University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Watts' Hymns for Children.

The next thing was to ascertain which was the particular
tree in which the bees had found a shelter. Collecting
his implements, le Bourdon was soon ready, and, with a
light elastic tread, he moved off towards the point of the
wood, followed by the whole party. The distance was
about half a mile, and men so much accustomed to use
their limbs made light of it. In a few minutes all were
there, and the bee-hunter was busy in looking for his tree.
This was the consummation of the whole process, and Ben
was not only provided for the necessities of the case, but
he was well skilled in all the signs that betokened the
abodes of bees.

An uninstructed person might have passed that point of
wood a thousand times, without the least consciousness of
the presence of a single insect of the sort now searched
for. In general, the bees flew too high to be easily perceptible
from the ground, though a practised eye can discern
them at distances that would almost seem to be marvellous.
But Ben had other assistants than his eyes. He knew that
the tree he sought must be hollow, and such trees usually
give outward signs of the defect that exists within. Then,
some species of wood are more frequented by the bees than
others, while the instinct of the industrious little creatures
generally enables them to select such homes as will not be
very likely to destroy all the fruits of their industry by an
untimely fall. In all these particulars, both bees and bee-hunter
were well versed, and Ben made his search accordingly.

Among the other implements of his calling, le Bourdon
had a small spy-glass; one scarcely larger than those that

are used in theatres, but which was powerful and every
way suited to its purposes. Ben was not long in selecting
a tree, a half-decayed elm, as the one likely to contain the
hive; and by the aid of his glass he soon saw bees flying
among its dying branches, at a height of not less than seventy
feet from the ground. A little further search directed
his attention to a knot-hole, in and out of which the glass
enabled him to see bees passing in streams. This decided
the point; and putting aside all his implements but the
axe, Buzzing Ben now set about the task of felling the
tree.

“Stranger,” said Gershom, when le Bourdon had taken
out the first chip, “perhaps you'd better let me do that
part of the job. I shall expect to come in for a share of
the honey, and I'm willing to 'arn all I take. I was brought
up on axes, and jack-knives, and sich sort of food, and can
cut, or whittle, with the best chopper, or the neatest whittler,
in or out of New England.”

“You can try your hand, if you wish it,” said Ben, relinquishing
the axe. “I can fell a tree as well as yourself,
but have no such love for the business as to wish to keep
it all to myself.”

“Waal, I can say, I like it,” answered Gershom, first
passing his thumb along the edge of the axe, in order to
ascertain its state; then swinging the tool, with a view to
try its `hang.'

“I can't say much for your axe, stranger, for this helve
has no tarve to't, to my mind; but, sich as it is, down
must come this elm, though ten millions of bees should
set upon me for my pains.”

This was no idle boast of Waring's. Worthless as he
was in so many respects, he was remarkably skilful with
the axe, as he now proved by the rapid manner in which
he severed the trunk of the large elm on which he was at
work. He inquired of Ben where he should `lay the tree,'
and when it came clattering down, it fell on the precise
spot indicated. Great was the confusion among the bees
at this sudden downfall of their long-cherished home. The
fact was not known to their enemy, but they had inhabited
that tree for a long time; and the prize now obtained was
the richest he had ever made in his calling. As for the

insects, they filled the air in clouds, and all the invaders
deemed it prudent to withdraw to some little distance for a
time, lest the irritated and wronged bees should set upon
them and take an ample revenge. Had they known their
power, this might easily have been done, no ingenuity of
man being able to protect him against the assaults of this
insignificant-looking animal, when unable to cover himself,
and the angry little heroes are in earnest. On the
present occasion, however, no harm befel the marauders.
So suddenly had the hive tumbled, that its late occupants
appeared to be astounded, and they submitted to their fate
as men yield to the power of tempests and earthquakes.
In half an hour most of them were collected on an adjacent
tree, where doubtless a consultation on the mode of future
proceedings was held, after their fashion.

The Indians were more delighted with le Bourdon's ingenious
mode of discovering the hive than with the richness
of the prize; while Ben, himself, and Gershom, manifested
most satisfaction at the amount of the earnings.
When the tree was cut in pieces, and split, it was ascertained
that years of sweets were contained within its capacious
cavities, and Beu estimated the portion that fell to
his share at more than three hundred pounds of good
honey—comb included—after deducting the portions that
were given to the Indians, and which were abstracted by
Gershom. The three last, however, could carry but little,
as they had no other means of bearing it away than their
own backs.

