University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

The fog of the morning having been dispelled by the
glorious sun in a cloudless sky, and the road leading mostly
through a level country until it passed the northern limits
of the present Mercer county, our travellers accomplished
what was deemed a good day's journey long before the approach
of darkness. Paddy Pence had not spared his
horses, nor had Thomas Schooley restrained his hand, until
they came in view of the beautiful valley in Hunterdon
county, in which the famous log tavern of John Ringo was
situated, and where it had been determined to rest the first
night.

Paddy was now ordered to permit the horses to fall into
a gentler pace, for they exhibited symptoms of weariness,
and one of them had loosened a shoe.

The travellers gazed with delight at the beautiful aspect
of the country as they descended into the valley, which,
however, became wilder in its features as they progressed.
The settlements were perceptibly farther apart, and the
forest was but slightly variegated by cultivated fields.
Majestic oaks, and tall pines, and budding chestnuts, from
which the squirrel's joyous cry and the songs of happy
birds were heard incessantly, almost constantly surrounded
them. In the dim distance on the left Thomas pointed to
the blue outline of the Musconetcong Mountain; and on
either hand they had occasional glimpses of mills situated
on the crystal streams flowing toward the Delaware River,
some ten miles distant.

“Plase yer honour,” said Paddy, drawing the reins suddenly

and causing the horses to stand perfectly still, “what
sort of a baste is that?”

“Baste, Patrick? Oh, you mean beast!”

“Yis, yer honour, I mane baste, and it's as ugly a crather
as my eyes iver beheld. One end is under the stone, and
the other swags backwards and forwards, and jangles like
wee sleigh-bells wid their clappers broken.”

“Patrick,” said Thomas, descending from the carriage,
“that is a snake—a rattlesnake!”

“Och, the baste!” cried Paddy, who had likewise descended
from his seat; but he ran back hastily, and leaped
upon the box, where he sat shivering with terror.

“Drive on, Patrick, and let Mary and Julia see
him. He is nearly dead. Some one has cast a stone
on his head,” continued Thomas, who had been joined by
Richard.

“Och, murther!” cried Paddy, making an involuntary
movement, as if to turn the horses in the opposite direction.
“Plase yer honour, let's go back agin! That baste will be
the death of poor Paddy Pence! They tould me I'd find
sich divils of blackguard bastes in the same country with
the nagers, and that they'd ate me up in the garden, and
swaller me down on horseback.”

Mr. Schooley chided his coachman for using such language;
and, being joined by Julia, whose curiosity overcame
her fears, he made Richard stand upon the stone,
and, stooping down, dispossessed the snake, which was a
pretty large one, of his rattles. He likewise explained
to his ward the very natural affright of Paddy, who was
a recent importation, and had never beheld a serpent
before.

“Be the powers, if yer honour aint afraid to take hould
of the baste with your naked hands, Paddy Pence is not
the boy to hould back on his high box.” And so Paddy
urged his horses—which pricked up their ears and snorted
repeatedly—beyond the snake.

“Patrick, my friend,” said Mr. Schooley, with much
gravity, “thee must not swear. Thee must read the third
chapter of James.”

“Och, yer honour, I'm a thrue Jacobite, and there's
niver a bit of danger that I'll take the oath against the
rightful—”

“Ha! ha! He will never understand thee,” said Julia,
laughing heartily.

“Och, but I will, my beautiful young mistress,” continued
Paddy; “and I'll die, but I'll sarve him faithfully;
for, of all the masters it's iver been my lot to own, niver a
divil of 'em called me friend before.”

“Patrick, thee misunderstands me. I am a loyal subject
of George. But I meant thy profane swearing.”

“Be my sowl, I wouldn't be guilty of such a thing in
yer prisence.”

“Thou hast done it twice already, Patrick.”

“Then I beg yer honour's and the ladies' pardons; for,
be my life, I didn't know it, and I hope yer honour will
tache me betther manners.”

