 | CHAPTER VI. The prairie |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
As it were too peregrinate, as I may call it.”
Shakspeare.
The Anglo-American is apt to boast, and not without
a show of reason, that his nation may claim a
descent more truly honourable than that of any other
people whose history is to be credited. Whatever
might have been the weaknesses of the original colonists,
their virtues have rarely been disputed. If
they were superstitious, they were sincerely pious,
and, consequently, honest. The descendants of these
simple and single-minded provincials have been content
to reject the ordinary and artificial means by
which honours have been perpetuated in families,
and have substituted a standard which brings the individual
himself to the ordeal of the public estimation,
paying as little deference as may be to those
who have gone before him. This forbearance, self-denial,
or common sense, or by whatever term it may
be thought proper to distinguish the measure, has
subjected the nation to the imputation of having an
ignoble origin. Were it worth the enquiry, it would
be found that more than a just proportion of the renowned
names of the mother country are, at this
hour, to be found in her ci-devant colonies, and it is
time to become the masters of so unimportant
a subject, that the direct descendants of many a failing
line, which the policy of England has seen fit to
sustain by collateral supporters, are now discharging
the simple duties of citizens in the bosom of our republic.
The hive has remained stationary, and they
who flutter around the venerable straw are wont to
claim the empty distinction of antiquity, regardless
alike of the frailty of their tenement and of the enjoyments
of the numerous and vigorous swarms that
are culling the fresher sweets of a virgin world. But
as this is a subject which belongs rather to the politician
and historian than to the humble narrator of the
home-bred incidents we are about to reveal, we must
confine our reflections to such matters as have an immediate
relation to the subject of the tale.
Although the citizen of the United States may
claim so just an ancestry, he is far from being exempt
from the penalties of his fallen race. Like
causes are well known to produce like effects. That
tribute, which, it would seem nations must ever pay,
by way of a weary probation, around the shrine of
Ceres before they can be indulged in her fullest favours,
is in some measure exacted in America, from
the descendant instead of the ancestor. The march
of civilization with us, has a strong analogy to that of
all coming events, which are known “to cast their
shadows before.” The gradations of society, from
that state which is called refined to that which approaches
as near barbarity as connexion with an intelligent
people will readily allow, are to be traced
from the bosom of the states, where wealth, luxury
and the arts are beginning to seat themselves, to
those distant, and ever-receding borders which mark
the skirts, and announce the approach, of the nation,
as moving mists precede the signs of day.
Here, and here only, is to be found that widely
be at all likened to those who have paved the way
for the intellectual progress of nations, in the old
world. The resemblance between the American
borderer and his European prototype is singular,
though not always uniform. Both might be called
without restraint; the one being above, the other
beyond the reach of the law—brave, because they
were inured to dangers—proud, because they were
independent, and vindictive, because each was the
avenger of his own wrongs. It would be unjust to
the borderer to pursue the parallel much farther.
He is irreligious, because he has inherited the knowledge
that religion does not exist in forms, and his
reason rejects a mockery that his conscience does
not approve. He is not a knight, because he has not
the power to bestow distinctions; and he has not the
power, because he is the offspring and not the parent
of a system. In what manner these several qualities
are exhibited, in some of the most strongly marked
of the latter class, will be seen in the course of the
ensuing narrative.
