University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

I have said that my narrative of the manner in which
justice is sometimes meted out among us was not without
its effect on even that rude band of selfish and envious rioters:
rude, because setting at naught reason and the law;
and selfish, because induced so to do by covetousness, and
the desire to substitute the tenants for those whom they fancied
to be better off in the world than they were themselves.
A profound stillness succeeded; and after the bundles of
calico had whispered one with another for a moment or two,
they remained quiet, seemingly indisposed, just then, at least,
to molest us any farther. I thought the moment favourable,
and fell back to my old station, determined to let things take
their own course. This change, and the profound stillness
that succeeded, brought matters back to the visit of the Indians,
and its object.

During the whole time occupied by the advance of the
“Injins,” the men of the prairies and Susquesus had continued
nearly as motionless as so many statues. It is true
that the eyes of Flintyheart were on the invaders, but he
managed to take good heed of them without betraying any
undue uneasiness or care. Beyond this, I do affirm that I
scarce noted a single sign of even vigilance among these
extraordinary beings; though Manytongues afterwards gave
me to understand that they knew very well what they were
about; and then I could not be watching the red-men the
whole time. Now that there was a pause, however, every
body and thing seemed to revert to the original visit, as naturally
as if no interruption had occurred. Manytongues, by
way of securing attention, called on the Injins, in an authoritative
voice, to offer no interruption to the proceedings of
the chiefs, which had a species of religious sanctity, and was
not to be too much interfered with, with impunity.

`So long as you keep quiet, my warriors will not molest
you,” he added; “but if any man amongst you has ever
been on the prer-ies, he must understand enough of the natur
of a redskin to know that when he 's in 'airnest he is in
'airnest. Men who are on a journey three thousand miles
in length, don't turn aside for trifles, which is a sign that
serious business has brought these chiefs here.”

Whether it was that this admonition produced an effect,
or that curiosity influenced the “disguised and armed,” or
that they did not choose to proceed to extremities, or that
all three considerations had their weight, is more than I can
say; but it is certain the whole band remained stationary,
quiet and interested observers of what now occurred, until
an interruption took place, which will be related in proper
time. Manytongues, who had posted himself near the centre
of the piazza, to interpret, now signified to the chiefs that
they might pursue their own purposes in tranquillity. After
a decent pause, the same young warrior who had “called
up” Jaaf, in the first instance, now rose again, and with a
refinement in politeness that would be looked for in vain in
most of the deliberative bodies of civilized men, adverted to
the circumstance that the negro had not finished his address,
and might have matter on his mind of which he wished to
be delivered. This was said simply, but distinctly; and it
was explained to the negro by Manytongues, who assured
him not one among all the chiefs would say a word until
the last person “on his legs” had an opportunity of finishing
his address. This reserve marks the deportment of
those whom we call savages; men that have their own
fierce, and even ruthless customs, beyond all controversy,
but who possess certain other excellent qualities that do not
appear to flourish in the civilized state.

It was with a good deal of difficulty that we got old Jaaf
up again; for, though a famous grumbler, he was not much
of an orator. As it was understood that no chief would
speak, however, until the black had exhausted his right, my
dear Patt had to go, and, laying one of her ivory-looking
hands on the shoulder of the grim old negro, persuade him
to rise and finish his speech. He knew her, and she succeeded;
it being worthy of remark, that while this aged
black scarce remembered for an hour what occurred, confounding

dates fearfully, often speaking of my grandmother
as Miss Dus, and as if she were still a girl, he knew every
one of the family then living, and honoured and loved us
accordingly, at the very moments he would fancy we had
been present at scenes that occurred when our great-grandparents
were young people. But to the speech—

