“A hectic pleasure flushed her faded face;
It fled, and deeper paleness took its place;
Then a cold shudder thrilled her—and, at last,
Her lip a smile of bitter sarcasm cast.”
DRAKE.
A year and more had now passed, since the disaster on the Ohio, and
the captive maiden had already gone through more adventures than fall
to the lot of most heroines, or than even it is my intention to
describe. And, with the lapse of time, came changes,—changes that we
must all feel.—The girlish form which we last beheld indicated that
time had added to it strength, and filled out its beautiful
proportions, and the maiden was now as pretty as woman can be. Grief
had left its traces, but even they were beautiful.
Reader, hast thou ever, in summer, watched a coming storm? Hast thou
seen a cloud overcast the heavens, spreading abroad darkness and
gloom?—The storm bursts,—the big drops come dancing to the earth, and
the sky is cleared! How brightly then shines the sun! how the rain
drops glitter in its beams! Beautiful as the rain drops are the traces
of grief. Tears are to grief, what rain is to the parched earth. Oh!
how beautiful are the remains of affection! Such were now the traces
which time had left on the captive maiden. There are the cold and
heartless, who, in the language of the world, would merely have said
that she had broken,—how I hate the word in that sense,—and who would
have thought her less beautiful than in girlhood she promised to be.
With the world, it may be that she was. But to many, she would have
been far dearer than in happier days; though less brilliant, there was
something more touching in her melancholy,—something better calculated
to sink deep into the heart, and call into play the finer feelings of
our nature. The recollection of her family was now like a distant
view, shadowy and undefined, and she rarely recurred to the sad
evening of her misfortunes; but if she did, and would but for an
instant dwell thereon, it was like applying the telescope to distant
objects. The scene arose before her in all its startling horror, and
she gave vent to her grief in a gush of tears.
But these scenes, as I have stated above, now occurred but
rarely:—time had added its soothing power, and the captive now in her
musings, began to turn her thoughts to still earlier days. The heart
is more susceptible in misfortune, and loves then also to brood over
moments which once were happy; probably because there is relief in
indulging in anticipations or recollections which drive away heavier
thoughts. So that now there were moments when she pondered over her
heart's earliest joys, and dwelt with delight on the recollection of
him who first, by his kind and gentle manner, won her affections,
taught her to extract music from the gushing of fountains, and
pleasure from the inspection of a flower, or the sight of a landscape.
This may not be intelligible to all my readers, for there are some
persons who know nothing of the sympathies of the human heart. But is
there one who has not felt his increased capability for enjoyment,
when the heart is first warmed into life,—when the springs of
affection first begin to flow. It is then that, stripped of
sensuality, our thoughts seem purified. It is then, that even nature,
seen through the first springings of pure affection, is lovelier than
it is ever seen afterward, and we can then feel that we live. But
delightful as those feelings are, like dew drops on flowers, they are
beautiful, but last not;—no, an entrance into the world, is to them
what frost is to the flowers. Yes, they wither and die, even while the
functions of life are green on the tree. Feeling is to life, what
malmsey is to wine. Yes, all that is beautiful and bright in life,
dies while we are on the threshold. The loss of early feelings is
beautifully described by Byron in the lines beginning
“There's not a joy the world can give,
Like that it takes away,
When the flow of early thought declines
In feeling's dull decay.”
There is a sad truth in the lines here alluded to, which all who have
read them, must have often felt.
Gentle reader, hast thou ever watched and wept over the loss of thy
early feelings; hast thou seen them fast ebbing away, and felt thyself
growing old, while thou wert yet young in years. I have, and like a
mother over a dying child, like a lover over the sinking pulse of his
mistress, I have watched and wept as they left me.
Reader, I have called thee gentle above, and I feel a sympathy for
thee, though thou art unknown, for thou wilt see my wayward thoughts,
and recollect that while tracing them, I held communion with thee.
Yes, even at this moment, speculations float across my mind, as to the
characters of the persons who may read them, and as to the impressions
which my wayward fancies may produce. They may be glanced over, think
I, by some early associate, and remind him perhaps of some long
forgotten friend. But reader, whoever thou art, and whatever may be
the cast of thy opinions, I sincerely hope, if thou wishest it, that
the perusal of them may have the same effect upon thee, which the mere
exertion of tracing them out has had upon me. It has served to rob
life for a time of the tedium and weariness which often sits heavily
upon me.
