Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted ground.
THE CHILD OF THE FORESTS.
WRITTEN AFTER READING THE MEMOIRS OF JOHN HUNTER.
[On one occasion, Mrs Hemans was somewhat ludicrously disenchanted, through the medium of a North American Review, on the subject of a self-constituted hero, whose history (which suggested her little poem, “The Child of the Forests”) she had read with unquestioning faith and lively interest. This was the redoubtable John Dunn Hunter, whose marvellous adventures amongst the Indians—by whom he represented himself to have been carried away in childhood—were worked up into a plausible narrative, admirably calculated to excite the sympathies of its readers. But how far it was really deserving of them, may be judged by the following extract from a letter to a friend who had been similarly mystified:—“I send you a North American Review, which will mortify C. and you with the sad intelligence that John Hunter—even our own John Dunn—the man of the panther’s skin—the adopted of the Kansas—the shooter with the rifle—no, with the long bow—is, I blush to say it, neither more nor less than an impostor; no better than Psalmanazar; no, no better than Carraboo herself. After this, what are we to believe again? Are there any Loo Choo Islands? Was there ever any Robinson Crusoe? Is there any Rammohun Roy? All one’s faith and trust is shaken to its foundations. No one here sympathises with me properly on this annoying occasion; but you, I think, will know how to feel, who have been quite as much devoted to that vile John Dunn as myself.”—Memoir, pp. 95-6.]
Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods,
Where the red Indian lays his father’s dust,
And, by the rushing of the torrent floods,
To the Great Spirit bows in silent trust?
Doth not thy soul o’ersweep the foaming main,
To pour itself upon the wilds again?