patents, themselves, that have been transmitted to us from various sources. Still, the habits of “home” entailed the name, even where the thing was not to be found. Titular manors exist, in a few instances, to this day, where no manorial rights were ever granted; and manor-houses were common appellations for the residences of the landlords of large estates, that were held in fee, without any exclusive privileges, and subject to the reservation named. Some of these manorial residences were of so primitive an appearance, as to induce the belief that the names were bestowed in pleasantry; the dwellings themselves being of logs, with the bark still on them, and the other fixtures to correspond. Notwithstanding all these drawbacks, early impressions and rooted habits could easily transfer terms to such an abode; and there was always a saddened enjoyment among these exiles, when they could liken their forest names and usages to those they had left in the distant scenes of their childhood.
The effect of the different causes we have here given was to dot the region described, though at long intervals, with spots of a semi-civilized appearance, in the midst of the vast—nay, almost boundless—expanse of forest. Some of these early settlements had made considerable advances towards finish and comfort, ere the war of ‘76 drove their occupants to seek protection against the inroads of the savages; and long after the influx of immigration which succeeded the peace, the fruits, the meadows, and the tilled fields of these oases in the desert, rendered them conspicuous amidst the blackened stumps, piled logs, and smooty fallows of an active and bustling settlement. At even a much later day, they were to be distinguished by the smoother surfaces of their fields, the greater growth and more bountiful yield of their orchards, and by the general appearance of a more finished civilization, and of greater age. Here and there, a hamlet had sprung up; and isolated places, like Cherry Valley and Wyoming, were found, that have since become known to the general history of the country.
Our present tale now leads us to the description of one of those early, personal, or family settlements, that had grown up, in what was then a very remote part of the territory in question, under the care and supervision of an ancient officer of the name of Willoughby. Captain Willoughby, after serving many years, had married an American wife, and continuing his services until a son and daughter were born, he sold his commission, procured a grant of land, and determined to retire to his new possessions, in order to pass the close of his life in the tranquil pursuits of agriculture, and in the bosom of his family. An adopted child was also added to his cares. Being an educated as well as a provident man, Captain Willoughby had set about the execution of this scheme with deliberation, prudence, and intelligence. On the frontiers, or lines, as it is the custom to term the American boundaries, he had become acquainted with a Tuscarora, known by the English sobriquet of “Saucy Nick.” This fellow, a sort of half-outcast from his own people, had early attached himself to the whites, had acquired their language, and owing to a singular mixture of good and bad qualities, blended with great native shrewdness, he had wormed himself into the confidence of several commanders of small garrisons, among whom was our captain. No sooner was the mind of the latter made up, concerning his future course, than he sent for Nick, who was then in the fort; when the following conversation took place:
“Nick,” commenced the captain, passing his hand over his brow, as was his wont when in a reflecting mood; “Nick, I have an important movement in view, in which you can be of some service to me.”
The Tuscarora, fastening his dark basilisk-like eyes on the soldier, gazed a moment, as if to read his soul; then he jerked a thumb backward, over his own shoulder, and said, with a grave smile—
“Nick understand. Want six, two, scalp off Frenchman’s head; wife and child; out yonder, over dere, up in Canada. Nick do him—what you give?”
“No, you red rascal, I want nothing of the sort—it is peace now, (this conversation took place in 1764), and you know I never bought a scalp, in time of war. Let me hear no more of this.”
“What you want, den?” asked Nick, like one who was a good deal puzzled.
“I want land—good land—little, but good. I am about to get a grant—a patent—”
“Yes,” interrupted Nick, nodding; “I know him—paper to take away Indian’s hunting-ground.”
“Why, I have no wish to do that—I am willing to pay the red men reasonably for their right, first.”
“Buy Nick’s land, den—better dan any oder.”
“Your land, knave!—You own no land—belong to no tribe—have no rights to sell.”
“What for ask Nick help, den?”
“What for?—Why because you know a good deal, though you own literally nothing. That’s what for.”
“Buy Nick know, den. Better dan he great fader know, down at York.”
“That is just what I do wish to purchase. I will pay you well, Nick, if you will start to-morrow, with your rifle and a pocket-compass, off here towards the head-waters of the Susquehannah and Delaware, where the streams run rapidly, and where there are no fevers, and bring me an account of three or four thousand acres of rich bottom-land, in such a way as a surveyor can find it, and I can get a patent for it. What say you, Nick; will you go?”
“He not wanted. Nick sell ‘e captain, his own land: here in ‘e fort.”
“Knave, do you not know me well enough not to trifle, when I am serious?”
“Nick ser’ous too—Moravian priest no ser’ouser more dan Nick at dis moment. Got land to sell.”
Captain Willoughby had found occasion to punish the Tuscarora, in the course of his services; and as the parties understood each other perfectly well, the former saw the improbability of the latter’s daring to trifle with him.
“Where is this land of yours, Nick,” he inquired, after studying the Indian’s countenance for a moment. “Where does it lie, what is it like, how much is there of it, and how came you to own it?”
“Ask him just so, ag’in,” said Nick, taking up four twigs, to note down the questions, seriatim.
The captain repeated his inquiries, the Tuscarora laying down a stick at each separate interrogatory.
“Where he be?” answered Nick, taking up a twig, as a memorandum. “He out dere—where he want him—where he say.—One day’s march from Susquehanna.”
“Well; proceed.”
“What he like?—Like land, to be sure. T’ink he like water! Got some water—no too much—got some land—got no tree—got some tree. Got good sugar-bush—got place for wheat and corn.”
“Proceed.”
“How much of him?” continued Nick, taking up another twig; “much as he want—want little, got him—want more, got him. Want none at all, got none at all—got what he want.”
“Go on.”
“To be sure. How came to own him?—How a pale face come to own America? Discover him—ha!—Well, Nick discover land down yonder, up dere, over here.”
“Nick, what the devil do you mean by all this?”
“No mean devil, at all—mean land—good land. Discover him—know where he is—catch beaver dere, three, two year. All Nick say, true as word of honour; much more
