Chapter XXX.

by James Fenimore Cooper

　　Come to the land of peace! Come where the tempest hath no longer sway, The shadow passes from the soul away-- The sounds of weeping cease. Fear hath no dwelling there! Come to the mingling--of repose and love, Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove, Through the celestial air. --MRS. HEMANS.It is now more than thirty-three years since the last war with theEnglish terminated, and about thirty-six to the summer in which theevents recorded in this legend occurred. This third of a century hasbeen a period of mighty changes in America. Ages have not oftenbrought about as many in other portions of the earth, as this shortperiod of time has given birth to among ourselves. We had written,thus far, on the evidence of documents sent to us, when an occasionoffered to verify the truth of some of our pictures, at least, bymeans of personal observation.

　　Quitting our own quiet and secluded abode in the mountains, in thepleasant month of June, and in this current year of 1848, wedescended into the valley of the Mohawk, got into the cars, and wentflying by rails toward the setting sun. Well could we remember thetime when an entire day was required to pass between that point onthe Mohawk where we got on the rails, and the little village ofUtica. On the present occasion, we flew over the space in less thanthree hours, and dined in a town of some fifteen thousand souls.

　　We reached Buffalo, at the foot of Lake Erie, in about twenty hoursafter we had entered the cars. This journey would have been thelabor of more than a week, at the time in which the scene of thistale occurred. Now, the whole of the beautiful region, teeming withits towns and villages, and rich with the fruits of a bountifulseason, was almost brought into a single landscape by the rapidityof our passage.

　　At Buffalo, we turned aside to visit the cataract. Thither, too, wewent on rails. Thirty-eight years had passed away since we had laideyes on this wonderful fall of water. In the intervening time we hadtravelled much, and had visited many of the renowned falls of theold world, to say nothing of the great number which are to be foundin other parts of our own land. Did this visit, then, producedisappointment?

　　Did time, and advancing years, and feelings that had become deadenedby experience, contribute to render the view less striking, lessgrand, in any way less pleasing than we had hoped to find it? So farfrom this, all our expectations were much more than realized. In oneparticular, touching which we do not remember ever to have seenanything said, we were actually astonished at the surpassing gloryof Niagara. It was the character of sweetness, if we can so expressit, that glowed over the entire aspect of the scene. We were lessstruck with the grandeur of this cataract, than with its sublimesoftness and gentleness. To water in agitation, use had so longaccustomed us, perhaps, as in some slight degree to lessen thefeeling of awe that is apt to come over the novice in such scenes;but we at once felt ourselves attracted by the surpassing lovelinessof Niagara. The gulf below was more imposing than we had expected tosee it, but it was Italian in hue and softness, amid its wildnessand grandeur. Not a drop of the water that fell down that precipiceinspired terror; for everything appeared to us to be filled withattraction and love. Like Italy itself, notwithstanding so much thatis grand and imposing, the character of softness, and the witcheryof the gentler properties, is the power we should ascribe toNiagara, in preference to that of its majesty. We think thisfeeling, too, is more general than is commonly supposed, for we findthose who dwell near the cataract playing around it, even to thevery verge of its greatest fall, with a species of affection, as ifthey had the fullest confidence in its rolling waters. Thus it isthat we see the little steamer, the Maid of the Mist, paddling upquite near to the green sheet of the Horse-Shoe itself, and glidingdown in the current of the vortex, as it is compelled to quit theeddies, and come more in a line with the main course of the stream.Wires, too, are suspended across the gulf below, and men pass it inbaskets. It is said that one of these inventions is to carry humanbeings over the main fall, so that the adventurer may hang suspendedin the air, directly above the vortex. In this way do men, and evenwomen, prove their love for the place, all of which we impute to itspervading character of sweetness and attraction.

　　At Buffalo we embarked in a boat under the English flag, which iscalled the Canada, This shortened our passage to Detroit, byavoiding all the stops at lateral ports, and we had every reason tobe satisfied with our selection. Boat, commander, and the attendancewere such as would have done credit to any portion of the civilizedworld. There were many passengers, a motley collection, as usual,from all parts of the country.

