WICCÓNSAT.

A LEGEND OF ST. MARY’S.

———

BY MRS. MARY M. FORD.

———

On the eastern bank of a small river, which enters the Potomac a few miles above its confluence with the waters of the Chesapeake Bay, are still to be seen vestiges of the earliest settlement in Maryland; once the village of Youcómaco, but quietly yielded by the natives to the white colonists, who there built a town, calling it St. Mary’s. Subsequent events led to its desertion for a more advantageous location, and the ravages of time have left little to tell of its former state. It has faded away, unnoticed and unsung, yet its name is still seen on the older maps of our country. The river, which once bore the appellation of St. George’s, is now called St. Mary’s, but whether in memory of the deserted town, or not, is uncertain.

Ruins are happily so scarce in our young and thriving republic, that the simple legend which gives a name to my story, may awaken some interest among those, to whose imaginations the solitary remains of the past seem to speak in the breathings of the winds that sweep over their ruins. The circumstances which led to its narration, by one who had heard it in the mother country, and in whose family its memory had been handed down, were as follows:—

Many years ago, as the last lingering sunbeams were fading from the sky, giving place to the mellow twilight; and a ruddy tinge was on the bosom of the waters, where the little river of St. Mary’s mingled its tributary stream with the waves of the broad Potomac; a small vessel had just anchored within the mouth of the former river, on which is established a port of entry. The craft seemed awaiting the boarding officer, who, at a point further up the river, was just entering his boat. He appeared very young, and, from the open gaiety of his fine countenance, seemed to enjoy corresponding lightness of heart. He raised a small telescope to his eye, and exclaimed to the two colored men who were loosening the boat—

“It must be a Yankee schooner; be quick Basil! Luke!”

“Aye, aye, Massa Frank,” replied Luke, “all ready—that’s an eastern craft, sure.”

The light barge was soon on the waves, and the youth took the helm, while the strong arm of his companions were engaged with the oars.

The visitors approached the vessel’s side almost unperceived; and when the young officer ascended to its deck, he found the captain anxiously absorbed in examining an old map, which was spread out before him. The expression of his weather-beaten face, as he raised it to return the salutation of his visitor, showed evident signs of being puzzled.

“Where are you from?” inquired the landsman.

“From Plymouth.”

“What cargo?”

“Why, a good many notions, of which you will know presently.”

“And whither bound?”

“Why that’s what I’m looking for on this old map, for I see nothing like it on shore; aye, here it is, St. Mary’s, the town of St. Mary’s, sir.”^[2]

“There is no such town in the state, sir,” replied the youth, “this river and the county bear that name; there is some mistake.”

“Massa captain clear out for de county,” said Basil, grinning.

“De boss lose his reckoning dis time,” rejoined Luke.

“Be more respectful, and return to the boat,” said the young officer, checking their glee; then turning to the captain, he continued, “This map is an old one; there was formerly a town named St. Mary on this river—it was the first settlement in the state, and built in the time of the Calverts, but it has passed away and been forgotten for a century.”

The disappointed face of the mariner was not the only one agitated by the news. The sailors belonging to the vessel had joined the group, and their rough appearance was strongly contrasted with the tall and elegant figure of a passenger, who had been drawn by the conversation from the cabin, and now stood leaning against the companion way.

The young Marylander, who had not before perceived the stranger, thought, as he returned his salutation, that he had seldom looked on a countenance so interesting. It was youthful, but there was a shade of melancholy on the fine features, which, however, served only to confine, not hide the flashes of an enthusiastic spirit, which glanced from his full dark eye.

“We are out of soundings, Mr. Egerton,” said the captain, “I might as well have cleared out for a port in the moon.”

“The fault was mine, sir,” replied the person called Egerton, “and I regret having thus led you astray;” then, turning to the young American, he continued, “The disappointment is also great to me, sir, for the haven we sought was the home of my forefathers. I am a stranger in this country, having lately arrived from England. On landing at Plymouth I found this schooner loading for a southern port—and, wishing to visit Maryland immediately, I induced this worthy but too obliging man to bring the cargo hither. The silence of history has left the annals of Maryland so much in the shadow, that a foreigner feels doubtful whether a literal construction should be put on the desertion of a town, particularly when your port of entry also bears the name of St. Mary’s.”

