever. It was a great storm, goody; I reckon you
don't know what a storm is, ashore, even when the
trees are snapping; I tell you what, the sea was
boiling up, just like a big pot, and the ship danced
about just like an apple-dumpling; all the difference
was, the water was not hot. They were all big
cowards, for all they had been so big with me;
and down they went on their knees, crying and
praying, like methodist preachers. The captain
was white all over the mouth, the chief mate got
drunk, and Big George, a sailor that used to be
hard on me, came to ask my pardon for treating
me so badly. I told him, we should have a reckoning
about that some other time; and that night
he was washed overboard, along with Jackey
Jones, and we saw them no more. I tell you what,
goody! it was the happiest time I had aboard that
ship; for I supposed it would sink, and drown 'em
all; which was a great satisfaction for me to think
on. However, it cleared up again next day; and
if we had not soon reached Philadelphy, I don't
know what would have become of me; for they
were all worse than ever, especially the captain.'
`And that wretch,' cried Elsie; `did no one punish
him for his cruel and barbarous oppression of a
poor, friendless boy?' `You shall hear,' replied the
urchin, with a grin that might have adorned the
visage of an Indian coming out of battle, with a
sack full of scalps; `he was for fastening me up
when we came to the wharf at Philadelphy, to see
his merchant, and learn what was to be done with
me. But I sneaked away, when he was gone, and
hid among some barrels, till he came back. Then
I watched him come out of the ship again, and ran
to a corner, where there was a bundle of green
hoop-poles, at a cooper's shop. Well, goody, I
took one of the hoop-poles; and when he passed
by, down it went, and down went the captain, too,
like a butchered ox, with a great yell like a school-boy,
that brought the people up. However, I gave
him two more, for as long as I had time; and then
I had to scurry for it.' `Good heavens!' cried
Elsie, `perhaps you killed him!' `Well, if I didn't,
I'm sure it was all the fault of the people that ran
up so fast, so that I had not time. As for the rest
of them, if I ever catch any of them up here among
the hills, you may reckon what will come of it.'
And as he spoke, he raised his eyes to an old musket,
hanging on the wall, and nodded his head
significantly.”

“This,” said the merry narrator, “is the very
story I had from Elsie's lips, only that she spoiled
it in telling; and I leave you to judge whether
there was ever a more exquisite young savage in
the whole world, than that same Oran Gilbert.”

“Never, truly,” said Miss Falconer, upon whom
perhaps the unusual, yet natural, vivacity of her
friend, had produced a still more pleasant impression
than the story itself. “This Oran must have
been the Paladin, the Orlando, the very Tom
Thumb, of Hawk-Hollow;

and verily, if the other Hawks, callow or full
fledged, were of the same colour and quality, you
have begun the most diverting story in all your
budget. Pr'ythee go on; there is a magic in the
whole affair; for, while you speak it, it makes the
teller herself again. Methinks you are now the
same merry Kate I knew a year ago,—the bright
Kate, no longer `kerchieft in a cloud,' as Milton
says,—the gay Kate, the madcap Kate, the Brandywine
Kate”—

“Not a word about Brandywine, if you will
have me play the fool longer,” said Miss Loring,
hurriedly. “And after all, there is nothing more
to tell—that is, nothing more funny; and, after all,
too, there was nothing funny in the sufferings of
that poor, headstrong, vindictive boy; absurdity
enough, I grant you, there was; but it was my
wicked and hard heart that made me travesty

an anecdote that poor Elsie considered serious
enough.”

She then went on to speak of the return of the
boy's father, the building of the manor-house, the
second marriage of Mr. Gilbert, and the exploits
of his children. The peculiar temper of Oran soon
determined the course of his life While yet a
boy of sixteen, he had extended his rambles over
the mountains into the Wyoming valley, then occupied
by two clans of Shawnee and Delaware
Indians, who were often at feud together. “Among
these barbarians,” said the lady, “the young white
Indian, for such he must be esteemed, fought his
first battle, and took his first scalp. It was in the
Grasshopper War”—

“The what?” cried Miss Falconer.