　　Our attention was early drawn to one party, by the singular beautyof its females. They seemed to us to be a grandmother, in a well-preserved, green old age; a daughter, but a matron of little lessthan forty; and two exceedingly pretty girls of about eighteen andsixteen, whom we took to be children of the last. The strong familylikeness between these persons led us early to make thisclassification, which we afterward found was correct.

　　By occasional remarks, I gathered that the girls had been to an"Eastern" boarding-school, that particular feature in civilizationnot yet flourishing in the Northwestern States. It seemed to us thatwe could trace in the dialect of the several members of this family,the gradations and peculiarities that denote the origin and habitsof individuals. Thus, the grandmother was not quite as Western inher forms of speech as her matronly daughter, while thegrandchildren evidently spoke under the influence of boarding-schoolcorrection, or like girls who had been often lectured on the subject"First rate," and "Yes, sir," and "That's a fact," were often in themouth of the pleasing mother, and even the grandmother used themall, though not as often as her daughter, while the young peoplelooked a little concerned and surprised, whenever they came out ofthe mouth of their frank-speaking mother. That these persons werenot of a very high social class was evident enough, even in theirlanguage. There was much occasion to mention New York, we found, andthey uniformly called it "the city." By no accident did either ofthem happen to use the expression that she had been "in town," asone of us would be apt to say. "He's gone to the city," or "She's inthe city," are awkward phrases, and tant soit peu vulgar; but evenour pretty young boarding-school eleves would use them. We have ahorror of the expression "city," and are a little fastidious,perhaps, touching its use.

　　But these little peculiarities were spots on the sun. The entirefamily, taken as a whole, was really charming; and long before thehour for retiring came, we had become much interested in them all.We found there was a fifth person belonging to this party, who didnot make his appearance that night. From the discourse of thesefemales, however, it was easy to glean the following leading facts:This fifth person was a male; he was indisposed, and kept his berth;and he was quite aged. Several nice little dishes were carried fromthe table into his state-room that evening, by one or the other ofthe young sisters, and each of the party appeared anxious tocontribute to the invalid's comfort. All this sympathy excited ourinterest, and we had some curiosity to see this old man, long ere itwas time to retire. As for the females, no name was mentioned amongthem but that of a Mrs. Osborne, who was once or twice alluded to infull. It was "grandma," and "ma," and "Dolly," and "sis." We shouldhave liked it better had it been "mother," and "grandmother," andthat the "sis" had been called Betsey or Molly; but we do not wishto be understood as exhibiting these amiable and good-lookingstrangers as models of refinement. "Ma" and "sis" did well enough,all things considered, though "mamma" would have been better if theywere not sufficiently polished to say "mother."

　　We had a pleasant night of it, and all the passengers appeared nextmorning with smiling faces. It often blows heavily on that lake, butlight airs off the land were all the breezes we encountered. We wereamong the first to turn out, and on the upper deck forward, a placewhere the passengers are fond of collecting, as it enables them tolook ahead, we found a single individual who immediately drew all ofour attention to himself. It was an aged man, with hair already aswhite as snow. Still there was that in his gait, attitudes, and allhis movements which indicated physical vigor, not to say theremains, at least, of great elasticity and sinewy activity. Aged ashe was, and he must have long since passed his fourscore years, hisform was erect as that of a youth. In stature he was of rather morethan middle height, and in movements deliberate and dignified. Hisdress was quite plain, being black, and according to the customs ofthe day. The color of his face and hands, however, as well as thebold outlines of his countenance, and the still keen, restless,black eye, indicated the Indian.

　　Here, then, was a civilized red man, and it struck us at once, thathe was an ancient child of the forest, who had been made to feel thetruths of the gospel. One seldom hesitates about addressing anIndian, and we commenced a discourse with our venerable fellow-passenger, with very little circumlocution or ceremony.

　　"Good-morning, sir," we observed--" a charming time we have of it,on the lake."

　　"Yes--good time--" returned my red neighbor, speaking short andclipped, like an Indian, but pronouncing his words as if longaccustomed to the language.

　　"These steamboats are great inventions for the western lakes, as arethe railroads for this vast inland region. I dare say you canremember Lake Erie when it was an unusual thing to see a sail of anysort on it; and now, I should think, we might count fifty."

　　"Yes--great change--great change, friend!--all change from oletime,"

　　"The traditions of your people, no doubt, give you reason to see andfeel all this?"

