HOMEWOOD.

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BY P. C. SHANNON.

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Among the many beautiful country-seats which have, of late years, sprung up around us, there is no one perhaps that in architectural design, in compactness and elegance of finish, surpasses “Homewood,” the residence of the Hon. William Wilkins. Throughout all its parts, and in all its arrangements, it presents a chaste and highly tasteful appearance.

The name adopted is quite appropriate. The building stands in the centre of a nearly circular area, the circumference of which is bounded for acres back by the tall oaks of the primeval forest. In the summer, when the grass waves and the flowers unfold their fragrant treasures, this circular area presents to the eye the aspect of an island of verdure surrounded by the dim old trees. When evening approaches and the sun pours his slanting beams through the luxuriant foliage, bathing the boughs in liquid gold, no place can be more delightful than the “columned porch” at Homewood. The warbling of the birds, the fragrance of manifold flowers, the lowing of distant herds, the gentle rustling of the branches moved by the passing breeze, the shouts of the distant harvestmen preparing to leave, with the sun’s decline, their daily toil—all combine to lull the heart and to enchant the senses.

The approach is through a spacious avenue, curving as it nears the building, and crossing a little dingle, through which murmurs a gentle streamlet. The scenery is lovely, the soil fertile, the location airy and healthful.

The whole country around abounds in historic associations of the “olden time,” when the red man struggled against the advancing column of civilization. And what history has been unable rightfully to appropriate, legend and fiction have gathered up, and woven into dark and solemn drapery, wherewith they have clothed every prominent locality and invested every heroic character of those shadowy ages. Over these fields once roamed the Shawanese, who, driven from Florida, made their way to the head of the Ohio—a powerful, warlike, and restless tribe, who alone of all the Indians retained a tradition that their fathers had crossed the ocean. Not far off dwelt, for a time, a branch of the Lenni Lenape, who, in former days, had welcomed the Shawanese to their hunting-grounds. Tradition has it, that afterward the last mentioned tribe, forgetful of former kindness and hospitality, left their homes on the Ohio, crossed the Allegheny Mountains and fell by night upon the camps of the unsuspecting Lenape on the river Juniata, where they massacred many of them, and marched off with prisoners and plunder. Over these grounds, and up as far as the mouth of the Youghiogany, Queen Aliquippa, spoken of by Washington in his Journal, and visited by him in 1753, governed with rude and simple sway. Shingiss, King of the Delawares, the lover of Aliquippa, had the seat of his regal power near McKee’s Rocks, a little below Pittsburgh. He was young, generous and brave, and alliances with him were eagerly sought by both the French and the English. At the rustic court of Aliquippa, and one of her chief advisers, was Tonnaleuka, “prophet and medicine-man”—a solemn, mysterious personage, who sought, in caverns, to hold communion with the invisible world, and who laid claim to great knowledge in occult arts and mysterious rites.

At a distance of two or three miles from Homewood lies Braddock’s Field, on the bank of the Monongahela River—the theatre of one of the most prominent occurrences in our colonial history. The total defeat of General Braddock, on the 9th of July, 1755, caused an electric shock throughout the colonies, and occasioned profound grief and astonishment in the mother country. But on this field of death and defeat it was that Washington first gained a renown for wisdom and bravery which will be forever associated with his name. He was often heard to say that the most beautiful spectacle he had ever beheld, “was the display of the British troops on this eventful morning. Every man was dressed in full uniform; the soldiers were arrayed in columns and marched in exact order; the sun gleamed from their burnished arms, the river flowed tranquilly on one side, and the deep forest overshadowed them with solemn grandeur on the other. Officers and men were equally inspirited with cheering hopes and confident expectations.”

And yet ere the gloom of twilight had encircled the forest, more than half that brilliant army had fallen!

Among the many beautiful traditions relative to Washington, which have been handed down to our times, is one which rests on the authority of Dr. Craik, who, it appears, was the intimate friend of Washington from his boyhood to his death, and who was with him at Braddock’s defeat.