“Well,” interrupted the captain, smiling, “don’t feel uneasy about me, for the cargo is of that accommodating nature which will suit another town as well.”

The customary business was soon despatched, and the officer was leaving the vessel, but his eye lingered on the interesting stranger. There was something in his appearance that won his heart, and, after a moment’s hesitation he thus spoke.

“This seems to have been your place of destination, Mr. Egerton. Will you excuse the blunt freedom of an American, if I ask you to accompany me to the shore? My uncle’s dwelling is in sight. I act as his deputy in official business, but with much more pleasure I use another privilege, and tender you the hospitalities of his roof. Although the town, the principal object of your visit, is no more, yet if you can content yourself a few days with us, you can explore the ruins. Oakford is the name of my uncle. I bear the same, with the simple addition of Frank.”

The stranger caught his offered hand.

“I feel grateful for your kindness,—the ruins! did you say? It would indeed be a gratification to view them—I will, with pleasure, avail myself of your polite invitation; the ruins! are they extensive?”

“Oh, no,” replied young Oakford, smiling, “there are but few relics left by time and weather—some remains of walls and foundations—but the most interesting are the ruins of an ancient church—among whose dilapidated pews a respectable audience of weeds have accumulated.”

“Weeds, growing in the holy temple of my fathers! what a sublime yet sad subject for reflection! I must see them!”

The young American again smiled at his companion’s enthusiasm; and, as the shadows of evening were fast closing around them, he hurried his new friend in his preparations to leave the vessel. The good-natured captain declined an invitation to accompany them, as he had made arrangements to continue his voyage farther—and, cordially shaking the hand of his departing passenger, refused to receive any extra compensation for the trouble occasioned. The rough, but kind-hearted sailors also refused, but the generous feelings of the young man were not to be checked thus, and he forced into their unwilling hands the expression of his thanks, as he took a kind leave of them.

Darkness had veiled the landscape when the boat reached the shore, and the warm-hearted Marylander, drawing the arm of the young stranger within his, hurried him up the long avenue leading to the mansion, assuring him that his uncle would be as much gratified as himself by this acquisition to their society. “So, feel perfectly at ease, for we southerners use very little ceremony.”

The event proved it so, for Col. Oakford, a fine looking man, just past the meridian of life, received him with that easy politeness and frank cordiality of manner which relieved him from all embarrassment. He soon discovered that his guest possessed high literary attainments—and, enjoying those advantages himself, the conversation became interesting, and they parted at the hour of rest, mutually pleased with each other.

The next morning arose in clouds and rain. “No ruins to-day,” said the young Briton, as they met in the breakfast room. But, although the weather prevented any outward excursion, a well filled library offered a pleasing substitute.

Young hearts soon assimilate, and friendships in early life are quickly formed—hence, when the sun at last broke through the clouds, on the evening of the third day, the two youths felt on terms of intimacy and attachment. On the fourth morning, the lively Frank aroused his friend before sunrise, to view, what he imagined must be to him, a novel and imposing sight. They descended to the open piazza, and young Egerton looked around in vain to discover the woods, the hill, the river; all was enveloped in a thick fog, and had the appearance of a surrounding lake. At this moment the sun rose, and the vapor broke on the bosom of the stream.

“See,” said Frank, “the river is throwing off his night robes—observe how gracefully he rolls and folds them.”

Huge white sheets of vapor were indeed majestically receding down the current; others floated like snow wreaths on the hills of the opposite shore—the green sides of which, were at intervals visible through the breaking mist, and seemed struggling beneath its might. In gradual succession the forests and dwellings of men appeared, and in a few minutes this atmospheric envelope was lost in the increasing warmth of the sun’s beams.

“How singular and beautiful,” said the stranger. “Is it often thus?”

“Very frequently; at some seasons each morning renews the scene; but you are not very robust, and must be content to view it seldom, for this recreation is far from healthy. The poets of your native isle may sing of ‘walks at early dawn, through dewy meads,’ but such strolls would make a short life here.”

