 | Koningsmarke, the long Finne |  |
6. BOOK SIXTH.
1. CHAPTER I.
In the course of our relaxations from the labours
of this stupendous work, we the other
day, while lounging, as is our custom, about a
worthy bookseller's shop, were somewhat
amused by the criticisms of a couple of smart
young gentlemen on the new novel called the
Pioneers. This they agreed in pronouncing
absolutely vulgar, a phrase than which none
other ever spoken or written, is so absolutely fatal
to a book, in the beau-monde. The smartest
of the young gentlemen maintained, with an
air of authority, that nearly all the characters of
that work were exceedingly low, the scenes and
incidents vulgar and common-place, and the
whole scope and tenor of it only fit to amuse and
edify the almanac readers, and connoisseurs in
dying speeches. The other not only assented
destitute of interest, and totally wanting in those
high-wrought scenes of guilt or misery, which
give such a zest to the fashionable novels and
plays of the present age.
We confess we were somewhat startled at
these criticisms, especially as they were uttered
by two of the best dressed young fellows we
had seen in a long time, and our coat, to say
the truth, being considerably out of date, as well as
not a little threadbare, we felt our taste and
judgment somewhat overawed upon this occasion.
Retiring to our solitary lodging, we fell
upon attempting to account for this perhaps
fashionable opinion of a work we had read with
a pleasure and interest we felt almost ashamed to
avow in the presence of such well-dressed
judges, and which, till that moment, we had
considered as one of the most agreeable, as
well as natural pictures, of a state of society
peculiar to our country, that we had ever seen.
Our early life, too, had been passed in the midst
of rural scenes and rural society, and we could
bear testimony, on the authority of our own experience,
to the truth and nature of the author's
delineations, not only of character and manners,
but of seasons and scenery. Nay, we had actually
an emigrant Frenchman, and a Squire Doolittle,
so like those introduced in the Pioneers, that
we could almost swear they were the same.
The gradual opening of the forest; the introduction
of religious worship; the establishment
of courts of justice; the new-year sports and
festivals; and the progress of a new settlement
in all its features, from a state of nature to a
state of society, was so familiar to our recollection,
that the reading of this charming work
seemed actually to present before us the picture
hitherto only preserved in the memory of the
past.
Such being the case, we did not like to hear
those characters with whom we had been accustomed
to associate, and those little incidents and
amusements which we had mingled in and
shared with such a relish, in the days of boyhood,
treated as low and vulgar. Sure we are,
that nature and simplicity are not the soils in
which such weeds are produced, and that the
manners and customs peculiar to a large portion
of the human race, however they may differ
from those of a more artificial, not to say corrupt
society, could not be justly branded with
the imputation of vulgarity.
Reflecting in retirement upon these matters,
we gradually fell into a train of reflections,
which, we believe, will in some measure account
for the condemnation bestowed upon one of our
favourite works, by the two fashionable young
gentlemen before mentioned. With certain
people, perhaps a large portion of those who
read novels, every thing which is not fashionable
is vulgar. A worthy farmer or mechanic, in a
clean white frock, and thick-soled shoes, is vulgar,
and therefore ought not to be introduced into a
genteel novel. The picture of a village group
dancing at a ball with might and main, must
also of necessity be vulgar—because they are not
fashionably dressed, and do not understand the
mysteries of the cotillion, the allemande, the
partridge run, and the pigeon wing. In short,
with this class of readers and critics, every trait
of nature, and every exhibition of manners, or
dress, which does not come up to the standard
of fashionable elegance, is of necessity low and
vulgar. Compared, indeed, with a masquerade,
where all the mysteries of intrigue are practised,
or a fashionable ball, where nakedness stares us
in the face, the country ball may be perfectly
pure and innocent; still it must be low, vulgar,
nay, indecent, because the dancers are
music, and the steps, such as would be tolerated
by a genuine fashionable reader.
If we trace this vulgar error to its source, we
shall find it, in general, flowing from a false
opinion with regard to what constitutes real
refinement. In the general estimation, refinement,
or gentility, as opposed to vulgarity,
consists not in intellectual, or moral superiority,
but in outward manners and outward splendours,
in station, title, or wealth. This opinion
is the offspring of ignorance and vulgarity
combined; and, accordingly, we shall generally
find, that those who declaim most against a
book as vulgar, are the vulgar themselves, or,
at least, those pretended persons of refinement,
who graduate gentility according to the scale
just mentioned.
This impression, with respect to the indissoluble
connexion between rank and title on one
hand, and refinement and gentility on the other,
is, perhaps, stronger in this country than elsewhere.
The imaginations of our youthful readers
are early prepared by the books which are
generally put into their hands, to estimate the
refinement of persons according to their rank
and precedence, without regarding any other
by the subsequent results of experience
and observation, because here we seldom or
never have an opportunity of correcting it, by
comparing the phantom of our imagination with
the real being whom we have been accustomed
to regard with such unqualified admiration.
Hence it is, that we are too apt to consider all the
actions of the higher orders of society, such as
kings and nobles, as perfectly genteel, and all
those of the lower degrees of people, as low and
vulgar. For this reason, too, it is absolutely
indispensable, that all the heroes, heroines, and
principal actors in our novels, and other works
of imagination, should be of a certain rank, in
order to escape the charge of vulgarity. Unfortunately
for us, in this republican country,
we have neither kings nor nobility, to render our
literature genteel; and, consequently, the writer,
who, like the author of the Pioneers, confines
himself to the homely characters of this land of
equality, instead of introducing his readers to
levees and drawing-rooms, must remain subject
to the imputation of vulgarity, unless some
other standard can be found by which to regulate
our opinions.
That there is such a standard, and that it is
If we come fairly to put the question
to the test, it will be found that the essence of
vulgarity consists, more or less, in its approaches
to what is actually vicious and indecent. It
is, in fact, much more nearly allied to morals
than to manners. Whatever approximates to
vice or indecency, or whatever leads the imagination,
by a natural connexion, to impressions
that are allied to either, is in itself, in a similar
degree, low and vulgar. Thus, when we read
of a King of Prussia getting intoxicated, and
beating his wife or his daughter, whatever
be the rank of the parties, the scene is as intrinsically
vulgar, as if it were laid in the kitchen of
a palace, or the bar of a country tavern. So,
also, when, in a late popular work of the “Great
Unknown,” we are introduced to the court of a
king, and presented with pictures of morals the
most debauched and corrupt; with titled pimps,
and prositute duchesses; with a parent seeking
to compass the purposes of revenge, by placing
his only daughter in the power of a systematic
seducer and voluptuary—not the rank of the
actors, the splendours of a court, nor the false
glitter thrown around the whole by the genius
imputation of vulgar indecency.
