reestablish the power and glory of the red man. Behold! a vision of the
future rises up before me. I see Tamaque great and powerful, the ruler
over many nations; and far off, for many generations, I see his
children’s children walking in his footsteps.”
“Your words are good,” said Tamaque.
“So will be your deeds,” said the conjurer. “Strike boldly, and fear
nothing.”
“Tamaque knows no fear,” replied the haughty chief. “To-morrow he will
go forth with his warriors, and thus will he rush upon the foe.” As he
spoke he heaved from its resting place a huge fragment of rock, which
bounded down the mountain roaring and smoking, and crushing all before
it, until, with a loud plunge, it disappeared beneath the bubbling
waters.
I had now heard and seen enough; and there was no time to be lost if I
wished to save _her_ from—from what? Confusion on the thought! My head
reeled, and I came near falling down amongst them. But I soon rallied,
and made all possible haste to reach the camp before Tamaque.
Suddenly, as I emerged from a clump of trees yonder on the bank of the
creek, I saw her whom I sought close before me, kneeling on a mound of
earth,—doubtless her mother’s grave. I stood entranced, and listened,
in spite of myself, to the broken sentences which she uttered aloud.
“And save, oh, merciful Father,” she murmured, “save his white hairs
from the dangers which surround us.” Her filial words here became
inaudible. The next sentence that reached my ears related to a different
person. “May thy powerful arm protect us from the cruel rage, and the
still more cruel love of that dreadful man!” My jealous ears drank in
these words with ecstasy. They were a balm to my wounded spirit; a
compensation for all my sufferings. Again she spoke aloud: “And him, the
stranger, who wanders, unprotected, through the wilderness; oh! guard
his steps from harm, and grant, in thine own good time, that—” her
voice now died away into a gentle whisper. When it rose again she was
saying, “And for me, in mercy, give thy unhappy child, here, in this
hallowed spot, a peaceful grave.” I began to feel that my listening,
however inadvertent, was little less than sacrilege; and, therefore,
quietly stole away out of hearing.
As soon as I discovered that she had risen to her feet, I again drew
near. Great was her surprise and consternation at seeing me.
“Oh! why do you linger here,” she cried. “You should, ere this, be far
on your way toward home. Fly instantly, and look not behind you; for, if
you should be taken by these cruel savages no human power can save you
from a dreadful doom.”
“I know that well,” I replied; “but can you think me so careful of my
own life as to run away and leave you to their tender mercies?”
“Fear nothing for me,” she said; “they do not rank me among their
enemies, and will not harm me.”
“But although you may be safe from their hatred, have you nothing to
fear from their friendship?” said I.
The tide of confusion mounted to her brow at these words, and she
trembled in every limb. But, quickly recovering herself, she said: “Come
what may, I share the fate of my father.”
“But go,” said I, “bring your father quickly, and we will all escape
together.”
“No,” said she, sadly, “he is old and feeble; his absence would soon be
noticed; they would certainly pursue us, and easily overtake us.”
I could make no reply to this, for I knew that we could not take her
father with us, and I felt sure that she would not go without him. With
the dogged resolution of despair, therefore, I said:
“Your own fidelity teaches me my duty. I shall remain in these woods to
watch over your safety. Seek not to change my purpose. Better endure all
the torments these fiends can inflict than the shame and remorse I
should suffer if I left you.”
I spoke in a tone that could leave no doubt of my sincerity or firmness.
She evidently felt it so, and stood for some minutes with her eyes fixed
on the ground in silent meditation. Then, at length, raising her head,
she abruptly asked:
“Can you paddle a canoe?”
I replied that I could with considerable skill.
“Then go down immediately to the mouth of the creek,” she continued; “I
will bring my father there, and it is possible that we may yet escape
across the river. It is worth the trial, at least, and is our only
hope.”
I hastened to the place designated, where I found two canoes moored to
the shore. In a few minutes Mary appeared, almost dragging her father
along. When the old man understood our purpose he refused to get into
the boat.
