University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

From the almost sickening task of depicting the frustrated
machinations of the desperate Deacon, and the pitiable exhibitions
of his discomfited adherents, which mainly occupied
the preceding chapter, we turn to the more agreeable one of
following the hunted, but a thousand times more noble men,
who had so adroitly escaped the toils that had been thrown
around them.

On the dispersion and headlong flight of the assailant gang
of the Deacon's despicable emissaries, the disguised white
stranger, whose capture and destruction was the great object
of their secret expedition, at once rapidly struck out wide
from the road, a furlong or two, into an adjoining pasture, and
threw himself down in the covert of a small clump of bushes,
to listen and prepare for any new rallying for the purposes of
pursuit which might be attempted by the enemy. But his
more practised rescuer and friend, having detected the presence
of the traitor Wampanoog among the gang, and deeming
therefore the greater caution to be necessary, followed the
retreating party some distance along the road, just keeping
them in view, and carefully noting their appearance, until he

became convinced that their retreat was no feint, but an
earnest and final one, at least on the part of all the white men
of the gang. He then hurried back to the scene of the affray,
hastily gathered up the abandoned muskets, and, throwing
them across his brawny shoulders with as much ease as if
they had been a light parcel of sticks, bent his steps stealthily
towards a thicket in the woods considerably more distant, and
in a more opposite direction from the course of the retreating
party, than the one which had previously been agreed on as
the place of meeting. And having reached the thicket in
question, and concealed the guns, he next commenced the
series of signal cries to which allusion has been made, rapidly
changing his place, and varying his voice so that it might be
taken for that of different persons, and at the same time cautiously
drawing near the appointed rendezvous, till he had
succeeded in attracting the notice of his white friend and
of bringing him to his side.

“How is this, Metacom?” asked the white man, doubtfully
approaching the expectant chief, who had taken position in
an open place in the woods, that he might be the more readily
recognized. “I do not find you where I expected.”

“No,” replied the other, “but Metacom thought he had
found reason to change the place he named.”

“What was that? What new discovery did you make to
change your mind?”

“Why, Metacom discover, as they jump up to run there, a
deserted Wampanoog, who must be the one that dogged
Crocker to Leonard's house. The curse of Manitou light on
the traitor dog! Metacom's knife was in his hand only one
little minute too late to reach the heart of the quick-fleeing
rascal.”

“Ah! well, that would explain the uncertain glimpse
which I caught of some one in the bushes a mile or two back,
on my way to the house. You may be right; but if so, won't

the skulking knave be returning to dog us here into the forest
also, and lead on the rest to another onset?”

“No. You hear Metacom just now make Wampanoog
different noises, like scattered warriors in the woods. He
may be come back near enough to hear those, but quick turn
and run then. Traitor always coward, and the white men all
too hurt and frighten to come back ever. No—all safe now,
Crocker. We better move on.”

“Where?—where do you propose to have me go?”

“Metacom been thinking for his white friend. Crocker
has said he must now go where red men and white men will
not come together in war. Metacom has thought out such
place for him.”

“Without going beyond the northern colonies? Where is
that place, Metacom?”

“In the great village of the Narragansets, who are not ready
to join us on the war-path, but have taken our women and
children, and will make safe and welcome any friend Metacom
shall send there.”

“But will not the colonists, in their jealousy and suspicion,
send an army there also?”

“No, they think they have just made treaty with the Narragansets.
They have been there with commissioners, and
large band of soldiers to force such treaty as they wanted.
But the chiefs and warriors all keep out of the way, so the
commissioners not find any with power to make treaty; when,
at last, they catch two old sachems, too lame and feeble to get
away, and make them sign what they write, and then call it
good treaty with the whole nation! So they not go there on
that reason, nor on the better reason that Metacom will give
them enough to do in other places.”

“It may be so this fall; but does Metacom, who knows
something how those now in rule at court get their treaties
with the red men,—does Metacom feel sure, that so long as

his women and children are there, the white troops will not,
after his warriors have left the field for winter quarters, be
sent to fall on the unguarded and defenceless villages of the
Narragansets?”

