The sun was nigh his setting; a few more far-reaching winks of his great bright eye and he would be sinking behind the evening hills of green Kentucky, and rising above the morning hills of China. Already had the horses and cattle—as was the custom of the times when Indians were known to be across the border—been brought for the night within the shelter of the fort. Already the ponderous wooden gate was swinging creakingly to on its ponderous wooden hinges; but just as its ponderous wooden bolt was sliding into the ponderous wooden staple, out from the neighboring forest ringing, with echo on echo, it came—the old familiar cry, the trumpet-call to battle abroad, the note of brotherly cheer at home: "I yi, you dogs!"—too jocund and triumphant for any one whose ears had caught the glad sound to doubt that glad tidings were coming. Straightway reopening the gate and looking forth, the hunters spied, moving toward them through the bushes in the edge of the woods, first the plumed crest of an Indian warrior, then a more spreading display of bright feathers, so high aloft that one could fancy they topped the head of a giant full eight feet high, who came treading close behind. For a few moments this was all that could be seen; till now, full over the ragged skirts of the forest, there in open view, they came—the young Indian in front, with his load of rifles laid across his arm; then Big Black Burl, bristling all over with hatchets and knives; and lastly, with a consequential twist of the tail and with the plumed scalp-lock of an Indian waving over his neck, the invincible Grumbo bringing up the rear.

And there, triumphantly borne aloft on the shoulders of our big black hero, his sturdy young legs astride his deliverer's neck and dangling down in front, bare and brier-scratched, his arms clasped tightly around the bear-skin war-cap, his own little coon-skin cap all brave with the pride of the war-bird—there sat our little white hero, that self-same runaway Bushie, whose froward legs had so well-nigh carried him to death's door, and on whose account a whole settlement had been unsettled from dinner-time yesterday till supper-time to-day. But what a shout that was which at this sight went pealing up from the fort to the sky, went pealing down from the fort to the mill, which, just at this moment received the reserved water upon its wheel, and all on a sudden, clearing its wooden throat with a squeak, ceased droning, "What a pity! what a pity!" and fell to singing, in double-quick time, "What a naughty! what a naughty! what a naughty!" Some of the hunters ran in to bear the poor mother the joyful tidings, some ran out to meet and welcome the returning conqueror, while others opened the gate to its utmost width to let the conqueror in. On they came, vanquished and victor; Bushie grinning at them from over the head of the Fighting Nigger; the Fighting Nigger grinning at them from over the head of the Indian; and the Indian, with dignified composure, looking the whole white settlement full in the face. Without a halt, right through the gate-way they drove, "like a wagon and team with a dog behind," to use the conqueror's own expressive words; nor could words have expressed more, had they told of the rumble of chariot-wheels. Hardly were they over the sill when, to bring the triumph to a climax, here, followed by all the women, and children, and dogs, screaming, shouting, barking, laughing, crying—those gladder who cried than those who laughed, those gladder who barked than those who shouted—came running Miss Jemimy, to meet them.

Turning his back square on his mistress, the conqueror let the rescued treasure tumble bodily from his shoulders into the eager arms, upon the yearning bosom. With incoherent expressions of endearment to her darling boy, of thanks to their brave and faithful servant, and of praise to the merciful Father of all, the widowed mother clasped the lost and found to her heart, being in turn all but choked and smothered by the hugs and kisses of the delighted Bushie. Then, hand in hand, they hastened to their cabin and shut the door behind them with a timbersome bang, which said as plainly as a puncheon-door, with oaken hinges and hickory latch, could say any thing, "Let us have the first hour of recovered happiness to ourselves." It was a sight for which full many a stern, hard eye that saw it grew for the moment the brighter, if not the clearer; and Burl, though he made a manful effort to keep it back, was forced to yield the point and let it come—the one big sob of tender and grateful feeling, which, sending a quiver through his huge frame, made his martial rigging shake and jingle like the harness of a whinnying war-horse.

The hunters now gathered round the hero of the day and called upon him for an account of his adventures since parting with them at the forks of the river the day before. He told his story modestly and briefly enough, being well aware that there were those among his listeners far more learned in wood-craft than himself, and more skilled in the arts and stratagems of Indian warfare. Too magnanimous was he, though, to pass so briefly over the part his prisoner had played in the matter, dwelling at some length on the gentleness and humanity with which the young Indian had treated his little master. When he had ended, the white hunters, one and all, came up to him and shook him heartily by the hand, pronouncing him an Indian-fighter of the true grit—a compliment, in the Fighting Nigger's estimation, the highest that could be paid to mortal man, black, yellow, or white. Then, going up to the young Indian, who, leaning on his rifles, had stood the while with his bright eyes fixed serenely on some invisible quarter of the evening, they, one and all, shook him, likewise, as heartily by the hand—a dumb but eloquent expression of their grateful sense of the humanity he had shown their little friend in his hour of helpless peril and piteous need. The young brave received the demonstration with dignified composure; not, though, as if he had expected it, for, at the first greeting, he did lose his self-possessed reserve so far as to betray a little sign of great surprise.

While our big black hero was narrating their adventures to the hunters without, our little white hero was giving his version of the same to his mother within—a medley of facts and fancies, where it was about nip and tuck between his old black chum and his young red friend as to which might claim the greater share of the juvenile gratitude and admiration. Being gently reproved by his mother for his naughty behavior, which had been the cause of so much trouble and distress to them all, the young transgressor, for the first time in his life without the help of a switch to make him feel and know the error of his ways, besought his mother's forgiveness; only just let him off for that one time and he never, never would run away with the Indians again as long as he lived—winding up the comforting assurance with a cub-like hug, to make the surer of clearing his legs of the switching he felt he richly deserved.

Having heard the rigmarole from beginning to end, and from end to beginning, and then from middle to middle again, and gathered therefrom that he to whom she owed her dear boy's life was wounded, Mrs. Reynolds sent Bushie with word to Burl to bring the young Indian to her door. When they were come, she made a few inquiries of Burl himself with regard to their adventures, and when answered, she bid him go and bring a keeler of water, that they might wash and dress the prisoner's wound. When the water was brought, she took off the bloody bandages from the crippled arm and gently laved and washed the wound, which by this time was much inflamed and swollen; then anointing it with some healing-salve, she bound it up again with clean bandages. This humane office duly done, the good woman bid Burl take the young Indian to his own cabin, there to be lodged and entertained with all hospitality till, healed of his wound, he should be able to shift for himself, when he should be allowed to return in peace to his own people.

And as his mistress bid him did Burl right willingly do playing the host in magnificent style, and setting before his captive guest the best his house afforded, not suffering a morsel to pass his own or Grumbo's lips till the claims of hospitality were fully met. This last, however, was a piece of etiquette not at all to the war-dog's taste, since two hungry Christian mouths were thereby made to water, and that too only out of respect to a red heathen, who, as such, in his dogship's opinion, deserved no better treatment at their hands than a common cur. Therefore did Grumbo harden his heart all the more against the red barbarian, holding him in worse odor than before.

Victor and vanquished were still at their friendly repast when all the ebony of the settlement—to the number of about thirty, men, women, and children—came flocking to the Fighting Nigger's cabin, and stood gathered in a close, black knot at the door, waiting with eager ears to hear the great event of the day from the hero's own lips; nor with eyes less eager to get a peep at the prisoner of war, a "live Injun"—a sight that some of them had never seen before. Their wonderment was much excited to see how a red varmint could drink its water from a tin instead of needing to suck it up from a trough, like a horse; how it could eat its meat with a knife and fork, bite by bite, instead of gulping it up whole, like a dog; and how it could do many other things in the civilized, human way, which they had supposed peculiar to "black people and white folks." Supper ended, mine host filled and lighted his own pipe, and blandly showing the whites of his eyes, offered it to his captive guest. The captive guest, with a graceful acknowledgment, accepted the pipe, and with grave decorum began smoking, sending out the puffs at slow and regular intervals, and looking straight before him; sometimes at the curling smoke, then, through the smoke, at the opposite wall; then, through the wall—for so it seemed—at some object on the other side of the Ohio River, miles away in the gathering shades of evening. Once he turned his bright eyes full on the clump of shining black faces at the door, and scanned them attentively, though seemingly with as little consciousness of their living, personal presence as were they but so many stuffed specimens of their kind piled up there for exhibition. But glancing downward and spying three or four little woolies peeping fearfully at him from between the legs of the larger ones—the stride of the legs perceptibly widened "to give the little fellows a chance"—then did the young brave discharge a puff one second before its time, sending it with a force that carried it in a straight line to the bowl of the pipe before it began to rise. But for this, you would hardly have thought that the Indian had seen any thing that seemed to him alive or human or funny.

"Cap'n Rennuls, stop yo' monkey-shines ober de red varmint in dar, an' come out an' git up an' make us a speech," at length said one of the ebony brotherhood at the door, promoting our hero on the spot, and adding a still higher title to the illustrious list already coupled with his name.



Chapter XIV.

HOW BIG BLACK BURL FIGURED IN ORATORY.

Accordingly, the Fighting Nigger came forth, still bristling all over with the trophies of victory and spoils of war—the three Indian rifles now added to the rest. Mounting a low, wide poplar stump directly in front of his cabin, he proceeded to give his colored brethren a circumstantial account of all that had happened to him in the course of his late adventure. As if the wonderful reality were not enough to satisfy any reasonable lover of the marvelous, he must needs lug in a deal that had not happened to him in the time, and never could have happened at any time to anybody, excepting giant-killers, dragon-fighters, and the like, whose exploits, though never witnessed by mortal eye, have made such a noise in the world of fancy, fog, and moonshine. Though he could confine himself to facts with modest brevity when speaking of his achievements to white people—as we have already noticed—the Fighting Nigger, it must be owned, was something of a long-winded boaster, with a proneness to slide off into the fabulous, when blowing his own trumpet for the entertainment of his colored admirers, who bolted whatever monstrosity he might choose to toss into their greedy chops. But let us be just. It was with no direct intention of hoaxing or deceiving his hearers that he played the fabler; it was simply a way he had of holding up a magnifying-glass, so to speak, before their eyes, that he might help them to bring their imaginations up to his own idea of the wonderful reality.

