 | CHAPTER II. The trapper's bride, or, Spirit of adventure |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
As he turned his thoughts backwards
and reviewed the past, all the kindness
of his parents—their ever constant and
active love towards him, rose up before,
and seemed to rebuke his selfish inclinations,
and reproach him that he had
thought so little of their feelings and happiness
in the formation of his plans for
the future. He knew, he felt, how fondly
—how ardently—his parents and sisters
were attached to him, and in the past he
saw how readily they had met and answered
all his wishes, when it could be
done consistently with his welfare; he
felt the force of his father's reasoning
when he had said that it would pain him
to part from him his only son, and in
fancy he realized the grief and sorrow
such a separation would bring to the
heart of his dear mother, and much beloved
sisters; and while these thoughts
came, filling his mind with tender images
and melting reflections, his heart
grew softer, his feelings prevailed, and
he was almost inclined to abandon the
projects he had cherished. But as he
glanced back again to the life he was
leading at home, and thought of the wearisome
hours that dragged their slow length
so tardily along at the store, and as he
contemplated the idle, frivolous, and
heartless manners in which society delighted,
and of which he had become so
heartily tired, he turned once more to
his cherished scheme with a heart kindling
with fresher feelings, and beating
with stronger wishes.
Although the gratification of his love
for the wild sports of the huntsman, and
the novelty of the life he proposed for
himself had a prominent place in the
train of arguments, and was one of the
chief motives that influenced him, yet
there was another and a different reason
for his pursuing such a course; and this,
to his ardent and somewhat imaginative
mind, impulsive in whatever he undertook,
had great weight: it was the condition
and welfare of the Indians.
He had heard much of the wrongs
which had been inflicted upon them by
the whites; but he felt warmly for them,
and it was his purpose to devote much
of his time to them in his wanderings—
his desire to serve them and devise something
for their happiness.
After the conversation we have detailed
above, between father and son, Mr.
Stanley lost no time in communicating it
to his wife. It gave great uneasiness, as
well as occasioned her unaffected surprise.
She could not for a moment believe
that Charles was serious and determined
in this course; but they both
thought best to have a consultation with
their son, and endeavor now while this
project was in its infancy, to root it out
of his mind. Mr. Stanley would not
render his wife more anxious and uneasy
by stating his convictions that Charles
was fixed and strong in his resolution,
but left it to his son to inform her in his
own way, as being best.
Accordingly, the day after the conversation
referred to, his mother requested
him to remain at home with them, as
they wished to converse with him on a
subject important to him. Charles at
once surmised what that subject was,
and readily consented; and although he
had laid his head upon his pillow the
night past with his mind more strongly
as he looked upon his mother and saw
her dear face clouded with anxiety and
thought, he felt if she opposed his wishes
and objected to his leaving home, he
must relinquish them, and remain. She
was his mother—how dear the word to
his ear, what feelings awoke in his heart
at the sound—the thought of it. He
was devotedly attached to his mother,
and she loved him with all a mother's
love, a love stronger than death, that outlives
time, and that nothing can conquer.
He thought of her as the angel who
had watched over his helpless and feeble
infancy, and guided with never sleeping
vigilance his boyish life; into her sympathizing
and ever listening ear he had
poured forth his little troubles and disappointments
that vexed his boyish heart,
and she had comforted and soothed him.
She, too, had been the confidant of all
his youthful plans and schemes, and
throughout all his life her voice of love
and kindness had sounded in his ear.
In all the overflowing tenderness a mother
bears her only son, a mother who now
in his first budding manhood, clung to
him with, if possible, a still stronger
love; and who never parted with him,
even for a few days only, but with pain
and anxiety.
Charles, I said, thought should his
mother oppose his wishes, his heart
would fail him, and he should at once
resign the plan he had so warmly cherished
in his mind. But he had yet to
learn himself. He knew not the strength
of his own character; he would even be
surprised at the resolute, aye, obstinate
tenacity with which he clung to his own
opinions and resolves.
His mother was serious and thoughtful.
Charles thought she looked sad,
and he felt self reproached before she
had spoken a word, as if he had caused
her sadness; but when she spoke a thrill
of feelings ran through his frame. In a
voice tender and full of feeling she said
to him:
“Your father has told me you wished
to leave us, my son, to go away from
your home and friends; he has also detailed
to me your plans as you stated
them to him in your conversation yester
day; and now, Charles, I wish to ask
you if you are really serious in this?
