The Hawthorne: A Christmas and New Years Present

by Unknown

THE EAGLE OF THE WEST.

"It is the spot I came to seek,

My father's ancient burial place,

Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,

Withdrew our wasted race.

It is the spot—I know it well—

Of which our old traditions tell.

"This bank, in which the dead were laid,

Was sacred when its soil was ours;

Hither the artless Indian maid

Brought wreaths of buds and flowers;

And the gay chief and gifted seer

Worshipped the God of thunders here.

"But now the wheat is green and high

On clods that hid the warrior's breast,

And scattered in the furrows lie

The weapons of his rest,

And there, in the loose sand, is thrown,

Of his large arm the mouldering bone."—Bryant.

You have read, said General Lawrence to his children, of the numerous ancient forts and mounds found in different parts of the now populous state of Ohio. Some incidents which I shall relate, have rendered most of them, to me, subjects of great interest.

I was subordinate to General Rufus Putnam, when he gave directions for the first settlement of Marietta, by a colony from New-England, in 1788. Ohio, you know, at that time was called a district, including the present territories of Michigan, Illinois, and Indiana, and owned by the general government—Virginia having ceded it, seven years before, to the United States, reserving only some tracts of land as military bounties for such officers and soldiers as had been distinguished in the reduction of the British forts on the Ohio river.

The Chippewas, Miamis, Wyandots,[1] and other native tribes, looked, as they well might, with jealous eyes on the annual encroachments of the whites upon their hunting-grounds. It is true that they reluctantly receded as we advanced, but it was under the stern law of necessity, not a free-will abdication. I cannot, and do not, pretend to excuse the selfish rapacity with which many of our ancestors, throughout the whole country, seized on the soil of the aborigines;[2] that is an account which it is not our business to settle, though we cannot read the true page of our history without a crimsoning blush of shame.

I remember an act of cold-blooded wickedness, perpetrated by our people in Ohio about this period, which I never could either palliate or forgive. There was a small encampment of the Wyandots a few miles from where some of our emigrants had settled. They were soon apprised of the neighbourhood of the new residents, and came over to view their works, sometimes three, four, or more, together.

For some time all things went on well;—and I have thought, with the excellent Heckewelder,[3] that they need never have done otherwise, had the whites been just and true to their duty. "They are remarkable," says he, "for their domestic and social virtues, and know how to practice that precept which we so well teach in theory, viz. 'To love their neighbour as themselves.'"

"The Indians," says one of our early and most respectable historians, "on their first acquaintance with the whites, proved themselves kind, generous, and hospitable, so long as they were treated with justice and humanity. But so they were not long, and the consequences are well known to all. In the particular case of the Wyandots I was unfortunately witness—first to the imprudence, and then to the wickedness of my countrymen."

Evident symptoms of dissatisfaction appeared whenever they afterward met. Our company began seriously to fear an attack, (no wonder, they had given provocation,) and accordingly laid a plan for cutting off the Indians at once, instead of attempting a reconciliation, though I own the latter would not have been easily effected. The great fault of the Indian is his thirst for revenge, which, when injured, he will always seek.

The purpose of the whites was carried into effect one night, after they had freely supplied the unfortunate Wyandots with rum. All fell of this portion of the tribe, save two or three children, who were saved by one of the party, more humane than his companions, and an Indian youth, of about fifteen years of age, called Tecumsoit, and also often known by the proud appellation of "the Eagle of the West," for thus early did he discover traits of remarkable strength and courage. He fought boldly and long, when his people were sacrificed almost unresistingly around him, and fled only when so wounded that he could do no more. He fled—but in the hope of returning in power, and making perfect his dreadful vengeance. His purpose was frustrated but by the constant watchfulness of the military force which we were compelled to station wherever there were any white settlements.

Near Marietta, as I have told you, are remains of ancient fortifications and mounds, in which the Indians deposited their dead.

Many such mounds, in different parts of the country, were laid open by these Indians as the whites advanced; and the bones of their ancestors, wrapt in skins, were carried with them as they retired farther into the vast forests of the west, where these remains were sacredly preserved, and guarded with holy care. Some, however, were left untouched.

I have often examined these very singular sepulchral monuments, both in the vicinity of Marietta, and those at Circleville, and I own that I have never seen one of them demolished without pain.

There was one, near the broken up settlement of the Wyandots, which offered peculiar interest; it appeared to have been raised with greater care than the others, and was evidently of more ancient origin. This pyramid was in the midst of a grove of noble forest trees, and brought to mind the solemn Druidical times of England. When we first discovered it, it was at an hour when the young Indian girls were performing round it some religious rites; fruits of the forest, skins, and flowers, were deposited in profusion on the pyramidal summit; and the wild notes of their songs echoed through the grove, giving back those peculiar strains, softened, but not lost. I often resorted thither, and when I was summoned to New-York, that was the last spot which I visited.