As the romancing went on, Grumbo, who had taken the stump likewise, sat, with grim dignity, upon his haunches at his master's side, to lend his countenance to the matter under consideration; presiding, as it would seem, as chairman of the assembly. That such was the view he took of his present position was evident from his manner; for, ever and anon, when he saw their audience staggering under some marvel tossed too suddenly into their gaping mouths, our chairman would fetch the stump a ratifying rap of the tail, which said more plainly than his lips could have said it: "A fact, gentlemen—fact. On the word of an honest dog, that, also, strange though it may seem, is as true as all the rest my comrade has told you. I myself was present and had a hand in the matter; therefore ought I to know."

Now and then the speaker would be interrupted by his excitable listeners with some exclamation of wonder, horror, incredulity, derision, pity, or the like—which, being in Anglo-Congo or ebony lingo, must needs be unintelligible to many of my readers. Therefore, for the enlightenment and edification of the unlearned, have I thought it best to give a list of the interjections and phrases in question, with the definition or free translation of each, ignoring etymologies as smacking, just here, of pedantry:

GLOSSARY.

GIT OUT—A cry of good-humored derision.

SHUCKS—Pshaw; nonsense; fiddle-sticks.

O HUSH—"You are too funny;" "You are too smart;" "You are a fool."

I YI—Hurrah; bravo; bully; well done: coupled with "my larky," equivalent to "Catch me at that if you can."

HOO-WEEP (followed by a whistle)—Expressive of unspeakable astonishment.

OHO—A cry of exultation, translated into "Goody, goody!"

LAUS-A-MARCY—Shocking; horrible; dreadful: "My wool stands on end with horror."

GOODNESS GRACIOUS—Used in a similar sense to the above, though in a milder degree.

TSHT, TSHT, TSHT—An unspellable sound, produced by applying the tip of the tongue to the palate with a quick suck at the air, repented three times; translatable into, "What a pity, what a pity!" "O dear, O dear!"

LETTIN' ON—Making a pretense of; feigning; hoaxing.

H-YAH, H-YAH, H-YAH—Ha, ha, ha.

U-GOOH—An unspellable interjection pronounced, or rather produced, by closing the lips and sending the sound through the nose, either forcibly and suddenly with a quick taper, or the reverse with a quick, short swell; or beginning gently, no bigger than a knitting-needle, and slowly swelling to a certain degree, then suddenly flaring, like the mouth of a dinner-horn. In short, varying according to the feeling or thought to be expressed. Perhaps in the ebony lingo there is no word so frequently used, and in senses so various, as U-gooh. Rendered into English, some of the sentiments expressed thereby are the following: "Admirable!" "Wonderful!" "O how nice!" "O how good!" "You astonish me!" "I admire you!" "I highly commend you!" "I applaud you!" "I am listening—pray proceed!" "What you tell me is very strange, nevertheless I believe you!" "I have no words to express what I feel, therefore can only say, 'U-gooh!'"

What our black Munchausen told the ebony wonder-mongers of his great adventure before and after the fight was such a jumble of marvels and horrors as were hardly fitting to appear in a sober book like ours, pledged to confine itself to possibilities, if not to facts. Where the narrative should have been truest, if truly told, there the narrator was wildest, drawing freely upon his imagination to fill up the wide gaps between the few conspicuous incidents marking its setting out and winding up. Gap number one was made interesting with bears; gap number two, lively with panthers; gap number three, thrilling with wolves; and where the war-path led into the shades of night, there the woods were alive with ghosts. We shall, therefore, make our dip into the medley just at that point where the narrator, having brought his listeners all agape to the hazardous edge of ambush and battle subsides into the possible; the story now rising of itself into the wonderful, and having no great need of exaggeration or embellishment to make it spicy.

* * * * *

"Betsy Grumbo," ses I to my gun, "you mus' put lead through two ob de varmints on de log, ef you cain't through all four." Bang barks Betsy; up jumps all de Injuns, two falls back dead behin' de log, two goes runnin' down de hill a-yellin' as ef de Ol' Scratch wus arter 'em wid a sharp stick. ["H-yah, h-yah, h-yah!" Audience.] "I yi, you dogs!" says I, lungin' out uf de bushes. "Whoo-oop!" yells big Injun, a-jerkin' his tommyhawk out uf de tree and flingin' it whizz at my head. I knocks it away wid my ax an' drives on. Here comes anudder a-whizzin'. Knocks dat off, too, still a-drivin' on at 'im. "I yi, you dogs!" Anudder tommyhawk ready to fly. I knocks dat out de big Injun's han'. Big Injun jumps back'ards, I jumps for'ards, my ax high up an' ready fur a cleaver. No chance fur big Injun; ef he starts to run, it's a split in de back; ef he jumps to one side, it's a gash in de neck. De cleaver's a-comin' down, when here, wid a duck uf de head, comes Injun right at me, his shoulder under my arm. Down draps de ax, a-stickin' in de groun' atwixt his heels. Bes' thing he could a-done fur hisse'f—cunnin' as a fox.

Den, ladies an' gen'lemen, we clinches, an' away we goes a-plungin' an' a-whirlin'; through de bushes an' through de fire, roun' an' roun' de logs, roun' an' roun' de trees, roun' an' roun' de hill. Now I tosses 'im up tel his heels kicked de lim's uf de trees, he's so long; but eb'ry time I thinks I's gwine to bring him down kerwollop, down he comes wid all his feet under him, like a cat. Activest thing I eber seed—he's so long. Den he picks me up an' shakes me, dang-a-lang-a-downy-yo, as ef I's nothin' but a string-j'inted limber-jack. But when I at's him ag'in, to lock legs or kick ankles, dar he's 'way off yander, a-tippin' it on his toes, like a killdee. No gittin' a-nigh him, he's so active, he's so long.

By an' by I happens to look 'roun'. Dar's de dead varmint in de blue coat an' ruffled shirt up ag'in, wid his gun on de log, an' p'intin' right at my ribs. "Ouch!" ses I, an' flings Black Thunder atwix. Black Thunder flings me back fur de pop. Back I flings him ag'in atwix. Den him me ag'in, me him ag'in, an' all de time de dead varmint a-follerin' us wid his gun, waitin' to pop my flanks. So, de dead varmint kep' me watchin' so close, an' de live varmint kep' me movin' so fas', I didn't know what I's doin', couldn't tell whar I's gwine. Dar I was, rammed close up in a corner atwix a tree an' a log; no gittin' out, no flingin' big Injun atwix. Dead varmint takin' his aim—finger on trigger, ready to pull. "Burlman Rennuls," ses I to myse'f, "you's a goner," when dar comes Grumbo a-pitchin'—no stoppin' to smell noses. One long lunge he makes, one long, stretchin' lunge—sich a lunge I neber seed a dog make befo'. 'Peared as ef he'd lef' his hin' parts way back yander, to git de quicker at de varmint's throat wid his fo'parts. Back falls Injun, wid a kick an' a yell; off goes gun, wid a kick an' a bang, the bullet a-whizzin' right 'twix' our noses. "Ouch!" ses I. "Ugh!" says Black Thunder. [Audience: "I yi!" "Oho!" "U-gooh!" See Glossary. It may have been a coincidence, but just here Grumbo fetched the stump a ratifying rap of the tail.]

Ah! ladies an' gen'lemen [patting his comrade-in-arms on the head], you don't know how glad I wus to see dat dog. An' white folks say dat Grumbo's got no humin feelin's. Git out! Den I takes a long bref, Grumbo still a-holdin' fas' to de dead varmint. "Burlman Rennuls," says I to myse'f, "de big Injun's too active fur you—too much like a cat fur you. You cain't throw him down, but you kin let him throw you down; an' once a-flat uf yo' back on de groun' you kin wollop him ober as easy as turnin' a pancake, den chaw him up any way you please." So, I pushes him hard—he pushes me back still harder—when down we comes, kerwollop, chug—nigger below, Injun on top. But, in de shake uf a sheep's tail, nigger comes up, Injun goes down. I grabs fur my knife. It's gone—slipped out in de scuffle. Big Injun grabs fur his knife; dat's gone, too. He jerks out his pipe an' breaks it in flinders ober my head. "Ouch!" says I. I looks roun' fur somethin' good fur beatin' out brains, an' dar lays my ax. I grabs it up, now ready fur a cleaver, an' no mistake. Big Injun ain't, though; he ain't ready fur any sich a thing. Up he comes wid a whirl, an' down I goes wid a fling, my ax a-flyin' way out yander. But in de wriggle uf a buck's tail comes up nigger ag'in; goes down Injun ag'in. Yes, an' a leetle mo' dan dat: nigger an' Injun clean ober de turn uf de hill, an' now a-slidin', slidin' down whar it wus steep as a house-ruff.

"Burlman Rennuls," ses I to myself, "whar you gwine? Dis ain't de sort uf groun' fur you. You cain't manage de Injun here on de steep hill-side—he's too active fur you; he's too long fur you; he's too much like a painter fur you. Git to a lebel country, Burlman Rennuls; git to a lebel country quick as you kin." Den I hugs him up tight in my arms, an' locks him up tight in my legs, an' 'way down de steep hill, rollin', rumblin', an' tumblin' we go—fus' nigger on top, den Injun'—ober an' ober, fas'er an' fas'er. [The orator revolving his fists one round the other with increasing rapidity.]