“Our brothers, the Narraganset warriors, understand all
this; and though they will not fight till they are attacked,
they will not long remain unguarded and denfenceless. They
going to make strong home for winter, on good, dry island,
in the big swamp, way down the sunset shore of the bay, ten
miles from the sea, where no white troops ever get and live.
And Metacom, when the fall fighting all over, will go there
with his men, and help make houses and strong fortification
about the island. Let Crocker take Metacom's token, go
there and show it to Nanuntenoo, the brave young Sagamore,
and he then find all safe and welcome. He better start
when the next sun rise to light him on his long path through
the woods.”

“Thank you, Metacom, I think your advice must be good,—
I will start, as you suggest, to-morrow morning. But where did
you think to take me to-night?”

“Look yonder!” said the chief in a pensive tone, as he
pointed over the tree tops of the long slope, which, beginning
at the knoll on which they were standing, fell off so rapidly
as to leave open a view of the low horizon in the west, where,
in the clear, blue sky, the hazy form of the moon, just beginning
to be edged with her slender crescent of full light, was
seen sinking behind the distant mountain,—“look there!
Do you see that, Crocker?”

“Ay, the setting moon,—what has that to do with our
lodging for the night?” said the other wonderingly.

“Metacom will soon tell,” resumed the chief. “That
the new moon,—this the first night of the new moon,—the
time when our people believe the Great Spirit is ready to speak
through acceptable powahs about the affairs of his red children.

And Metacom has appointment to-night to meet the
old Sagamore of Penacook, the great Powah of the North,
who kindly come all the way from his off-retreat in the mountains
of Agmenticus, where he go to die in peace, that he
may tell Metacom what fate the great Manitou has marked
out for him in the war.”

“But where is the place you have appointed for this meeting?”

“At the sacred cave near Winnecunnett pond, where white
man's trail has never yet been found, to prevent the coming
of the red man's God.”

“In what direction, and how far off, is this pond?”

“Away through the forest here at the north. An hour's
fast walk, and may be we are there. Crocker is prudent and
wise, and he will not talk of what he sees—Crocker is Metacom's
friend, and he shall go and stay there all night. But
Metacom must be away on his path to his warriors before
morning.”

The chief said no more, but, after making a few short turns,
and glancing up through the openings in the trees overhead,
to catch glimpses of the prominent northern stars, whose
bearings on his course were to be preserved to ensure its accuracy,
now boldly struck a line through the forest, and closely
followed by his white friend, glided rapidly forward in the
direction of the secluded and mysterious locality, for which he
had so hesitatingly announced himself destined. And thus,
without word or pause to vary the monotonous gloom of the
way, he swiftly threaded the silent woods, here turning aside
to avoid a rough steep, and there a tangle of windfallen trees,
but again, with wonderful exactness, ever falling into the true
line of direction—thus he ceaselessly strode onwards, for
more than an hour; when he visibly slackened his pace, and
at length came to a stand on the brow of a small rocky bluff,
from which the beautiful sylvan lakelet of which they were

in quest, burst dimly on the view. Mutely beckoning the
white man to his side, the chief pointed out over the water,
and, in low, reverential accents, said to him:—

“Now listen and observe!”

They both did so, in silence, and with the closest attention.
For awhile, no sound was heard save the low susurration of the
light ripples of the water that were gently kissing the rocks
along the shores. Presently, however, a few imperfect notes
of the great northern diver, sounding as if broken or interrupted
by the feathers into which he had thrust his beak, as
he floated half asleep on the water, came trembling over the
surface, with its far reaching thrill, from a distant part of the
pond.

“Ah, that good—good omen!” hurriedly murmured the
chief, who was evidently deeply impressed with the supposed
sanctity of the place and the hour. “That the bird that flies
so high, and sings so loud and solemn on the wing, to make
music for the spirits. It's coming to rest here to-night is a
good omen for Metacom and his cause. Now,” he added,
more directly addressing the other—“Now let Crocker look
slow and careful along the shores for sign of those who were
to come. He has seen nothing yet, but Metacom has.”

The white man, while the chief stood curiously watching
his motions, then slowly ran his eye round the dark borders
of the forest-girt pond, and had nearly completed the circuit,
when a feeble glimmering of light, coming through the dense
foliage of a dark nook on the opposite shore, shot athwart his
yet uncertain vision, causing him, however, involuntarily to
raise his finger in the direction, and turn enquiringly to the
other.

“Yes, Crocker has hit it,” replied the chief, to the implied
question. “That the sign, and that the right place. We
both see right; but we will both now listen close for sounds
there. May be we hear something that tell certain.”