“Why, Hal, the Grasshopper War I call it,”
said Catherine, “out of tenderness to our sex; but
all others call it the Squaw War. It was waged
between those rival tribes I spoke of. The women
of the two clans met together in a strawberry
field, where they gathered fruit in company, very
pacifically I doubt not, except a little scolding at
one another. The children employed themselves,
in the meanwhile, chasing grasshoppers; when,
unfortunately, two boys belonging to different
tribes pounced together upon a magnificent insect,
that was perhaps the emperor of the field, and
contended for the possession of the prize. Up
ran the mother of the Delaware, and boxed the
young Shawnee's ears; the Shawnee parent ran
to avenge her child; and others immediately taking
part, in a few moments the whole field was in an
uproar: such scratching, scolding, and pulling of
caps, were perhaps never heard of before. Out
ran the men from their villages to help their wives,
and to it they went pell-mell; and the war, thus
begun, did not end until hundreds had been slain

on both sides, and the Shawnees entirely driven
from the valley. The less we say of this war, the
better; for I heard it instanced as one small proof
out of a thousand better, that men never fall by the
ears, without the women being at the bottom of
the contention. The Delawares, with whom Oran
fought, made much of him, gave him a name
which signifies the Boy Warrior, and formally
adopted him into their tribe. As his brothers grew
up around him, he enticed them one by one into
the woods, and made them as wild as himself;
and by and by, when those dreadful Indian wars,
that followed after the defeat of General Braddock,
extended over the whole western country, and even
east of the Susquehanna, he acquired a singular
reputation as a bold and successful scalp-hunter.
I don't know what else to call him; he was not a
soldier, for he never could be prevailed upon to
go out with any body of soldiers, under the command
of regular governmental officers. He went
with his brothers, and seldom allowed even a
neighbour to join his little party, though this was
an object with all who knew him; for none of the
Gilberts having ever been seriously wounded in
any of their mad enterprises, the people had a superstitious
belief that good luck and safety went
with them.

“In the meanwhile, Mr. Gilbert had taken a second
wife; and being wealthy, he was able to
choose one of gentler manners and character than
her predecessor, who, they say, was a fierce, masculine
woman, though devotedly attached to her
children. It is said, he married her in the hope
that her kindness and gentleness might wean his
boys from their barbarous career; but the expedient
only served to confirm them in their habits.
They conceived a violent dislike to their stepmother;
and the only bond of union between them—

I should say, perhaps, the only moderator and
protector of the poor woman, was the girl, Jessie,
whom they all adored, rough as they were, and
who—while she lived, at least—caused them to
treat the unfortunate lady with some show of respect.
I may say, since you are in the poetical
mood, and have already quoted one of Milton's
clouds to me, that Jessie was, betwixt the timidity
of the step-mother and the rudeness of her brothers,

(I found that out myself!)—and, according to
Elsie, she was one of the sweetest and warmest-hearted
creatures in the world. They had a rich
relation, an aunt, in the West Indies, who desired
to adopt the maiden; but Mr. Gilbert refused to
part with her. In her place he sent his youngest
boy, an infant,—the child, and only one, of his
second wife; I think Elsie told me, she died in
giving it birth; but I am not certain as to that.
This part of the story I never could understand
perfectly; for whenever the poor widow speaks of
it, she becomes dreadfully agitated. But certainly,
it was most unhappy for all, that he did not send
the girl.”

“And why,—why unhappy, Catherine?” demanded
Miss Falconer, losing somewhat of her
serene self-possession, as she heard her friend's
voice falter over the words.

“According to Elsie,” muttered Miss Loring,
with downeast eyes, “the misfortunes which crushed
and ruined the whole family, might have been
thus averted.—But, Harriet,” she continued, “let
us speak of these things to-morrow. What follows
is dark, gloomy, dreadful; and I cannot
speak it without giving you offence.”

“I pledge you pardon and immunity beforehand,”
said Miss Falconer. “The ice is broken,
and now I must dare the flood, though it be of gall
and poison. Dreadful, indeed? What can be
more dreadful than the state of a daughter, blindfold
at the side of a parent whom all men are
shooting at with the arrows of malice, which she
hears hissing around her, yet knows not how to arrest?
Speak then, Catherine, for you have placed
me on a rack: nothing can be more painful than
suspicion.”