"Burlman Rennuls, whar you gwine?" Don't know whar, but dat we's rollin' fas'er an' fas'er, an' dat we's startin' de rocks to rollin' too, a-hoppin' an' pitchin' behin' us as ef dey's in fur a frolic. Now we's all in a whirl down dar at de foot uf de hill, an' no lebel country—nothin' but a leanin'-ober river-bank forty foot high. "Burlman Rennuls, whar you gwine?" Don't know whar. But ober we pitches a-whirlin' [throwing out one of the revolving fists at a tangent]—down we draps into water full forty foot deep, kerslash; de rocks a-pitchin' in arter us thick as hail. [Audience: "Laws-a-marcy!" "Goodness gracious!" "Hoo-weep!" (with a whistle). After an impressive pause the speaker, with an impressive gesture, resumed his exciting story.]

Now, ladies an' gen'lemen, you's thinkin' dat's de las' uf Burlman Rennuls, an' dis his ghos' up here on de stump a-talkin' to you. 'T ain't so: Burlman Rennuls pulled out; pulled out, I say. Ef he didn't he wouldn't be up here a-tellin' you uf it. I ups an' looks roun', big Injun ups an' looks roun'. I pulls fur big Injun, big Injun pulls for lan'. Bes' swimmer; gits dar fus', an' ter keep me from landin' too, 'gins beatin' me back wid rocks, wid no more kunsideration fur de feelin's uf a gen'leman dan ef I'd been a shell-backed tarapin. Whack comes one uf de rocks on my head. "Ouch!" an' down I dives. "Burlman Rennuls," ses I to myself, down dar in de bottom uf de riber, "whar ar' you come to? Not whar you started to go. Dis ain't yo' lebel country. Dis won't do. Big Injun too much fur you in water. Git out uf de water quick as you kin. Two loaded guns up dar on top uf de hill. You scratch out an' git de guns, an' yo' day's work's ober."

So, I ups ag'in; an' dis time under de leanin'-over bank, whar de cane-brake wus, de roots uf de brake a-hangin' down 'mos' to de water. Now comes de rocks ag'in, as thick as hail. Grabbin' de cane-brakes, up I goes, han' ober han', han' ober han'. De rocks stop flyin'. I looks behin' me to see fur why. Dar goes Black Thunder drivin' 'cross de riber down at de riffle, makin' de water fly befo' him like a runaway hoss. O my little marster! Up I goes, in double-quick time. Half way up I sees a painter a-grinnin' down at me frum a tree on de bank. Didn't like his looks, but climbed on.

[Here the speaker was interrupted by a voice from the audience: "Cap'n Rennuls, see yer now; ain't you lettin' on?"]

You g' long! Who stops fur painters in a pinch like dat, or any thing else? Ef I'd turned back den would I be here now to tell you uf it? Git out! So, painter, or what not, up I scrabbles, ober de bank wid a tug, an' through de brake wid a squeeze, tel dar I wus at de foot uf de hill. O my little marster! [A woman's voice in the audience: "Tsht, tsht, tsht! Pore little feller!" See Glossary.]

Up we goes a-scratchin'; pullin' at de bushes an' weeds an' grass ter help us 'long, an' tearin' dem up, like flax on a rainy day. Injun has furder ter go, but longer legs ter go wid. So he gits ter de top uf de hill as quick as me—him nighest his gun, me nighest my ax. He's reachin' his han' out fur de gun, my han' 's on my ax a'ready, an' at him de ax goes whizzin', an' pops him plump on de hip, an' ober he tumbles. I runs to pick up my ax, dis time ter give de tough varmint a cleaver, or neber. He can't run, he can't crawl; but he kin wollop, an' wollop he does, like a rooster wid his head cut off. In de flash uf a gun-flint, dar he's wolloped hisse'f to de turn uf de hill. I sends my ax wid a good-by arter him, an' gives him a gash in de arm to 'member me by. He sends me back a grin an' a whoop, an' away big Injun goes rollin' an' tumblin'. I grabs up a gun—his own gun it was—an' sends him a long far'well. He sends back a yell—de o-f-f-ullest yell I eber heerd in all my bo'n days; offul enough ter come frum a grave-yard. Out comes spirtin' de blood, a-flyin' frum de rollin' body like water frum a flutter-mill. Down to de foot uf de hill a-whirlin' he goes, tel ober de bank uf de riber he pitches. An' dat's de las' I sees uf big Injun. [Audience: "I yi!" "Oho!" "U-gooh!"]

"Burlman Rennuls," says I to myself, still p'intin' my gun at de bank, "yo' day's work's done." But hain't hardly said it when, "Burl, Burl!" ses Bushie; "Bow-wow," ses Grumbo; and "w-h-izz," ses a tommyhawk, grazin' my nose an' stickin' itse'f in a tree by my side. [Here hurling the identical tomahawk over the heads of the wincing listeners and sinking it in a tree behind them. "Goodness gracious, Bu'lman Rennuls, how you skeer a pusson!" exclaimed a finical female voice in the audience. It may have been another coincidence, but just here Grumbo fetched the stump another ratifying rap of the tail.]

I wheels about, an' dar's t'udder dead varmint up on his legs an' a-comin' at me wid his knife, but Grumbo holdin' him back by de coat-tail. "I yi, you dogs!" an' at him I go—grabs his knife, clinches his throat, when down to de groun' we come—Injun, nigger, an' dog, dog-fashion, all in a pile togedder.

["Cap'n Rennuls," said a voice in the audience, "ef de varmint wus a dead one, how could he do all dat like a live one?"]

You g' long! Dat's none uf my lookout. Ef it wusn't as I tell you, would de young Injun be dar in my doo' now, smokin' his pipe? Ef you won't b'lieve me ax him; an' ef you can't take his word fur it, ax Grumbo. [Audience: "H-yah, h-yah, h-yah!" "Shucks!" See Glossary. And here again, too roundly and soundly for mere coincidence, Grumbo fetched the stump a ratifying rap of the tail, that said as plainly as a dog's tail ever said any thing: "Yea, and I'll swear to it."]

* * * * *

But we have followed our black Munchausen through the least wonderful part of his story, as narrated by himself; and further than this, for reasons already hinted, we dare not venture, the facts of the narrative here beginning to grow tame again, and the narrator's fancies wide. So we shall leave our lion to go on roaring it out into the ears of his colored admirers to his heart's satisfaction, till he is empty and they are full. At last, after blowing and puffing for nearly an hour in the popular ear, the windy story, tapering off with a little facetious gas designed for the ladies, found its way to an end, and dismissing his audience with a majestic wave of his war-cap, Big Black Burl came down from the rostrum.



Chapter XV.

HOW BIG BLACK BURL SEWED IT UP IN HIS WAR-CAP.

By the time the Fighting Nigger had made an end of blowing his trumpet, the shadows of the long summer twilight had deepened into the shades of night, reminding him that it was high time he should be looking after the comfort of his captive guest. While the blowing and roaring had been going on from the stump, the young Indian had remained seated on the cabin door-sill, tranquilly smoking his pipe, the odorous contents of which showed forth at long and regular intervals in a dull-red glow from the dusky shadow of the cabin-shed. Taking him in, Burl hospitably yielded up to his guest his own bed—the bear-skin bed he was so proud of and loved so much to sleep on—spreading for himself instead a buffalo-rug on the floor. In a little while the spirit of sleep had descended on every weary soul in the fort—all save the wakeful Grumbo, who, crouched on his bear-skin out there under the shed, maintained, as was his habit, vigilant watch through the livelong night.

Now that his great adventure had been brought to a happy end, the Fighting Nigger must once more doff his bear-skin cap—the cap of war—and don, instead, his coon-skin cap—the cap of peace; hang his battle-ax up on the wall, and lay his hand to the plow; muzzle his war-dog, and bridle his plow-horse; and leave the war-path in the forest to tread the peace-path in the field.

Accordingly, early next morning, having duly discharged his office as host for the time being, and left his guest to a pipe of tobacco and quiet meditation, Burl was about betaking himself to his labors in the field, when his little master came running out to his cabin with word that Miss Jemima wished to speak with him before he left the fort. Respectfully uncapping himself even before reaching her presence, the faithful fellow came, and showing the left shoulder and bushy head of him from round the edge of the door and looking side-long into the room where his mistress was sitting, said in answer to her summons, "Yes 'um."

"I have sent for you, Burl," began Mrs. Reynolds with kindly seriousness of tone and manner, "to tell you how thankful I am for the good and brave part you have done by me and my poor fatherless boy, and to reward you in the best way I can." Here she paused.

"Yes 'um," said Burl, not knowing what else to say, and looking hard at Grumbo, who, as if he had been summoned too, had followed his master, and now, seated on his haunches in the door-way, was listening with grave attention to what was going on—hoping, no doubt, that severe measures were at last about to be taken with regard to the red barbarian.

Mrs. Reynolds resumed: "While you were gone, Burl, I sat here in my great distress and made a solemn promise to myself and to Heaven, that if you were permitted to bring me back my child alive and well, I would give you your freedom at once, as the only fitting reward I had it in my power to bestow for so great a proof of your fidelity and love to us."

"Now, Miss Jemimy!" exclaimed Burl in a tone of remonstrance, the water welling up in his great ox-like eyes.

"Yes, but I must do it," rejoined his mistress. "Heaven has heard my prayer, and I must keep my promise. Faithful and good have you been to us, and richly deserve the reward I offer. Would it were in my power to give you more."

"Now, Miss Jemimy!" repeated Burl, in the same tone, "you needn't, indeed you needn't." And seeing that his mistress had had her say, he seized upon the subject with sudden energy, and thus unburdened his mind: "Miss Jemimy, I don't want my freedom; I 's no use fur it. Hain't I got de bes' mistus in de worl' an' de finest little marster? Hain't I got a gun an' a dog? Plenty to eat an' plenty to w'ar? A whole cabin to myse'f, an' Saturday ev'nin's to go a-huntin' an' a-fishin' ef I likes? De only thing I hain't got an' would like ter hab—dough dat's no fault uf yourn, Miss Jemimy—is a white skin. Ef I had a white skin, den might I hab my freedom an' know whar's my place an' who's my comp'ny. As I is, turn me out free an' whar's my place? No whar. Who's my comp'ny? Nobody. Too good fur common niggers, not good 'nough fur white folks. What den would I be? A Ingin I s'pose. Sooner be Grumbo dar dan a Injun. Den Miss Jemimy wants to make a red varmint uf her ol' nigger. Git out! 'Scuse me, Miss Jemimy; I didn't go to say dat ter you. But I's bery glad an' thankful to hear you talk dat way. Makes me gladder to be what I is, so glad to be what I is, I won't be nothin' else ef I kin he'p it."

