In 1759, Smith published hisTheory of Moral Sentiments—a work of skill and invention, but which has long since fallen into disuse with the intelligent world. It, however, had the rare good fortune of attracting the notice of an individual, possessed at once of the taste to honour, and the will to befriend, a man of original ability. This volume fell into the hands of the celebrated Charles Townsend, who proposed that the author should take charge of the young Duke of Buccleuch, whose mother, the dowager-duchess, he had married. Nothing in the life of Townsend was more honourable to him than this choice, not only for its judgment but for its rarity. The generality of men in possession of affluence think only of themselves, and would value the most common-place gratification more highly than the encouragement of the obscure genius, which wanted only that encouragement to shed a new lustre on its generation. The man of power in general feels its possession the primary object of his patronage, and sees no purpose in the immense opportunity given to him by his rank, but to obtain adherents, and make his power impregnable. Though there may be exceptions, such is the rule; and with this recollection of the established course of things, we give all honour to the memory of the man, without whose patronage the world would probably have lost the ablest work of its century, the immortalWealth of Nations.
In 1763, Smith was appointed tutorto the young nobleman, resigned his professorship, and went with his pupil to France. After a residence of a year and a half at Toulouse, he travelled in Switzerland, and then, returning to Paris, spent ten months there. His French residence was peculiarly fortunate. It rubbed off the rust of his seclusion; it introduced him to the best society of courtly life; and it brought him into direct intercourse with that whole circle of active intellect and novel philosophy, which made the Parisian coteries at once the most bustling and brilliant of Europe. However the horrid profligacy of the court, and the contemptuous infidelity of high life, might have either disgusted the morals, or startled even the scepticism of the stranger, there can be no doubt of the interest which he felt in the society of such men as Turgot, Necker, D'Alembert, and Quesnay. Smith, some fifteen or twenty years before, had drawn up a sketch of the principles which he afterwards developed in hisWealth of Nations. Political economy was then beginning to take a form in French science. Whether it ever deserved the name of science, or will ever deserve it, may be a grave question. It depends upon such a multitude of facts, and the facts themselves vary so perpetually, the "principles" derived from those facts are so feeble and fluctuating, and common experience so provokingly contradicts, from day to day, the most laboured conclusions, that every new professor has a new theory, and every new theory turns the former into ridicule, itself to be burlesqued by the next that follows. This at least is known, that Fox declared his suspicion of the whole, saying, that it was at once too daring to be intelligible, and too indefinite to be reducible to practice. Even in our day, no two authors on the subject agree; all the successful measures of revenue and finance have been adopted in utter defiance of its dogmas; while all the modern attempts to act upon what are called its principles, have only convulsed commerce, shaken public credit, and substituted fantastic visions of prosperity for the old substantial wealth of England. No occupation could have been fitter for the half-frivolous, half-factious spirit of France. A revolution in revenue was openly regarded as the first step to revolution in power; the political economists indulged themselves in a philosophic conspiracy, and vented their sneers against the government, under pretext of recognising the rights of trade. It took but a little more than twenty years to mature this dexterous contrivance, and the meek friends of free trade had the happiness of seeing France in a blaze.
Smith, on his return, shut himself up in his study in Kirkcaldy for ten years. His friends in vain attempted to draw him from his solitude to Edinburgh: he steadily, we may almost say magnanimously, refused; and at the end of the tenth year, in 1776, he explained the mystery, by the publication of the two quarto volumes of hisEnquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations. The work was received with general congratulation; it was regarded as a new science, although it is well-known, as stated in the introduction to the biography, that many others had previously discussed the same subjects. Smith's views, however, were so much more comprehensive, his division so much more distinct, and his remarks so much more practical, that he deserved all the credit of the architect who combines in beauty and utility the beams and pillars which he finds scattered on the ground. And here we advert to the obvious benefit of that patronage which had been extended to this very able man by Townsend. The annuity which had been settled on him as tutor, had enabled Smith to give up the whole of his time, and the whole powers of his mind, during those ten years, to this great work. During nearly twenty years of lecturing, on the other hand, in which his pen was necessarily employed without ceasing, he seems to have published but one work,The Theory of Moral Sentiment. That he constantly formed ingenious conceptions, may be easily admitted; but that he wanted either time or inclination to complete them, is evident from the fact, that he never suffered them to appear in print, and that one of his dying directions was, that theyshould be destroyed by his executors.
