OLD JOE MEEK AND MR. SPAULDING.
One day a man in a buckskin habit came to the door of the school-house and
looked in upon the school. His face was that of a leader of men, hard and
powerful; one could see that it feared nothing, and that it looked with
contempt on whatever was artificial, affected, or insincere. His form had
the strength and mettle of a pioneer. He rapped a loud, hard rap, and
said, in a sturdy tone:
"May I come in?"
The master welcomed him cordially and courteously, and said:
"This is Mr. Meek, I believe?"
"Yes, old Joe Meek, the pioneer--you have heard of me."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Mann. "You have caught the spirit of Oregon--you are
Oregon. You have made the interest of this great country your life; I
honor you for it. I feel the same spirit coming over me. What we do here
is done for a thousand years, for here the great life of the Anglo-Saxon
race is destined to come. I can see it; I feel it. The morning twilight of
time is about me. I can hear the Oregon calling--calling; to teach here is
a glorious life; the whole of humanity is in it. I have no wish to return
to the East again."
"Stranger, give me your hand."
The New England schoolmaster took the hard hand of the old pioneer, and
the two stood there in silence.
The children could not understand the great, soul-expanding sympathy that
made these two men friends. They gazed on Mr. Meek's buckskin jacket and
trousers with curiosity, for they were picturesque with their furs, belts,
and weapons, and he looked like a warrior or a forest knight clad in
armor.
He wore the same buckskin suit when he appeared in Washington as the
delegate to Congress from Oregon. It was at the time of Polk and Dallas,
and not a person in Washington probably knew him when he made his
appearance at the Congressional Hotel.
The people at the hotel stared at him as the children did now. He went
into the great dining-room with the other Congressmen, but alone and
unknown. The colored waiters laughed at him as he took his seat at the
table.
The other people at the table were served, but no one came near him. At
last he turned and faced a hurrying colored man, and, in a voice that
silenced the room, said:
"Waiter, come here!"
The waiter rolled up his eyes and said, "Sir?"
"Have you any big meat to-day?"
"Yes, sir."
"Any bear?"
"Any bear? bear? No, sir."
"Any buffalo?"
"Any buffalo--buffalo? Where did you come from? No, sir."
"Well, waiter you may bring me what you have."
The waiter went away with white teeth, and a smile and titter passed
around the table. The waiter returned with the usual first course of the
meal, and was about to hurry away, when the old pioneer took out his
pistol and laid it down on the table, saying:
"Waiter, you stand there, I may want you; and if anybody wants to know who
I am, tell him I am Hon. Joseph Meek, the delegate of the people of
Oregon."
When it was known who Mr. Meek was, he was met by Mr. Dallas, the courtly
Vice-President.
"I will attend you to the reception this afternoon, where you will meet
the wives of the Congressmen," said he. "I will call for you at three."
The Vice-President called, and was surprised to find Mr. Meek still in his
buckskins.
"You do not intend to go in that habit to the reception?" said he.
"Yes," said Mr. Meek, "or else not go at all. In the first place, I have
nothing else to wear, and what is good enough for me to wear among the
people of Oregon is good enough for their representative here."
We have given, in these two anecdotes, very nearly Mr. Meek's own words.
A few days after the visit of this most extraordinary man, another visitor
came. She was an earnest-looking woman, on an Indian pony, and there was a
benevolence in her face and manner that drew the whole school into
immediate sympathy with her. The lady was Mrs. Spaulding, one of the
so-called "Brides of Oregon." Her husband had come to the Territory with
Dr. Whitman and his bride. The long missionary journey was the bridal tour
of Mrs. Whitman and Mrs. Spaulding. They were the first white women who
crossed the Rocky Mountains. It was related of Mrs. Spaulding, who had a
beautiful voice, and was a member of a church quartet or choir in a
country town in New York, as a leading singer, that, just before leaving
the place for her long horseback journey of more than two thousand miles,
she sang in the church the hymn beginning--
"Yes, my native land, I love thee,"
in such an affecting manner as to silence the rest of the choir, and melt
the congregation to tears:
"Home, thy joys are passing lovely,
Joys no stranger's heart can tell;
Happy scenes and happy country,
Can I bid you all farewell?
Can I leave thee,
Far in heathen lands to dwell?"
This lady addressed the school, and spoke feelingly of the condition of
the Indian race, and of the field for the teacher in the valleys of the
Columbia.
Gretchen listened to the address with open heart. There are moments of
revelation when a knowledge of one's true calling in life comes to the
soul. Faith as a blind but true guide vanishes, and the eye sees. Such was
the hour to Gretchen. She had often felt, when playing on the violin, that
the inspiration that gave such influence to her music should be used in
teaching the tribes that were so susceptible to its influence. This
feeling had grown in the playing and singing of a school-song, the words
of which were written by Mrs. Hunter, an English lady, and the wife of the
famous Dr. Hunter, which showed the heroism and fortitude of the Indian
character:
"The sun sets at night and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when the light fades away;
Begin, ye tormentors, your threats are in vain,
For the son of Alknoomook will never complain."
The tune or melody was admirably adapted to the violin. Benjamin loved to
hear it sung, and Gretchen was pleased to sing and to play it.
Mr. Mann asked Gretchen to play for Mrs. Spaulding, and she chose this
simple but expressive melody. He then asked the school to sing, and he
selected the words of
"Yes, my native land, I love thee,"
to the music of Rousseau's Dream. Mrs. Spaulding could hardly keep from
joining in the tune and hymn, then well known to all the missionary
pioneers. At the words--
"In the desert let me labor,
On the mountain let me tell,"
her beautiful voice rose above the school, and Gretchen's fingers trembled
as she played the air.
As the lady rode away, Gretchen felt tears coming into her eyes. The
school was dismissed, and the pupils went away, but Gretchen lingered
behind. She told Benjamin to go to the lodge, and that she would follow
him after she had had a talk with the master.
"That song is beautiful," said Gretchen. "'In the desert let me labor.'
That is what I would like to do all my life. Do you suppose that I could
become a teacher among the Indians like Mrs. Spaulding? It would make me
perfectly happy if I could. If I were to study hard, would you help me to
find such a place in life?"
Gretchen's large eyes, filled with tears, were bent earnestly on the face
of Mr. Mann.
"Yes," he said, "and if I can inspire you only to follow me in such work,
it will repay me for an unknown grave in the forests of the Columbia."
Gretchen started; she trembled she knew not why, then buried her face in
her arms on the rude log desk and sobbed.
She raised her head at last, and went out, singing--
"In the desert let me labor."
It was a glorious sundown in autumn. The burning disk of the sun hung in
clouds of pearl like an oriel-window in a magnificent temple. Black
shadows fell on the placid waters of the Columbia, and in the limpid air
under the bluffs Indians fished for salmon, and ducks and grebes sported
in river weeds.
Marlowe Mann went away from the log school-house that night a happy man.
He had seen that his plans in life were already budding. He cared little
for himself, but only for the cause to which he devoted his life--to begin
Christian education in the great empire of Oregon.
But how unexpected this episode was, and how far from his early dreams!
His spirit had inspired first of all this orphan girl from the Rhine, who
had been led here by a series of strange events. This girl had learned
faith from her father's prayers. On the Rhine she had never so much as
heard of the Columbia--the new Rhine of the sundown seas.