University of Virginia Library

THE ILLEGITIMATE;
OR,
PROPHECY OF UIQUERA.

The life and times of Charles of England, the gayest
and most gallant monarch, since the days of that
oriental potentate, so famous for wisdom and architecture,
have been prolific themes, not only for the elegant
pens of the elegant courtiers of the period, and
the graver historian, but for the exercise of the genius
and talents of graceful female biographers of the present
age.

It is at the close of this era of gallantry, beauty and
wit, an era in which the warlike knight began to
merge into the pacific gentleman of hound and horn,
and tournaments gave place to contests in the political
arena, and when the memory of this erring but amiable
prince lived only in the hearts of his subjects—
his vices forgotten, his virtuesalone remembered—that
we open the first scene of our tale.

“Nay, sweet Lady Mary—your eyes betray your

heart! That diamond trembling upon their rich fringes
contradicts your words;” and the speaker spurred
the high-blooded animal upon which he was mounted,
closer by the side of the ambling palfrey, ridden by
the lovely girl he addressed. “Say not I must forget
you, Mary! On the morrow, my uncle sends me to
Eton. May not your love bless me, absent from you?
Oh, recall, dear cousin, that chilling word! Say not
there is no hope!”

A moment's embarrassing silence ensued, when,
crushing a tear which glittered beneath her dark eyelashes,
the maiden drew her veil closely over her face,
and shaking her silken bridle, bounded forward with
velocity, as if in the fleetness of her movements, she
would annihilate the feelings which tortured her young
bosom. With equal speed the youth galloped by her
side down the solemn glades of the old forest, until
they came in sight of the towers of an ancient castle,
lifting themselves with gothic grandeur above the majestic
oaks, which for centuries had encircled them.

The maiden was the daughter of its noble earl; and
the honors, titles and wealth she inherited, were only
equalled by her surpassing loveliness. Her complexion
was like the purest ocean-pearl, which a mellow sunset
cloud has delicately tinted with its own roseate
hue. Her dark chesnut hair escaped from beneath her
riding hat, and floated around her shoulders in a cloud
of natural tresses. Her eyes were large, and eloquent
in their expression, and of the same rich brown shade
as her hair. She had not yet numbered fifteen summers—a
gay, wild, fascinating child, yet all the woman
in the depth and fervor of her feelings.

Her form was moulded with the symmetry of a
sylph's; and as she bounded on her fleet courser
through the wood, imagination might have deified her
as the queen of the sylvan empire, through which she
rode, and leader of its train of fairy nymphs.

The youth who accompanied her, was also surpassingly

fair; a fitting mate for so sweet a dove. His
hair was black as the raven's plume which danced
over his riding hood, and flowed in thick curls about
his neck. His brows were arched and dark, and his
forehead wore that lofty and noble air, said to be the
birthright of England's nobles. His eyes were
exceedingly black, and a voluptuous languor dwelt
about his mouth. The upper lip was curved slightly,
evincing a native haughtiness of spirit. The contour
of his face was a faultless oval. He counted perhaps
seventeen winters and summers.

They were lovers.

As they came in sight of the distant turrets, the
maiden reined in her spirited animal, and putting aside
her veil, turned with a smile, like an April sunshine,
whilst tears danced in her brilliant eyes, towards her
companion:

“Charles—you well know I love you. It is useless
for me to attempt to disguise it. But, but—” and as
she paused and hesitated, the rich blood mounted to
her cheek and brow, whilst she dropped her eyes in
painful embarrassment.

“But what? sweet Mary! Why, cousin, this silence
and emotion?” he inquired with animation—his brow
paling with the presentiment of evil; and he laid his
hand emphatically upon her arm as he spoke.

“Charles! They tell me—that—that—”

“Nay—torture me not with suspense,” he cried, as
she hesitated to proceed; and springing from his horse
he grasped with eager and inquiring anxiety both of
her hands.

“They tell me, my dear Charles—but oh, I will not
believe it,” she added, bending her head till it rested
upon his shoulder, to conceal her emotion—“they tell
me—you are the late king's son!”

The poor youth relaxed his hold upon her bridle,
which he had suddenly seized—the hand locked in the
maiden's, convulsively unclasped, and with a brow

changed to the hue of death, he fell without a word,
or sign of life to the earth.

A gay anniversary was announced for celebration
in the halls of Eton. The princes, and nobles, and
the beauty of the land were assembled there to honor
the fete.

The venerable religious pile in which the concluding
ceremonies of the day were held was living with
beauty, and gorgeous with the display of diamonds
and jewels, and the magnificent dresses of knights and
gentlemen.

