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their guns, so as to reduce them, stock
and all, to the length of about a yard.
Returning home in the evening, she men-
tioned what she had seen to several of
her neighbors. Upon this, one of them,
the blacksmith of the village, remarked
that many of the Indians had lately visited
his shop, and attempted to borrow files
and saws for a purpose which they would
not explain. These circumstances excited 10
the suspicion of the experienced Canad-
ians. Doubtless there were many in the
settlement who might, had they chosen,
have revealed the plot; but it is no less
certain that the more numerous and re- 15
spectable class in the little community had
too deep an interest in the preservation
of peace, to countenance the designs of
Pontiac. M. Gouin, an old and wealthy
settler, went to the commandant, and con- 20
jured him to stand upon his guard; but
Gladwyn, a man of fearless temper, gave
no heed to the friendly advice.

In the Pottawattamie village, if there be truth in tradition, lived an Ojibwa 25 girl, who could boast a larger share of beauty than is common in the wigwam. She had attracted the eye of Gladwyn. He had formed a connection with her, and she had become much attached to 30 him. On the afternoon of the sixth, Catharine for so the officers called her

came to the fort, and repaired to Gladwyn's quarters, bringing with her a pair of elk-skin moccasins, ornamented 35 with porcupine work, which he had requested her to make. There was something unusual in her look and manner. Her face was sad and downcast. She said little, and soon left the room; but 40 the sentinel at the door saw her still lingering at the street corner, though the hour for closing the gates was nearly come. At length she attracted the notice of Gladwyn himself; and calling her 45 to him, he pressed her to declare what was weighing upon her mind. Still she remained for a long time silent, and it was only after much urgency and many promises not to betray her, that she re- 50 vealed her momentous secret.

To-morrow, she said, Pontiac will come to the fort with sixty of his chiefs. Each will be armed with a gun, cut short, and hidden under his blanket. Pontiac will 55 demand to hold a council; and after he has delivered his speech, he will offer a peace-belt of wampum, holding it in a

reversed position. This will be the signal of attack. The chiefs will spring up and fire upon the officers, and the Indians in the street will fall upon the garrison. 5.Every Englishman will be killed, but not the scalp of a single Frenchman will be touched.

Such is the story told in 1768 to the traveler Carver at Detroit, and preserved in local tradition, but not sustained by contemporary letters or diaries. What is certain is, that Gladwyn received secret. information, on the night of the sixth of May, that an attempt would be made on the morrow to capture the fort by treachery. He called some of his officers, and told them what he had heard. The defenses of the place were feeble and extensive, and the garrison by far too weak to repel a general assault. The force of the Indians at this time is variously estimated at from six hundred to two thousand; and the commandant greatly feared that some wild impulse might precipitate their plan, and that they would storm the fort before the morning. Every preparation was made to meet the sudden emergency. Half the garrison were ordered under arms, and all the officers prepared to spend the night upon the ramparts.

The day closed, and the hues of sunset faded. Only a dusky redness lingered in the west, and the darkening earth seemed her dull self again. Then night descended, heavy and black, on the fierce Indians and the sleepless English. From sunset til dawn, an anxious watch was kept from the slender palisades of Detroit. The soldiers were still ignorant of the danger; and the sentinels did not know why their numbers were doubled, or why, with such unwonted vigilance, their officers repeatedly visited their posts. Again and again Gladwyn mounted his wooden ramparts, and looked forth into the gloom. There seemed nothing but repose and peace in the soft, moist air of the warm spring evening, with the piping of frogs along the river bank, just roused from their torpor by the genial influence of May. But, at intervals, as the night wind swept across the bastion, it bore sounds of fearful portent to the ear, the sullen booming of the Indian drum and the wild chorus of quavering yells, as the warriors, around their distant camp-fires, danced the war-dance, in preparation for the morrow's work.

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The night passed without alarm. The sun rose upon fresh fields and newly bud-. ding woods, and scarcely had the morning mists dissolved, when the garrison could see a fleet of birch canoes crossing the 10 river from the eastern shore, within range of cannon shot above the fort. Only two or three warriors appeared in each, but all moved slowly, and seemed deeply laden. In truth, they were full of sav- 15 ages, lying flat on their faces, that their numbers might not excite the suspicion of the English.

