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THE IRIS.




[Illustration: PRESENTED To

  C. Schuessele del.      Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.]




[Illustration:

  C. Schuessele del.      Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.

LANDING OF WILLIAM PENN.]




[Illustration: The IRIS

Souvenir

  C. Schuessele del.      Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.]




                               THE IRIS:
                       An Illuminated Souvenir,
                                  FOR
                               MDCCCLII.

                               EDITED BY
                         JOHN S. HART, LL. D.

                             PHILADELPHIA:
                 PUBLISHED BY LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.
                   SUCCESSORS TO GRIGG, ELLIOT & CO.
                                 1852.




  Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851,
  BY LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.,
  In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of
    Pennsylvania.

  C. SHERMAN, PRINTER.




PREFACE.


Captain Eastman, of the United States Topographical Corps, having
been stationed for nine years on our northwestern frontier, among the
Indian tribes, at and around Fort Snelling, made a series of drawings
of some of the most striking and remarkable objects connected with the
Indian traditions. His accomplished lady, who was with him seven years
of this time, collected the traditions themselves, and wove them into
tales and poems that let us into the very heart of Indian life. The
whole of this valuable and original collection has been secured for the
Iris, and gives to the volume for 1852 its distinguishing feature. To
make the illustrations conform more to the character of the subjects,
they have all been printed in colours, in the style now so deservedly
popular. Last year the publishers gave only four of these gorgeous
illuminated pages. The present volume contains no less than twelve, all
from original designs, and all printed in ten different colours. The
happy blending of the colours in these pictures, the disposition of the
light and shade, and the skill with which they are printed, give them
the appearance of paintings rather than of prints. Such a collection
of gems of art in one volume, could not be made without a heavy
expense. But the publishers were desirous of making the Iris, as to the
splendour of its appearance, not unworthy of the celestial visitant
from which it has been named, and of the very marked favour with which
its predecessor of the last season was received.

The literary matter, like that of the former volume, is entirely
original, and with the exception of the beautiful poem by Miss Bremer,
entirely American, both as to subjects and authorship. Though there are
various shades of thought and feeling in these effusions of genius,
each subject being  according to the mental constitution of the
writer, yet, as in the divine bow of promise, all colours are blended
and harmonized in the one aim to place before the beholder a new token
of hope and gladness.




[Illustration: ILLUSTRATIONS

  C. Schuessele del.      Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.]




CONTENTS.


                 SUBJECT.                          AUTHOR.          PAGE

  PROEM.                                  SARAH ROBERTS.              19

  THE LANDING OF WILLIAM PENN.            THE EDITOR.                 21

  DIFFERENT IMPRESSIONS.                  FREDRIKA BREMER.            26

  WE-HAR-KA, OR THE RIVAL CLANS.          MRS. MARY EASTMAN.          29

  THE LAUGHING WATERS.                    MRS. MARY EASTMAN.          69

  O-KO-PEE, A HUNTER OF THE SIOUX.        MRS. MARY EASTMAN.          72

  CHEQUERED CLOUD, THE AGED SIOUX WOMAN.  MRS. MARY EASTMAN.          80

  FIRE-FACE.                              MRS. MARY EASTMAN.          84

  DEATH-SONG OF AN INDIAN PRISONER.       MRS. MARY EASTMAN.          91

  THE FALSE ALARM.                        MRS. MARY EASTMAN.          95

  INDIAN COURTSHIP.                       MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         101

  THE SACRIFICE.                          MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         104

  AN INDIAN LULLABY.                      MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         113

  SOUNDING WIND, THE CHIPPEWAY BRAVE.     MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         117

  AN INDIAN BALLAD.                       MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         124

  OLD JOHN, THE MEDICINE-MAN.             MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         127

  A REMONSTRANCE.                         ELIZA L. SPROAT.           136

  A FINE ART DISREGARDED.                 ELIZABETH WETHERELL.       139

  MISSION CHURCH OF SAN JOSÉ.             MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         151

  HAWKING.                                EDITH MAY.                 155

  HILLSIDE COTTAGE.                       MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.     156

  SUNSET ON THE DELAWARE.                 J. I. PEASE.               177

  FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY.               S. A. H.                   178

  CASTLE-BUILDING.                        JAMES T. MITCHELL.         180

  THE LOVER'S LEAP, OR WENONA'S ROCK.     MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         185