The honey was not collected that night. The day was
too far advanced for that; and le Bourdon—certainly never
was name less merited than this sobriquet, as applied to the
active young bee-hunter—but, le Bourdon, to give him his
quaint appellation, offered the hospitalities of his own cabin
to the strangers, promising to put them on their several
paths the succeeding day, with a good store of honey in
each knapsack.

“They do say there ar' likely to be troublesome times,”
he continued, with simple earnestness, after having given
the invitation to partake of his homely fare; “and I should
like to hear what is going on in the world. From Whiskey
Centre I do not expect to learn much, I will own; but I

am mistaken if the Pigeonswing, here, has not a message
that will make us all open our ears.”

The Indians ejaculated their assent; but Gershom was
a man who could not express anything sententiously. As
the bee-hunter led the way towards his cabin, or shanty, he
made his comments with his customary freedom. Before
recording what he communicated, however, we shall digress
for one moment in order to say a word ourselves concerning
this term “shanty.” It is now in general use throughout
the whole of the United States, meaning a cabin that
has been constructed in haste, and for temporary purposes.
By a license of speech, it is occasionally applied to more
permanent residences, as men are known to apply familiar
epithets to familiar objects. The derivation of the word
has caused some speculation. The term certainly came
from the west—perhaps from the north-west—and the best
explanation we have ever heard of its derivation is to suppose
“shanty,” as we now spell it, a corruption of “chicnté,”
which it is thought may have been a word in Canadian
French phrase to express a “dog-kennel.” “Chenil,” we
believe, is the true French term for such a thing, and our
own word is said to be derived from it—“meute” meaning
“a kennel of dogs,” or “a pack of hounds,” rather than
their dwelling. At any rate, “chiente” is so plausible a
solution of the difficulty, that one may hope it is the true
one, even though he has no better authority for it than a
very vague rumour. Curious discoveries are sometimes
made by these rude analogies, however, though they are
generally thought not to be very near akin to learning.
For ourselves, now, we do not entertain a doubt that the
sobriquet of “yankees,” which is in every man's mouth,
and of which the derivation appears to puzzle all our philologists,
is nothing but a slight corruption of the word
“yengeese,” the term applied to the “English,” by the
tribes to whom they first became known. We have no
other authority for this derivation than conjecture, and
conjectures that are purely our own; but it is so very
plausible as almost to carry conviction, of itself.[1]

The “chienté,” or shanty of le Bourdon, stood quite
near to the banks of the Kalamazoo, and in a most beautiful
grove of the burr oak. Ben had selected the site with
much taste, though the proximity of a spring of delicious
water had probably its full share in influencing his decision.
It was necessary, moreover, that he should be near the
river, as his great movements were all made by water, for
the convenience of transporting his tools, furniture, &c.,
as well as his honey. A famous bark canoe lay in a little
bay, out of the current of the stream, securely moored,
head and stern, in order to prevent her beating against any
object harder than herself.

The dwelling had been constructed with some attention
to security. This was rendered necessary, in some measure,
as Ben had found by experience, ou account of two
classes of enemies—men and bears. From the first, it is
true, the bee-hunter had hitherto apprehended but little.
There were few human beings in that region. The northern
portions of the noble peninsula of Michigan are somewhat
low and swampy, or are too broken and savage to
tempt the native hunters from the openings and prairies that
then lay, in such rich profusion, further south and west.
With the exception of the shores, or coasts, it was seldom
that the northern half of the peninsula felt the footstep of
man. With the southern half, however, it was very different;
the “openings,” and glades, and water-courses, offering
almost as many temptations to the savage, as they have
since done to the civilized man. Nevertheless, the bison,
or the buffalo, as the animal is erroneously, but very generally
termed throughout the country, was not often found
in the vast herds of which we read, until one reached the
great prairies west of the Mississippi. There it was that
the red men most loved to congregate; though always
bearing, in numbers, but a trifling proportion to the surface
they occupied. In that day, however, near as to the date,
but distant as to the events, the Chippewas, Ottawas, and
Pottawattamies, kindred tribes, we believe, had still a footing