They then accordingly both bowed their heads close to the
ground, and fell to listening intently. And in a short time,
a low, confused murmur of mingling human tones, rising
somewhere from the vicinity of the spot in question, came
gently wafting to their ears.

“They are there!” said the chief, hastily rising. “Metacom
no doubt now. So he will quick prepare, and lead his
friend round to the place.”

With this, the chief at once proceeded—first to take off the
light pack he carried on his back, next, completely to divest
himself of every article of his nautical habiliments, next,
carefully to wash the light coloring matter from his face and
hands, and, finally, to draw forth, and don his best Indian
dress and most imposing regalia.

“Now follow close—speak no word, show no sign of fear,
and Metacom take care of the rest,” said the chief, in a low,
earnest, cautionary tone, as he now began to make his way
through the dense and tangled woods along the shore, intervening
between him and this Indian Delphos, to which,
with trembling expectation, he was now so nearly approaching.

After pursuing their difficult course round the borders of
the pond, nearly half its circumference, they at length reached
the inmost point of the dark cove, over which, from the
darker woods beyond, had shot the feeble pencil of light before
mentioned, when the chief paused for further reconnosisance.
But before he had made any new discoveries, or
decided what part of the seemingly impervious thicket, which
here everywhere shot down to the water's edge, he should
attempt to penetrate, to reach the place he was seeking, a
strangely accoutred Indian stepped noiselessly out from a
covert near at hand, and having identified the chief, and
silently motioned him to follow, led the way, with many a
sharp turn and intricate winding, into the dismal labyrinthian

maze before them. The direct distance to be traversed, however,
was comparatively a short one; and they soon and suddenly
emerged into the blinding glare of two small but freshly
replensihed fires, and the next moment found themselves
standing on the border of a small, level, well smoothed circular
area of ground, of about a dozen yards in diameter, beyond
which, the sacred cave and the red mystics of the forests now
occupying it, stood plainly revealed to the sight. It was a
singular spectacle, and one which could nowhere be witnessed
except in an American forest, and among its native inhabitants—the
whole of it, indeed, in view of the solemn hour of
the night, the rugged wildness of the spot, closely surrounded
by projecting rocks, shaggy trees, with their dense, variform
foliage, now assuming a thousand fantastic shapes in the outshooting
gleam of the fires, and the strange appearance of
the living figures whom the occasion had brought together,
in their outre dresses and wizard equipments—the whole
presenting a scene, of which, even Fancy herself might well
find herself at fault in the portrayal.

In the centre of the entrance of the cave, whose deep recesses
were partially disclosed by the light of the fires blazing
on either side a few feet in front, sat the chief actor of the
mystic performances about to transpire, squat on a large bear
skin, in a bowed and stooping attitude, coupled with the
other usual appearances of extreme old age. His body was
enveloped in a sort of variegated mantle, composed of differently
colored choice peltries, and so ample as to wrap nearly
twice around his attenuated frame, and reach from his thin,
tremulous chin, down to his richly beaded moccasins. His
head-dress, alike simple, and significant of his character as
king and conjuror, was coroniform, consisting of a band of
black wampum, closely compressing his lank, silvery locks
below, and rising into a row of sharp tooth-like points above.
This was surmounted by the stuffed and flattened skin of the

Wakon bird, the American bird of paradise, which, being
deemed by the Indians, as its name indicates, peculiarly the
bird of the Great Spirit, had been procured for him from the
great lakes for professional purposes, and which was here
made, with its profuse, long, and flowing plumage of green
and gold, to over arch the crown of his head, jutting out fancifully
over his ears on each side, and waving pendently over
his shoulders behind. A single, loosely strung necklace of
curious bones, teeth, and bird claws, hanging low over his
enwrapped bosom, completed all that was peculiar or noteworthy
in his outward equipment. On each side of this old
high priest of the ceremonies, sat, in reverential and observant
attitudes, first several of his pupilary attendants, who had
assisted him on his slow and tedious journey from his distant
home; and then a select few of the distinguished powahs, or
parrisees, as they were sometimes called, of the more immediately
surrounding tribes, who had come in to witness the
performance, and learn of one with whose great fame they
had long been familiar. These were all no less singularly and
some even more grotesquely accoutred, some with the stuffed
skins of rare wild quadrupeds fitted on their heads—some with
pairs of rattlesnake skins tied by the tail behind, and
brought round the neck, again knotted, and the heads left
dangling over the breast in front—some wearing feathered
tunics of deeply contrasted colors—some breastplates or
aprons, covered with strange figures, inwrought with shells
and fish-bones, and all holding in their hands flattened clubs,
magic wands, or consecrated drums and whistles, each
marked, as were almost every article of their dresses, with curious
mystic devices.