And do you really wish to leave us and
go so far away from home? Are you
not happy with us here? Or is there
anything we can do to make you so?
Oh, my dear son, you do not know, you
cannot know what sorrow, what grief,
the bare idea of your absence from us
causes me! I shall not know a moment's
peace, or enjoy a moment's pleasure, if
you pursue this scheme. I cannot bear
the thought of your going so far away
alone, so far from home, so far from
all who love you and will feel disposed
to render you assistance of need. Why
do you wish to go, my son? You must
have some object in view; something
that you esteem of earnest importance to
yourself, I am persuaded, to induce you
to desire to leave us who love you so
much; and whom we know you in turn
dearly love. What, my dear son, do you
expect to gain by all these sacrifices that
you must make if you carry out your
plans? If we can see anything in them
that will be of benefit to you, and which
you may not better obtain at home, then
you know that however we could desire
you to remain with us, yet shall we
smother our wishes, and willingly assist
you. But from what your father has
told me, I cannot see that it is at all necessary
for you, or even that it will promote
your happiness in the slightest degree.
No, no, Charles, you are mistaken
in your views; and this time, you
have suffered your love of novelty and
curiosity to blind your reason; your imagination
has outstripped your reflection.
Come Charles, now tell me that you do
not wish any longer to leave me, and
that you will give up these plans. I
shall rejoice to hear you say that.”
As his mother ceased speaking, she
looked affectionately upon him, awaiting
his answer to her last appeal to him,
which should be an answer to all the
other questions she had put to him,
Charles, who was sitting by her side,
took her hand in his own, and turning
upon her a glance of affection, replied:
“I should be a most undutiful, most
ungrateful son, nay, more, I must be a
most heartless and unfeeling being, did
mother and father—did I not feel the
strongest attachment to my affectionate
sisters, and fondly prize my happy home.
Such parents and relatives as God has
given me, I feel indeed, are the highest
boon that can be bestowed upon a mortal
creature; friendship—true, pure friendship
in its highest acceptation, is a priceless
gift; and my home—where can
such another be found in the wide world.
Here sympathy, consolation, pleasure,
joy, have always awaited me. I never
expect to find, wherever I may go, other
friends that shall fill your place in my
heart. I desire it not—I know it cannot
be—I never anticipate discovering a
spot, a dwelling in other lands, to which
my heart will cling with the strong feelings,
the delightful associations that bind
me to my own dear home—my father's
and my mother's house. Home, home,
sweet, sweet, home! There is a magic
in the sound of this dear name that bids
my heart to leap with joy, and swell with
fondest emotions. Such an home as
mine too! Here is all that I could ask;
my most extravagant wishes are all here
realized; here is indeed far more than I
can deserve. And that I love you, my
dear mother and father, that I ever have
most deeply loved you, I need not say,
for you well know it. There is nothing
that I would not do within my power of
doing, to gratify and please you; and
should you finally conclude you could
not spare me from home, then shall I relinquish
my project most freely. But if
you should give your assent to my plans,
and I leave you, be assured I shall not
depart without feeling that here I leave
all who are most dear to me on earth;
and ever will my thoughts on swift pinions,
fly back to home and you, until I
come again to dwell once more at home.