Deeply touched at this new proof of fidelity and self-sacrifice, yet not a little amused withal at the droll shape in which it came, Mrs. Reynolds rejoined: "Well, Burl, you can do as you please, but so far as my will and wishes can make you free, free you are from this day forth, either to go and play or stay and work. My promise is given, never to be recalled."

"Den, Miss Jemimy," replied Burl with look and tone of deep respect, "ef you's gwine ter let me do 's I please, w'y den, I pleases to stay."

Then, showing the whole of himself, excepting one arm and one leg, from round the edge of the door-way, and now rising into the oratorical, Burlman Reynolds proceeded to give his opinions upon the subject, having already expressed his feelings. "Miss Jemimy," with an impressive gesture, "dare's reason in all things. Now, ef I had l'arnin', could read in a book, write on paper, figger on a slate, count up money, tel de names of de mont's, an' alwus say how ol' I is when axed, an' all sich things like white folks, w'y den, dare'd be some sense in a great he-nigger like me doin' what I please, gwine whar I please—free-papers in pockets. But ef I has my freedom an' hain't got l'arnin' to match it, den would I be like—like—" looking about him for a comparison, till chancing to cast his eye on his dog, a thing pat suggested itself. "W'y, Miss Jemimy, one uf de red varmints me an' Grumbo chawed up yisterdy had on a blue coat an' ruffle shirt along with his ragetty rawhide tags an' fedders. Thought I neber seed nothin' look so scan'lus. 'Red varmint,' says I to him, 'coat an' no breeches won't do, shirt an' no breeches won't do.' An' now says I to Miss Jemimy, 'Freedom an' no l'arnin' won't do no mo' dan shirt an' no breeches.'

"Now, look at de Injuns." [Presenting the subject in another light.] "Dey has der freedom, kin do what dey please, kin go whar dey please, an' what do dey do? Don't do nothin' but hunt an' fish an' fight. Whar do dey go? W'y, jes' a-rippin' an' tearin' all ober da worl', 'sturbin' peacable people, keepin' dem mizzible an' onsituwated. So you see, de Injun, dough he has his freedom, ain't nothin' arter all but a red varmint. An' fur why? Beca'se he hain't got l'arnin' fur to tell him what to do wid his freedom, dat's why. So dey needs somebody to tell 'em what to do an' make 'em do it. Yes, an' dar's some white folks, too, who hain't got l'arnin' an' don't know much better what to do wid dare freedom dan Injuns an' free niggers, dough dey don't think so demselves, an' would knock a nigger down fur sayin' it. An' dem's my 'pinions on dat p'int.

"An' Miss Jemimy" [here Burl lowered his voice and looked at his mistress with solemn earnestness], "have you forgot how I promised Mars Bushrod I'd do what I could fur his wife an' pore little boy? All a pore nigger could fur white folks in dat way, an' wouldn't neber stop a-doin' it? An' s'posin' ef I was ter leabe 'em now, what would dey do? Who-o-o'd——" Here he choked up and broke down, and clapping his coon-skin cap on his head and pulling it down over his eyes, Burl turned abruptly and walked hurriedly away. Ten minutes after, mounted on his plow-horse, and with the big round tears playing at leap-frog down his face, he was riding along the bridle-path through the woods on his way to the corn-field, singing at the top of his huge, melodious voice:

"Squirly is a pretty bird."

And that morning the sylvan wilds were kept resounding with the heart-easing, blithesome music which bespoke the thankfulness and the gladness of the singer's heart. It was the happiest morning he had ever known in all his life, and yet, despite an unaccountable accident of birth that had brought into the world so noble a soul with an ebony hide and fleecy head, the poor fellow had known a thousand mornings nearly as happy. He was having his reward. But at about eleven o'clock the singing suddenly ceased—so suddenly, indeed, that any one who might have been listening would have said, "Assuredly something unusual has happened to Burlman Reynolds; something has struck him—perhaps an Indian bullet."

But when, in answer to the dinner-horn, the plowman came riding slowly home, it was evident from his unwonted seriousness of look and manner that a thought had struck the mind, not a bullet the body of Burlman Reynolds. It was further evident from the absent-minded way in which he fed Cornwallis, throwing him two dozen instead of one dozen ears of corn; and further still, from the absent-minded way in which he fed himself, leaving his bacon untoasted and eating nothing but bonny-clabber and corn-dodgers. Nor again that day was there an echo in the woods to tell that Big Black Burl was at his cheerful labors in the field. Yet, though the voice was silent, the heart went singing on, and the burden of the tune it sung was, "Bery glad an' bery thankful." That evening after supper, having smoked a sociable pipe with his Indian guest in the twilight under his cabin-shed, Burl picked up his coon-skin cap and, without putting it on, carried it in his hand with profound respect to Miss Jemimy's door, where by early candle-light, she was putting Bushie to bed. Showing one shoulder and his bushy head from round the edge of the door-way, he looked in, and by way of breaking the subject uppermost in his thoughts, cleared his throat and said, "Yes 'um."

"Well, Burl, what is it?" kindly inquired his mistress.

"'Scuse me, Miss Jemimy, but I's come to tell you I's been thinkin'——" pausing; and as he still hesitated, his mistress said: "Yes, so you have; I knew as much already, not having heard a song from you since dinner-time. Out with it, then; I am ready to hear you."

"Well, Miss Jemimy, it's jes' dis. We's all pore mortal creeters, made of clay, you know; no tellin' who'll be took away fus', who'll be lef' behin'." Another pause.

"Nothing could be truer, Burl," rejoined his mistress; "and yet not always right pleasant to think of. But go on, and speak your mind freely."

"Well, Miss Jemimy, bein' sich pore mortal creeters as we is, dare's no tellin' who'll be took away fus', who'll be lef' behin'. 'Scuse me, ef you please."

"And you are thinking that you might be left behind," added his mistress.

"You've hit it 'zac'ly on de head, Miss Jemimy; dat's jes' de thing I's wantin' to say, but was afeered uf hurtin' feelin's. Hope you don't think hard uf me fur havin' sich thoughts. But bein', as I wus sayin', de pore mortal creeters we is, some pussons is boun' to drap off sooner dan oders, some boun' to be lef' behin'; an' dar's no tellin' who de whos will be. Sich things mus' happen, an' nobody's fault, you know."

"It is all just as you say, Burl," replied his mistress. "So go on without more ado, and tell me exactly what is in your mind, and no fear of hurting feelings."

"Thank you, Miss Jemimy, fur talkin' dat way; it makes me easy. So I'll go on an' tell it all, jes' as I's been thinkin' it. Eber sence late dis mornin' I's been sayin' to myse'f out yander in de corn-fiel': 'We's all pore mortal creeters made uf clay—no tellin' who'll be took 'way fus', who'll be lef behin'. Den s'posin',' ses I, 's'posin' ef my good missus an' sweet little marster might be took 'way fus', an' der ol' nigger lef' behin', what den? W'y, mebbe jes' dis: some white man I neber liked or neber knowed might come 'long a-sayin' to me: "You belongs to me now, I's paid my money fur you; you go plow in my fiel', go chop in my woods, go mow in my medder; I hain't bought yo' wife an' chil'en—no use fur dem; so jes' make up yo' min' to leabe 'em an' come 'long." Den Burlman Rennuls be very sorry he didn't take what his good mistus wanted so much to give him long time ago.' So I goes on thinkin' it ober an' ober eber go long, till ses I to myse'f, 'I'll go to Miss Jemimy dis bery night an' say to her: "Miss Jemimy," ses I, "we's all pore mortal creeters made uf clay, no tellin' who'll be took away fus', who'll be lef' behin';" an' my good missus will know what I mean.' So I's come an' sed it. But min' you, Miss Jemimy, min' you now, I'm 'tirely willin' to work fur you an' my little marster all my days—'d ruther do it. But sich a thing might happen dat you two might be took away fus', an' yo' ol' nigger lef' behin'. Den I'd a leetle ruther be free. I don't know, arter all, but freedom's a bery good thing to hab eben ef we hain't got l'arnin' to match it. Dat is, ef we kin hab it an' not let it make fools uf us—set us a-thinkin' we's got nuthin' to do but lay in de shade an' kick up our heels. A nigger needn't make sich a show uf his freedom as de red varmint uf his ruffle shirt an' blue coat; jes' tie it up in a snug little bundle to tote along wid him an' let folks know he has it, an' dat'll be 'nuff fur any use. So I's thinkin' I'll come an' say: 'Miss Jemimy,' ses I, 'bein' as you want so much to do it, w'y den, ef you please, jes' write it down on a piece uf paper how, in case you an' my little marster might be took away fus', you wants yo' ol' nigger to hab his freedom.' Den I'll sew it up in my b'ar-skin cap, to keep it till de time comes, ef de time mus' come, so I kin say to de fus' white man who comes 'long a-claimin' me, 'I yi, my larky,' pullin' out my free-papers. But, min' you now, Miss Jemimy, I don't want you to be a-thinkin' dat I'll be a-hopin' fur de time to come so I kin go rippin' an' tearin' 'bout de country, like some no-'count, raggetty, dirty free niggers I's seed afore now, who, beca'se dey could do what dey pleased, didn't please to do nuthin'. 'T ain't so. I's sed it afore, an' I'll say it ag'in, I'll do what I kin fur my good missus an' my sweet little marster—all a pore nigger kin fur white folks in dat way, an' won't neber stop a-doin' it; an' I mean to keep my word."

