to tell Annie of it.
“I once hoped to have seen you his bride, Annie. I think he loved you;
but if you did not love him, of course, you were right not to accept
him.”
Annie listened calmly, and her good brother never knew that he was the
messenger that brought darkness and despair to her soul. A new light
broke upon her. Could her friend have been treacherous? But it could not
be, Charlie must have been mistaken. She recalled Robert’s fond words,
his despair, when he left her so short a time before.
“It cannot be,” she exclaimed; “he loves me still! I will not believe
it! Even though it be true, he shall not marry this false girl! I will
tell him all!” She wrote a hurried, passionate note to Robert, in which
she confessed how much she loved him; there was no coldness now—all
pride was gone—merged in the wild thought that she might yet recall him
to her side.
Impatiently she waited for his answer, which she felt would be life or
death to her. Who shall tell the agony of Robert Dennyn when he received
the note, just as he was setting forth for his home in B.
“Once,” he wrote in answer, “Annie Morton knew that she might have asked
any thing of me, even life itself—now I am irrevocably bound to
another.”
Annie Morton received the note; she took it from the servant, as she
stood trembling beside that same window where she sat when first
presented to our readers; but how unlike the bright, beautiful girl who
then sprang forth so gayly to meet her beloved father, and the strange
youth who was to exert so great an influence upon her destiny. Beautiful
she was still, for twenty summers had not yet passed over her head; and
beauty cannot leave those she has loved so early—the gift will linger
till many a year of suffering has passed over the heads of those upon
whom she has bestowed the fairy talisman.
Annie read the note—a look of despair stole over her face—her eyes
gleamed wildly. She crushed the note in her hand, then tore it into a
thousand pieces. For a moment she stood gazing out. A carriage passed.
She knew that Robert was in it—and as it rolled on, so passed away from
Annie Morton all light and hope eternally. She left the spot where she
had been standing, passed slowly up the broad staircase to her room,
reached the bed, and consciousness left her. They found her there some
hours after—but reason had left her. She had sown the wind in her
folly, she was reaping the whirlwind in her misery.
Robert Dennyn and Flora Leslie were never married. The frantic words
that fell from poor Annie Morton’s lips, during the first moments of her
hopeless insanity, disclosed Flora’s treachery, and the engagement was
broken.
Robert Dennyn went on his way, loved, honored, respected by all; but a
lonely old age was his portion. He had too kind and good a heart to
become a misanthrope; but the flowers of love in his heart were bruised
and crushed—they bloomed no more for him.
* * * * *
=ADIEU.=
=BY E. A. L.=
Adieu! Adieu? In silent tears we parted,
To journey on, diverging, as two beams,
That from the equatorial line have started,
Bending their faces toward the earth’s extremes.
All day my bosom heaves with heavy sighs;
All day I sing thy favorite songs and weep;
All night I gaze into thy luminous eyes,
Or clasp thy shadow in my feverish sleep—
Oh! for the love that was for death too strong!
Oh! for the sweet charmed hours that sped too soon,
When thou didst steal from Beauty’s laughing throng
To meet me by the soft consenting moon,
Inclasp my hand in tremulous delight,
And bend on me thine eyes angelically bright.
* * * * *
=THE RANGER’S CHASE.=
=A WESTERN STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812.=
=BY J. L. M’CONNEL, AUTHOR OF “TALBOT AND VERNON,” ETC.=
CHAPTER I.
“Come, haste to the wedding!”
On the third of February, 1809, an act of Congress was passed, defining
the boundaries of Illinois, and establishing the “First Grade” of
Territorial Government. The population of the whole territory did not
then exceed twelve thousand; and, with the exception of Chicago, and a
few settlements on the Wabash, was confined to a narrow strip of country
along the Mississippi. But, upon the organization of the new government,
(under Governor Edwards,) the current of emigration received an impulse
in this direction; and the fertile prairies, lying nearer to the centre
of the state, began to attract more attention. Kaskaskia was the seat of
territorial authority, as well as the nucleus of population; and it was
northward, along the banks of the river of that name, that the stream of
emigrants naturally took its way.
Among those who pushed adventurously forward in that direction, was a
certain Thomas Fielding, who migrated from Virginia in the autumn of
1811; his family consisting of a wife, two sons and one daughter.
Passing by the settlements in St. Clair county, he pressed on across the
prairies, with a world of fertile acres spread before him, until he
reached the banks of Shoal Creek, in the county of Bond. A few miles
south-west of the point, where the town of Greenville has since been
built, he found a tract of land which combined all the advantages of
which he was in search. A prairie, several miles in width, was bounded
by high and valuable timber along the creek, and stretched away toward
the north and west, in all the rich, unbroken beauty of primeval nature.
Elevated, but well watered, undulating, though not rugged; that portion
of which, with the freedom of the wilderness, he took immediate
possession, was easily converted into a beautiful and productive farm.
Just within the skirt of the timber, protected by a grove of stately
oaks, he erected a spacious, though primitive, mansion; and here, in the
grand solitude of wood and plain, he prepared, with his family, to spend
the remainder of his life.
It was chiefly with a view to the welfare of that family that he had
left the older and more thickly-peopled state of Virginia, to seek a
home in the Far West. He was growing old; his sons were approaching
manhood: and, after assisting their father in providing for his age, it
was natural that they should be solicitous about their own future. Each,
accordingly, with the concurrence of the father, selected for himself a
sufficient domain; and such was the energy with which they prosecuted
their “improvements,” that, by the spring of 1813, there were three
separate farms, immediately contiguous, under active cultivation.
Both the sons were married in the course of the following summer—for
other emigrants had followed Fielding’s “trail,” until, at this time,
there were, perhaps, twenty families within a circle of ten miles
diameter. Jane, the daughter, still remained with her parents; but the
frequent visits of a certain John Edgar, who lived some eight miles down
the river, seemed to give color to the rumor, now rife in the
settlement, that she was soon to exchange her maiden name, for that of
the young Ranger Captain.
And, without implying any license to dispute about tastes—which, from
time immemorial, have been considered out of the pale of
controversy—Edgar’s choice was well justified by her qualities, both of
mind and person. She was considerably above the medium height, with the
free carriage, which health and elastic spirits always give. Even now,
though nearly forty years have passed, and she has borne and nurtured a
numerous family, her bearing is more erect and graceful than that of
many a girl within her ’teens. Dark hair and eyes, with a well arched
brow—cheeks a little embrowned by exposure to the sun and wind—a nose
rather aquiline than straight—a pleasant mouth, with red lips, which
were never known to tremble, save in talking to the Ranger; a round,
full chin, surmounting, like an Ionic capital, the marble column of her
neck, and a figure, which united the freedom of rural life with the
elegance of city cultivation; these were her attractions. Captain Edgar
was a lucky fellow—for she loved him with all the fervor of the
wilderness; and by nothing in her education had she learned to act as if
ashamed of her affection.
He was well worthy of such a bride. Tall, elegantly formed, active, and
graceful, he was the very type of a young frontiersman. Gait, carriage,
voice, and countenance, were all in unison with the open, manly spirit
of his class. Preëminently brave among a people noted for courage; able
as a leader, where, in order to lead, superiority must be plainly seen
and deeply felt; he was already, though scarcely five-and-twenty, the
captain of a company of rangers, whose arduous task it was to protect a
frontier of nearly an hundred miles from the depredations of the
Indians. The latter, stirred up, as is universally believed in this
country, by British agents, since the opening of the war, were
gathering, in unprecedented numbers, along the lakes and on the Upper
Mississippi; and, like bolts from a thunder-cloud, war parties were
moving rapidly in all directions—falling, with the suddenness of Indian
strategy, when their descent was least expected, and vanishing among the
shadows of the forest, ere their blows could be returned. If the
settlements on Shoal Creek had, as yet, escaped incursion, it was
chiefly owing to the vigilance and activity of Edgar’s Rangers, and, in
circumstances like these, it may well be supposed, that nothing, save
the utmost confidence, would have induced the pioneers to trust so young
a man with a responsibility so heavy.
But neither war, nor rumors of war, could exclude from the mind of the
youthful captain, thoughts of love and anticipations of domestic bliss.
In the midst of these alarms, a day was appointed for his marriage with
Jane Fielding. It was the 10th of September, 1813—a day memorable in
the annals of our country, as that on which Perry achieved his famous
victory over Barclay; and though they, of course, knew nothing of the
approaching event, it is probable that even so brilliant an anticipation
would not wholly have withdrawn their attention from that which so much
more nearly concerned them.
A wedding on the frontier, in those days, was a far heartier affair than
it now is in the same country. People seem to be somewhat ashamed of
getting married of late, and seek to avoid observation, very much as if
they were about some act only allowable because not positively
prohibited by statutory enactments. The first that the neighborhood
learns in these modest times, of a matrimonial union, is the stealthy
departure of a close carriage, in which the guilty parties are privately
withdrawing, to hide their culprit faces among careless strangers. The
public feeling of the olden time was somewhat different. The
consummation, in fact, of an union which was already complete in
affection, was then deemed an occasion of social congratulation, and
sometimes of noisy enjoyment. The neighbors—husbands, wives, sons, and
daughters—were all called in, to take part in the hilarity; and each
felt that, if the event was, as it should be, a happy one to the parties
directly interested, it would be wrong to detract from that happiness,
by gloom, reserve, or ceremony.
The pioneers cared little for scented notes of invitation, embossed
cards, or emblematic turtle-doves—no more than for the unsubstantial
trickeries which now make up a wedding feast. As the day approached,
though yet perhaps a week remained, the children of the bride’s family
were sent forth to “warn the neighbors in,” or, not unfrequently, the
parties took advantage of some other merry-making, to announce the
auspicious event, and deliver invitations; and, without other formality,
all who lived within a day’s ride of the place, considered themselves
invited, and arranged their affairs accordingly. Some inconvenience to
the host and hostess might result from the uncertainty about the number
of their guests; but the art of providing mathematically for the precise
number expected, was not then cultivated; if there was _enough_, it was
not material how much _more_ there might be—for that meanness which
combines a sordid calculation with the rites of hospitality, was not one
of the pioneer’s vices. Preparation was made to receive all who were
near enough to reach the place—a profusion of substantial things, such
as hearty men and natural women liked, adorned the rude tables; and no
grand flourishes of white-aproned waiters, no sham dignity of form or
ceremony, encumbered or oppressed the feast. And, though the early
backwoodsman might not be the most polished of hosts, yet, tried by the
standard of genuine hospitality, he was the most perfect of gentlemen.
Thomas Fielding was a true representative of his class; and those who
have been in the West will need no further description. For two weeks
before the appointed day, he had invited everybody he met to witness the
marriage of his daughter, and take part in the rejoicings; and by those
whom he saw, he had sent notice to others; so that at least a week
before the eventful tenth, everyone within twenty miles was not only
notified, but asked to attend. Preparations were then made upon a
corresponding scale; and fervent wishes were expressed that the weather
might be fine, that none might fail to come. One of the sons was sent
express to Kaskaskia for Jane’s wedding garments—for even in those
primitive days woman was true to the tastes of her sex. And, beside,
Jane had grown almost to womanhood in the precincts of the Old Dominion;
and, in her new home, was as well known for the superior neatness of her
dress, as for other advantages of mind and person.
At length the eventful morning came—one of those magnificent autumn
days in which the warmth of summer lingers on the hazy landscape of the
waning year. They say Italian skies are beautiful throughout the
seasons; but it seems to me the autumn must be the glory of the months
in all climes, as full manhood is the ultimate bloom of life to all men;
and existence, in a country where the climate gives no special beauty to
the year’s decline, would seem but little better than working in a
tread-mill. We must have variety; the perpetual smile of even a
beautiful face would weary us in time; and six months of unbroken
sunshine would make us long for a Scotch mist. There is no such monotony
in the land of prairies; nor has any country in the world a season of
more rich and mellow glories than the western autumn.