On entering the parlor they met the Colonel.

“What think you of the night bath which these lowlands take?” said he, smiling.

“That the morning effect is beautiful,” replied Egerton, “but the whole must be injurious to health.”

“You are right, it is ever so to strangers, but we, who are sons of the mist, fear no harm from our native atmosphere. Yet do not think this characteristic of our general climate. On the contrary, the northern states, with their rock-bound sea coasts, have a clear bracing atmosphere; the middle states, also, with their varied surface of mountain and valley, and most parts of the southern, are equally healthy. Our own upper counties, and the neighboring inlands, or forest places, as we term them, are not sickly. It is only where the land is low, and as bountifully supplied with bays, inlets and streams as here, that this effect takes place; but see, ‘aunt Nora’ waits with the breakfast.”

The aged colored housekeeper, called by this familiar appellation, had been the faithful nurse of the Colonel’s infancy, and, in return, was treated by him with great kindness. She was busied at a little table, in a corner of the room, from which she despatched, by the younger hands of her grandson, Luke, to a larger table in the centre of the apartment, the fine coffee, and more solid comforts of a Maryland breakfast, of which the young friends hastily partook, and then made arrangements for their visit to the ruins.

The boat was soon in readiness, and they set out, accompanied by Basil and Luke. As the light bark glided along the shore, Frank pointed out several places endeared by the recollections of his childhood. Through an opening in the trees peeped the unobtrusive walls dedicated to country learning, with its play ground, so often the scene of his boyish gambols, and its clear spring under the shade of a sycamore near the river, where a solitary cow was now stooping to drink.

“See, Frank,” cried his friend, “she is profaning your Helicon fount!”

“Nay, let her drink, Egerton,” he replied, “for, as she is not likely to draw more romantic inspiration than I did from its waters, the spring will lose none of its power from her draught.”

“But you have gained what is worth more, sentiments pure and disinterested, with a mind happy and free. ’Tis true, you seldom make reminiscences—but, if you were like me, an orphan, and a native of a clime where, at every step, you meet some relic of the past, you would feel differently. Your country has but a short path to retrace, and is too young to boast of olden days.”

“And yet,” replied Frank, archly smiling, “there were times to which we might refer, as equal to any that shed glory on ancient chivalry.”

“Granted, and the treasure they left you may well render you careless of other relics.”

“Many thanks for your liberality, my dear friend,” said Frank, “and now for the ruins.” As he spoke, the direction of the boat was changed, and they swiftly crossed the river. Egerton sprang first on land, and was soon deeply engaged in examination, but found Frank’s words too true. Time and weather had indeed been ruthless ravagers; besides, it appeared that many materials had been removed, perhaps to repair the cottages of the neighboring poor. But some remains of what seemed to have been the walls of a large store house, part of an embankment where once had stood a fort, pits filled with rubbish, which had been cellars, and crumbled walls, with here and there a fallen chimney, gave melancholy testimony to the change. Nor had the church met a better fate. The broken in roof still clung to the shattered wall on one side only, and hung like a dark banner, half suspended over the desolation below; the decayed floor had descended into the mournful cemetery beneath, leaving some of the baseless seats clinging to the side wall. Weeds, too, were there, whose flowers seemed to bloom in mockery. In the sad home of the buried dead all was confusion, broken tombs, and heaps of rubbish. The young Briton sat down on a fragment of the ruined wall, and Frank shared in the melancholy of his friend, as they viewed the desolate scene. Egerton at length broke silence. “You have, no doubt, wondered at the deep interest I feel with regard to these ruins. Many circumstances have led to it, particularly a little tale related to me by a maiden aunt, to which I listened with great delight in childhood; and when, in after years, I was deprived of my beloved parents, I would sometimes beguile my sorrows by a recurrence to its sad remembrance. Thus it became more interesting to me, and I soon felt a desire to visit the location of scenes so connected with my family, and with the fate of an Indian chief of the Youcómaco tribe, called Wiccónsat, the principal subject of the legend. If it will give you any pleasure, I will relate it while we rest on these sad ruins.”