He was now a man of fame, and to enjoy it came up to London, where he resided for two years in the midst of the best society, political and literary, to be found in England. He was now to be a man of fortune as well as of fame; he was appointed a commissioner of the customs in Scotland. He returned to Edinburgh, and commenced the agreeable life of a man at once distinguished, and opulent to the full extent of his simple desires, in a society whose names are still regarded as the lights of Scotland. He lived hospitably, and entertained good society, but he wrote no more; he was growing old, and Lord Brougham evidently thinks that the duties of his office exhausted his spirits and occupied his time. But those duties always partook largely of the nature of a sinecure; and there is every reason to doubt whether they could have worn down a man of regular habits, and who had been trained to the routine of daily business by an apprenticeship of a quarter of a century. The greater probability is, that Smith felt that he had done enough for fame; that, knowing the world, he was unwilling to expose himself to the caprices of critical applause; and that he even felt how inadequate the early theories which found admirers in the lecture-room, might be to sustain a character already brought into full publicity by his own volumes. The fact is certain, that he produced nothing more. In July 1790, he died, at the age of sixty-seven. It was his custom to give a supper on the Sunday evening to a numerous circle of friends. How far this entertainment, which was more consistent with the latitude of his Paris recollections, was reconcilable with the decorums of Scotland, we cannot say. But on one evening, after having destroyed his manuscripts, finding himself not so well as usual, he retired to bed before supper, and as he went, said to his friends, "I believe we must adjourn this meeting to some other place." He died in a very few days afterwards.
Lord Brougham has obviously expended his chief labour on the life of this favourite philosopher, of whom, fifty years ago, every Scottish economist was a devoted pupil. Times are changed, yet this intelligent biographer has given a very ample and accurate, so far as we can judge, analysis of theEnquiry. But he would have greatly increased the obligations of the reader, by giving some portion of his treatise to the questions which modern artifice has devised, and modern infatuation has adopted.
An interesting "memoir" of Johnson commences the volume; but the topic would lead us too far. The biographer gives that literary Samson full applause for the strength of his understanding, the boldness of his morality, and the pungency of his wit. Rather to our surprise, he pours out an eloquent panegyric on Boswell. That we are indebted to this versatile personage for one of the most amusing and instructive collections of reminiscences in the history of authorship, will be readily conceded. But this is the first time of our hearing a demand that we should pay him any more peculiar homage. But Lord Brougham is himself the head of a school: hisipse dixitdemands acquiescence, and none can doubt that, if he is singular in his dogmas, he deserves attention for the vigour of his advocacy.
The natural history of the Cockney has been frequently illustrated, and never so successfully as in time past in the pages of Maga. But nature is inexhaustible in all her creations. You might study a lifetime, and yet not fully master the properties of one of those little Infusoria that wriggle or spin about in a phial of foul or fair water, and a still wider subject of study is of course supplied by any larger animal, such as a Cockney, placed as he is a little lower than the angels, and half-way down, or there abouts, between a man and a chimpanzee.
Upon careful inquiry it would probably be found, that in most nations the population, though all purporting to be men and women, consists in a good measure of beings that stand several degrees below the point of humanity. France, among several specimens of a higher order, has occasionally shown that a considerable proportion of its inhabitants was a hideous cross between the tiger and the baboon. Holland has had its Grotius and its Erasmus, but the otter and the beaver breed make up the mass of those who go by the name of Dutchmen. There has been no want in Germany of clear-sighted men, but the mole, the bat, and the owl furnish a large contingent to the ranks of itsliterati. In other nations we see a greater or less preponderance of the wolf or the bear, the goat or the goose, the ass, the hog, or the hippopotamus. Such being the universal condition of the world, we should rather be proud than otherwise, that, in England, we can boast of a secondary tribe, made, perhaps, by some of nature's journeymen, but that yet imitate humanity so respectably, so amiably, and so amusingly, as the Cockney must be admitted to do.
A Cockney is by locality very much what a tailor is by trade. Though a remote sub-multiple of a man, he is enterprising, indefatigable, cutting his way to his object through every thing with a ready tongue and a quick wit. Yet he is deficient in some qualities indispensable to the specieshomo. Courage the Cockney undoubtedly possesses, because he is always among those who are said to rush in where others fear to tread. But veneration is utterly wanting in his composition; and here the resemblance to the tailor is conspicuous; as we never knew a single snip that had the slightest reverence for any thing under heaven—if, indeed, the assertion should not be made in still broader terms. In the tailor this effect, defective, comes by an obvious cause. The intolerable liberties which the vulgar fraction is permitted to take with people's persons, divesting the best and bravest of us of the halo of heroism that surrounds us at a distance; and the fact that the great mysteries of dress, the paraphernalia of our dignity and decency, and the chief emblems of our manhood and domestic authority, emerge exclusively from the hands of this insignificant but indispensable maker of men, are enough to extinguish within him all sentiment of respect for any thing human or divine. The Cockney arrives at a similar state of easy and impudentnon-chalanceby a different process. Littered in London, and living there all his life, he is proud of its position among cites; and he comes, by a natural process of reasoning, to ascribe its importance to its connexion with his own person and people, and to see nothing better or greater in the universe than himself and what belongs to him. The feeling grows with his growth, and is fed by a full indulgence in all the good things with which the land of Cockayne abounds, and which the most morose of mortals must admit to be eminently conducive to self-complacency.
The Cockney, thus devoid of all diffidence in himself, is prepared for every thing in the scale of humanthought or action; pleasuring or politics, theatricals or theology, an Epping hunt or an Epic poem. In literature we may say of him, nearly in the words applied by Dr Johnson to Goldsmith, that there is scarcely any kind of composition that he does not handle, and none that he handles which he does not adorn with graces all his own.