There is nothing of all this in the novel of
the Pioneers; neither exhibitions of high-born
or vulgar vice; and we think we may go so far
as to challenge the very best dressed of our
fashionable critics, to point out a scene or a
sentiment in that work, which, by any natural
association, will affect the imagination with
ideas of vulgar sensuality, or encourage a violation
either of decency or morality. The
whole is pure, and unsoiled by any thing of the
kind; and, for ourselves, we are not afraid to
invite a comparison, with regard to this essential
point of vulgarity, between the fireside of
the worthy Judge Temple, and the beer-drinking,
bear-baiting festivity of Kenilworth, or the
gross corruptions of the court of Charles the
Second, on both of which the most polished of
our readers banquet with such a refined gusto.
2. CHAPTER II.
It may be, 'tis—hum—
It may be, 'tis not too.”
The Muskrat and Mud-Turtle warriors returned
to their homes, bringing with them the
body of one of their chiefs, who had died of his
wounds on the second day of their journey. On
coming within hearing of the village, they uttered
the death-howl, as was their custom, to
signify that they had lost one of their number.
This howl was perfectly understood by the wives
and mothers of the tribes, who rushed forth, with
dismal shrieks, to meet the train, each one not
knowing but that she had lost a son or a husband.
The body of the chief was then placed
on the shoulders of four of the most distinguished
warriors, and carried in procession to the village,
followed by the women and old men, the
former tearing their hair and uttering shrieks,
that echoed in the recesses of the forest. The
near relations of the deceased, however, followed
of affliction, it being considered unworthy of the
fallen chief for his kindred to weep over his fate.
They dressed the corpse, seated it on a mat, in
the posture to which the warrior was most accustomed
when alive, and, sitting in a circle around
him, pronounced his funeral eulogy, by relating,
one by one, his exploits in battle, as well as those
of his ancestors. When these were finished, they
chanted a sort of funeral hymn, something to
the following effect, as nearly as it can be rendered
from their native language:
Thou look'st as thou didst before;
Thou seemest a man, yet art none;
Thou art gone, to return no more.
Thou art, yet hast ceased to be;
Thy form and thy face appear;
Thou hast eyes, yet thou canst not see;
Thou hast ears, yet thou canst not hear.
Was it thou that talk'd with us erewhile?
Was it thou that went with us to fight?
Was it thou that shared battle and toil?
Was it thou that wert with us last night?
Yes! thou art here, and yet art away;
We see thee, and yet thou art not;
And nothing remains but what's nought.
That something which made thee alive,
Where is it—what was it—where, where?
Twas a spirit—that still must survive
In the stars, or the sky, or the air.
To that spirit these honours we pay—
That spirit which still hears us mourn—
That something which ne'er shall decay,
That something which ne'er shall return.
The body of the red chief was then carried to
a hut prepared for the purpose, where it remained
twenty-four hours, during which time the
tribes were engaged in feasting and dancing.
It was then carried to the grave, and buried,
sitting upright, with the face to the rising sun.
The friends and relatives threw the arms of the
dead warrior into the grave, with pipes, tobacco,
corn, and some pieces of wampum. The
grave was then closed, and the name of the deceased,
from that time, never uttered by either
his relatives or friends.
During the absence of Koningsmarke on the
war expedition, Christina and the Indian maid
did little else but ponder upon the dangers to
which he was exposed, and weep. They still
consciousness of rivalry, that gradually arose in
the bosom of each, prompted them to seek in
separate solitudes the indulgence of their feelings.
At times, Aonetti, after an absence of several
hours, during which she wandered in the
woods, or along the bank of the river, would
return and weep on the bosom of Christina.
“I love you,” she would say—“I love you; but
I know that you will be the cause of my unhappiness.
Some time or other you will go home,
and he will follow you. I shall then be left
alone; I shall lose my love, and there will be
none left even to pity me.” Christina, safe in
the consciousness of her love being amply returned,
could afford to pity her rival; and she
did pity her, although she could not help feeling
a certain awkward sensation, that sometimes
caused her to return the caresses of the
Indian maid with a coldness that did not always
escape her notice. “I tire you,” would Aonetti
exclaim, and retire to weep, and sing her
melancholy songs.
How long the mutual friendship of these two
innocent girls would have continued to withstand
the jealousies of love, it is impossible to tell, for
now a more formidable rival announced herself,
The Indian widow, who had saved the life of
Koningsmarke by claiming him as her slave,
being smitten with the relation of his prowess in
the late battle, and his desperate encounter with
the two Indians, made known to the chiefs and
sages her intention of choosing him for a husband,
in the room of the one she had lost. This
proposal was received with approbation by all,
and preparations were made accordingly to celebrate
the wedding with great pomp.
This news came like cold steel to the hearts of
the two young women, who could now fully
sympathize with each other. “We shall now
mourn together,” exclaimed Aonetti; “we shall
both be wretched. Let us never part.” Koningsmarke,
however disinclined to this match,
knew that if he discovered any unwillingness,
the insult would be felt by all the tribes, and resented
with the most inflexible severity. He
therefore appeared highly sensible of the happiness
and honour that awaited him, resolving, at
the same time, to lose not a moment in concerting
with Christina the means of immediate
escape. Watching an opportunity, while she
was taking a solitary walk, and when she was
shedding tears alone by the side of the stream.
“Christina, why do you weep?” exclaimed
the youth. Christina, started, and hastily wiped
her eyes.
“I have lost my home, my father, and all
that I loved, or that loved me. They have forgotten
me too, or they would, ere this, have sought
me until I was found. I shall never see them
again. Is it any wonder that I weep?”
Koningsmarke sat down by her side, took
her hand, and kissed it. “Thou hast yet one
friend who will never desert thee. I have been
as the son of thy poor father; I will be as the
brother of his child; dearer and nearer than a
brother, if thou wilt give me leave.”
“Nearer and dearer thou canst not be,” replied
the gentle maid, withdrawing her hand.
“The husband of another can be no nearer to
me than a brother. Thou wilt become a savage
in thy heart, and the parent of savages.”
“Nay, give me thy hand,” he replied; “I
swear by the gratitude I owe thy parent, by the
love I bear to thee, by all my hopes here and
beyond the grave, I will never leave thee, nor
forsake thee.”
“But thou wilt wed with another; and—
and wept on his shoulder.
“Hear me, Christina,” cried the youth.