“But you ask me, my dear mother,
what motive, what inducement has influenced
me to this course. I do not know
how I can better answer your question,
and give you a correct view of my feelings
and reflections upon this subject,
than by first saying a few words regarding
myself. You well know, my dear
parents, that I have now attained the
age of manhood, that I have but re
cently been acknowledged by the laws
and customs of our land, as my own
master, an active member of the civil
state, a participator in its suffrages,
and also in the duties and burdens
belonging to each individual member
of our great republic. All my life
long, up to this period, has been passed
strictly and emphatically at home; with
only the single exception of that season
which I spent at school some four years
ago, while I was yet a boy. I feel now
as a man and a citizen I have new duties
to perform, new responsibilities and fresh
obligations as a member of this great republic
now devolve on me, which are neither
light nor small; and which, however
neglected and slighted by the many,
are yet deserving of the attention and
respect of all who enjoy them, and in
importance and magnitude are inferior to
no others in the various and diversified
duties of life. It is not the part of a good
and true citizen to lead merely a passive
life, to so conduct himself as not to infringe
its laws and customs. This, it is
true, he should do; but there is more
required of him also. He owes his
hearty and active co-operation to the
work of protecting, and building up the
institutions and regulations that exist in
the land; his relations to government
hold him to a steady and consistent course
of action. Now in order that I may
well discharge these duties and act wisely
my part, I must act understandingly.—
For this reason I am anxious to visit other
parts of the country, to see more of
this land than I otherwise could, or that
I have been enabled yet to do. I am
anxious to learn more of its great interests
and its vast resources; of the sectional
feelings and influences which characterize,
and as it were, separate from the
rest in some respects different parts of
the land. And especially do I wish to
see that portion of the territory held by
this government where live the native
owners, and possessors of the soil.—
When I think of the wrongs of the Indian
race; of the injustice they have received
from the hands of the whites;
when I read of them, that they are rapidly
melting away before the fast and
wide spreading beams of the light of civilization,
and growth of the American people, that
the few who are left of the thousands
who once ranged in freedom through the
wide extent of the vast forests that cover
this continent, and know that they are
suffering the worst evils from their intercourse
with the whites, who call themselves
civilized and christian people, and
that the poor Indian is learning only vice
in its vilest forms from these same people;
that their noble native character is
despoiled of its nobleness, and stripped
of the high and manly qualities which
adorned it in the palmy days of their absolute
and perfect freedom, and now they
are sunk in degradation and sin. When
such a picture as this is presented before
my mind's eye, and thought comes busy
with its questions, its admonitions and
warnings, how deeply I feel that I, that
all the citizens of this republic, have duties,
urgent, stirring duties, and responsibilities,
than which none can be more
weighty, calling upon us to exert ourselves
for their welfare and for the
amelioration of their condition.
“We, as a nation, owe them something
better for this good land—the most of
which we have taken to ourselves, and
from which we have driven, and of which
we have despoiled them. It is my desire,
my dear parents, to visit these wild
natives of the woods at their own homes
—to see them with my own eyes, and to
know by actual observation their real
condition and circumstances—to study
into the causes that are working for
their destruction, and as one would think
from all that is happening to them, their
utter annihilation: and if aught can be
done or devised to stop the tide of ruin
and pollution that is flowing fast and
strong in upon them; if anything can be
done to stay the march of destruction
which keeps pace with the rapid strides
of civilization in this country—nay, I
should have said rather outruns its advance—how
joyfully would I devote myself
to their cause. I would strive with
all my might to awaken my own nation
from the long sleep, the cold apathy, that
encircles them, and buries them in darkest
ignorance with regard to the red
man's condition, while it shuts their
ears to his cries of suffering and misery.
While this glorious, prosperous,
and wealthy nation is sending to distant
parts of the earth its alms and
charities, and bearing to benighted lands
the light of truth that beams so brightly
with us, shall they remain cold in feeling,
totally indifferent to the Indian who
dwells within our own borders, even in
the very midst of us, in this the dark day
of his heavy sorrow and deep affliction?
Shall it be? Ought it to be, that they
alone are forgotten in the acts of mercy;
aye, even in the acts of justice which this
people owe them?
“They have claims, high, holy claims
upon us, as a nation, which we cannot,
which we dare not, dispute or disregard.
As the rightful and just owners of this
land, with its fertile soil, its delightful
climate, which by force we have wrested
from them, we owe them a debt that all
our wealth beside cannot ever pay them.
As a people within our boundaries, we
owe them friendship, and in the time of
their trouble, in the day of their ignorance
and degradation, we owe them assistance
and encouragement. And why
shall we not give it them? A few short
years, and if we continue to treat them
with the cruel contempt, the cold indifference
we are now practicing towards
them, they will have vanished away from
before our eyes, their doom will be forever
sealed, and they blotted out from
among the people and nations of the
earth: and should this come true, who
will answer for them? Upon our heads
will rest the wrong; upon us will fall
the blame, and the fault be charged to our
account. Think you that a just and allseeing
God will suffer us to go forward,
increasing in wealth, and crowned with
all the fruits of prosperity, if we permit,
nay, if we commit such wrong? No,
it cannot be: but his blighting curse will
fall upon us, and wither and destroy us;
his wrath will be poured out upon us
without mercy. As we have dealt with
them, shall we not even so be dealt with
ourselves? Measure for measure, is but
even handed justice, we can ask for no
other: the destroyer in his turn will perish.