It is wonderful, however, to see with what success a Cockney can sometimes disguise himself. He will write you a book, in which, several pages on end, you think you are reading the thoughts of some ordinary mortal. But the cloven foot always appears before you are done with him. In poetry, indeed, you can go but a short way till the cat is let out of the bag. That unfortunate letterR! No lessons in elocution, no change of climate, can eradicate the deep-seated mischief of its mispronunciation in a Cockney whose years of pupilarity have been passed on the spot of his birth.
These remarks have been elicited by a disappointment we have recently suffered, in being led to purchase the book referred to at the commencement of this article. We saw it advertised by an alluring title—"Reynard the Fox—a renowned Apologue of the Middle Ages reproduced in Rhyme." We bought the book, and were delighted with its appearance. A quaint, antique, cream-coloured binding—a golden vignette on the outside, of the fox making his obeisance to Noble the king of the beasts, and the lioness his spouse—a beautiful paper and type within, with red and blue illuminations interspersed at the heads of chapters and paragraphs;—all this combined to whet our appetite for a delicious treat. We read the preface and introduction, if not with pleasure, at least with patience, and with wonderfully few misgivings as to the truth, the worst feature in them being the tendency to Carlyleism, to which, however offensive in itself, custom has made us somewhat callous. But we had not perused a page or two of the reproduction in rhyme itself, when we discovered that we were wandering in the regions of Cockneyland, with one of its most distinguished natives for our guide.
Our immediate purpose is to offer an exposition, not of the old Reynard, but of its present "reproduction." We may say, however, that we think the original work is one peculiarly ill-suited to be appreciated or reproduced by one of Mr Naylor's compatriots. It is a product of true genius, humour, and sagacity. The author must have looked at beasts and men with a keen eye, and from the vantage ground of a contemplative mind; and he has worked out his thoughts in a plain and simple style of illustration, and embodied them in easy and natural language. There is much merriment in his work, but no straining after wit. There is all the knowledge of the day that an accomplished man could be expected to possess, but no parade of learning. There is no quaintness in the style, and no effort in the verse. The age ofHudibrashad not come; and that of theIngoldsby Legends, orMiss Kilmansegg, was still further off. The old Flemish writers of Reynard exhibit judgment as well as talent, and their Low Saxon successor, though himself a reproducer, has asserted a claim both to freedom and originality. The quiet, sensible, unaffected treatment of their subject, which these old versifiers exhibit, where the topics offered so much temptation to burlesque and extravagance, is the thing of all others least likely to be comprehended or relished in the meridian of Bow Bells.
But, then, Goethe has successfully translated the book; and, therefore, Mr Naylor must do the same. This is a common mode of syllogising in Cockayne. Homer, Dante, Milton, Goethe, Wordsworth, have done such and such things, and therefore a Cockney is to do them also. Whatever may be the precise minor premise involved in this argument, we venture to suggest a doubt of its soundness. Mr Naylor tells us he has followed Alkmar's and Goethe's example, "mindful ever of the requisitions insisted on by Novalis in all paraphrastic translations, that they should convey accurately an idea of the first type, whilst, at the same time, the translator made his author speak after that appreciation of hiswork which exists in his own mind, no less than according to the poet's original conception." Mr Naylor may have succeeded in making his author speak after that appreciation of his work which exists in his own mind; but if the "first type" of Reynard had been no better than the reproduction gives us an idea of, the shapeless and sickly cub would not have lived an hour into the thirteenth century.
Before Mr Naylor resolved on reproducing Reynard in English rhyme, he should have inquired whether it was not already as well done as he was likely to do it. In his elaborate enumeration of his predecessors in the task of translation, he thus writes:—"There is alsosaidto be a translation of Reynard into Englishdoggerel, byoneSoltau, a German"—"known," as he adds in a note, "as the translator ofHudibrasinto German." We have now before us the translation so slightingly alluded to, published at Hamburg in 1826. In all external and physical recommendations, this homely volume is far inferior to the London reproduction; but we shall immediately give our readers an opportunity of judging whether the doggerel of "one Soltau, a German," is not at least as good as that of "one Naylor, a Cockney."
Take the opening of the poem, which, in the original, is full of freshness and spirit, with all the joyousness of a holiday scene.
The German translator here keeps precisely within the same compass of fourteen lines with his "first type," while the Londoner has one-halfmore. But this is not the main difference. The German is neater and more natural, and nearer the spirit as well as the letter of his model. All the trash in the new reproduction about hawthorns "kercheft in white," the low-breathed lute of the rill trilling, the cuckoo and his herald note, the 'leetel fowles' swelling and philomelling, and April harnessed in her best, are mere frippery sewed on by the reproducer, to make the venerable old garment look finer in the eyes of his co-Cockneys.
We next give the two translations of that part of the poem which represents the Cock's complaints against Reynard, for killing his daughter, and which is supposed to give so accurate a representation of the form of process in the Middle Ages in an accusation of murder.
Neither of the translators is here very good, and Naylor is perhaps as near hitting the nail on the point (to use the phrase of a friend of ours of the Fogie Club) as his competitor. He still gives us, however, a great many silly superfluities, though some of them we have ventured to cut out.