“Were the stake and the fagot the alternative,
as I have reason to believe they are, I would not
wed any but thee. I sought you to tell you
so—to concert means for our escape—to place
all on one cast—to live for thee, or to die with
thee. Darest thou flee with me to-night, and
risk the chance of being retaken and tortured at
the stake?”
“I can dare all,” replied Christina, “but only
to see thee in the arms of another.”
Koningsmarke held her to his breast for a
moment, with a feeling of unutterable tenderness
and gratitude, and then proceeded to explain
his plan for escaping. By occasionally questioning
the savages, he had, without exciting
their suspicions, gained sufficient information,
as he supposed, to enable him to shape his
course, so as to strike the Delaware somewhere
in the vicinity of Elsingburgh and Coaquanock.
In pursuance of this plan, it was arranged, that,
while the Indians were feasting and carousing,
as they proposed to do that night, in honour of
his approaching nuptials, they should, separately,
as soon as the savages became intoxicated,
where they now sat, and from thence pursue the
route that Koningsmarke supposed would lead
them the nearest way home.
“Christina,” said the youth, solemnly, “I
cannot disguise from thee the toils thou wilt be
obliged to sustain, and the imminent danger of
our being overtaken, and tortured to death by
slow degrees. To me all this is nothing—but
for thee—O God!—to see thy snow-white skin
blackened in the fire—thy beauteous limbs the
sport of barbarous cruelty—thy precious blood
—thy life, dearer than all this earth—dearer
than heaven itself—wasting—wasting away, by
drops—breath by breath! Think ere thou shalt
decide. We must now separate, for fear of observation.”
“If,” said Christina, “the fatigue should bear
hard upon me, I will call to my aid the hope
that I shall meet my poor father ere long. If
we are overtaken, I will try not to despair; and
if we are placed together at the stake, I will endeavour
to support the torture, by thy example,
and God's help.”
“Let us part, then, at once,” replied the
youth; “and Heaven prosper us this night.
before me, wait, and be not afraid.”
He kissed her cheek, and they returned, separately
and at different times, to the village,
where, luckily, owing to the preparations for
the feast, which occupied the attention of all,
their absence had not been noticed.
3. CHAPTER III.
And then they couldn't find him;
He ran fourteen miles in fifteen days,
And never look'd behind him.”
The night set in with rout and revelry, with
drinking, feasting, dancing, and shouts, that rent
the solitudes of the forest, and silenced the very
howlings of its hungry tenants. On these occasions,
it is usual to appoint persons to guard the
arms of the warriors, and keep themselves sober,
lest, in the mad excesses of drunkenness, the barbarous
bacchanals should get possession of them,
and maim or murder one another. Koningsmarke,
at his particular request, was appointed
to this station, and Lob Dotterel, much against
the wishes of the youth, appointed his assistant.
The latter part of this arrangement embarrassed
Koningsmarke not a little, since the company of
the high constable of Elsingburgh rendered his
secret departure much more difficult, and he
escape, for fear of being betrayed.
As the night waned away, the scene of savage
debauchery became more disgusting and
horrible. Some were howling an unintelligible
jargon, some rolling upon the earth like drunken
swine, and others venting their excited passions
in struggles, in which the madness of rage
was contrasted with the imbecility of beastly intoxication.
By degrees, one after another, they
sunk into a deep sleep, and all remained quiet.
Now was the eventful hour; but the presence
of Lob Dotterel, whom Koningsmarke had
vainly attempted to persuade to retire, and leave
him to watch alone, restrained his departure.
At length his patience became exhausted, and,
desiring that trusty officer to await his return a
few moments, he seized a gun, a tomahawk, and
a knife, having previously provided himself with
ammunition, and hastily departed.
Approaching the appointed spot, his heart
beat with uncontrollable apprehension at not
seeing Christina. He pronounced her name, and
he saw her white figure glide from behind a
tree. “I thought you would never come,” said
the trembling girl, as she panted in his arms.
“To hold thee thus,” whispered Koningsmarke,
ever; but there is not a moment to be lost; let
us away, and God be our guide.”
They struck into the forest, in the direction
marked out by the Long Finne, and had
proceeded about half a mile, when they thought
they heard footsteps behind them.
“We are pursued,” cried Christina—“we
are lost.”
“Hush!” whispered the youth—“perhaps it
is only some wild animal.”
“Heaven grant it may be,” said Christina;
“the wolf or the bear would be more welcome
than man.”
They stopped, and listened in breathless anxiety.
Some one was heard trampling slowly
through the bushes, but whether man or beast
could not be discerned, as the moon had just
gone behind a cloud. Presently it emerged,
and they could see the figure of a man, at a little
distance, watching them.
“He must be quieted,” cried Koningsmarke,
and, grasping his gun, advanced a few steps towards
the figure.
“Oh don't kill him,” cried Christina; “perhaps
it is some friend.”
“I will know soon,” he replied. “Whoever
you are, speak, or die.”
“A friend,” exclaimed the figure, in the well-known
voice of honest Lob Dotterel. “I watched
you,” said the high constable, coming up, “for
I observed you had something in hand. You
would not trust me—but I will be true as steel.
I mean to go with you, and share your fate, be
it what it may.”
“Thou art right welcome, Lob,” quoth the
Long Finne—“but every moment is a life to
one or all of us. Pass we on.”
Alternately assisting, supporting, and sometimes
carrying Christina, they passed rapidly on
their way, and, by the dawn of the morning,
had proceeded several miles, without meeting
with any interruption, except what nature presented.
Christina complained of fatigue, and
it was agreed to rest a little while, as they supposed
the savages would sleep late that morning,
from the effects of the night's debauchery.
They accordingly sat down, and partook of
some dried venison, with which Koningsmarke
had supplied himself. In a few minutes they
heard the report of a gun, and, an instant after,
a wounded deer bounded past them, and fell dead
within a few yards of where they sat. Koningsmarke
their feet at once, and stood ready for what
might follow. A few moments elapsed in this
state of suspense, when they observed two Indians,
armed with guns, approaching among the
trees. Quick as lightning, on observing the
two white-men, they darted each behind a separate
tree, and, in almost as little time, the
others did the like, Koningsmarke snatching
Christina, and placing her behind him, under
cover of the tree.
Each party now remained, with their guns
cocked, watching till the exposure of some part
of the body of an adversary should give them
an opportunity of firing with effect. It has
been observed as a characteristic of the Indians,
that they never willingly come to a personal
contest with a white-man, or engage, in fact, in
any way, if they can avoid it, till some advantage
presents itself. In this state of awful suspense,
Koningsmarke seized an opportunity to
motion to the high constable to follow his example.