  THE INDIAN MOTHER.                      MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         191

  THE WOOD SPIRITS AND THE MAIDEN.        MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         194

  ALICE HILL.                             MRS. M. E. W. ALEXANDER.   196

  DR. VANDORSEN AND THE YOUNG WIDOW.      ANN E. PORTER.             206

  A CENOTAPH. A BALLAD OF NATHAN HALE.    ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH.      225

  THE DREAMER.                            MARY E. HEWITT.            244

  WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.               MRS. MARY EASTMAN.         245

  THE RAIN-DROP.                          MISS E. W. BARNES.         276

  A PLEA FOR A CHOICE PICTURE.            MISS L. S. HALL.           279

  LOST AND WON.                           CAROLINE EUSTIS.           281

  THE MISTRUSTED GUIDE.                   A WESTERN MISSIONARY.      283

  A NIGHT IN NAZARETH.                    MARY YOUNG.                290

  TEARS.                                  CHARLES D. GARDETTE, M.D.  293

  INCONSTANCY.                            E. M.                      295

  CROSSING THE TIDE.                      MISS PHŒBE CAREY.          297




THE IRIS.




PROEM.

BY SARAH ROBERTS.


      They have christened me Iris; and why? oh, why?
        Because, like the rainbow so bright,
      I bring my own welcome, and tell my own tale,
        And am hailed by all hearts with delight:
              And this, this is why
      I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.

      The rainbow, it cometh'mid sunlight and tears,--
        The tears it soon chaseth away;
      I banish all sighs for the year that is passed,
        And the future in sunlight array:
              And this, this is why
      I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.

      The rainbow, it telleth of promise and love,
        Of hope, with its gay, golden wing;
      It whispers of peacefulness, purity, heaven,--
        Of these lofty themes do I sing:
              And this, this is why
      I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.

      The rainbow is painted in colours most fair,
        By the hand of the Father of love;
      So the genius and talent my pages bespeak,
        Are inspired by the Great Mind above:
              And this, this is why
      I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.




THE LANDING OF WILLIAM PENN.

BY THE EDITOR.

  (See the Frontispiece.)


The first landing of William Penn at Newcastle, in 1682, is one
of those striking historical events that are peculiarly suited
for pictorial illustration. The late Mr. Duponceau, in one of his
discourses, first suggested the idea of making it the subject of an
historical painting. This idea is seized with avidity by Mr. Dixon, the
most recent biographer of the great Quaker, and the circumstances of
the landing are given accordingly, with much minuteness. The artist who
designed the picture that forms the frontispiece to the present volume
has had this description in view. I cannot do better, therefore, than
to quote the words of Mr. Dixon as the best possible commentary upon
the picture.

"On the 27th of October, nine weeks after the departure from Deal, the
_Welcome_ moored off Newcastle, in the territories lately ceded by the
Duke of York, and William Penn first set foot in the New World.[1] His
landing made a general holiday in the town; young and old, Welsh,
Dutch, English, Swedes, and Germans, crowded down to the landing-place,
each eager to catch a glimpse of the great man who had come amongst
them, less as their lord and governor than as their friend. In the
centre of the foreground, only distinguished from the few companions
of his voyage who have yet landed, by the nobleness of his mien, and a
light blue silken sash tied round his waist, stands William Penn; erect
in stature, every motion indicating courtly grace, his countenance
lighted up with hope and honest pride,--in every limb and feature
the expression of a serene and manly beauty.[2] The young officer
before him, dressed in the gay costume of the English service, is his
lieutenant, Markham, come to welcome his relative to the new land, and
to give an account of his own stewardship. On the right stand the chief
settlers of the district, arrayed in their national costumes, the light
hair and quick eye of the Swede finding a good foil in the stolid look
of the heavy Dutchman, who doffs his cap, but doubts whether he shall
take the pipe out of his mouth even to say welcome to the new governor.
A little apart, as if studying with the intense eagerness of Indian
skill the physiognomy of the ruler who has come with his children to
occupy their hunting-grounds, stands the wise and noble leader of the
Red Men, Taminent, and a party of the Lenni Lenapé in their picturesque
paints and costume. Behind the central figure are grouped the principal
companions of his voyage; and on the dancing waters of the Delaware
rides the stately ship, while between her and the shore a multitude of
light canoes dart to and fro, bringing the passengers and merchandise
to land. Part of the background shows an irregular line of streets and
houses, the latter with the pointed roofs and fantastic gables which
still delight the artist's eye in the streets of Leyden or Rotterdam;
and further on the view is lost in one of those grand old pine and
cedar forests which belong essentially to an American scene."

