University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

Peabody.

The interruption came from Dorothy, who, on ascending
the little height, had discovered a canoe coming into
the mouth of the river, and who was running, breathless
with haste, to announce the circumstance to the bee-hunter.
The latter immediately repaired to the eminence, and saw
for himself the object that so justly had alarmed the woman.

The canoe was coming in from the lake, after running
before the wind, which now began to abate a little in its
strength, and it evidently had been endeavouring to proceed
to the northward. The reason for its entering the
river, was probably connected with the cookery or food of
the party, since the lake was each minute getting to be
safer, and more navigable for so light a craft. To le
Bourdon's great apprehension, he saw the savages on the
north shore making signals to this strange canoe, by means
of smoke, and he foresaw the probability of his enemies
obtaining the means of crossing the stream, should the
strangers proceed in the desired direction. To counteract
this design, he ran down to a spot on the beach where
there was no rice-plant, and showing himself to the strangers,
invited them to land on the south side, which was
much the nearest, and in other visible respects quite as
convenient as the opposite bank of the river. One of the
strangers soon made a gesture with an arm, implying
assent, and the bows of this strange canoe were immediately
turned toward the spot where the bee-hunter stood.

As the canoe drew near, the whole party, including
Pigeonswing, came to the margin of the water to receive
the strangers. Of the last, there were three; one paddling
at each end of the light bark, and a third seated in its

centre, doing nothing. As the bee-hunter had his glass,
with which he examined these visitors, he was soon questioned
by his companions concerning their character and
apparent purposes.

“Who are they, Bourdon?” demanded the impatient
Margery,—“and why do they come here?”

“The last is a question they must answer for themselves,
but the person paddling in the bows of the canoe seems to
be a white man, and a soldier — or a half-soldier, if one
may judge from his dress. The man in the middle of the
canoe is white, also. This last fellow seems to be a par
son — yes, he is a clergyman, though pretty well used up
in the wilderness, as to dress. The third man is a red-skin,
beyond all doubt.”

“A clergyman!” repeated Margery, in surprise. “What
should a clergyman be doing here?”

“There are missionaries scattered about among the
savages, I suppose you know, and this is probably one of
them. A body can tell one of these parsons by his outside,
as far as he can see him. The poor man has heard
of the war, most likely, and is trying to get back into the
settlements, while his scalp is safe on his head.”

“Don't hurt him,” put in the Chippewa, pointedly.
“Know mean well — talk about Great Spirit — Injin don't
scalp sich medicine-men — if don't mind what he say, no
good to take his scalp.”

“I'm glad to hear this, Pigeonswing, for I had begun
to think no man's scalp was safe under your fingers. But
what can the so'ger be doing down this a-way? A body
would think there was business enough for all the so'gers
up at the garrison, at the head of the lake. By the way,
Pigeonswing, what has become of your letter to the captain
at Fort Dearborn, to let him know of the war?”

“Chaw him up, like so much `baccy,” answered the
Chippewa — “yes, chaw him up, lest Pottawattamie get
hold on him, and ask one of King George's men to read
him. No good to hab letter in sich times.”

“The general who employed you to carry that letter,
will scarce thank you for your care.”

“Yes he do—t'ank all same — pay all same — letter no
use, now.”

“How can you know that? The letter might be the
means of preventing the garrison from falling into the
enemy's hands.”

“Got dere, already. Garrison all kill, scalp, or pris'ner.
Pottawattamie talk tell me dat.”

“Is this possible! Mackinaw and Chicago both gone,
already! John Bull must have been at work among the
savages a long time, to get them into this state of readiness!”

“Sartain — work long as can 'member. Alway somebody
talkin' for Great Montreal Fadder among red men.”

“It must be as you say, Chippewa—but, here are our
visitors—let us see what we can make of them.”

By this time, the canoe was so near as to render it easy
to distinguish countenances and dress, without the aid of
the glass—so near, indeed, that a swift-moving boat, like
the canoe, might be expected soon to reach the shore.
The truth of the observation of the bee-hunter was confirmed,
as the strangers approached. The individual in
the bows of the canoe was clearly a soldier, in a fatigue
dress, and the musket between his legs was one of those
pieces that government furnishes to the troops of the line.
The man in the middle of the boat could no more be mistaken
than he in its bows. Each might be said to be in
uniform; — the well-worn, nay, almost thread-bare black
coat of the “minister,” as much denoting him to be a man
of peace, as the fatigue-jacket and cap on the person of
his hard-featured and weather-beaten companion indicated
that the last was a man of war. As for the red man,
Pigeonswing declared that he could not yet tell his tribe,
though there was that about his air, attire and carriage,
that proclaimed him a chief—and, as the Chippewa fancied,
a chief of note. In another minute, the bows of the
light craft grated gently on the shingle of the beach.