He then took off his hat, and waved
it, as sportsmen do when they wish to decoy a
duck, alternately holding it out from behind the
tree, and snatching it back again. His example
was promptly followed by Lob, with his
in a deep forest, the two Indians were deceived
by this stratagem, and, believing it to be
their antagonists thus peeping from behind their
covert, fired at the same instant. Both hat and
cap fell to the ground, and the two Indians rushed
out, to use the tomahawk and scalping knife
on their fallen foes. As they came on heedlessly,
the two white-men took a deliberate aim, one
at each, and fired. The foremost fell dead; the
other bounded into the woods, uttering the howl
of pain and baffled rage, and disappeared.
Instantly loading their guns, they proceeded
on their journey, with the increased apprehension,
arising from the possibility that the
wounded savage might reach the village, and
alarm the warriors into immediate pursuit. In
passing by the dead body of the savage, Christina,
influenced and impelled by that fascination
which horror exercises over the human mind,
involuntarily turned to look at it, and recognised
the features of Aonetti's brother, who she
now recollected had been out several days on a
hunting expedition. “Poor Aonetti!” she
mentally exclaimed, “I was born to be your
bane”—and Christina at that moment forgot
kind-hearted sister.
Little occurred during the rest of the day, except
increasing toils and difficulties in the march,
accompanied by increasing weariness. They
made a sort of litter of the branches, and, from
time to time, carried the weary girl upon their
shoulders. But their progress, slow at first,
became more slow as the day wore away, so
that night overtook them before they had completed
twenty miles, according to their best
computation. The apprehension of pursuit, and
the danger of being overtaken, now yielded to
the demands of nature, and they were forced to
take some rest. They formed a rude shelter,
with the bark and branches of trees, for Christina,
while they laid down, one on each side of
the entrance. Weariness soon closed their eyes,
in spite of every motive for wakefulness. They
slept for several hours, and, probably, would
have slept till morning, had they not been
roused by the knell of death. Starting up, the
two white-men found themselves, at the same instant,
seized, and pinioned, with their hands behind
their backs, before they could possibly
make any resistance.
The wretched Christina, whom the sight of
yell, had struck into a temporary insensibility to
all around her, was seized, and, sometimes dragged,
sometimes carried, forced along with her unfortunate
companions, towards the village from
whence they had attempted to escape. They
passed by the spot where the affray of the morning
took place, and, pointing to the dead body
of the chief, whirled their tomahawks in the air,
over the heads of the two prisoners, giving them
to understand, at the same time, they had not
sacrificed them on the spot, because they meant
to torture them to death. Taking up the dead
body, they then marched in procession to the
village, chanting their death song by the way.
4. CHAPTER IV.
And lyghted uppe ye pyle,
And daune'd and sunge ryghte merrilie,
But he could'ent rayse a smyle.”
On arriving at the village, the procession was
met, according to custom, by a crowd of women
and children, who, amidst yells and shrieks, denounced
the most bitter imprecations upon the
wretched fugitives, and were with difficulty
prevented from putting them to instant death.
Among the most violent of these, were the widow
whom Koningsmarke was to have married,
and the mother of Aonetti; the one maddened
with jealous rage, the other, by the wild, unrestrained
feelings of a savage mother, who had
lost her only son. The Indian maid did not
appear; whether detained by her own feelings,
or from some other cause, we cannot tell.
The savages, however wild, and free from the
ordinary restraints of civilized society, had yet
some forms of justice. A council of the chiefs
the case of the three captives taken into consideration.
After a grave debate, it was unanimously
decided, that Koningsmarke and Lob
Dotterel, having both been solemnly adopted
into the tribe, and received as brothers—having
deserted them, and, in so doing, taken the life of
one of their bravest chiefs, should perish by the
torture that very day. With respect to the poor
white maid, there was at first some doubts as to
the degree of her participation in the guilt of
her companions. While balancing on her fate,
Aonetti rushed into the council room, with
dishevelled hair, and frantic gestures. She
threw herself, one by one, at the feet of the old
men, embraced their knees, and claimed of them
the pardon of her adopted sister. “She is innocent,”
cried the gentle maid; “she only
sought to join her father. Which of you would
blame your daughter if she tried to escape from
the white-men, and come to you? I have lost
my only brother, and I am about to lose—but
spare me my sister, that I may have some one to
love.”
The tears and supplications of the Indian
maid fell upon the hard hearts of the old men,
and with some difficulty they consented that
adopted sister. The moment Aonetti heard
their decision, she ran, with the lightness of a
deer, to the hut where the three captives were
confined, and, making her way in, threw herself
into the arms of her poor Mimi.
“Thou art safe—thou art spared, my sister,”
she exclaimed. “And our friends?”—panted
Christina, in almost unintelligible accents.
The Indian maid, as if struck with a sudden
pang of recollection, slowly turned, looked at
Koningsmarke, and then hid her face in the bosom
of Christina. So expressive was her look
and action, that each of the wretched prisoners
understood what she could not speak.
“'Tis well,” said Koningsmarke; “a life of
wandering, wretchedness, and poverty, in the
old world, is now to be brought to a miserable
end in the new. For myself—but you, Oh!
you, my poor Christina, what will become of
you? Thy pure and innocent soul is redeemed;
but who shall redeem thy body from this woful
captivity?”
“Death,” said Christina. “Dost thou think
I can know of thy tortures—of thy death—of
the furies tearing thy flesh—of the flaming
brands being thrust into thy body—the coals—
bare head, till madness, insensibility and death
relieve thee—dost thou think I can bear all this,
and live? No, no—I shall die, if not with thee,
but a little while after thee.”
“But live, I beseech thee, Christina,” said Koningsmarke,
“for the sake of thy father, who”—
“My father! I shall never see him more.
Perhaps ere this his gray hairs have been
brought in sorrow to the grave. Perhaps—but
it matters little to him or me. When you are
gone, who shall guide me homeward? who risk
his life to restore me to a parent, even if he
lives? No, no—I shall never see him more!
I have nothing to live for, since you are lost to me.”
“My hours are numbered,” replied Koningsmarke,
as he heard a distant shout—“Come
hither, Christina—nearer—yet nearer. My
arms are pinioned,” continued he, with a melancholy
smile—“you need not fear me.” She
approached, and leaned her head on his shoulder.
“God bless thee, my dear one, for never
blessing fell upon a more innocent head than
thine. In this last hour, tell me one thing.