Finally, as our readers may begin to think they have enough of this, we shall close our comparative view by some quotations from the Wager of Battle, by which the Wolf and the Fox ultimately terminate their disputes.
We have not the heart to criticise this last and greatest effort of the reproducer. Its slang speaks for itself, and certainly carries along with it an undeniable "certificate of origin".
A good translation of any thing is perhaps an impossibility. But it must be confessed, that the attempt of the German foreigner is highly creditable to him, and, with a little amendment, would probably afford our countrymen as fair an idea of the original as they are ever likely to see. Certain it is, that Mr Naylor has not improved upon it.
If our readers think, that in the samples we have given of Mr Naylor's beauties, we have not sufficiently brought forward some of the more striking peculiarities of the Cockney school, we shall meet this complaint by presenting them with the subjoined anthology, the fragrance of which we think will satisfy their highest anticipations.
If any of our readers doubt the authenticity of some of the rhymes above set down, we are willing that they should buy the book, as we have done, and ascertain for themselves.
Merciful as we are by nature, and growing more and more so every day by age, we yet feel that the enormities we have now denounced are beyond endurance. Such poetry as this, neither gods, men, nor booksellers should tolerate; and with the highest respect for the very excellent publishers who have assisted in the birth of this production, and to whom we owe so many useful and admirable contributions to knowledge and literature, we do venture humbly to submit, that their peculiar duty makes them somewhat more responsible for what is thus brought forth, than ordinary obstetrical practitioners can be for what they may help into the world. There is no reason that such a bantling should be born at all, and at least we would recommend the continuance of gestation for nine times the Horatian period. Seriously speaking, we always regret to miss the general security which the title-page should give us, that in what we buy, we shall have something for our money. A bad or inferior book may, inadvertently, issue from the most respectable quarter. But when a work is ushered into the light with such pomp and pageantry of paper, printing, and getting up, as are here lavished, we hold that the public have a right to expect that it has received the imprimatur of some discerning judge, and to enforce the implied warranty that the inside, as well as the outside, is a merchantable commodity in the market of Parnassus.
But the publisher's part of it is the least of the evil. It is obvious that the natives of Cockneyland are forgetting themselves. A new generation has sprung up that do not remember the castigations bestowed on their fathers of yore, and which for a time kept them in tolerable subjection. A young Londoner, who happens to have enthusiasm, or industry, or information, on a particular subject, may deserve commendation for the laudable direction of his private studies; but is he, therefore, entitled tohaspireto write, and not to write merely, but to write poetry, and to disfigure a venerable old poem under pretence of reproducing it? That is a different question, which needs to be seriously and decidedly dealt with. This is not the first time, within a brief period, that we have been compelled to make an example of similar delinquencies; and, as sure as the crutch is in yonder corner, it shall not be the last, if the nuisance be not speedily and completely abated.
The conclusion of our first notice of "The Americans and the Aborigines," saw Hodges, the midshipman, on his way to the Mississippi, and, if he could find it, to his ship; whilst Tokeah and his Indians returned to their village upon the banks of the Natchez. There, upon the day after the arrival of the warriors, we find the Indians assembled and deliberating in their council-house. Some important matter is evidently in agitation: an ominous gloom hangs over the village; and Canondah, to whom her father has not spoken since his return, and who is in complete ignorance of what passed between him and Hodges, is shut up in her wigwam with Rosa. The absence of one of the Indians, sent as a guide with the Englishman, the silence of Tokeah, and their state of semi-captivity, render the two girls sad and anxious, and they busy themselves with a thousand conjectures as to what has occurred, when a shrill whistle attracts them to the window. The sight that there presents itself chases the blood from the cheeks of Rosa, and causes her to sink, terrified and half-fainting, into the arms of her friend.
A large boat, of similar build to the one in which Hodges had arrived, ascended the river, impelled by the strokes of six vigorous rowers. Besides these, two other men were seated in the skiff, which now entered the creek where the canoes were moored. The Englishman's boat was amongst the latter, and seemed to attract the particular notice of one of the two men; he glanced sharply at it, and then made a remark to his companion, who nodded his head, as if assenting to his observation. The man who had spoken stepped on shore. He was of the middle height and slightly made, with a sunburnt complexion, hollow cheeks, in which the smallpox had left black, unpleasant-looking scars, and a pointed and rather red nose. The expression of his eyes, which were sunken and of a dark-grey colour, and his enormous whiskers and mustaches, gave him any thing but an agreeable physiognomy. There was an air about him as if he strove to appear natural and unassuming, but at times his false side-glances and malicious smile more than neutralized all his efforts. His dress was a short blue frock, buttoned up to the chin, trousers of the same colour, and a cap. After addressing a few words to his companion, who had also come ashore, he walked with a quick step and military gait towards the Miko's wigwam. Just then the Indian council broke up; the old chief strode slowly and gravely towards his dwelling; whilst the warriors hurried in various directions to their respective wigwams. It seemed as if they avoided the new-comer; for not one of them crossed his path, although he evidently expected them so to do. He gazed silently after the receding groups, shook his head, and entered the Miko's hut.