A little longer and it will be too late;
fast are they sinking in the deep gulf that
its fatal tide upon them. Faster than
fades the forest trees of their native
home before the busy axe of the forester,
are the red men falling before the axe of
this destroyer, civilization.”
Perhaps the reader may think it strange
that Charles should have spoken in such
a strain at this time to his parents—his
words so like a set speech—but this
wonder will be dispelled at once when
his impulsive, impassioned character is
remembered. It was his wont to speak
warmly upon every topic that interested
him. Charles had at this time spoken
with more than usual feeling and energy,
for his feelings were fully enlisted in his
plans; and while he was speaking to
them, his parents felt their objections
vanishing away, and could not but assent
to what he said. His views were clear
and distinct: they were moreover philanthropic
and christian. They showed
that he possessed a large and active heart,
while his opinions did credit to his intellect.
That he might grow up something
more, something better, than a mere intellectual
reasoner, was ever their fondest
desire. Too often is it the case that
the education of the heart and the moral
powers of men are neglected and disregarded,
for the cultivation of the simple
intellect and reflective powers. And
this arises, probably, from this reason,
that the man of a great brain, and no
heart—or a diminutive, dwarfish one—
is best calculated, and best succeeds, in
ruling and governing his fellow men.—
With him all is the result of careful deliberation
and calculation. He views all
his plans with a cool, clear mind; the
means are chosen, best adapted to secure
the objects he has in his mind's
eye; and he never suffers his feelings
to come between his measures and projected
purposes. The most winning,
soft, and fascinating tone of pleasure's
voice, meets no response in his heart;
her most seductive and enticing charms
in vain display themselves before his vision:
he sees them not. And so too, on
the other hand, the most impressive and
affecting exhibitions of suffering and misery
meet him and are passed by unheeded,
unmarked. He has no ear for sighs
and groans; and human woes that fall
with blighting power and crushing grief
upon other hearts, stir not a feeling in his
heart, or bring a tear to his eye. He
rides right on, over all opposition, and
tramples beneath his feet all obstruction
to the accomplishment of his purposes.
He lives and acts as if there were no
such thing as feeling in the world, as if
joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain, happiness
and grief, were idle, empty terms.
And by means such as these, by a theory
purely selfish and egotistical, which he
carries into practice, he meets success.
He must gain his point: everything in
his path must either bend or break.
But how different the course of the
man whose swelling, active heart is the
ruling power of his mind. Although he
is often more beloved by his fellow men,
and becomes indeed a benefactor to his
race, nevertheless it often happens that
he is inefficient in action, unstable in purpose,
and fickle in his course. Let but
a joyful laugh break upon his ear, or a
sweet song rise upon the air, and it is
sure to find in his heart a ready sympathy,
an answering echo: or does his
wandering gaze meet a falling tear that
grief and sorrow has forced from affliction's
fount, how quick his heart to catch
the sadness, he weeps as if the grief were
all his own: or does his ear catch the
low sound that breathes in a heaved sigh
and rends the bosom of the sufferer with
ill suppressed pain; how quick his pity
flows forth towards the sufferer, and grief
standing ever close at the door of his
heart, knocks aloud for entrance.
In his pursuits he is delayed, and often
entirely defeated, by allowing his feelings
for other's woes, or his participation in
their joys and pleasures to step in between
him and his ends. Time is ever
on the wing; he waits not for him to
administer comfort to the afflicted, or
share and enliven the golden hours of
pleasure that rejoice the gay and merry,
and while he waits at the portal of pleasure,
or steps into the porch of affliction,
his opportunity glides silently and unmarked
forever away.
But there is another character, and one
which we think better describes that of
our young friend Charles. It is that
both of the others we have just mentioned,
and harmonizes them in itself. Its possessor
has both a large and active heart,
and a ready, busy, well developed brain.
To such an one we freely bestow our
love, esteem, and respect; while we are
attracted and attached to him through his
generosity, benevolence and kindness of
disposition, which shine in all his ways,
and adorn with pleasing beauty all his
acts, we at the same time admire and
reverence him for the wisdom he displays
in all his counsels, the prudence
and foresight which distinguish his every
design. While his measures are chosen
with consummate wisdom for the purposes
he has in view, they are framed with
a tender and kind regard for the comfort
and welfare of those with whom he acts.
