 | THE NEW MOON.
A TRADITION OF THE OMAWHAWS. The wilderness and the war path |  |
THE NEW MOON.
A TRADITION OF THE OMAWHAWS.
Far up the Missouri River, where the shores of that turbid
stream are bounded by interminable prairies, the traveller sees
the remains of a village of the Maha Indians.[1]
The former inhabitants,
obeying a law of their erratic nature, have removed to
some spot still more distant from the habitations of the white men,
and better supplied with game. Nothing remains of them, but
those vestiges which man, however poor or savage, always leaves
behind him, to attest his superiority, even in his simplest state,
over the brute of the forest.
The ruin is extensive, and of recent date. The naked poles,
that once supported the frail lodges, are still standing scattered
over the plain, and the blackened embers lie in heaps upon the
deserted fire-places. The area which was once trodden hard by
human feet, is now covered with a beautiful carpet of short, luxuriant
blue grass, a sort of demi-civilized variety of grass, that
will not grow in the wilderness where only brutes do congregate,
but ever springs up near the habitations of man, flourishes round
his ruined mansion long after his departure, and clothes with verdure
the grave in which his body reposes.
The council house, where the warriors met to recount their victories,
or to plan their hostile excursions, where the agent from the
great nation of whites opened his budget, and the trader displayed
his wares, where the preacher and the pedlar were alike hospitably
smoked and welcomed—is entirely destroyed, and its remains
are only distinguished from those of the other lodges, by their
larger dimensions and central situation. Here too is seen crumbling
all the glory of paint and feathers—where the war-song was sung
—where the buffalo dance has frequently been witnessed—and
where masques and dramas have been performed, which were as
fashionable in their day and generation, and quite as edifying, as
the Italian opera, or the lecture on newly-invented sciences, of
more refined communities. This was the scene of degradation
and suffering to many an unhappy prisoner, where the most severe
tortures that ingenious hatred could invent, were endured
with the patience of the martyr, and the exulting captive dispatched
to the spirit-land, in the most placid conviction of his own manhood,
and of having earned a clear title to a good name in this
world, and a blissful existence in the happy hunting grounds of
the world to come.
The village was bounded on one side by the Missouri, whose
bold surface, discoloured by the earthy substances with which it
loads itself in its violent career, swept along the base of the bluff
bank; and on another, by a deep lagoon, an expanse of clear
water, fed by a creek, and filled with aquatic plants, which shot
up luxuriantly from its oozy bottom, spreading their broad leaves
over the placid pool, and decorating the scene with flowers of exquisite
hue and perfume. In front, an illimitable prairie, covered
with its verdant and flowery carpet, presented a long undulating
line of horizon to the eye. The whole town was surrounded
by a palisade, now entirely destroyed, beyond which were the
corn-fields, where the women practised their rude agriculture, and
which furnished a scanty subsistence to this improvident people
during the gloom of winter.
The spot has been some time deserted, though hundreds of
miles still intervene between it and the most advanced settlement
of the white people. For the blight of the white man often precedes
him, and the Indian recoils instinctively, even before he
has actually suffered by contact with the race which has disturbed
his fathers. The shadow of the white man falls before him, and
the Indian, chilled by his approach, sorrowfully abandons the
graves of his fathers, and seeks a new home in some wilderness
less accessible to the footstep of the stranger.
The traveller pauses at such a place, to indulge that pensive
deserted habitations of man. How sacred is the spot which a human
being has consecrated by making it his home! With what
awe do we tread over the deserted threshold, and gaze upon the
dilapidated wall! The feeling is the same in kind, however it
may differ in degree, whether we survey the crumbling ruins of
a castle, or the miserable relics of a hamlet. The imagination
loves to people the desolated scene, to picture the deeds of its former
inhabitants, to revive the employments of those who now
slumber in the tomb. The hearth-stone which once glowed with
heat, is now cold, and the silence of death is brooding over that
spot which was once the seat of festivity—the scene of life and
action. Here the warrior trod, in the pride of manhood, arrayed
in martial panoply, and bent on schemes of plunder and revenge.