“Sago, sago,” said the soldier, rising to step ashore—
“sago all, friends, and I hope we come to a welcome
camp.”

“You are welcome,” returned the bee-hunter. “Welcome
as strangers met in the wilderness, but more welcome,
as I see by your dress that you are a veteran of one
of Uncle Sam's regiments.”

“Quite true, Mr. Bee-hunter; for such I see is your
callin', by the honey vessel and glass you carry, and by the
other signs about you. We are travelling towards Mackinaw,
and hope to fare as friends, while we stay in your
good company.”

“In going to Mackinaw, do you expect to meet with an
American, or an English garrison?”

“One of our own, to be sure,” returned the soldier, looking
up from his work, like one struck by the question.

“Mackinaw has fallen, and is now an English post, as
well as Chicago.”

“This, then, must alter our plans, Mr. Amen!” exclaimed
the soldier, addressing the minister. “If the
enemy has Mackinaw, it will not do for us to trust ourselves
on the island.”

“Amen” was not the real name of the missionary; but
it was a sobriquet bestowed by the soldiers, on account of
the unction with which this particular word was ordinarily
pronounced, and quite likely, too, because it was the word
of all others most pleasant to their ears, after a sermon, or
a prayer. It had, by long use, got to be so familiar, that
the men did not scruple to use it to the good man's face.
This missionary was a Methodist; a sect that possessed,
in that day, very few clergymen of education, most of its
divines coming of a class in life that did not predispose
them to take offence at light invasions on their dignity,
and whose zeal and habitual self-denial had schooled them
into a submission to far more positive personal privations,
than any connected with the mere tongue. That there are
“wolves in sheep's clothing” among the Methodists, as
well as among the other religious sects of the country, our
daily experience shows; but the mind must be sadly inclined
to believe evil of others which does not see, in the
humble and untiring efforts of this particular sect of Christians,
more than mere fanaticism or hypocrisy can produce.

“You are right, corporal,” returned the missionary;
“since this is the case, I see no better course for us to
pursue, than to put ourselves altogether in the hands of
Onoah. He has counselled us well, hitherto, and will do
better by us than any other guide to be found, out in this
wilderness.”

Le Bourdon could scarce trust his sense of hearing!
Onoah was the Indian appellation of the terrible and much
dreaded savage who, in English, went by the name of
Scalping Peter, or “Scalping Pete,” among all the white
dwellers on that frontier, and at all the garrisons of the
Americans, far and near. The Indian name, indeed, was
said to mean “scalp,” in several of the dialects of the
Iroquois. Perhaps it may be well, also, to explain here,
that the term “garrison” did not imply, in the language of
that region, the troops only who garrisoned a post, but it
was even oftener applied to the post itself, than to those
who held it. Thus old, empty, and deserted forts, those
that have actually been abandoned, and are devoted to decay,
are almost universally styled the “garrisons,” even
though a soldier had not put foot in them for a quarter of
a century. This is one of the proofs of the convertible
nature of our language, of which the country affords so
many, and which has changed the smaller sized “rivers”
into “creeks,” “lakes” into “ponds,” “squares” into
“parks,” public promenades on the water into “batteries;”
to all of which innovations, bad as they may be, and useless
and uncalled for, and wanton as they are, we are much
more willing to submit, than to the new-fangled and lubberly
abomination of saying “on a steamboat,” or “on a
ship.”

