University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XXX.

Mrs. Hemans

It is now more than thirty-three years since the last war
with the English terminated, and about thirty-six to the
summer in which the events recorded in this legend occurred.
This third of a century has been a period of
mighty changes in America. Ages have not often brought
about as many in other portions of the earth, as this short
period of time has given birth to among ourselves. We
had written, thus far, on the evidence of documents sent
to us, when an occasion offered to verify the truth of some
of our pictures, at least, by means of personal observation.

Quitting our own quiet and secluded abode in the mountains,
in the pleasant month of June, and in this current
year of 1848, we descended into the valley of the Mohawk,
got into the cars, and went flying by rails towards the setting
sun. Well could we remember the time when an entire
day was required to pass between that point on the
Mohawk where we got on the rails, and the little village
of Utica. On the present occasion, we flew over the space
in less than three hours, and dined in a town of some
fifteen thousand souls.

We reached Buffalo, at the foot of Lake Erie, in about
twenty hours after we had entered the cars. This journey
would have been the labour of more than a week, at the
time in which the scene of this tale occurred. Now, the
whole of the beautiful region, teeming with its towns and
villages, and rich with the fruits of a bountiful season, was

almost brought into a single landscape by the rapidity of
our passage.

At Buffalo, we turned aside to visit the cataract. Thither,
too, we went on rails. Thirty-eight years had passed away
since we had laid eyes on this wonderful fall of water. In
the intervening time we had travelled much, and had visited
many of the renowned falls of the old world, to say nothing
of the great number which are to be found in other parts
of our own land. Did this visit, then, produce disappointment?
Did time, and advancing years, and feelings that
had become deadened by experience, contribute to render
the view less striking, less grand, in any way less pleasing
than we had hoped to find it? So far from this, all our
expectations were much more than realized. In one particular,
touching which we do not remember ever to have
seen anything said, we were actually astonished at the
surpassing glory of Niagara. It was the character of sweetness,
if we can so express it, that glowed over the entire
aspect of the scene. We were less struck with the
grandeur of this cataract, than with its sublime softness
and gentleness. To water in agitation, use had so long
accustomed us, perhaps, as in some slight degree to lessen
the feeling of awe that is apt to come over the novice in
such scenes; but we at once felt ourselves attracted by the
surpassing loveliness of Niagara. The gulf below was
more imposing than we had expected to see it, but it was
Italian in hue and softness, amid its wildness and grandeur.
Not a drop of the water that fell down that precipice inspired
terror; for everything appeared to us to be filled
with attraction and love. Like Italy itself, notwithstanding
so much that is grand and imposing, the character of softness,
and the witchery of the gentler properties, is the
power we should ascribe to Niagara, in preference to that
of its majesty. We think this feeling, too, is more general
than is commonly supposed, for we find those who dwell
near the cataract playing around it, even to the very verge
of its greatest fall, with a species of affection, as if they
had the fullest confidence in its rolling waters. Thus it is
that we see the little steamer, the Maid of the Mists, paddling
up quite near to the green sheet of the Horse-Shoe itself,
and gliding down in the current of the vortex, as it is compelled

to quit the eddies, and come more in a line with the
main course of the stream. Wires, too, are suspended
across the gulf below, and men pass it in baskets. It is
said that one of these inventions is to carry human beings
over the main fall, so that the adventurer may hang suspended
in the air, directly above the vortex. In this way
do men, and even women, prove their love for the place,
all of which we impute to its pervading character of sweetness
and attraction.

At Buffalo we embarked in a boat under the English
flag, which is called the Canada. This shortened our passage
to Detroit, by avoiding all the stops at lateral ports,
and we had every reason to be satisfied with our selection.
Boat, commander, and the attendance were such as would
have done credit to any portion of the civilized world.
There were many passengers, a motley collection, as usual,
from all parts of the country.

Our attention was early drawn to one party, by the singular
beauty of its females. They seemed to us to be a
grandmother, in a well-preserved, green old age; a daughter,
but a matron of a little less-than forty; and two exceedingly
pretty girls of about eighteen and sixteen, whom
we took to be children of the last. The strong family likeness
between these persons, led us early to make this classification,
which we afterwards found was correct.