——“The fading, many colored woods,
Shade deep’ning over shade, the country round,
Embrown; crowded umbrage, dusk and dun,
Of every hue, from wan declining green,
To sooty dark;”
and waving wide savannas, luxuriant as oriental gardens, over which the
shadows chase each other statelily, or linger lovingly, like shady
islets in a “sea of green.” And then the tempered sunlight, all shorn of
summer’s fierceness, by the hazy, dream-like air; and, over all, the
arching sky, not laughing, as in April, and not glowing, like July, but
full of deep repose, the holy calm of spirit-land. Who that loves beauty
would not live in a variable clime?
But it was little that the wedding-guests cared for the glories of
September. The sun had scarcely began to decline toward the west, ere
they first were seen approaching. From all directions along the narrow
road, over prairie pathways, emerging from the timber, or riding slowly
along its outskirts, the whole country seemed in motion. Thomas
Fielding, with his two sons, all in their holyday suits, stood at the
gate, and welcomed all comers with a hearty shake of the hand; while at
the front door the younger matrons, with their smiling mother, received
the females of each party. The bride-elect was not yet visible; the
ceremony was not to take place till evening. The bridegroom had
appointed a rendezvous for his company of rangers; and it was at the
head of these trusty guardians of the settlement, that he was to
approach the scene of his happiness. In the meantime, the guests
employed the vacant hours, each according to his fancy, the men in
talking over the prospects of the country, the danger of Indian
incursions, the plenty of the crops, etc.; while the women were either
assisting in the final preparations for the feast, or readjusting their
disordered dress—either gossiping with the mother, or teasing the
daughter, who still kept her bridal chamber.
Four o’clock in the afternoon arrived; and now the happy captain, with
his rangers, might soon be expected; when Jane, her preparations all
complete, at last issued from her chamber, and announced her intention
to walk out upon the prairie and gather some wild flowers. Several of
the younger girls proposed to accompany her, but with a smile and a
blush she declined their companionship. It was not pressed upon her, for
each had a suspicion of her object. The mothers called their daughters
aside, and whispered—
“She is going to meet the captain—let her go alone.”
And, in confirmation of the suspicion, she passed out to the southward
and took a path which led in the direction of the road along which the
captain was to come. Somewhat more than half a mile from the house stood
a little grove, within which she had often met Edgar on his visits to
her father’s, and from this point her parents usually saw them
approaching the house together. It was to this grove that she went—by a
circuitous route, however, so as to justify her excuse for leaving the
house, by gathering a few late flowers.
She had been absent from the house little more than an hour, when,
rounding a “point” of timber, which puts out from the creek about two
miles below the farm, a cavalcade of twenty horsemen was seen, and at
once recognized as Edgar’s company of rangers. Another body, about equal
in number, was seen at the same time several miles to the west, but all
attention was now directed toward the south, in expectation of the
appearance of the rangers. The elder ladies smiled sedately, in memory
of their own youthful days, and prophesied—
“He’ll not come with the company—you’ll see Jane and him coming up that
path, after awhile.”
And the event justified the prediction—at least in part; for, on
arriving opposite the little grove Edgar turned off, and directing his
companions to ride on, put his horse to a gallop, and was soon within
the shadows of the rendezvous.
A vine and a fallen tree, together, formed a pleasant seat; and here,
when the skies were clear and the sunlight warm, he had often found her
awaiting his approach. He sought the old place now, but she was not
there!
“She must be out soon,” he muttered to himself; and springing to the
ground, he assumed the seat which he had expected to find occupied. He
was disappointed, and both his face and attitude betrayed it. He leaned
his rifle against a tree and threw himself back to wait, patiently as he
might, for what was not likely to come had he waited till morning! His
eyes wandered vacantly over the scene for some minutes, when, suddenly
springing up, he exclaimed—
“She has been here and gone away!”
A narrow strip of white muslin was hanging upon a thorn very near
him—evidently torn from some article of female dress! It could not be a
signal for him; only accident could have placed it there. She must have
retreated in haste—and why? Such were the reasonings of the experienced
ranger. He reached forward and took it off the briar; but, as he did so,
his eye fell upon a far more ominous object! The same bush had retained
a piece of red calico, fringed with green, and Edgar at once observed
that it had come from the cape of a hunting-shirt such as the northern
Indians wore!
It was enough! And yet, with the coolness characteristic of his race,
the ranger stooped to the ground and calmly examined the records of a
struggle. On each side of the rustic seat there was a single footstep,
deeply indented among the leaves, as if two men had sprung suddenly from
opposite directions to a common point. Then, in front of the seat, the
twigs were broken and the ground was trampled—though but little, as if
the struggle had been brief and feeble!
“No _man_ could have been overpowered so soon,” he said; “and it must
have been as I expected—_she was alone_.”
But even this conviction did not hurry him away. He carefully examined
the ground in the neighborhood, and then, returning to the scene of the
struggle, followed the trail, by those slight indications which none but
a backwoodsman could have discovered, for several hundred yards to the
westward. He thus ascertained these facts: That the actual captors were
but two in number; that they had concealed their horses in a small
thicket, some distance above the grove where the capture was made; that
they had retreated in great haste, keeping within a ravine which drained
the prairie; and that, at or near the thicket they had rejoined the main
body of marauders, consisting of half-a-score of horsemen.
“They have been frightened away by the gathering at Fielding’s,” thought
the ranger.
He hastened back to the grove, and springing upon his horse, galloped
away toward the house. He had still a lingering hope, though faint, that
he might find his bride at home; but this vanished at once when he rode
furiously to the gate and was met by her father.
“Indians!” he shouted, in the loud, full notes of a voice like a
trumpet. “Ho! rangers! Mount and follow!”
CHAPTER II.
THE CHASE COMMENCED.
The cause of the alarm scarcely needed to be explained—the word
“Indians” was enough.
All was immediately in confusion—men were rushing in every direction
for their arms and horses, women were hastily preparing to set out
homeward, and, save the rangers, who had picketed their horses together
as usual, no one seemed to retain the least coolness. Nor was the
consternation unnatural; for many fathers and mothers were there who had
left their homes in charge of their children—some of the younger guests
had left aged parents—and even those who had closed their houses,
leaving no one behind, though they apprehended no bereavement of
relatives, expected no less than to find the labor of years a heap of
smoking ruins. People less accustomed to alarms would have made more
clamor; but the pale faces and rigid features of these stern
backwoodsmen, were as eloquent of feeling as the wildest gestures or
most extravagant cries.
It was in scenes like this, that the superiority of such a man as John
Edgar became evident. He was terribly excited—as the blazing eye and
ashy lips might testify; yet his orders were given with the same
clearness as if there had been no cause of agitation; and, without
betraying any signs of impatience, he sat upon his horse at the gate
quietly awaiting their execution. But few moments sufficed for his ready
soldiery to assemble. They numbered only twenty in all; but they were
soon joined by half-a-score of young men, who had no pressing call
homeward. From these he selected ten, among whom were the two younger
Fieldings, and placing the company under the command of his lieutenant,
he directed them to establish patrols over the district and protect the
settlements.
“You’ll bring Jane back to us, John?” said Mrs. Fielding, coming to the
gate, with dry eyes, but trembling lips.
“Yes,” he replied sternly, “if I have to follow her to the Rocky
Mountains!”
And the mother turned away sorrowing, but hopeful. The character of
Edgar was too well known to admit a doubt of his untiring perseverance.
Ten minutes sufficed to make all the provisions necessary to a long
chase; at the end of that time Edgar turned his horse’s head toward the
prairie, and followed by the ten men of his choice, set out at a long
gallop to the west and north. The band had been selected with a thorough
knowledge of every man’s qualities; they were all young, hardy, resolute
and untiring. Each was equipped with rifle and knife, and each rode a
powerful and well-tried horse. Beside the hatred which every ranger bore
to the “redskin”—a motive in itself strong enough to bear them forward
for many days—they were all warmly attached to Edgar. The latter
expected a long chase; for, from certain signs, minute and unmeaning to
the inexperienced, but trumpet-tongued to him, he was impressed with the
belief that Jane’s captors were not merely a marauding party, making an
incursion into this settlement, but a retreating band falling back from
some other enterprise, either on account of defeat or division. Their
numbers were too great; the character of the dress from which he had
found a fragment, and the direction of their movement, all combined to
this conclusion. Had he heard of the gallant defense of Fort Stephenson,
a few weeks before,[5] his opinion might have been confirmed.
The sun was rapidly declining toward the horizon as they cleared the
inclosures of Fielding’s farm and struck at once into the open prairie.
Edgar had followed the trail far enough from the grove, where the
capture was made, to be satisfied that he would strike it again in half
an hour’s riding, in the direction he had taken, and by following it
while daylight remained, he had no doubt of being able to determine the
point to which it tended. He would thus be enabled to continue the chase
with some certainty after nightfall, while his enemies were probably
asleep. This, of course, included the hazard of missing the trail during
the hours of darkness: but Edgar’s knowledge of the country was so
perfect that he had little fear of this misfortune, and the fact that
they could not be more than three hours behind, was a strong incentive
to take the risk.
Having halted for a moment, to explain his plan of pursuit, which his
men at once approved, he turned again to the north-west and swept away
at a rapid gallop. The farms were soon left out of sight, and the view
was bounded only by the wavy horizon; but the sun was an all-sufficient
guide, and without swerving for a moment to the right or the left the
party maintained its direction for nearly an hour. Edgar began then to
slacken his pace and to observe the ground more closely, halting from
time to time, and waiting for the failing evening breeze to sweep along
the prairie; and anon, galloping away again for a few moments, still in
the same direction.
He was evidently growing anxious, for his halts became more frequent,
and his speed, when in motion, greater. He verged a little toward the
west, until the woods in that quarter became partially visible in the
haze about the setting sun. He halted once more and gazed up and down
the tranquil prairie for a long time. A light breeze swept up from the
lower lands, and bending the rank grass, at last revealed the object of
his search! A line of broken blades, their under sides glistening in the
waning sunlight, was defined by the bending wave, extending as far as
the eye could reach toward the north. It was the Indian “trail!”
He sprang from his horse and carefully examined the ground, while his
followers, careful not to deface the trail, halted at some distance, and
without dismounting, awaited the result of his scrutiny. It was rapid
but minute. He turned aside the long grass and inspected the foot prints
of the horses in the soil. There were, of course, no shod animals in
their possession, yet the hoofs of these had deeply indented the ground,
and the tracks were much more distinct at the point than at the heel.
“They were going at full speed,” muttered Edgar; “and,” he continued,
gazing along the trail toward the north, where it stretched away,
perfectly straight, through sloughs and over mounds as far as the eye
could reach, “they are evidently driving for some definite point. What
can it be?”
“It must be Colton’s Grove,” said one of the rangers, the most
experienced among them, who had approached during the examination. “They
would scarcely halt nearer than that, and in the line of this trail
there is no other landmark.”
“But that is nearly thirty miles from this spot,” said Edgar; “they’ll
not be able to reach there to-night, and besides, it takes them ten
miles out of their way.”
“You think they are making for the _Portage_?”[6] said White.
“Yes—they will cross the river as soon as possible, no doubt; and they
cannot have canoes on both that and the Illinois. However,” he added,
springing again to the saddle, “we must follow the trail as long as we
have light, and by nightfall we shall be better able to determine.”
He look the lead again as he spoke, and set off in the same swinging
gallop, to the northward, along the trail.