Ishmael Bush had passed the whole of a life of
more than fifty years on the skirts of society. He
boasted that he had never dwelt where he might not
safely fell every tree he could view from his own
threshold; that the law had rarely been known to
enter his clearing, and that his ears had never willingly
admitted the sound of a church bell. His exertions
seldom exceeded his wants, which were peculiar
to his class, and rarely failed of being supplied. He
had no respect for any learning except that of the
leech; because he was ignorant of the application
of any other intelligence, than such as met the
senses. His deference to this particular branch of
science had induced him to listen to the application
of a medical man, whose thirst for natural history
had led him to the desire of profiting by the migratory
had cordially received into his family, or rather under
his protection, and they had journeyed together,
thus far through the prairies, in perfect harmony:
Ishmael often felicitating his wife on the possession
of a companion, who would be so serviceable in their
new abode, wherever it might chance to be, until the
family were thoroughly “acclimated.” The pursuits
of the naturalist frequently led him, however,
for days at a time, from the direct line of the route
of the squatter, who rarely seemed to have any other
guide than the sun. Most men would have deemed
themselves fortunate to have been absent on the
perilous occasion of the Sioux inroad, as was Obed
Bat, (or as he was fond of hearing himself called,
Battius) M. D. and fellow of several cis-atlantic
learned societies—the adventurous gentleman in
question.
Although the sluggish nature of Ishmael was not
actually awakened, it was sorely pricked by the liberties
which had just been taken with his property.
He slept, however, for it was the hour he had allotted
to that refreshment, and because he knew how
impotent any exertions to recover his effects must
prove in the darkness of midnight. He also knew
the danger of his present situation too well, to hazard
what was left, in pursuit of that which was lost.
Much as the inhabitants of the prairies were known
to love horses, their attachment to many other articles,
still in the possession of the travellers, was
equally well understood. It was a common artifice
to scatter the herds, and profit by the confusion. But,
Mahtoree, had it would seem in this particular, undervalued
the acuteness of the man he had assailed.
The phlegm with which the squatter learned his loss,
has already been seen, and it now remains to exhibit
the results of his more matured determinations.
Though the encampment contained many an eye
greedily to catch the faintest evidence of any new
alarm, it lay in deep quiet during the remainder of
the night. Silence and fatigue finally performed their
accustomed offices, and before the morning all but
the sentinels were again buried in sleep. How well
these indolent watchers performed their duties, after
the assault, has never been known, inasmuch as
nothing occurred to confirm or disprove their subsequent
vigilance.
Just as day, however, began to dawn, and a gray
light was falling from the heavens, on the dusky objects
of the plain, the half startled, anxious and yet
blooming countenance of Ellen Wade was reared
above the confused mass of children, among whom
she had clustered on her stolen return to the camp
Arising warily she stepped lightly across the recumbent
bodies, and proceeded with the same caution to
the utmost limits of the defences of Ishmael. Here,
she listened, as though she doubted the propriety of
venturing further. The pause was only momentary,
however; and long before the drowsy eyes of the
sentinel, who overlooked the spot where she stood,
had time to catch a glimpse of her active form, it
had glided along the bottom and stood on the summit
of the nearest eminence.
Ellen now listened long and intently to hear some
other sound, than the breathing of the morning air,
which faintly rustled the herbage at her feet. She
was about to turn in disappointment from the inquiry,
when the sound of human feet making their way
through the matted grass met her ear. Springing
eagerly forward, she soon beheld the outlines of a
figure advancing up the eminence, on the side opposite
to the camp, as though it had caught the view of
her own person drawn against the heavens. She had
already uttered the name of Paul, and was beginning
to speak in the hurried and eager voice with
drawing back, the disappointed girl closed her salutation
by coldly adding:
“I did not expect, Doctor, to meet you at this unusual
hour.”
“All hours and all seasons are alike, my good
Ellen, to the genuine lover of nature”—returned a
small, slightly made, but exceedingly active man,
dressed in an odd mixture of cloth and skins, a little
past the middle age, who advanced directly to her
side, with the familiarity of an old acquaintance;
“and he who does not know how to find things to
admire by this gray light, is ignorant of a large portion
of the blessings he enjoys.”
“Very true,” said Ellen, suddenly recollecting the
necessity of accounting for her own appearance
abroad at that unseasonable hour, “I know many
who think the earth has a pleasanter look in the
night, than when seen by the brightest sunshine.”
“Ah! Their organs of sight must be too convex.