in Michigan proper, and were to be found in considerable
numbers in what was called the St. Joseph's country,
or along the banks of the stream of that name; a region
that almost merits the lofty appellation of the garden of
America. Le Bourdon knew many of their warriors, and
was much esteemed among them; though he had never
met with either of those whom chance now had thrown in
his way. In general, he suffered little wrong from the red
men, who wondered at his occupation, while they liked his
character; but he had sustained losses, and even ill treatment,
from certain outcasts of the tribes, as well as from
vagrant whites, who occasionally found their way to his
temporary dwellings. On the present occasion, le Bourdon
felt far more uneasiness from the circumstance of having
his abode known to Gershom Waring, a countryman, and
fellow-christian, in one sense, at least, than from its being
known to the Chippewa and the Pottawattamie.

The bears were constant and dangerous sources of annoyance
to the bee-hunter. It was not often that an armed
man — and le Bourdon seldom moved without his rifle —
has much to apprehend from the common brown bear of
America. Though a formidable-looking animal, especially
when full grown, it is seldom bold enough to attack a
human being, nothing but hunger, or care for its young,
ever inducing it to go so much out of the ordinary track
of its habits. But the love of the bear for honey amounts
to a passion. Not only will it devise all sorts of bearish
expedients to get at the sweet morsels, but it will scent
them from afar. On one occasion, a family of Bruins had
looked into a shanty of Ben's, that was not constructed
with sufficient care, and consummated their burglary by
demolishing the last comb. That disaster almost ruined
the adventurer, then quite young in his calling; and ever
since its occurrence, he had taken the precaution to build
such a citadel as should at least set teeth and paws at defiance.
To one who had an axe, with access to young
pines, this was not a difficult task, as was proved by the
present habitation of our hero.

This was the second season that le Bourdon had occupied
“Castle Meal,” as he himself called the shanty. This
appellation was a corruption of “Chateau au Miel,” a

name given to it by a wag of a voyageur, who had aided
Ben in ascending the Kalamazoo the previous summer, and
had remained long enough with him to help him put up his
habitation. The building was just twelve feet square, in
the interior, and somewhat less than fourteen on its exterior.
It was made of pine logs, in the usual mode, with the additional
security of possessing a roof of squared timbers, of
which the several parts were so nicely fitted together, as to
shed rain. This unusual precaution was rendered necessary
to protect the honey, since the bears would have unroofed
the common bark coverings of the shanties, with
the readiness of human beings, in order to get at stores as
ample as those which the bee-hunter had soon collected
beneath his roof. There was one window of glass, which
le Bourdon had brought in his canoe; though it was a
single sash of six small lights, that opened on hinges; the
exterior being protected by stout bars of riven oak, securely
let into the logs. The door was made of three thicknesses
of oaken plank, pinned well together, and swinging
on stout iron hinges, so secured as not to be easily removed.
Its outside fastening was made by means of two
stout staples, a short piece of ox-chain, and an unusually
heavy padlock. Nothing short of an iron bar, and that
cleverly applied, could force this fastening. On the inside,
three bars of oak rendered all secure, when the master was
at home.

“You set consid'rable store by your honey, I guess,
stranger,” said Gershom, as le Bourdon unlocked the fastenings
and removed the chain, “if a body may judge by
the kear (care) you take on't! Now, down our way, we
an't half so partic'lar; Dolly and Blossom never so much
as putting up a bar to the door, even when I sleep out,
which is about half the time, now the summer is fairly set
in.”

“And whereabouts is `down our way,' if one may be
so bold as to ask the question?” returned le Bourdon, holding
the door half-opened, while he turned his face towards
the other, in expectation of the answer.

“Why, down at Whiskey Centre, to be sure, as the
v'y'gerers and other boatmen call the place.”

“And where is Whiskey Centre?” demanded Ben, a
little pertinaciously.

“Why, I thought everybody would a' known that,” answered
Gershom; “sin' whiskey is as drawin' as a blister.
Whiskey Centre is just where I happen to live; bein' what
a body may call a travellin' name. As I'm now down at
the mouth of the Kalamazoo, why Whiskey Centre's there,
too.”