“Really, my dear friend,” replied Frank, “I feel almost as sentimental as yourself.”

“Then I will take advantage of your serious mood and commence my simple tale.”

“Among the early settlers at St. Mary’s, were the parents of Rosalie Egerton. She was an only daughter and beautiful. An accomplished mother had taught her many things of which few other females of the colony could boast. She accompanied her harp with the songs of distant lands, and with her needle embroidered scenes from the old world. Yet she loved to wander amidst the wild grandeur of her native forests, accompanied only by her little brother, for the neighboring Indians were harmless and friendly.

“Wiccónsat was the son of an aged chief of the Youcómacoes. He was tall and elegantly formed, and straight as an arrow from his quiver. Mild and contemplative, he became a favorite among the settlers, from whom he learned not only to read and write, but many of their useful arts. But he had listened to the breathings of Rosalie’s harp, as he lingered near her dwelling, and had gazed after her fair form, as she wandered in the forest, until the Indian’s life had lost all charms for him. The smile of happy youth had fled, and when he sought his father’s wigwam, his eye was sad and restless. The old chief saw with sorrow the change.

“ ‘A spell hath come o’er thee, Wiccónsat,’ he kindly said; ‘my son is no longer the same. When in childhood I first saw thy little hands bend the bow, I fondly thought thou would’st rival the hunting fame of thy father, and, when age had weakened my strength, should danger threaten our tribe, thou would’st head the chiefs in combat. The locks of Orrouiska are now gray, and his hand feeble. The supplies of his wigwam are scanty, for his son lingers among the better habitations of strangers. But I know thy secret. Thy hopeless love is placed on the fairest of the white fawns, one as far above thy reach as was the rainbow of yesterday. For though the son of a once powerful chief, the poorest of the pale faces would reject thy alliance. Then arouse thee, Wiccónsat, and despise their pride. The Great Spirit made us all equal, and the brightest of our Indian maidens would be proud of thy love. If thou dost prefer the plough of the white man to the bow of the hunter, ’tis well, but turn the furrow in thy own fields.’

“The youth answered not, but with a deep sigh, taking his quiver full of arrows, went out to the chase. He wandered on through the forest, forgetful of his first intention, until he found himself near the river’s bank, and by the dwelling of Rosalie, and soon beheld the maiden, with her little brother, in a small boat, which they had contrived to move out a few yards into the deep water. As she arose to reach some blossoms from the overhanging trees, her balance was lost, and she fell into the stream. In a moment the young Indian had plunged in to her relief, and bore her in safety to the bank. The cries of her brother had alarmed the family, who hurried to the river, and Wiccónsat, yielding his lovely burthen to her parents’ arms, hastened to escape from their grateful acknowledgments, to enjoy in solitude the delightful feelings that crowded his heart. It seemed a new era in his existence, and fairy dreams floated in his imagination. With buoyant and unwearied footsteps he pursued the chase, and returned to his father’s cabin loaded with the choicest game, the reward of his toil.

“ ‘Come, dear Oskwena,’ said he to his young sister, who ran to welcome him, ‘prepare a feast for our father, while I dress these skins, to make a softer couch for his aged limbs.’

“ ‘Gladly, brother,’ she replied, ‘but hast thou brought me any beads or ornaments from the colony?’

“ ‘No, thou art too good and comely to need these trifles. Thy lover will prize thee more without them.’

“ ‘Thou art mistaken, brother, for Potawissa loves to see my dark hair braided with beads, and their bright strings encircling my neck. Thy talk will do for the white fawns, with their cheeks like the wild rose and foreheads like the mountain snow; but the darker hue of Indian maids wants other ornaments.’

“ ‘Thou hast well described the white fawns, sister,’ answered the young chief, ‘and shalt indeed have a gay necklace; but thou hast never heard the song of her who is brightest among them. Why the blest sounds on the air, which are said to call our fathers to the spirit-land on high, are not sweeter.’

“ ‘Hush, hush,’ cried Oskwena, ‘how canst thou talk thus? I would not hear her strain, for it hath sadly altered thee.’