The sun was by this time nearly set, and the air was growing chill and
damp. Their horses traveled better, however, and throughout the long
twilight of that latitude they could follow the trail as well as at
noon. But at the end of an hour the shadows began to creep closer to
them, the timber on the left could no longer be distinguished, they
could see the broken grass-blades but a few yards before them, and they
were at length compelled to slacken their speed. A few stars came out in
the heavens, the fleecy clouds in the north disappeared in the gloom,
the breeze fell suddenly to a dead calm, the lingering rays in the west
went out, and the curtain of night was dropped to the earth. The
pursuers were in the middle of a wide prairie, more than thirty miles
from the settlement, upon a trail which was no longer visible!
Edgar halted, and the whole party dismounted.
“Here is water, boys,” said the captain, leading his horse to a small
stream which trickled through the grass: “we had better let our horses
drink and graze for an hour, else they will be too much blown for
to-morrow’s march. I think we had then better strike for Colton’s Grove,
direct; it cannot be more than twenty miles, and we can reach it before
midnight. I hope to find the Redskins there.”
It did not seem to prove Edgar’s ardor in the pursuit, that he thus
ordered a halt in the very opening of the chase; but there was not a man
in the company who did not know that this was the wisest course. The
hearts of the brothers grew heavy, however; for, notwithstanding Edgar’s
hope of finding the Indian’s at the grove, it could not escape them,
that he expected a long pursuit.
In truth, he was too well acquainted with the Indian character, to have
full faith in his own expectations. “If,” he reasoned, “they had
designed to spend the night at Colton’s Grove, they would have been at
some pains to baffle us on our trail—they would have gone into the
timber, or—at least—swerved from the direct course. But, here, they
have traveled for thirty miles, straight as the bird flies, for the
point where we would naturally expect to find them. They must be
deceiving us!”
The thought was by no means a pleasant one; for, calm as he appeared,
his impatience almost amounted to agony. And, when he briefly stated the
argument to White, the ranger before mentioned, in whose judgment he had
much confidence, the weight which it seemed to have with him, only
deepened his misgiving.
“There is no choice, however,” said the ranger: “we must go on now to
the grove; for—at least—we shall be nearer to the Portage there, than
here.”
And this was the course resolved upon.
The hour of rest passed slowly away; and, at its end, the captain again
gave the word, to mount and follow. There was now no trail to guide
them; but their course was due North, and—led by the stars—Edgar once
more put himself in the advance, and galloped away. The prairie was as
silent as night and a profound calm could make it; and rolling away down
the lowlands, and reverberating along the ridges, the sound of their
horses’ footsteps seemed like the rumble of an earthquake. The voices of
those who spoke sounded hollow and echoless; and the jingling of spurs,
and rattling of accoutrements, seemed smothered by the stillness. The
men of that time were taciturn and earnest; and the scene through which
they were riding was no bad type of their stern characteristics. They
were in pursuit of Indian marauders; and hatred of the savage—which was
natural to every Western man—gave depth even to their bearing. Each
carried his rifle in his right hand; and, while he governed and assisted
his horse over the inequalities of the ground with the left, kept his
face steadily directed to the front.
They had been riding thus, a little more than two hours, when Edgar
suddenly drew up to a walk.
“We must take it slowly now, boys,” said he, turning in the saddle, as
his men followed his example; “for, at a gallop, our horses could be
heard five miles.”
“Captain,” said White, riding forward, “isn’t that a light yonder, to
the north—here, just above the ground?”
“It is, indeed!” exclaimed Edgar; “in the grove, too!”
“Rather too far to the right, isn’t it?” said the ranger.
“We have been following the Pointers,[7] and their wheeling to the West
must have taken us a little out of our course,” Edgar replied. “It must
be in the grove.”
He turned a little to the right as he spoke; and, urging his horse to
his swiftest walk, struck directly for the light.
“They must suppose there are no men in the country,” he said
thoughtfully; “or else this is only a stratagem to take us out of our
way, and gain time.”
“They could scarcely have ridden farther than this,” said White; “and if
they are not yonder, we are entirely off the trail.”
“They must be there,” Edgar replied, decidedly: even as experienced a
ranger as he could not but _believe_ what he _wished_.
The advance continued—not swiftly, but steadily; for they were now less
than two miles from the light, and the tall trees of the grove could be
distinguished like shadows against the northern sky. The fire was
evidently built within the skirts of the wood, and was now burning
brightly, as if replenished with fuel since they had discovered it.
Occasionally, it was hid from view—when they descended a slope and
entered a hollow; and, sometimes shadows passed across it, as if persons
were moving about it.
“They are certainly there,” thought Edgar, “and they must have built the
fire on Jane’s account. Nothing else could induce them to be so
incautious.” Bitter as was his hatred of the savage, this idea rather
softened him; and, in the fight which he expected, he resolved to spare
as many of them as possible.
He had now advanced within half a mile of the grove; and—though the
fire itself was not visible—he could plainly see the reflection on the
branches of the trees above. It grew brighter while he gazed, and they
could almost imagine that they heard the crackling of dry branches in
the blaze. The captain drew his rein, and called a halt.
“There should be a little clump of trees near here,” he said, gazing
about in the gloom.
“It lies here, to the right,” said one of the rangers—and, riding a few
rods in that direction, they found a small grove of stunted oaks, where
they again halted and dismounted. Here they tied their horses, and
having examined their arms, marched out upon the open prairie. Edgar
briefly explained his plan of attack, and the advance was resumed.
His men were deployed—or spread out—to the right and left, at
intervals of twelve or fifteen paces; the captain himself remaining in
the centre, and moving directly upon the fire. By this means, he covered
a wide extent of ground, and yet kept his men within supporting distance
of each other. The flanks were to move a little faster than the centre,
gradually converging, when within the grove, but awaiting a signal from
the captain, before opening the attack. Each, on making any discovery,
was to communicate it to the next, and thus pass it up the line to the
captain; and his orders were conveyed in the same way. His immediate
object was to discover the Indians’ horses, and thus preclude the
carrying off of their prisoner by a portion of the savages, during his
fight with the remainder.
He could not have been more impatient to reach the point—on which he
was advancing—had it been the rustic bower where he might expect to
meet his mistress alone; yet the movement was as slow as the stealthy
pace of the tiger, while he is yet too distant to spring upon his
victim. And it had all the tiger’s deadliness: for even the keen senses
of the Indian could not have detected his enemy’s approach—the first
signal could be but the crack of the rifle, the fierce onset, and the
gleaming knife.
It seemed an hour, after they left their horses, before they entered the
outskirts of the grove, and many minutes were consumed in cautiously and
silently pushing their way through the tangled briars and hazel bushes.
Within this belt, the ground was more open; but it was covered with dry
branches and withered twigs, the breaking of any one of which—under the
foot—would have been more than sufficient to alarm the watchfulness of
the Indian. They could not yet see the fire; but it was scarcely an
hundred yards from them, and concealed only by a thicket, within which
it was kindled. The horses had not yet been discovered, nor did the
least sound break the profound stillness of the scene. The fire seemed
burning low; and the shadows began to creep down from the tree-tops,
whither it had driven them. Now and then, a flash—as if the blaze had
caught a dry twig—shot arrowy beams out through the thicket, and then
fell flickering back within the encroaching darkness. The fire was
evidently neglected.
“They are all asleep,” thought Edgar.
The flanks had gradually converged, according to the plan laid down; and
they were so thrown forward as to form a half-circle, covering three
sides of the little thicket, and all about equally distant from the
fire. The captain gave the signal for a halt, and the word passed in
whispers either way: the dusky forms stood still, and—unaware of their
presence—one could not have distinguished them from the trees among
which they were standing. Edgar passed slowly from one end of the line
to the other, whispering his orders to each man, and endeavoring to see
through the thicket to the _bivouac_. It was too dense to allow a fair
view; but he could see deep shadows on the ground, like sleeping men,
and—between two of these—there seemed one clothed in white, as if the
wedding dress of his stolen bride.
He returned, without further delay, to his post in the centre; and,
silently, slowly, the advance commenced. It was like the grasp of a
deadly hand, closing fatally; for none within that charmed circle, might
escape its implacable gripe.
No sound—not even the breaking of a twig—invaded the stillness, for a
space of time which, in the intensity of expectation, seemed an hour.
The fire had rapidly fallen to mere cinders, and its light faded to a
faint glow, upon the adjacent thicket. The rangers flitted silently from
tree to tree, like moving shadows. Each carried his gun poised low, in
readiness for immediate action; and each placed his hand upon his knife,
for the conflict—man to man. They gradually closed in, until the flanks
met upon the farther side, and a cordon was drawn around the thicket,
less than twenty paces across. The fate of the slumbering savages seemed
sealed; for these were men who never spared an enemy, and never shrank
from battle.
Not the stirring of a leaf betrayed their presence, as they paused for
the last time, awaiting the signal from their leader. The click of a
rifle-lock was heard—clearly audible in the midnight stillness: a rush,
a bound, a crashing through the brittle undergrowth, and the whole band,
as if moved by one spring, stood round the smouldering fire, gazing
wildly into each other’s faces.
There was no one there! They had been creeping—with the deadly stealth
of their craft—upon a deserted _bivouac_. Even Edgar’s keen and
practiced eyes had been deceived by the reposing shadows; and the white
ashes of a log, which had burnt calmly down where it lay, had been
conjured by his imagination into the bridal dress of the captive.
The fire had evidently been burning, without being replenished, for many
hours.
* * * * *
“We have nothing for it now, boys,” said Edgar, when they had a little
recovered from the surprise, “but to wait for daybreak, and then
endeavor to recover the trail.”
Within ten minutes, the whole party was asleep.
-----
[5] That brilliant action took place on the 31st of July, 1813.
[6] “Portage de Sioux,” a crossing of the Mississippi, above the mouth
of the Missouri.
[7] Two stars in the constellation of _Ursa Major_, much better known to
prairie travelers than the Polar star itself.
CHAPTER III.
THE CHASE ENDED.
No more than the first gray streaks of dawn had shot up from the eastern
horizon, when the disappointed rangers were again astir. Their
horses—which had been picketed upon the prairie, each with a long rope,
after the ranger fashion of feeding—were first taken to a little stream
to drink, and then moved to a fresh place, to graze until their riders
were prepared to mount. Such provision as they had made against their
own hunger was then dispatched, without delay, and with little
preparation. Fortunately, however, the wedding feast had furnished
viands enough for more than ten times their number; and with the
readiness of the women of those days, each had been provided by wife,
sister, or sweetheart—with supplies, ample and well selected.
It was now plain, that the chase before them was a long one; and it was
no equivocal augury of their resolution to follow it to the end, that
they thus set out with systematic prudence.
By the time they had finished a hasty breakfast, and each taken a deep
draught from the stream where they had watered their horses, the gray of
the dawn had deepened into red, and the dew-drops upon the bending grass
were sparkling like diamonds in the opening light. The birds within the
grove were fluttering, full of matin songs, from branch to branch, or
floating off—in long and graceful flights—far over the verdant plain:
the grouse came out upon the knolls, where the herbage was short and
green, and strutting pompously from side to side, clumsily plumed
themselves in the morning beams: on the ridges, farther off, the deer
stalked out from sheltering hollows, and stamping daintily upon the
ground, or tossing proudly up their antlered heads, snuffed vainly at
the rising wind. A low, faint sigh, as of a passing spirit,
floated—scarcely audible—along the jeweled grass, and shook the jewels
gently from the blades. The stars went slowly out, or blended in the
brightening hue of heaven; the shadows—that still lingered round the
groves—were fading rapidly, or deepening into shade; the red in the
east grew yellow, and an arc of white announced the sun’s approach. The
day had taken full possession of the earth and sky.
“There is light enough now, boys,” said Edgar, rising to his feet, “to
begin the search for the trail. Let us saddle up and be off.”