Here stood the orator and the hoary seer. Here were witnessed
the sports of youth, and the gossip of old age. The maiden was
here in the modest garb of youthful loveliness, listening with affected
indifference, to the voice of adulation, or laughing away the
hours with the careless joy of young hilarity; the wife was surrounded
by the maternal cares, and the burthens of domestic life;
and the child sported in boisterous mirth. Yes—it is the same
feeling; few and simple as are the incidents of savage life, humble
and sordid as his employments may seem, the wretched wigwam
of the poor Indian is as much his home, as the palace of the
Roman senator; and though the ruins of the one, from their superior
magnificence, may excite more curiosity than the relics of
the other, the shadow that rests upon the heart, as we linger among
either, is equally induced by sympathy for the fallen fortunes of
those who once flourished and are now fallen. It is difficult to
analyze the sentiment of awe, with which we see the evidences
of desolation, and repeat of a strange people, that “the places which
knew them once, know them no more forever.” Men are callous
to the sufferings of the living, but few tread with indifference over
the ashes of the dead, or view with insensibility the relics of ancient
days.
All are gone. Some are banished, and others, as the Scripture
beautifully expresses it, are not; the graves of the dead may be
faintly discerned in the neglected fields, but the foot-prints of those
green sward, and the deserted streets. It is thus with Nineveh
and Babylon; it is thus with the strong castles of feudal Europe.
The record of what they once were, lives in song and history; romance
has gathered a few fragments, and entwined about them
the fabulous creations of genius; but the eye of the spectator,
seeking the traces of a vanished reality, finds only the ruins of
mouldered edifices, and the bones of the unconscious dead.
Although we may find in such scenes little to satisfy a laudable
curiosity, we still linger among them with mournful pleasure.
There is something remarkably exciting in the contrast between
the past and the present. Nothing seizes the imagination more
suddenly, or more strongly, than a vivid exhibition of death or
desolation, contrasted with possession, and life, and loveliness.
All that once was, is gone, or is changed. We repose secure,
surrounded by solitude and peace, where the warrior once stood
at bay, and where danger beat against the ramparts, as the waves
dash against the rock-bound shore. Where there was life once,
we stand in the midst of death. The abodes of those who once
lived are deserted, and an awful silence prevails. The reptile
and the wild beast have taken possession of the spot formerly occupied
by the social circle. The weed and the brier cover the
dilapidated hearth-stone, and conceal the long-forgotten grave.
As we gaze at these things a feeling of sympathy is awakened
in favour of the departed inhabitant; however unamiable his character,
however fierce or wicked he may have been, the blast of
desolation has passed over him, and the heart spontaneously yields
its forgiveness to those sins and errors that have been punished,
and the consequences of which sleep in the tomb with aggressor
and the victim. We think of ourselves, and of those who are
dear to us. We too shall sleep—our habitations shall be given
to the stranger, or be swept away by the hand of time, our bodies
shall be dust, and our spirits vanish from the sphere of human
life.
We are growing serious. Let us return to the village, and tell
our tale, lest the reader think us prosy. It was, in days past, a
pleasant spot, to those who could find pleasure in the savage
state. The Mahas dwelt here for five months in the year, which
women in cultivating corn and beans for their subsistence in the
winter, and in dressing the skins of beasts taken in the chase.
The girls followed their mothers to the field, while the boys were
trained to manly deeds by racing, fighting each other, and transfixing
birds, bull-frogs, and small quadrupeds. During the rest
of the year they wandered over those wide plains where the buffalo
grazes, and the deer and elk are found; spending the whole
time in hunting and feasting when the game was abundant, and in
toil and starvation when it was not plentiful.
They were often engaged in war. The Saukies, a warlike
tribe, were their enemies, and the fierce Sioux bands often harassed
them. But they continued for years to elude their foes,
during the hunting season, by vigilance, by rapid marches, and
painful retreats; and to defend the village from assault, by their
watchfulness in discovering the approach of danger, or their
courage in repelling it, during the short interval of repose allowed
them, while their corn was growing.