"Here I am, friend Tokeah!" cried he, with a forced smile, stretching out his hand to the Miko, who was seated upon his couch, calm, and with his head bowed upon his breast. "I'm a man of my word, you see. Arrived only last night in the bay; but the devil take me if I could keep quiet: started off again, and rowed all night and all day; and here you see me, old friend, as hungry as a sea-lawyer, and as dry as a dolphin." He spoke in English, fluently enough, but with a strong French accent.
Tokeah knocked with his finger upon the table, and Canondah came out of her room.
"Canondah!" cried the man, stepping forward with an air of gallantry to salute her. The young girl avoided his embrace, and with the single word, "Welcome!" slipped out at the door. Our guest appeared thunderstruck.
"What does this mean, friend Miko?" cried he. "Am I in disgrace? Should really be sorry for it. As I came across the meadow, your people made all sail from me, asif I had been a privateer; and now you are as cold as a nor'-wester, and your daughter as stiff as a frozen cable. Apropos—you have had a visit. The young Englishman, I see, has been amongst you."
As he spoke these last words, the stranger cast a lowering glance at the old man.
"Of whom does my brother speak?" said the chief.
"Of a prisoner—a young fellow who escaped whilst I was at sea."
"My young brother has been here and is gone," replied Tokeah, dryly.
"Gone!" repeated the other; "you probably did not know that he had escaped from me. But it matters not," added he, indifferently.
"The Miko knew," replied the old man in a firm tone, "that his young brother had escaped from the chief of the Salt Lake. My brother ought not to have made him prisoner."
"What! would not the Miko of the Oconees seize the Yankee who came as a spy into his wigwam?"
"And was my young brother a Yankee?" inquired Tokeah, with a penetrating glance.
"Not exactly; but an enemy"—
"My brother," interrupted the Miko, "has too many enemies—the Yankees, and the warriors of the great father of the Canadas."
The man bit his lips. "Pshaw!" said he; "you have the Americans on the wrong side of your heart, and I have both. That's all the difference."
"The Miko," said the old chief, "lifts the war-hatchet to protect his people against the palefaces, and to avenge his slain brethren. But my brother has lifted the tomahawk against every one, and, like a thief, steals women and children."
A burning crimson overspread the countenance of Tokeah's visitor, and his teeth chattered with rage. "Truly, Miko," said he, "you say things which I can hardly stomach;" and with gleaming eye he measured the old man from head to foot. Suddenly, however, resuming his former smile—"Nonsense," said he; "we won't quarrel about trifles. Let every man do what he likes, and answer for what he does."
"When the Miko of the Oconees gave his right hand to the chief of the Salt Lake, and welcomed him to his wigwam, he held him for a friend and a brother, who had declared war against the Yengheese. Had he known that he was a thief"——
"Monsieur Miko!" interrupted the pirate, threateningly.
"He would not have taken him for his friend. Tokeah," continued the Indian with dignity, "lifted the tomahawk against the palefaces as the Miko of his people, but the chief of the Salt Lake has made him a robber. What shall he, the chief of the Oconees, say to the Yengheese warriors when he falls into their snares? They will hang him on a tree."
The truth, thus fearlessly and decidedly spoken, made an impression upon the pirate. He walked several times hastily up and down the room, and then again stopped opposite to the old man.
"We'll say no more about that, friend Tokeah," said he. "I do not count the scalps that you have stripped from the skulls of the Yankees, and you must not reckon too severely with me. What is done is done; but the future will be very different. I am fully decided to abandon my wild course of life, and then we'll sit down quietly, and live together in a little paradise, half à l'Indienne, half à la Francçaise. Jovial and joyous."
"The Miko of the Oconees," replied Tokeah, "has never stained his hand with the blood of his friends. He is poor, but his hand has never touched what belonged not to him. His fathers would look down on him with grief, if he lived in friendship with a thief; the Great Spirit would hide his face, if he disgraced his people by an alliance with the robber."
The Frenchman had listened to these words more tranquilly than might have been expected, but with a slight twitching of his features, that showed they touched him to the quick. Suddenly he turned away.
"Is that your way of thinking?" said he. "You fancy you can get on better without Lafitte? I've no objection. If I had known it sooner, I would have spared myself the trouble of listening to your insolence, and you that of uttering it. Adieu! Monsieur Miko."
"My brother is hungry," said the Indian, starting up, and greatly shocked. "He must eat. Canondah has prepared his favourite repast."
"And after he has eaten, he may make himself scarce?" said the pirate, surlily.
"My brother is welcome in the wigwam of the Miko. His hand never closes when it has once been opened," said the old nan, soothingly.
"Come, that sounds like reason. I thought my old friend had only caught a fit of spleen from the Englishman. I trust it will soon be over. Meanwhile, we'll see what the ladies are doing."
He stepped up to the curtain, and tried to open it, but in vain.
"Is it not allowed?" said he to the old man.
"My brother must seek another squaw. Rosa shall not enter his wigwam."
In the adjoining chamber a sound was heard. It resembled a cry of joy, but presently subsided into a gentle murmur, of one in prayer.