By occasional remarks, I gathered that the girls had
been to an “eastern” boarding-school, that particular feature
in civilization not yet flourishing in the north-western
states. It seemed to us that we could trace in the dialect
of the several members of this family the gradations and
peculiarities that denote the origin and habits of individuals.
Thus, the grandmother was not quite as western in
her forms of speech as her matronly danghter, while the
grand-children evidently spoke under the influence of
boarding-school correction, or, like girls who had been
often lectured on the subject. “First rate,” and “Yes,
sir,” and “That's a fact,” were often in the mouth of the
pleasing mother, and even the grandmother used them all,
though not as often as her daughter, while the young people
looked a little concerned, and surprised, whenever they
came out of the mouth of their frank-speaking mother.

That these persons were not of a very high social class
was evident enough, even in their language. There was
much occasion to mention New York, we found, and they
uniformly called it “the city.” By no accident did either
of them ever happen to use the expression that she had
been “in town,” as one of us would be apt to say. “He's
gone to the city,” or “she's in the city,” are awkward
phrases, and tant soit peu vulgar; but even our pretty
young boarding-school elevès would use them. We have
a horror of the expression “city,” and are a little fastidious,
perhaps, touching its use.

But these little peculiarities were spots on the sun. The
entire family, taken as a whole, was really charming; and
long before the hour for retiring came, we had become
much interested in them all. We found there was a fifth
person belonging to this party, who did not make his appearance
that night. From the discourse of these females,
however, it was easy to glean the following leading facts.
This fifth person was a male; he was indisposed, and kept
his berth; and he was quite aged. Several nice little
dishes were carried from the table into his state-room that
evening, by one or the other of the young sisters, and each
of the party appeared anxious to contribute to the invalid's
comfort. All this sympathy excited our interest, and we
had some curiosity to see this old man, long ere it was time
to retire. As for the females, no name was mentioned
among them but that of a Mrs. Osborne, who was once or
twice alluded to, in full. It was “grand-ma,” and “ma,”
and “Dolly,” and “sis.” We should have liked it better
had it been “mother,” and “grand-mother;” and that the
“sis” had been called Betsey or Molly; but we do not
wish to be understood as exhibiting these amiable and
good-looking strangers as models of refinement. “Ma”
and “sis” did well enough, all things considered, though
“mamma” would have been better if they were not sufficiently
polished to say “mother.”

We had a pleasant night of it, and all the passengers
appeared next morning with smiling faces. It often blows
heavily on that lake, but light airs off the land were all the
breezes we encountered. We were among the first to turn
out, and on the upper deck forward, a place where the

passengers are fond of collecting, as it enables them to look
ahead, we found a single individual who immediately drew
all of our attention to himself. It was an aged man, with
hair already as white as snow. Still there was that in his
gait, attitudes, and all his movements which indicated physical
vigour, not to say the remains, at least, of great elasticity
and sinewy activity. Aged as he was, and he must
have long since passed his fourscore years, his form was
erect as that of a youth. In stature, he was of rather more
than middle height, and in movements, deliberate and dignified.
His dress was quite plain, being black, and according
to the customs of the day. The colour of his face and
hands, however, as well as the bold outlines of his countenance,
and the still keen, restless, black eye, indicated the
Indian.

Here, then, was a civilized red man, and it struck us,
at once, that he was an ancient child of the forest, who had
been made to feel the truths of the gospel. One seldom
hesitates about addressing an Indian, and we commenced
a discourse with our venerable fellow-passenger, with very
little circumlocution or ceremony.

“Good morning, sir,” we observed — “a charming time
we have of it, on the lake.”

“Yes — good time—” returned my red neighbour,
speaking short and clipped, like an Indian, but pronouncing
his words as if long accustomed to the language.

“These steam-boats are great inventions for the western
lakes, as are the railroads for this vast inland region. I
dare say, you can remember Lake Erie when it was an
unusual thing to see a sail of any sort on it; and now, I
should think, we might count fifty.”

“Yes—great change—great change, friend!—all change
from ole time.”

“The traditions of your people, no doubt, give you reason
to see and feel all this?”