I take much pleasure in quoting also, in this connexion, another scene
of somewhat similar character, though greatly misrepresented in the
ordinary pictures of it heretofore given. Penn's personal appearance
has been even more misapprehended than his character. He was, indeed,
one of the most handsome men of his age, and at the time of his first
coming to America he was in the very prime of life. West makes him an
ugly, fat old fellow, in a costume half a century out of date. So says
Mr. Dixon. The passage referred to, and about to be quoted, is from a
description of the celebrated Treaty with the Indians at Shackamaxon.

"This conference has become one of the most striking scenes in history.
Artists have painted, poets have sung, philosophers have applauded
it; but it is nevertheless clear, that in words and colours it has
been equally and generally misrepresented, because painters, poets,
and historians have chosen to draw on their own imaginations for the
features of a scene, every marking line of which they might have
recovered from authentic sources.

"The great outlines of nature are easily obtained. There, the dense
masses of cedar, pine, and chestnut, stretching far away into the
interior of the land; here, the noble river rolling its waters down
to the Atlantic Ocean; along its surface rose the purple smoke of the
settlers' homestead; on the opposite shores lay the fertile and settled
country of New Jersey. Here stood the gigantic elm which was to become
immortal from that day forward,--and there lay the verdant council
chamber formed by nature on the surface of the soil. In the centre
stood William Penn, in costume undistinguished from the surrounding
group, save by the silken sash. His costume was simple, but not
pedantic or ungainly: an outer coat, reaching to the knees, and covered
with buttons, a vest of other materials, but equally ample, trousers
extremely full, slashed at the sides, and tied with strings or ribbons,
a profusion of shirt sleeves and ruffles, with a hat of the cavalier
shape (wanting only the feather), from beneath the brim of which
escaped the curls of a new peruke, were the chief and not ungraceful
ingredients.[3] At his right hand stood Colonel Markham, who had met
the Indians in council more than once on that identical spot, and was
regarded by them as a firm and faithful friend; on his left Pearson,
the intrepid companion of his voyage; and near his person, but a little
backward, a band of his most attached adherents. When the Indians
approached in their old forest costume, their bright feathers sparkling
in the sun, and their bodies painted in the most gorgeous manner, the
governor received them with the easy dignity of one accustomed to mix
with European courts. As soon as the reception was over, the sachems
retired to a short distance, and after a brief consultation among
themselves, Taminent, the chief sachem or king, a man whose virtues
are still remembered by the sons of the forest, advanced again a few
paces, and put upon his own head a chaplet, into which was twisted a
small horn: this chaplet was his symbol of power; and in the customs of
the Lenni Lenapé, whenever the chief placed it upon his brows the spot
became at once sacred, and the person of every one present inviolable.
The venerable Indian king then seated himself on the ground, with the
older sachems on his right and left, the middle-aged warriors ranged
themselves in the form of a crescent or half-moon round them, and the
younger men formed a third and outer semicircle. All being seated in
this striking and picturesque order, the old monarch announced to the
governor that the natives were prepared to hear and consider his words.
Penn then rose to address them, his countenance beaming with all the
pride of manhood. He was at this time thirty-eight years old; light and
graceful in form; the handsomest, best-looking, most lively gentleman
she had ever seen, wrote a lady who was an eyewitness of the ceremony."

[Footnote 1: "Watson, 16; Day, 299. The landing of Penn in America
is commemorated on the 24th of October, that being the date given by
Clarkson; but the diligent antiquary, Mr. J. F. Watson, has found in
the records of Newcastle the original entry of his arrival."]

[Footnote 2: "The portrait by West is utterly spurious and unlike.
Granville Penn, MSS."]

[Footnote 3: "Penn. Hist. Soc. Mem., iii. part ii. 76."]




DIFFERENT IMPRESSIONS.

BY FREDRIKA BREMER.