Had we returned to Elsingburgh in safety together,
wouldst thou have joined thy fate with
have tried to forget the long-past time, and lived
only in the future?”
“In the presence of Heaven, I would,” replied
Christina—“I would, had the shade of
my mother haunted our bridal bed. My love
and my gratitude should have conquered my remembrance
of the errors of thy youth.”
“Then seal it with a last kiss; and now,
come what will, by the blessing of God, I stand
prepared for whatsoever may happen. A little
while, and we shall meet again—or I have been
dreaming all my life.”
“Aonetti,” continued he, to the Indian maid,
who had stood in a distant corner, with her face
from them, weeping—“Aonetti, come hither.”
She approached. “Take your sister's hand,
and promise to be kind to her when I am gone.”
The Indian maid shook her head. “What!
will you not promise me this, Aonetti?”
“She must be kind to me,” replied the Indian
maid, “for I shall be more wretched than Mimi.
She will remember thy love, but I shall only remember
thy death.”
“But you will promise to be kind to her?”
repeated Koningsmarke.
“Yes, yes, if I can remember any one but
thee and myself,” said Aonetti.
At that moment the door flew open with violence,
and a crowd rushed in. They seized
Koningsmarke and the poor high constable,
who, ever since his recapture, had been in a
sort of stupor, and hurried them towards the
river side, where, on a little level greensward,
were placed two stakes, around which, at a distance
of three or four paces, were placed piles
of wood. In their progress to the funeral
pyres, Koningsmarke and Lob Dotterel were
harassed and beaten with sticks by the women
and boys, who vented their rage in every possible
variety of injury and insult. Among these,
the widow, whose affections had been treated
with such contemptuous ingratitude, was the
most conspicuous. With dishevelled hair, and
ferocious gestures, she followed him step by
step, taunting him with the beauties of his
white woman, alarming his fears by threats of
terrible vengeance on poor Christina, and
triumphing in the prospect of his approaching
tortures.
“Look!” cried the virago; “yonder is the
stake and the pile; I shall hear thee groan—I
shall see the hot brands, the live coals scorch
enter thy flesh—I shall see thy limbs tremble
like a woman—and I shall laugh, when the
drops of agony roll down thy forehead.”
Arrived at the stake, they proceeded to strip
the two victims, with the exception of their
waists, and to paint them black with charcoal
and grease. They were then fastened to the
stake, and, all being ready, the horrible ceremony
was about to begin, when Aonetti came
running franticly to the spot. Christina had
sunk into a temporary insensibility, when the
crowd carried off Koningsmarke, and, on
coming to herself, besought Aonetti to make
one last effort to reprieve the unfortunate youth.
“It is too late now,” said the Indian maid—
“ 'tis too late; they will spurn me; they will
beat me away. They are mad with rage and
cruelty.”
“Then I will go,” hastily exclaimed Christina,
starting up at the same time. “Perhaps
they will pity my sorrows.”
“Pity!” said Aonetti, despondingly—“Pity!
they know it not. If you seek to stop them,
they will tear you to pieces.”
“No matter—no matter—my heart is torn to
not. Come, come—'twill be too late.”
“'Tis too late already—the smoke begins to
rise—nothing can save him now.”
“But we can die too. Let us go—let us go,
or I shall go mad.”
“He killed my brother, and he loves not
me,” said Aonetti; “yet I will make one more
effort, even though they do spurn me. Stay
here, my sister, and I will soon return.” Christina
had again sunk into a temporary insensibility,
which prevented her following.
As the Indian maid approached, she called
upon them to stay a moment, ere they lighted
the piles. The noise was hushed, by the
command of some of the sages who were
presiding at this solemn ceremony, for so it was
reckoned by the Indians. Aonetti then urged
every motive she could think of, to induce them
to spare the two victims. She stated the rewards
that would be given, if they carried them
to the Big Hats at Coaquanock, and the terrible
vengeance the white-men would take, when
they heard of the sacrifice of their brothers.
“If you spare them,” said she, “their friends
will ransom them with great kegs of spirits, with
tobacco pipes, powder, shot, and every thing
will find you out one day or other, and
then wo to the red-men of the forest—wo to
their wives and their children—to themselves
and their posterity. Every drop of blood you
shed this day, I prophecy, will be repaid with
rivers of blood. Spare these white-men, and
let the tall youth be unto me the brother I have
lost.”
“Thou meanest a husband,” exclaimed the
Indian widow, who had listened with horrible
impatience to Aonetti's arguments. “Thou
wouldst take to thy arms the white-man whose
hands are red with the blood of thine only brother!
Shame of thy sex, and shame of the Indian
name! I know thee and thy wishes; I have
watched thy tears and thy sighs, thy lonely
rambles, thy words, nay, thy very looks. I
demand that the shade of my murdered husband,
of this wretched girl's murdered brother,
of all those who have fallen victims to the cursed
arts and bloody policy of the white-men, be appeased,
by the sacrifice of these deserters from
their adopted tribe. Else, may the wrath of the
Great Spirit confound our tribe, and his malediction
sweep you from the earth.”
These words were answered by a shout of
the acquiescence of the old men present, who
again decided that the ceremony should proceed.
It was now one of those bright, clear,
still afternoons, which are common in the month
of September. There was not a breath of air
to curl the river, or wave the leaves of the forest,
nor a cloud to be seen in the sky. At this
moment, when they were about to set fire to the
funeral pile, a sudden burst of thunder, loud and
sharp, arrested them. The eyes of all were
turned upwards, with a sensation of awe and
surprise. From the most enlightened philosopher,
down to the most ignorant savage;
from man, to the birds of the air, the beasts of
the field, it would seem there is something in the
great operations of nature, such as tempests,
earthquakes, and thunder storms, that excites
the apprehensions, or at least the awe, of
both reason and instinct. It is not alone a fear
of the effects of these terrible demonstrations of
irresistible power, that causes this cowering or
elevation of the faculties; it is, that by a direct
operation, the mind is led to a contemplation of
an infinite Being, by witnessing the display of
infinite power.
There was not a cloud to be seen in the sky,
clap to have the appearance of something altogether
supernatural. The flends who carried
the lighted brands to fire the funeral pyres, involuntarily
paused, and the Indian maid, taking
advantage of the moment, cried out:
“Hark! the Great Spirit bears testimony
against this deed. You heard his voice in the
air. It came not from the clouds, for there is
not a cloud in the skies. It is the great Master
of life that cries out from above against his
people that have offended him. In his name I
command you to stop—in his name I command
you to spare these white-men!”