The predominant expression of this red man's countenance
was that of love. On everything, on every human
being towards whom he turned his still expressive eyes, the
looks he gave them would seem to indicate interest and affection.
This expression was so decided and peculiar, that
we early remarked it, and it drew us closer and closer to

the old chief, the longer we remained in his company.
That expression, however, slightly changed when we made
this allusion to the traditions of his people, and a cloud
passed before his countenance. This change, nevertheless,
was as transient as it was sudden, the benevolent and
gentle look returning almost as soon as it had disappeared.
He seemed anxious to atone for this involuntary
expression of regrets for the past, by making his communications
to me as free as they could be.

“My tradition say a great deal,” was the answer. “It
say some good, some bad.”

“May I ask of what tribe you are?”

The red man turned his eyes on us kindly, as if to lessen
any thing ungracious there might be in his refusal to answer,
and with an expression of benevolence that we
scarcely remember ever to have seen equalled. Indeed,
we might say with truth, that the love which shone out of
this old man's countenance habitually, surpassed that which
we can recal as belonging to any other human face. He
seemed to be at peace with himself, and with all the other
children of Adam.

“Tribe make no difference,” he answered. “All children
of same Great Spirit.”

“Red men and pale-faces?” I asked, not a little surprised
with his reply.

“Red man and pale-face. Christ die for all, and his
Fadder make all. No difference, excep' in colour. Colour
only skin deep.”

“Do you then look on us pale-faces as having a right
here? Do you not regard us as invaders, as enemies who
have come to take away your lands?”

“Injin don't own 'arth. 'Arth belong to God, and he
send whom he like to live on it. One time he send Injin;
now he send pale-face. His 'arth, and he do what he
please wid it. Nobody any right to complain. Bad to find
fault wid Great Spirit. All he do, right; nebber do any
t'ing bad. His blessed Son die for all colour, and all
colour muss bow down at his holy name. Dat what dis
good book say,” showing a small pocket Bible, “and what
dis good book say come from Great Spirit, himself.”

“You read the Holy Scriptures, then—you are an educated
Indian?”

“No; can't read at all. Don't know how. Try hard,
but too ole to begin. Got young eyes, however, to help
me,” he added, with one of the fondest smiles I ever saw
light a human face, as he turned to meet the pretty Dolly's
“good morning, Peter,” and to shake the hand of the elder
sister. “She read good book for old Injin, when he want
her; and when she off at school, in `city,' den her mudder,
or her gran'mudder read for him. Fuss begin wid gran'mudder;
now got down to gran'-da'ghter. But good book
all de same, let who will read it.”

This, then, was “Scalping Peter,” the very man I was
travelling into Michigan to see, but how wonderfully
changed! The Spirit of the Most High God had been
shed freely upon his moral being, and in lieu of the revengeful
and vindictive savage, he now lived a subdued,
benevolent Christian! In every human being he beheld
a brother, and no longer thought of destroying races, in
order to secure to his own people the quiet possession of
their hunting-grounds. His very soul was love; and no
doubt he felt himself strong enough to “bless those who
cursed him,” and to give up his spirit, like the good missionary
whose death had first turned him toward the worship
of the one true God, praying for those who took his
life.

The ways of Divine Providence are past the investigations
of human reason. How often, in turning over the
pages of history, do we find civilization, the arts, moral improvement,
nay, Christianity itself, following the bloody
train left by the conqueror's car, and good pouring in
upon a nation by avenues that at first were teeming only
with the approaches of seeming evils! In this way, there
is now reason to hope that America is about to pay the
debt she owes to Africa; and in this way will the invasion
of the forests, and prairies, and “openings,” of the red
man be made to atone for itself by carrying with it the
blessings of the Gospel, and a juster view of the relations
which man bears to his Creator. Possibly Mexico may
derive lasting benefit from the hard lesson that she has so
recently been made to endure.

This, then, was Peter, changed into a civilized man and
a Christian! I have found, subsequently, that glimmerings
of the former being existed in his character; but they
showed themselves only at long intervals, and under very
peculiar circumstances. The study of these traits became
a subject of great interest with us, for we now travelled in
company the rest of our journey. The elder lady, or
“grand-ma,” was the Margery of our tale; still handsome,
spirited and kind. The younger matron was her daughter,
and only child, and “Sis,” another Margery, and Dorothy,
were her grand-children. There was also a son, or a
grandson rather, Ben, who was on Prairie Round, “with
the general.” The “general” was our old friend, le
Bourdon, who was still as often called “general Bourdon,”
as “General Boden.” This matter of “generals” at the
West, is a little overdone, as all ranks and titles are somewhat
apt to be in new countries. It causes one often to
smile, at the east; and no wonder that an eastern habit
should go down in all its glory, beneath the “setting sun.”
In after days, generals will not be quite as “plenty as
blackberries.”