Time was never wasted by these men: within five minutes all were in the
saddle, and extended along the northern and western skirts of the grove,
in search of indications left by the enemy. A signal was given by one at
the extreme north—the trail was found, and the whole company at once
galloped to the place. Edgar sprang to the ground, and examined the
track.
“Just as I suspected, boys,” said he, remounting. “There has been but
one Red-skin here, and he has been sent this way, to build that fire and
attract us from the pursuit.”
“Indian like,” said White; “they have used our own vigilance to
circumvent us. But we’ll never give it up so, captain.”
“Never,” was Edgar’s decided answer. “But we have lost the trail, and
must recover it. We must separate into small parties, and continue the
chase. We are pretty nearly due east from the _Portage_, for which, I
think, they are making—at all events, they will not go south of it. We
will meet—in the evening—there; or, if the trail should turn
northward, we may come together sooner. Let no one linger on the way—we
have lost too much time already.”
The company was soon divided into squads of two and three; Edgar took
with him White and George Fielding; and—repeating the injunction not to
linger—rode away to the north-west. The three other divisions set out
at the same time, upon diverging lines; but all maintaining the same
general direction.
For an hour, those in the centre kept all the rest in view; but, at the
end of that time, the undulations of the prairie, and the rapidity with
which they traveled, had completely separated them. Edgar, and the two
companions—whom he had chosen as well for the excellence of their
horses, as for their well-known courage and coolness—were upon the
extreme right, or northern flank—a post which the young captain had
selected, both on account of its danger, and for the advantage it gave
him, should the Indians turn to the north. It is with him, that we must
continue the chase.
Several hours passed away, during which they had crossed the belts of
timber which grew upon the banks of two or three prairie streams; when,
on approaching one of the branches of the Cahokia, they suddenly found
themselves upon the trail of a single horseman. Keeping away from the
timber, it stretched toward the north, parallel with the course of the
stream, disdaining the concealment which might have been found in the
wood. The three drew up, and Edgar dismounted.
“It is the same Indian who kindled the fire,” he said, after a short
scrutiny of the track. “What think you?”
“That if we follow him,” White replied, “we shall be led away from the
chase. He takes too much pains to show us which way he has gone.”
“You are right,” said Edgar; “for he has passed here since sunrise, and
his horse was as fresh as when he left the grove. The water is all
brushed from his tracks, but is not disturbed between. We’ll not follow
him.”
And, without further consultation, he sprang again to the saddle, and
resumed his original direction—verging, indeed, rather from, than
toward, the solitary trail. Those little indications—like
circumstantial evidence—more convincing than positive declarations, or
more apparent signs, satisfied him that this was an attempt to draw him
off. He smiled at the shallowness of the deceit, and rode away. His
companions understood his reasoning almost instinctively. [The fact that
the grass was dry _in the tracks_, proved that they had been made since
sunrise; because the dew must have ceased to drip from one blade to
another, and its being undisturbed between, established the freshness of
the Indian’s horse, because every bound was a clear spring from the
ground.] Fifteen minutes brought them to the outskirts of Cahokia
timber; and, after a rigid examination of this, they issued again upon
the prairie toward the West, maintaining the same course.
They were now approaching a more densely wooded country. The prairies
grew narrower, and were broken, here and there, by groves, and strips of
timber, along the banks of numerous little streams. The ground became
uneven, in places even hilly; and every thing denoted the approach to
the Mississippi. This continued for about three hours, during which they
had made scarcely five miles an hour: it was noon, too, and the
September sun was pouring upon their heads the overpowering heat of the
season. A halt became necessary, both for men and horses. Edgar rode
within the shelter of the timber, and dismounted on the bank of a
shallow stream—the first they had seen with a gravelly bed.
“We must rest awhile, boys,” he said, “and recruit our horses—or we
shall break down before night.”
His companions followed his example; and all led their panting horses to
the stream, to drink of its clear sparkling waters. But Edgar drew his
back, suddenly, before he had touched the tide; and, arresting the
others in the same manner, pointed to the bottom of the rivulet.
“Is not that a horse’s track?” he asked, indicating the spot with his
rifle.
“Yes,” said White, “and here are more! And here, to the left, they are
plainer, and more numerous. Our visitors must have passed this way, and
are not going to the _Portage_!”
The tracks were but faint prints in the shifting gravel of the stream;
and, to the eyes of less observant men, would have been quite void of
meaning. It was, however, the peculiar faculty of Western Rangers, never
to overlook any thing; and their attention once attracted, but a few
moments were consumed in determining that, fifteen or twenty horsemen
had ridden along the bed of the stream; that they were Indians, and
traveling in haste. It might seem a more difficult matter to fix, even
approximately, the length of time which had elapsed since their passage;
but the invention of rangers was seldom at fault.
“George,” said the captain to Fielding, “get on your horse, and ride up
the stream a few rods—as fast as he can walk—in among those tracks.”
Fielding obeyed; and, turning out of the stream a short distance above,
came back and dismounted. The little party now stripped their horses of
their harness; and, picketing them upon the sweet herbage, stretched
themselves upon the sward at the margin of the stream. As soon as the
agitation in the waters had ceased, Edgar fixed his gaze upon the
footprints—plainly visible—of Fielding’s horse, and watched the
gradual process of their filling up, by the current. Scarcely a pebble,
or a grain of sand was washed into one of them, that he did not
note—scarcely a minute passed whose influence he did not estimate, in
slowly obliterating the trail; and when, at the end of an hour, he rose
and walked nearer to the water, but a few moments of scrutiny were
sufficient to determine how long it would be before the new tracks were
as nearly filled up, as were the old when he saw them first.
“They are quite six hours ahead of us,” he said; “and to-morrow night
will see them, before we will.”
“They must be making for the ford[8], above the Piasan Bluffs,” said
White; “and, if so, will not cross the Mississippi.”
“That is rather too far north,” Edgar replied; “but we will follow them,
if they go to the Starved Rock.”
So saying, he threw the saddle again upon his horse, and—imitated by
his companions—remounted for the pursuit.
“I think, George,” said he, after a minute’s reflection, “you had better
ride on to the Portage; the men will all be there by the middle of the
afternoon. Tell them to bait their horses for an hour, and then follow
us with all speed, so as to join us at the mouth of the Illinois by
sunrise to-morrow. Unless the trail should lead us too much out of the
way, we will wait for them there. If you do not find us there, look for
three columns of smoke, ranging north and south, and make all haste to
come up.”
Fielding made no reply; but, putting spurs to his horse, turned his head
to the west, and was soon out of sight—while Edgar and White, now left
alone, took their way as rapidly as was possible up the banks of the
stream. It was a small force with which to attack twenty savages; but,
had the odds been ten times greater, Edgar’s eagerness and White’s zeal
would have felt no check. What they might not effect by the strong hand,
they trusted to stratagem to compass; and even the savage was no match
for the ranger, in cunning.
The two adventurers had gone scarcely a mile, when they were brought
suddenly to a halt. The trail was about equally divided—one half the
party keeping up the bed of the stream, and the other half issuing
toward the left, and leading off westward. This was embarrassing. The
prisoner could not be with both divisions; and it was extremely
difficult to determine which to follow.
“We are at fault,” said Edgar.
“There is a sign which may set us right,” exclaimed White, pointing to a
little strip of some white stuff which fluttered upon a bush, but a few
paces from the water. “The briars have befriended us at need.”
Edgar rode rapidly to the place. A narrow strip—evidently torn from
Jane’s bridal dress—hung fluttering upon a briar, as if caught in
passing. He halted at the distance of several yards, and cautiously
approached on foot, closely scrutinizing the ground at every step. The
horses had passed, without doubt, near enough to brush against the
briars; but directly beneath the fragment, a small dry twig was broken,
and the leaves about it were flattened to the ground.
“A mocassined foot has been set there,” he muttered. And on directing
the examination to the fragment, his suspicion was confirmed—that it
was not accident, but design which placed it there. The fabric was not
drawn, as it would have been, had it been torn in passing; and it bore
marks of a larger hand than Jane’s.
“They are trying to outwit us, White,” said the captain; “but they don’t
know with whom they have to deal. This little piece of muslin is a
Red-skin lie—though it did come from Jane Fielding’s dress. We must
keep up the stream, and let those decoys go on their way.”
“It has been ascertained,” says Chateaubriand, “that the white man, in
America, is capable of enduring more hardships and privations than the
Indian, and is decidedly his superior even in his own mode of warfare:”
and thence he deduces sundry propositions about differences in race, and
other unprofitable speculations. But the facts, about which there is no
dispute, instead of being the result of generic distinctions, are the
effects of a much later cause—superior intellectual culture. Not that
the rangers of those days were highly educated men, in the ordinary
acceptation of the term; but any degree in the scale of civilization, by
the providence of God, possesses measureless advantages—in all the
pursuits of life—over every lower grade. And, though these were
decidedly ignorant men, their evident superiority over their
enemies—without contradiction in terms—was the fruit of their
_intelligence_.
We cannot linger to detail the minute and, to other men, imperceptible
signs, or the acute and logical reasonings upon these, which led the
adventurers unerringly upon their way: though all would illustrate, so
clearly, the principle above. They followed the trail, after it left the
stream, several miles toward the north; when, on entering the broken
country on the head waters of the Piasan, it verged suddenly to the
left, and led, almost “as the bird flies,” directly toward the Illinois
river. A little before sunset, they reached the banks of this tranquil
stream; and but a moment’s examination was sufficient to determine that
the fugitives had crossed here some hours before.
But this was not the only inference that Edgar drew from the signs of
their halt. The footprints of several horses led off from the river, in
different directions; but it was in that uncertain, winding way which
animals take while grazing—and from the extent of these paths, it was
evident that a halt of some duration had been made. While minutely
examining the ground, the captain suddenly discovered the print of a
small shoe, and following it a little aside, he approached the river
bank, and discovered the impress of both Jane’s feet in the soft loam.
Directly over these, upon a willow branch, hung a small shell
comb—evidently placed there as a signal for him. Beside her footprints
were those of two savages, who had sought her, and dragged her roughly
back to the halting point. Edgar noted these things with the coolness,
but also with the fierceness of the ranger; and—grasping his rifle
tighter in his hand—walked back to his companion.
“They must have halted here two or three hours,” said the latter.
“They think they outwitted us, and are safe,” replied Edgar. “But they
cannot be more than three hours ahead of us, and I think we may overhaul
them to-night.”
“They are twenty to two,” said White. “We must wait for the men.”
“We can cross the river,” Edgar answered, “and ride on as long as we
have light. By that time we can see which direction the Indians have
taken; you can then return here and hasten up the men, who must reach
this point before midnight.”
It required but few minutes to cross the river, which at this season is
always low. Upon the western bank the trail was still more apparent than
upon the eastern. Here, also, there had been a halt, though not so long.
“Three hours of daylight, now,” thought Edgar, “and we should overhaul
them:” he forgot that his force was but one to ten—that he was more
than a hundred miles from any settlement, in the midst of a vast
solitude, where he could meet none but enemies. Nor would the reflection
have disturbed him, had it occurred. He saw but one image—the helpless
captive in the hands of his most hated foes; and, cool and considerate
as he usually was, he would not have hesitated to encounter the whole
band, with his single strong arm. Fortunately, perhaps, no such
opportunity seemed likely to be offered him; for, after winding about
for a few miles among the bluffs, the trail ascended the ridge which
divides the two rivers, and here turning again toward the north, the
fugitives had evidently increased their speed. The long twilight, too,
was deepening into night, and the fear of again going astray would
compel a halt, so soon as the tracks became invisible.
They followed, however, with all practicable speed, for an hour
longer—dismounting at every offshoot from the main ridge, to ascertain
their direction; but, at the end of that time, it was no longer safe to
proceed, and Edgar reluctantly drew up.
“You had better return to the river now, White,” said he, “and bring the
men up as fast as possible. I will expect you before daybreak.”