A youth, whose striking figure and handsome features
created a murmur of surprise throughout the assembly,
whilst one or two dowager countesses were
seen to draw forth miniatures, and whispering, compare
them amid many signs of intelligence, with his
appearance, advanced with grace and modesty to receive,
above all competitors, the highest collegiate honor
of that day, to be conferred by the royal hands of
James himself.

As he bent on one knee, and inclined his head to
receive the golden chain and medal, a youth, near his
own age, his unsuccessful rival for the distinction, with
a lowering brow, and small, deep set eyes, his hair,
and such portions of his dress as were not concealed by
his gown, cut after the popular fashion of the times of
the Long Parliament, rose boldly from his chair and
cried in a loud harsh tone:—

“Hold! He whom you would thus honor, is the
illegitimate son of Charles!”

All eyes turned in the direction of the audacious
speaker, and the brow of the monarch grew black
with indignation.

“Young Cromwell! It is young Cromwell!” passed
from mouth to mouth, while surprise at this sudden

and singular announcement, fixed every eye, alternately
upon the malicious interrupter of the ceremonies,
and upon the ill-fated Charles.

With a cry of despair that filled every bosom, and
burying his face in the folds of his robe, the sensitive
and disgraced youth rushed forth from the Chapel.

Many days afterwards, the rumor was rife among
the Etonians, and in the higher circles of the kingdom,
through which this strange tale was circulated,
that the victim of young Cromwell's malignity and
revenge, who with the true spirit of his grandsire, had
expressed his bitterness against all associated with royalty
and THE CHARLES, had fled an exile over
sea to the “New World,” as the continent of America
was denominated, even at that comparatively late
period.

The province, formerly, and now state, of Maine,
where we transfer the scenes of this tale, is constituted
of lands, originally possessed by several tribes of warlike
Indians. The most powerful of these were the
Kennebec and Penobscot tribes—names harsh and
uneuphonious in the ear of an European.[1] The

former dwelt on the banks of the beautiful river, to
which they have left their name. Their hunting
grounds extended west and south to the river Saco.
Their eastern boundary was the Damariscotta river,
which also formed the western limits of the Penobscots.
This tribe possessed the lands watered by the
river bearing its name. Their eastern limits were undefined,
but constantly enlarging with the progress
of their conquests over their less powerful neighbors.

Between this tribe and the Kennebecs, an hereditary
war had existed, to use the emphatic figure of a late
chief, “since the oldest oak of the forest was an
acorn.”

They were also of different religions. The Kennebecs
worshipped a spirit who they imagined presided
over their rivers and lakes, whom they denominated
Kenlascasca, or, The Angel of the Waters. In the
limpid bosom of their divinity, they buried their dead,
worshipped him in the descending rain, and propitiated
him by human sacrifices, which they immolated in
deep waters, when, in his anger, he suffered them to
swell above their banks.

The Penobscots worshipped the great mountain,
Coalacas,[2] which lifted its blue head to the skies in
the midst of their hunting grounds. When the storm-clouds
gathered about his summit, and he veiled his
face from them in displeasure, when his voice was
heard in the loud thunder, and the glance of his angry
eye seen in the lightnings, they trembled; and as a sacrifice,
which should at the same time avert his wrath,
and manifest their obedience and submission, they
sacrificed by fire, a fawn of one spring.

Upon the summit of this mountain dwelt the priest
of their religion, who administered in a rude temple,
to which the whole tribe once a year performed pilgrimage,
the sacred duties of his office. At this shrine,

the young warrior sought success in battle—the maiden,
in love, the injured, in justice or revenge.

The sage and prophet of his people, and visible presence
of their divinity was denominated Uiquera, or
The priest of the Mountain. He was aged, and gray
hairs thinly sprinkled his bronzed and time-worn
temples.

It was evening—an evening of that mild and hazy
time, when autumn, is losing itself in winter, termed
the Indian Summer, and peculiar to New England—
when the aged patriarch stood upon a rock in front of
his hut, gazing upon the vast landscape beneath him,
mellowed by the peculiar atmosphere of the season, to
the soft, dreamy features of an Italian scene.

To the north, forests, tinged with mingled gold and
purple, orange and vermillion, and dyed with a thousand
intermediate hues—a gorgeousnes of scenery
found only in America—and yet untrodden by others
than the beast of prey, or of the chase, and his Indian
hunter, stretched away, league added to league, till
they met the horizon. Still farther north, breaking
with unequal lines this meeting of sky and woods,
towered the summits of a chain of mountains, constituting
the dividing ridge, between the waters flowing
into the great river of the north, and the less majestic
streams, that, coursing southward, seek the Atlantic
sea. To the east and west, forests alone bounded the
view. On the south, bays penetrated far inland nearly
to the base of the mountain, and beyond was the deep,
restless sea, extending far away, until sky and ocean
alone met the eye.