“No,” said he, “I cannot leave these poor children, whom I have so long
taught and prayed for. Deserted by their pastor, they would soon return
to their old habits, and the labor of long years would lose all its
fruits.”
“But, sir,” I replied, “they have already withdrawn themselves from your
authority. You cannot safely remain amongst them, for they now regard
all white men as their enemies.”
“I will stay,” he answered, “and bring them back to the fold from which
they are wandering, or else lay down my life among them.”
“But your daughter,” I continued; “surely this is now no place for her.
Come! let us place her in safety, and then, if you choose, you can
return.” I saw that he hesitated; and so, taking him by the arm, I led
him, with gentle violence, into the canoe.
“Are these the only canoes at the station?” I asked.
Being answered in the affirmative, I directed Luten to hold fast to the
empty one, and then pushed off from the shore. My intention was to cut
off pursuit by carrying the empty canoe some distance into the stream
and then setting her adrift. The river was then about at its present
height, and dashed over these rapids with the same violence as now. It
was certain that no boat could drift through them without being swamped
or broken to pieces.
Accordingly, when we had attained what I thought a sufficient distance
from the shore, I directed Luten to let go his hold. Scarcely had he
done so when a shriek from Mary, whose face was turned toward the shore,
was immediately followed by a plunge, and then another, into the water.
“It is Tamaque and another Indian,” she exclaimed, “and they are
swimming for the empty canoe.” I cast a hasty glance behind me, and saw
all the peril of our position; but I had no time for making
observations. My business was to ply the paddle.
“Now,” continued Mary, “they have almost reached it; and now they have
caught—but see! they have upset it in trying to climb in. No! it has
come right again; and now Tamaque has got in safely, and is dragging his
companion after him. But it is too late; they are almost at the falls,
and they cannot stem the current. Look! Merciful Heaven, they will go
over, and be drowned!”
Obeying the gentler impulses of her nature, she thought only of their
danger, forgetting that _that_ was our only chance of escape.
“Oh! how they do struggle for their lives,” she continued; “and now they
are standing still—no, they are moving—they are coming—faster and
faster—they are coming toward us!”
I again looked back for a moment, and, truly, they were coming, and
evidently gaining on us. Luten meanwhile sat in the bottom of the canoe
in a fit of total abstraction.
“I will not leave them, nor return from following after them,” he
muttered; “they have gone astray, but I will bring them back, and they
shall yet be the instruments, under God, of regenerating the whole
Indian race.”
But the state of things was now becoming critical, and Mary cried out in
terror:
“Oh, father, help!—take that other paddle and help, or we are lost.”
The old man roused himself up, took the paddle, and went to work in the
bow of the canoe. But he was unskilled in the business, and did more
harm than good. I begged him to desist, but he only replied by
increasing his well meant exertions. At length, however, he rocked the
boat, and threw her out of her course so badly, that I was obliged to
command him, peremptorily, to sit down; and he was soon again lost in
meditation.
Meanwhile our pursuers were rapidly gaining on us. Under the guidance of
her two powerful and well-trained workmen, their canoe bounded forward
at every sweep of the paddles like a race-horse. I now saw that it was
all over with us. We were still a long way from shore, and they were
almost upon us. Nor could it avail us any thing even if we should
succeed in landing first. They would capture us on the land if they did
not on the water. My heart sickened at the thought. To me captivity
would bring unutterable torments; and to my innocent and lovely
companion a fate still more deplorable. Was there any alternative? I
looked the whole subject steadily in the face for one minute, and then
my resolution was taken. With a single dexterous sweep of the paddle I
brought the head of the canoe directly down stream, and then urged her
forward toward the roaring cataract. Tamaque uttered a loud yell of rage
and disappointment; and, the same moment, his tomahawk whizzed by within
an inch of my head. But the current now drew us on with fearful
rapidity. Mary sat pale and silent, gazing anxiously in my face; whilst
her father continued unconscious of all that was passing. Now and then I
could hear his voice amid the tumult of the dashing breakers mournfully
bewailing the apostacy of his neophytes.