“I will strive to do so, Patrick. And thee must remember
to swear not at all. But thee must read the New
Testament.”

“I thank yer honour, and I'll try and remimber not to
forgit what you say; but, yer honour, I darsn't rade the
Tistament widout permission of the praist.”

“It is a great pity, Patrick, that thou hast been bred in
such ignorance of thy rights; but, if thou wilt read, thou
wilt learn all about the precious privilege which is the
birthright of every one.

“If yer honour advises it, I will larn what Saint James
ses about swearing, which is a foul-mouthed practice. But
there is one difficulty, yer honour.”

“I tell thee there can be none where there is a will.”

“I mane, yer honour, that divil a bit was I iver taught
to rade! There agin! I see yer honour is offinded at the
mintion of the blackguard! But, pardon me, yer honour,
till I larn betther the nixt time.”

The horses crept along slowly, and Mr. Schooley remained
on foot, declining to re-enter the carriage.

Julia and Richard, proceeding more briskly, were soon
several hundred paces in advance, and appeared to be much
interested with the objects which met their view.

“I am glad to see thee joyful, Julia,” said the young
man, when he perceived a smile upon the fair face of his
companion, as she stooped ever and anon to observe a
severed wild-flower, to which she evidently attached a signification
incomprehensible to Richard.

“There is a freshness in the air, Richard, a perfume in
the wild-flowers, a grandeur and sublimity in the woods and
hills, never known in cities or densely-peopled districts,
and irresistibly productive of an exhilaration of spirits.”

“I wish I could feel it!” said he, sighing. “Even the
hieroglyphics on the tree by the snake—the Indian marks—
seemed to be interesting to thee, while to me they were
without meaning. I wish some one would teach me to
enjoy the things which afford thee pleasure, and also the
way to please thee.”

“Oh, don't sigh, Richard! The things which please
my fancy would be considered frivolus by thy father, and
no doubt he has long since taught thee to regard them as
he does.”

“No, no, Julia; if any thing I could do might appear
pleasing in thy sight, I would not deem it frivolous.”

“I thank thee, Richard. You were ever kind to me.
I am sensible of your goodness, and of your father's indulgence
to a wayward orphan. I am striving to conform
to his rules. I have learned his manner of speech—”

“And it sounds like music from thy lips.”

“Why, Richard, thou hast been learning to compliment
a poor maiden after the fashion of the world!”

“Nay, Julia, it was the untutored impulse of my
heart!”

“Then nature was the model for poets! And, truly, thy
father never encouraged thee to be enraptured of sweet
sounds. Nevertheless, I am the more thankful for the
compliment as it cannot be a vain and empty one. Thou
didst ask me what would give me pleasure. Flowers and
birds. Gather the first on the hills, and Paddy Pence will
cultivate them for me; and entice the birds into the garden,
rather than frighten them away, as thy father did in Burlington.
But how can I repay thee? What meanest thou
by such incessant sighing?”

“How repay me? One smile is enough—but I—I
declare to thee I do not know what I do! I will strive to
correct the fault of sighing.”

“Do, Richard. I would like to see thee cheerful. Stay!
don't trample upon them!” she added, quickly, as her
companion's foot was suspended over a collection of blossoms
of various hues.

“They were plucked, Julia, by some one unknown to us.
Thee seems to study them as if thou wert superstitious.”

“I am a little superstitious, Richard,” said she, smiling,
as she collected the blossoms and enjoyed their perfume.
The next moment they were joined by Mr. Schooley and
overtaken by the carriage. They were in front of Ringo's
log tavern, where they were welcomed heartily.

The shades of evening, and the descending dew, even in
May, made the blazing logs in the broad fireplace productive
both of a cheerful aspect and a congenial temperature.

Our travellers, therefore, after a hearty repast, collected
in front of the broad, glowing hearth.

“Come in, Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley, seeing his man
at the door, “and eat thy supper. I suppose thee has fed
the horses?”

“Plase yer honour, not yit. I was in a quandary.”