At an early hour the open common behind the fort was thronged with squaws, 20 children, and warriors, some naked, and others fantastically arrayed in their barbarous finery. All seemed restless and uneasy, moving hither and thither, in apparent preparation for a general game of 25 ball. Many tall warriors, wrapped in their blankets, were seen stalking toward the fort, and casting malignant, furtive glances upward at the palisades. Then with an air of assumed indifference, they 30 would move towards the gate. They were all admitted; for Gladwyn, who, in this instance at least, showed some knowledge of Indian character, chose to convince his crafty foe that, though their plot was 35 detected, their hostility was despised.

The whole garrison was ordered under arms. Sterling, and the other English fur-traders, closed their storehouses and armed their men, and all in cool confidence 40 stood waiting the result.

Meanwhile, Pontiac, who had crossed with the canoes from the eastern shore, was approaching along the river road, at

with an emphatic gesture towards the fort, indicated the purpose to which he meant to apply it.

At ten o'clock, the great war-chief, with his treacherous followers, reached the fort, and the gateway was thronged with their savage faces. All were wrapped to the throat in colored blankets. Some were crested with hawk, eagle, or raven plumes; others had shaved their heads, leaving only the fluttering scalp-lock on the crown; while others, again, wore their long, black hair flowing loosely at their backs, or wildly hanging about their brows like a lion's mane. Their bold yet crafty features, their cheeks besmeared with ocher and vermilion, white lead and soot, their keen, deep-set eyes gleaming in their sockets, like those of rattlesnakes, gave them an aspect grim, uncouth, and horrible. For the most part, they were tall, strong men, and all had a gait and bearing of peculiar stateliness.

As Pontiac entered, it is said that he started, and that a deep ejaculation half escaped from his breast. Well might his stoicism fail, for at a glance he read the ruin of his plot. On either hand, within the gateway, stood ranks of soldiers and hedges of glittering steel. The swarthy engagés of the fur-traders, armed to the teeth, stood in groups at the street corners. and the measured tap of a drum fell ominously on the ear. Soon regaining his composure, Pontiac strode forward into the narrow street; and his chiefs filed after him in silence, while the scared faces of women and children looked out from the windows as they passed. Their rigid muscles betrayed no sign of emotion; yet. looking closely, one might have seen their small eyes glance from side to side with restless scrutiny.

Traversing the entire width of the lit

the head of his sixty chiefs, all gravely 45 tle town, they reached the door of the marching in Indian file. A Canadian settler, named Beaufait, had been that morning to the fort. He was now returning homewards, and as he reached the bridge

council-house, a large building standing near the margin of the river. On entering, they saw Gladwyn, with several of his officers, seated in readiness to receive

which led over the stream then called 50 them, and the observant chiefs did not

Parent's Creek, he saw the chiefs in the act of crossing from the farther bank. He stood aside to give them room. As the last Indian passed, Beaufait recognized him as an old friend and associate. The 55 savage greeted him with the usual ejaculation, opened for an instant the folds of his blanket, disclosed the hidden gun, and,

fail to remark that every Englishman wore a sword at his side, and a pair of pistols in his belt. The conspirators eyed each other with uneasy glances. Why, demanded Pontiac, do I see so many of my father's young men standing in the street with their guns?' Gladwyn replied through his interpreter, La Butte,

5

that he had ordered the soldiers under arms for the sake of exercise and discipline. With much delay and many signs of distrust, the chiefs at length sat down on the mats prepared for them; and, after the customary pause, Pontiac rose to speak. Holding in his hand the wampum belt which was to have given the fatal signal, he addressed the commandant, professing strong attachment to the English, 10 and declaring, in Indian phrase, that he had come to smoke the pipe of peace, and brighten the chain of friendship. The officers watched him keenly as he uttered these hollow words, fearing lest, though 15 conscious that his designs were suspected, he might still attempt to accomplish them. And once, it is said, he raised the wampum belt as if about to give the signal of attack. But at that instant Gladwyn signed 20 slightly with his hand. The sudden clash of arms sounded from the passage without, and a drum rolling the charge filled the council-room with its stunning din. At this, Pontiac stood like one con- 25 founded. Some writers will have it, that Gladwyn, rising from his seat, drew the chief's blanket aside, exposed the hidden gun, and sternly rebuked him for his