It would be tedious were we to trace minutely the movements of
Netnokwa and her party, from the time that she left Rainy Lake, until
her arrival among her own tribe—suffice it, that they all encountered
more dangers and difficulties than belong to ordinary adventures, and
after a long and toilsome journey arrived there safe. A longer
acquaintance with the captive maiden only served to increase their
affections, and they now strictly regarded her as a member of their
family. No act of kindness on their part was wanting, and so devoted
was Miskwa in her attentions, that she won the heart of the captive,
whom she also cheered by giving a promise both for herself and mother,
that as soon as the dread influence which the Prophet exercised over
the tribes, should in some measure subside, or any other circumstance
render it practicable, that they would restore her to the settlements.
This promise rendered her cheerful at moments, and caused her to
entertain for Miskwa the kindest possible feelings, nor was she
otherwise than fond of Netnokwa; but Miskwa was of her own age, and
though of a different complexion, still in her she found a kindred
spirit. Thrown constantly in her company, they soon became inseparable
companions, divided all their duties, and enjoyed together all their
little amusements; and such was the power of culture and of mind, that
Miskwa insensibly adopted many of the habits of the captive, and
satisfied that in doing so she was improved, even attempted to learn
her language. But grateful as was the captive, her heart was sad, her
sources of amusement were only transient gleams of joy, flitting by
like fleeting clouds—her thoughts were afar off—and when she
recollected that it was the Prophet's influence which detained her
from that land which she so much wished again to see—she began to
inquire who he was, and what were his doctrines. The information
received, only served to convince her of the futility of his
pretensions; and when she heard a list of the victims which his
doctrine of witchcraft had consigned to the stake, she no longer
hesitated, but spoke of him as a bad man, and endeavoured to convince
Netnokwa and Miskwa, that he was not even entitled to their good
opinion. She spoke of the Great Spirit as the author of all goodness
and mercy; it was the light in which Miskwa and her mother regarded
him, and then asked them how, thinking as they did of him, they could
believe that he would authorize the acts of the Prophet. Many
conversations on this subject had taken place, and though always urged
by the captive with the utmost timidity, and though Netnokwa and her
daughter at first shrunk from them as from something fearful, yet
their frequency, and the confident manner in which the captive, the
more she spoke of it, now asserted, that his assumed character was a
mere delusion, tended at least to familiarize them with the subject,
and also caused the first dawnings of doubt.
It was a lovely evening, when two maidens were seen standing near the
door of a neat little cottage situated on the banks of one of those
many nameless tributaries which add their quota to the upper Red
river. Many wild vines crept over and around it, and the sweetest
flowers of the prairie and forest, tastefully arranged, bloomed in the
richest luxuriance. It was not like an Indian wigwam, for taste, and
refinement and cultivation, seemed blended in every thing therewith
connected; and the wonder was, that so beautiful a spot, could be
found so far from the white settlements, and embosomed in so vast and
trackless a wilderness. Many hundred miles would scarcely have brought
its inmates to the farthest advanced posts of civilization, and yet at
that distance they now dwelt, and formed and fashioned for amusement
their little Paradise with its garden of Eden which they themselves
had created. One would have wondered and admired; and it was woman's
delicate hands which had wrought it all.
Hast thou never observed that an accomplished and virtuous female
seems, by her mere presence, to impart a charm to every thing around
her, and add a beauty to every thing she touches. I mean not however
to include the dispensers of fashion, or the mere creatures of art,
for accomplished as they may be, there is always a frivolity of manner
about them, which places them lower in the scale of excellence, and
tends in a great measure to destroy their power; but I mean woman,
lovely, beautiful and fascinating as she is, when her time is devoted
to the improvement of her mind, and the cultivation of her heart. As
pure in excellence as the snow in whiteness, was the captive maiden,
for her intercourse with the world had never been sufficiently great
to deform her either by fashion or by art, and the loss of her family
had created in her breast no resentment against the authors of her
misfortune, but had tended rather to soften her feelings towards the
whole human race. This resulted partly from the destitute condition in
which she found herself, and also from the resignation with which she
submitted to the will of Providence.