While le Bourdon was so much astounded at hearing the
terrible name of Onoah, which was familiar enough to him,
neither of his white companions betrayed any emotion.
Had the Indian been termed “Scalping Peter,” it is probable
that both Dorothy and Margery would have screamed,
if not actually fled; but they knew nothing of the appellation
that was given to this mysterious chief, in the language
of the red men. To this circumstance, therefore, was it
owing that the utterance of his name did not produce a
general commotion. The bee-hunter observed, nevertheless,
a great change in the demeanour of the Chippewa,
the instant the missionary had uttered the ominous word,
though he did not seem to be alarmed. On the contrary,
Boden fancied that his friend, Pigeonswing, was pleased,
rather than terrified, at ascertaining the character of their
visitor, though he no longer put himself forward, as had

been the case previously; and from that moment the young
warrior appeared to carry himself in a more subdued and
less confident manner than was his wont. This unexpected
demeanour on the part of his friend, somewhat confounded
le Bourdon, though it in a degree relieved his apprehensions
of any immediate danger. All this time, the conversation
between the missionary and the corporal went on in as
quiet and composed a manner, as if each saw no ground
for any other uneasiness than that connected with the fall
of Mackinaw.

“Yes, sir,” returned the soldier, “Onoah is a good
guide, and a great hand at a council-fire; but these is war-times,
and we must stand to our arms, each accordin' to
his edication and temper — you, sir, with preachin' and
prayin', and I with gun and baggonet.”

“Ah! corporal, the preaching and praying would be of
quite as much account with you men of war, as your arms
and ammunition, if you could only be made to think so.
Look at Fort Dearborn! It was defended by human
means, having its armed band, and its guns and swords,
and captains and corporals; yet you have seen their pride
lowered, their means of defence destroyed, and a large part
of your comrades massacred. All this has been done to
armed men, while the Lord has brought me, an unarmed
and humble teacher of his word, safely out of the hands of
the Philistines, and placed me here in safety, on the shores
of the Kalamazoo.”

“For that matter, Mr. Amen, the Lord has done the
same by me, with a musket on my shoulder and a baggonet
by my side,” returned the literal corporal. “Preachin'
may be good on some marches; but arms and ammunition
answers well enough on others. Hearken to the Hebrew,
who knows all the ways of the wilderness, and see if he
don't give you the same opinion.”

“The Hebrew is one of the discarded of the Lord, as he
is one chosen of the Lord!” returned the missionary. “I
agree with you, however, that he is as safe an adviser, for
a human adviser, as can be easily found; therefore will I
consult him. Child of the seed of Abraham,” he added,
turning to Onoah, “thou hast heard the tidings from
Mackinaw; we cannot think, any longer, of pursuing our

journey in that direction; whither, then, wouldst thou advise
that we shall direct our steps? I ask this question of
thee first, as an experienced and sagacious dweller in the
wilderness: at a more fitting time, I intend to turn to the
Lord, and seek divine aid for the direction of our footsteps.”

“Ay,” observed the corporal, who entertained a good
deal of respect for the zealous, but slightly fanatical missionary,
though he believed an Indian was always safe to
consult in matters of this sort, “try both — if one staff
should fail, it may be well to have another to lean on. A
good soldier always keeps a part of his troops for a resarve.
I remember when Mad Anthony gave the command to
charge the inemy, at the Mawmee, we was all for going
forward like so many furious devils, but the old man
said, `No; keep them men in resarve,' he said, `for no
one knows when his flank may be turned, or he may catch
a volley from his rear.' Well, what does Onoah tell you,
Mr. Amen?”

By this time the strange Indian had landed, thus giving
le Bourdon an opportunity of examining his person and
attire more closely than he had hitherto done. This renowned
savage—renowned, as fame is regarded on a fronttier,
where the posts of the whites were then a hundred
leagues asunder—was in the summer-dress of the woods,
and any one acquainted with the customs of the North
American Indian could at once perceive that he bore on
his person the symbols of authority and rank. The insignia
of the Golden Fleece, or of the Saint Esprit, are not
more infallible evidences of high personal degree among
the nobles of Europe, than were the emblems borne by this
savage, of his consideration among the people of his colour
and origin, along the shores of those wild and inland seas
of fresh water, which then were seldom ploughed by a keel;
which have since got to be familiar with the steamer, the
propeller, brig, ship, and schooner; and which, ere the
close of the present century, will, in all probability, be
whitened, like the Mediterranean, with the canvass of the
thousand craft that will be required for the navigation of
their borders.[1] Around his neck Onoah wore what might