Many miles below the town, at a very conspicuous point on the
shore of the Missouri, is a small mound which covers the mortal
remains of Washinggasaba, or the Blackbird, a celebrated chief,
who died some years ago, at this spot, on his way home. According
to his own wish, he was interred, in a sitting posture, on
his favourite horse, upon the summit of a high bluff bank of the
Missouri, “that he might continue to see the pale faces ascending
the river to trade with the Omawhaws.” A hillock of earth
was raised over the grave, on which food was regularly placed
for several years afterwards, by his obedient people. But this
rite has been discontinued. We know not how long a spirit requires
to be fed: but it seems that there is a limit, beyond which
it is not necessary for the living to furnish aliment to the dead.
A staff, supporting a white flag, that marked to the eye of the
traveller the site of this solitary tomb, and called for a tribute of
respect to the memory of one whom his people delighted to honour,
stood here a notable land-mark for some years, but is no longer in
existence.[2]
The Blackbird was a person of singular capacity, and the
of will, which obtained for him the mastery of other minds, and
gave him absolute power over those around him. They honoured
his talents, not his virtues. Though an able, he was a repulsive
man. He possessed an extraordinary genius, which enabled
him to sway the multitude, and gain them over to his purposes,
but not to enlist their affections. They clung to him with devoted
fidelity—followed, served, and obeyed, with a superstitious obedience,
which bound them to his person, but which was not love.
He ruled his tribe with arbitrary power, and permitted none to
share, or to dispute, his authority. He had acquired the reputation
of a great medicine man, who was supposed to wield a mysterious
influence over the lives of others, and the nation stood in
awe of him, as the supreme arbiter of their fate. Whenever he
prophesied the death of an individual, the event ensued with unerring
certainty; and those who counteracted his views, who disobeyed
his counsel, or in any manner incurred his displeasure,
were removed agreeably to his predictions, and apparently by the
operation of his spells. No absolute monarch ever swayed a
more potent sceptre. He possessed the power that the tyrant of
imperial Rome could only wish for.
Such a mysterious, dreadful influence, quelled the wild spirit
of the Maha warrior, who stood submissive, awed into silent reverence,
in the presence of the despotic chief, and trembled even
in his absence, if a rebellious thought spontaneously swelled his
bosom. He was regarded as the friend of the Great Spirit; and
it was thought that the Omawhaws were particularly honoured in
having so remarkable a personage placed at the helm of their
affairs. Many were the victims of his ambition. Whenever his
keen dark eye fell in displeasure on one of his subjects, and the
blighting prophesy was uttered, the unhappy victim from that instant
bore a charmed life; he sickened, withered away, and sunk
rapidly to the grave. But the power of the chief continued undiminished
to the last; and the white people alone believed that
they had discovered the dreadful secret of his influence over life
and mind—a secret which even they dared scarcely whisper to
each other. Such is arbitrary power—gained by long years of
toil, and held up by painful watchfulness and sanguinary rule,
terms!
To the American traders, who were induced by the enterprising
spirit of traffic to visit that remote region, the crafty chief
was probably indebted for his dangerous power. It is supposed
that they supplied him secretly with the most subtle drugs, which
he used so artfully, that even they who furnished them, and thus
courted his favour, by a sacrifice of principle most incredibly
atrocious, remained uncertain whether he administered them directly
as poisons, or employed them in the horrid rites of magic.
Certain it is, that although capricious towards all others, he protected
and countenanced the traders with unwavering friendship.
He was true to them, and to the white people in general, under
all changes of fortune or of temper; and there is always reason
to suspect that a mutual kindness of long continuance, between
parties so politic and selfish, is produced only by reciprocal advantage.
It is said that while he compelled the traders to yield
up to him gratuitously a portion of their goods, he obliged his
people to purchase the remainder at exorbitant prices, so that the
trader lost nothing by his rapacity. The Blackbird was a savage,
who did not pretend to any civilization whatever, yet he seems
to have made commendable advances in social refinement, and to
have imitated very closely the most polished nations, in his political
economy.