“Fifteen years after that event, they traveled together on an expedition to the western country, with a party of woodsmen, for the purpose of exploring wild lands. While near the junction of the Great Kenhawa and Ohio rivers, a company of Indians came to them with an interpreter, at the head of whom was an aged and venerable chief. This personage made known to them by the interpreter, that hearing Col. Washington was in that region, he had come a long way to visit him, adding that during the battle of the Monongahela he had singled him out as a conspicuous object; fired his rifle at him many times, and directed his young warriors to do the same, but to his utter astonishment none of their balls took effect. He was then persuaded that the youthful hero was under the special guardianship of the Great Spirit, (Manitou,) and ceased to fire at him any longer. He was now come to pay homage to the man who was the particular favorite of heaven, and who could never die in battle.”

HOMEWOOD.

The sinking sun streams through the trees,

That form a circle there;

And fragrant is the gentle breeze

With sweets from flow’rets rare.

It nestles in the ancient wood

Where loved to couch the fawn,

Where oft the dark-browed hunter stood

At break of early dawn.

These time-worn oaks might tell a tale

Of struggles fierce and bold,

When on the hill and in the dale

The tide of battle rolled.

The Shawanese on foeman’s trail

No more bound free and light,

Nor cower to hear the moaning wail

Of tempest-howling night.

From southern vales where Suwanee

Rolls turbid to the tide,

They tracked the wand’ring Lenape

Where northern waters glide.

And when night’s misty mantle fell

On hill and dusky plain,

Dark Juniata’s shades could tell

The number of the slain.

That race of bronze hath passed away,

And all the forests broad,

That yielded to its warlike sway,

Are now by strangers trod.

The blue-eyed Saxon plants his maize

In peaceful furrows now,

And through the long, lone summer days

He speeds the glist’ning plough.

O’er pastures white with sleeping flocks

The night-winds gently sigh,

And fields arrayed in golden shocks

In length’ning shadows lie.

The moon is up—and silv’ry beams

Rest on the grassy mound,

Where Aliquippa’s spirit gleams

Along the haunted ground.

They say that in her mystic walks,

When night-dews wet the flowers,

The bright-robed Shingiss ever stalks

With her through vernal bowers.

And Tonnaleuka, child of storm,

Comes forth from cavern dark,

With magic zone bound round his form,

And pouch with healing bark.

And where is she, the laughing maid,

With tress of ebon hue,

Who tripped so blithely through the glade,

Or sped the light canoe?

No sound is heard—no human voice

Breaks through the stillness deep;

The twinkling stars, like saints, rejoice

The ways of God to keep.

O’er Braddock’s Field the mist hath spread,

The same as when of yore

It stretched its shroud above the dead

Along the winding shore.

On nodding plume and polished lance

The morn its glories threw,

But proudly waved the flag of France

When stars looked on the dew.

Then loudly burst the conquering yell

Upon the rippling stream,

While faintly rose, from distant dell,

The wild bird’s lonely scream.

And when the drum had ceased to roll,

And all the living fled,

The watching wolf from covert stole

To feast upon the dead.

To far off climes that wail was borne,

O’er waves by tempests tost,

And long did Albion’s daughters mourn

The lovers they had lost.

Yet erring was the red man’s aim,

Who oft, with leveled gun,

Had sought to rob the page of fame

Of Freedom’s noblest son.

When years had fled, that chieftain frail

Went far to see the man,

Who through the battle’s fiery hail,

Had fought when Britons ran.

Full long he gazed upon the brow,

And marked the placid eye,

Of him who, loved by Manitou,

Could ne’er in battle die!

The chieftain old has gone to rest

By Great Kenawa’s side,

Where th’ waving pine bends low its crest,

And the shadows dimly glide.

Close by Potomac’s gentle wave,

On Vernon’s slope of green,

The nation’s father found a grave.

And there his tomb is seen.

——

’Twas fit that here, in forest shade,

This tasteful home should rise,

Where honored age in peace might fade,

Like sun in western skies.