We had now reached the very brink of the foaming precipice, when my eye
caught a narrow streak of blue water, which evidently descended in a
gradual slope. I directed the canoe toward it, and she went down,
plunging, I thought, entirely under; but she rose again filled with
water, but still afloat. I threw my hat to Mary; and, whilst I kept the
canoe steady in her course with one hand, I seized my hat in the other
and commenced bailing. In a few minutes all danger of sinking was
removed. We had now a free course before us, and an impassible barrier
(so it was deemed) between us and our pursuers. We felt that we were
safe;—all but Luten; to whom our danger and our safety seemed equally
indifferent. His thoughts were far away in the land of dreams, where he
had so long dwelt, and from which he would not yet depart. We spoke to
him, but he made no answer. At length his head began to sink slowly
down, and Mary hastened to support it. An ashy paleness now came over
his features; his breathing grew short and difficult, and his mutterings
became inaudible; except once, when the name of Tamaque trembled on his
lips. Then his eyes became fixed; his lips ceased to move; his hand
dropped heavily down at his side; and now,—the hot tears that rain from
the eyes of his dutiful child fall on the brow of death.
It was now near sundown; and when we reached the nearest white
settlement it was near morning. There we buried Luten; and his daughter
being now an orphan, and without a protector in the world, why, of
course,—but I need not relate what followed. Suffice it to say that I
was no longer jealous of Tamaque, but even felt a pang of regret when I
heard, soon after, that he had fallen in battle.
* * * * *
THE RECONCILIATION.
BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH.
The midnight shadows deepen on, the earth is still and lone,
And starry lamps in heaven’s blue hall are fading one by one,
For cold gray clouds wreathe o’er them like a dim and misty veil,
And through their foldings peers the moon—a spirit wan and pale.
As far away the gentle breeze is sighing mournfully
It seems a murmur from the shore of olden memory,
And while its cadence floats afar _thy voice_ I seem to hear—
Like music in some troubled dream it steals upon my ear.
My heart beats faster as the sound fades out upon the night,
And pants to drink again that tone of rapture and delight;
At such an hour it cannot deem that voice is cold and strange,
In such an hour it will forget that hearts like thine can change.
No—never, it shall _not_ be so—the thought is burning pain,
Which like the levin’s blighting fire comes crushing through my brain;
It cannot be our friendship’s bright and glowing dream is o’er,
It must not be that we _shall meet_ as we _have met_ no more.
Have I offended?—then _forgive_—’twill be the nobler part—
And oh, _forget_ that I have wronged thy warm and generous heart,
For careless words though lightly said come keenly to the mind,
To chill its glowing depths with tones like winter’s frozen wind.
Ah! “cast the shadow” from thy heart, and mine shall glow with thine
In purer flames, whose fairy gleams in rainbow beauty shine,
Its thoughts of thee shall brighten then though all around be sad,
Its every dream of thee be sweet—its every vision glad—
* * * * *
UNHAPPY LOVE.
BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.
’Tis vain, ’tis vain, these idle tears!
Thou art far distant now;
No more, oh never more my lips
May press thy pale, sweet brow;
And yet I cannot, cannot burst
The deep and holy spell that first
Bade my strong spirit bow
With all of passion’s hopes and fears
Before thee in our happier years.
Those eves of love, those blessed eves—
Their memory still comes back
A glory and a benison
O’er life’s bewildering track,
Their light has vanished from our lot
Like meteor-gleams and left us—what?
The sigh, the tear, the rack!
And yet upon their visions blest
Still love can turn and sink to rest.
I know thou lovest me, I know
Thine eyes with tears are dim,
I know that stricken love still chants
To thee its mournful hymn;
I know the shadows of love’s dream
In the deep waves of memory’s stream
Like soft star-shadows swim;
But oh! the fiend of wild unrest
Is raging in my tortured breast.
Forgive me, gentle one, forgive
My burning dreams of thee;
Forgive me that I dare to let
Forbidden thoughts go free;
My torrent-passions madly sweep
On, darkly on, and will not sleep
But in death’s silent sea;
And I—a mouldering wreck—am still
The victim of their stormy will.