“Promise not to be offended with me then, dear
Harriet,” said Miss Loring, taking her hand, and
looking deprecatingly into her face; “and do not
think”—here her voice quivered a little, and
her eyes again fell to the ground,—“do not
think, because I tell you these things as I have
heard them, that I necessarily believe them—or,
at least, all of them.”

“Certainly, my love,” said the other, with a
slight tinge of asperity. “As you will, one day,
have a duty, like myself, imposed upon you, to repel
all calumnies against my father, the sooner you
become incredulous, the better.”

Catherine smiled faintly, then blushed, and, as
had happened before, at a similar allusion, the glow
of embarrassment was again followed by paleness.

“I presume,” she said, after a moment's pause,
“that the Colonel has often spoken to you of the
dreadful peril at the Moravian settlements, from
which he was rescued by Oran Gilbert and his two
brothers?”

“Never,” replied Harriet, in a sort of dismay.
“My father rescued from peril! and by the Hawks
of Hawk-Hollow? Why, here is a drama opening
upon us indeed! But it is not true, Kate!”

“This, Harriet,” replied the other, “is a circumstance
well known in the neighbourhood; and
I wonder you have never heard it before.”

“On all subjects connected with the family of
the Gilberts,” said Miss Falconer, “my father is
reserved and silent—at least to me; and, Catherine,
I confess with shame, this very circumstance
has often filled my mind with the most painful misgivings.
I know nothing about the Moravian settlements,
either. You must therefore tell your
story to ignorance itself. I know that my father
was, in his youth, an officer in the colonial war
establishment, and that he did duty somewhere on
the frontiers, and came off with scars; but that is
all. Speak, therefore, without reserve.”

“The country west of yonder blue cliffs, (how
sweetly they peep through the hollow of that hill,
and over the yellow tree-tops!) has always been
the theatre of the most bloody contentions,” said
Catherine. “That same Wyoming, of which I
have said so much, has never been entirely at
peace since that redoubtable war of the grasshopper
set its inhabitants by the ears. It was settled
by certain Yankees from Connecticut, who claimed,
and claim yet, to erect a jurisdiction independent
of Pennsylvania, and to this day the partisans
of the two powers are quarrelling rancorously
with one another, often shedding blood. When
the inhabitants are driven away by enemies, they
are obliged to cross a great swamp, to reach the
Delaware. This has been crossed so often, and
so many miserable wounded, and starving, and
fainting wretches, have fallen down in the retreat
and perished among its bogs, that it is yet called
the Shades of Death. The wars that produced
such suffering have commonly been waged in another
county; but they have sometimes reached
our own—(Our own! You see, I am making myself
at home here!) The fall and winter of the
year when Braddock was defeated in the extreme
south-western frontier, were marked by many

bloody incursions of the Indians, even in this
county; and you may judge how terrible was their
ferocity, when you hear that their enmity fell as
heavily upon their friends as their foes. The poor
Moravians, who, with a holy and unworldly zeal,
had devoted their lives to the purpose of instructing
and reclaiming them from barbarism, were
among the first of their victims. The outer settlement
of these poor missionaries was beyond the
mountain, on one of the springs of the Lechaw, or
Lehigh, as we now call it. It was beset, late in
November, by the savages, and destroyed, together
with many of the brothers. The next settlement
was that called Gnadenhutten, where was much
valuable property, and great stores of grain; and
when the Moravians fled even from this in affright,
the colonial government thought it of so much importance,
that they directed it to be immediately
garrisoned by a company of rangers. This was
done; a fort was constructed in the neighbourhood,
across the river, which was made the headquarters
of the company; while a detachment occupied
the Moravian village. This detachment
was commanded by your father, then holding the
rank of lieutenant. And now, Harriet, I must tell
you, that your father had enemies in these wild
lands, even at that early day. I will not repeat
what I have heard said, as the causes of enmity;
for I doubt not they are mere scandals. I mention
them only because some, I am told, yet declare
that the barbarous attempt on his life was made
by disguised white men, and not by Indians.