“The bright visions of Wiccónsat were soon dispelled, for, with the next vessel from England, arrived a young relative of Rosalie’s family, who brought news of their having succeeded to an estate in their native country, to take possession of which they now made preparations to leave America. The charms of the maiden made an immediate impression on the heart of the young and accomplished Briton. His amiable qualities soon won her love, and, with the approval of her parents, it was arranged that their marriage should take place on their arrival in England.

“The sad intelligence soon reached Wiccónsat, to whom the grateful family had shown many marks of attachment, little suspecting the sorrows they were preparing for the youthful chief. They knew not the secret homage of his heart, for its trembling hopes had never been breathed to the beautiful object of his love. In the innocence of grateful friendship, she presented him with an embroidered belt worked by her own hands, and assured him that she would never forget her generous preserver.—But when the day of their departure had arrived, and sorrowful friends crowded the vessel’s deck to take their last farewell, Wiccónsat was not there. Rosalie and her parents shed tears of regret, as the sails were spreading to waft them from their happy American home, and as their eyes sought its peaceful roof, they discovered near it, on a point of the river’s shore, the solitary figure of the young chief. It was at this spot he had rescued the maiden from a watery grave. She eagerly waved her white handkerchief in token of farewell, and the next moment saw the belt she had given him, floating on the air in a returning adieu. In a few minutes the vessel parted from the shore.

“Many years after this, an interesting youth, accompanied by his tutor, arrived at St. Mary’s, from England. I know not in what state they found the town, but the youth’s first inquiries were for an Indian chief, called Wiccónsat, who had in early years saved the life of his mother. He was shown a lonely wigwam, on a point near the river. James Egerton, for it was my great grandfather, took an early opportunity of visiting it, but first inquired into the present character of its inmate. ‘He is mild and peaceful,’ said his informant, ‘and is sometimes called the Indian Hermit, for he seldom appears abroad except when hunting or fishing. He has lived thus for many years, is always melancholy, and dislikes the visits of the curious: ’Tis thought some misfortune in his youth has led him to prefer solitude.’—Thus informed, the young James proceeded to the river’s side. From description, he knew where had stood the home of his mother’s children, but sighed to perceive it in ruins, and leaning on a fragment of the broken wall, plucked a leaf from the vine that still clung to it, then, with lingering footsteps, sought the point. Seated on a rustic bench at the door of the cabin was a figure which he knew must be the chief, for he raised his tall, majestic form, and advanced to meet him, but paused suddenly, and gazed earnestly and inquiringly on his face.

“The youth felt abashed, but with some effort addressed him: ‘Excuse this intrusion, good chief; I am the son of her, whose life you once saved.’

“The recluse caught his offered hand.

“ ‘And art thou indeed her child? oh! yes, that eye, that smile had awoke my memory before you spoke. Welcome art thou to the desolate Wiccónsat.’ After some conversation, the youth drew from his bosom two small books, richly bound, and presented them as tokens of remembrance from his mother. The chief pressed them to his lips. ‘These will beguile many lonely hours, but, oh! hadst thou but brought me one lock of her hair. It was the colour of thine,’ he added, as he passed his hand over the rich brown curls of the son of Rosalie. ‘Alas! good chief,’ he replied, ‘sorrow, rather than time, has robbed those locks of their beauty. Death has bereaved my beloved mother of her parents and of several children. I alone survive.’ ‘And can sorrow reach one so good? Then why should I repine?—From this point, dear boy, I saw thy mother and her parents depart, and here I raised my lonely habitation. For years, I indulged the vain hope of their return, and whenever I saw a large vessel enter the river, I silently mingled with the crowd on the shore. But wearied hope has long since fled, memory alone remains.’

“ ‘And yet you may again behold my parents, for it is their intention to visit Maryland in a short time.’ Surprise and joy beamed in the countenance of the Indian, and from that hour he continued cheerful, but his greatest present enjoyment arose from the frequent visits of his young friend, to whom he daily became more attached. ’Tis true, the tutor of James disapproved of his spending so much time with one whom he considered an untutored savage, but the warm-hearted boy knew his Indian favorite to be possessed of pure and lofty principles, with noble and generous feelings.