But the man who wishes to study the active habits
of the feline race, or the variety, albinos, must be
stirring at this hour. I dare say, there are men who
prefer even looking at objects by twilight, for the
simple reason, that they see better at that time of
the day.”
“And is this the cause why you are so much
abroad in the night?”
“I am abroad at night, my good girl, because the
earth in its diurnal revolutions leaves the light of the
sun but half the time on any given meridian, and because
what I have to do cannot be performed in
twelve or fifteen consecutive hours. Now have I
been off two days from the family, in search of a
plant, that is known to exist on the tributaries of La
Platte, without seeing even a blade of grass that is
not already enumerated and classed.”
“You have been unfortunate, Doctor, but—”
“Unfortunate!” echoed the little man, sideling
nigher to his companion, and producing his tablets
with an air in which exultation struggled, strangely,
with an affectation of self abasement. “No, no, Ellen,
I am any thing but unfortunate. Unless, indeed
a man may be so called, whose fortune is made,
whose fame may be said to be established for ever,
whose name will go down to posterity with that of
Buffon—Buffon! a mere compiler; one who flourishes
on the foundation of other men's labours. No;
pari passu with Solander, who bought his knowledge
with pain and privations!”
“Have you discovered a mine, Doctor Bat?”—
“More than a mine; a treasure coined, and fit for
instant use, girl—Listen! I was making the angle
necessary to intersect the line of your uncle's march,
after my fruitless search, when I heard sounds like
the explosion produced by fire arms—”
“Yes,” exclaimed Ellen eagerly, “we had an
alarm—”
“And thought I was lost,” continued the man of
science, too much bent on his own ideas, to understand
her interruption. “Little danger of that. I
made my own base, knew the length of the perpendicular
by calculation, and to draw the hypothenuse
had nothing to do but to work my angle. I supposed
the guns were fired for my benefit, and changed my
course for the sounds—not that I think the senses
more accurate, or even as accurate as a mathematical
calculation, but I feared, that some of the children
might need my services.”
“They are all happily—”
“Listen;” interrupted the other, already forgetting
his affected anxiety for his patients, in the greater
importance of the present subject. “I had crossed
a large tract of prairie—for sound is conveyed far
where there is little obstruction—when I heard the
trampling of feet, as though bisons were beating the
quadrupeds, rushing up and down the swells—animals,
which would have still remained unknown and
undescribed, had it not been for a most felicitous accident!
One, and he a noble specimen of the whole,
was running a little apart from the rest. The herd
made an inclination in my direction, in which the
solitary animal coincided, and this brought him within
fifty yards of where I stood. I profited by the
opportunity, and by the aid of my steel and taper, I
wrote his description on the spot. I would have
given a thousand dollars, Ellen, for a single shot from
the rifle of one of the boys!”
“You carry a pistol, Doctor, why didn't you use
it?” said the half inattentive girl, anxiously examining
the prairie, but still lingering where she stood,
quite willing to be detained.
“Ay, but it carries itself nothing but the most
minute particles of lead, adapted to the destruction
of the larger insects and reptiles. No, I did better
than to attempt waging a war, in which I could not be
the victor. I recorded the event; noting each particular
with the precision necessary to science. You
shall hear, Ellen; for you are a good and improving
girl, and by retaining what you learn in this way,
may yet be of great service to learning, should any
accident occur to me. Indeed, my worthy Ellen,
mine is a pursuit, which has its dangers as well as
that of the warrior. This very night,” he continued,
glancing his eye, involuntarily behind him, “this awful
night, has the principle of life, itself, been in
great danger of extinction!”
“By what?”
“By the monster I have discovered. It approached
me often, and ever as I receded, it continued
to advance. I believe nothing but the little lamp, I
carried, was my protector. I kept it between us,
whilst I wrote, making it serve the double purpose
character of the beast, and you may then judge of
the risk we promoters of science run in behalf of
mankind.”