“What all dem fellow want, bundle up in calico, like so
many squaw?” growled out Jaaf, as soon as on his legs,
and looking intently at the Injins, ranged as they were in
a line four deep, quite near the piazza. “Why you let 'em
come, Masser Hugh, Masser Hodge, Masser Malbone, Masser
Mordaunt—which you be here, now, I don't know, dere
so many, and it so hard to 'member ebbery t'ing? Oh! I
so ole!—I do won'er when my time come! Dere Sus, too,
he good for nuttin' at all. Once he great walker — great
warrior—great hunter—pretty good fellow for redskin; but
he quite wore out. Don't see much use why he lib any
longer. Injin good for nuttin' when he can't hunt. Sometime
he make basket and broom; but dey uses better broom
now, and Injin lose dat business. What dem calico debbil
want here, eh, Miss Patty? Dere redskin, too—two, t'ree,
four — all come to see Sus. Won'er nigger don't come to
see me! Ole black good as ole red-man. Where dem fellow
get all dat calico, and put over deir face? Masser
Hodge, what all dat mean?”

“These are anti-renters, Jaaf,” my uncle coldly answered.
“Men that wish to own your Master Hugh's farms,
and relieve him from the trouble of receiving any more rent.
They cover their faces, I presume, to counceal their blushes,
the modesty of their natures sinking under the sense of
their own generosity.”

Although it is not very probable that Jaaf understood
the whole of this speech, he comprehended a part; for, so
thoroughly had his feelings been aroused on this subject, a
year or two earlier, when his mind was not quite so much
dimmed as at present, that the impression made was indelible.
The effect of what my uncle said, nevertheless, was
most apparent among the Injins, who barely escaped an
outbreak. My uncle has been blamed for imprudence, in
having resorted to irony on such an occasion; but, after all,
I am far from sure good did not come of it. Of one thing,

I am certain; nothing is ever gained by temporizing on the
subject of principles; that which is right, had better always
be freely said, since it is from the sacrifices that are made
of the truth, as concessions to expediency, that error obtains
one-half its power. Policy, or fear, or some other
motive kept the rising ire of the Injins under, however, and
no interruption occurred, in consequence of this speech.

“What you want here, fellow?” demanded Jaaf, roughly,
and speaking as a scold would break out on some intrusive
boy. “Home wid ye!—get out! Oh! I do grow
so ole!—I wish I was as I was when young for your sake,
you varmint! What you want wid Masser Hugh's land?—
why dat you t'ink to get gentle'em's property, eh? 'Member
'e time when your fadder come creepin' and beggin' to
Masser Mordy, to ask just little farm to lib on, and be he
tenant, and try to do a little for he family, like; and now
come, in calico bundle, to tell my Masser Hugh dat he shan't
be masser of he own land. Who you, I want to know, to
come and talk to gentle'em in dis poor fashion? Go home
—get out—off wid you, or you hear what you don't like.”

Now, while there was a good deal of “nigger” in this
argument, it was quite as good as that which was sometimes
advanced in support of the “spirit of the Institutions,” more
especially that part of the latter which is connected with
“aristocracy” and “poodle usages.” The negro had an
idea that all his “massers,” old and young, were better than
the rest of the human race; while the advocates of the
modern movement seem to think that every right is concentrated
in the lower half of the great “republican family.”
Every gentleman is no gentleman; and every blackguard,
a gentleman, for one postulate of their great social proposition;
and, what is more, every man in the least elevated
above the mass, unless so elevated by the mass, who consequently
retain the power to pull him down again, has no
right at all, when put in opposition to the cravings of numbers.
So, that after all, the negro was not much more out
of the way, in his fashion of viewing things, than the philosophers
of industrious honesty! Happily, neither the
reasoning of one of these parties, nor that of the other, has
much influence on the actual state of things. Facts are
facts, and the flounderings of envy and covetousness can

no more shut men's eyes to their existence, and prove that
black is white, than Jaaf's long-enduring and besetting
notion that the Littlepages are the great of the earth, can
make us more than what we certainly are. I have recorded
the negro's speech, simply to show some, who listen only to
the misstatements and opinions of those who wish to become
owners of other men's farms, that there are two sides to the
question; and, in the way of argument, I do not see but one
is quite as good as the other.

One could hardly refrain from smiling, notwithstanding
the seriousness of the circumstances in which we were
placed, at the gravity of the Indians during the continuance
of this queer episode. Not one of them all rose, turned
round, or manifested the least impatience, or even curiosity.
The presence of two hundred armed men, bagged in calico,
did not induce them to look about them, though their previous
experience with this gallant corps may possibly have
led them to hold it somewhat cheap.