The figure of the little Indian maid appeared
to dilate with the dignity of inspiration. Her
eyes were turned in eager gaze towards the
heavens, and she seemed as if she actually saw
the visible form of the Being whose judgment
she had invoked. The frantic rage of the women
and boys yielded to the influence of a superstitious
awe. The elders consulted together
for a moment, and then decided that the ceremony
should be suspended till they could offer
a sacrifice, and ascertain the will of the Great
Spirit. The crowd then dispersed, disappointed,
yet not daring to complain; and Koningsmarke,
the place whence they came, after being
washed, and permission given to dress themselves.
Here they were left, guarded without
by sentinels, to await the result of the appeal to
the Great Spirit.
5. CHAPTER V.
Whom I no more shall see;
I die, but I am not afraid,
Because I die for thee.
“Then came Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego.”
Christina passed the interval between the
departure and return of the Indian maid, in that
state of vague and indefinite horror, in which the
human mind, as it were, takes refuge from its
miseries. The events of the two preceding
days had so harassed her mind, and worn down
her strength, as to produce that state of moral
and physical weakness, which diminishes the
acuteness of suffering, by its very incapacity of
resistance. The past, the present, and the future,
offered themselves to her mind, rather
as horrible visions than as cruel realities; and
when she saw the return of Koningsmarke, she
hardly comprehended the fact, that he had at
least received a temporary reprieve. By degrees,
to an irresistible drowsiness, and, supported
in the arms of Aonetti, she sunk into a long and
quiet sleep, from which she awoke perfectly restored
to a distinct comprehension of her present
situation.
In the mean time, the old men of the tribes
had called their principal priest or conjurer, to
take the usual measures for ascertaining the will
of the Great Spirit, in relation to the fate of
the two white-men. A fire was kindled on the
greensward, around which Mackate Ockola, or
the Black Gown, danced, and howled, and indulged
in every possible contortion of visage,
until he had exhausted his strength, and worked
up his mind into a species of real, or imaginary,
or pretended inspiration. From this he gradually
fell into a trance, which lasted about half
an hour, during which time the assembled old
men sat in a profound and awful silence. At
length Mackate Ockola seemed to awake, and
to remain for a while, staring around, as if unconscious
of his situation. Recovering by degrees,
he started upon his feet, and cried out in
a hollow voice—“I have seen the Great Spirit.
He came to me in a dream, in the form of a
great eagle, and said, Listen to me, Mackate
shall not appear and pass away, ere the white-men
will grow into numbers like the leaves on
the trees. As they grow in numbers, my people
will decay and disappear. They will go
out like the embers of an almost extinguished
fire, until they have no habitations but their
graves; and even in these they will not be suffered
to rest, for the white-men, not content
with what grows on the surface of the earth, will
tear up her bosom, and lay your bones bleaching
in the sun and the wind, in search of riches
and food. The deer will disappear from your
forests; the fishes will be shut out from your
streams, by these people, who build dams like
the beavers; and you will starve on your hunting
grounds. You cannot avoid your destiny,
but you may delay it, by destroying those,
whose children, if they live, will destroy yours.
Go and tell my people, that for every drop of the
white-man's blood they shall spare, their children
and their children's children will pay a
thousand-fold.
This cruel message, the fabrication of the
priest, decided the fate of Koningsmarke and the
luckless high constable of Elsingburgh. It is
impossible for us to tell what were the motives
the two captives. But it may be observed here,
that the early systems of religion, in all nations
and countries with which we have any acquaintance,
are more or less tinged with blood.
Everywhere the priests have demanded victims
to propitiate their bloody deities, and everywhere
the altars have been funeral pyres. The
Mexican priests demanded human sacrifices;
in other places, the blood of animals sufficed;
and even among the Bramins, whose religion
forbids the shedding of the blood of animals,
human victims are encourged by the priests,
to expose themselves to every species of torture
at the feast of the Juggernaut, and to offer up
their lives on the funeral pile. Superstition
and fanaticism, in truth, delight in blood; and
in all ages and nations their steps may be
traced by that infallible mark. It was reserved
for the mild and merciful system of religion
under which we live, to banish all atonements of
blood, all sacrifices of animals; to make the
offerings of the heart a substitute for the torture
of victims; and, had not the love of wealth, the
lust of power, and the pride of opinion, marred
the beautiful system, so as to wrest its precepts
to the ourposes of avarice and ambition, it had
snow-white surplice being sprinkled with the
blood of a single victim. But here, alas!
as in all preceding systems of faith, the avarice,
the ambition, the bigotry, and the pride
of opinion, which seem the besetting sins
of man, have exercised their pernicious influence,
and, first and last, caused the shedding
of more blood than has ever smoked upon all the
Pagan altars of the world. Thus has the purest,
the most mild, and the most perfect system of
humanity ever propounded to mankind, been
impiously made the pretext for every species of
cruelty and bloodshed; and, what is perhaps
still more to be lamented, its divine precept of
love to all our fellow creatures, converted into
a warrant, not to say a duty, to hate all those
who do not think and believe exactly like ourselves.
But to return from this digression, which we
hope the reader will pardon. Koningsmarke and
his companions in affliction remained ignorant
of the decision we have just recorded. We will
not say happily ignorant, since, perhaps, actual
certainty would have been preferable to the
doubts which harassed their minds. When
Christina awoke from her long sleep, with mind
before she came to a full consciousness of
her situation. “Where am I?” exclaimed she.
“In the arms of thy sister,” whispered the Indian
maid.
Christina looked around the hut. By the
dim light of an almost extinguished fire, she
observed two figures in a sitting posture, leaning
against the wall. “Who is that?” whispered
she to Aonetti.
“It is he,” replied the Indian maid.
“Oh God! they have spared him then,”
shrieked poor Christina; “my sister has prevailed,
and he is safe!”
“Safe till to-morrow,” replied the other.
“No longer?”
“No longer. To-morrow I know not what
may become of them. Our priest is to decide,
and he never leans to mercy.”
Koningsmarke, observing that Christina was
awake, called out to her—
“Christina! wilt thou not come near me?”
“Come thou to me,” replied she, preserving,
even in this trying moment, that sentiment of
delicate propriety which never forsakes a virtuous
female.
“I cannot—I am fastened to this spot.”
Christina approached, and, by the light of
the fire, perceived he was bound to one of the
posts that supported the simple edifice.
“He asks not for me,” thought Aonetti, and
wept in secret.