　　The predominant expression of this red man's countenance was that oflove. On everything, on every human being toward whom he turned hisstill expressive eyes, the looks he gave them would seem to indicateinterest and affection. This expression was so decided and peculiar,that we early remarked it, and it drew us closer and closer to theold chief, the longer we remained in his company. That expression,however, slightly changed when we made this allusion to thetraditions of his people, and a cloud passed before his countenance.This change, nevertheless, was as transient as it was sudden, thebenevolent and gentle look returning almost as soon as it haddisappeared. He seemed anxious to atone for this involuntaryexpression of regrets for the past, by making his communications tome as free as they could be.

　　"My tradition say a great deal," was the answer, "It say some good,some bad."

　　"May I ask of what tribe you are?"

　　The red man turned his eyes on us kindly, as if to lessen anythingungracious there might be in his refusal to answer, and with anexpression of benevolence that we scarcely remember ever to haveseen equalled. Indeed, we might say with truth, that the love whichshone out of this old man's countenance habitually, surpassed thatwhich we can recall as belonging to any other human face. He seemedto be at peace with himself, and with all the other children ofAdam,

　　"Tribe make no difference," he answered. "All children of same GreatSpirit."

　　"Red men and pale-faces?" I asked, not a little surprised with hisreply.

　　"Red man and pale-face. Christ die for all, and his Fadder make all.No difference, excep' in color. Color only skin deep."

　　"Do you, then, look on us pale-faces as having a right here? Do younot regard us as invaders, as enemies who have come to take awayyour lands?"

　　"Injin don't own 'arth. 'Arth belong to God, and he send whom helike to live on it. One time he send Injin; now he send pale-face.His 'arth, and he do what he please wid it. Nobody any right tocomplain. Bad to find fault wid Great Spirit. All he do, right;nebber do anyt'ing bad. His blessed Son die for all color, and allcolor muss bow down at his holy name. Dat what dis good book say,"showing a small pocket Bible, "and what dis good book say come fromGreat Spirit, himself."

　　"You read the Holy Scriptures, then--you are an educated Indian?"

　　"No; can't read at all. Don't know how. Try hard, but too ole tobegin. Got young eyes, however, to help me," he added, with one ofthe fondest smiles I ever saw light a human face, as he turned tomeet the pretty Dolly's "Good-morning, Peter," and to shake the handof the elder sister. "She read good book for old Injin, when he wanther; and when she off at school, in 'city,' den her mudder or hergran'mudder read for him. Fuss begin wid gran'mudder; now get downto gran'da'ghter. But good book all de same, let who will read it."

　　This, then, was "Scalping Peter," the very man I was travelling intoMichigan to see, but how wonderfully changed! The Spirit of the MostHigh God had been shed freely upon his moral being, and in lieu ofthe revengeful and vindictive savage, he now lived a subdued,benevolent Christian! In every human being he beheld a brother, andno longer thought of destroying races, in order to secure to his ownpeople the quiet possession of their hunting-grounds. His very soulwas love; and no doubt he felt himself strong enough to "bless thosewho cursed him," and to give up his spirit, like the good missionarywhose death had first turned him toward the worship of the one trueGod, praying for those who took his life.

　　The ways of Divine Providence are past the investigations of humanreason. How often, in turning over the pages of history, do we findcivilization, the arts, moral improvement, nay, Christianity itself,following the bloody train left by the conqueror's car, and goodpouring in upon a nation by avenues that at first were teeming onlywith the approaches of seeming evils! In this way, there is nowreason to hope that America is about to pay the debt she owes toAfrica; and in this way will the invasion of the forests, andprairies and "openings," of the red man be made to atone for itselfby carrying with it the blessings of the Gospel, and a juster viewof the relations which man bears to his Creator. Possibly Mexico mayderive lasting benefits from the hard lesson that she has sorecently been made to endure.

