Cornplanter had a son, “a boy of fine spirit and promise,” who was sent to Philadelphia for the benefit of an English education, under the care of the Quakers, who placed him in a suitable school and directed his studies. He was not only received into good society, but caressed. On one occasion, being at a ball, while dancing with a beautiful girl, the jealousy of one of the young gentlemen present was excited, and he gave vent to his vexation by muttering the dislike he felt at seeing the young lady “dance with a damned Indian.” The quick ear of young Henry caught the sound, and after the figure was ended, having invited the young swain to the head of the stairs, he thrust him out, and gave him a push which sent him headlong down. “There,” said he, “you may now boast that you have been kicked down stairs by a damned Indian.” But Henry had been too long the wild boy of the mountains, to be pleased with confinement, or bear patiently his monotonous exercises. He wasted and pined till he became pale and emaciated. He was very courteous in manners, and had the suavity peculiar to the forest Chieftain. “My sister,” he would say,—“my sister is not here, and there is another who is not with me.” He thirsted for the bright waters of his native valley, and longed to breathe once more the pure air of the Alleghanies. The crowded streets of the city had no charms for him. He stayed but a few months, and bursting from his confinement, bounded back with the alacrity of a wounded deer, to the green mountain haunts of his boyhood, the sweet tones of his sister, and the gentle cooings of his forest dove. The following year Mr. N——, a gentleman from Philadelphia, who had known the Chief there, came on an errand of agency to our country, where he has since resided. Having no acquaintance here, and feeling a deep interest in his young friend, he penetrated through the dark wilds of Potts and McKean, and soon found himself at the village of the Cornplanter. Henry welcomed him cordially, presenting him to his father, his sister, and his friends; but there was a sadness visible in his countenance, a quick restlessness in his movements, which betrayed how deep were the workings within. Mr. N—— then asked him for the gentle dove he had described to him in days gone by. “She is gone,” said he, and led him to her grave. Here, Harry, after the custom of white people, had planted flowers, not the forget-me-not, nor the rose, nor the myrtle, but pale spring violets, refreshing them with his tears, and breathing from this hallowed spot his invocations to the Great Spirit. He was in the war of 1812, and a gallant soldier under General Porter, but very sorrowful is the story of his after life, and dark indeed was the day of his death; but I will not relate it, to become an instrument of universal accusation against his people, who have been too long and too often judged by individual instances of degeneracy. CHAPTER XII.