Two days after the woman's death, an Indian ran into my house and told me, that a tree which they had commenced cutting down the evening before, and which had been imprudently left standing cut half way through, had just blown down, and had fallen across one of the lodges, by which a woman and child had been instantly killed. He congratulated himself that, according to the prophecy, only one more person was to die, and earnestly hoped that it might not be himself.
On the 20th of the month the ice broke up, and on the 22d the Indians and traders started in company to descend the Des Moins in boats. For several days we journeyed on without accident or annoyance—and when we at length arrived within ten miles of the Mississippi, several of the men began to teaze and joke the old prophet, asking if he meant to throw himself overboard in order to verify his own prediction. The old man paid no attention to their jests, but sat silently smoking his pipe, and apparently absorbed in deep thought. He was an object of general attention, nor shall I ever forget his appearance. His tall and emaciated form lay stretched at some length on the deck; his hollow sunken eyes were turned upward, and appeared straining in search of some invisible object; and ever and anon long streams of tobacco smoke were blown through his nose, ascending in curling vapors above his head. His imagination appeared to be busied in forming figures out of the smoke, and when a breeze scattered it away, he immediately sent forth another whiff, again to resume his ideal occupation. As we approached the Mississippi, the laugh and jests of the boatmen became more loud and frequent—but he appeared to be entirely insensible to surrounding objects, and I had almost come to the conclusion that the venerable seer was about to fulfil his own prophecy. Just at that moment the man who was steering my boat complained of a violent headach, and begged me to place some other person at the helm, which was accordingly done. He seated himself on deck, but I remarked that his countenance underwent various changes in quick succession. He paused for a moment, and then exclaimed, apparently in great agony, "I am the third person destined never to see the Mississippi, for I am now dying. Oh, my friends, raise me up and let me but behold the river, for it may possibly change my destiny!" I exhorted him to keep up his spirits, and to dismiss such apprehensions from his mind, assuring him that it was impossible for him to die before we reached the Mississippi, for that as soon as we turned the point below we should be in sight of the river. Thinking that some slight indisposition had concurred with the words of the prophet to excite his imagination highly, I stepped to the bow of the boat, and ordered the men to row round the point as quick as possible. I stood on the bow until the point was turned, and the majestic Mississippi lay stretched before us in full view. I immediately called to Baptiste, (the sick man's name,) and told him he might now see the river; but the only answer I received was from one of the men—"He is dead!" "Impossible!" I thought, and ran to the body—but it was too true; the man was a corpse, and his eye now glazed in death had not perceived the perturbed waters of the Father of Floods! I turned to the old sorcerer, whom I now considered as such, and was struck with the calm indifference with which he received the intelligence. "Villain!" I exclaimed, seizing him at the same time, with strong indignation, by the arm, "it was you who killed this man! You have poisoned him, and I will have you drowned for it." The old man replied with great composure, and without the least symptom of fear—"if you believe it was I who raised the wind which blew the tree across the lodge and killed the woman and child, then you may believe that I poisoned this man." I was struck with the justness of the defence, and said nothing more to the prophet.
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For the Southern Literary Messenger.
ON THE DEATH OF JAMES GIBBON CARTER.
| O'er the fam'd seat of science and of arms, What dire disaster spreads such wild alarms? What requiem sad is chanted o'er that bier? Why streams the silent, sympathetic tear? Why droop the ensigns of our sister state, As though they mourn'd a fallen nation's fate? In long procession through the crowded hall, With measur'd footsteps and uncover'd pall, Columbia's youthful chivalry appears With crape-clad banners, and with trailing spears; Whilst o'er each head funereal cypress bends, And the sad streamer from each arm descends; They weep the young—the noble—and the brave, Consign'd by "doom" to an untimely grave; Ere manhood stamp'd its image on his brow, Or gave his lips the soldier's gen'rous vow, Snapt was this scion in an evil hour. Nor ling'ring death, nor sickness claim'd their pow'r; But full of life—joy sparkling in his eye— The fell destroyer came, commission'd from on high, And Carter perish'd! Casuists, be still! Was it without his mighty Maker's will? Has not Omnipotence itself the pow'r To bring repentance in the final hour? Oh sad vicissitudes of earthly trust— Hopes—bright as seraph's smile, consign'd to dust! Here would we drop the veil o'er mortal woe, Or give the dark'ning picture brighter glow, But Truth forbids. At duty's call we come To paint the horrors at his distant home. Lo! by the patriot's couch a group appears, Repressing anguish, and restraining tears; Though at the effort nature's self recoils, (For nature claims her tributes and her spoils,) Brief are the hours which now the sick man claims, Nor asks he more, since Zionward he aims: The feeble sands of life are almost spent— Dim is his eye—his locks with silver blent; He, with the Patriarch of eld, may say, "Short, but replete with woe, has been my day." Then spare the agony his heart must know, Ere waning life should sink beneath this blow. But, oh! the Mother's desolated heart! What charm can sooth—or what a balm impart? Her hope—her stay—snatch'd to an early tomb, Involving life itself in tenfold gloom! |
MARCELLA.