　　This, then, was Peter, changed into a civilized man and a Christian!I have found, subsequently, that glimmerings of the former beingexisted in his character; but they showed themselves only at longintervals, and under very peculiar circumstances. The study of thesetraits became a subject of great interest with us, for we nowtravelled in company the rest of our journey. The elder lady, or"grandma," was the Margery of our tale; still handsome, spirited,and kind. The younger matron was her daughter and only child, and"sis," another Margery, and Dorothy, were her grandchildren. Therewas also a son, or a grandson rather, Ben, who was on Prairie Round,"with the general." The "general" was our old friend, le Bourdon,who was still as often called "General Bourdon," as "General Boden."This matter of "generals" at the West is a little overdone, as allranks and titles are somewhat apt to be in new countries. It causesone often to smile, at the East; and no wonder that an Eastern habitshould go down in all its glory, beneath the "setting sun." Inafter-days, generals will not be quite as "plenty as blackberries."

　　No sooner did Mrs. Boden, or Margery, to use her familiar name,learn that we were the very individual to whom the "general" hadsent the notes relative to his early adventures, which had beenprepared by the "Rev. Mr. Varse," of Kalamazoo, than she became asfriendly and communicative as we could possibly desire.

　　Her own life had been prosperous, and her marriage happy. Herbrother, however, had fallen back into his old habits, and died erethe war of 1812 was ended. Dorothy had returned to her friends inMassachusetts, and was still living, in a comfortable condition,owing to a legacy from an uncle. The bee-hunter had taken the fieldin that war, and had seen some sharp fighting on the banks of theNiagara. No sooner was peace made, however, than he returned to hisbeloved Openings, where he had remained, "growing with the country,"as it is termed, until he was now what is deemed a rich man inMichigan. He has a plenty of land, and that which is good; arespectable dwelling, and is out of debt. He meets his obligationsto an Eastern man just as promptly as he meets those contracted athome, and regards the United States, and not Michigan, as hiscountry. All these were good traits, and we were glad to learn thatthey existed in one who already possessed so much of our esteem. AtDetroit we found a fine flourishing town, of a healthful and naturalgrowth, and with a population that was fast approaching twentythousand. The shores of the beautiful strait on which it stands, andwhich, by a strange blending of significations and languages, ispopularly called the "Detroit River," were alive with men and theirappliances, and we scarce know where to turn to find a moreagreeable landscape than that which was presented to us, afterpassing the island of "Bobolo" (Bois Blanc), near Maiden.Altogether, it resembled a miniature picture of Constantinople,without its Eastern peculiarities.

　　At Detroit commenced our surprise at the rapid progress of Westerncivilization. It will be remembered that at the period of our tale,the environs of Detroit excepted, the whole peninsula of Michiganlay in a state of nature. Nor did the process of settlement commenceactively until about twenty years since; but, owing to the characterof the country, it already possesses many of the better features ofa long-inhabited region. There are stumps, of course, for new fieldsare constantly coming into cultivation; but on the whole, theappearance is that of a middle-aged, rather than that of a newregion.

　　We left Detroit on a railroad, rattling away toward the setting sun,at a good speed even for that mode of conveyance. It seemed to usthat our route was well garnished with large villages, of which wemust have passed through a dozen, in the course of a few hours'"railing," These are places varying in size from one to threethousand inhabitants. The vegetation certainly surpassed that ofeven West New York, the trees alone excepted. The whole country wasa wheat-field, and we now began to understand how America could feedthe world. Our road lay among the "Openings" much of the way, and wefound them undergoing the changes which are incident to the passageof civilized men. As the periodical fires had now ceased for manyyears, underbrush was growing in lieu of the natural grass, and inso much those groves are less attractive than formerly; but oneeasily comprehends the reason, and can picture to himself the aspectthat these pleasant woods must have worn in times of old.

　　We left the railroad at Kalamazoo--an unusually pretty village, onthe banks of the stream of that name. Those who laid out this place,some fifteen years since, had the taste to preserve most of itstrees; and the houses and grounds that stand a little apart from thebusiest streets--and they are numerous for a place of rather morethan two thousand souls--are particularly pleasant to the eye, onaccount of the shade, and the rural pictures they present. Here Mrs.Boden told us we were within a mile or two of the very spot whereonce had stood Castle Meal (Chateau au Miel), though the "general"had finally established himself at Schoolcraft, on Prairie Ronde.