treachery. But the commandant wished. only to prevent the consummation of the plot, without bringing on an open rupture. His own letters affirm that he and his officers remained seated as before. Pontiac, seeing his unruffled brow and his calm eye fixed steadfastly upon him, knew not what to think, and soon sat down in amazement and perplexity. Another pause ensued, and Gladwyn commenced a brief reply. He assured the chiefs that friendship and protection should be extended towards them as long as they continued to deserve it, but threatened ample vengeance for the first act of aggression. The council then broke up; but, before leaving the room, Pontiac told the officers that he would return in a few days, with his squaws and children, for he wished that they should all shake hands with their fathers the English. To this new piece of treachery Gladwyn deigned no reply. The gates of the fort, which had been closed during the conference, were again flung open, and the baffled savages were suffered to depart, rejoiced, no doubt, to breathe once more the free air of the open fields.

(1851)

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS (1824-1892)

With Curtis we have, as in the case of Bryant, a New Englander transplanted to New York. He was born in Providence, R. I., and lived there until he was fifteen. Moving then with his parents to New York City, he served for a time as a clerk in a mercantile establishment, entered at the age of eighteen the Brook Farm Community in the capacity of a pupil, experienced every part of the famous experiment, and after its failure lingered about Concord for a time to be near Emerson, and then in 1846 went abroad to be gone four years. Returning in 1850, he published Nile Notes of a Howadji, 1851, The Howadji in Syria, 1852, and settled into what was to be his life-work. He was connected editorially first with The Tribune, then with Putnam's Magazine, and finally with the Harper's publications. In 1854 he took charge of "The Easy Chair' Department which had been started four years earlier by D. G. Mitchell in Harper's Magazine, and during the next forty years made it a running commentary on American manners and American thought and life. After his death the department was suspended for eight years, but in 1900 was reëstablished by William Dean Howells. Curtis wrote much and in many varieties. His Thackeray-like sketches, the Potiphar Papers, 1853, and Prue and 1, 1856, are still readable, but the literary product that will preserve his name the longest is to be found in those easy, gossipy, delightful papers, the best of which have been republished in three series as Essays from the Easy Chair.

In his later years Curtis became widely known as a finished orator and was greatly in demand. He became, too, a force in the political life of the times. His editorship of Harper's Weekly was distinctive and influential. Always was he in the forefront of all reforms and always was he a molder of public opinion in the direction of the highest ideals.

DICKENS READING [1867] 1

When, hereafter, some chance traveler picks up this odd number of an old magazine and opens to this very page, let him 5 know that the evening of Dicken's first reading in New York was bright with moonlight veiled in a soft gray snowcloud. The crowd at the entrance was not large. The speculators in tickets 10 were not troublesome, because all the tickets had been long sold. The police, as usual, were polite and efficient; and going up the steep staircase, and passing through the single door, we were all 15 quietly and pleasantly seated by eight o'clock. The floor of Steinway Hall is level, so that the audience is lost to itself; but it was easy for all of us to perceive, by scanning our neighbors, that 20 we were a very fine body of people. At least everybody who was present said so. We all remarked that the intelligence and distinction of the city were present, and that it must be extremely gratifying to 25

1 The selections from George William Curtis in this collection are published by special arrangement with Harper & Brothers, owners of the copyright.

Mr. Dickens to be welcomed by the most intellectual and appreciative audience that could be assembled in New York.