The pirate stood stupefied opposite to the curtain. "Our alliance broken off, the door shut in my face!" muttered he. "Eh bien! nous verrons." And so saying, he left the hut. The next minute he again put his head in at the door.
"I suppose I may make use of my own boat?" said he. "It is likely that I may have unwelcome visitors during my absence."
"When the chief of the Salt Lake is on the war-path, he knows how to meet his foes."
"Sensibly spoken for once," said the pirate.
"My brother is hungry," said the Miko, pointing to his daughter, who now entered the room with several dishes.
"We'll come directly. Duty before pleasure."
And so saying, the bucanier hurried down to the shore, and approached his companion, a short square-built man, who was walking up and down with folded arms, and whose dark olive countenance was so buried in an enormous beard, that scarcely any part of it, except a long fiery Bardolphian nose was visible. This man, so soon as he saw the pirate, assumed a lessnonchalantattitude, and his hands fell by his side into the position proper to a subordinate.
"Nothing happened, lieutenant?" said Lafitte.
"So little, that I should almost doubt this to be the Miko's village, did not my eyes convince me of it. Beg pardon, captain, but what does it all mean?"
"I might ask you the same question," replied the other, sulkily.
"On our former visits," continued the lieutenant, "it was like a fair; but to-day not a creature comes near us. The squaws and girls seemed inclined to come down, but the men prevented them."
The lieutenant paused, for his commanding-officer was evidently getting more and more out of humour.
"How many hands have we below on Lake Sabine?"
"Thirty," was the reply. "To-morrow, the others will have finished clearing out."
"Giacomo and George," said the pirate, in a sharp peremptory tone, "will go back and take them orders to come up here. Let every man bring his musket and bayonet, pistols and hanger, and let them wait instructions in the great bend of the river, two miles below this place. Don't look down stream, and then at me," said he angrily to the lieutenant, who had cast a glance down the river. "The young Englishman has been here, and the old savage has let him go."
"That's what you did with his companions, captain. I wouldn't have done it."
"There are many things that Monsieur Cloraud would not have done," replied the pirate, sarcastically. "But this younker has made an infernal confusion."
"Any thing else happened, captain?"
"Nothing particular, except that the old man is tired of our alliance."
"Pshaw! we don't want him any more, and may well indulge the people with a merry hour."
The bucanier glanced at his subordinate with unspeakable scorn.
"And therefore, as Monsieur Cloraud thinks, do I send for themen. The hour's pleasure would be dearly bought. I hate such folly. You shall learn my intentions hereafter."
The lieutenant's low bow showed that the lawless pirate was on no very familiar footing even with his first officer, and that he well knew how to make his captain's dignity respected. Monsieur Cloraud now turned to the rowers, and communicated to them the orders he had received. In a few seconds, the boat, in which the Englishman had come, was pushed off, and glided swiftly down the stream.
"Now then, to dinner. Have some wine brought up, lieutenant."
The person addressed made a sign to one of the sailors; the man took up several bottles, and followed his officers to the wigwam of the chief.
"Take no notice, lieutenant," said Lafitte; "be as cheerful and natural as possible. We must try and find out what the old fellow has got upon his mind."
The two men entered the wigwam, and took their places at the table. A buffalo hump, that most delicious of all roast-beef, which Canondah had carefully cooked under the embers, was smoking upon it.
"You won't refuse to drink with me?" said the pirate, filling three glasses, and offering one to the chief.
"Tokeah is not thirsty," was the reply.
"Well, then, rum?" said Lafitte. "Have a bottle brought, lieutenant."
"Tokeah is not thirsty," repeated the chief in a louder tone.
"As you please," said the pirate, carelessly. "Isn't it strange," continued he to his lieutenant, "that the whole juice and strength of the beast should centre in this hump? If this is to be the food of the Indians in their happy hunting-grounds, it would be almost worth while turning Indian. Enjoyments of this kind are rather more substantial than the lies of our hungry priests."
As in duty bound, the lieutenant laughed heartily at the facetiousness of his commander. The Miko, who was sitting in his usual attitude, his head sunk upon his breast, looked up, gazed for a few seconds at the pirate, and then relapsed into his previous brooding mood.
"Make the most of it, lieutenant," said the pirate. "We shall not enjoy many more such tit-bits. The Great Spirit would hide his face from us if we despised his gifts. But come, friend Miko, you must empty a glass to the health of your guests, unless you wish to see them depart this very night. I like a little pride, but too much is unwholesome."
"My brother," said the Miko, "is welcome. Tokeah has never raised his tomahawk against the stranger whom he received in his hut, nor has he counted the suns that he dwelt with him."
"I am certain," said the Frenchman, "that Tokeah is my friend; and, if an evil tongue has sown discord on the path between us, the wise Miko will know how to step over it."
"The Oconees are men and warriors," said the chief; "they listen to the words of the Miko, but their hands are free."
"Yes, yes, I know that. Yours is a sort of republic, of which you are hereditary consul. Well, for to-night let the matter rest. To-morrow we will discuss it further."
The lieutenant had left the wigwam; night had come on, and the moon's slender crescent sank behind the summits of the western trees. The old Indian arose, and with his guest stepped silently out before the door.