Ah, dear one, suns will rise and set,
And moons will wax and wane,
The seasons come and go, but we
Must never meet again;
That thought, whene’er I hear thy name,
Is like a wild and raging flame
Within my heart and brain;
But none, save thee, shall ever know
The secret of my living wo.
Oft at the sunset’s holy time,
Our spirits’ trysting hour,
I wander to commune with thee
Beneath the wildwood bower;
And o’er me there thy tone of love,
Like the low moaning of a dove,
Steals with a soothing power;
’Tis gone—my voice in anguish calls,
But silence on the desert falls.
I gaze on yon sweet moon as erst
We gazed on that dear night
When our deep, parting vows were said
Beneath its mournful light;
And then with tones, low, sweet and clear,
Thou breathest in my ravished ear
And risest on my sight—
I call thee, but the woods around
With mocking voice repeat the sound.
I look on each memento dear,
The tress, the flower, the ring,
And these thy sweet and gentle form
Back to my spirit bring;
I seem to live past raptures o’er,
Our hands, our hearts, our lips once more
In one wild pressure cling—
It fades—I mourn the vision flown
And start to find myself alone.
I look upon thy pictured face
’Till from my straining eyes
My soul steals out to animate
The sweet but lifeless dyes;
The dark eyes wake, the dear lips speak,
Their breath is warm upon my cheek—
I clasp the living prize;
Alas! I wake to cold despair,
There’s but a painted mockery there.
My youth is vanished from my life,
And ah! I feel that now
The lines of manhood’s fading prime
Are deepening on my brow;
My life is in its evening shade,
And soon its last pale flowers will fade
Upon the withering bough,
Alas! alas! that life should be
So fleeting and not passed with thee!
Farewell, our dreams are idle now,
And tears are idler yet,
But oft beneath the midnight moon
My eyelids still are wet;
Oh! I could bear life’s every grief,
Its shade, its cloud, its withered leaf,
Its sun’s last darkened set,
Could I but know that we might love
As now in that bright world above.
Farewell—farewell—yon gentle star
Is pure and bright like thee—
But lo! a dark cloud near it moves,
The type, alas, of me!
From the blue heavens the cloud will go,
But that unfading star will glow
Still beautiful and free;
And thus thy life, with fadeless ray,
May shine when I am passed away.
* * * * *
THE SUNFLOWER.
A TRUE TALE OF THE NORTH-WEST.
BY MAJOR RICHARDSON.
Of all the tribes of Indians with whom it has been our lot to mix, and
these have not been a few, we know of none who can surpass in the native
dignity and nobleness of manhood the Saukie tribe. We, however, speak
not of them as they exist at the present day. Many years have elapsed
since fighting against Hull, Winchester, and Harrison, we numbered, as
co-operating with the division of the army to which we were attached,
three thousand fighting men of the élite of the warriors of the
principal tribes, headed by the indomitable and ever lamented Tecumseh,
whom, as a boy, then first attempting his _coup d’essai_ at arms, we
ever loved and revered, and with whom half an hour before his fall, we
shook the hand of cordiality, and separation—forever. We repeat, at
that period there were, varying slightly in number at intervals, not
less than three thousand with the eighth division of the British
army—and these were the choice warriors of the following tribes:
Shawanees, Delawares, Munsees, Hurons, Wyandots, Miamis, Chippewas,
Ottowas, Kickapoos, Foxes, Minouminies, Pottowattamies, Winnebagoes,
Loups, Sioux, and lastly, for we cannot recollect some two or three
others—the Saukies. Each tribe had its peculiar and distinctive
characteristics—but no one so markedly so as the last named people, and
next to them the Winnebagoes. We have remarked that we do not know what
the Indian tribes, even in their original hunting grounds have become
since so long abstinence from the pursuits of war and adventure, but
_then_, the Saukies were the noblest looking men of all we have ever
since beheld in any quarter of the globe we have visited. They were a
collective impersonation of the dignity of man, as sent first upon earth
by the will of God; nor were these characteristics of manly beauty
peculiar only to a few, but general to all. A Saukie warrior, arrived at
the full stage of manhood, was tall—generally from five feet eleven to
six feet in height, and of proportionate symmetry of person. Their
carriage was erect, dignified, graceful. Their look serene, imposing
without sternness. Their features bore the Roman impress, and seldom did
we look upon a Saukie, arrived at mature age, without the memory
adverting at once to the dignified senators of the forum of which we had
so recently been reading. There was a nobleness—a consciousness—a
native dignity about these people that always inspired us with a certain
degree of awe and respect; and so deeply was this sentiment implanted in
us at that very early period of a somewhat adventurous life, that our
_beau ideal_ of manly beauty has ever since continued to be a Saukie
warrior of the commencement of the present century.