The details of the arrangement upon the platform, the screen behind, the hidden lights above and below, and the stiff little table with the water-bottle, are familiar. But as we all sat looking at them, and at the variously splendid toilets that rustled in, and fluttered, and finally settled, it was not possible to escape the great thought that in a few moments we should see at that queer, stiff table the creator of Sam Weller, and Oliver Twist, and Micawber, and Dick Swiveller, and the rest of the endless, marvelous company the greatest story-teller since Scott, one of the most famous names in literature since Fielding. When he was here before Carlyle growled in Past and Present about Schnuspel, the distinguished novelist,' and there were some who laughed. But the laugh was passed by.- Look! There is a man, who looks like somebody's own man,' who scuffles across the stage and turns up a burner or two; and he is scarcely out of the way wher - there he comes, rapidly, in full

evening dress, with a heavy watch-chain, and a nosegay in his button-hole, the world's own man.

when a wet sponge is passed over an old picture. Scrooge, and Tiny Tim, and Sam Weller and his wonderful father, and Sergeant Buzfuz, and Justice Stare5 leigh have an intenser reality and vitality than before. As the reading advances the spell becomes more entrancing. The mind and heart answer instantly to every tone and look of the reader. In a passionate outburst, as in Bob Cratchit's wail for his lost little boy, or in Scrooge's prayer to be allowed to repent, the whole scene lives and throbs before you. And when, in the great trial of Bardell against Pickwick, the thick, fat voice of the elder Weller wheezes from the gallery, 'Put id down with a wee, me Lerd, put id down with a wee,' you turn to look for the gallery and behold the benevolent 20 parent.

His reception was sober. The whole audience clapped its gloved hands. Not a heel, not a cane, mingled with the sound, not a solitary voice. It was a very muffled cordiality, an enthusiasm in kid gloves. The Easy Chair, for one, longed to rise and shout. Heaven has 1 given us voices, brethren, with which to welcome and salute our friends, and if ever a long, long cheer should have rung from the heart, it was when the man who has done so much for all of us stood be- 15 fore us. But it was useless. The steady clapping was prolonged, and Dickens stood calmly, bowing easily once or twice, and waiting with the air of one ready to begin business.

The instant there was silence he did begin: Ladies and gentlemen, I am to have the honor of reading to you this evening the trial-scene from Pickwick, and a Christmas Carol in a prelude and 25 three scenes. Scene first, Marley's Ghost. Marley was dead, to begin with.' These words, or words very similar, were spoken in a husky voice, not remarkable in any way, and with the English cadence 30 in articulation, a rising inflection at the end of every few words. They were spoken with perfect simplicity, and the introductory description was read with good sense, and conveyed a fine relish 35 upon the reader's part of the things described. There was nothing formal, no effort of any kind. The left hand held the book, the right hand moved continually, slightly indicating the action de- 40 scribed, as of putting on a muffler, or whatever it might be. But the moment Scrooge spoke the drama began.

Every character was individualized by the voice and by a slight change of ex- 45 pression. But the reader stood perfectly still, and the instant transition of the voice from the dramatic to the descriptive tone was unfailing and extraordinary. This was perfection of art. Nor was the 50 evenness of the variety less striking. Every character was indicated with the same felicity. Of course the previous image in the hearer's mind must be considered in estimating the effect. The 55 reader does not create the character, the writer has done that; and now he refreshes it into unwonted vividness, as

Through all there is a striking sense of reserved power, and of absolute mastery of the art. There is no straining for points, no exaggeration, no extravagance, but an instinctive and adequate outlay of means for every effect, and a complete preservation of personal dignity throughout. The enjoyment is sincere and unique; and when the young gentleman before us remarks to the flossy young woman at his side that any clever actor can do the thing as well,' we congratulate him inwardly upon his experience of the theater. Perhaps, also, the flossy young woman is of opinion that any clever author can write as well as this reader.

There is a serious drawback to this first evening's enjoyment, however, and that is that fully a third of those present hear very imperfectly. Nothing can surpass the air of mingled indignation, chagrin, and disappointment with which a severe lady just behind declares that she did not hear a word, and adds, caustically, that the spectacle alone is hardly worth the money. Not worth the money? Dear Madam, the Easy Chair would willingly pay more than the price of admission merely to see him. And just as he is thinking so another friend leans forward and says, in a decided tone of utter disappointment, Just let me take your glass, will you? I can't hear a word, but I should like to see how the man looks.' As the Easy Chair passes out of the door he encounters Mr. and Mrs. Sealskin, sailing smoothly and silently out. 'How delightful!' exclaims the inno

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