In this, which each seemed to have a presentiment
was the last hour they should spend together,
for the signs of day now began to appear,
Koningsmarke and Christina preserved towards
each other a deep solemnity of deportment,
from which all the little outward endearments
of love were banished.
“I have a presentiment,” said Koningsmarke,
“that thou wilt yet live to be received
to the arms of thy father.”
“To the arms of my Heavenly Father,” returned
Christina, “for none other shall I ever behold.
If the sun sees thee die this morn at its rising,
it will set at night on my breathless corse.”
“Nay,” returned Koningsmarke, “say not
so, my best love. Thou hast motives to live,
and duties to perform, when I am gone. Thou
hast known me but a little while; thy father
thou hast known from the first breath of that
life which he gave thee. Return the blessing,
and live for him.”
“I shall never see him more,” cried Christina.
“When I am gone,” continued the other,
“and when you see your father, tell him that I
remembered his kindness, even when the flaming
brand was pointed at my naked throat, and the
coals of fire were about being poured on my
uncovered head. Tell him that I protected
you while I could—that I exposed my life to
preserve yours—and that I perished in a last
effort to restore you to his arms. Should he
ever know what thou knowest, he will forgive
me, as thou hast done, for the sake of what I
have done and tried to do for thee. Wilt thou
bear him this message from me, Christina?”
Christina could not answer, for her emotions
almost stopped her breath. Her eyes were dry,
but her heart wept tears of blood. For a while
she remained insensible in his arms. At that
moment the door of the hut was opened, it being
now broad daylight, and Koningsmarke, with
his unfortunate companion, whose stupor became
every hour more profound, were untied
from the post, and conducted out of the hut.
The youth motioned to Aonetti, and, pressing
the inanimate form of Christina to his heart, as
for the last time, imprinted a kiss upon her cold
the Indian maid.
“Be good to thy sister,” whispered he.
“I will—but say good-by to poor Aonetti.”
“Good-by—and may thy God and mine
bless thee,” replied Koningsmarke, and hastily
left the place without looking back.
The same preparations we described on the
preceding day were renewed, and the two captives
fastened to the stake. The brands were
again lighted, the knife and the tomahawk
lifted to begin their work, and the revengeful
barbarians standing on tiptoe to enter on the
bloody business. But again Providence interposed.
All at once the hands of the brand-bearers
were arrested, and the eyes of every one
turned in a direction towards the river, along
whose banks appeared a train of white-men,
bearing a white flag, the universal emblem of
peace and good-will. As they came nearer, the
stiff and stately form of Shadrach Moneypenny,
followed by eight or ten others, dressed in
broad-brimmed hats, with their arms folded upon
their bosoms, were distinguished, walking with
slow and steady pace towards the spot occupied
by the old men of the tribes. They were accompanied
by others, bearing a variety of
and they were received in peace by the sons of
the shade. The policy of William Penn with
regard to the Indians, can never be sufficiently
praised or admired. From his first arrival at
Coaquanock, to the period of his final departure,
he preserved peace with the ancient
proprietors of the soil and the game, by the
simple expedient of dealing with them as if
they were his equals. He bought their lands
at a price equivalent to the advantages they
yielded to the original occupants; restrained
his people from all encroachments upon those
the Indians thought proper to retain; and so
inviolably kept sacred the stipulations of his
first purchase, that it has been said, with equal
truth and bitterness, that “it was the only
treaty not ratified by oaths, and the only one
that was never violated.”
By these means, and by the peaceful deportment
of his people on all occasions, William
Penn acquired and retained the confidence and
good-will of the Indians, in a degree of which
there are few examples. Indeed we may safely
say, that none, without resorting to the agency
of superstition or fear, ever attained so great an
influence over the violent, capricious, and intractable
America; a singular race, with whom all attempts
at civilization only seem to destroy their
good qualities, and convert them from barbarians
into beasts.
The Big Hats, as the Indians called them,
were not unknown to some of the old men of the
tribes, who had treated and traded with them, at
Coaquanock, and who now received Shadrach
and his suite as old acquaintances. By means of
an interpreter, they entered on business forthwith.
“Thou comest as a friend,” said Ollentangi.
“Yea, verily,” quoth Shadrach; “I come
from William Penn, who is the friend of all
mankind, of all countries and colours. He hath
heard thou hast two white-men, and a maiden
with them, taken at the burning of Elsingburgh.
Verily, that was a bad act, sachems. What had
they done unto thee, that thou shouldst set fire
to their houses, and carry their women and
children into captivity? had they not buried
the hatchet and smoked the calumet with
thy tribe?”
“True,” replied Ollentangi, “but they had
killed our game, and shut out the fish from our
rivers, therefore we made war upon them.”
“Yea, verily,” quoth Shadrach, who, by the
way, loved a controversy in a peaceable way,
almost as well as William Penn himself—“Yea,
verily, but the wild beasts of the forest belong
to any body; they are given to all that
can catch them. Neither are the fish thine,
since they swim through all parts of the great
seas, and wherever they will. Until thou shalt
catch them they are not thine.”
“True,” replied Ollentangi, with infinite gravity,
“but if the white-man prevents the fish
from coming to us, how can we catch them?
We shall starve in the mean while.”
“Verily,” quoth Shadrach, “I am fain to
confess the truth of thy words. There is no argument
so strong as necessity. But still thou
shouldst not have made war against them for
this. Thou shouldst have gone to law, and,
peradventure, obliged them in a peaceable manner
to break down the obstructions that did prevent
the fish from passing upwards.”
“True, brother,” rejoined Ollentangi—“we
have heard something of that same law. It is
a contest of talking, and he that talks the longest
wins the cause. Now you white-men can
out-talk us, and we can beat you in fighting.
mode of deciding our differences?”
“Yea, I must needs confess of a truth there is
some little shadow, as it were, a small modicum
of a glimmer of carnal reason in what thou
sayest. But verily I must not pretermit the
business of my mission, for the two captives are
kept all this while in a parlous condition. Art
thou ready to hear me in the spirit of peace?”
“Say on—in the spirit of peace,” replied
Ollentangi.
“In the spirit of peace, then,” quoth Shadrach,
raising himself on tiptoe, and cocking his
beaver, “in the spirit of peace I come from the
good William Penn, who is thy friend in the
gospel, (and, verily, considering thy Pagan
state, out of the gospel likewise,) to say unto
thee thus wise: Listen—I speak his words, and
not mine own.