The period of occurrence of the incidents of our little tale was some
four or five years prior to the American declaration of war against
Great Britain, and when the North West Company of Canada, whose wealth,
acquired in the pursuit of that trade, was at one time great, held
various stockade forts in the heart of the Indian country. The
ambulating village of the Saukies was then situated on a branch of one
of those small streams on which the forts were usually built, and at a
distance of about forty miles from that which will come more immediately
under our notice.
White Bear was one of the most honored of the Saukie chiefs, and even
among men whom we have just described as so eminently prepossessing, he
was remarkable. He was forty years of age, and possessed a majesty of
mien and carriage that won to him the respect of his tribe not more than
did his wisdom in the council, and his daring in war. He had but one
wife, and she was much younger than himself, but years had so little to
do with the estimate in which he was generally held by the squaws of his
tribe, and particularly by his wife, whose passion for him was ardent as
his own for her, that this disparity had never even been noticed.
Indeed, their friendship for each other was the remark of the whole
tribe. For an Indian, he took great pride in her beauty, and spent with
her many hours that ought to have been devoted to the chase. War for
some years past there had been none.
Sunflower was tall and graceful. She had very black, soft, languishing
eyes—marked, yet delicate eyebrows. Her nose, like that of her tribe,
was Roman, but more delicately marked than that of the men, her teeth
were white and even, her mouth small, and her hair glossy as the raven’s
wing, and darker than the squirrel’s fur. The full and massive club into
which it was tastefully rolled and placed behind the back of her neck,
proved its fullness and redundance. She was elegantly formed. She had
never been a mother, and her nut-brown bosom had all the roundness of
contour of a Venus, and the smoothness of the Parian marble. Her hands
and feet, like those of all her race, were small, and yet there was a
development of her whole person that set all art to improve it at
defiance. Late at night she always bathed in the sweet waters of the
stream, and on its low banks combed the long and luxuriant hair that
overshadowed her person, and with the chewed root of the grape-vine,
added fragrance to her breath, even while she increased the dazzling
whiteness of the teeth she rubbed with it. To crown all the fascinations
of this Indian wife—this favored daughter of a race in which the
interesting and the beautiful are so rarely found, she had a voice whose
every note was laughing music.
There was one in that camp, and of that tribe, who saw the happiness of
White Bear, not with envy, for his nature was too generous for so low a
passion, but with regret that destiny had not given to him the
beautiful, the enchanting Sunflower. He was consumed with the most
ardent love. He lived only in and for her—hung upon her look, fed upon
her glance, and yet he had never spoken to her. His soul melted away
with love for her. To look at her alone was enjoyment the greatest he
could taste. The chase was deserted, his very flute, in which he
excelled, and on which he often played to the great delight of the
admiring Indian girls, was neglected. Not so his dress. No young Saukie
bestowed more pains in decorating his person than did the tall and
gracefully formed Wawandah, and this not from any foolish love of
display, as because he wished to appear favorably in her eyes, should
she ever be induced to regard him. The savage equally with the
civilized, tries to win a woman as much by dress as by address. But in
vain Wawandah courted his toilet. The vermilion was applied to his cheek
and lips without the desired result—the Sunflower never once caught his
eye, or if she did, she was too much engaged in thinking of the White
Bear, to be conscious that any other of her tribe sought to win her
attention.