The naturalist now raised his tablets to the heavens
and disposed himself to read as well as he could,
by the dim light they yet shed upon the plain; premising
with saying—
“Listen, girl, and you shall hear, with what a
treasure it has been my happy lot to enrich the
pages of natural history!”
“Is it then a creature of your forming,” said
Ellen, turning away from her fruitless examination,
with a sudden lighting of her sprightly blue eyes,
that shewed she knew how to play with the foible of
her learned companion.
“Is the power to give life to inanimate matter the
gift of man? I would it were! You should speedily
see a Historia naturalis Americana, that would put
the sneering imitators of the Frenchman de Buffon
to shame! A great improvement might be made in
the formation of all quadrupeds in particular; especially
those, in which velocity is a virtue. Two of
the inferior limbs should be on the principle of the
lever; wheels, perhaps, as they are now formed;
though I have not yet determined whether the improvement
might be better applied to the anterior or
posterior members, inasmuch as I am yet to learn
whether dragging or shoving requires the greatest
muscular exertion. A natural exudation of the animal
might assist in overcoming the friction, and a
powerful momentum be obtained. But all this is
hopeless—at least for the present!”—he added, with
a slight sigh, raising his tablets again to the light and
reading aloud; “Oct. 6, 1805, that's merely the
date, which I dare say you know better than I—mem.
Quadruped; seen by star-light, and by the aid of a
Journal for Latitude and Meridian. Genus—unknown:
therefore named after the discoverer, and
from the happy coincidence of being seen in the
evening—Vespertilio Horribilis, Americanus. Dimensions
(by estimation)—Greatest length, eleven feet;
height, six feet; head, erect; nostrils, expansive:
eyes, expressive and fierce; teeth, serrated and abundant;
tail, horizontal, waving and slightly feline; feet,
large and hairy; talons, long, curvated, dangerous;
ears, inconspicuous; horns, elongated, diverging and
formidable; colour, plumbeous-ashy with fiery spots;
voice, sonorous, martial and appalling; habits, gregarious,
carnivorous, fierce and fearless. There,” exclaimed
Obed, when he had ended this sententious
but comprehensive description, “there is an animal
, which will be likely to dispute with the lion his title
to be called the king of the beasts!”
“I know not the meaning of all you have said,
Doctor Battius,” returned the quick-witted girl, who
understood the weakness of the philosopher, and
often indulged him with a title he loved so well to
hear, “but I shall think it dangerous to venture far
from the camp, if such monsters are prowling over
the prairies.”
“You may well call it prowling,” returned the
naturalist, nestling still closer to her side, and dropping
his voice to such low and perhaps undignified
tones of confidence as possibly conveyed a meaning
still more pointed than he had intended. “I have
never before experienced such a trial of the nervous
system; there was a moment I acknowledge, when
the fortiter in re faltered before so terrible an enemy;
but the love of natural science bore me up, and
brought me off in triumph!”
“You speak a language so different from that we
use in Tennessee,” said Ellen, struggling to conceal
your meaning. If I am right, you wish to say
you were a little chicken-hearted.”
“An absurd simile drawn from an ignorance of the
formation of the biped. The heart of a chicken has
a just proportion to its other organs, and the domestic
fowl is, in a state of nature, a gallant bird. “Ellen,”
he added with a countenance so solemn as to
produce an impression on the attentive girl, “I was
pursued, hunted, and in a danger that I scorn to
dwell on—what's that?”
Ellen started; for the earnestness and simple sincerity
of her companion's manner had produced a
certain degree of credulity even on her buoyant
mind. Looking in the direction indicated by the
Doctor, she beheld, in fact, a beast coursing over the
prairie, and making a straight and rapid approach to
the very spot they occupied. The day was not yet
far enough advanced to enable her to distinguish its
form and character, though enough was discernible
to induce her to imagine it a fierce and savage
animal.