The time had now come for the Indians to carry out the
main design of their visit to Ravensnest, and Prairiefire
slowly arose to speak. The reader will understand that
Manytongues translated, sentence by sentence, all that passed,
he being expert in the different dialects of the tribes, some
of which had carried that of the Onondagoes to the prairies.
In this particular, the interpreter was a somewhat remarkable
man, not only rendering what was said readily and
without hesitation, but energetically and with considerable
power. It may be well to add, however, that in writing out
the language I may have used English expressions that are
a little more choice, in some instances, than those given by
this uneducated person.

“Father,” commenced Prairiefire, solemnly, and with a
dignity that it is not usual to find connected with modern
oratory; the gestures he used being few, but of singular force
and significance—“Father—the minds of your children are
heavy. They have travelled over a long and thorny path,
with moccasins worn out, and feet that were getting sore;
but their minds were light. They hoped to look at the face
of the Upright Onondago, when they got to the end of the
path. They have come to the end of that path, and they
see him. He looks as they expected he would look. He

is like an oak that lightning may burn, and the snows cover
with moss, but which a thousand storms and a hundred
winters cannot strip of its leaves. He looks like the oldest
oak in the forest. He is very grand. It is pleasant to look
on him. When we see him, we see a chief who knew our
fathers' fathers, and their fathers' fathers. That is a long
time ago. He is a tradition, and knows all things. There
is only one thing about him, that ought not to be. He was
born a red-man, but has lived so long with the pale-faces,
that when he does go away to the Happy Hunting-Grounds,
we are afraid the good spirits will mistake him for a pale-face,
and point out the wrong path. Should this happen,
the red-men would lose the Upright of the Onondagoes, for
ever. It should not be. My father does not wish it to
be. He will think better. He will come back among his
children, and leave his wisdom and advice among the people
of his own colour. I ask him to do this.

“It is a long path, now, to the wigwams of red-men. It
was not so once, but the path has been stretched. It is a
very long path. Our young men travel it often, to visit the
graves of their fathers, and they know how long it is. My
tongue is not crooked, but it is straight; it will not sing a
false song — it tells my father the truth. The path is very
long. But the pale-faces are wonderful! What have they
not done? What will they not do? They have made
canoes and sledges that fly swift as the birds. The deer
could not catch them. They have wings of fire, and never
weary. They go when men sleep. The path is long, but
it is soon travelled with such wings. My father can make
the journey, and not think of weariness. Let him try it.
His children will take good care of him. Uncle Sam will
give him venison, and he will want nothing. Then, when
he starts for the Happy Hunting-Grounds, he will not mistake
the path, and will live with red-men for ever.”

A long, solemn pause succeeded this speech, which was
delivered with great dignity and emphasis. I could see that
Susquesus was touched with this request, and at the homage
paid his character, by having tribes from the prairies —
tribes of which he had never even heard through traditions
in his younger days — come so far to do justice to his
character; to request him to go and die in their midst. It

is true, he must have known that the fragments of the old
New York tribes had mostly found their way to those distant
regions; nevertheless, it could not but be soothing to
learn that even they had succeeded in making so strong an
impression in his favour, by means of their representations.
Most men of his great age would have been insensible to feelings
of this sort. Such, in a great degree, was the fact with
Jaaf; but such was not the case with the Onondago. As he
had said in his former speech to his visiters, his mind dwelt
more on the scenes of his youth, and native emotions came
fresher to his spirit, now, than they had done even in middle
age. All that remained of his youthful fire seemed to be
awakened, and he did not appear that morning, except when
compelled to walk and in his outward person, to be a man
who had seen much more than his three-score years and ten.