　　The first prairie we had ever seen was on the road between Detroitand Kalamazoo; distant from the latter place only some eight or ninemiles. The axe had laid the country open in its neighborhood; butthe spot was easily to be recognized by the air of cultivation andage that pervaded it. There was not a stump on it, and the fieldswere as smooth as any on the plains of Lombardy, and far morefertile, rich as the last are known to be. In a word, the beautifulperfection of that little natural meadow became apparent at once,though seated amid a landscape that was by no means wanting ininterest of its own.

　　We passed the night at the village of Kalamazoo; but the party offemales, with old Peter, proceeded on to Prairie Round, as thatparticular part of the country is called in the dialect of Michigan,it being a corruption of the old French name of la prairie ronde.The Round Meadow does not sound as well as Prairie Round, and thelast being quite as clear a term as the other, though a mixture ofthe two languages, we prefer to use it. Indeed, the word "prairie"may now be said to be adopted into the English; meaning merely anatural instead of an artificial meadow, though one of peculiar andlocal characteristics. We wrote a note to General Boden, as I foundour old acquaintance Ben Boden was universally termed, letting himknow I should visit Schoolcraft next day; not wishing to intrude atthe moment when that charming family was just reunited after so longa separation.

　　The next day, accordingly, we got into a "buggy" and went our way.The road was slightly sandy a good part of the twelve miles we hadto travel, though it became less so as we drew near to thecelebrated prairie. And celebrated, and that by an abler pen thanours, does this remarkable place deserve to be! We found all ourexpectations concerning it fully realized, and drove through thescene of abundance it presented with an admiration that was notentirely free from awe.

　　To get an idea of Prairie Round, the reader must imagine an ovalplain of some five-and-twenty or thirty thousand acres in extent, ofthe most surpassing fertility, without an eminence of any sort--almost without an inequality. There are a few small cavities,howevers in which there are springs that form large pools of waterthat the cattle will drink. This plain, so far as we saw it, is nowentirely fenced and cultivated. The fields are large, manycontaining eighty acres, and some one hundred and sixty; most ofthem being in wheat. We saw several of this size in that grain.Farm-houses dotted the surface, with barns, and the otheraccessories of rural life. In the centre of the prairie is an"island" of forest, containing some five or six hundred acres of thenoblest native trees we remember ever to have seen. In the centre ofthis wood is a little lake, circular in shape, and exceeding aquarter of a mile in diameter. The walk in this wood-which is not anOpening, but an old-fashioned virgin forest--we found delightful ofa warm summer's day. One thing that we saw in it was characteristicof the country. Some of the nearest farmers had drawn their manureinto it, where it lay in large piles, in order to get it out of theway of doing any mischief. Its effect on the land, it was thought,would be to bring too much straw!

　　On one side of this island of wood lies the little village or largehamlet of Schoolcraft. Here we were most cordially welcomed byGeneral Boden, and all of his fine descendants. The head of thisfamily is approaching seventy, but is still hale and hearty. Hishead is as white as snow, and his face as red as a cherry. A finerold man one seldom sees. Temperance, activity, the open air, and agood conscience, have left him a noble ruin; if ruin he can yet becalled. He owes the last blessing, as he told us himself, to thefact that he kept clear of the whirlwind of speculation that passedover this region some ten or fifteen years since. His means areample; and the harvest being about to commence, he invited me to thefield.

　　The peculiar ingenuity of the American has supplied the want oflaborers, in a country where agriculture is carried on by wholesale,especially in the cereals, by an instrument of the most singular andelaborate construction. This machine is drawn by sixteen or eighteenhorses, attached to it laterally, so as to work clear of thestanding grain, and who move the whole fabric on a moderate butsteady walk. A path is first cut with the cradle on one side of thefield, when the machine is dragged into the open place. Here itenters the standing grain, cutting off its heads with the utmostaccuracy as it moves. Forks beneath prepare the way, and a rapidvibratory motion of a great number of two-edged knives effect theobject. The stalks of the grain can be cut as low or as high as onepleases, but it is usually thought best to take only the heads.Afterward the standing straw is burned, or fed off, upright.