And right willingly did Miss Jemimy according to her faithful servant's wishes, writing it down on a "piece of paper," clear and full, not forgetting to take such steps as should make the document good and valid in the eyes of the law. Then, having wrapped it up carefully in a piece of buckskin made water-proof and sweat-proof by bear's-grease rubbed in, Burl, with an awl and two wax-ends, sewed it up securely in the crown of his bear-skin cap. And, as the poor fellow was never left behind, there it remained for the rest of his days, with never a hope that he might some day have occasion to use it—never one regret that he had not accepted at once the priceless blessing it offered.



Chapter XVI.

HOW BIG BLACK BURL FIGURED ON THE PEACE-PATH.

It were long, and needless too, to tell of every thing that happened in and around our little fort during the fortnight the young Indian remained a captive among the Whites. Captive, however, we should hardly call him, since he was left entirely at liberty to go whithersoever he chose; and there was nothing to hinder him from walking back to Chillicothe, his home, whenever the humor might seize him, except a nice sense of honor and a crippled arm. Every morning, after he had cheered his solitude with a pipe of tobacco, Kumshakah—for that was the young Indian's name—accompanied by Bushie, would go and present himself at Mrs. Reynolds's door, that, according to her express desire, he might have his wound dressed. Though grave and reserved in his demeanor toward every one else, Kumshakah could show himself talkative and affable enough when alone with Shekee-thepatee ("Little Raccoon"), as he called his little white friend Bushie. For hours together would these two loving chums—for such they soon became—keep up a lively, confidential interchange of thought and sentiment, each in his own language, and evidently quite as much to the other's entertainment as to his own satisfaction, which was rather remarkable, seeing that neither understood a word the other was saying. The other children of the fort, holding the red stranger in too great awe and dread to trust themselves within his reach, would watch the two with sharp curiosity from a distance, admiring and envying the courage and easy assurance with which their playfellow could rub against so terrible a creature as a skin-clad, feather-crested Indian warrior, who was always whittling with his scalping-knife.

Every day the pair would take a long ramble into the forest, in the course of which they never failed to go or come by the corn-field, where Big Black Burl—his feet in the peace-path, his head in his peace-cap, his heart in his peace-song—was tickling the fat ribs of mother earth with a plow, to make her laugh with johnny-cakes and pumpkin-pies for his little master. Kumshakah had given his big black friend also a new name, Mish-mugwa ("Big Bear"); the title being suggested, no doubt, by the Fighting Nigger's bear-skin rigging no less than by his size, color, and strength. Always on catching his first glimpse of them, where side by side they sat on the topmost rail of the fence, Mish-mugwa would cut short his singing and send forward his wonted salutation, "I yi, you dogs!" Not failing at such times to discover that old "Corny" was sweating and would like to blow awhile, our black Cincinnatus would run his plow into a shady corner, and, likewise taking his seat on the fence, square himself for a little edifying conversation.

These visits were the white spots in the day to Burl. Apart from the pretext they gave him of resting from his work, they afforded him an opportunity of airing his achievements as a hunter, and his exploits as a warrior—i.e., of hearing himself talk. As the young Indian understood not a word of what was said to him, he had but to sit and listen, which he would do with grave and decorous attention, composedly smoking his pipe the while, with his bright eyes fixed on the distant green or blue before him. Once fairly going on this strain, the Fighting Nigger would never stop until he had made a squeezed lemon of every red "varmint" whose "top-knot" he had to show for proof and trophy of his prowess, winding up with a careful enumeration of all the scalps he had ever taken, telling them slowly off on his fingers, that his Indian guest might take a note of it, if so minded. Often, before our big black Munchausen had blown his fill, our little white Munchausen, fired by the illustrious example of his pattern, would come gallantly dashing in, to give his exploits and achievements a little airing likewise. He had caught with alarming aptitude his pattern's inventiveness and proneness to exaggeration; so that, before letting them go, his dogs and cats were sure to swell into wolves and panthers, his garter-snakes into rattlesnakes, his bellowing bull-frogs into roaring buffalo-bulls, and his white calves, seen in the dark, into "ghostises." Nor was Burl unwilling to listen; for, though so fond of talking himself, and so good a talker too, he was one of the best listeners in the world. This trait will seem the more commendable in our hero when we reflect how rarely we find the good talker and the good listener conjoined—more rarely, indeed, than the good talker and the exemplar of every Christian virtue; so rarely, in fact, that we marvel so few of the good talkers have made the discovery for themselves. So to those sallies of his "little man" Burl would listen with indulgent, condescending attention, or with a broad grin of mingled incredulity and admiration; expressing the latter sentiment by such exclamations as "I yi!" "Oho!" "U-gooh!" "Hoo-weep!" [with a whistle]; the former sentiment by such interrogative phrases as, "See here now!" "Ain't you lettin' on?" "Ain't de little man gwine leetle too fur jes' dar?" "Hadn't my little man better rein up his horses now?"—just by way of keeping his juvenile imitator in the beaten track of the impossible, within the orthodox limits of the marvelous.

Thus seated side by side, on the top of the scraggy corn-field fence, would these three worthies, so strikingly different one from the other, while away the warm summer hours; often, too, long after old Cornwallis, there dozing so contentedly in the shade of the overleaning wood, had dried off and recovered the breath he had not lost. Perhaps, at such times, instead of keeping his eyes on some invisible point in the atmosphere, Kumshakah would be employing them and his hands in the fashioning of two pipes—one of black stone, the other of white stone. On the bowl of the white stone pipe he carved the figure of a little raccoon, on the bowl of the black stone pipe the figure of a big bear—both pipes neatly executed, and the two figures passable likenesses. When he had finished the pipes, and fitted to them stems, handsomely ornamented with the feathers of birds, Kumshakah presented the black pipe to Mish-mugwa, the white pipe to Shekee-thepatee, and to the infinite delight of both; of Bushie, chiefly because he saw in his a token of his red friend's love; of Burl, chiefly because he saw in his the only thing lacking to give completeness to his martial rigging—a war-pipe.

All this time Grumbo maintained toward every one, not even excepting his master, a grim, severe reserve—keeping much alone, seldom indulging in cooked meat, more seldom still in raw, and never tasting his corn-dodgers. The red barbarian, in particular, he regarded with an evil eye—holding him in worse and worse odor, as the rest received him into higher and higher favor. Time and again did the captain essay to explain to his lieutenant how matters stood between them and their prisoner, but in vain. With that consistency of mind and fixedness of purpose for which he was remarkable, our canine hero stubbornly persisted in making it manifest that he was not a dog to be whistled, rubbed, and patted into winking at a measure so lax as that of allowing a red "varmint" to run at large in their midst, without even so much as a block and chain to hamper the freedom of his movements, or some sign to bespeak his inferiority to men and dogs. Perhaps, like some perverse people we have known, Grumbo took particular delight in being unsatisfactory to every one but himself. Or, perhaps by the observance of this policy he meant to reproach his renegade leader for suffering himself to be so easily led away from the orthodox faith in which they had lived so long and happily together, and had acted in such harmonious concert. Perhaps, too, it was meant as a warning that unless he should be given some assurance that business should hereafter be done up in the regular, scientific way, he would break with the captain altogether, and attach himself to the fortunes of some other leader, more consistent and better fitted to command, and who should have a more just appreciation of what was due a brave and faithful follower.

But our four-footed hero, like many a two-footed hero we have read of, was doomed in his day and generation to be misunderstood, unappreciated, maligned, neglected. As usual in such cases, the result was a total upsetting in the mind of the injured one of all orthodox notions of human nature and the eternal fitness of things. I should hardly express myself so boldly were I not backed by the testimony of some of Grumbo's own contemporaries, by whom I have been informed that, a few weeks after the events I am relating, his dogship renounced human society and a mixed diet altogether, and withdrawing himself from the pale of the civilized world to the solitudes of the forest, there, for the rest of his days, lived the life of a misanthropic hermit. According to other contemporaneous testimony, however, no less deserving our serious consideration, an ebony monster, with a woolly head and flat nose, but walking erect on two legs, and in other respects bearing a striking resemblance to man, had something to do with the mysterious disappearance of our canine hero from the theater of human action. Moved with envy and spite at beholding the Fighting Nigger's renown and at hearing his praises in the popular mouth, and itching to inflict upon the object thereof the greatest possible injury he could, with the least possible risk to himself, this ebony monster secretly, and in the most dastardly manner, poisoned the heroic Grumbo—thus cutting short his career of glory in the very prime and flower of his doghood. Be all this as it may, of one thing we are sure, that after that ever-to-be-remembered first of June, 1789, never was the war-dog seen again on the war-path with Captain Reynolds, the Fighting Nigger, the Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head, Mish-mugwa.

It was a beautiful Sabbath morning "in the leafy month of June." Blue and sunny and loving hung the sky above the dark, green, perilous wilderness, where our pioneer fathers, in daily jeopardy of their lives, were struggling to secure for themselves and their children after them a home in the land so highly favored by Heaven. That morning, on presenting himself at Mrs. Reynolds's door, Kumshakah was pronounced by the good woman to be healed of his wound, and told that he might now depart in peace to his own land and people.

With a sorrowful face Burl took down the young Indian's rifle from where it had lain with the others in the rifle-hooks against his cabin wall, and having cleaned and loaded it with care, returned it to its owner, along with his powder-horn and ammunition-pouch, liberally reenforced with ammunition from his own store. Then he arrayed himself from top to toe in his martial rigging, proposing, as it was Sunday, to escort his captive guest some miles into the wilderness, till he had seen him safe across the border. Having, through Burl's influence, gained his mother's permission to accompany them, Bushie, likewise in honor of the occasion, had put on a clean homespun cotton shirt and a pair of buckskin moccasins, which, with the eagle feathers in his coon-skin cap and his white stone pipe worn tomahawk-wise in his girdle, lent him quite a holiday appearance. All being ready, the three then went to Mrs. Reynolds's door, that Kumshakah might bid farewell to his kind hostess.

"Farewell, Kumshakah," said the good woman, extending her hand. "May the Great Father of us all, whom you call the Great Spirit, have you now and have you ever in his holy keeping, and reward you according to your wondrous kindness to my poor helpless boy in his hour of need."