As a matter of course, now that the chiefs from the prairies
had so distinctly made known the great object of their
visit, and so vividly portrayed their desire to receive back,
into the bosom of their communities, one of their colour
and race, it remained for the Onondago to let the manner
in which he viewed this proposition be known. The profound
stillness that reigned around him must have assured
the old Indian how anxiously his reply was expected. It
extended even to the `disguised and armed,' who, by this
time, seemed to be as much absorbed in the interest of this
curious scene as any of us who occupied the piazza. I do
believe that anti-rentism was momentarily forgotten by all
parties—tenants, as well as landlords; landlords, as well as
tenants. I dare say, Prairiefire had taken his seat three
minutes ere Susquesus arose; during all which time, the
deep stillness, of which I have spoken, prevailed.

“My children,” answered the Onondago, whose voice
possessed just enough of the hollow tremulousness of age
to render it profoundly impressive, but who spoke so distinctly
as to be heard by all present—“My children, we do
not know what will happen when we are young — all is
young, too, that we see. It is when we grow old, that all
grows old with us. Youth is full of hope; but age is full
of eyes; it sees things as they are. I have lived in my
wigwam alone, since the Great Spirit called out the name
of my mother, and she hurried away to the Happy Hunting-Grounds

to cook venison for my father, who was called
first. My father was a great warrior. You did not know
him. He was killed by the Delawares, more than a hundred
winters ago.

“I have told you the truth. When my mother went
to cook venison for her husband, I was left alone in my
wigwam.”

Here a long pause succeeded, during which Susquesus
appeared to be struggling with his own feelings, though he
continued erect, like a tree firmly rooted. As for the
chiefs, most of them inclined their bodies forward to listen,
so intense was their interest; here and there one of their
number explaining in soft guttural tones, certain passages
in the speech to some other Indians, who did not fully comprehend
the dialect in which they were uttered. After a
time, Susquesus proceeded: “Yes, I lived alone. A young
squaw was to have entered my wigwam and staid there.
She never came. She wished to enter it, but she did not.
Another warrior had her promise, and it was right that she
should keep her word. Her mind was heavy at first, but
she lived to feel that it is good to be just. No squaw has
ever lived in any wigwam of mine. I did not think ever to
be a father: but see how different it has turned out! I am
now the father of all red-men! Every Indian warrior is
my son. You are my children; I will own you when we
meet on the pleasant paths beyond the hunts you make to-day.
You will call me father, and I will call you sons.

“That will be enough. You ask me to go on the long
path with you, and leave my bones on the prairies. I have
heard of those hunting-grounds. Our ancient traditions
told us of them. `Towards the rising sun,' they said,
`is a great salt lake, and towards the setting sun, great
lakes of sweet water. Across the great salt lake is a distant
country, filled with pale-faces, who live in large villages,
and in the midst of cleared fields. Towards the setting
sun were large cleared fields, too, but no pale-faces, and
few villages. Some of our wise men thought these fields
were the fields of red-men following the pale-faces round
after the sun; some thought they were fields in which the
pale-faces were following them. I think this was the truth.
The red-man cannot hide himself in any corner, where the

pale-face will not find him. The Great Spirit will have it
so. It is his will; the red-man must submit.'

“My sons, the journey you ask me to make is too long
for old age. I have lived with the pale-faces, until one-half
of my heart is white; though the other half is red. One-half
is filled with the traditions of my fathers, the other half
is filled with the wisdom of the stranger. I cannot cut my
heart in two pieces. It must all go with you, or all stay
here. The body must stay with the heart, and both must
remain where they have now dwelt so long. I thank you,
my children, but what you wish can never come to pass.

“You see a very old man, but you see a very unsettled
mind. There are red traditions and pale-face traditions.
Both speak of the Great Spirit, but only one speak of his
son. A soft voice has been whispering in my ear, lately,
much of the Son of God. Do they speak to you in that way
on the prairies? I know not what to think.—I wish to
think what is right; but it is not easy to understand.”

Here Susquesus paused; then he took his seat, with the
air of one who was at a loss how to explain his own feelings.
Prairiefire waited a respectful time for him to continue
his address, but perceiving that he rose not, he stood
up, himself, to request a further explanation.

“My father has spoken wisdom,” he said, “and his children
have listened. They have not heard enough; they
wish to hear more. If my father is tired of standing, he can
sit; his children do not ask him to stand. They ask to
know where that soft voice came from, and what it said?”