“Wiccónsat now mingled once more with the white inhabitants, and pointed out to the inquiring youth whatever was interesting. The remains of the Indian village were still visible, and the few chiefs that visited the town still fondly called it Youcómico. But their tribe had removed to a greater distance, and there was now little communication between them and the colonists.

“Several months elapsed and the time drew near when the young Briton expected once more to embrace his parents. They had informed him, by letter, of their intention to embark on board the Huntress, which would sail in two weeks, and nearly a month had passed since the reception of this letter. It was probable then, that they were near the American coast.”

Here the narrator paused.

“Why do you not proceed?” asked Frank.

“Because I think it will be better to finish the story as we return. It grows late, and I wish to gather some little remembrance.”

From various parts of the ruins he now selected something to carry with him, and was loading Basil and Luke with similar trophies, who appeared to place little value on them, as they dropped some at every step. At length they returned to the boat, in which they deposited the cumbrous relics, and left the shore. But a new object excited the curiosity of Egerton, and, with a look of entreaty, he turned to his friend.

“You have been very patient and kind, dear Frank, and now we are in the boat, let us go a little further up the river! That point above must be the spot on which stood the wigwam of Wiccónsat.”

“You will find it a difficult matter to prove that,” returned Frank, “however, we will go.”

“It’s a good place for fishing,” said Basil, “and we have a line.”

The first object that struck their view on landing at the point, was a collection of half decayed boards.

“See here! conviction strong!” cried the delighted Egerton.

“Nonsense,” said Frank, “they are the remains of some old fishing hut or flat boat. Indian wigwams are not made of boards.”

“How incredulous you are,” returned his friend. “Surely the melancholy chief had been long enough among white men to adopt their materials.”

“Very well, shall we load the boat with them as relics?”

“You are jesting; but I should really like to rebuild it, if we had time. Where are Basil and Luke?”

“More profitably employed—fishing; but we will return in a day or two, and try whether a wigwam can be made of it.” The young Briton had seated himself on one of the boards, and seemed lost in contemplation, while Frank quietly withdrew to see the luck of the fishers—who, in the meantime, had not forgotten the two youths, but, in their simple phrase, were discussing the point at issue:

“Why, Old Nora could tell him plenty about the Ingens,” said Basil, “for her grandmother told her, and she saw a power of ’em in her time—but he only seems to care about one—and I can’t say I ever heard Nora go over such a strange name as that.”

“They were smart, them chiefs, in their time,” observed Luke, “for they say our folks learned to make the canoes from ’em, and I’d put ’em against any boat that swims.”

“But they won’t hold much of a crew, Luke, let alone passengers, and as there’s four of us, and a heavy load of Massa Egerton’s nelics, as he calls them; besides, it’s lucky we’ve got something bigger to float home in.”

Their angling had not been very successful in the short time they had engaged in it, and at Frank’s request, the boat was again put in readiness for their departure.

Once more on the water, Frank reminded his friend of the promised conclusion of his story.

“I thought you had forgotten it,” replied Egerton, smiling, “but I will with pleasure gratify you. I believe we left my ancestor expecting the early arrival of his parents at St. Mary’s, and I will now proceed to give you the other portion of the legend.

“One evening, after his usual visit to the wigwam, James was slowly returning to his lodgings. Lost in thought, he did not at first perceive that heavy clouds were gathering in the sky, but the sudden darkness made him quicken his pace.

“ ‘You are late this evening, Master James,’ said his tutor, as he met him at the door, ‘you waste a great deal of time with that wild Indian, and I am glad your parents are coming to take charge of you.’ ‘I am glad too,’ thought his pupil, but he did not say so, and soon after retired to rest.

“The sleep of innocent youth is ever sound, and a severe storm which arose had been raging some time before it broke his deep slumber.

“He started from his pillow, and his first thoughts were fears for his parents’ safety. The wind roared fearfully, and the rain beat in torrents against his chamber window. He looked out on the thick darkness that obscured every object, and his heart sunk within him at the dreary view. Overcome with the distress of his feelings, he leaned against the casement, and gave vent to the friendly tears that often relieve the sadness of boyhood. Suddenly a faint and distant flash of light broke through the gloom. It was gone, but a sound followed which, even amid the howling of the storm, could not be mistaken. It struck on the ear of the weeping boy, with startling certainty.