“I understand the matter, now,” answered le Bourdon,
composing his well-formed mouth in a sort of contemptuous
smile. “You and whiskey being sworn friends, are always
to be found in company. When I came into the river,
which was the last week in April, I saw nothing like
whiskey, nor anything like a Centre at the mouth.”

“If you'd a' be'n a fortnight later, stranger, you'd a'
found both. Travellin' Centres, and stationary, differs
somewhat, I guess; one is always to be found, while t'other
must be s'arched a'ter.”

“And pray who are Dolly and Blossom; I hope the last
is not a whiskey blossom?”

“Not she—she never touches a spoonful, though I tell
her it never hurt mortal! She tries hard to reason me into
it that it hurts me — but that's all a mistake, as anybody
can see that jest looks at me.”

Ben did look at him; and, to say truth, came to a
somewhat different conclusion.

“Is she so blooming that you call her `Blossom?' ” demanded
the bee-hunter, “or is she so young?”

“The gal's a little of both. Dolly is my wife, and
Blossom is my sister. The real name of Blossom is Margery
Waring, but everybody calls her Blossom; and so I
gi'n into it, with the rest on'em.”

It is probable that le Bourdon lost a good deal of his interest
in this flower of the wilderness, as soon as he learned
she was so nearly related to the Whiskey Centre. Gershom
was so very uninviting an object, and had so many palpable
marks that he had fairly earned the nickname which, as it
afterwards appeared, the western adventurers had given
him, as well as his abode, wherever the last might be, that
no one of decently sober habits could readily fancy anything
belonging to him. At any rate, the bee-hunter now led

the way into his cabin, whither he was followed without
annecessary ceremony, by all three of his guests.

The interior of the “chienté,” to use the most poetical,
if not the most accurate word, was singularly clean for an
establishment set up by a bachelor, in so remote a part of
the world. The honey, in neat, well-constructed kegs, was
carefully piled along one side of the apartment, in a way
to occupy the minimum of room, and to be rather ornamental
than unsightly. These kegs were made by le Bourdon
himself, who had acquired as much of the art as was
necessary to that object. The woods always furnished the
materials; and a pile of staves that was placed beneath a
neighbouring tree, sufficiently denoted that he did not yet
deem that portion of his task completed.

In one corner of the hut was a pile of well-dressed bear
skins, three in number, each and all of which had been
taken from the carcasses of fallen foes, within the last two
months. Three more were stretched on saplings, near by,
in the process of curing. It was a material part of the
bee-hunter's craft to kill this animal, in particular; and the
trophies of his conflicts with them were proportionably numerous.
On the pile already prepared, he usually slept.

There was a very rude table, a single board set up on
sticks; and a bench or two, together with a wooden chest
of some size, completed the furniture. Tools were suspended
from the walls, it is true; and no less than three
rifles, in addition to a very neat double-barrelled “shot-gun,”
or fowling-piece, were standing in a corner. These
were arms collected by our hero in his different trips, and
retained quite as much from affection, as from necessity,
or caution. Of ammunition, there was no very great
amount visible; only three or four horns and a couple of
pouches being suspended from pegs: but Ben had a secret
store, as well as another rifle, carefully secured, in a natural
magazine and arsenal, at a distance sufficiently great from
the chienté, to remove it from all danger of sharing in the
fortunes of his citadel, should disaster befall the last.

The cooking was done altogether out of doors. For
this essential comfort, le Bourdon had made very liberal
provision. He had a small oven, a sufficiently convenient
fire-place, and a store-house, at hand; all placed near the

spring, and beneath the shade of a magnificent elm. In
the store-house he kept his barrel of flour, his barrel of
salt, a stock of smoked or dried meat, and that which the
woodsman, if accustomed in early life to the settlements,
prizes most highly, a half-barrel of pickled pork. The
bark canoe had sufficed to transport all these stores, merely
ballasting handsomely that ticklish craft; and its owner
relied on the honey to perform the same office on the return
voyage, when trade or consumption should have disposed
of the various articles just named.

The reader may smile at the word “trade,” and ask
where were those to be found who could be parties to the
traffic. The vast lakes and innumerable rivers of that region,
however, remote as it then was from the ordinary
abodes of civilized man, offered facilities for communication
that the active spirit of trade would be certain not to
neglect. In the first place, there were always the Indians
to barter skins and furs against powder, lead, rifles, blankets,
and unhappily “fire-water.” Then, the white men
who penetrated to those semi-wilds, were always ready to
“dicker” and to “swap,” and to “trade” rifles, and watches,
and whatever else they might happen to possess, almost to
their wives and children.