Susquesus did not rise, now, but he prepared for a reply.
Mr. Warren was standing quite near him, and Mary was
leaning on his arm. He signed for the father to advance a
step or two, in complying with which, the parent brought
forth the unconscious child also.

“See, my children,” resumed Susquesus. “This is a
great medicine of the pale-faces. He talks always of the
Great Spirit, and of his goodness to men. It is his business
to talk of the Happy Hunting-Ground, and of good and bad
pale-faces. I cannot tell you whether he does any good or
not. Many such talk of these things constantly among the
whites, but I can see little change, and I have lived among
them, now, more than eighty winters and summers—yes,

near ninety. The land is changed so much, that I hardly
know it; but the people do not alter. See, there; here are
men—pale-faces in calico bags. Why do they run about,
and dishonour the red-man by calling themselves Injins? I
will tell you.”

There was now a decided movement among the `virtuous
and industrious,' though a strong desire to hear the old man
out, prevented any violent interruption at that time. I
question if ever men listened more intently, than we all lent
our faculties now, to ascertain what the Upright of the Onondagoes
thought of anti-rentism. I received the opinions he
expressed with the greater alacrity, because I knew he was
a living witness of most of what he related, and because I
was clearly of opinion that he knew quite as much of the
subject as many who rose in the legislative halls to discuss
the subject.

“These men are not warriors,” continued Susquesus.
“They hide their faces and they carry rifles, but they frighten
none but the squaws and pappooses. When they take a scalp,
it is because they are a hundred, and their enemies one.
They are not braves. Why do they come at all? — What
do they want? They want the land of this young chief.
My children, all the land, far and near, was ours. The
pale-faces came with their papers, and made laws, and said
`It is well! We want this land. There is plenty farther
west for you red-men. Go there, and hunt, and fish, and
plant your corn, and leave us this land.' Our red brethren
did as they were asked to do. The pale-faces had it as
they wished. They made laws, and sold the land, as the
red-men sell the skins of beavers. When the money was
paid, each pale-face got a deed, and thought he owned all
that he had paid for. But the wicked spirit that drove out
the red-man is now about to drive off the pale-face chiefs.
It is the same devil, and it is no other. He wanted land
then, and he wants land now. There is one difference, and
it is this. When the pale-face drove off the red-man there
was no treaty between them. They had not smoked together,
and given wampum, and signed a paper. If they had,
it was to agree that the red-man should go away, and the
pale-face stay. When the pale-face drives off the pale-face,
there is a treaty; they have smoked together, and given

wampum, and signed a paper. This is the difference. Indian
will keep his word with Indian; pale-face will not keep
his word with pale-face.”

Susquesus stopped speaking, and the eye of every chief
was immediately, and for the first time that morning, turned
on the “disguised and armed” — the “virtuous and hard-working.”
A slight movement occurred in the band, but
no outbreak took place; and, in the midst of the sensation
that existed, Eaglesflight slowly arose. The nature, dignity
and ease of his manner more than compensated for his personal
appearance, and he now seemed to us all one of those
by no means unusual instances of the power of the mind to
overshadow, and even to obliterate, the imperfections of the
body. Before the effect of what Susquesus had just said
was lost, this eloquent and much-practised orator began his
address. His utterance was highly impressive, being so
deliberate, with pauses so well adjusted, as to permit Manytongues
to give full effect to each syllable he translated.

“My brethren,” said Eaglesflight, addressing the Injins
and the other auditors, rather than any one else, “you have
heard the words of age. They are the words of wisdom.
They are the words of truth. The Upright of the Onondagos
cannot lie. He never could. The Great Spirit made
him a just Indian; and, as the Great Spirit makes an Indian,
so he is. My brethren, I will tell you his story; it
will be good for you to hear it. We have heard your story;
first from the interpreter, now from Susquesus. It is a bad
story. We were made sorrowful when we heard it. What
is right, should be done; what is wrong, should not be done.
There are bad red-men, and good red-men; there are bad
pale-faces, and good pale-faces. The good red-men and
good pale-faces do what is right; the bad, what is wrong.
It is the same with both. The Great Spirit of the Indian
and the Great Spirit of the white man are alike; so are the
wicked spirits. There is no difference in this.