“If they do not come up, I’ll return myself,” said White; and, turning
about, he rode away to the south.
The hardy ranger was now left alone, in the midst of the wilderness.
Night had closed in, moonless—and the stars twinkled but faintly down
through the woods. The wind—as is usual in this country—had subsided
toward evening, and sunset had been followed by a dead calm. When the
footsteps of White’s horse died away in the distance, the silence of the
grave added depth and awe to the solitude. Not a branch waved—scarcely
a leaf stirred; and even the trickling of a little spring, in a ravine
near him, only served to make the stillness audible—as a glimmering
light but renders darkness visible.
Edgar dismounted, and led his tired horse in the direction of the sound;
and, having allowed him to drink, divested him of his harness, and
picketed him on a slope of green grass near the spring. His own thirst
satisfied, he then seated himself at the foot of a tree; and, drawing
his blanket up over him, endeavored to sleep. The stillness was broken
only by his horse, eagerly cropping the sweet grass; and the monotony of
the dripping fountain, combined with his fatigue, soon brought on that
half-dreamy state which precedes oblivion. Indeed, his head was thrown
back against the tree, and his eyes were closed, when he suddenly sprung
to his feet, and standing as motionless as the trees about him, assumed
the attitude of profound listening.
-----
[8] An obstruction to the navigation of the Illinois, now known as
“Apple Creek Bar.”
CHAPTER IV.
THE CAPTIVE FREE.
The neigh of a horse, faint and distant, but unmistakable, had come
floating up the ravine upon the still night air. And though, after
waiting many minutes, it was not repeated, it had been so distinct as to
exclude all doubt.
“It must have come up the hollow,” he muttered, “from any other
direction I could never have heard it.”
And, without hesitating for a moment, he prepared to go in the direction
indicated. Throwing his blanket at the foot of the tree, he grasped his
rifle, poured fresh powder into the pan, lest the night air might have
affected the priming, and then, drawing his belt around so as to bring
his knife convenient to his hand, he set out cautiously down the
ravine—one man in pursuit of more than twenty!
Cautiously and slowly he proceeded down the bed of the ravine—gradually
descending toward the lower level of the river bottom. He was guided
wholly by the little rivulet which tinkled quietly along his path—for
the dim starlight could not penetrate the depth in which he walked; and
his progress was consequently very slow. The way was winding, too, and
seemed almost to run parallel with the river;[9] and its channel grew
deeper and more broken. Other streams came flowing in on either hand,
and at every moment he was compelled to halt and grope his way across
the gorges. Large trees stood obstinately in his path; and roots and
briars, vines and thickets, impeded his advance. But patient
perseverance, strengthened by the hope of rescuing the captive, still
carried him forward over every obstacle.
More than an hour had been spent thus, and he had begun to listen more
attentively, and, if possible, watch more closely for signs of his
enemies. He halted on the brink of a deep ravine, which furnished a
channel for another small stream; and, before venturing down into its
bed, stooped nearly to the ground, and remained for many minutes
profoundly listening to every sound. The stillness of night was quite
unbroken; and he was on the point of beginning the descent, when his eye
caught the flash, as of faint lightning, playing briefly upon the leaves
at the bottom of the ravine! It was gone in a moment; and his first
impulse was to look up through the tree-tops at the sky. But the stars
were shining serenely—there was not the slightest cloud in the heavens.
He watched for a long time for its reappearance—but the darkness
remained as deep as before. It might have been a fire-fly; yet it was
strange that it was not repeated; and it had been, not so much a light,
as a flicker, like the blaze of thin fuel, and it had died out
gradually, not suddenly disappeared. While he stood irresolute,
reflecting upon the singularity of the appearance, an imperfect sound,
as of very distant thunder, seemed to float along the earth and die away
at his feet. He placed his ear to the ground, and again listened. The
stamping of numerous horses became plainly audible—and they could be
but a short distance from him. To his practiced ear the sound was
familiar enough—and he had no difficulty in determining its locality.
He at once rose to his feet and again examined his arms. Moving
cautiously and slowly, he then descended the bank until he reached the
bottom of the ravine. Turning to the right, he glided silently and
stealthily along its bed for two or three hundred yards, when, on coming
to a bend where the stony soil had resisted the action of the elements,
his progress was suddenly arrested by a stream of light which shone from
beyond the projection, and cast deep shadows upon the opposite bank. The
fire from which it came was evidently built within the ravine for
concealment—for it was only from above that it could become visible at
any considerable distance.
To approach nearer in this direction would not be prudent—for, by the
shadows on the bank, Edgar could see that at least twenty horses were
picketed just beyond the shoulder of the ridge; and a snort from one of
these might attract attention. He had no fear of other sentinels; he
well understood the Indian practice of posting none; for, apparently so
negligent are these most vigilant of all warriors, that even in their
incursions, when they are constantly liable to attack, every man lies
down to sleep, trusting solely to concealment and their Manitous for
protection.
The ranger therefore slowly retreated a few paces, and then silently
climbed the bank upon the left. From this point he could see no light;
but, upon advancing along the ridge, a little nearer than he had
ventured below, he gained a view, not only of the light, but also of the
fire, and the formidable group around it!
More than a score of swarthy Indians, all in their war-paint and
grotesque ornaments, and each with his gun and tomahawk beside him, sat
smoking, one after the other, in a circle about the fire! A little
without the line the excited captain could indistinctly see the shape of
something white; and, as his eyes became accustomed to the light, all
doubt vanished—it was the Captive Bride, seated apart from her captors,
with her face buried in her hands. Could she have known whose eyes were
at that moment straining their gaze upon her, how different must have
been her emotions.
Edgar grasped his rifle and knife with a fierce energy, which threatened
the suicide of an immediate attack. But he soon recovered his calmness,
and set coolly about making a thorough examination of the position, and
calculating the chances of a rescue.
The place had been well chosen for concealment. It was a circular area,
inclosed on all sides, except the southern, by the broken and
rain-washed ridges, and not more than an acre in extent. It was, indeed,
a sort of basin among the hills; and it was the volume of water,
collected here into one stream, that had cut out the ravine along which
Edgar was advancing. It was dry now, however, and the grass, which in
this country everywhere follows the rains of spring, was growing
luxuriantly beneath the shelter of large oak and hickory trees.
Of these there was a little clump or grove in the northern arm of the
area; and it was just within the edge of this that the fire was kindled.
From that side an experienced scout might have approached within a few
paces unobserved; but what could one man do against twenty? All that he
could now effect, Edgar thought, was to watch the movements of his
enemies, and take advantage of whatever opportunity might offer; or, if
none should present itself, as was most probable, patiently to await the
arrival of his men.
And now a harassing reflection occurred: What if White should not meet
them, or they should miss the way? He would lose the benefit of all the
diligence he had used, and having success and rescue almost within his
grasp, would have the misfortune to see them glide out of his power!
Here, within a few rods of him—buried, perhaps, in thought of him—sat
the captive, snatched almost literally from his side, at the altar; and,
though she might have heard his voice, he dared not raise it—though he
might reach her side in one minute, he dared not advance! His rifle
might do him service; for, even at that distance, his unerring skill
would have disabled an enemy at every shot; but he knew that, at the
first discharge, the pursued would become pursuers, and all chance of a
rescue would be at an end! He was sure, besides, that the first motion
of the savages upon an attack would be the murder of their prisoner;
and, brave as he was, he shuddered, and shrank from the thought.
While he stood in the shadow of a tree, harassed by these reflections, a
sudden movement took place in the circle of savages. One, who seemed the
chief, rose to his feet, and the council broke up. The warrior turned
toward the captive, and, taking a large blanket from the ground, spread
it at the foot of a tree, and beckoned her to take it. He did this with
so much more courtesy than was usually displayed by Indians to their
female prisoners, that Edgar’s blood tingled to the very ends of his
fingers.
“The redskin dog designs her for his wife!” he muttered; “but he shall
die first, if I lose my scalp!”
Jane rose quietly from her seat, and, wrapping the blanket about her,
lay down upon the ground. The chief and two other warriors then placed
themselves near her, to prevent escape; the remainder of the party
spread their blankets around the fire; and, within a few minutes, all
was as still within the faintly lighted space, as if not a living being
breathed between the rivers. The fire gradually burnt down to a bed of
coals; as the flame went out the shadows crept closer and closer to the
dusky group; and so still was the night that, on stealing a little
nearer, Edgar could plainly hear the heavy breathing of the tired
sleepers.
Still nearer and nearer he slowly crept, though with no definite design
or plan of action. The bride who had been snatched almost from his arms,
was within that circle—and this gave it a fascination not to be
resisted. He was now upon the bank, which sloped gently down to the
level of the _bivouac_; and here a narrow, sandy path wound round the
jutting points, and led directly toward the smouldering fire. Almost
without an effort of the will—drawn by the charm of her presence—he
stepped upon the noiseless sand. He commenced the descent—issued from
the shadow of a little ridge—was, for a moment, in full view of the
whole party—passed on again into the shadows, and stood within twenty
feet of the object of his search.
The light from the dying fire played fitfully upon Jane’s face, and a
smile, serene as in her happiest moments, gave meaning to the flitting
shadows. Beside her, motionless as fallen statues, lay the stern,
impassive forms of her captors; but Edgar knew too well that, rigid as
they seemed, profoundly as they slept, the slightest noise would rouse
them to a dangerous vigilance. Three of them lay between her and
him—and two were near enough to grasp her, should she rise. But he
gazed upon her face once more, beautiful in the holy calm of sleep—as
tranquil as a summer sky. The impulse which had led him thus almost
within arm’s length of her, slowly shaped itself into a purpose—the
vague attraction settled into conscious resolution.
He began to move cautiously to the left, around the sleeping circle,
within the deeper shadows of the grove, from tree to tree, toward that
beneath which Jane was slumbering. Nearer, step by step, and silently as
the closing in of night, he approached like a shadow. He was now within
the influence of the light, and but one tree stood between him and that
which he was endeavoring to reach. A breathless pause, during which he
gazed upon the form of every sleeper—they were apparently as
unconscious, as if each had been a corpse. And yet, how fearful was the
risk at every step. The slightest rustle of a bush, the breaking of a
twig, even the grating of his feet upon the gravel, might awake his
enemies—and then farewell all hope of rescue!
But his was not a nature to shrink from danger. Cautiously drawing the
ramrod from his rifle, he took the irrevocable step. Swiftly, but
silently, he glided from one tree to the other. Within four feet of him
lay Jane, in profound and tranquil sleep, her head resting upon her arm,
and one hand extended toward him; while on each side of her, but still
nearer than he, her captors were ready to awake at the first movement.
But again he resolved to take the risk, and stretching forth the ramrod,
gently touched her open hand. She did not move—he touched it again—and
she slightly drew it away. Once more—she opened her eyes, and gazed
upon the sleeping Indian before her—fortunately, without disturbing
him. He passed the rod slowly before her face; she turned her head, and
was about to speak, when he showed himself for an instant, and pressed
his finger to his lips. She was silent, though breathless with
excitement. But the nerves of a true frontier girl were not easily
shaken; and Jane saw at once that her lover’s safety, as well as her own
liberty, depended upon her self-command. Obeying a sign from him, she
commenced slowly and cautiously, though with trembling hands, to unfold
the blanket which protected, but also impeded her. As fold after fold
fell gradually off, her heart beat with a wilder and stronger pulsation;
and when, finally, she found herself free, she could scarcely forbear
springing to her feet, and rushing into Edgar’s arms. By a great effort
she restrained herself, and cautiously rose to her feet.
Full fifteen minutes—an age at such a time—had passed since Edgar
approached the tree. But the suspense was amply compensated, when,
without the least noise, he saw her, by his direction, gain the shadow
of the first tree. He lingered still to see that she was unobserved, and
then one moment brought him to her side, and joined their lips in a kiss
as intense as was the danger by which they were surrounded.