As Miskwa, with the captive, stood before the door, the latter was
gazing pensively in the direction of her far home, and as thoughts of
the past rose before her, she sighed, and a shade of darker melancholy
than was wont to rest upon her features, passed over her face. At that
moment, Miskwa called her attention, and with a bow and quiver in her
hand, proposed that they should walk. The sun's rays were mellowing
the prospect, and the air was bland and mild. First turning to salute
their flowers, they gathered some, and twining them into wreaths,
decorated their brows. They then started on their walk, and Miskwa,
with the mirth of a happy heart, ran bounding forward. As they
continued it, thoughts which were sad passed from the mind of the
captive maiden, and she too was apparently happy. They had proceeded
in their rambles a mile or two, when their attention was suddenly
aroused, by a stranger coming towards them. He was a son of the
forest, yet there was something singular in his address, and peculiar
in his manner. They knew not what to think, and as he approached,
Miskwa bent her bow, and adjusted a keen pointed arrow. Yet he seemed
not to notice it, but coming nearer, beckoned them to follow, and
started off, leading the way to their own cabin. Miskwa spoke to him,
but he refused to answer, and continued indicating to them signs that
they must accompany him to their lodge. His eyes were cast upon the
ground,—his countenance was grave in the extreme,—there was an air of
mystery about him, and when he moved forward, Miskwa not being able to
explain who or what he was, and feeling a vague fear, why or wherefore
she knew not, spoke to her friend, and advised her to follow; and in
silence they accompanied the stranger, who, to their great surprise,
pursued the most direct path to their lodge. Having arrived there, he
seemed not to regard Netnokwa, who was sitting just without the door,
but uninvited, entered her lodge, and seating himself, began to smoke.
Netnokwa at the same time, entering, made of him many inquiries; yet
he paid not the least attention to her, but continued smoking.—Then
calling in Miskwa and the maiden, they seated themselves to await his
pleasure. None could divine the cause of his errand, and on account of
it fear was felt by Netnokwa and her family. After a deep silence of
half an hour, he stated that his name was Kenah, and that he had come
with a message from the Shawanee Prophet. Then, after a few moments
farther silence, he said:—“Henceforth, the fire must never be suffered
to go out in your lodge. Summer and winter, day and night,—in the calm
or in the storm,—you must remember that the life in your body, and the
fire in your lodge, are the same, and of the same date. If you suffer
your fire to be extinguished, at that moment your life will be at its
end. You must not suffer a dog to live. The Prophet himself is coming
to shake hands with you; but I have come before, that you may know
what is the will of the Great Spirit, communicated to us by him; and
to inform you that the preservation of your life for a single moment,
depends on your entire obedience. From this time forward, we are
neither to steal, to lie, or to go against our enemies. While we yield
an entire obedience to these commands of the Great Spirit, the Sioux,
even if they come to our country, will not be able to see us; we shall
be protected and made happy.”[1]
[Footnote 1: See note B.]
When the speech was finished, the countenances of Miskwa and Netnokwa
seemed troubled, and the captive, not being able to comprehend all he
had said, asked Miskwa for an explanation. Kenah hearing this, and
himself speaking English imperfectly, began in the same mysterious
manner, to repeat to her what he had before said. To his surprise, his
remarks, instead of inspiring her with the same dread which they had
Netnokwa and her daughter, only served to excite her laughter, and
turning to Miskwa, she began to ridicule his opinions, and then to ask
Netnokwa if she thought the Great Spirit wanted her to kill her dogs,
which aided in supplying them with food? and why he should care
whether the fire went out in their lodge or not?
When Kenah saw this, clouds of anger passed over his brow, and he
began to tell how many times the Great Spirit had visited the Prophet,
and what he had ordered him to do for his red children. But as he
talked of it, they became familiarized to his person, and a discussion
of the subject only served to exhibit the folly and cruelty of his
doctrines. The eyes of Netnokwa and her daughter had been before
opened by the opinions of the captive, and the fear of which his words
would but for that have inspired, was now with Miskwa, rather a
subject of merriment, and she with the captive, began to persuade
Netnokwa not to kill her dogs, nor to regard what Kenah had said.
Kenah, seeing that nothing could be effected, was filled with rage,
and internally vowing vengeance against the captive, to whom mainly he
attributed his want of success, and likewise against Miskwa, who
seemed so much under her influence, he sank to sleep. Rising with the
first light of day, he left the cottage before its inmates had risen,
and proceeded on his journey, leaving them ignorant of his intentions.
His behaviour and sudden disappearance, were for some days, with them
a subject of wonder and conversation, but with the lapse of time they
were forgotten, and with them even the remembrance of his visit was
effaced from their minds.