be termed a gorget of tubes, made of the red pipe-stone of
the west, and which were carved and wrought with care,
if not with much skill. Above this he had a rude representation
of a rattlesnake drawn on his breast with yellow
paint. This was understood to be the “tolem,” or “arms,”
of his tribe; though what that tribe was, where it dwelt,
or whence it came, it was commonly believed among both
the red-skins and pale-faces of the region, no one but himself
knew. On a small silver medal that was suspended
above the gorget was stamped the image of that cross on
which the Son of God, in his human character, suffered
death for the redemption of men. It would seem that this
savage, keen, sharp-witted, and observant as he was, though
not a believer in the doctrines inculcated by the Bible, had
none of that holy horror of this sacred emblem that so
singularly besets the imaginations of many who profess to
place all their hopes of salvation on the sacrifice that was
made on its great original. He wore an ancient medal of
the Jesuits, one that had passed through generations of his
family, as a political rather than as a religious symbol,
though perfectly aware of the spirit in which it had been
first bestowed. He probably saw that the cross was revered
by one class of missionaries, while another scarce
endeavoured to conceal their distaste for it, a circumstance
that might have confounded a neophyte of less acuteness
than himself.[2]

Beneath the rattlesnake, or “tolem” of his tribe, Onoah
had rudely drawn an expanded hand, in that attitude which
denotes caution, or “beware.” This might be termed the
motto of his coat of arms; the “gare à qui la touche,”
or “noli me tangere,” of his device.

The head was shaved, as is usual with a warrior, carrying
only the chivalrous scalp-lock, but the chief was not
in his paint. The outline of this celebrated savage's features
was bold and eagle-like; a comparison that his steady,
calm, piercing eye well sustained. The chin was full and
expanded, the lips compressed and firm, the teeth were
short, but even and sound, his smile courteous, and, at
times, winning.

In the way of attire, Onoah was simply dressed, consulting
the season and his journey. He had a single eagle's
feather attached to the scalp-lock, and wore a belt of wampum
of more than usual value, beneath which he had
thrust his knife and tomahawk; a light, figured, and fringed
hunting-shirt of cotton covered his body, while leggings of
deer-skin, with a plain moccasin of similar material, rose
to his knee. The latter, with the lower part of a stout
sinewy thigh, was bare. He also carried a horn and
pouch, and a rifle of the American rather than of the military
fashion — that is, one long, true, and sighted to the
deviation of a hair.

On landing, Peter (for so he was generally called by the whites, when in courtesy they omitted the prefix of “scalping”)
courteously saluted the party assembled around the
bow of the canoe. This he did with a grave countenance,
like a true American, but in simple sincerity, so far as
human eye could penetrate his secret feelings. To each

man he offered his hand, glancing merely at the two females;
though it may be questioned if he ever before had looked
upon so perfect a picture of female loveliness as Margery
at that precise instant presented, with her face flushed with
excitement, her spirited blue eye wandering with curiosity,
and her beautiful mouth slightly parted in admiration.

“Sago, sago!” said Peter, in his deep, guttural enunciation,
speaking reasonably good English. “Sago, sago all,
ole and young, friend come to see you, and eat in your
wigwam—which head-chief, eh?”

“We have neither wigwam nor chief here,” answered
le Bourdon, though he almost shrunk from taking the hand
of one of whom he had heard the tales of which this savage
had been the hero; “we are common people, and have no
one among us who holds the States' commission. I live
by taking honey, of which you are welcome to all you can
want, and this man is a helper of the suttlers at the garrisons.
He was travelling south to join the troops at the
head of the lake, and I was going north to Mackinaw, on
my way in, towards the settlements.”

“Why is my brother in such haste?” demanded Peter,
mildly. “Bees get tired of making honey?”

“The times are troubled, and the red men have dug up
the hatchet; a pale-face cannot tell when his wigwam is
safe.”

“Where my brodder wigwam?” asked Peter, looking
warily around him. “See he an't here; where is he?”

“Over in the openings, far up the Kalamazoo. We left
it last week, and had got to the hut on the other shore,
when a party of Pottawattamies came in from the lake, and
drove us over here for safety.”

On hearing this, Peter turned slowly to the missionary,
raising a finger as one makes a gesture to give emphasis to
his words.

“Tole you so,” said the Indian. “Know dere was Pottawattamie
dere. Can tell 'em great way off.”

“We fear them, having women in our party,” added the
bee-hunter, “and think they might fancy our scalps.”