With deep respect the young brave approached and took the proffered hand, which, with delicate emphasis, he shook just once, and there was a shining in his bright, wild eyes, as eloquent of gratitude as had it been the glistening of a tear. In further answer to her words, the purport whereof he had read in her face and voice, he made a brief speech in his own language, which, spoken in tones deep, melodious, and earnest, and delivered with singular grace and dignity, ever after lived in the white mother's remembrance like a strain of music, which, though unintelligible to the ear, is understood and echoed by the heart. Then the young Indian turned and, followed by Burl and Bushie, walked slowly and thoughtfully away.

As side by side they pursued their tramp through the green entanglements of the forest, the black hunter was far less talkative than usual, and the red hunter scarcely spoke at all, though, Indian-like, listening with respectful attention whenever his companion seemed to be addressing him in particular. But, as if reserving all his regrets for the parting moment, Bushie—now mounted on Burl's shoulder, now walking hand in hand with Kumshakah—kept up a lively prattle which never ceased, and to which the others listened with pleased ears. Sometimes, while riding aloft, he would amuse himself by catching at the slender, pliant branches of the trees brought within his reach, which he would draw after him as far as he could bend them, then letting them fly back, leave them swinging to and fro. At length, as if this amusement had suggested it to his mind, the boy struck up a cadence from one of Burl's songs, singing in a clear, piping voice:

An' de jay-bird flew away— De jay-bird flew away— An' lef' de lim' a-swingin'— A-swingin'.

"Mus'n't sing sich songs on Sunday, Bushie—sing hymns on Sunday. So, j'ine in wid me an' help me sing Caneyan's Happy Sho' for Kumshy, pore Kumshy, who's gwine to leabe us, neber to come no mo'. It'll do him good."

So, joining their voices, they sung a simple hymn which, with a plaintive melody expressive of yearning, had for its burden the following words:

O dat will be joyful, joyful, joyful, O dat will be joyful, to meet to part no more; To meet to part no more, On Caneyan's happy shore; An' dar we'll meet at Jesus' feet, An' meet to part no more.

At noon they reached the spot where, a fortnight before, Kumshakah brought down the eagle, which, stripped of its plumage and still bleeding, Burl had found on the trail a few hours after. Here a spring of clear, cool, sparkling water gurgled out from underneath a moss-grown rock in the hill-side, and here they halted. They quenched their thirst from the spring, then seating themselves on the moss-grown trunk of a fallen tree that lay near by, Burl and Kumshakah lighted their pipes and sat for many minutes smoking in thoughtful, even melancholy, silence. For, strange as it may seem, though neither had spoken a word intelligible to the other since the beginning of their acquaintance, a decided and cordial friendship had sprung up between the Fighting Nigger and his Indian captive, insomuch that they were now very loath to part. But the feeling which had arisen between the young Indian and the little white boy was of a far more tender nature, each beholding in the other the preserver of his life, and with a mutual gratitude heightened by mutual admiration. Such is the power of instinct, which can discover what words might try to reveal and fail. Their pipes smoked out, they broke their fast on some jerked venison and buttered johnny-cakes, which Burl, hospitable to the last, had brought along in his hunting-pouch. By the time they had finished their simple repast and smoked another pipe, the forest shadows had slowly shifted round from west to east, and were now beginning perceptibly to lengthen, admonishing them that the hour was come when they must part and go their separate ways.

But something more remained yet to be done. Taking the white stone pipe which he had carved for Shekee-thepatee and filling its virgin bowl with tobacco, Kumshakah lighted it, and slowly, with great solemnity, drew a few whiffs therefrom, then offered it to Mish-mugwa. This the young Indian did in token of his earnest wish that the peace and friendship now existing between them should endure from that day forth, let come what might, and that the sentiment, thus consecrated, should be cherished as in some sort a solemn and religious duty. Poor Burl did not know that Indians had any ceremonies at all; nor, until his acquaintance with Kumshakah, that they had any thing in common with the human race, excepting the art of fighting, and, to a limited degree, as it seemed to him, the power of speech. So, till he had gone home that night and told the white hunters of the circumstance, he could but vaguely guess at the sentiment to which this simple ceremony of smoking the peace-pipe gave expression. Nevertheless, with that facility at entering, for the time being, into the feelings, thoughts, and ways of others peculiar to his race, and which is due to self-unconscious imitation rather than to self-determined adaptability, Mish-mugwa took the proffered symbol of peace and friendship, and with a solemnity that would have seemed ludicrous to any one but a black man or a red man, gave just as many whiffs as he had seen Kumshakah give, then, with the air of one who knew as well as anybody what he was doing, returned the pipe to Kumshakah.

The peace-pipe emptied of its ashes and returned to its owner, the young brave rose at once and silently extended his hand. Burl seized it with a huge, devouring grip that would have made any one but an Indian wince, and with a big, round, stag-like tear in either big, round, ox-like eye, thus bid farewell: "Good-by, Kumshy. De good Lord go wid you all yo' days. Come an' see us ag'in—Miss Jemimy an' Mishy-muggy an' Sheky-depatty; Mishy-muggy's me, you know, an' Sheky-depatty's Bushie. Come an' see us all ag'in. Good-by."

Then going up to Bushie, Kumshakah shook him, likewise, by the hand; the dear little fellow, without saying a word, gazing up wistfully into the young Indian's face, his blue eyes brimming over with tears. But when he saw his red friend going at last, then did the affectionate Shekee-thepatee lift up his voice and weep aloud.

"Come back, Kumshakah!" he cried; "come back, and live with us, and never leave us, Kumshakah!"

The young Indian wheeled about and returned, took the chubby hand again in his, and with tender gravity shook it gently, very gently. As he did so, a mistiness came over his bright, wild eyes, which, when he had turned again to go, must—if ever Indian warrior weeps—have gathered into a tear. With wistful eyes, Burl and Bushie followed the swiftly receding form of their red friend, who never turned to look at them till he had gained the crest of a distant hill to the north. Here he faced about and remained for many moments gazing back at them; his graceful figure, his wild dress, and his rifle in sharp relief against a patch of blue sky, gleaming through an opening in the forest beyond. In final farewell Burl waved his cap. Kumshakah answered with a wide wave of the hand; then, turning, quickly vanished behind the hill, to be seen no more. With sorrowful hearts, Burl and Bushie turned likewise, and retraced their steps to Fort Reynolds.

From that day forward, never again did Captain Reynolds, the Fighting Nigger, the Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head, Mish-mugwa, lay the bloody hand on the scalp-lock of a fallen foe.



Chapter XVII.

HOW THE GLORY OF HIS RACE FIGURED IN HIS RISING.

Listen! There lived an Indian—a sachem of the powerful and warlike Shawnees; an Indian who loved his wild people, his wild land, and his wild freedom dearer than his life, and for their defense and weal he labored, and fought and died. Why and how, and to what end—listen!

The sachem looked around him. He saw his people, wasted to but the shadow of what they once were, slowly moving toward the setting sun. He saw them at deadly strife one with another—tribe with tribe, and kindred with kindred. He marked how they were falling away from the sober lives and pure faith of their fathers, and losing their wild independence in the slothful and corrupting habits of vagabond existence. He beheld his native wilderness gradually waning as from before a slow-approaching, far-extended fire. In terror at the sight, the animals of the chase, so needful to man in the savage state, went flitting by, outstripping his people in their journey toward the setting sun.

The sachem looked far forth toward the regions of the rising sun, and there beheld the civilized and powerful white man, whose star of empire was leading him onward in his resistless progress toward the mighty rivers and the boundless plains of the far West—the land of the future. The powerful stranger laid his hand upon the woody hills, and they smoked; he set his foot upon the grassy plains, and they withered. He lifted the hand of violence against the red sons of the forest, and they fled; he breathed upon them, and they became diseased, corrupt, and feeble; he sowed the seeds of strife among them, and straightway they fell to wrangling and warring one with another, more fiercely than ever before; he stretched his long arm over their heads and thrust his terrible sword into the heart of their wilderness, now here, now there, saying: "This pleasant valley is mine, here will I make my dwelling-place; this fertile plain is mine, it shall yield me riches; this broad river is mine, it shall be a highway between my great towns. Then, westward, red man, farther westward; nor think of rest, while you have the setting sun and this fair land before you!" Still onward and westward the white man held his ever-widening, overwhelming course. A little while and the red man should not have in all the green earth where to lay his weary head and say: "This is my home—here dwelt my fathers before me, and here they be buried; here with them shall I rest when my race is run." The sachem saw all this, and his mighty spirit was stirred within him.

"The Shemanols,"[1] said the sachem to his people, "have united their seventeen great fires[2] into one, and the union has made them strong and happy. We must profit by the example. I will go forth among the tribes of red men, and by the help of the Great Spirit unite them into one people; make of them a dam to stay the flow of this mighty water, lest it utterly sweep away our forest and cast us like driftwood, broken and scattered, on the far-off shores beneath the setting sun. We have warned the white stranger to come no farther, but have spoken to the winds that hear not; we have entreated him to come no farther, but have prayed to the rocks that feel not. Then, let him come. I see his warriors in the east, in the south, in the north, and in numbers like the leaves of the forest when rolling and rustling before the blasts of autumn. Shall the sachem of the Shawnees tremble? Shall they say he hated the foe of his race and feared him? I too have my warriors, strong and brave and true; and many a forest and mountain and plain, left us by our fathers, have we still behind us and around us. Then let us stand up like men and defend them. Or, if fall we must, at least then here, where lie our fathers, let us leave our bones to cry out against the destroyer of our race, and our dust to poison the air his children shall breathe. If such must be our fate, it is well. Wahcoudah's will be done!"

[Footnote 1: The Shawnese for Americans.]

[Footnote 2: The seventeen States of the Union.]