No sooner did Mrs. Boden, or Margery, to use her
familiar name, learn that we were the very individual to
whom the “general” had sent the notes relative to his
early adventures, which had been prepared by the “Rev.
Mr. Varse,” of Kalamazoo, than she became as friendly
and communicative as we could possibly desire.

Her own life had been prosperous, and her marriage
happy. Her brother, however, had fallen back into his
old habits, and died ere the war of 1812 was ended. Dorothy
had returned to her friends in Massachusetts, and
was still living, in a comfortable condition, owing to a
legacy from an uncle. The bee-hunter had taken the field
in that war, and had seen some sharp fighting on the banks
of the Niagara. No sooner was peace made, however,
than he returned to his beloved Openings, where he had
remained, “growing with the country,” as it is termed,
until he was now what is deemed a rich man in Michigan.
He has a plenty of land, and that which is good; a respectable
dwelling, and is out of debt. He meets his
obligations to an eastern man just as promptly as he meets

those contracted at home, and regards the United States,
and not Michigan, as his country. All these were good
traits, and we were glad to learn that they existed in one
who already possessed so much of our esteem. At Detroit
we found a fine flourishing town, of a healthful and
natural growth, and with a population that was fast approaching
twenty thousand. The shores of the beautiful
strait on which it stands, and which, by a strange
blending of significations and languages, is popularly called
the “Detroit River,” were alive with men and their appliances,
and we scarce know where to turn to find a more
agreeable landscape than that which was presented to us,
after passing the island of “Bobolo” (Bois Blanc), near
Malden. Altogether, it resembled a miniature picture of
Constantinople, without its eastern peculiarities.

At Detroit commenced our surprise at the rapid progress
of western civilization. It will be remembered that at the
period of our tale, the environs of Detroit excepted, the
whole peninsula of Michigan lay in a state of nature.
Nor did the process of settlement commence actively until
about twenty years since; but, owing to the character of
the country, it already possesses many of the better features
of a long inhabited region. There are stumps, of course,
for new fields are constantly coming into cultivation; but,
on the whole, the appearance is that of a middle-aged,
rather than that of a new region.

We left Detroit on a railroad, rattling away towards the
setting sun, at a good speed even for that mode of conveyance.
It seemed to us that our route was well garnished
with large villages, of which we must have passed through
a dozen, in the course of a few hours “railing.” These
are places varying in size from one to three thousand inhabitants.
The vegetation certainly surpassed that of even
western New York, the trees alone excepted. The whole
country was a wheat-field, and we now began to understand
how America could feed the world. Our road lay among
the “Openings” much of the way, and we found them
undergoing the changes which are incident to the passage
of civilized men. As the periodical fires had now ceased
for many years, underbrush was growing in lieu of the
natural grass, and in so much those groves are less attractive

than formerly; but one easily comprehends the reason,
and can picture to himself the aspect that these pleasant
woods must have worn in times of old.

We left the railroad at Kalamazoo, an unusually pretty
village, on the banks of the stream of that name. Those
who laid out this place, some fifteen years since, had the
taste to preserve most of its trees, and the houses and
grounds that stand a little apart from the busiest streets;
and they are numerous for a place of rather more than two
thousand souls, are particularly pleasant to the eye, on
account of the shade, and the rural pictures they present.
Here Mrs. Boden told us we were within a mile or two of
the very spot where once had stood Castle Meal (Château
au Miel), though the “general” had finally established
himself at Schoolcraft, on Prairie Ronde.

The first prairie we had ever seen was on the road between
Detroit and Kalamazoo; distant from the latter place
only some eight or nine miles. The axe had laid the country
open in its neighbourhood; but the spot was easily to be recognised
by the air of cultivation and age that pervaded it.
There was not a stump on it, and the fields were as smooth
as any on the plains of Lombardy, and far more fertile,
rich as the last are known to be. In a word, the beautiful
perfection of that little natural meadow became apparent
at once, though seated amid a landscape that was by no
means wanting in interest of its own.