He delighted in the display of his power, and seemed on some
occasions to exert authority for no other purpose than to show that
he possessed it. One day, during a great national hunt in which
all the tribe engaged, and which was conducted with the discipline
of a warlike expedition, they arrived, fatigued and thirsty,
at the brink of a flowing stream. They had been travelling over
plains exposed to the sun, and destitute of water; and the sight
of a clear rivulet of refreshing coolness filled the party with joy.
But, although all were parched with thirst, the chief, to their astonishment,
permitted none to drink but a white man, who happened
to be in their company. He gave no reason for his conduct—a
cold, peremptory mandate announced his will, and a
sullen, though implicit obedience, attested the despotic nature of
his command over his submissive followers. The painted braves,
murmured at an unjust order, which, although it seemed the result
of caprice, was probably intended to try their discipline, and
to accustom them to obey without question.
There was one that loved him, and towards whom his stern
features sometimes relaxed into a smile of kindness. One of our
most popular writers—a lady whose own affections are so pure
and refined as to enable her to describe with peculiar grace and
felicity the gentler emotions of the heart—has drawn so true a
picture of the love of a father for a daughter, that I shall not venture
to dwell on “this development of affection.” Even the callous
savage felt it. He who had no tear nor smile for any other
human being, was softened into a feeling akin to love, towards
one gentle creature. He had a daughter called Menae, or the
New Moon, who was the most beautiful woman of the tribe. The
Indian women are usually short and ungraceful. It is with reluctance,
of course, that we give our testimony against them;
the use of bear's oil as an unguent, and the eccentric habit of
riding astride, may have prejudiced us, so that we do them injustice;
but historical truth requires us to say that we think
them far from attractive. Our heroine was an exception. She
had a face and figure of which any European lady might have
been vain. She was taller and fairer than the rest of the Omawhaw
maidens, and towered above them as her father did above
the men. Her complexion was so light as to be nearly pure,
and the blush glowed on her cheek when she spoke. Her figure
was beautifully rounded, and her limbs of exquisite proportion.
But her superiority was that only of stature and womanly grace;
she claimed no observance as a tribute to rank, nor made any
ostentatious display of her beauty. Her appropriate and euphonious
name was given, not merely on account of the mild brilliancy
of her charms, but in reference also to the sweetness of
disposition which rendered her an universal favourite, and caused
her to be received at all times, and in every company, with a
complacency similar to that with which we welcome the first appearance
of the luminary of the night.
Beauty always exerts an influence, for good or evil, upon the
softer sex. No woman grows to maturity unconscious of a possession,
which raises her above her own sex, and gives her a transcendent
mastery over the affections of man. A beautiful woman possesses
a power, which, combined with an amiable deportment, and
directed by honourable principle, is more efficient than wealth or
genius. No man was ever formed with a heart so callous as to
be insensible to its magic influence. It is a talisman as potent as
the lamp of Aladdin, in the hands of one who uses it with modesty
and spirit; but a deadly curse in the possession of a weak or
vicious woman.
The destiny of a beautiful girl, is usually coloured by the
possession of this fascinating treasure. It makes her the centre
of a sphere, and creates an atmosphere around her. It has a
controlling influence upon the formation of her character, which
elevates her above, or sinks her below, her companions. The
heartless beauty who lives for conquest, becomes the most insensible
of her sex. Neglecting the appropriate graces, and solid
accomplishments, which throw so many pure and hallowed fascinations
around the sweet companion of man, she soon learns to
feel the want, and to supply the absence, of womanly attractions,
by artificial blandishments. Almost unconsciously she becomes
artful, stoops to the meauest artifices of cunning and malice, and
lives in a corrupted atmosphere of deception. The time soon
arrives when the beautiful flower which attracted admiration
withers,—and the stem which bore it is found to be composed of
a common and worthless material.
But where the mind is sound, and the heart pure, beauty elevates
the character of the woman. The admiration which she
receives, even in childhood, softens her affections, stimulates her
latent ambition, and gives her the dignity of self-approbation.