The aged man gazed upon the vast prospect thus
spread out, like a map beneath him, and wondered as
he gazed, at the greatness and power of the Great
Spirit who created it.

“Father!” spoke tremulously a sweet and child-like
voice.

“My child!” he said calmly turning, and placing his

hand upon the head of a lovely maiden kneeling at
his feet, the only daughter of the chief of her tribe.

“Father—they teach me that you are favored by the
good Manitoula. His aid I have come to seek, through
you, his minister!”

“It is thine, daughter—speak!” he replied with dignity,
and in a mild and encouraging tone.

“Anasca, the young chief of the Kennebecs, with
many gifts and promises of land, and offers of peace
and amity, demands me of my father in marriage!”
and the Indian maid bowed her head to the earth in
silence, a waiting his reply.

“Does this please the chief, thy father?”

“Oh, I know not—the offer is tempting; and yet he
should love me better than thus to sacrifice me!”

“Will it be a sacrifice, if it is to obey thy father's
will, my daughter?”

“Oh, yes—yes—”

“Lina, dost thou cherish hatred against the young
warrior?”

“No, oh no! but I love him not. I fear him!” she
added with energy.

“Whom then dost thou love, child, that thou canst
not love this youth? They tell me he is a brave young
chief, and of noble bearing, though, perhaps, hasty and
passionate withal.”

“Love? love? oh, none but you and my father!”
she replied with the undisguised artlessness of her simple
nature.

“Daughter,” said the seer solemnly, “it becomes us
to make peace. If friendship may ensue between
those so long at enmity, by this proposed union, it
should be sought, but not at the sacrifice of thy happiness.
Wilt thou wed him maiden?” he added abruptly,
taking her hand and looking steadily into her
face.

“Oh no, no, no, father! I would rather the lightning

of the Great Spirit in his anger, should consume me,
than wed him! Oh save!—save me—my father!” she
cried, imploringly clinging to his robe.

“Fear not, thou shalt not wed him, Lina,” he said,
smiling, raising her from her suppliant posture.
“Where is this youth?” he inquired, affectionately and
soothingly, parting the dark hair from her face as he
gazed down into it.

“I left him three mornings since, with many of his
warriors, encamped opposite the council island. When
I learned for what he came, with the swiftness of the
brood-bird, when she seeks her nestling from the coming
storm, I fled to the holy mountain, and thee, for
shelter! Oh, wilt thou not give it me, holy father?” she
added clasping his arm, and looking up into his face
beseechingly.

“Daughter—thou hast it already!” he replied with
emotion; “thou shalt not wed this stranger.”

“False priest—thou liest!” shouted a voice behind
them; and a spear, thrown by an unseen and unerring
hand, simultaneously pierced the bosom of the patriarch.
He fell to the earth with a deep groan, and the
maiden uttering a shriek of terror and dismay, cast
herself upon his bleeding body.

“Welcome, my gentle fawn of the lakes! thou hast
found thy holy mountain will not protect thee, and
thy priest is mortal—” said the young Anasca, tauntingly,
approaching and raising her from the form of
his victim. “Old man, I would not have slain thee,
but thou wert poisoning this little bird's talons and
turning them against thy own breast.”

“Sacrilegious murderer!” suddenly exclaimed the
seer, raising upon one arm—his white hair sprinkled
with blood, that in a warm current oozed from a
wound in his breast, where the spear which inflicted
it, still vibrated,—“Scorner of religion and the Great
Spirit of earth and sky! Thy doom and that of thy

race is sealed!” and his eye dilated and became radiant
with prophetic inspiration as he continued: “Here!
on the holy altar thou hast desecrated, do I anathematize
thee! Every drop of this gurgling blood shall
beget a curse upon thee and thine! Accursed be thy
impious race! A people greater than thine—more
numerous than the stars of heaven—shall take thy
lands, thy power, and thy name! Another century
shall roll by and thou shalt be remembered no more!
Last chieftain of thy tribe!” he continued with additional
energy, “on thee, come all evil and all woe!
Cursed of sky and sea—cursed of air and earth—be
thou accursed forever!”