Yet he dared not speak, and there was no time to be lost. The savages
might discover the escape at any moment, and their last chance would be
gone. He took her by the hand, and walking swiftly, though cautiously,
began to retrace his steps through the wood. Five minutes brought them
to the head of the ravine, and here he should turn to the left, if he
wished to regain the path by which he had approached. But by this
course, he must take a wide circuit to avoid the Indian encampment—and
every moment was precious. Turning, therefore, to the right instead, he
led her, as rapidly as she could walk, in the direction, as he supposed,
of the dividing ridge, along which he had traveled in the evening. His
observation of localities was usually so accurate, that there seemed no
danger of missing the way. But he had been so much absorbed in the
approach to the _bivouac_, that he had not noted the windings of the
ravine, or even the points of the compass; and his surprise was very
great on finding, after an hour spent in pushing forward, that he was
apparently as far as ever from the ridge.
It was long past midnight, and but a short time could elapse before the
prisoner’s escape must be discovered. It was vitally necessary that he
should recross the river before sunrise; and yet, without his horse,
this was impossible. Jane expressed confidence in her ability to walk
even much farther; but the speed of even so active a walker as she was
far from sufficient for escape. Edgar grew silent and anxious, though
the cheerfulness of his companion at another time would have drawn many
a smile from the gloom of his face.
“We can only push forward, John,” said she; “an enterprise so
successfully begun should not be given up in despair.”
“I can never despair so long as you are with me, Jane,” he replied; “but
I ought to tell you that, unless I can find my horse, our capture is
certain.”
“See, then, if I am not a better night-ranger than Captain John Edgar,”
she said; “I hear your horse, now!”
The Ranger drew her to him and kissed her warmly.
“I shall resign in your favor,” said he. “I should have passed without
hearing him!”
This was more compliment than earnest; for, as he spoke, a low nicker
from the bushes directly in front, indicated the spot where his horse
was still standing. The faithful animal was aware of his master’s
approach. A few moments sufficed to prepare him for retreat. Edgar
doubled his blanket, and placed it behind the saddle. Lifting Jane to
this _impromptu_ pillion, he threw himself into his seat, and turned his
horse’s head toward home.
“What is that!” Jane exclaimed.
Floating up the ravine came a prolonged war-whoop, ringing among the
trees, and dying away in a thousand echoes along the ridges.
“They have discovered your escape,” Edgar said.
He waited to hear no more, but regaining the dividing ridge, set off at
a swift pace toward the south. The order was reversed—the chased were
now the pursuers—and speed alone could decide the race. Edgar rode a
powerful horse, who had borne him safely through many a fight as well as
march; but the double weight he was now carrying, the journey he had
made, and the efforts still expected of him, forbade the idea of rapid
traveling. Yet the bloodhounds were upon his track; and at the dawn of
day, now scarcely an hour distant, Edgar knew that they would sweep down
upon him like the wind. Escape seemed as difficult as before the rescue.
Yet the Ranger was not cast down, and the strong-hearted pioneer’s
daughter gave little thought to danger. As in all women of her class,
excitement only evolved her energies; and she talked with a sort of
cheerful elation, as if the peril were already passed, and home once
more regained. Edgar was far from being so much at his ease; but he had
never known fear, and, save on account of the loved one, whose arms
encircled his waist, he would rather have made his dispositions for
battle than for flight.
His only hope was that the Indians might be delayed in searching the
woods around their encampment until he could gain a sufficient start;
and this hope vanished almost as soon as formed. They had scarcely
ridden three miles, when the thunder of many hoofs came rolling down the
ridge. The enemy were in full chase, scarcely a mile behind.
“We must try the virtue of speed,” said Edgar; dashing his spurs into
his horse’s flanks, he sprang away at a rate which gave promise of soon
distancing the pursuers. Their footsteps soon died away in the distance;
and, could he have kept up the pace at which be started, the captain
hoped he might reach the river before being overtaken. But at the end of
a few minutes, he was forced to draw his rein. The ridge had grown so
narrow, that the ravines on either hand intersected each other, and
broke it into steep and dangerous gorges. At the first of these his
horse came to a dead halt, and neither voice nor spur could force him
forward. Edgar sprang to the ground, and looking over the precipice,
shuddered at the leap he had been endeavoring to take. A hollow, whose
bottom he could not see, cut directly across his path, and extended both
to the right and left, farther than his eye could penetrate.
“They are coming, John!” exclaimed Jane, springing to the ground; and he
had scarcely time to lead his horse a few yards to the left, when twelve
or fifteen Indians dashed furiously up, and, like him, came to a sudden
halt. He could plainly see the dusky outlines of their forms, riding
back and forward, searching for a crossing. He drew Jane, whose white
dress might betray them, behind a tree, and breathlessly awaited their
motions. At a word from the chief they all turned directly toward him.
He seized Jane by the arm, and dropping his horse’s rein, sprang down
the precipitous bank. A fearful yell from the pursuers told him that he
was seen; and a rush and a scramble, regardless of the crumbling bank,
brought them almost upon him.
“Run, Jane! Down the ravine—run!” he exclaimed, and bringing his rifle
up, the foremost warrior fell to the ground, pierced through the head.
Another yell, more fearful than the first, heralded a wild spring upon
him. But the ranger was more agile than any savage; with one bound he
gained a tree, and before they had recovered from their confusion, his
rifle was reloaded. Slowly he began to climb the bank—but his first
movement was observed, and again they rushed toward him. He turned and
fired his last shot—another savage rolled groaning down the bank. But
the odds were too great. His enemies were too near to allow his again
charging his gun, and an attempt to retreat up the steep ascent would be
instant death. He gave himself up for lost—but, drawing his knife,
resolved to die fighting to the last.
The click of a rifle-lock directly behind him caught his attention, and
the next moment a volley of balls whistled over his head. A rush down
the bank immediately followed. The company of rangers, led on by White,
had arrived in time to save their captain. The savages, taken by
surprise, were unable to make a stand; for with them, as among all
undisciplined men, a panic was irremediable. Edgar joined his men, and
assumed the command, pushing the charge directly home upon the confused
and scattered party. But such as were not disabled by wounds sprang
actively up the ascent, and gaining their horses, took to flight. They
left seven of their warriors, among whom was the tall chief, lying dead
in the bottom of the ravine.
Edgar called his men back from the pursuit, and mustered them within the
gorge. Not one of them had received a wound.
“We are all safe,” said George Fielding; “but where is Jane?”
“Here I am,” Jane answered from the ridge above. Instead of flying down
the ravine, as Edgar had directed, she had climbed the bank behind him;
and, unwilling to leave him in peril so fearful, had determined there to
await the issue. Had she been armed, he would not have been alone in the
fight.
Day had dawned on the conflict, and now the shadows of the forest were
fast melting away. Leaving their enemies to be recovered by their
companions, who would soon return for them, the rangers remounted, and
set out toward home. Edgar lifted Jane into his saddle, and with little
difficulty, catching one of the Indian horses, rode, happy as if already
her husband, by her side. On the morning of the third day they once more
reached her father’s house, where the rejoicings at her rescue were
shared by the reassembled guests, at her wedding with the
Ranger-Captain.
-----
[9] Mississippi.
* * * * *
=IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND.=
=BY FREDERIKA BREMER.=
Asylum for Aged Governesses.—Home for the Young.—Queen’s
College.—Government School of Design for Women.—Ladies’
Guild.—Some Thoughts.—Review of England.—Its Authors and
Authoresses.—Departure.
I had heard some years since, whilst yet in Sweden I had listened to the
news, as one listens to some beautiful, half incredible story; I had
heard that persons of talent, rank and fortune, had united in England to
establish a Home for Aged and Poor Governesses, to enable them to enjoy
a bright evening of life, free from anxiety. I had also read Mrs. S. C.
Hall’s charming story, “The Aged Governess,” and wished that it might be
read and thought upon by many. This story, written solely for the
promotion of this good object, describes one of the most common
occurrences of life, as we all must acknowledge; namely, how the old
instructress, neglected by the young whom she has brought up, often as a
second mother—how they, not from badness of heart, not from
premeditated neglect, merely from common thoughtlessness—leave her to
her fate, after her long, laborious career in the family when they had
need of her, and out of the family when they need her no longer—left
alone, to live or to die, utterly forsaken.
This story had caused me to think the undertaking must succeed; it is an
affair of humanity, and its advocate knows how to touch the heart.
I heard in America that the work had been accomplished; the Asylum for
Aged Governesses had been erected, and I set my heart upon visiting it
during my visit to London.
Nothing more was needed than that I should mention my wishes to my
friends in London. One of the most effective promoters of the good
institution, the excellent and cheerful Mrs. Laing, conducted me
thither.
It was a beautiful afternoon. It was pleasant to drive with that
agreeable and kind woman, in an open carriage, away from the crowded,
noisy London into the pleasant suburb of Kentish Town, where the green
fields shone in the sun, and trees and flowers nodded in the wind; it
was pleasant to listen all this time to Mrs. Laing, who told me how
that, ever since her earliest youth, she had wished above every thing to
be able some time to be of use to the distressed of her own sex, whose
smoother path of life she herself was beginning to tread; and of the
happiness which she now experienced, in finding herself in a position to
accomplish the warm wishes of her youthful years. Beautiful and cheering
is the sun! But still more beautiful and cheering is the sun of human
kindness in a human eye!
The carriage drew up at a pair of iron gates. Within these, upon an open
space and with a free look-out, stood a large, splendid house, built of
gray stone, in the beautiful antique style. This was the Asylum of the
Aged Governesses, their last calm haven and home on earth. The building
had been completed only in June 1849, and was calculated to receive
twenty-two inmates. Rooms for more may yet be added. We passed through
the garden, which, however, consisted principally of beautiful
grassplats and beds of flowers, shrubs and newly planted trees. Some of
the old ladies were walking here, in the bright light of the setting
autumnal sun, and tending the flowers. We entered the house. The steps,
the doors, all, from foundation to roof-tree, were built as if for a
thousand years’ duration, beautifully and excellently—the sterling
English spirit breathed throughout it.
In the large common drawing-room, adorned with pictures, book-cases, and
all those various things which constitute the peculiar little world of a
beautiful room intended for social enjoyment, sat two of the old ladies
at their work. Mrs. Laing was received by all as one receives a
messenger of joy. The old ladies evidently regarded her as one of their
best friends. They were anxious to prove to her that they were well and
full of the energy of life. For she had made them understand that no
greater trouble could happen to her than that they should die; that she
wished them all to live and be happy here, the longer the better.
A little, cheerful, bright old lady, more than seventy years of age, but
very lively, and as agile almost as a young girl, went with me through
all the different rooms. They were all exactly alike as to arrangement,
had the same kind of furniture; carpets and all comforts equally alike.
My little conductress was quite alive to all this, and showed me with
how much thought every thing had been arranged for their convenience,
how easily the bonnet-boxes under the tables were drawn out, how
accurately and noiselessly the doors closed, because the edges were
lined with listing; how every thing was so arranged that they might find
life easy and agreeable. In one of the rooms sat an old lady, who was an
invalid, and was no longer able to walk out. She sat in her comfortable
easy-chair, the dim eyes, which shone like feeble lights in the still
handsome countenance, gazed out from a window which commanded a lovely
view over the distant green, church-crowned heights, behind which the
sun was now sinking in the calm splendor of autumn, illuminating the
room where the old lady sat. Her voice was weak, so were evidently the
powers of life; the lamp was about to be extinguished. But within, as
well as without, all seemed to be peaceful and bright as regarded her.