“Son of Massasoit!” exclaimed the old wizard king, at
length breaking, with his shrill, cracked voice, the long, dead
silence which had ensued after the Wampanoog chieftain had
arrived, and fittingly presented himself, by stepping within the

marked border of the sacred circle, and then standing in the
attitude of deep reverence, “Son of Massasoit, thou didst
ask a hard thing of thy father's aged friend, when thou sent
thy runners to invite him here to consult for thee the will of
Manitou, in thy troubles with the pale faces. But Passaconaway
much considered—much fasted—much dreamed; when
he was moved to try making the long journey, and coming,
like a little, weak, tottering child, walking now small time—
resting now much time, has at last, after many days, reached
this appointed place, where he has again fasted — again
dreamed, and is now ready to begin the sacred rite; for he
feels belief that Passaconaway, who now stands on the edge
of the spirit land, and can look back through a hundred snows
on the doings of men, will be able also to look forward into
the council lodges of the spirits, and learn what Manitou designs
for Metacom and his people.”

He ceased; and slowly rising to his feet, began to take off
and cast aside, one by one, every article of his dress and
equipments; while, at the same time, his attendants took up
the capacious bear skin, on which he had been sitting, and,
carrying it forward from the cave, carefully spread it out to
its fullest extent on the ground, in the centre of the circle;
when they returned to the old Powah, who by this time had
denuded himself of everything but the scant apron like appendage
hanging from the girdle round his waist.

They then, after joining hands and forming a half circle
around him, assisted him down the rocky offset fronting the
cave, and, with measured steps, and a low, inarticulate chant,
led him forward between the two fires to the edge of the
spread bear skin, where they left him standing alone, and then
falling back a few steps, awaited the event in demure and expectant
silence. He now turned slowly from one to the other
of the four cardinal points of the compass, pausing and gazing
steadfastly a moment at each, when he laid himself down at

full length on the consecrated skin, closed his eyes, and lay a
few minutes as motionless as the dead. He soon, however,
began to exhibit signs of life, and to fumble about him for
the borders of the skin, which he at length succeeded in
gathering over him so as to hide his whole person from view.
When this was effected, his attendants stepped forward, and,
after adjusting the skin so as to leave only his face visible,
and rolling him up as closely as possible, passed under and
around his body and legs a number of ropes, or withes of
twisted grass, the ends of which they carefully tied together.
They then hurried into the cave, brought out all their magic
implements, and resumed their places in the ring.

Another interval of silence and inaction now ensued, during
which the old Powah lay as before without the least sign of
life or motion. At length, the muscles of his face began to
twitch nervously, his lips to move, and his throat to give out
low, gurgling sounds, which very soon grew into loud mutterings
of some unintelligible Indian jargon, and to which the
attendant parrisees now, in corresponding keys, commenced
adding the accompaniment of their drums and whistles. And
these strange mutterings, now partially dying away, and now
bursting forth afresh, and growing fiercer and louder at each
renewal, were incessantly kept up, till they rose to the wildest
screams and vociferations, and, mingling with the increasing
din of the discordant music, made the startled forest around
ring with the infernal uproar.

The old Powah, whose contortions of face and limb had, in
the meanwhile, kept pace with this clamor, had by this time,
worked himself up to such a pitch of frenzy, that he now
frothed at the mouth, and sprang and tumbled about with
such frantic exertions as, at last, to break the bands of his
ursine shroud, and cause it to fall from his limbs; when starting
up wildly, and glaring about a moment, he sunk down

utterly exhausted, and lay stretched like a dead man on the
ground.