“Although from the time of the massacre of the
over-hill Moravians, in November, until the end of
the year, Indians were ever prowling in the woods,
and occasionally carrying the tomahawk and
flames to some lonely settlement, yet it was supposed
that the presence of the soldiers at Gnadenhutten

and the fort, would prevent their making
any serious attempts this side the mountain. This
induced a false and fatal security; and when the
Indians did appear, the detachment and village of
Gnadenhutten were completely surprised. It was
upon New-year's day, and all the white men were
amusing themselves on the frozen river, without
arms, and of course they fell an easy prey to the
savage assailants. Many were butchered, the village
was fired, your father captured in the vain
attempt to escape, and carried off to the woods.

“During all this scene of terror,” continued the
Captain's daughter, “there were no scalp-hunters
among the white men so busy, bold, and famous,
as the three Gilberts. Elsie Bell says, that Oran
was then only nineteen, and the youngest two
years short of that; but, it seems, men grow old
fast in the woods, when Indians are nigh—(it is
well the women don't.) They were upon an excursion,
fighting for themselves, at the very time of
this calamity; and it was their fate to encounter
the party that bore your father away a captive.
It seems that the savages, after completing the
destruction of the village, retreated in small bands
to distract and avoid pursuit, for there were many
companies of armed men in the county, ready to
march at a moment's warning. Some took charge
of the prisoners, and others were to strike at small
and retired settlements. Your father, who had
been severely, but not desperately wounded, was
left in charge of one little division, six in number,
and was carried off by a path so remote from those
followed by others, that, I suppose, it was this circumstance
which caused evil-minded persons to
affirm he was captured by private enemies and
white men. Their course was at least very singular,
for it carried them rather to the north-east,
along the foot of the mountain, than to the north

and west. They dragged their prisoner on till
after midnight, which has been mentioned as an
unusual circumstance, at least with Indians; and,
at dawn, they tied him to a tree, and piled around
him dead boughs and pine-knots, intending, as he
now saw, to torture him alive.”

The narrator here paused, and looked upon her
friend, who, after a slight shudder, very composedly
said,

“Poor pa! he must have been horribly frightened!
I should like to know how he looked, the
moment he made the discovery!”

Catherine heard her with unconcealed amazement,
but appreciated her philosophy, when she
added, with an affected laugh,

“Why, my dear Kate, as, after all, he was not
tortured, it would be but folly to fall into hysterics.
I never grieve over misfortunes that were never
happening. But come; how got he out of this
doleful dilemma? You said something about the
three Hawks—Ah! you spoiled the dramatic point
of the story, by enabling me to forestall a discovery.
And so the three Hawks discovered the six
buzzards, and fell upon them, and took their lambkin
from them? They are no true fishing-hawks,
after all; for it is the part of these ravagers, not
so much to rob, as to be robbed. They should
have been called Eagles, for it is these birds that
take such little liberties with the feathered Isaac
Waltons, as I have once or twice seen with my
own eyes. But these were heroical kites, I must
acknowledge.”

“They were, certainly,” said Miss Loring,
not well pleased with the levity of her kinswoman;
“and, methinks, you should do them the justice
to consider that it was no child's play for three
men—three boys we may call them, to assail six
stout Indians, vanquish them, and rescue a poor

doomed prisoner out of their hands. If you will not
do justice to their courage, acknowledge at least,
the dreadful cost at which they exercised their
humanity. Hyland Gilbert, the second son, the
best beloved of all, as Elsie assured me, was shot
dead, while he was cutting your father loose from
the tree.”—

“Good heavens!” cried Miss Falconer, with an
emotion, that seemed, however, to be rather horror
than grief, “was this so indeed? Did one of them
fall?”

“He did,” replied Catherine, “and his poor
brothers, buried him where he fell. According to
Elsie's superstitious belief, they were punished by
the genius of their fate, for exercising their humanity
on an undeserving object. You know she, at
least, holds on to her angry prejudices. She said,
that from that moment, which was the first unlucky
one to them, the Gilberts never more prospered
in their undertakings; every thing that came
after was mischance and disaster; death followed
death, sorrow succeeded sorrow, and now not one
remains alive of the whole family, unless it may be
the youngest son, who was sent to the Islands in
his infancy, and of whom Elsie knows nothing
whatever, although they have a report in the village
that he also is dead.”

“I am much obliged to Elsie,” said Miss Falconer,
sullenly; “after eating my father's bread,
she might have the grace to abate her malevolence
a little.”