“William Penn hath learned, by means of
the (I may say) providential agency of a certain
profane tie-wig, (which, judging from the bald
pate of yon captive, must have appertained unto
him,) that the people, (meaning thee,) calling
themselves (as I may say, idly and profanely,)
the Muskrats and Mud-Turtles, are in possession
of certain two white-men (who, I am inclined
by,) together, with a young maiden, daughter
to him who calleth himself the Heer Piper, (who
I must aver to be somewhat of an uncourteous
little man,) all three carried away captives from
the village of Elsingburgh. Now thus saith
William Penn: inasmuch as thou lovest good
watch-coats, he hath sent thee a score of these;
and inasmuch as thou lovest glass beads, and
other pernicious vanities of the flesh, (to say
nothing of the devil,) he hath sent thee ten
strings of these, wherewith to pamper the pride
of thy ears and noses; and inasmuch as thou
lovest tobacco, he hath sent thee threescore and
ten tin tobacco boxes, filled with that egregious
puffardo, called tobacco, (which, by the way,
I should hold in singular abomination, were it
not that it was hated by James, called the First,
that enemy to the saints.) For all which good
things, William Penn, as aforesaid, asketh nothing
but the freedom of the three aforesaid
captives, that they may be delivered to their
friends.”
“Brother,” quoth an old Indian, “brother,
thou hast forgotten one part of William Penn's
message.”
“Yea, verily!” replied Shadrach, “what is
that?”
“It runneth thus,” replied the Indian: “And
inasmuch as thou lovest strong liquors, William
Penn hath sent thee two kegs of brandy,
wherewith to get right merry, and drink his
health.”
“Of a certainty, Muskrat,” said Shadrach,
“the truth is not in thee, for my message
hath nothing of such import appertaining to its
contents. William Penn dealeth not in rum,
brandy, or any other liquid abominations; neiher
is he moved by any kind of spirit but that of
righteousness. But do ye straightway consult
ogether what answer I am to bear with me to
Coaquanock.”
While the old men were consulting, Shadrach,
like a redoubtable plenipotentiary, caused the
watch coats, the glass beads, and the tobacco
boxes, to be ostentatiously displayed before the
longing eyes of the savages. The more they
looked, the more they waxed willing to surrender
the captives, until at length Ollentangi announced
to Shadrach, that they had no objection
to make the exchange, provided the widow,
who, as affianced to Koningsmarke, ought to
have a voice in his disposal, gave her consent.
flatly refused to sanction the treaty, and loudly
demanded the sacrifice of her ungrateful slave,
who had scorned her love, and forsaken her for
a whey-faced girl. Hereupon, Shadrach Moneypenny
drew from his pouch a beautiful
string of sky-blue glass beads, which he courteously
and gallantly tied about the neck of the
inexorable widow. He then produced a small
looking glass, which he held up before her,
that she might see herself thus apparelled, making
her understand, at the same time, that these
things should be hers, provided she would consent
to the reprieve of Koningsmarke. The
widow's heart was melted; she acquiesced in
the freedom of her affianced husband, and departed,
with a delighted heart, to contemplate
herself and her beads in her looking-glass.
No obstacle now remained to the release of
the two captives, who had listened to this negotiation
with a breathless solicitude. They were
accordingly untied, washed, dressed, and conducted
to the hut where we left Christina and
the Indian maid. The meeting between the
former and Koningsmarke, after such a parting
as we have described, was accompanied by
feelings that, though repressed by the presence
preparations were made for their departure,
lest the savages might repent their bargain,
after the novelty of possessing the coats,
beads, and tin boxes had passed away. Poor Aonetti
was quite broken hearted at the parting with
her sister. She would have accompanied her,
but was prevented by her mother and friends.
Christina, too, could not, in the midst of the
new visions of joyous hope that danced before
her fancy, forget the gentle kindnesses, the sisterly
affection of the little Deer Eyes. But a
secret feeling which she could not repress, prevented
her encouraging the idea of Aonetti accompanying
her to Elsingburgh. She therefore
embraced her with tears, kissed her cheek,
and bade her sometimes remember her sister
Mimi. “Ah!” replied the artless maid, “I
know I should, I ought to be happy, for you and
he will be happy; but I shall be so miserable
when you are gone, that I shall soon die.—I
could have borne his death, for we would have
mourned together; but I cannot survive his departure
with you.” Shadrach now summoned
his troop, and the procession departed from the
village, to return no more.
Before we conclude this book, it may be proper
of our three captives. The circumstance
may serve to show on what trifling chances the
fate of individuals sometimes turns. The Indian
belonging to the village on the Ohio, destroyed,
as we have related, by the Muskrats
and Mud-Turtles, who had obtained possession
of Lob Dotterel's wig, some time afterwards
visited Coaquanock, and carried that great medicine
with him. As may naturally be supposed,
such an appendage excited no little curiosity on
the part of the Big Hats; and a correspondent
of the Royal Society of England, just then established,
set about preparing a memoir upon
the subject, wherein he intended to prove, that
some of the Indian tribes wore wigs. Subsequent
inquiry, however, fully elucidated the
phenomenon, and the learned person threw his
memoir into the fire. The wig made no little
noise in the new world, insomuch that some of
the villagers occasionally neglected their own
affairs, to talk on the subject. But the good
William Penn, putting all the circumstances together,
had little doubt that the wig was connected
with the fate of the captives of Elsingburgh.
With that humanity which characterized
all his actions, he lost no time in preparing the
resulted in the redemption of our three
captives, as we have just related.
We must not omit mentioning, that the likely
fellow, Cupid, of whom we have of late said
nothing, because we had nothing to say, also
accompanied Shadrach, somewhat against his
will. He had lived a life of perfect freedom
and idleness, two things equally dear to his condition
and colour, the savages permitting him to
lounge about, and sun himself as much as he
pleased. Cupid, in the elevation of his heart,
at thus seeing himself turned gentleman, and
his old enemy, Lob Dotterel, obliged to labour
for his behoof, one day incautiously let out a
secret, which he might better have kept, as it
led to consequences that finally involved not
only himself in destruction, but caused also the
death of his grandmother, the sybil of the
Frizzled Head.
Omitting, at least for the present, the principal
incidents which befel Shadrach and his
party on their return to Coaquanock, we shall
merely remark, that honest Lob Dotterel continued,
during the whole journey, stupified
with the vicissitudes he had encountered
within a short time past. Nor did he exhibit
at this renowned settlement, his wrath was
suddenly enkindled, at seeing a knot of little
children making dirt pies in the middle of the
street. Hereupon the soul of the high constable
of Elsingburgh, suddenly awaked
to a perception of passing objects; and he
threatened roundly to commit the juvenile offenders.
| Koningsmarke, the long Finne | |