I did not return to that part of the country, continued General Lawrence, for more than ten years, and then, indeed, could hardly recognise, in the rapid settlement of the new states, those wide forest-tracts which I had left; but I own I felt not all the enthusiasm which filled one of our old historians, when he declares that "the wilderness had been made to blossom as the rose." No, the circumstances of its first settlement were too recent on my memory for that, and I had too strong a sympathy for the outcast Indians. Verily do I believe in that clause of the fourth commandment, as applied to my countrymen, "the sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children to the third and fourth generation;"—even now behold its partial fulfilment in the troubles which have sprung up, and are still gaining accumulated power, in the rapid increase of our slave population: "as we have measured, so shall it be measured to us again."

But, as I was telling you, I revisited Ohio. I hardly recognised Marietta as I passed through it to revisit my former station; and the first spot I sought with real interest, was the ancient mound in the giant grove. My search was, at first, utterly vain:—at length I thought I saw some traces of that which had once presented a scene of grandeur and beauty, but I was doubtful long,—for the grand and lofty trees "which spread their arms abroad so that all the birds of the air might have found rest in their branches,"—the trees were not there. No, not one had been spared of that whole sacred grove. The mound, too, where was it?—the husbandman had passed over it with his ploughshare,—the sower had strown the seed,—and the fields were now ripe for the harvest. I turned away sorrowfully, and my eye suddenly caught the figure of an Indian. The red son of the forest could not be mistaken; he gazed, as I had done, on the place where his ancestors of many generations had been laid with reverent care; his look was proud, sorrowful, and often changing to one of bitter hate. He did not see me, for his mind was absorbed in one deep feeling of lofty desolation, if one may be allowed the use of such a term. I cannot describe his countenance, for it varied with every varying thought; but no one could have contemplated the wild warrior as he stood erect and alone, his keen eye regarding what was, and his thought reverting to what had been—none, I say, could have seen him without a sentiment of respect, almost of homage. How few of the race now retain their original grandeur and lofty character! Civilization seems only to have weakened and degraded the Indian mind; his moral state, at least, is now far more debased than when, with his tribe, he roamed at will through the immense wilds of the American continent.

I approached the solitary chief and spoke, (though I own I felt it an intrusion on his personal feelings;)—he looked on me at first with marked disdain, but presently his countenance changed; a ray of pleasure lightened his brow,—but soon an expression of the most eloquent grief succeeded; it was evident that he recognized me,—and I, too, knew Tecumsoit,—the Eagle of the West. His words were few and brief, for his hitherto unsubdued spirit was bending beneath the weight of wrong and sorrow, and it seemed as though he could not speak to a white man, the fellow of those who had caused his wigwam to be desolate, and the grove of his fathers polluted by sacrilege. I understood the sentiment, and was silent also.

Presently Tecumsoit advanced, thrusting aside and trampling the waving grain, till he stood at the foot of the mound: then slowly he took, one by one, the articles of his dress, and laid them solemnly on the very summit of the elevation:—first, his collar of eagle's feathers,—then his robe of princely ermine and sable; to these were added his deer-skin coat, painted with the rich juices of the pucoon, and colours derived from plants by a process unknown to any save the Indians themselves; and, lastly, his wampum belt, wrought all over with the richly dyed quills of the porcupine. When these had been thus, one by one, deposited, he wrapt about him the rough skin of a panther, gave one long, long look at the sepulchre of his fathers, and turned silently and abruptly away. The Eagle was soon lost to my view behind a range of hills; he had departed for ever from the home of his childhood; he had cast off the symbols of his rank, his power, and tribe, and doubtless had gone to end his days of desolation in some far off desert, where, though he could not forget his wrongs, he would at least neither see nor be seen of the white men.

Often have I thought of Tecumsoit, as I first saw him, a young boy, the pride of all the warriors, and the fearless asserter of his rights. I was then his friend; he seemed to confide in my honour, and he never had cause to doubt it. I remember him, too, on the night when I arrived too late to save his family from the death-shot,—fearlessly defending himself and them, when no resource or hope was left. Well do I remember the mingled despair and pride of his retreat; and I remember, too, the last time we met at the mound which held the remains of his ancestors—the last look he gave—and his last shadow on the hills.

Alas, for Tecumsoit!—his glory had departed, his people had passed away, even as the dew beneath the sultry sun; he was left alone of his race, and, like Logan, could exclaim—"Who is there to mourn for Tecumsoit?—not one!"