But, we should be doing injustice to le Bourdon, were
we in any manner to confound him with the “dickering”
race. He was a bee-hunter quite as much through love
of the wilderness, and love of adventure, as through love
of gain. Profitable he had certainly found the employment,
or he probably would not have pursued it; but there was
many a man who — nay, most men, even in his own humble
class in life — would have deemed his liberal earnings
too hardly obtained, when gained at the expeuse of all intercourse
with their own kind. But Buzzing Ben loved
the solitude of his situation, its hazards, its quietude, relieved
by passing moments of high excitement; and, most
of all, the self-reliance that was indispensable equally to
his success and his happiness. Woman, as yet, had never
exercised her witchery over him, and every day was his
passion for dwelling alone, and for enjoying the strange,
but certainly most alluring, pleasures of the woods, increasing
and gaining strength in his bosom. It was seldom,

now, that he held intercourse even with the Indian tribes
that dwelt near his occasional places of hunting; and frequently
had he shifted his ground in order to avoid collision,
however friendly, with whites who, like himself, were
pushing their humble fortunes along the shores of those
inland seas, which, as yet, were rarely indeed whitened by
a sail. In this respect, Boden and Waring were the very
antipodes of each other; Gershom being an inveterate
gossip, in despite of his attachment to a vagrant and border
life.

The duties of hospitality are rarely forgotten among
border-men. The inhabitant of a town may lose his natural
disposition to receive all who offer at his board, under
the pressure of society; but it is only in most extraordinary
exceptions that the frontier man is ever known to be inhospitable.
He has little to offer, but that little is seldom withheld, either through prudence or niggardliness. Under
this feeling, we might call it habit also, le Bourdon now
set himself at work to place on the table such food as he
had at command and ready cooked. The meal which he
soon pressed his guests to share with him, was composed
of a good piece of cold boiled pork, which Ben had luckily
cooked the day previously, some bear's meat roasted, a
fragment of venison steak, both lean and cold, and the remains
of a duck that had been shot the day before, in the
Kalamazoo, with bread, salt, and what was somewhat unusual
in the wilderness, two or three onions, raw. The
last dish was highly relished by Gershom, and was slightly
honoured by Ben; but the Indians passed it over with cold
indifference. The dessert consisted of bread and honey,
which were liberally partaken of by all at table.

Little was said by either host or guests, until the supper
was finished, when the whole party left the chienté, to
enjoy their pipes, in the cool evening air, beneath the oaks
of the grove in which the dwelling stood. Their conversation
began to let the parties know something of each other's
movements and characters.

“You are a Pottawattamie, and you a Chippewa,” said
le Bourdon, as he courteously handed to his two red guests pipes of their's, that he had just stuffed with some of his

own tobacco—“I believe you are a sort of cousins, though
your tribes are called by different names.”

“Nation, Ojebway,” returned the elder Indian, holding
up a finger, by way of enforcing attention.

“Tribe, Pottawattamie,” added the runner, in the same
sententious manner.

“Baccy, good” — put in the senior, by way of showing
he was well contented with his comforts.

“Have you nothin' to drink?” demanded Whiskey Centre,
who saw no great merit in anything but `fire-water.'

“There is the spring,” returned le Bourdon, gravely;
“a gourd hangs against the tree.”

Gershom made a wry face, but he did not move.

“Is there any news stirring among the tribes?” asked
the bee-hunter, waiting, however, a decent interval, lest he
might be supposed to betray a womanly curiosity.

Elksfoot puffed away some time, before he saw fit to answer,
reserving a salvo in behalf of his own dignity. Then
he removed the pipe, shook off the ashes, pressed down the
fire a little, gave a reviving draught or two, and quietly
replied—

“Ask my young brother—he runner—he know.”

But Pigeonswing seemed to be little more communicative
than the Pottawattamie. He smoked on in quiet dignity,
while the bee-hunter patiently waited for the moment when
it might suit his younger guest to speak. That moment
did not arrive for some time, though it came at last. Almost
five minutes after Elksfoot had made the allusion mentioned,
the Ojebway, or Chippewa, removed his pipe, also, and
looking courteously round at his host, he said with emphasis—

“Bad summer come soon. Palefaces call young men
togedder, and dig up hatchet.”