“It comes, it comes!” exclaimed the Doctor,
fumbling, by a sort of instinct, for his tablets, while
he fairly tottered on his feet under the powerful efforts
he made to maintain his ground. “Now, Ellen,
has fortune given me an opportunity to correct the
errors made by star-light,—hold,—ashy-plumbeous,
—no ears,—horns, excessive.”—His quivering voice
and shaking hand were both arrested by a roar, or
rather a shriek from the beast, that was sufficiently
terrific to appal even a stouter heart than that of the
naturalist. The cries of the animal passed over the
prairie in strange and savage cadences, and then succeeded
a deep and solemn silence, that was only broken
by a heart-felt and uncontrolled fit of merriment
from the more musical voice of Ellen Wade. In
the mean time the naturalist stood like a statue of
whose approach he no longer offered his boasted
shield of light, to smell about his person, without
comment or hindrance.
“It is your own ass!” cried Ellen, the instant she
found breath for words; “your own patient, hard
working, hack!”
The Doctor rolled his eyes wildly from the beast
to the speaker, and from the speaker to the beast;
but gave no audible expression of his wonder.
“Do you refuse to know an animal that has laboured
so long in your service!” continued the still
laughing girl. “A beast, that I have heard you say
a thousand times, has served you well, and whom
you loved like a brother!”
“Asinus domesticus!” ejaculated the Doctor,
drawing his breath like one who had been near suffocation.
“There is no doubt of the genus; and I
will always maintain that the animal is not of the
species equus. This is undeniably Asinus himself,
Ellen Wade; but this is not the Vespertilio horribilis
of the prairies! Very different animals, I can assure
you, young woman, and differently characterised in
every important particular. That, carnivorous,” he
continued, glancing his eye at the open page of his
tablets; “this, granivorous; habits, fierce, dangerous;
habits, patient, abstemious; ears, inconspicuous;
ears, elongated; horns, diverging, etc. horns,
none!”
He was interrupted by another burst of merriment
from Ellen, which served, in some measure, to recall
him to his recollection.
“The image of the Vespertilio was on the retina,”
the astounded enquirer into the secrets of nature observed,
in a manner that seemed a little apologetic,
“and I was silly enough to mistake my own faithful
beast for the monster? Though even now I greatly
marvel to see the animal running at large!”
Ellen then proceeded to explain, in detail, the history
of the attack and its results. She described,
with an accuracy that might have raised suspicions
of her own movements in the mind of one less simple
than her auditor, the manner in which the beasts
burst out of the encampment and the headlong speed
with which they had dispersed themselves over the
open plain. Although she forbore to say as much in
terms, she so managed as to present before the eyes
of her listener the strong probability of his having
mistaken the frightened drove for savage beasts, and
then terminated her account by a lamentation for
their loss, and some very natural remarks on the
helpless condition in which it had left the family.
The naturalist listened in silent wonder, neither interrupting
her narrative nor suffering a single exclamation
of surprise to escape him. The keen-eyed
girl, however, saw that as she proceeded, the important
leaf was torn from the tablets, in a manner
which shewed that their owner had got rid of his
delusion at the same instant. From that moment
the world has heard no more of the Vespertilio horribilis
Americanus, and the natural sciences have
irretrievably lost an important link in that great
animated chain which is said to connect earth and
heaven, and in which man is thought to be so familiarly
complicated with the monkey.
When Dr. Batt was put in full possession of all
the circumstances of the inroad, his concern immediately
took a different direction. He had left sundry
folios, and certain boxes well stored with botanical
specimens and defunct animals, under the good
keeping of Ishmael, and it immediately struck his
acute mind, that marauders as subtle as the Siouxes
would never neglect the opportunity to despoil him
of these treasures. Nothing that Ellen could say to the
contrary served to appease his apprehensions, and,
consequently, they separated; he to relieve his doubts
silently as she had just before passed it, into the still
and solitary tent.
| CHAPTER VI. The prairie | |