“My brethren, a red-man knows in his heart when he
does what is right, and when he does what is wrong. He
does not want to be told. He tells himself. His face is
red, and he cannot change colour. The paint is too thick.
When he tells himself how much wrong he has done, he

goes into the bushes, and is sorry. When he comes out, he
is a better man.

“My brethren, it is different with a pale-face. He is
white, and uses no stones for paint. When he tells himself
that he has done wrong, his face can paint itself. Everybody
can see that he is ashamed. He does not go into the
bushes; it would do no good. He paints himself so quickly
that there is no time. He hides his face in a calico bag.
This is not good, but it is better than to be pointed at with
the finger.

“My brethren, the Upright of the Onondagoes has never
run into the bushes because he was ashamed. There has
been no need of it. He has not told himself he was wicked.
He has not put his face in a calico bag; he cannot paint
himself, like a pale-face.

“My brethren, listen; I will tell you a story. A long
time ago everything was very different here. The clearings
were small, and the woods large. Then the red-men were
many, and the pale-faces few. Now it is different. You
know how it is, to-day.

“My brethren, I am talking of what was a hundred winters
since. We were not born, then. Susquesus was then
young, and strong, and active. He could run with the deer,
and battle with the bear. He was a chief, because his fathers
were chiefs before him. The Onondagoes knew him
and loved him. Not a war-path was opened, that he was
not the first to go on it. No other warrior could count so
many scalps. No young chief had so many listeners at the
Council-Fire. The Onondagoes were proud that they had
so great a chief, and one so young. They thought he would
live a long time, and they should see him, and be proud of
him for fifty winters more.

“My brethren, Susquesus has lived twice fifty winters
longer; but he has not lived them with his own people.
No; he has been a stranger among the Onondagoes all that
time. The warriors he knew are dead. The wigwams
that he went into, have fallen to the earth with time; the
graves have crumbled, and the sons' sons of his companions
walk heavily with old age. Susquesus is there; you see
him; he sees you. He can walk; he speaks; he sees: he
is a living tradition! Why is this so? — The Great Spirit

has not called him away. He is a just Indian, and it is
good that he be kept here, that all red-men may know how
much he is loved. So long as he stays, no red-man need
want a calico bag.

“My brethren, the younger days of Susquesus, the
Trackless, were happy. When he had seen twenty winters,
he was talked of in all the neighbouring tribes. The
scalp notches were a great many. When he had seen thirty
winters, no chief of the Onondagoes had more honour, or
more power. He was first among the Onondagoes. There
was but one fault in him. He did not take a squaw into
his wigwam. Death comes when he is not looked for; so
does marriage. At length my father became like other
men, and wished for a squaw. It happened in this way.

“My brethren, red-men have laws, as well as the pale-faces.
If there is a difference, it is in keeping those laws.
A law of the red-men gives every warrior his prisoners. If
he bring off a warrior, he is his; if a squaw, she is his.
This is right. He can take the scalp of the warrior; he
can take the squaw into his wigwam, if it be empty. A
warrior, named Waterfowl, brought in a captive girl of the
Delawares. She was called Ouithwith, and was handsomer
than the humming-bird. The Waterfowl had his ears open,
and heard how beautiful she was. He watched long to take
her, and he did take her. She was his, and he thought to
take her into his wigwam when it was empty. Three moons
passed, before that could be. In the meantime, Susquesus
saw Ouithwith, and Ouithwith saw Susquesus. Their eyes
were never off each other. He was the noblest moose of
the woods, in her eyes; she was the spotted-fawn, in his.
He wished to ask her to his wigwam; she wished to go.