　　The impelling power which causes the great fabric to advance alsosets in motion the machinery within it As soon as the heads of thegrain are severed from the stalks, they pass into a receptacle,where, by a very quick and simple process, the kernels are separatedfrom the husks. Thence all goes into a fanning machine, where thechaff is blown away. The clean grain falls into a small bin, whenceit is raised by a screw elevator to a height that enables it to passout at an opening to which a bag is attached. Wagons follow the slowmarch of the machine, and the proper number of men are inattendance. Bag after bag is renewed, until a wagon is loaded, whenit at once proceeds to the mill, where the grain is soon convertedinto flour. Generally the husbandman sells to the miller, butoccasionally he pays for making the flour, and sends the latter off,by railroad, to Detroit, whence it finds its way to Europe,possibly, to help feed the millions of the old world. Such, atleast, was the course of trade the past season. As respects thisingenious machine, it remains only to say that it harvests, cleans,and bags from twenty to thirty acres of heavy wheat, in the courseof a single summer's day! Altogether it is a gigantic invention,well adapted to meet the necessities of a gigantic country.

　　Old Peter went afield with us that day. There he stood, like astriking monument of a past that was still so recent and wonderful.On that very prairie, which was now teeming with the appliances ofcivilization, he had hunted and held his savage councils. On thatprairie had he meditated, or consented to the deaths of the youngcouple, whose descendants were now dwelling there, amid abundance,and happy. Nothing but the prayers of the dying missionary, inbehalf of his destroyers, had prevented the dire consummation.

　　We were still in the field, when General Boden's attention was drawntoward the person of another guest. This, too, was an Indian, oldlike himself, but not clad like Peter, in the vestments of thewhites. The attire of this sinewy old man was a mixture of that ofthe two races. He wore a hunting-shirt, moccasins, and a belt; buthe also wore trousers, and otherwise had brought himself within thehabits of conventional decency. It was Pigeonswing, the Chippewa,come to pay his annual visit to his friend, the bee-hunter, Themeeting was cordial, and we afterward ascertained that when the oldman departed, he went away loaded with gifts that would render himcomfortable for a twelvemonth.

　　But Peter, after all, was the great centre of interest with us. Wecould admire the General's bee-hives, which were numerous andingenious; could admire his still handsome Margery, and all theirblooming descendants; and were glad when we discovered that our oldfriend--made so by means of a knowledge of his character, if not byactual acquaintance--was much improved in mind, was a sincereChristian, and had been a Senator of his own State; respected andesteemed by all who knew him. Such a career, however, has nothingpeculiar in America; it is one of every-day occurrence, and showsthe power of man when left free to make his own exertions; whilethat of the Scalping Peter indicated the power of God. There he was,living in the midst of the hated race, loving and beloved; wishingnaught but blessings on all colors alike; looking back upon histraditions and superstitions with a sort of melancholy interest, aswe all portray in our memories the scenes, legends, and feelings ofan erring childhood.

　　We were walking in the garden, after dinner, and looking at thehives. There were the general, Margery, Peter, and ourselves. Thefirst was loud in praise of his buzzing friends, for whom it wasplain he still entertained a lively regard. The old Indian, atfirst, was sad. Then he smiled, and, turning to us, he spokeearnestly and with some of his ancient fire and eloquence.

　　"Tell me you make a book," he said. "In dat book tell trut'. You seeme--poor old Injin. My fadder was chief--I was great chief, but wewas children. Knowed nuttin'. Like little child, dough great chief.Believe tradition. T'ink dis 'arth flat--t'ink Injin could scalp allpale-face--t'ink tomahawk, and war-path, and rifle, bess t'ings inwhole world. In dat day, my heart was stone. Afraid of Great Spirit,but didn't love him. In dat time I t'ink General could talk wid bee.Yes; was very foolish den. Now, all dem cloud blow away, and I seemy Fadder dat is in heaven. His face shine on me, day and night, andI never get tired of looking at it. I see him smile, I see himlookin' at poor ole Injin, as if he want him to come nearer;sometime I see him frown and dat scare me. Den I pray, and his frowngo away.

　　"Stranger, love God. B'lieve his blessed Son, who pray for dem datkill him. Injin don't do that. Injin not strong enough to do so goodt'ing. It want de Holy Spirit to strengthen de heart, afore man cando so great t'ing. When he got de force of de Holy Spirit, de heartof stone is changed to de heart of woman, and we all be ready tobless our enemy and die. I have spoken. Let dem dat read your bookunderstand."

　　THE END.