As yet the character of Charles was not
fully developed and fixed; but such
were the elements that showed themselves
in his composition. They were,
it is true, at present tinged, and in a certain
measure modified by the freshness
and buoyancy of youthful feelings, which
served to throw a shade of romance over
his mind, rendering it perhaps, more imaginative
than practical and commonplace
in its tendencies; faults, if I may
may so call them—though I think they
scarcely deserve that term—which time
and contact with the world are pretty
sure to mend.
He had on this occasion, while speaking
to his parents, said but very little
about the gratification he anticipated, and
expected to derive from the fruition and
enjoyment of longing desires for a forest
life. This was not, however, an intentional
omission on his part. But he
spoke out the feelings of his heart, and
these were the emotions that then occupied
his bosom. And in vindication of
the character of Charles, we must not
neglect to say what we believe we have
not yet any where written, that this purpose
of serving the welfare, and bettering
the condition of the Indian race, was
always, from the first, connected with
the plan he had formed for gratifying his
wish for a wild roving life; and although
it was not the first idea connected with
his scheme, but grew out of and flowed
from the other; yet since it had found a
lodging in his mind, it had ever been uppermost.
His parents were pleased to
find him so generous and charitable in
his feelings, so ready to enlist in the
cause of human happiness, and benevolent
labors.
But, notwithstanding all this, his plan
seemed to them hardly to offer any very
strong hopes of its success. It was a
wide, expansive scheme, and in the execution
of it, would demand great labor.—
Besides, Charles was very young, and
there were many and peculiar obstacles
in the way of a young man, who puts
himself at the head of any new or
great enterprise, or undertaking; or who
attempts to lead society into an unusual
and fresh career of action, or arouse
them to the performance of some neglected
duties; and especially is this the
case if such enterprise call upon them
for exertion or make a demand upon
their pockets.
Charles and his parents now consulted
at length upon the plans he had formed
as regards the course he was to pursue.
The states and cities he proposed to visit
on his route, were enumerated, the length
of time he should spend in each settled,
and last the period, the period fixed when
he should return from his wanderings.
In talking of all these particulars and details;
in asking questions, giving advice,
and counsel, and making various suggestions
upon each point, his parents, almost
without being aware of it, quite fell into
his plans; and when, at the close of
their conversation they separated, it was,
if not fully decided, at least tacitly understood,
that he had gained their consent to
his course—so different a view did his
parents now take of his project. Not as
a passing whim, and indefinite, wild expedition
full of danger to his life, and calculated
to unsettle his mind, did it now
appear to them, but, on the contrary, it
stood boldly out as a grand and noble
design, which was calculated in its results,
to promote the welfare and happiness
of a large, but degraded and much
injured portion of God's rational, accountable
creatures.
And such a labor they believed would
not only redound to the benefit and advantage
clothe him with honor and glory; while
it should also obtain for him the respect
and esteem of the good and the great in
our land. It would dispose his heart
more firmly to cherish those religious
principles, and expand and quicken those
charitable and benevolent feelings which
it had been their early, their constant desire
and endeavor to implant there.
With these convictions in their minds,
they were prepared to give their son their
consent. It was not, however, without
great reluctance on the part of both parents,
and especially on the part of his
mother, that such a conclusion was arrived
at. She felt that under any circumstances,
or for any purpose whatever, it
would be hard for her to part with her
darling son; and she felt almost sorry
that she had allowed herself to be persuaded
to do so. Not only his mother,
but his father too, would have been far
better pleased, had he been contented to
have remained at home. But they were
very indulgent to their children, and revolved
in this instance to yield to his
wishes. And now that it was finally
settled, they busied themselves in preparing
his outfit. All that was necessary,
and that they deemed could comfort
him, was arranged for him, and in the
course of a fortnight from this date, he
was on his way to the far West; having
bid a reluctant and painful farewell to his
fond and loving parents, and affectionate
sisters, and for the first time bid adieu to
the home of childhood and youth, and
the scenes of his happiest hours.
| CHAPTER II. The trapper's bride, or, Spirit of adventure | |