The Hawthorne: A Christmas and New Years Present

by Unknown

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!"