“ ‘It is, oh! yes, it is a signal gun of distress, oh! my mother! my father!’ and sinking on his knees, he breathed an agonized prayer for their safety, then starting to his feet, he hastily threw on his clothes, and hurried down stairs without knowing his object. The house stood near the river, and on opening the door he saw some person moving along the bank. He approached; it was the chief. ‘Is it you, Wiccónsat? oh! what a night!’ The Indian pressed his hand in gloomy silence, and stood in a listening attitude, with his face turned towards that part of the horizon from whence the flash had appeared. Another gleamed across the dismal night, and the sullen peal that followed, fell, like the bolt of death, on their hearts.

“ ‘It is a call for aid,’ exclaimed the chief, ‘and perhaps thy mother’s life is in danger.’ ‘And my father’s too,’ added the shuddering boy. ‘Alas! Wiccónsat, what can we do?’ ‘I follow that light,’ he answered, as the flash of another minute gun shone.

“ ‘Oh! take me then with you, good chief, leave me not here in suspense!’

“ ‘Alas! my boy, this stormy night ill suits thy tender frame. Wait thou till morning breaks, then thou canst follow with some of the townsmen. The light seems near the mouth of the Potomac.’

“ ‘Who speaks below,’ said the tutor’s voice from the window; ‘surely, Master James, you are not out on such a night?’ ‘Indeed I am,’ replied the youth, ‘there is a vessel in distress, it may be the Huntress, in which my parents are expected; surely I cannot sleep now.’

“ ‘Well, well, if that’s the case, it’s bad enough, but I think it’s not probable; however, I’ll be down directly.’ By this time several of the neighbours had joined them, and they determined to proceed in the supposed direction of the vessel. By the first dawn of light they found themselves on the shore of the Potomac river, near its entrance into the Chesapeake Bay. The rain had ceased, and daylight, as it broke from the clouded east, shewed to their anxious gaze, a dismasted vessel, which appeared in a wrecked and sinking state. Two boats, crowded with the crew and passengers, were seen contending with the raging waves, endeavouring to reach the land. Some water casks which had been washed on shore, were eagerly examined by the distressed James, to discover the name of the vessel. It met his eye, and with a cry of terror he threw himself into the arms of the Indian.

“ ‘It is the Huntress! oh! Wiccónsat! my parents will be lost!’

“ ‘Hast thou no confidence in the Great Being thy mother worships?’ he softly said, as he pressed him to his breast, but his eye was fairly fixed on one of the boats, in which he thought he could distinguish the garments of a female. The foaming waters seemed to threaten instant destruction to the frail barques, as they tost from wave to wave, sometimes half hid in the surf that broke over them. At this moment a mingled cry reached the shore, and but one boat was seen, the other was ’whelmed beneath the waters. Wiccónsat broke from the clinging arms of the youth, and plunged into the waves. For some time he was lost to their view, but his strong and sinewy arms forced a passage to the scene of distress, and in a short time he was seen returning, supporting, with one arm, the form of a female. The young James, who had been forcibly withheld from following, now rushed to meet him, and Rosalie (for it was she) opened her eyes to be clasped to the bosom of her son. She lived, she breathed, and the first word that trembled on her lips was the name of her husband. Scarcely had she spoken, ere the generous chief had again thrown himself into the waves. But his strength was exhausted by previous exertion, and when, with difficulty, he had nearly reached the overturned boat to which the husband of Rosalie, with others, now clung, a floating piece of the ship’s mast struck him on the temple. In the mean time, the other boat had safely landed its crew, and was despatched to the aid of the sufferers, who were all, with the exception of two, saved.

“Rosalie had been conveyed to the nearest house, and restoratives were applied, which soon brought her to a state of recollection. She recognized with joy, the form of her husband, as he knelt by the side of her couch, and pressed, with a mother’s fondness, the hand of her affectionate son. But her eyes wandered around the room as if in search of another object. ‘It was a dream then,’ she murmured, ‘it was not his, but thy dear arm that drew thy mother from the waves.’