“Daughter!” he continued with supernatural excitement,
whilst the young chief stood appalled and transfixed
with horror, before the wild air and prophetic
language of the dying priest—“daughter, blessed art
thou above all the maidens of thy tribe! Thou shalt
become a Saviour of thy people and thy name. For
every curse that follows this unholy assassin, shall a
blessing come upon thee and thine. The people who
shall bring woe to him, shall bring joy to thee! Thou
—thyself—art destined to become the preserver of thy
father's tribe—and when all the nations of this land
shall have dwindled like the mountain dews before
the morning, at the approach of a race from the East,
with faces white like the moon, and arms brighter
than the sun, and more terrible than thunder, thy name
shall exist—thy people be yet numbered among their
nations. And, whilst the tribe of this impious assassin
shall expire in their ignorance, a new and purer
religion, revealed from the heavens, shall be taught
thee by this new race, who with eyes like the deep
blue of the noon-day sky, and faces white like a summer
cloud, are to rule our land—and in the bosom of
their great empire, thine own tribe shall dwell forever!”

Thus speaking, the last prophet of his religion and

people, sunk back to the ground, and upwards, from
the mountain altar of his religion and worship, his
spirit took its flight to the world of mysteries.

Podiac, is a romantic, rocky promontory projecting
into the sea, and forming the southern shore of the
bay of Casco, which, with its three hundred and sixty-five
islands, penetrates the heart of Maine.

It is on this promontory, now called Cape Elizabeth,
in honor of the Maiden Queen, that the scenes of our
fifth chapter are laid, a few days after the death of
the venerable seer, Uiquera.

One of the wild storms, peculiar to that coast, had for
three days poured its fury upon the sea, lashing it into
foam. The fourth morning broke with cloudless brilliancy,
and discovered the wreck of a ship, dismasted,
and in pieces, lying in a crevice on the extremity of
the southern cape of the promontory—which, here
dividing, form two points projecting farther into the
sea than the main head-land. At the present day,
both of these points are crowned by light-houses, the
upper one of which is a favorite resort for the gay
citizens of an adjacent sea-port,[3] situated on a peninsula
a few miles farther inland. But at the period of
our tale, it was the abode only of the sea-gull, who
nested in the crevices of the cliffs, and bears, and
wolves, who mingled their howlings with the roaring
of the tempests.

The storm had subsided, yet the waves rolled landward
with violence, dashing against the cliffs with a
loud noise, flinging the spray high over their summits
and reverberating in hollow sounds through its deep
caverns.

The rising sun shone cheerfully upon the scene, dissipating

the hurrying clouds, and shedding an enlivening
radiance over nature.

Firmly wedged between two rocks, at the extremity
of the southern point of the cape, lay the wreck,
its masts broken off, a jury-mast, upon which a sail
was brailed up, and only a portion of the hull visible
above the waves, which rolling continually over it,
surged against the overhanging rocks.

The only living being upon which the sun shone,
was a young man, the sole survivor of the ill-fated
bark, who, pale from fatigue—his dark hair and garments
heavy and dripping with brine—was laboriously
ascending from the wreck, the sides of the rock, to
escape the surge, which, several times, nearly washed
him off into the sea.

With a bold eye and a strong arm, although nearly
exhausted, he still clung to such projections as the face
of the cliff afforded; and soon gained a secure footing
upon the summit of a flat rock, beyond the reach of
the waves. Here, he bent devoutly on one knee, and
lifted his eyes and hands in a prayer of thankfulness
for his deliverance.

Whilst in this attitude, a female figure, flying, rather
than running, along the verge of the cliff above
him, intercepted his vision. Surprised, he followed it
a moment with his eyes, when it disappeared in a
crevice of the promontory. The next moment, another
form clad like an Indian hunter, with equal speed,
as if in pursuit, bounded along the cliff and was also
lost to his sight in the gorge.

An instant of surprise and expectation elapsed,
when the airy and graceful figure he had first seen—a
young and beautiful Indian maiden, issued from the
gap which for a few seconds had concealed her, and
with the fleetness of a dove pursued by a hawk, approached
the spot where he still kneeled. Her raven
hair flew wildly about her head, and her robe of variegated
feathers fluttered like wings around her person.

Over the sharp-pointed rocks and slippery sea-weed
she bounded safely, and was darting past him with
the air of one who would plunge headlong into the
sea, when her eye caught the form of the youth.

She suddenly checked her flight, and gazed upon
him for a moment with a look of timidity and indecision—one
foot advanced as if she would still fly,
and a hand extended towards him entreatingly. For
an instant, like a beautiful statue, she stood in this attitude,
and then, with strange confidence advanced towards
him—rested one hand upon the rock by which
he kneeled—gazed steadily into his face for a second,
and then with the unsuspecting confidence of a child
who fears no danger, softly and timidly placed her
hand upon his arm, while her dark eyes full of eloquent
pleading, silently sought his protection.