Freed from the gnawing anxieties of providing for the day, protected
from cold rooms, shortness of food, from a desolate home, she may now
calmly await the night, sinking quietly; like the sinking sun, which
glanced into her chamber kindly, like the loving eye of a friend.
That aged governess, and all the aged ones there! my heart throbs warmly
at the thought of them, and of their asylum.
It is in institutions of this kind that one sees the heart in a nation.
Here the question was not about any “dangerous classes,” whom society
must take in hand in order to secure its own safety. Here the question
was about a class, the least dangerous of all, the most defenseless
within the range of society—about solitary women, who, after a life of
toil and self-denial in the service of the young generation, go forth
into silence, no one knows where, and hide an existence which they
almost feel to be supernumerary, to be a burden—go forth, often, like
the sick bird, which seeks out a gloomy solitude of the wood in which to
die.
The aged governess! How hard is frequently her lot! How thankless is
society for her labor, how indifferent toward her fate, how unsparing
toward her faults—faults which arise precisely from the disproportion
in her fate, which demands from the teacher all a mother’s qualities and
self-denial, without giving her in return any of the mother’s
recompense, the esteem of society, the gratitude of the child, or even a
home.
During the several years’ labor which noble-minded men and women in
England have given to searching out and alleviating the silent misery
which prevailed in this class of society, it has been proved that there
is no class more deserving of esteem and attention; that no women better
deserve the aid and esteem of society than the aged governesses.
Out of seven thousand teachers (it is estimated that the number of
governesses in England amounts to about fifteen thousand) who during
this time had come under the notice of the Committee of Direction which
had been organized for their aid, several were found in lunatic asylums,
but none in prisons. Many were without means of support in their old
age, because they had maintained aged parents with the wages of their
labor, assisted young brothers and sisters, or had brought up orphan
nephews or nieces. Too many in consequence of their labor had weak
sight, or were suffering from severe nervous complaints, of all
suffering the worst.
Since the public attention in England has been so much directed to the
responsible vocation of the governess, to her difficult position, and
her unprovided-for old age; the public endeavor has increased with every
succeeding year to elevate and improve the condition of the governess.
Academies have been established for the education of young persons;
annual pensions have been established for the old and needy; the
crowning flower of this beautiful growth of human love and gratitude
being the Home for the Aged Governesses, the asylum in which I now found
myself, and which, when completed, will leave it difficult to imagine
one more perfect.
Among the earliest promoters of this institution I found the names
of—men. Men had been the earliest friends and protectors of the old,
solitary ladies! The Duke of Cambridge, Dr. Thackeray, John Hatchard,
(who lately closed a life full of good works) had long, both by word and
deed, labored to improve the fate of these lonely beings. These good
men, in connection with noble-minded ladies, such as Mrs. S. C. Hall and
Mrs. Laing, had carried through this beautiful undertaking, and hence
this final home for the aged governess.
Since then have the subscriptions for the support of aged governesses
been so numerous, and so considerable in amount, that now a better
future may be anticipated with certainty.
A payment of five hundred pounds entitles to nominate a lady to the
asylum. And with all the conveniences and even luxuries of the
establishment, all has been so well calculated that the cost of each
inmate’s support is remarkably small. A physician and medicine are also
provided by the institution.
One agreeable thing for the old ladies seemed to me, that they were
permitted to have their friends and acquaintance to tea, on the payment
of a mere trifle for each guest.
I saw, finally, in the handsome, light dining-room, the greater number
of the inmates of the asylum assembled. There, seated at the piano, I
played to them Swedish ballads and dances, and afterward cordially shook
hands with the kind old ladies, recommending them to follow Mrs. Laing’s
advice, to live long and remain well; they must take care and not die;
they must take care and not grieve the good lady! They laughed, and
seemed especially willing to attend to my admonition.
Why should they not? Every thing which makes old age bright—yes,
perhaps, which makes it the most cheerful portion of a woman’s
life—quietness, a secure future, all the amenities of daily life,
society, retirement, the kindest care, the most faithful guardianship,
every thing which at their age might reasonably be desired, all this is
theirs. With a joyful heart I left this institution, over which the most
splendid autumnal sun seemed to cast its blessing, and drove with Mrs.
Laing to the home of the younger governesses, which also, I was desirous
of visiting. This institution—under the same direction as the former,
is designed as a shelter and home for young ladies who come to London in
search of situations as governesses; is intended to be self-supporting
through the payments of the parties whom it receives, as well as that it
shall afford them all possible comforts at as low a price as possible.
Not far from this institution, which is calculated to receive somewhat
above twenty young ladies, is _Queen’s College_, a newly established
academical institution, which enables young women to study and graduate
in the same way as young men; and to advance as far in the acquisition
of knowledge as their natural powers will admit of. The formation of a
skillful class of teachers, of which it is said there is a great want in
England, is the highest object of this college, which is under the
direction of the Government and the Established Church.[10] “The Ladies’
College,” situated at no great distance, is an academy of the same
class, founded by dissenters from the Established Church. Both
institutions are promising beginnings in a path, in which the youngest
of earth’s nations, the United States, has gone far in advance of the
mother country, and of all the nations of Europe; namely, in its
superior means for the intellectual development of woman.
Having long since become clear in my own mind as to the importance of
this intellectual development, not merely for women themselves, but even
for men, for the whole rising generation; I had inquired in England, as
well as in America, what was being done for women? There was only very
little to tell me of in England; they had, however, in London, the
Asylum for Aged Governesses, (and a more beautiful institution cannot be
exhibited in any land,) the Home for Young Governesses, the two Female
Colleges, together with “The Government School of Design for Females.” I
had already noticed this inscription upon the door-posts of a house in
the Strand, directly opposite to where I had my own excellent lodgings.
I was very anxious to visit the Female School of Design in this great,
magnificent London, the school which bore the grand appellation of “The
Government School of Design for Women.” It must be something really
great and magnificent, thought I to myself.
The entrance did not promise much. It was narrow and rickety. But—that
did not matter, the Englishman has sometimes a way of putting a simple
outside to that which within is very splendid. I went up into a room,
story above story, in the third floor. Ah! now had vanished all hope of
and all esteem for the care of Government, as regarded the instruction
of women, at least in the art of design. In a close, dark room, sat from
sixty to seventy young women, so closely packed together that they took
away from each other light, space, and, as it seemed to me,
breathing-room. They had not even space in which to place their models,
(some plaster of Paris casts stood on the floor in a dark corner of the
apartment) they had not room to place any thing in a right light or
proper perspective. In order to enable me to move along the room, the
girls were obliged to stand aside, both they and their drawings. I saw
two of them busy drawing a real—no, a _withered_ plant which stood in a
glass. And yet they came hither, and yet they sat here, day after day,
industriously, crowded together as they were, the poor young girls! So
great was their desire, so great the necessity for them to learn.
In the house on the opposite side of the street, in “Somerset House,”
was “The Government School of Design for Young Men,” and they had every
advantage which large rooms, models, teachers could give. And,
nevertheless, and in spite of there being every unfavorable circumstance
on the side of the girls, yet, in the two years, when public examination
had been made of the productions of the two schools, the prises had been
awarded to the girls. So unquestionable was the superiority of their
talent for decorative art, so nobly just the decision of the male
judges. I heard much praise bestowed upon the head mistress of the
Female School of Design, as being herself a distinguished artist. I
cannot but deplore for her that she has not a better opportunity of
developing her own talent and the talent of her young pupils than that
which is afforded her by the Government School of Design for Women.
My thoughts involuntarily sped back across the sea to the country, to
the people who preëminently among all the nations of the earth govern
themselves, and to one of the Schools of Design for Women, which have
lately begun to spring up there, with that fresh, vigorous growth, which
all great, public, useful undertakings have in the soil of the New
World. I saw the school which had been commenced in the first instance
in the shade of private life, by Mrs. Sarah Peter, an English lady, with
a warm feeling of fellow-citizenship; which had been taken up by the
government, and incorporated with the Franklin Institution, at
Philadelphia, with an annual endowment of three thousand dollars. I saw
once more the large, light halls there; saw the kind, cheerful mistress
happy in her vocation, happy in the progress of her pupils, and in the
flourishing condition of the school.
I saw the young girls’ beaming countenances, saw how a happy
consciousness had arisen within them, as if they would say, “We also
have now obtained work in God’s beautiful vineyard!”
I saw them drawing vine-shoots and palms, as decoration for walls and
floors; saw genius here unfold its youthful wings in joyful amazement at
its own powers; and patient industry gladly take her place in the
service of her more ardent sister; saw in the practical direction which
the spirit of the New World gives to all work, an infinite future and
sphere of operation opened for women in the employment of that talent
which Mother Nature has given to them for the beautifying of life—the
sense of the beautiful, a feeling for the tasteful and the ornamental—a
talent which has hitherto been employed merely in a circumscribed
manner.
“See!” said a warm-hearted, right-minded man, Dr. E., who accompanied me
through the scholars’ room, “this work by Elizabeth B.! fifteen dollars
have been paid for it. And this second design for a carpet, by Miss
——, this has been ordered and twelve dollars are paid for it. This
little pattern for calico-printing—see how pretty it is!—has been
bought for two dollars—this for three. And these wood-cuts, are they
not well done? The young girls who do these are full of orders for
similar ones, and can command their own price. This lithograph is
another work of Miss ——; and these lithographed groups of flowers,
ordered for a little book, are by Miss ——, and twelve dollars are paid
for each. But I must introduce you to this young girl, Miss ——. She
used formerly to maintain herself by her needle; she did needlework even
for my family; but it was discovered that she possessed so remarkable a
talent for drawing, that after only seven months’ instruction, she is
secure of provision for the whole of her life, by means of art.”
Dr. E. and the head mistress together, selected specimens of the young
girls’ various works. “Take,” said they, “this, and this, and this, and
this, home with you to your fatherland.”
This was in North America; in the country which preëminently opens a
free field for the development of women. In Europe a few individual
voices are raised for this object. In America it is the universal voice
which says—
“He who points out a new field for the employment of female industry,
ought to be regarded as one of the public benefactors. And every means
by which such a field becomes accessible to woman recommends itself to
society as an important agent in the civilization of the future.”
It delighted me to hear that Charles Dickens, in his Household Words,
had made some remarks upon it worthy of his warm heart and clever pen;
also to hear that it was seriously contemplated to remove the school to
a more favorable locality.
“The Ladies’ Guild,” is the name given to a Female Association in
London, which I visited. It is as yet in its earliest commencement, and
depends principally upon a discovery of a Miss Wallace, for the
application of glass to the hitherto unknown purposes in ornamenting
rooms, and the material of furniture. Miss Wallace has taken out a
patent for her invention, which she uses entirely for the benefit of
persons of her own sex. She was not at this time in England, but the
ladies to whom she had communicated her art had united themselves for
the formation of a guild, in which instruction in this particular branch
of art is given, under certain conditions, to all such as wish to enter
the association as working members. I saw here many original and
particularly beautiful decorations of glass. I was, however, most struck
with the branch of the art called “gems,” in which pieces of cut glass
crystals were set in flower-like groups of various colors, yellow, green
and red; as well as with plates of glass prepared and burned, so that
they resemble white marble, and of a strength so great that a man might
stand and stamp his foot upon them without their being cracked. A room
whose walls should be set with clusters of these gems, and some of the
various brilliant paintings on glass which I saw here, would have the
appearance of a fairy-palace, and would realize the most brilliant
dreams of our childhood.
They were at this time desirous of preparing such a number of works as
would enable them to have an exhibition, by which means the public
interest might be turned to the undertaking.
May it succeed! May the well-intentioned, earnest women who commenced
the undertaking be so happy as to carry it out for the benefit of their
sex! How great the need of such institutions is, may be shown by the
simple fact that a single advertisement offering work in this glass
manufactory, called forth four hundred replies from gentle-women
desirous of obtaining employment.