      I was in company
      With men and women,
      And heard small talk
      Of little things,
      Of poor pursuits
      And narrow views
      Of narrow minds.
      I rushed out
      To breathe more freely,
      To look on nature.

      The evening star
        Rose grave and bright,
      The western sky
        Was warm with light,
      And the young moon
        Shone softly down
      Among the shadows
        Of the town,
      Where whispering trees
        And fragrant flowers
      Stood hushed in silent,
        Balmy bowers.
      All was romance,
        All loveliness,
      Wrapped in a trance
        Of mystic bliss.

      I looked on
      In bitterness,
      And sighed and asked,
      Why the great Lord
      Made so rich beauty
      For such a race
      Of little men?

      I was in company
      With men and women,
      Heard noble talk
      Of noble things,
      Of noble doings,
      And manly suffering
      And man's heart beating
      For all mankind.

      The evening star
        Seemed now less bright,
      The western sky
        Of paler light,
      All nature's beauty
      And romance,
      So lovely
      To gaze upon,
      Retired at once,
      A shadow but to that of man!




[Illustration:

  C. Schuessele del.      Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.
        Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.

WE-HAR-KA.]




WE-HAR-KA,
OR, THE RIVAL CLANS.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.


The Indian settlement, the opening scene of our story, presented a
different appearance from what we call an Indian village at the present
day. The lodges were far more numerous, and the Indians were not
drooping about, without energy, and apparently without occupation. The
long line of hills did not echo the revels of the drunkard, nor were
the faces of the people marked with anxiety and care. The untaught and
untamed dispositions of the red men were as yet unaffected by the evil
influences of the degenerate white man.

The Sioux[4] were in their summer-houses, and the village stretched
along the bank of the river for a quarter of a mile. It reached back,
too, to the foot of a high hill, and some of the lodges were shaded by
the overhanging branches of the elm and maple. Above the homes of the
living might be seen the burial-place of the dead; for, on the summit
of the hill the enveloped forms of the departed were receiving the last
red beams of the retiring sun, whose rising and repose were now for
ever unnoticed by them.

The long, warm day was closing in, and the Indians were enjoying
themselves in the cool breezes that were stirring the waves of the
river and the wild flowers that swept over its banks. They were
collected in groups in every direction, but the largest party might be
found surrounding a mat, on which was seated the old war-chief of the
band, who had long dragged a tedious existence, a care to others and
a burden to himself. The mat was placed near the wigwam, so that the
sides of the wigwam supported the back of the aged and infirm warrior.
His hair was cut straight over his forehead, but behind it hung in long
locks over his neck.

Warm as was the season, the buffalo robe was wrapped around him, the
fur side next to him, while on the outside, in Indian hieroglyphics,
might be read many an event of his life. Around the edge of the robe
was a row of hands painted in different colours, representing the
number of enemies he had killed in battle. In the centre of the robe
were drawn the sun and morning star, objects of worship among the
Sioux, and placed on the robe as a remedy for a severe sickness which
once prostrated his vital powers, but was conquered by the efficacious
charm contained in the representation. Ornaments of different kinds
adorned his person; but his limbs were shrunken to the bone with age,
and the time had long since come to him when even the grasshopper was
a burden.

The features of the Sioux were still expressive, though the eyes
were closed and the lips thin and compressed; he was encircled with
a dignity, which, in all ages and climes, attaches itself to an
honourable old age.

Close by his side, and contrasting strongly with the war-chief, was one
of his nearest relations. She was his granddaughter, the orphan girl of
his favourite son. She was at once his companion, attendant, and idol.

They were never separated, that old man and young girl; for a long time
he had been fed by her hands, and now he never saw the light of the sun
he worshipped except when she raised and held open the eyelids which
weakness had closed over his eyes. She had just assisted his tottering
steps, and seated him on the mat, where he might enjoy the pleasant
evening-time and the society of those who delighted in the strange
stories his memory called up, or who were willing to receive the advice
which the aged are ever privileged to pour into the hearts of the young.

The evening meal of the warrior had been a light one, for We-har-ka
still held in her small and beautiful hand a bark dish, which contained
venison cut up in small pieces, occasionally pressing him to eat again.
It was evident there was something unusual agitating his thoughts, for
he impatiently put aside the hand that fed him, and taking his pipe,
the handle of which was elaborately adorned, he held it to have it
lighted, then dreamily and quietly placed it in his mouth.