Then did the sachem gird up his loins and go forth, like a strong man armed for the battle. Verily, it was a vast enterprise, difficult and hazardous—all but hopeless; but his spirit, strong to endure and brave to encounter, rose with it. From the great lakes of the North to the flowery forests of the far South, from the great hills of the East to the grassy plains of the far West, month after month, year after year, from hopeful youth to sober prime, he roamed the wilderness. Everywhere he called upon his countrymen to cease from warring among themselves and unite their tribes, that as one people they might stand up in the defense of their native land, given them by the Master of Life to be the one home and common possession of them all.

To impress their minds with the necessity of such a league he held up before them the example of their white invaders, who had united all their "great fires" into one, and in that union had found strength, harmony, and prosperity. He appealed to every sentiment in human nature that can rouse to high and noble purpose—the love of country, of kindred, of freedom, of glory. He flattered their pride with glowing allusions to the antiquity and renown of their race, and by repeating to them their traditions which described them as having once been the favorite children of the Great Spirit, and again to be taken under his peculiar care whenever they should return to the bosom of their ancient brotherhood, and to the sober, simple habits and the pure faith of their fathers. He roused their resentment and the desire of vengeance by holding up to them the wrongs which they had suffered at the hands of the proud and powerful pale-face, whose presence in their midst had grown insupportable, and whose onward progress, unless cheeked at once, would soon become irresistible. He threatened them with disgrace, poverty, and ruin—yea, the final extinction of their race, which would assuredly be visited upon them, should they neglect or delay to profit by his warning.

His labors grew upon him, yet wearied him not; disappointments baffled his endeavors, but discouraged him not; difficulties met him at every step, but turned him not aside; dangers thickened around him, but daunted him not; untoward conjunctures confused and enfeebled his vast scheme, but shook not the constant purpose of his mind; friends dissuaded, rivals opposed, enemies threatened, traitors undermined—still the heroic sachem, unshaken, undismayed, unsubdued, maintained his course onward and upward in the high destiny which long years before he had marked out for himself, and his trust was in the Great Spirit.

When he first set out on his great mission, this wandering patriot of the wilderness found the minds of his countrymen we cowed with fear, or so benumbed with indifference as to their fate, that there was scarcely a man among them all, outside his own near kindred, to lend him an ear, or join him in his self-imposed, herculean labor. But toward the end, when every hill and valley, plain and forest, river and lake of the great North-west had been made to resound full many a year with the echoes of that awakening voice, behold the result. Persuaded that their hour of deliverance and vengeance was come at last, thousands of the tawny warriors of the wilderness, drawn from the numerous tribes which he had succeeded in uniting, came flocking around him, ready to do his bidding, as one commissioned by the Great Spirit to be their leader and deliverer. Never, since their first landing on the Continent, had the whites beheld arrayed against them, by the energy and power of one mind, a league of the Indian tribes so formidable and wide-spread.

That the sachem was in error, there can of course be no doubt—all are who undertake to withstand the progress of a Christian civilization; but no less certain is it that he erred not because his heart was wrong, but that his mind was unenlightened. And in fair truth, with such limited views as to the right and wrong in human motive and action as the rude, narrow sphere in which his lot was cast enabled him to make, what other course could he in his own judgment have chosen, without dishonor to himself and injury to the people whose weal he most assuredly had earnestly at heart. Had his mind—crude as his own wilderness, as vast too, and as fertile and varied—been duly cultivated and enlightened, he would not have viewed the progress of civilization as a destroying flood, against which it behooved him as a patriot to array his people, lest thereby they be swept away from the earth. Rather would he have perceived that it was a life-giving, beneficent light, into which it was his highest duty, as a lover of the great brotherhood of man, to lead his people, that with it they might spread themselves over the earth, and in it grow strong and prosperous and happy.

During all this time, though his labors were of a nature to keep the wrongs and woes of his people and the power and pride of their white oppressors continually fresh in his mind, never did the savage hero lift the hand of violence against the aged, the helpless, or the unarmed. To his magnanimous spirit, Indian heathen though he was, the captive was a sacred trust, and many a man of the hated race, thrown by the chances of war within their direful grasp, did he rescue from horrible death at the hands of his injured and exasperated countrymen. The booty taken by his hands from the whites in their raids across the border was immense; but the spoils of war, though he might well have claimed the lion's share, he left, with magnificent generosity, to his followers—the glory of war being all that a true hero could covet.

In his habits of life the sachem was abstemious even to austerity, yet frank end popular in his manners, entering heartily into the rude amusements and athletic sports of his people. In the latter, such was his strength and activity of body, he rarely met his equal; and in hunting and wood-craft he was, even in the eyes of his hunter-race, a marvel of skill and address. He was the very soul of integrity and truth; and though born of a race proverbial for cunning and craft, he was of a nature singularly frank and straightforward, as he showed by the boldness and openness with which he was accustomed, even in the presence of his enemies, to acknowledge and discuss his great project.

As a warrior-chieftain, he stands unrivaled in the barbarous traditions of his race, and as an orator, with scarcely a superior. His oratory was of the highest order, inasmuch as it was the outgrowth of a great intellect, active, powerful, and wide-grasping in its operations, and the outpouring of a mighty spirit, deep and earnest, pure and generous, and often sublime in its emotions. Whenever he made the great mission of his life the theme of his declamations—and he took every suitable occasion for doing so—let his listeners be friends or foes, his appearance, at all times striking and prepossessing in the extreme, became as that of one inspired. His ample chest expanded with noble feeling; every gesture of hip hand, every movement and posture of his commanding form, grew eloquent with meaning. Unmasked of its habitual cast of reserve, his handsome face, clear, strong, and firm in its lines, yet flexible in its play of muscle and feature, reflected with mirror-like distinctness the passing emotions of his heart. His eye, eagle-like in its unflinching brightness, flashed forth the lightnings of the fiery and haughty spirit within. Language, direct in its unstudied simplicity, graphic and vigorous, and glowing with the thoughts and images of a luminous though unpolished mind, flowed from his lips majestic and resistless. Added to all was that awakening voice whose echoes had so long resounded through thy great North-west. Now it rang out, stern, abrupt, imperious, like the call of a trumpet to battle; now softened down to tones broken, tender, and pitying as those of a bereaved father sorrowing over his hapless children; then, as visions of the utter extinction of his race would break upon his prophetic soul, it would come wailing out like the despairing cry of a Hebrew prophet lamenting the impending desolation of Zion.

Such was Tecumseh. Thus he lived, this Indian Hannibal; thus he rose, this Glory of his Race.



Chapter XVIII.

HOW THE EAGLE AND THE LION AND THE BIG BEAR FIGURED IN THE GREAT NORTH-WEST.

Toward the close of a hazy October day, in the year 1813, two small armies might have been seen, and according to history were seen, moving along the banks of the river Thames. Not the Thames which, after winding among the pleasure-grounds of the English gentry and through the great city of London, under ever so many bridges, emptied its waters into the German Ocean; but the Thames which, after winding among the forest-slopes of Canada West and through or by no cities at all, nor under any bridges whatever, discharged its waters into Lake St. Clair. So, along the Canadian Thames, at the time just named, two small armies were to be seen, each measuring ground with uncommon expedition; the foremost hurriedly, being in loose retreat; the hindmost rapidly, being in tight pursuit. Over the van of the retreating army ungallantly dangled the crimson, lion-emblazoned banner of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland; over the van of the pursuing army gallantly waved the tri-colored, star-emblazoned, eagle-capped flag of the United States of America.

The Second War between Great Britain and the United States had now been going on for many a tedious month; sometimes languidly, sometimes spasmodically, never energetically. Like a slow, dull fever, it had wasted and enfeebled the two countries without redounding more to the profit of the one than to the glory of the other; and the glory being too scant to be divided between them, they wisely left the crimson fog to the humor of the winds. How the winds disposed of it, the world has never heard.

And the great Indian sachem had become the ally of the little English king. And why? Because the little English king and his rich people had promised the great Indian sachem and his poor people to restore to them their hereditary lands if they would take up the hatchet and help their great father—the little English king—to wrest the lands in question from the Americans, the children who had behaved so unbecomingly to the great father thirty-seven years before. The hereditary lands in question were in fact but the disputed territory, the principal cause of the contests between the two white powers, hence not so much to be viewed as a lost inheritance to be restored to the rightful owners as a prize to be secured by the rival claimants. John Bull said, "It is mine, because I took it from the French;" Brother Jonathan said, "It is mine, because I took it from the English;" while neither party gave any heed to the poor Indian, who never ceased saying, "It is mine, because my fathers gave it to me, and the Great Spirit gave it to my fathers."

A hard, hard necessity must it have been which could have forced the poor, hunted wanderers of the wilderness to fly for refuge and protection from the talons and beak of the eagle to the claws and teeth of the lion. It was but a change, and made with but little hope of its being for the better. None saw this more clearly, felt it more deeply, than the sagacious Tecumseh; and his proud spirit groaned under the humiliating thought that after all he and his warriors were not viewed as allies having an equal interest in the result of the struggle going on, but rather as instruments merely, which might be made useful to the purpose in hand, then dropped. To use his own expression: "They were but a pack of starved hounds, hallooed upon the Americans by the English."

Along the Northern lakes and rivers full many a battle had been fought—on a small scale, it is true, but bloody and ugly enough, especially to the Americans, who up to this time had usually been the worsted party. But now the fortunes of war were beginning to turn in our favor. Perry had won his brilliant little naval victory over the English fleet on Lake Erie, and had written to the Secretary of the Navy with Caesar-like conciseness: "We have met the enemy, and they are ours!" By land, too, the British had been met and beaten back at every point, till now they were without a foothold on the disputed territory—the hereditary lands.

But, true to himself, true to the now quite hopeless cause for which he had labored and fought so long, the magnanimous sachem still kept his faith with the great father unbroken and inviolable, while the great father was immensely less concerned that he had failed to restore the hereditary lands to his red allies than that he had failed to wrest the disputed territory from his white enemies. So the little English king went on sipping his dainty wines in his marble palace over yonder on the other side of the globe, and took no further thought of the great Indian sachem who was breaking his heart over here in the wilderness of America, as true to his ally as had he been a Christian, baptized by an apostolic successor into the Church of England.