We passed the night at the village of Kalamazoo; but
the party of females, with old Peter, proceeded on to Prairie
Round, as that particular part of the country is called in
the dialect of Michigan, it being a corruption of the old
French name of la prairie ronde. The Round Meadow
does not sound as well as Prairie Round, and the last being
quite as clear a term as the other, though a mixture of the
two languages, we prefer to use it. Indeed, the word
“Prairie” may now be said to be adopted into the English;
meaning merely a natural, instead of an artificial meadow,
though one of peculiar and local characteristics. We
wrote a note to General Boden, as I found our old acquaintance
Ben Boden was universally termed, letting him know
I should visit Schoolcraft next day; not wishing to intrude

at the moment when that charming family was just reunited
after so long a separation.

The next day, accordingly, we got into a “buggy” and
went our way. The road was slightly sandy a good part
of the twelve miles we had to travel, though it became
less so as we drew near to the celebrated prairie. And
celebrated, and that by an abler pen than ours, does this
remarkable place deserve to be! We found all our expectations
concerning it fully realized, and drove through
the scene of abundance it presented with an admiration
that was not entirely free from awe.

To get an idea of Prairie Round, the reader must
imagine an oval plain of some five and twenty or thirty
thousand acres in extent, of the most surpassing fertility,
without an eminence of any sort; almost without an inequality.
There are a few small cavities, however, in
which there are springs that form large pools of water that
the cattle will drink. This plain, so far as we saw it, is
now entirely fenced and cultivated. The fields are large,
many containing eighty acres, and some one hundred and
sixty; most of them being in wheat. We saw several of
this size in that grain. Farm-houses dotted the surface,
with barns and the other accessories of rural life. In the
centre of the prairie is an “island” of forest, containing
some five or six hundred acres of the noblest native trees
we remember ever to have seen. In the centre of this
wood is a little lake, circular in shape, and exceeding a
quarter of a mile in diameter. The walk in this wood,
which is not an Opening, but an old-fashioned virgin forest,
we found delightful of a warm summer's day. One thing
that we saw in it was characteristic of the country. Some
of the nearest farmers had drawn their manure into it,
where it lay in large piles, in order to get it out of the way
of doing any mischief. Its effect on the land, it was
thought, would be to bring too much straw!

On one side of this island of wood lies the little village,
or large hamlet of Schoolcraft. Here we were most
cordially welcomed by General Boden, and all of his fine
descendants. The head of this family is approaching
seventy, but is still hale and hearty. His head is as white
as snow, and his face as red as a cherry. A finer old man

one seldom sees. Temperance, activity, the open air and
a good conscience, have left him a noble ruin; if ruin he
can yet be called. He owes the last blessing, as he told us
himself, to the fact that he kept clear of the whirlwind of
speculation that passed over this region some ten or fifteen
years since. His means are ample, and the harvest being
about to commence, he invited me to the field.

The peculiar ingenuity of the American has supplied
the want of labourers, in a country where agriculture is
carried on by wholesale, especially in the cereals, by an
instrument of the most singular and elaborate construction.
This machine is drawn by sixteen or eighteen horses,
attached to it laterally, so as to work clear of the standing
grain, and who move the whole fabric on a moderate but
steady walk. A path is first cut with the cradle on one
side of the field, when the machine is dragged into the
open place. Here it enters the standing grain, cutting off
its heads with the utmost accuracy as it moves. Forks
beneath prepare the way, and a rapid vibratory motion of a
great number of two-edged knives, effect the object. The
stalks of the grain can be cut as low, or as high as one
pleases, but it is usually thought best to take only the
heads. Afterwards the standing straw is burned, or fed
off, upright.