The youth, at once, understood this language, more
eloquent than that of the tongue or pen. Scarcely had
they interchanged this mutual understanding and confidence,
when the young warrior, Anasca, who had torn
her from the corpse of the prophet, and borne her to his
tribe, who were then hunting on the south shore of
the Casco, from whom she had just escaped, preferring
death to a union with one she loved not—appeared in
sight, his eye flashing with rage, and his arm extended
in the act of launching his hunting-spear.

The stranger drew from his breast a small Genoese
stiletto, sprung to his feet, and met him face to face.
The surprise of the Indian was unlimited! The sudden
appearance of one of a race he had never before
seen—his hostile attitude—his manifest design to protect
the lovely and trembling fugitive, combined with
a recollection of the prophecy of the dying seer, paralysed
and fixed him to the spot, with astonishment and
dismay.

As he stood thus under the influence of these emotions,
the youth sprang upon him and seized his spear. The
act restored him to his self-possession. He became

once more the warrior, whose name—Anasca, The
fearless—he had won by his prowess and deeds of
arms, by which he had already signalised himself
above the warriors and preceding chieftains of his
tribe.

For a few moments the two young combatants contended,
with all their skill and bravery, when with
a well-aimed blow of his stiletto the youth laid the
young chief dead at his feet.

With a cry of joy, Lina rushed into the arms of her
preserver.

The warriors of the Penobscot tribe had assembled
upon the island in the river which bears their name,
where their chief resided, and the national councils
convened—to consult upon the expediency of making
an excursion upon the Kennebecs, for the recovery
of their chief's daughter, and to avenge the insult
they had received. In the midst of their deliberations
a birch canoe was discovered ascending the
river, with a small white sail, such as the oldest warrior
had never before seen, spread to the south wind
and containing two persons. As no danger was to be
apprehended from so small a party, the chief and his
warriors awaited its approach in silence.

As the boat came nearer, a visible emotion was
manifest among the spectators.

“It is the chief's daughter!”

“It is Lina!”

“My child! my daughter!” cried the old chief,
rushing to the strand, where he embraced his child,
as she bounded from the canoe into his extended
arms.

Her companion who had been concealed by the canvass
sail he had taken from the wreck, to forward their
escape, after, with Lina's guidance he had secured one
of the boats of Anasca's tribe, now stepped upon the

beach; and baring his head, he placed his hand upon
his heart, in token of amity.

The chief started back with an exclamation of surprise
at his strange beauty and attire, and in the first
emotion of his feelings, fell with his face to the ground,
followed in this act of reverence, by all the warriors
surrounding him, who shared his astonishment and
superstition.

“It is the Good Spirit of the Mountain!” at length
exclaimed the chief arising from his posture of
adoration. “It is he, to whom the holy prophet many
moons ago, bade me resign my authority, my daughter
and my religion, if I would preserve them all!”

And as he ceased speaking, he placed his bow and
quiver, spear and coronet of feathers at the feet of the
young Englishman. Then taking the hand of his
daughter, he placed it in that of the youth, and commanding
his warriors to yield them obedience and allegiance,
he, slowly, and with his hands clasped over
his breast, retired through the crowd, who silently and
with reverence gazed wonderingly after his retreating
form. Secluding himself on the holy mountain, he
there passed a life of devotion, having, after the abdication
of his power, been converted to the Christian
faith, by his daughter, who became a convert to the
religion of her husband.

The aboriginal tribes of New-England, with but
one exception are now nearly extinct. The warlike
and ambitious Kennebecs have melted away like snow.
The Penobscots still exist, inhabitants and possesors
of the river-island, originally and still the seat of their
national councils, and the abode of their chief. Their
existence and independence are acknowledged by the
state which includes their territory, and the delegates
have represented them in her legislative conventions.

They are devout Catholics, and in a neat chapel
erected upon their island, worship the God of the
Christians.

They are governed by a young Chieftainess, whose
personal charms bear testimony to those of Lina, her
lovely ancestress, the bride of the exiled Charles, and
which if tradition says truly, are transmitted to her descendant.

The graves of the two lovers, who died—in the
spirit of that love which will bear no separation—
within a few hours of one another, are still pointed
out by the aged warriors of the tribe, in a grove of
dark pines, on the site of the sacred fane of their ancestors,
and near the entrance to the cave where dwelt
the venerable Prophet of the Holy Mountain.