“I had heard something of this,” answered le Bourdon,
with a saddened countenance, “and was afraid it might
happen.”

“My brother dig up hatchet too, eh?” demanded Pigeonswing.

“Why should I? I am alone here, on the Openings,
and it would seem foolish in me to wish to fight.”

“Got no tribe—no Ojebway—no Pottawattamie, eh?”

“I have my tribe, as well as another, Chippewa, but can
see no use I can be to it, here. If the English and Americans
fight, it must be a long way from this wilderness,
and on, or near the great salt lake.”

“Don't know—nebber know, 'till see. English warrior
plenty in Canada.”

“That may be; but American warriors are not plenty,
here. This country is a wilderness, and there are no soldiers,
hereabouts, to cut each other's throats.”

“What you t'ink him?” asked Pigeonswing, glancing
at Gershom; who, unable to forbear any longer, had gone
to the spring to mix a cup from a small supply that still
remained of the liquor with which he had left home. “Got
pretty good scalp?”

“I suppose it is as good as another's—but he and I are
countrymen, and we cannot raise the tomahawk on one
another.”

“Don't t'ink so. Plenty yankee, him!”

Le Bourdon smiled at this proof of Pigeonswing's sagacity,
though he felt a good deal of uneasiness at the purport
of his discourse.

“You are right enough in that”—he answered—“but
I'm plenty of yankee, too.”

“No — don't say so” — returned the Chippewa — “no,
mustn't say dat. English; no yankee. Him not a bit
like you.”

“Why, we are unlike each other, in some respects, it is
true, though we are countrymen, notwithstanding. My
Great Father lives at Washington, as well as his.”

The Chippewa appeared to be disappointed; perhaps he
appeared sorry, too; for le Bourdon's frank and manly
hospitality had disposed him to friendship instead of hostilities,
while his admissions would rather put him in an antagonist
position. It was probably with a kind motive that
he pursued the discourse in a way to give his host some
insight into the true condition of matters in that part of
the world.

“Plenty Breetish in woods,” he said, with marked deliberation
and point. “Yankee no come yet.”

“Let me know the truth, at once, Chippewa,” exclaimed
le Bourdon. “I am but a peaceable bee-hunter, as you see,

and wish no man's scalp, or any man's honey, but my own.
Is there to be a war between America and Canada, or not?”

“Some say, yes; some say, no;” returned Pigeonswing,
evasively. “My part, don't know. Go, now, to see. But
plenty Montreal belt among red-skins; plenty rifle; plenty
powder, too.”

“I heard something of this as I came up the lakes,”
rejoined Ben; “and fell in with a trader, an old acquaintance,
from Canada, and a good friend, too, though he is to
be my enemy, accordin' to law, who gave me to understand
that the summer would not go over without blows. Still,
they all seemed to be asleep at Mackinaw (Michillimackinac)
as I passed there!”

“Wake up pretty soon. Canada warrior take fort.”

“If I thought that, Chippewa, I would be off this blessed
night to give the alarm.”

“No—t'ink better of dat.”

“Go, I would, if I died for it the next hour!”

“T'ink better—be no such fool, I tell you.”

“And I tell you, Pigeonswing, that go I would, if the
whole Ojebway nation was on my trail. I am an American,
and mean to stand by my own people, come what will.”

“T'ought you only peaceable bee-hunter, just now,” retorted
the Chippewa, a little sarcastically.

By this time le Bourdon had somewhat cooled, and he
became conscious of his indiscretion. He knew enough
of the history of the past, to be fully aware that, in all periods
of American history, the English, and, for that matter,
the French, too, so long as they had possessions on this
continent, never scrupled about employing the savages in
their conflicts. It is true, that these highly polished,
and, we may justly add, humane nations — (for each is
out of all question entitled to that character in the scale
of comparative humanity as between communities, and
each, if you will take its own account of the matter, stands
at the head of civilization in this respect)—would, notwithstanding
these high claims, carry on their American wars
by the agency of the tomahawk, the scalping-knife, and the
brand. Eulogies, though pronounced by ourselves on ourselves,
cannot erase the stains of blood. Even down to
the present hour, a cloud does not obscure the political