"My brother," said he, with emotion in his voice, "is no longer young; but his words are more silly than those of a foolish girl, who for the first time hangs glass beads around her neck. My brother has foes sufficient; he needs not to make an enemy of the Great Spirit."
"Oh!" said the pirate laughing, "we won't bother our heads about him."
"My brother," continued the Indian, "has long deceived the eyes of the Miko; but the Great Spirit has at last opened them, that he may warn his people. See," said he, and his long meagre form seemed to increase to a gigantic stature as he pointed to the moon swimming behind the topmost branches of the trees; "that great light shines on the shores of theNatchez, and it shines in the villages of the whites; neither the chief of the Salt Lake nor the Miko of the Oconees made it; it is the Great Spirit who gave it brightness. Here," said he, pointing to the palmetto field, whose soft rustle came murmuring across the meadow, "here is heard the sighing of the Miko's fathers; in the forest where he was born it howls in the storm; both are the breath of the Great Spirit, the winds which he places in the mouths of the departed, who are his messengers. Listen!" he continued, again drawing up his weather-beaten form to its utmost height; "the Miko has read your book of life; when yet a young man he learned your letters, for he saw that the cunning of the palefaces came from their dead friends. That book says, what the wise men of his people have also told him, that there is one Great Spirit, one great father. The Miko," he resumed, after a moment's pause, "was sent from his people to the great father of the palefaces, and when he came with the other chiefs to the villages where the whites worship the Great Spirit in the lofty council wigwams, he found them very good, and they received him and his as brothers. Tokeah spoke with the great father—see, this is from him"—he showed a silver medal with the head of Washington. "He asked the great father, who was a wise father and a very great warrior, if he believed in the Great Spirit of his book, and he answered that he did believe, and that his Great Spirit was the same whom the Red men worship. When the Miko returned to his wigwam and came towards the setting sun, his soul remembered the words of the great father, and his eyes were wide open. So long as he saw the high walls of the council wigwams, where the palefaces pray to their Great Spirit, the Red men were treated as brothers; but when they approached their own forests, the countenances of the white men grew dark, because the Great Spirit no longer lighted them up. Tokeah saw that the men who did not worship the Great Spirit were not good men. And my brother scoffs at the Great Spirit, and yet would be a friend of the Oconees? He would be a friend of the Miko, who would already have sunk under his burden had not his fathers beckoned to him from the happy hunting-grounds! Go," said the old man, turning away from the pirate with a gesture of disgust; "you would rob the Miko and his people of their last hope."
"Good-night," said Lafitte, yawning. "There's been a good Methodist parson spoilt in you." And so saying he turned towards the council wigwam, his usual dwelling when at the village. Tokeah stepped back into his hut. No night-song soothed the oppressed spirit of the old chief; and only the shrill whistle of the watch, repeated every two hours from the shore and before the wigwam of the pirate, told of the presence of living creatures in the village.
Upon the following morning Lafitte's lieutenant rouses him from his sleep, and informs him that there is an unusual stir and bustle amongst the Indians. The pirate hastily dresses, and repairs to the wigwam of the Miko, whom he finds restless and excited. The cause of this soon becomes apparent.
On a sudden the village resounded with a long joyous shout, which, spreading like wildfire from hut to hut, swelled at last into one wild and universal chorus, in which men, women, and children united their voices. The Miko had betaken himself in haste to the council wigwam, and the whole village was in an uproar. From behind each hedge, from out of every hut, the Oconees emerged and rushed towards the council-house; even the presence of Tokeah was insufficient to keep them within bounds. On the further side of the Natchez was seen a party of thirty Indians, all on horseback. Some of them were seeking a ford; but presently a young man, impatient of the delay, plunged with his horse into the water, and all thirty followed him, in the same order in which they had approached the river. The breadth of the stream, opposite to the wigwam, was about five hundred feet, and the depth considerable. Nevertheless the gallant little troop seemed in their element, and, almost without breaking their ranks, they swam their steeds across. Meanwhile the pirate stood upon the shore, watching their approach with the mostuncontrolled fury depicted on his countenance.
"Had we but ten good marksmen," muttered he to the lieutenant.
"Pardon, capitaine, they are not Oconees, but those devils of Comanches. I made their acquaintance in my Mexican campaigns."
The little squadron had now reached the creek. Swinging their legs over their horses, they sprang upon shore, drew the animals after them, and again flung themselves upon their backs with a swiftness and dexterity that recalled the fable of the centaur. The foremost of the strangers had arrived within a few paces of the Oconees, who, with the Miko at their head, were assembled in front of the council-house, when the circle opened, and Tokeah stepped forward, his hand outstretched.
"The great chief of the mighty Comanches, and of the Pawnees of the Toyask, is welcome," said he, gravely.