“Alas, Harriet,” said Miss Loring, “do not call
it malevolence; but the prejudice, the absurd and
unjust prejudice of weak, dreamy old age, if you
will. And you know, that she is ignorant from
whom I derived the power to relieve her wants.
I did but hint once that your father would befriend
her, when she exclaimed, not in the heat of

frenzy, but with a cold, iron-like determination,
that she would gnaw the flints on the way-side for
food, rather than receive a morsel of bread from
the hands of Colonel Falconer. Indeed, your
father himself directed me to conceal his agency
in the benefaction.”

“Peace to the silly old woman!” said Harriet,
“and let us speak of her no more. Resume your
story: I see, by your looks, that the worst is yet to
come. But fear not: I am not so much shocked
as I was, since the thing comes from that bitter
old bundle of—oh, prejudice, my dear. Well, the
two survivors saved my father's life—what
then?”

“Then,” said Catherine, “they bore him on a
litter of boughs to their father's house; for, before
they fled, the murderers had assailed him with
their axes, and left him almost dying. The journey
was very laborious; for to avoid the war-parties,
now swarming through the country, they
were obliged to steal along by circuitous paths,--
and it was several days before they could procure
assistance. They got him safe, however, to their
father's house, and then played the good Samaritan
with him. If you would like, I will show you
the room where he lay, while recovering,—it is
the chamber over the armoury, as you call it,—
that is, my father's study, where he takes his afternoon's
nap. Elsie told me there was a pane of
glass on which he had cut his name with a diamond
ring; but the sashes were changed, before
she told me this, and I know not what has become
of them. But, if you like, we will inquire about
them.—He did not recover entirely before the
autumn, and then he left the valley. I am told
that there is an oak-tree on the lawn, at which he
used to shoot pistols.”—

“Catherine!” said Miss Falconer, with a piercing

look, “you flutter about the subject, like a bird
over the jaws of a serpent, unable to retreat and
yet afraid to descend. Is there any thing so horrible
to come?”

“There is indeed!” said Catherine, trembling;
“but it is not true, cousin,—you must not believe
it is true! It is about Jessie—they say she was
very good and handsome—a kind nurse, simple-hearted,
of an affectionate disposition, and”—

“Hold! hold!” cried Miss Falconer, vehemently,
starting to her feet, with a pale face, and lips
ashy and trembling, “this would be to make out
my father a fiend! Saints of heaven! this is too
much! Come,—let us proceed.”

And thus muttering out her oppressive emotion,
she darted down the stream, followed hastily by
her friend.

Tall trees still overarched the rivulet; but its bank
became smoother as they advanced. A few rods
below, the channel was again contracted, but not
by impending crags. A huge sycamore, ancient
and thunder-scarred, but still flourishing, had been
tumbled over the stream by some forgotten tempest;
but so tightly were its roots twisted in the
rocky soil of the one bank, and so tenacious was
the hold of its gnarled and elbowed boughs upon
the sward of the other, that it maintained its place
despite the floods, which, it was evident, often
washed over it, and thus afforded a bridge, rustic
enough, but secure, though by no means easy of
passage.

Upon this Harriet, still perturbed and driven
onward by painful emotion, was about to place her
foot, when she was restrained by the trembling
grasp of her companion.

“What means the child?” she exclaimed, with a
feverish accent: “there are no savages here.”

“But,” said Catherine, with a faint voice, “it

was over there, by the rock, they dug the poor
girl's grave!”

Miss Falconer recoiled for a moment, and then
saying, with a firm voice, “It matters not—let us
visit it,” she sprang upon the bridge, followed by
Catherine, and made her way across. About
thirty paces below, the stream darted over a rock,
making a cascade ten or twelve feet high; and it
was the roar of this fall, borne downwards by the
breeze, which had attracted the painter's curiosity,
as he paused for a moment on the road side. It
possessed no very striking beauty, nor was the
body of water that leaped over the rock of any
extraordinary magnitude; yet it had a violent and
even impressive look, and the waters hurrying impetuously
towards it from above, shot under the
sycamore with an appearance of fury that might
have tried the nerves of any over-timid person,
crossing by so precarious a bridge.