I saw several of these employment-seekers; for the greater part they
were women of middle age, or in the latest youth; and the greater number
were clad in deep mourning. They seemed to me like beings who had sat
long in darkness, and now were come forth half astonished, half
mistrusting, inquiring, “Is there any light, is there any life for us?”
Alas! That in God’s rich, beautiful abundantly-living world, so many
beings erected in His image, called to participate in His life, should
need to ask thus!
“It must, it will succeed with us!” said the lady superintendent of this
new undertaking, with the courageous calmness of conviction.[11] And I
believe it will. The thing speaks for itself, and noble-minded men
extend a brotherly hand to the ladies to aid them in carrying it out.
Yet once more: may the undertaking flourish, and may it be the precursor
of many a similar one!
What a field of beautiful and advantageous activity lies waste through
the neglect of rightly cultivating the talent which God has entrusted to
woman! Thus, for example, her taste and her feeling for the beautiful
are universally acknowledged, and she is permitted to cultivate
it—merely for her own adornment and beautifying; and by so doing makes
this heavenly talent minister to vanity and self-love. What if this
sense of beauty were developed under the guidance of knowledge, for the
use of society, for the beautifying of life? Does not woman’s natural
taste for ornament and for ornamenting give her an hereditary title in
the realm of decorative art? And if she were allowed there to employ her
single gift, if she felt herself, through it, living and working, as a
fellow-citizen——?
Ought not every country to have its school of art, in which the artistic
skill of women might develop itself, in a peculiar and national manner?
Might there not, by these means, be a northern art, which, as such,
might obtain acknowledgment even in foreign countries?
Might not the daughters of Sweden, so rich in natural feeling and fresh
life, study the natural productions of Sweden; draw the pine and the
linea borealis, the Apollo-butterfly, and such like beautiful things
which God has given to the soil of their fathers; and arrange them in
tasteful groups, in vases and baskets, for the decoration of walls and
floors; and thus from northern scenes bring forth a northern art, tended
by the hands of women, which might beautify northern homes, from the
highest to the lowest; which might chase away ugly and common pictures,
and let the brightest eye of home, the eye of the child, open into a
world of beauty?
Is not, for all men and in all countries, one of the gates which opens
into the sanctuary, like that in Solomon’s temple—the beautiful?
We are speaking now merely of a branch of art. But is there not in many
other arts and in many manufactures—nay, perhaps in every art and
manufacture and science, the more they are developed and ennobled—a
department which ought preëminently to be cultivated by women, expressly
because of that one talent which has been given to them by nature?
We merely ask. We acknowledge to a profound faith in our own questions.
But we would beseech of thinking men and women to consider the subject
with us.
For the importance of it lies not merely in the peculiarity of woman’s
work. There is something beyond this in woman, through her own work,
being able to acquire a self-relying position in society, a noble
independence for the life both of soul and body; that she may feel, may
know from childhood upward that she may courageously look toward a
future which she, through her own power of work, can prepare for
herself; to know that creditable work is not disgrace. And that
beautiful consciousness which already exists in the intellectual heights
of society, may alike in the palace and the cottage of the peasant be
acquired by all.
What is it that people are afraid of in this independence of woman? Are
they afraid that thereby she will become less womanly? Are they afraid
that any being, if it develops itself in freedom and in truth, can
become any other than that which God designed in its creation?
Are they afraid that women may take the work away from men?
But all development, all natural division of labor in the world prove
that its multiplication and affluence increases in proportion to the
various powers which are employed upon it, each in his own way.
In truth, at the present moment, and with the mistaken purposes of
existence which have so long depressed the life and consciousness of
women, and with them those of men also, one can only wonder that women
are what they are.
But when woman becomes that which God intended her to be, man’s equal
and helpmate in all spheres of life, _Manua_, or she-man, as the Bible
calls her in the first morning of creation.
Amid many gloomy scenes, many sorrowful experiences, I yet live in the
steadfastly joyful anticipation of the future, which will some time dawn
for society, when the fettered woman shall become wholly free.
It enchants me when I think upon the beautiful relationship—and of this
we already, thank God, have seen and still see many examples—which must
take place when these two halves of life stand together—not master and
slave—resting only upon God and upon themselves, relying upon each
other, merely through the free homage of the heart and the intellect. He
sees in her a noble, self-dependent being, who needs not and seeks not
him for any lower object. And he loves her for that cause. She sees in
him a free and noble being, who seeks not and needs not her for an
unworthy object, advantage, or pleasure. And she esteems him for that
reason. But each needs the other as a helper in the highest work upon
earth—the perfecting of life. That they know, and for that cause they
extend to each other the hand, as a married pair, as friends; two free,
divine beings, united in the highest!
Thus is paradise regained on earth; no longer that first merely natural
paradise; but the higher, spiritual paradise, where man and woman shall
live together as the angels in heaven.
Is this sight too beautiful ever to become true?
It is too beautiful not to become true!
But if before this a new development of woman’s life and consciousness
must take place, the subject need not be further pursued here.
The Chinese cramped up their women’s feet in tight shoes, that they
might not go far from home. But the Chinese themselves have remained
standing on the same spot, whilst all the rest of the world has gone
forward.
* * * * *
Often when the starling comes in spring to our northern land have I seen
him sit in the top of the trees, saluting with his song the rising of
the sun over the morning-illumed country. And at this moment, when I sit
like the bird upon the bough ready for flight, ready to seek my nest, I
feel like the starling glancing abroad over the country upon which a new
day is ascending.
For the sight of England at this moment is the sight of a new birth, of
an awakening life, calculated to awaken every soul in which are the
principles of vitality.
Whilst Germany is mute in the sense of an internal chaos, and all her
poets dumb, (since her last comet-like genius, wearied of elliptic
circuits in search of the eternal, conceals himself in a cloister;)
whilst beautiful Italy lies bound, like the Greek slave, yet noble in
her deferred revenge—whilst heroically bold France, always foremost in
the struggle for the advance of thought—foremost, though too impetuous,
wearied by her own eccentric endeavors, allows a daring adventurer to
put a rope round her neck, and a gag in her mouth—how vigorously and
calmly England proceeds onward in her work for the future; how
powerfully she advances under her banners, “the Law and the Gospel;” and
in the spirit of these, works out her great destiny by means of her free
institutions, her free public discussion; her constellation of
statesmen, poets, authors; her scientific and industrial institutions,
and lastly, by her movement for a general, unexclusive system of
education throughout the nation; retaining through all this a clear
consciousness of the foundation of all true freedom and happiness for
the people of the earth.
May she advance triumphantly in her career for the new future of Europe,
and with her the nations which stand in near alliance with her life!
No country in the world can at this time exhibit such an affluence of
good authors as England. And their influence is founded upon the great
principles of humanity, which they serve not merely by power of genius,
but of practical reason. Authors of the most varied political and
religious opinions are united in this—the advocacy of some human right;
some human advantage, the crown of which is in heaven, while its root is
on earth; or they are rejected by the public mind; every thing must
become subservient to the supreme claims of humanity. Merely to mention
here some of the cultivators of polite literature: there is the
aristocratic Bulwer, spite of his inclination for the merely strong; the
democratic, warm-hearted Dickens; Thackeray, the flagellator of much
that is great and small, but by no means of the good; Charles Kingsley,
whose warm sympathies for suffering humanity might make him unjust
toward the self-indulgent if that life which inspires did not also
restrain him; and lastly, him who, standing aloof from all parties, yet
influences all.
So also, among the beautiful group of England’s distinguished
authoresses—women whose power is acknowledged by the whole cultivated
world. Mary Howitt, Mrs. Marsh, Mrs. S. C. Hall, with many others still
living, among the latest and most remarkable of whom stand Mrs. Gaskill,
the Author of Mary Barton, and Miss Bronte, the author of the
fascinating novel of Jane Eyre; all these are united in working for the
moral elevation of life, although frequently regarding it from different
points of view. Nevertheless are they sisters in the higher harmonies
and the same fundamentally pure accords, the same holy anthems sound
from their harps. They also have obtained free entrance into every noble
home in the world, and great power over the life of the heart.
Novels such as Eugene Sue’s and George Sand’s cannot possibly become
popular in England, although people are not blind to the gleams of light
discoverable in the mysteries of the former; and the many beautiful
things which there are in the glorious Consuelo of the latter. But they
could not have been written there, nor could their authors live there
with any success. The genius of England distinguishes itself from that
of France, not so much by its genius, but by its sound reason. The
dissimilar fate of England and France, at this time, may be estimated by
the dissimilarity in the works of their romance writers. The romance of
a people and of their authors have more in common than people believe.
Now that I am about to leave England, I feel with regret how much, from
want of time, I must give up seeing, give up knowing—amongst which is
the knowledge of persons whose acquaintance would be to me of great
value, and of whom I saw sufficient for me to regret it all the more.
This is often the sorrowful lot of the traveler, and I have no right to
complain. If I should never again see England, yet I shall be eternally
thankful that I have seen it, and for that which I have there seen. I
thank England for the glorious Asylum which she afforded to a people who
raised themselves in the consciousness of their own power, and with no
lower object in view than the highest which humanity is capable of. I
thank England for affording a new hope for the future of Europe, a new
and a fresher courage. And seeing as I do that England is preëminently
beyond all other nations designed to extend its dominions, I shall
henceforth only rejoice in this, because it extends at the same time the
Law and the Gospel, God’s dominion upon earth.
Add to this, that the English race are also the handsomest now existing
on the earth; no one can do other than wish that, in this point of view
also, they should increase and multiply.
These Englishwomen—I am fond of them. They approach with a frank, warm
cordiality which is irresistible, or with a quiet demeanor which
expresses esteem both of you and of their own worth, or else—they leave
you in peace. This dignity of manner, added to an agreeable kindliness,
struck me particularly in the class of female domestic servants, whilst
they are commonly as well dressed as the persons whom they serve; at
once, as well dressed as unpretending.
And then—they are so handsome, these Englishwomen, that certainly, the
whole figure included, they are the most beautiful women in the world.
I have no word sufficiently strong to express my grateful sense of the
noble hospitality and good-will which were shown to me while in England.
They live in the sanctuary of my heart, together with the names of the
friends from whom I received them; I must call some of them my
_benefactors_, because the human beings who awaken in us a warmer faith
in and love to mankind, are our eternal benefactors.
And greater benefactors in this sense have I never found anywhere than
in the United States, and in England, excepting in my own beloved
fatherland!
-----
[10] This is a misconception.—Ed.
[11] A worthy daughter is this lady of the well-known philanthropist,
Dr. Southwood Smith. Dr. Southwood Smith stands at the head of the
movement for Sanitary Reform in England, which is now being effectively
carried out in many towns, and the main principles of which are, that
every house and family shall have a constant and sufficient supply of
fresh water, the erection of healthy dwellings for the poor, together
with the careful removal and consumption of all impurity.
* * * * *
=SONNET.—CYDNUS.=
=BY WM. ALEXANDER.=
Cydnus! thou art a memorable stream!
Clear, crystal-like, thy proud waves roll apace,
As when with snowy plume and pallid face,
The daring Grecian felt thy cold extreme—
Two thousand summers have now passed away,
Yet, like white garments waving ’mid the gloom,
Seems thy bright water’s foam. Many a tomb
Lines thy green banks, as when in sad array
The great procession passed, with viol’s wail,
While underneath the canopy of gold,
Raised on the deck, lay Egypt’s queen, as cold
As when the aspic stung her. Spectres pale
Still haunt thy shore; thy waves all uselessly
Sweep on; “no galley there—no ship shall pass thereby.”
* * * * *
=NELLY NOWLAN ON BLOOMERS.=
=BY MRS. S. C. HALL.=