He had long been an object of reverence to his people; though
superseded as a warrior and a leader, yet his influence was still
acknowledged in the band which he had so long controlled. He had kept
this alive in a great measure by the oft-repeated stories of his
achievements, and above all, by the many personal encounters he had
had, not only with his enemies, but with the gods, the objects of their
devotion and fear.

The pipe was soon laid aside, and his low and murmuring words could not
be understood by the group, that, attracted by the unusual excitement
that showed itself in the war-chief's manner, had pressed near him.

After a short communing with himself he placed his hand upon the head
of the girl, who was watching every change in his expressive face. "My
daughter," he said, "you will not be alone--the Eagle Eye will not
again see the form of his warrior son: he would have charged him to
care for his sister, even as the small birds watch and guard around the
home of the forest god.

"The children of the Great Spirit must submit to his will. My heart
would laugh could I again see the tall form of my grandson. I would see
once more the fleetness of his step and the strength of his arm; but
it is not to be. Before he shall return, crying, 'It is for my father,
the scalp of his enemy,' I shall be roaming over the hunting-grounds of
the Great Spirit. Do not weep, my daughter; you will be happy in your
husband's wigwam, and you will tell your children how the Eagle Eye
loved you, even till his feet started on the warrior's journey.

"Your brother will return," he continued, "and it is for him that I lay
aside the pipe, which I shall never smoke again; the drum that I have
used since I have been a medicine-man, I wish laid near my side when I
shall be dead, and wrapped in the buffalo robe which will cover me.

"You, my braves, shall know whence I obtained this drum. It has often
brought back life to the dying man, and its sound has secured us
success in battle. I have often told you that I had seen the God of the
Great Deep in my dreams, and from him I obtained power to strike terror
to the hearts of my enemies. Who has shouted the death-cry oftener
than I? Look at the feathers[5] of honour in my head! What enemy ever
heard the name of Eagle Eye without trembling? But I, terrible as I
have been to my enemies, must grow weak like a woman, and die like a
child. The waters of the rivers rush on; you may hear them and trace
their way, but soon they join the waves of the great deep, and we see
them no more--so I am about to join the company in the house of the
Great Spirit, and when your children say, 'Where is Eagle Eye?' you may
answer, 'The Great Spirit has called him, we cannot go where he is.'

"It was from Unk-ta-he, the god of the great deep, that I received that
drum. Before I was born of woman I lived in the dark waters. Unk-ta-he
rose up with his terrible eyes, and took me to his home. I lived with
him and the other gods of the sea. I cannot to you all repeat the
lessons of wisdom he has taught me; it is a part of the great medicine
words that women should never hear.

"There, in the home of the god of the sea, I saw many wonders--the
large doors through which the water gods passed when they visited the
earth, the giant trees lying in the water higher than our mountains.
They had lightning too, the weapons of the thunder birds;[6] when the
winds arose, and the sea waved, then did Unk-ta-he hurl the streaked
fire to the earth through the waters.

"The god of the great deep gave me this drum, and I wish it buried with
me; he told me when I struck the drum my will should be obeyed, and it
has been so.

"When my son returns, tell him to let his name be terrible like his
grandfather's. Tell him that my arm was like a child's because of the
winters I had seen, but that he must revenge his brother's death; then
will he be like the brave men who have gone before him, and his deeds
will be remembered as long as the Dacotas hate their enemies. The
shadows grow deeper on the hills, and the long night will soon rest
upon the head of the war-chief. I am old, yet my death-song shall call
back the spirits of the dead. Where are the Chippeways, my enemies? See
their red scalps scorching in the sun! I am a great warrior; tell me,
where is the enemy who fears me not!"

While the voice of the old man now rose with the excitement that was
influencing, now fell with the exhaustion, which brought big drops of
perspiration on his face, the Indians were collecting in a crowd around
him.

It was, indeed, a glorious evening for the war-chief to die. The
horizon was a mass of crimson clouds, their gorgeous tints were
reflected on the river; the rocky bluffs rose up like castle walls
around the village, while on the opposite shore the deer were parting
the foliage with their graceful heads and drinking from the low banks.