atmosphere between England and America, that its existence
may not be discovered on the prairies, by a movement
among the Indians. The pulse that is to be felt there, is
a sure indication of the state of the relations between the
parties. Every one knows that the savage, in his warfare,
slays both sexes and all ages; that the door-post of the
frontier cabin is defiled by the blood of the infant, whose
brains have been dashed against it; and that the smouldering
ruins of log-houses, oftener than not, cover the remains
of their tenants. But, what of all that? Brutus is still
“an honourable man,” and the American, who has not
this sin to answer for among his numberless transgressions,
is reviled as a semi-barbarian! The time is at hand, when
the Lion of the West will draw his own picture, too; and
fortunate will it be for the characters of some who will
gather around the easel, if they do not discover traces of
their own lineaments among his labours.

The feeling engendered by the character of such a warfare,
is the secret of the deeply-seated hostility which pervades
the breast of the Western American against the land
of his ancestors. He never sees the Times, and cares not
a rush for the mystifications of the Quarterly Review; but
he remembers where his mother was brained, and his father
or brother tortured; ay, and by whose instrumentality the
foul deeds were mainly done. The man of the world can
understand that such atrocities may be committed, and the
people of the offending nation remain ignorant of their
existence, and, in a measure, innocent of the guilt; but
the sufferer, in his provincial practice, makes no such distinction,
confounding all alike in his resentments, and including
all that bear the hated name in his maledictions.
It is a fearful thing to awaken the anger of a nation; to
excite in it a desire for revenge; and thrice is that danger
magnified, when the people thus aroused, possess the activity,
the resources, the spirit, and the enterprise of the
Americans. We have been openly derided, and that recently,
because, in the fullness of our sense of power and
sense of right, language that exceeds any direct exhibition
of the national strength, has escaped the lips of legislators,
and, perhaps justly, has exposed them to the imputation of
boastfulness. That derision, however, will not soon be

repeated. The scenes enacting in Mexico, faint as they
are in comparison with what would have been seen, had
hostilities taken another direction, place a perpetual gag in
the mouths of all scoffers. The child is passing from the
gristle into the bone, and the next generation will not even
laugh, as does the present, at any idle and ill-considered
menaces to coerce this republic; strong in the consciousness
of its own power, it will treat all such fanfaronades,
if any future statesman should be so ill-advised as to renew
them, with silent indifference.

Now, le Bourdon was fully aware that one of the surest
pulses of approaching hostilities between England and
America, was to be felt in the far west. If the Indians
were in movement, some power was probably behind the
scenes to set them in motion. Pigeonswing was well known
to him by reputation; and there was that about the man
which awakened the most unpleasant apprehensions, and
he felt an itching desire to learn all he could from him,
without betraying any more of his own feelings, if that
were possible.

“I do not think the British will attempt Mackinaw,”
Ben remarked, after a long pause, and a good deal of
smoking, had enabled him to assume an air of safe indifference.

“Got him, I tell you,” answered Pigeonswing, pointedly.

“Got what, Chippewa?”

“Him—Mac-naw—got fort — got so'gers — got whole
island. Know dat, for been dere.”

This was astounding news, indeed! The commanding
officer of that ill-starred garrison could not himself have
been more astonished, when he was unexpectedly summoned
to surrender by an enemy who appeared to start out of the
earth, than was le Bourdon, at hearing this intelligence. To
western notions, Michillimackinac was another Gibraltar,
although really a place of very little strength, and garrisoned
by only one small company of regulars. Still, habit
had given the fortress a sort of sanctity among the adventurers
of that region; and its fall, even in the settled parts
of the country, sounded like the loss of a province. It is
now known that, anticipating the movements of the Americans,
some three hundred whites, sustained by more than

twice that number of Indians, including warriors from
nearly every adjacent tribe, had surprised the post on the
17th of July, and compelled the subaltern in command,
with some fifty odd men, to surrender. This rapid, and
highly military measure, on the part of the British, completely
cut off the post of Chicago, at the head of Lake
Michigan, leaving it isolated, on what was then a very remote
wilderness. Chicago, Mackinac, and Detroit, were
the three grand stations of the Americans on the upper
lakes, and here were two of them virtually gone at a blow!