“Dat like enough; all Injin love scalp in war-time. You
Yankee, dey Br'ish; can't travel on same path now, and not
quarrel. Muss not let Pottawattamie catch you.”

“How are we to help it, now you have come in. We
had all the canoes on this side of the river, and were pretty
safe, but should you cross and place your canoe in their
hands, there is nothing to prevent them from doing what
they please with us. If you will promise not to cross the
river till we can get out well on the lake, we may shift our
ground, however, and leave no trail.”

“Muss cross over—yes, muss cross over, else Pottawattamie
t'ink it strange—yes, muss cross over. Shan't touch
canoe, dough.”

“How can you help it, if they be so minded? You are
but a single man, and they are twenty?”

On hearing this, Corporal Flint pricked up his ears, and
stood if possible more erect than ever, for he considered
himself a part of a man at least, and one moreover who
had served in all the wars of the west, from the great battle
of St. Clair to that of Mad Anthony. He was spared the
necessity of a reply, however, for Peter made a significant
gesture which as much as told him that he would take that
office on himself.

“No need be afeard,” said Peter, quietly. “Know Pottawattamie—know
all chief. Nobody touch canoe of Onoah
when he say don't touch him.”

“Yet they are Injins of the British, and I see you here
in company with a soldier of Uncle Sam.”

“No matter; Onoah go just where he please. Sometime
to Pottawattamie; sometime to Iroquois. All Ojebways
know Onoah. All Six Nation know him well. All Injin
know him. Even Cherokee know him now, and open
ears when he speak. Muss cross river, and shake hand
with Crowsfeather.”

There was nothing boastful, or vaunting, in Peter's manner
while he thus announced his immunity or power, but
he alluded to it in a quiet, natural way, like one accustomed
to being considered a personage of consequence.
Mankind, in general, make few allowances for the influence
of habit; the sensibilities of the vain-glorious themselves
being quite as often wounded by the most natural
and direct allusions of those who enjoy advantages superior
to their own, as by those that are intended to provoke comparisons.
In the present instance, however, no such feeling

could exist, the Indian asserting no more than his extended
reputation would fully maintain.

When Peter had thus expressed himself, the missionary
thought it meet to add a few words in explanation. This
he did, however, aside, walking a little apart with the bee-hunter,
in order so to do. As for Gershom, no one seemed
to think him of sufficient importance to throw away any
interest or care on him.

“You can trust to Peter, friend bee-hunter,” the missionary
observed, “for what he promises he will perform.
I know him well, and have put myself altogether in his
hands. If he says that the Pottawattamies are not to have
his canoe, the Pottawattamies will not get it. He is a man
to be depended on.”

“Is not this, then, Scalping Peter, who bears so terrible
a name on all this frontier?” demanded le Bourdon.

“The same; but do not disturb yourself with names:
they hurt no one, and will soon be forgotten. A descendant
of Abraham, and of Isaac, and of Jacob, is not placed
in this wilderness by the hand of divine power for no purpose;
since he is here, rely on it, it is for good.”

“A descendant of Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob! Is
not Peter, then, a red-skin and an Injin?”

“Certainly; though no one knows his tribe but myself.
I know it, friend bee-hunter, and shortly shall proclaim it
throughout the length and breadth of the land. Yes, it
has been given to me to make this important discovery,
though I sometimes think that Peter himself is really as
ignorant as all around him of the tribe to which he properly
belongs.”

“Do you wish to keep it a secret from me, too? I own
that, in my eyes, the tribe of a red-skin goes a good way in
making up my opinion of the man. Is he a Winnebagoe?”

“No, my friend, the Winnebagoes have no claims on
him at all.”

“Nor a Pottawattamie, Ottawa, or Ojebway of any sort?”

“He is none of these. Peter cometh of a nobler tribe
than any that beareth such names.”

“Perhaps he is an Injin of the Six Nations? They tell
me that many such have found their way hither since the
war of the revolution.”

“All that may be true, but Peter cometh not of Pottawattamie,
Ottawa, nor Ojebway.”

“He can hardly be of the Sacs or the Foxes; he has
not the appearance of an Injin from a region so far west.”