We-har-ka wiped the forehead and brow of her grandfather. There was
something of more than ordinary interest about the appearance of this
young person: her features were regularly formed, their expression
mild; her figure light and yielding as a young tree; her hair was
neatly parted and gathered in small braids over her neck; her dress
well calculated to display the grace of her figure; a heavy necklace of
wampum[7] covered her throat and neck, and on her bosom was suspended
the holy cross!

Her complexion was lighter than usual for an Indian girl, owing to the
confinement occasioned by the charge of her infirm relative; a subdued
melancholy pervaded her features, and even the tone of her voice.

There was a pause, for the warrior slept a few moments, and again
his voice was heard. Death was making him mindful of the glorious
achievements of his life. Again he was brandishing his tomahawk
in circles round the head of his fallen foe; again he taunted his
prisoner, whose life he had spared that he might enjoy his sufferings
under the torment; again, with a voice as strong as in early manhood,
he shouted the death-cry--it was his own, for not another sound, not
even a sigh escaped him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gently they moved him into the wigwam. We-har-ka stood by his head.
There was no loud wailing, for he had outlived almost all who were
bound to him by near ties.

Those who stood around heaped their most cherished possessions on his
feet: the knife, the pipe, and the robe were freely and affectionately
offered to the dead.

We-har-ka gazed earnestly upon him: large tears fell on her bosom and
on the old man's brow. Some one drew near and respectfully covered his
venerable face: the drum was placed, as he requested, at his side.

One of the men said, "Eagle Eye takes proud steps as he travels towards
the land of souls. His heart has long been where warriors chase the
buffalo on the prairies of the Great Spirit." We-har-ka drew from her
belt her knife, and cut long, deep gashes on her round arms; then, not
heeding the wounds,[8] she severed the braids of her glossy hair, and
cutting them off with the knife, red with her own blood, she threw them
at her feet.


How did the holy cross find its way to the wilds of a new country?
A savage, yet powerful nation, idolaters at heart and in practice,
bending to the sun, the forests, and the sea--how was it that the sign
of the disciple of Jesus lay glittering on the bosom of one of the
women of this heathen race?

Did the Christian hymn of praise ever rise with the soft and silvery
vapours of morning to the heavens? Had the low and earnest Christian's
prayer ever sounded among the bluffs that towered and the islands that
slept? Never, and yet the emblem of their faith was there.

But, to what region did not the Jesuit penetrate? Hardly were the
resources of our country discovered, before they were upon its shores.

They were there, with their promises and penances, their soft words and
their Latin prayers, with purposes not to be subdued in accomplishing
the mission for which they were sent. Was it a mission of faith, or
of gain? Was it to extend the hopes and triumphs of the cross, or to
aggrandize a Society always overflowing with means and with power?
Witness the result.

Yet they poured like rain into the rich and beautiful country of
Acadie.[9] See them passing through forests where the dark trees bent
to and fro "like giants possessing fearful secrets," enduring hunger,
privation, and fatigue. See them again in their frail barks bounding
over the angry waters of Huron, riding upon its mountain waves, and
often cast upon its inhospitable rocks.

Follow them as they tread the paths where the moccasin-step alone had
ever been heard, regardless of danger and of death, planting the cross
even in the midst of a Dacota village. Could this be for aught save the
love of the Saviour? Those who know the history of the Society founded
by Loyola, best can tell.

Among the ranks of the Jesuit were found the Christian and the martyr,
as, among the priesthood of Rome, in her darkest days, were here and
there those whose robes have, no doubt, been washed in the blood of the
Lamb.

Those hearts that were really touched with the truth divine, drew
nearer to the path of duty by the solemn spectacle of man, standing on
the earth, gay and beautiful as if light had just been created, yet not
even knowing of the existence of his great Creator.


Not far from the wigwam of the dead chief, Father Blanc knelt before
the altar which he had erected. He wore the black robe of his order,
and as he knelt, the strange words he uttered sounded stranger still
here. On the altar were the crucifix and many of the usual ornaments
carried by the wandering Romish priests.

Flowers too were strewn on the altar, flowers large and beautiful, such
as he had never seen even in _la belle France_. He chaunted the vespers
alone, and had but just risen from his devotions when the dying cry of
the war-chief rung through the village.

The priest walked slowly to the scene of death. Why was he not
there before with the cross and the holy oil? Ah! the war-chief
was no subject for the Jesuit faith--he had worshipped too long
Wakinyan-Unk-ta-he to listen