But to make another start toward the end of our story. The English people, like the majority of mankind, are a good enough people in a general way, and in a general way, like those of most nations, their soldiers are brave enough. Good people, yet they have had their bad rulers—the great father, for example; and their brave soldiers have had their cowardly leaders—for example, General Proctor; concerning whom we must now say something—a very little; the least possible.

Having with unsoldierly dispatch cleared his red skirts of the disputed territory, grown at least too hot for comfort, this Proctor—a fat poltroon—was now in hurried retreat through the forest-wilds of Canada West, at the head, not the rear, of an army composed of about nine hundred British regulars and two thousand Indian allies under the leadership of Tecumseh. On, in swift pursuit, with a stretch of about a half day's march between, came General Harrison—a gaunt hero—at the head, not the rear, of an army consisting of two companies of United States regulars and about three thousand volunteers, nearly all of whom were tall, stalwart Kentuckians, under the leadership of General Shelby, the venerable Governor of Kentucky. No Indian allies. In the van of the pursuing army, at the head of his regiment of mounted riflemen, one thousand strong, the very flower of green Kentucky's chivalry, rode Colonel Richard M. Johnson, afterward made Vice-president of the United States by his grateful countrymen, because—rumpsey-dumpsey—Dick had killed Tecumseh.

And there in the van, at the head of his company of mounted riflemen, mounted on a splendid Kentucky bay, and rigged out in his dashing backwoods uniform, rode Captain Bushrod Reynolds, whom we left twenty-four years ago in the Paradise a sturdy urchin of nine, and still a candidate for breeches and boots. Yes, there he rode, a tall, athletic man, in the prime of his days, frank-faced, clear-eyed, bold-browed, and with a nose that had gradually ripened from the pug into the Roman, as he had ripened in years and experience, just as we predicted when drawing his portrait where he sat on the topmost rail of a scraggy worm-fence, watching the squirrels and crows. Nor was it true that he had become a married man and a man of family, and a captain too—all pretty much as the far-seeing Burl had prophesied at the same early period.

At present, however, having been married but a year, his family was small. For, since reaching the stature and years of manhood, Bushrod Reynolds had spent many years in the great North-west, where as an Indian-trader he had pushed his fortunes with great energy and success, yet with clean hands, never in all the time selling or bartering a single gallon of whisky to the Indians—a virtue quite rare, we fear, in Indian-traders, and one for which he was highly commended by Tecumseh himself, who never drank any thing but water. The address, prudence, and integrity he displayed in this vocation had attracted the notice of General Harrison, then Governor of the North-west Territory, through whose influence the young Kentuckian received the appointment of United States Indian Agent in that quarter. Here again he had acquitted himself in the same clean-handed manner, never touching a dollar of the money intrusted to him, saving so far as officially authorized.

And there, conspicuous among the camp-followers, with a fund of good humor and laughter rich enough to keep the whole rear of the army in spirits, even when cut down to short rations and pushed to long marches—there, gigantic as life and shaggy with bear-skin from top to toe, was our old friend Big Black Burl—Cap'n Rennuls, the Fighting Nigger, the Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head, Mish-mugwa—whom we left twenty-four years ago in the Paradise, treading with unmoccasined feet the peace-path, and filling the resounding woods from morning till night with the echoes of his peace-songs. Yes, as gigantic as life, and still as jolly as gigantic, with never a regret in all these years of servile toil that he had sewed it up in his bear-skin cap instead of accepting at once the priceless blessing which his good mistress, in the unspeakable gratitude of her mother's heart, had bidden him to take as his forever.

Time and the world had evidently dealt kindly by our hero, the ebony smoothness of his wide-snouted mug unfurrowed as yet by those lines of care and thought we so often find disfiguring the faces of Shem and Japheth, nor grizzled yet his fleecy locks, although he had left his fiftieth year behind him—an age when the heads of most men begin to whiten under the snows of life's winter. For all that, though they may not have brought him wrinkles and whitened his locks, the passing years had brought him wisdom and whitened the color of his thoughts, once so crimson. In proof whereof, he had long since taken unto himself a wife, and was now the father of a large family of large children. In further proof, he had long since left off fighting and gone to preaching, there being now in the Paradise more black sinners to be mended than red heathen to be demolished; more friends to be led across the Jordan than foes to be driven across the Ohio.

Preaching, in a general way, is a good thing, and, in a particular way, to him who loves to hear himself talk, a pleasant thing, and if he talks well, rather pleasant to others. Now, the Fighting Nigger loved to hear himself talk, but unlike many—too many—inflicted with that infirmity he talked well, as we have had frequent occasion to notice; while again, unlike the majority of the few who talk well, he listened well, which, also, we have once or twice remarked. As his walks through life should lead him no more upon the war-path, and as his color and condition forbade his taking the stump, or appearing at the bar, or sitting in the senate-house, he needs must take to preaching, as the only shift by which he could hope to retain that preeminence among his fellows which his prowess in arms had won for him. Such a calling would give his oratorical powers full scope—a desperate revival among the ebony brotherhood, from time to time, with two or three funeral-sermons to each lay brother or lay sister of peculiar sanctity, being just the thing to set them off to the highest advantage. Nor would this be all. While making the great display, he would be doing a little good—casting bread upon the waters, to be found many days hence; i.e., spreading the glad tidings of damnation to nearly everybody born to die, and of salvation to a select few—just enough to keep the angels from getting lonesome—conspicuous among whom were our good old Abram, John Calvin, and Burlman Reynolds.

The lucky sect thus reenforced was that once known as the Anti-missionary Baptists, sometimes called the "Ironside Baptists," sometimes the "Hard-shell Baptists," having, as is usually the case with hard cases, hard names. I use the expression "once known," since, if I mistake not, the order has, in these latter days, deceased; dying of sheer decrepitude, with no weeping mourners around it, being intestate and insolvent, and is now to be numbered with the things that were—an old man's tale, the blunder of an hour.[3] That so broad and warm and genial a nature as that of our hero should have gone for refuge and spiritual comfort to a creed so narrow, cold, and gloomy, admits of no easy explanation, especially when we consider that remarkable clearness of mental vision which enabled him to see the reason existing in all things; often, too, when a Solomon, or a Socrates, or a Seneca, might have stared his eyes out in trying to see it for himself. But when he took to preaching, he was dwelling in the midst of a Hard-shell community; and, perhaps, like the overwhelming majority of mankind, from enlightened to savage, from Christian to fetich, Burlman Reynolds was but chameleon to his surroundings. Yet, notwithstanding the somber complexion of his new vocation, and the more than somber complexion of his creed, outside of the pulpit his reverence was as genial, jolly, and joky as the cheeriest, smilingest, comfortingest, most latitudinarian Methodist preacher you ever had at your bedside to help you look your latter end in the face, through the dubious issues of a surprise attack of cramp colic, or an overwhelming onslaught of cholera morbus. Indeed, it not unfrequently happens that the human heart is better than the human creed, and the Rev. Burlman Reynolds was wont to square his life by the dictates of his inward monitor rather than by the dogmas of his outward mentor. Many of these dictates he embodied in words, a few of which I shall take the liberty of quoting verbatim. Among them are some of his religious opinions, which will be found to have a somewhat latitudinarian smack, as is often the case where the heart is better than the creed:

[Footnote 3: Since writing the above, the author has learned that, outside of Kentucky, the sect alluded to still exists to some extent in some of the neighboring States.]

"Dar's reason in all things, ef dar's reason in people."

"Baptizin' won't do you no good, onless you let it wash you clean all ober, an' keep you clean foreber."

"Ef a pusson wants to be a Chrischun jes' about in spots, w'y, den sprinklin' will do; but ef he wants to be a Chrischun all ober, he mus' go clean under an' make a soaker uf it."

"De Lord ain't gwine to lub you much, onless you lub yo' neighbor."

"Don't tickle yo'se'f a-thinkin' you 'll eber be a angel up dar, onless you's been a good S'mar'tan here."

"De Lord help dem to 'lect dem who helps to 'lect demselves."

"Don't you think, beca'se you's got a leetle grace, you kin do what you please in dis worl', den say yo' pra'rs befo' you die an' go right straight to heaben. G'long wid sich grace!"

"Whar's de use an' de sense uf a pusson's bein' mizzible an' out uf sorts when he's 'live an' ain't a-sufferin', an' got a good home to go to when it's all ober? Git out!"

Less elegant in manner, it may be, but quite as good, we think, in matter, as many a saw and dogma that have been flung at our foolish world, time out of mind.

We have more than once paralleled our hero, in his passion for martial renown, to Alexander the Great, Napoleon the Great, and Mumbo Jumbo the Great. Somewhat singular to say, the parallel does not stop with this point of common resemblance. According to Mr. Abbott's interminable eulogy—Mr. Abbott was an American and a clergyman, consequently a Republican and a Christian—the hero of the Russian Campaign, of Waterloo, etc., after his retirement to the Rock, became deeply interested in theology, fighting being no longer a pastime he could indulge in unless by pugilistic assault on the British guards, which, contrary to his past experience, would have been entirely at his own expense, hence uncomfortable. And here we find him talking so well—this grand disturber of the world's peace—so profoundly, so beautifully, so reverently, of the Prince of Peace, that we cannot help wondering why he had never allowed some evidence of his religious sentiments to appear in his actions, when he stood so conspicuous before the world, and such a display would have redounded so vastly to his credit—made him "the Washington of worlds betrayed."

As respects Alexander, the parallel still shows a shadow, though over the left. The Fighting Nigger, upon retiring from his war-path, tried his best to do the godly thing, and made his Christian convictions manifest in the life he wished to live. Alexander, on retiring from his great war-path, tried to do the godlike thing, and made his heathenish hallucinations manifest in the death he didn't wish to die.