Feeling now assured that their great oracle had at length
attained to what the modern professors would doubtless consider
a perfect state of clairvoyance, the attending parrisees
at once proceeded to lift him from the earth, carry him to the
cave, and place him on his bear skin recumbently against the
offset at its mouth, with his face confronting the royal subject
of the expected vaticination. They then seated themselves
on his right hand and left, and, fixing their eyes on his pale
face, patiently waited for the appearance of consciousness, or
the waking of the spirit, which was to prelude the last act of
the performance. And they did not have to wait any unreasonable
length of time. In less than a quarter of an hour,
he began to open his eyes, so far as to render the still fixed
and glassy pupils discernible—then to move his lips, and, in a
moment more, he articulately begun:—

“Manitou has kindly granted the vision, and the vision
is for Metacom. The son of Massasoit has many enemies,—
many as the pale faces in the land. They lie hid, like dangerous
serpents, along all his paths, watching his coming that
their bullets may drink his blood, and his head be hung up in
the places where they pray and hold council. But his totem
eagle is a bold and cunning bird; and the white man's bullet
is never to kill him. They are mustering thick all round his
swamp retreat near the homes of his fathers, but they come
near him there only to leave their scalps for his keen-eyed
warriors. They think they have shut him up, like a flock of
helpless deer in a snow yard, easy to be taken, but he is now,
when they think not, seen moving over the country for the great
forests towards the setting sun, where they fear to follow him,
leaving the hundred trails of his scattering warriors red with
the blood of their enemies. Here all the great chiefs of the
east, of the north, and of the west, are seen coming to shake

hands with him, and offer him their warriors. It has now
come the season of the corn harvest and the yellow leaf; and
his enemies are gathering strong in the west. But he soon
comes down upon them, with the long, still leaps of the panther,
and the bands of his divided braves quickly fill the
whole rally of the Long river with the war whoop and the
shout of victory, rising over the groans and death cries of the
beaten and scattered pale faces. It has now come the season
of winter, and Metacom's warriors are wandering cold and
hungry among the forest hills of the east, where the white
men think them too feeble and few to make them more trouble,
but soon find them warming themselves at the fires of the
burning villages, and eating the corn and cattle they take
there. And it has now come the season of the melting snows,
the starting bud, and the opening flower. And the forests
are swarming with the mustering tribes of red warriors, now
all united, like brothers, in the wampum league, with the
brave son of Massasoit for their grand Sagamore and war-chief.
Their powder-horns and bullet-bags are well filled,—their
knives and tomahawks are all bright and well sharpened.
The frightened pale faces are every where sending out their
fighting men, but only to be every where scattered and leave
half their numbers dead on the field of battle. They see the
long lines of the avenging red men rushing forward, with
shout and war-whoop, towards their great towns and cities for
the final blow; and they prepare their ships to leave the land
they have stolen to be again possessed by its cheated owners.
What shall save them now? See! see, Manitou has at last
placed all but within the very grasp of the wronged red men,
the birth-right of their fathers! But, ha!” exclaimed the
old seer of the woods, whose warning tones had now risen
almost into screams of triumph, but who here suddenly paused
with an expression of surprise and painful disappointment, —
“Ha! What is that? What means it, great Manitou? where
are they now? Where the thick array of victorious warriors a
moment ago making their last rush for the prey and the prize?
Where,—O where? But it is so. A dark cloud has settled
over them. They are nowhere to be seen! And the vision
for Metacom and the red men is shut up for ever!”

He ceased, and with all the rest, sat some minutes musing
in gloomy silence; when his eyes again assumed their former
dreamy, fixed stare, as if gazing on some thing beyond the
material objects around him; and shortly, in subdued and
melancholy accents, he resumed—

“Passaconaway can now see away beyond the cloud. He
has more vision; but the vision, this time, is for the pale
faces. From the little narrow past, he sees them spreading
out, for three thousand moons, into the great wide future. He
sees them, in long thickening lines, reaching from the north
to the south, fast crowding on towards the west, sweeping
away the forests of the land they have seized by the right of
the strongest, and plowing over the bones of the owners, who
have been made to know the fate of the weakest. They still
move on, everywhere leveling the forests—everywhere building
houses higher and higher, planting cities and villages
thicker and thicker, and everywhere wearing garments richer
and richer. But there is a dark and guilty spot on all their
garments, which will not be washed out. It is the mark of
the blood of the red men they have robbed and destroyed.
And a voice, long delayed, now goes up from the graves of the
wronged race to the Great Spirit, asking how long? Manitou
answers, Not yet. The measure of the great crime is not full.
Two thousand moons have now rolled away. The thickening
hosts of the pale faces, now become a great nation, have
reached the furtherest shores of the great lakes, and the banks
of the great father of rivers in the west. But still they crowd
for a thousand moons more—crowd on further into the last
forests, refuges of the dwindling tribes of the red men, who