“Neither, neither, neither,” answered Parson Amen, now
so full of his secret as fairly to let it overflow. “Peter is
a son of Israel; one of the lost children of the land of Judea,
in common with many of his red brethren—mind, I
do not say all, but with many of his red brethren—though
he may not know exactly of what tribe himself. This last
point has exercised me greatly, and days and nights have I
pondered over the facts. Turn to Genesis xlix and 14th,
and there will you find all the authorities recorded. `Zebulon
shall dwell at the haven of the sea.' That refers to
some other red brother, nearer to the coast, most clearly.
`Issachar is a strong ass, crouching down between two burdens;'
`and bowed his shoulder to bear, and became a servant
unto tribute.' That refers, most manifestly, to the
black man of the southern states, and cannot mean Peter.
`Dan shall be a serpent by the way, an adder in the path.'
There is the red man for you, drawn with the pencil of
truth! `Gad, a troop shall overcome him.' Here, corporal,
come this way and tell our new friend how Mad Anthony
with his troopers finally routed the red-skins. You
were there, and know all about it. No language can be
plainer: until the `long-knives and leather-stockings' came
into the woods, the red man had his way. Against them,
he could not prevail.

“Yes,” returned Corporal Flint, who delighted in talking
of the wars, “it was very much as Parson Amen says.
The savages, by their nimbleness and artifices, would first
ambush us, and then break away from our charges, until
the gin'ral bethought him of bringing cavalry into the wilderness.
Nobody ever thought of such a plan, until old
Anthony invented it. As soon as we got the fire of the
savages, at the Mawmee, we charged with the baggonet,
and put 'em up; and no sooner was they up, than away
went the horse into them, flourishing the `long knife,' and
pressing the heel of the `leather-stocking' into the flanks
of their beasts. Mr. Amen has found a varse in Scriptur's
that does come near to the p'int, and almost foretells our

victory, and that, too, as plain as it stood in despatches,
arterward, from head-quarters.”

“ `Gad, a troop shall overcome him,' ” put in the missionary,
triumphantly.

“That's it—that's it; there was just one troop on 'em,
and not a man more! Mad Anthony said a troop would
answer, arter we had put the red-skins up out of their ambushes,
or any other bushes; and so it did. I must acknowledge
that I think more of the Scriptur's than ever,
since Parson Amen read to me that varse.”

“Hearken unto this, friend bee-hunter,” added the missionary,
who by this time had fairly mounted his hobby,
and fancied he saw a true Israelite in every other Indian
of the west. “and tell me if words were ever more prophetic
— `Benjamin shall ravin as a wolf; in the morning
he shall devour his prey, and at night he shall divide the
spoil.' The art of man could not draw a more faithful
picture of these Indians.”

Boden was not much skilled in sacred lore, and scarce
knew what to make of all this. The idea that the American
Indians were the descendants of the lost tribes of Israel
was entirely new to him; nor did he know anything to
boast of, touching those tribes, even in their palmiest days,
and while in possession of the promised land; still he had
some confused recollection of that which he had read
when a child—what American has not?—and was enabled
to put a question or two, in return for the information now
received.

“What, do you take the savages of America for Jews?”
he asked, understanding the general drift of the missionary's
meaning.

“As sure as you are there, friend bee-hunter, though
you are not to suppose that I think Peter Onoah of the
tribe of Benjamin. No, I turn to the 21st verse for the
tribe of Peter. Naphthali — Naphthalis, the root of his
stock. `Naphthali is a hind, let loose: he giveth goodly
words.' Now, what can be plainer than this? A hind let
loose is a deer running at large, and, by a metaphor, that
deer includes the man that hunts him. Now, Peter has
been—way, is still—a renowned hunter, and is intended to
be enumerated among the hinds let loose: `he giveth

goodly words,' would set that point at rest, if anything
were wanting to put it beyond controversy, for Onoah is
the most eloquent speaker ear ever listened to! No one,
that has ever heard him speak, can doubt that he is the
one who `giveth goodly words.' ”

To what other circumstance the well-intentioned missionary
would next have alluded, in the course of this demonstration
of a theory that had got to be a favourite with
him, is more than can now be related, since the Indian
himself drew near, and put an end to the conversation.
Peter had made up his mind to cross the river at once;
and came to say as much to his companions, both of whom
he intended to leave behind him. Le Bourdon could not
arrest this movement, short of an appeal to force; and
force he did not like to use, doubting equally its justice
and its prudence.