The young Indian to whom these words were addressed, halted and listened attentively, and with head reverently bowed, to the greeting. When the old chief had spoken, he sprang from his horse and advanced towards him, his right hand extended. Coming close up to Tokeah, he again bowed himself, took the Miko's hand, and placed it upon his own head. The interchange of greetings was remarkable for dignity, and derived a peculiar interest from the contrast between the two chiefs. Nothing could be in stronger opposition than the gaunt meagre form of the Miko, who stood like the weather-beaten trunk of some gigantic tree, stiff, mute, and melancholy, and the open, manly, dignified and yet gentle aspect of the young chief of the Comanches. His oval-shaped head was covered with a picturesque head-dress of fur and feathers; his high, arched forehead, and blooming complexion of a light copper colour, scorned the wild war-paint of his companions; the expressive black eyes and aquiline nose were in admirable harmony with the manly contour of his person, which his style of dress and equipment showed off to the greatest advantage. A doublet of blue fox fur covered his breast, and from his shoulders, on which it was fastened by golden clasps, hung the skin of a panther, draping a form that would have enchanted Thorwaldsen or Canova. It was a magnificent model of manly beauty, that had grown up untrammelled and without blemish in the enchanting prairies of Mexico, and in the midst of a mighty people owning no master but the Great Spirit. A dagger, with a hilt of wrought gold, a short rifle, and a lance nine feet long, decorated with a horse-tail, completed an equipment which for richness and utility combined could scarcely be surpassed. The young chief's horse, of extraordinary beauty, was almost covered with a panther skin, secured on its back and shoulders by four golden buckles. It had neither saddle nor stirrups, but on either side, at the end of a strap, hung a small leathern bucket, in which the muzzle of the rifle and butt of the lance reposed.
Similar to those above described were the dress and arms of other four of the warriors, also belonging to the powerful Indian tribe of the Comanches. They wore their hair combed back on either side of the forehead; their complexion was a mixture of olive and copper-colour. Their bearing was proud, and they seemed almost to look down upon the Pawnees who accompanied them. Round the necks of their steeds hung the lasso, that terrible weapon with which the Mexican riders capture, with wonderful skill and dexterity, the horse, the buffalo, or a human foe.
The remainder of the troop were Pawnees of the Toyask tribe. Their heads were clean shaven, excepting of one carefully plaited tuft upon the crown. Upon their shoulders were buffalo skins, the leather dyed red, the hair worn inwards; and similar hides served them for saddles. They wore broad girdles, to which their calico under-garment was fastened. About half of them were armed with muskets and rifles, but all had lances, a long knife, or rather hanger, and the tomahawk. They were well-made and powerful men, compared with whom the thin-armed, narrow-shouldered Oconees had the appearance of children.
"My brother is thrice welcome," repeated the Miko after a pause,during which his eyes dwelt with an expression of the purest satisfaction upon his stately guest and his companions. "Has the great El Sol reflected on the words which Tokeah sent him through his runners?"
"His ears are open and his heart large," replied the young chief gravely. "Are the words of the great Miko for El Sol alone, or may the warriors of the Comanches and Pawnees also hear them?"
"The chiefs and warriors of the Comanches and Pawnees are welcome in the council wigwam of the Oconees. They are their brothers."
When the Miko had spoken these words, the four Comanches and a like number of Pawnees dismounted from their horses, and followed the chiefs to the council wigwam. The others also dismounted, and forming a semi-circle, stood leaning against their horses' shoulders. Nearer to the council-house were ranged the Oconee warriors, armed only with their long scalping-knives; and behind them, at a respectful distance, the young men of the village had stationed themselves, also in a half circle. Again, far behind these, were the squaws and children, to whom the strict rules of Indian etiquette did not allow a nearer approach. The village had gradually assumed the appearance of a little camp, with various corps of troops formed up in it. On the shore stood the four pirates leaning on their muskets, whilst their captain and lieutenant paced up and down among the bushes. With the exception of a sharp quick glance occasionally cast towards the groups of Indians, they appeared to take no particular interest in what was passing.
El Sol, the young chief of the Comanches, is the affianced husband of Canondah, whom he has come to make his bride. In the council now held, it is decided that the alliance between Tokeah and the pirate shall be broken off, and that the remnant of the Oconees shall be incorporated with the powerful tribes of the Comanches and Pawnees. The former part of this decision is communicated to Lafitte who makes violent but unsuccessful claim upon the hand of Rosa, and finally enters his boat and descends the stream. El Sol, who greatly distrusts him, advises Tokeah to be on his guard against treachery; but the Miko denies the possibility of danger, on account of the distance of the pirate's haunt, and because, on the following morning, the village is to be abandoned, and the Oconees and their visitors are to proceed together to the country of the Comanches. He either forgets that the pirate had sent off a boat on the preceding morning, or thinks it unnecessary to increase the uneasiness of his guest by adverting to so unimportant a circumstance. In spite of what he has recently learned, he still entertains a feeling of kindness for Lafitte, with whom he has so long been on terms of friendship, and thinks him incapable of acting towards him in a base or hostile manner.
That evening the nuptials of Canondah and El Sol are celebrated; but the Indian maiden, although fondly attached to the young chief, is weighed down by a foreboding of evil which she finds it impossible to shake off. On her marriage day she is sad and in tears.
"And does Canondah," said the bridegroom mildly, "enter the wigwam of El Sol with a sorrowful heart?"