“My man Jake's got the ager,” said Mr. Ringo, the
host, “or he'd a' done it.”

“I told thee, Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley, “to give
them corn in the ear.[1] In that way they are not likely
to eat too fast and become foundered. Do you not understand
me, Patrick?”

“Yes, yer honour,” said Paddy, bowing and withdrawing.
But in a few moments he reappeared with a bewildered
look.

“Well,” said Mr. Schooley, “thee has fed them?”

“Plase yer honour, the horses have good enough tathe
in their mouths, but divil the one could I find in their ears.
And how could I fade 'em, as yer honour tould me, when
they wouldn't ate wid their ears, but snatched it wid their
tathe.”

In the laughter which followed this blunder of Paddy's
even the staid Mary and the melancholy Richard participated.
Paddy, as we have said, was a recent importation,
and had never seen any corn in the ear.

Later in the evening, when the moon shone brightly,
and the sinking embers threw up a crimson glow which
illuminated the recesses of the loft above, a howling in the
woods attracted notice.

“What is that?” asked Julia.

“That,” said John Ringo, “is either a wolf or an Indian.”

“Murther! Did you say Indian, Mr. Rango?” exclaimed
Paddy, rising from the table, and, unbidden, occupying a
stool near the corner of the capacious fireplace.

“Or a wolf, Paddy,” replied Mr. Ringo. “But take a
dram, and I will tell you what took place here one night
when I was a boy.”

“John,” said Mr. Schooley, “thee must not tempt Patrick
to drink. We still have a long road before us. But
thou mayest tell him some of the anecdotes of early times.
And I see Julia is impatient to hear thee. But thy listeners
must not forget that thy adventures happened many
years ago.”

“But, father,” said Richard, “thee heard William
Franklin say—”

“Richard! thee forgets that thou art not permitted to
repeat what the governor said.”

Richard was dumb.

“I believe the governor[2] intends to take sides against
his father,” said Ringo, between the puffs of his replenished
pipe, the smoke from which, although it seemed to ascend
the chimney, nevertheless perfumed the apartment.

“Pray go on now, Mr. Ringo,” said Julia, in an attitude
of attention.

“It was about this time o' night,” said Ringo, “and at
this season of the year, the moon shining brightly, as it is
now,—when I was a boy, Paddy,”—he added, seeing Paddy
stretching his neck, and with open mouth looking toward
the window,—“that we heard an uncommon howling. The
wolves seemed to be all around the house, and a great deal
nearer than the one we now hear.”

“John, dost thee hear it now?” asked Mrs. Schooley,
who was likewise an attentive listener; for she had never
before accompanied her husband to his western estates.

“No; he is silent, now,” said John, between two prolonged
puffs; “and it's likely he's eating one of my pigs.
On the night I am speaking of, there was an old man by
the name of Jobes with us. He came down from Sussex

county, where he had lived several years, and had often
been chased by the Indians; and once, while he was absent,
two of his sons were killed. He and my father were
making a bargain for the piece of land you saw on the left,
with the girdled trees on it, when the old man stopped
talking, and said they were not wolves, but Indians, howling
around the house. And soon they stopped howling,
and began to hoot like owls.”

“Dost thee not hear an owl now, John?” asked Mrs.
Schooley.

“I do,” replied Ringo, after expelling a long whiff of
smoke.

“Murther!” cried Paddy, starting up.

“Who's killing you, Paddy?” asked Ringo.

“Thee must not forget it was twenty or thirty years
ago, Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley.

“I will try not, yer honour,” replied Paddy.

“We looked into the yard,” continued Mr. Ringo, “and
saw a large party of Indians aiming their French muskets
at us. We dodged down. You can see the bullet-marks
on that side now.”

“Murther!” said Paddy, drawing closer to the corner.

“Recollect it was before you were born,” said Julia,
amused at Paddy's evidences of affright.

“Then,” resumed Mr. Ringo, “we rose and fired, and
when the smoke cleared away there was not an Indian to
be seen.”