“ ‘Alas! no, it was he, the generous and the good,’ replied her son.

“ ‘Wiccónsat! brave chief! but why those looks of anguish; is this, my son, a time for sorrow, when Heaven has been so kind? And my preserver, where lingers he?’

“ ‘Where his bright virtues will be best rewarded,’ replied her husband, solemnly.

“ ‘What mean you? Surely he is safe.’

“ ‘He perished in an attempt to save my life.’ She heard no more, for she had fainted in the arms of her son, and it was long ere she revived, to mingle with theirs her tears of unavailing regret.

“In the afternoon the body of the generous Indian was washed on shore. With every mark of respect it was conveyed to the town, and preparations made for its interment on the following day at the point, in a spot once pointed out, by the chief, to young Egerton. The grief of this affectionate boy burst without restraint, as he leaned over the body of his departed friend, and his tears flowed afresh, when he was shown a folded paper, which had been found in his bosom. It was wet through, and contained the faded belt, the treasured gift of Rosalie.

“Intelligence of the sad event was conveyed to the sister of the chief, and the next day, accompanied by her husband and sons, and several warriors of the Youcómaco tribe, Oskwena arrived, just as the funeral procession was moving to the grave. Time had altered this once beautiful daughter of the forest; there was a mildness in her look of grief, as she left the canoe, and led by her two sons, approached the open grave, where, seating herself by its side, she silently awaited the mournful train that bore her brother to his last home. She uttered a faint cry as her eye rested on the coffin, and her whole frame shook with agitation, when it was lowered from her sight.

“The chiefs arranged themselves in gloomy silence around the grave of him, who, in early youth, had been the boast of their tribe, and heard, rather than listened, to the funeral service. It was scarcely ended, when the hitherto restrained grief of Oskwena burst forth. She tore from her dishevelled locks the rude ornaments of her tribe, scattering them on the ground, but a necklace of beads she retained in her hand, and wept bitterly as she looked on it.

“ ‘It was thy gift, Wiccónsat,’ said the mourner, ‘thy face glowed with youth and hope on the happy day thou gavest it. Our aged father blessed his children, for he had not then passed to the spirit-land above. The beads are bright yet, but thou art faded and gone. I can gaze on them no more, they shall be hid with thee,’ and she dropped them into the grave. The spectators looked on her with pity and disturbed her not, as in a low voice she chaunted a wild funeral melody. When she ceased, several young maidens of St. Mary’s, arrayed in white, approached, and scattered flowers around the grave. The oldest son of Oskwena stood, with his father, among the chiefs. To him the beauty of the white maidens was new, for he had never before been allowed to visit the town.

“ ‘Who are they?’ he asked, eagerly leaning forward, but then the stern Potawissa drew him back, as he replied in a low voice, ‘It matters not, it is enough that they cannot be aught to thee. Look not on their fatal beauty, but let that lonely grave warn thee of danger. It was hopeless love for a pale face like theirs, that induced thy mother’s brother to forsake the tribe that idolized him; to lead a life of solitude, and at last to perish for her sake. And now he sleeps not with the bones of his fathers, and the talk of the white man is heard by his grave, instead of the bold death song of our chiefs. Nay, thou art gazing still; turn from them boy,’ and suddenly drawing him round, he held him firmly until the fair group had retired. A faint shriek from Oskwena drew his attention. He saw the attendants were filling up the grave, and hastened to remove her sinking form. In a few minutes the crowd had dispersed, the chiefs again entered their boats, and young Egerton, with his father, alone remained on the silent shore.

“The family remained but a short time in Maryland, for the health of Rosalie had sustained a shock from which it never recovered. She faded before the agonized view of her husband and son, and died shortly after their return to England. As one of their descendants, I have long wished to visit the scene of their sorrows, and in doing so, I have formed a friendship which, believe me, dear Frank, will always be cherished in my heart. The kind hospitality of your good uncle made me forget I was a stranger, and though we must part in a few days, time or distance will never erase the remembrance of my American friends.”