flee only to be again routed, or remain only to die by the
bullet or fire water—on—on they still crowd, till they at length
see the last feeble bands of the hunted victims disappearing
over the last mountains of the setting sun, soon to perish on
the shores of the great sea waters beyond. The pale faces
have now become a mighty people. They laugh at the memory
of the red man, and scornfully trample his ashes under their
feet. They carry their heads high; they boast loud of their
strength and greatness, and kick at the whole world. They
have become rich; they live in great palaces, and now wear
garments of gold. But the guilty spot is still on them all,
grown darker and deeper than before. And again the voice
goes up to the Great Spirit, asking, How long now? This
time Manitou returns no answer in word. But presently the
great nation of the pale faces begins every where to shake and
break to pieces; and the fifty little nations now going to make
it up, are soon seen every where marching to make bloody
war on each other. The last thousand moons have run their
courses. The cup is full. But Passaconaway can see no
more. A dark cloud—darker and more terrible than fell on
the leagued tribes of the red men, has at last fallen on them
also, and hid them from his sight. Son of Massasoit!” now
added the speaker, rousing himself from his strange revery,
if revery it could be called, and turning to Metacom, “the
visions of Passaconaway are all ended. He has no more to
say.”

“It is well,” responded the Wampanoog chieftain, as a
slight shade of pain and disappointment passed over his stern,
gloomy countenance. “Metacom likes it well. He is not to
die by the hand of the white man, nor till he has terribly
avenged the wrongs of himself and his people. Manitou, in
his own time, does the rest. He is content; and his arm is
now made strong for the red work he sees set before him.”

To describe the remainder of this strange scene of aboriginal

mysteries, but few more words are wanting. With one accord
the company now broke from the forms and order hitherto preserved,
and busily set about cooking the bounteous supply
of fresh fish and venison that had already been provided for
the occasion. Next came the feast; when the short but significant
powah dance was made to conclude the wild ceremonies
of the night. After this, Metacom bestowed rich presents on
the venerated old seer of the forest, and lesser ones on each
of all the other powahs present. He then bespoke kind offices
for his white friend, hung about his neck the promised protecting
tokens, and departed on his way to the distant camp
of his warriors, leaving the rest of the company to retire
within the cave to finish the night in slumber and repose.

By way of showing the probabilities which we would have
attached to the singular scene which is made to compose the
principal part of the foregoing chapter, it were well, perhaps,
before proceeding with our eventful story, to refer briefly to
the records and legends of the times, in which that scene is
represented to have occurred.

It seems to have been well ascertained, that King Philip,
about the commencement of that terrible war, which came so
near proving the destruction of the Northern Colonies, formally
consulted some Indian Seer, respecting the fortunes and
result of the dubious contest; and, with his out-towering position
among the red men of the North, it is not to be supposed
that he would content himself with having recourse to
any but the most eminent in the land. That Passaconaway,
the aged Sagamore of Penacook, New Concord, N. H., was esteemed
such, both by the Indians and white men, scarce a
doubt need be entertained. He had been perhaps a noted
powah or conjurer up, perhaps, to about the middle age;
when succeeding to the Sachemdom of the Merimac Indians,
he became an equally noted hunter and war-chief. But being
like King Philip, with whom of course he deeply sympathized,

although disarmed, and placed under a degrading surveillance
by the colony of Massachusetts, he soon relinquished his government
to his son, Wonolanset, and retired to the mountains
of Agamenticus, in the then wilderness borders of Maine,
where he died about the close of King Philip's war, nearly
one hundred years old. And it was here, in his mountain
seclusion, where he appeared to have resumed his old vocation
with a success that threw all his former endeavors into the
shade, that he performed those extraordinary feats of sorcery
and vaticination, which, next to white witchcraft, made up the
greatest marvels of those, and the more immediately succeeding
times, and which formed the foundation of more of the
wild legends of Indian necromancy than were ever before or
since, perhaps, connected with the name of any other individual
of that remarkable race. There is one of these legends still in
preservation, in verse, which embodies some specimens of the
popular traditions and opinions of the general character and
supernatural powers of the old chief, and which we will here
append as a fitting close of our description.