“My brethren, Susquesus was a great chief; the Waterfowl
was only a warrior. One had power and authority;
the other had neither. But there is authority among red-men
beyond that of the chief. It is the red-man's law.
Ouithwith belonged to the Waterfowl, and she did not belong
to Susquesus. A great council was held, and men differed.
Some said that so useful a chief, so renowned a
warrior as Susquesus, ought to be the husband of Ouithwith;
some said her husband ought to be the Waterfowl, for he
had brought her out from among the Delawares. A great

difficulty arose on this question, and the whole Six Nations
took part in it. Many warriors were for the law, but most
were for Susquesus. They loved him, and thought he would
make the best husband for the Delaware girl. For six
moons the quarrel thickened, and a dark cloud gathered
over the path that led among the tribes. Warriors who had
taken scalps in company, looked at each other, as the panther
looks at the deer. Some were ready to dig up the
hatchet for the law; some for the pride of the Onondagoes,
and the Humming-Bird of the Delawares. The squaws took
sides with Susquesus. Far and near, they met to talk to-gether,
and they even threatened to light a Council-Fire,
and smoke around it, like warriors and chiefs.

“Brethren, things could not stand so another moon.
Ouithwith must go into the wigwam of the Waterfowl, or
into the wigwam of Susquesus. The squaws said she should
go into the wigwam of Susquesus; and they met together,
and led her to his door. As she went along that path,
ouithwith looked at her feet with her eyes, but her heart
leaped like the bounding fawn, when playing in the sun.
She did not go in at the door. The Waterfowl was there,
and forbade it. He had come alone; his friends were but
few, while the heads and arms of the friends of Susquesus
were as plenty as the berries on the bush.

“My brethren, that command of the Waterfowl's was
like a wall of rock before the door of the Trackless's wigwam.
Ouithwith could not go in. The eyes of Susquesus
said `no,' while his heart said `yes.' He offered the Waterfowl
his rifle, his powder, all his skins, his wigwam; but
Waterfowl would rather have his prisoner, and answered,
`no.' `Take my scalp,' he said; `you are strong and can
do it; but do not take my prisoner.'

“My brethren, Susquesus then stood up, in the midst of
the tribe, and opened his mind. `The Waterfowl is right,'
he said. `She is his, by our laws; and what the laws of
the red-man say, the red-man must do. When the warrior
is about to be tormented, and he asks for time to go
home and see his friends, does he not come back at the day
and hour agreed on? Shall I, Susquesus, the first chief of
the Onondagoes, be stronger than the law? No—my face
would be for ever hid in the bushes, did that come to pass.

It should not be — it shall not be. Take her, Waterfowl;
she is yours. Deal kindly by her, for she is as tender as
the wren when it first quits the nest. I must go into the
woods for a while. When my mind is at peace, Susquesus
will return.

“Brethren, the stillness in that tribe, while Susquesus was
getting his rifle, and his horn, and his best moccasins, and
his tomahawk, was like that which comes in the darkness.
Men saw him go, but none dare follow. He left no trail,
and he was called the Trackless. His mind was never at
peace, for he never came back. Summer and winter came
and went often before the Onondagoes heard of him among
the pale-faces. All that time the Waterfowl lived with Ouithwith
in his wigwam, and she bore him children. The chief
was gone, but the law remained. Go you, men of the pale-faces,
who hide your shame in calico bags, and do the same.
Follow the example of an Indian—be honest, like the Upright
of the Onondagoes!”

While this simple narrative was drawing to a close, I
could detect the signs of great uneasiness among the leaders
of the “calico bags.” The biting comparison between
themselves and their own course, and an Indian and his
justice, was intolerable to them, for nothing has more conduced
to the abuses connected with anti-rentism than the
wide-spread delusion that prevails in the land concerning
the omnipotency of the masses. The error is deeply rooted
which persuades men that fallible parts can make an infallible
whole. It was offensive to their self-conceit, and menacing
to their success. A murmur ran through the assembly,
and a shout followed. The Injins rattled their rifles,
most relying on intimidation to effect their purpose; but a few
seemed influenced by a worse intention, and I have never
doubted that blood would have been shed in the next minute,
the Indians now standing to their arms, had not the sheriff
of the county suddenly appeared on the piazza, with Jack
Dunning at his elbow. This unexpected apparition produced
a pause, during which the `disguised and armed' fell back
some twenty yards, and the ladies rushed into the house. As
for my uncle and myself, we were as much astonished as
any there at this interruption.