“They were handsomely defated,” said Paddy.

“They were not gone far,” said Ringo. “For, when
Jobes peeped out, a bullet came in and cut off his ear.”

“The blackguard savage!” said Paddy.

“From that time both parties were more cautious. But
we were besieged till morning, when we heard the joyful
sound of fire-arms a short distance from the house, which
we knew to be the signal of relief, and the Indians instantly
disappeared. Our deliverers were from the block-house
on the river, and had been following the trail of the enemy.
Since that night we have never been molested.

“Wilt thou not be made fearful, Patrick,” asked Mr.
Schooley, “listening to such stories?”

“Niver a bit, yer honour, if the young mistress won't
be frightened. Bless yer life, sir, all these botherations

happened before I was born, and surely before the young
lady iver dramed of such a thing. Yer honour, I'll show
you I'm not afraid! I'll go to the stable be meself, and see
if the horses are comfortable; and airly in the morning
I'll have the shoe faxed at the shop down at the mill.”

Paddy walked bravely out into the yard, and on to the
gate, upon which his hand was resting, when he espied a
solitary horseman coming slowly down the road. He stood
undecided whether to advance or retire, until the stranger
was sufficiently near for him to perceive that he wore a
blanket thrown gracefully over his shoulders, that his head
was surmounted with a crest of feathers, and that he held
a gun in his hand. Then Paddy was undecided no longer.
Starting back, he ran into the house, his face as pale as
death and his limbs trembling at every joint.

“Why, what hast thou seen?” demanded Mrs. Schooley.

“Tell me, Paddy, what it is!” cried Julia, with a smile.

But Paddy was almost speechless, and could barely
articulate the word “Indian!”

Ringo went out immediately, followed by Mr. Schooley
and Julia. The stranger had dismounted, tied his horse to a
tree, and was standing near the front entrance of the house.

“Who are you?” demanded Ringo.

“Thayendanegea,” replied the Indian, with a lofty brow
and erect stature.

“That means Brandt, in English,” said Ringo, advancing.
“How do you do, Brandt? I'm glad to see you.
How you have grown since I saw you last! Why, you are
a large man, now!”

“Ay, and a sachem,” said the young chief, smiling, (for
he could speak our language very well.) “But, tell me, how
high was the moon when the White Eagle departed toward
the Kittaning?”

“White Eagle?”

“Ay:—my white brother.”

“You mean the young Cameron?”

“Ay.”

“It was before the middle of the afternoon.”

“And who was with him? By the trail I see there were
two, and one was of the Lenni Lenappé family, of which
I too am descended. His totem is on the tree at the
crossing, a tortoise, like mine. His name?”

“We call him Bart Calvin,” said Ringo.

“His name is Shawuskukhkung,” said Brandt, without
other emotion than a slight sneer of contempt.” It is the
right name,” he continued, “meaning, in your language, Wilted Grass. The wild-flower perishes in the hothouses
of the pale-face, and, when cooped, the eagle becomes a
dunghill-fowl. The once mighty Algonquin droops like
wilted grass! Its shrivelled branches should be bathed in
blood.”

“Blood!” said Julia, who could not avoid admiring the
form and poetry of the speaker, but was startled at the
mention of the sanguinary remedy for the resuscitation of
a decaying race.

“And thou art the fair Antelope which charmed the eye
of the young eagle? Thayendanegea, too, can write with
the quill, as well as his brother, and we have corresponded.”

“I have often heard him speak of thee,” said Julia,
from habit using the terms employed in the family of her
guardian; “and he loves thee as a brother.”

“I hope so,” was Brandt's laconic reply.

“Come in,” said Ringo. “Forgive me, Brandt, for my
forgetfulness.”

“John,” said Mr. Schooley, as the party entered the
house, “thee ought never to forget that hospitality is one
of the chief virtues in the estimation of the Indian.”