The impelling power which causes the great fabric to
advance, also sets in motion the machinery within it. As
soon as the heads of the grain are severed from the stalks.
they pass into a receptacle where, by a very quick and simple
process, the kernels are separated from the husks.
Thence all goes into a fanning machine, where the chaff
is blown away. The clean grain falls into a small bin,
whence it is raised by a screw elevator to a height that
enables it to pass out at an opening to which a bag is attached.
Wagons follow the slow march of the machine,
and the proper number of men are in attendance. Bag
after bag is renewed, until a wagon is loaded, when it at
once proceeds to the mill, where the grain is soon converted
into flour. Generally the husbandman sells to the miller;
but occasionally he pays for making the flour, and sends
the latter off, by railroad, to Detroit, whence it finds its
way to Europe, possibly, to help feed the millions of the

old world. Such, at least, was the course of trade the past
season. As respects this ingenious machine, it remains
only to say that it harvests, cleans, and bags from twenty
to thirty acres of heavy wheat, in the course of a single
summer's day! Altogether it is a gigantic invention, well
adapted to meet the necessities of a gigantic country.

Old Peter went afield with us that day. There he stood,
like a striking monument of a past that was still so recent
and wonderful. On that very prairie, which was now
teeming with the appliances of civilization, he had hunted
and held his savage councils. On that prairie had he
meditated, or consented to the deaths of the young couple,
whose descendants were now dwelling there, amid abundance,
and happy. Nothing but the prayers of the dying
missionary, in behalf of his destroyers, had prevented the
dire consummation.

We were still in the field, when General Boden's attention
was drawn towards the person of another guest. This,
too, was an Indian, old like himself, but not clad like Peter,
in the vestments of the whites. The attire of this sinewy
old man was a mixture of that of the two races. He wore
a hunting-shirt, moccasins, and a belt; but he also wore
trowsers, and otherwise had brought himself within the
habits of conventional decency. It was Pigeonswing, the
Chippewa, come to pay his annual visit to his friend, the
bee-hunter. The meeting was cordial, and we afterwards
ascertained that when the old man departed, he went away
loaded with gifts that would render him comfortable for a
twelvemonth.

But Peter, after all, was the great centre of interest with
us. We could admire the General's bee-hives, which were
numerous and ingenious; could admire his still handsome
Margery, and all their blooming descendants; and were
glad when we discovered that our old friend—made so by
means of a knowledge of his character, if not by actual acquaintance—was
much improved in mind, was a sincere
Christian, and had been a Senator of his own State; respected
and esteemed by all who knew him. Such a career,
however, has nothing peculiar in America; it is one
of every-day occurrence; and shows the power of man
when left free to make his own exertions; while that of the

Scalping Peter indicated the power of God. There he was,
living in the midst of the hated race, loving and beloved;
wishing naught but blessings on all colours alike; looking
back upon his traditions and superstitions with a sort of
melancholy interest, as we all portray in our memories the
scenes, legends, and feelings of an erring childhood.

We were walking in the garden, after dinner, and looking
at the hives. There were the General, Margery, Peter,
and ourselves. The first was loud in praise of his buzzing
friends, for whom it was plain he still entertained a lively
regard. The old Indian, at first, was sad. Then he smiled,
and, turning to us, he spoke earnestly and with some of
his ancient fire and eloquence.

“Tell me you make a book,” he said. “In dat book
tell trut'. You see me—poor ole Injin. My fadder was
chief—I was great chief, but we was children. Knowed
nuttin'. Like little child, dough great chief. Believe
tradition. T'ink dis 'arth flat—t'ink Injin could scalp all
pale-face—t'ink tomahawk, and war-path, and rifle, bess
t'ings in whole world. In dat day, my heart was stone.
Afraid of Great Spirit, but did n't love Him. In dat time
I t'ink General could talk wid bee. Yes; was very foolish
den. Now, all dem cloud blow away, and I see my
Fadder dat is in Heaven. His face shine on me, day
and night, and I never get tired of looking at it. I see
Him smile, I see Him lookin' at poor ole Injin, as if he
want him to come nearer; sometime I see Him frown,
and dat scare me. Den I pray, and his frown go away.

“Stranger, love God. B'lieve his Blessed Son, who
pray for dem dat kill Him. Injin don't do dat. Injin not
strong enough to do so good t'ing. It want de Holy Spirit
to strengthen de heart, afore man can do so great t'ing.
When he got de force of de Holy Spirit, de heart of stone
is changed to de heart of woman, and we all be ready to
bless our enemy and die. I have spoken. Let dem dat
read your book understand.'