The glance and the tone of gallantry, with which she is addressed,
awakens the responsive sentiment, gives tone and grace to her
manners, and brings out the energy of her mind. She feels her
power, and assumes the dignity of her sex. A womanly tenderness
and grace is seen in all her actions. Accustomed to admiration,
she realizes that homage which poets feign as the heritage
of her sex; and her brain is not turned by the idle breath of
unmeaning compliment. Confident in her powers of pleasing, she
to the maiden state, and scorns to use any allurement to
extort those attentions to which she feels she is entitled. Thus it
is that beauty gives power to vice, and strength and gracefulness
to virtue.
It is also true, that the possession of beauty is apt to improve
those exterior graces, which are so important in women as to be
almost virtues, though in fact they seem to involve but little moral
responsibility. Neatness, affability, and politeness are indispensable
requisites in the female character. The knowledge that we
possess an enviable quality stimulates to its improvement. The
woman who discovers in herself the power of pleasing, is apt to
cultivate that which produces an effect so gratifying to herself,
and so agreeable to others. Her ingenuity is quickened by encouragement.
As the man who has a capital to build upon, is
more apt to husband his resources, and to aim at great wealth,
than he who having nothing to begin with has no expectation of
accumulating a fortune—so the beauty has a capital, which encourages
her to look forward to a desirable position in society,
and induces her to study neatness, grace, and propriety.
I know not whether this philosophy holds good among the belles
and beauties of the Maha tribe; I am sure that as things go in
our own land, I am not far from the orthodox creed in respect to
this delicate matter. Of one thing, however, there is no doubt:
Menae was not only the most beautiful of the Omawhaws, but
she seemed to feel the consciousness of her advantage, and to
improve it with a skill, of which the unenlightened heathen
around her had no idea. It might have been because she was the
daughter of the head chief—or because she inherited a portion of
her father's talents—but I am inclined to think it was because she
was remarkably handsome. It will be perceived that I am high
church in my principles as regards beauty. For one or all of
these reasons, she was more neat in her dress, more graceful in
her carriage, more sedate and modest in her conduct, more dignified
and altogether more lady-like, after the manner of the
Omawhaws, than any other young lady of that primitive nation—
all which I am ready to verify.
Among the western Indians, girls are usually betrothed at a
any engagement. Great men sometimes disregard national usages
which interfere with their personal convenience, and the politic
chief of the Mahas might have kept his daughter free from any
engagement, in order to be at full liberty to make for her the best
match which his situation might command. And it is not unlikely
that the awe in which the chief was held, by the general belief
in his supernatural power, may have kept the other fathers of the
tribe at a distance, or have induced a doubt in their minds
whether a near alliance with their dreaded leader was desirable.
Such, however, was the fact; she grew to womanhood as free as
the antelope of her native prairie.
Menae had now reached her sixteenth year, and the young
braves began to look towards her as an object of peculiar attraction.
In her presence they reined up their horses, involuntarily
seeking to display the action of their steeds, and their own horsemanship—or
urged their canoes over the eddying waves of the
Missouri, with redoubled vigour. Some of them improved vastly
in the labours of the toilet, adorned their faces with an unusual
quantity of red paint, and their necks with the claws of bears—
and hung all sorts of glittering and gristly ornaments about their
persons. Others exhibited the scalps of their enemies slain in
battle, with more than ordinary ostentation; and the trophies torn
from slaughtered foes became quite the fashion. They did not
get to the exquisite refinement of wearing beards and mustaches
—for the Mahas are a barbarous people, and the beautiful art of
transforming the human face into the resemblance of those of the
bear and the billy-goat, had not yet travelled so far West. They
did all they could, to look fierce, and captivating—but all in vain.
The New Moon moved gracefully in her orbit, shedding her
beams alike on all, and not distinguishing any with particular
marks of her approbation.
More than a year previous to the time at which our tale commences,
a young trader had arrived at the Maha village. Naturally
sagacious and expert in business, he soon became acquainted
with the customs of the tribe, and acquired the confidence of
the people. His appearance was prepossessing, his look was bold
and manly, his speech prompt and frank, yet cautious and respectful.
the more discriminating braves designated him as the wise stranger.