Mrs. Ringo did not forget it; and the table was soon
spread, and honey and other luxuries, which had been
hitherto withheld, were placed before the young chief, who
partook of them without hesitation.

“And would not your horse like to have a bite?” asked
Ringo.

“A little,” said Brandt. “Not much, like the horses
of the pale-faces.”

“Paddy,” continued Ringo, “you know my hostler has
the ager, and I can't leave my guest. Won't you bait[3]
the gentleman's horse for me? You needn't be afraid of
his taking your scalp.”

“Is it a bating you would have me give him?”

“Yes, Paddy,” said Ringo.

“I'll do it!” said Paddy, quite reassured upon seeing
the Indian eating like other people, and somewhat enraged
at the twinkle of Brandt's eye when he recognised him as
the one who fled from the gate.

“Thee did expect to meet the White Eagle and Wilted
Grass at this place?” interrogated Mr. Schooley.

“White Eagle—not Wilted Grass. His speech, left at
the crossing, says the Antelope and her pale friends must
fill the wigwam here, and he will light a camp-fire some
miles distant on the path, which will guide me to his
couch.”

“And thou didst call him brother?”

“I did. He was a pappoose when brought to our wigwam,
and lived with us until he began to pluck hairs from
his chin. We swam, and fished, and hunted together
among the cool lakes. I had lost my brother, and he supplied
his place. But the White Head came and removed
him to the college of the pale-faces. I will see him once
more. If he loves the pale-faces better than his brother,
he will desert the paths of the forest. Ha!” he exclaimed,
rising, his eyes glowing with a sudden fierceness
as he heard the peculiar snort of his horse. He strode to
the window, and in amazement beheld Paddy belabouring
his steed with a stout branch of an apple-tree, which he
had wrested off at the corner of the orchard. Every time
the bough descended the heels of the animal flew up, and
Paddy had to exercise some skill in dodging.

Brandt rushed forth into the road, and, seizing the halter
and the bough at the same time, after bestowing the latter
upon the shoulders of the astonished Paddy, mounted his
steed and galloped away.

“Murther!” cried Paddy, running into the house; “he's
been bating me—the wild savage blackguard! If I had
thought of my shelalah, I'd 'ave broken his punkin-head
for him!”

“Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley,—while Julia was irresistibly
diverted,—“why didst thou beat his horse?”

“Bate his horse? And sure Misther Rango tould me to
bate him.”

“I meant a snack—a lunch—a bite of corn; but a stupid
Irishman never knows any thing in this country,” said
Ringo. “And the Indian,” he continued, evincing much

vexation, “dashed off without getting an explanation, and
it may cost some of us our scalps if we have war with
them again.”

“And it's a stupid Irishman, is it, Mr. Rango?” cried
Paddy, who had been touched in a tender place. “Be the
powers, if you'll walk out on the grane wid me, we'll see
whose head is the softest!”

“Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley, “be silent! Thee must
never have any strife in my service.”

“I ax yer honour's pardon,” responded Paddy, who
could not abide the idea of being discharged in such a
country as that.

“Heigho!” sighed Mrs. Schooley, and then, rising in all
her native stateliness, suggested that it was time to be reposing
after the fatigues of the journey.

“And Richard must have thought so a long time ago,”
added Julia, who perceived that her ungallant beau had
succumbed to slumber in his chair.

After a somewhat lengthy prayer from Mr. Ringo, who
was a Presbyterian,—the stoical Quakers remaining steadfastly
in their chairs,—the ladies were conducted into an
opposite room, while the male portion of the company remained.
It was thus they lodged in early times. Two
rooms, twenty feet square, sufficed for twenty lodgers.

The authentic traditions, which we follow without material
deviation, do not dwell upon the mere dreams of Julia
Lane, as she reposed upon her couch that night, with the
stars blinking upon her through the uncurtained window.
But doubtless the flowers she had found, and the interpretation
of the hieroglyphics she had seen, and which she
had been taught by Charles to render into good English,
were reproduced in her slumbers.