He was one of the very numerous and successful class, who
are chiefly distinguished for their faculty for getting along in the
world, but who, in consequence of the possession of this one quality,
receive credit for many others. Calm, mild, with an agreeable
smile always playing over his features, Mr. Bolingbroke was
universally considered a young gentleman of excellent heart;
when the truth was, that the heart had nothing to do with the
blandness of his manners. The secret of that uniform self-possession
and civility consisted simply in the absence of passion;
the heart never concerned itself in Mr. Bolingbroke's business.
He was even-tempered, because he took no interest in anything
but his own personal advancement; and as long as his affairs
went on prosperously, there was no reason why a perpetual sunshine
should not play over his features. He was courteous from
policy, because men are managed more easily by kindness and
stratagem, than by force; because it was more natural to him
to smile than to frown, and because—it cost nothing. The
world gave him credit for a great deal of feeling, simply because
he had very little; for the less sensibility a man has the more he
affects. He was ardent and energetic in his business, earnest in
the pursuit of pleasure, and gay in company; but the observer,
who had watched him closely, would have found that the only
chords in his bosom which were ever touched, were those of self-gratification
and self-interest.
The judicious conduct of Mr. Bolingbroke met its usual reward,
and he was prosperous in trade. But as time rolled on,
other traders came to the village, competition reduced his gains,
and he began to see the necessity of adopting some expedient
which should give him an advantage over his rivals. This was
a matter of too much importance to be settled in a moment; therefore
he studied it over for several months, smiling and showing
his white teeth all the while, and banishing every shadow of care
from his fine open countenance. He even squeezed the hands of
his competitors more warmly than usual, strolled often to their
wigwams, laughed with glee at their jokes, and seemed really to
love them, and to take an interest in their prosperity. The result
rising above competition would be that of wedlock—that of grafting
himself upon a native stock, identifying himself with the
tribe, enlisting their affections, and securing the influence of powerful
friends by a marriage with the daughter of some leading
person; nor did he hesitate long in selecting as the happy lady,
the beauty of the tribe, the New Moon, the only and beloved
daughter of the ruling chief.
The young merchant had more than once looked with a delighted
eye at the graceful form of Menae, had spoken to her
kindly when they met, and had paid her the homage of gallant
courtesy, which beauty always exacts. She had received his attentions
with civility, but without any appearance of being flattered
by them. But now her quick apprehension discovered, that
there was something in his manner altogether different from his
ordinary politeness. When he met this brightest of all the stars
in the galaxy of Omawhaw beauty, his eye rested upon her with
a peculiar meaning; and he more than once stopped as if he
would have spoken. How quick-sighted is woman in the affairs
of the heart! She saw that the white stranger was smitten; and
the conviction afforded her that mischievous satisfaction, which a
pretty girl always feels, on witnessing the havoc made by her
charms, when her own affections remain untouched. The white
stranger had as yet made no impression on her heart. Some
presents, of greater value than those which he had been in the
habit of giving to the Indian maidens, convinced her of that
which she had begun to suspect; and she whispered to herself in
the exultation of a girl over the first conquest in which her feelings
are interested, “The handsome white man loves the New
Moon!”
Just at this crisis arrived the season for the grand hunt, when
the corn having been weeded, the whole tribe abandon the village,
and proceed to the great plains, where the buffaloes graze in vast
herds—so vast that the novelist would be considered as giving the
rein to his fancy, if he were to attempt to convey an idea of their
number, which I leave therefore to be stated by the traveller,
whose business it is to risk his reputation as a man of truth, for
the instruction of the public. This is an occasion of great rejoicing.
feasts were held, and councils assembled to deliberate on the route,
to devise the plan of the hunt, and to suggest the necessary precautions
to avoid the snares of their enemies. The elders
of the tribe repeated the results of their experience, the orators
embraced the occasion to win new trophies of applause, and
while some were successful in these ambitious attempts, and gained
the popular applause so much coveted by the stump-speaker,
whether civilized or savage, there were many who
ammunition; and the hunters made their contracts individually,
for sufficient supplies of guns, gunpowder, and other articles, to
be paid for in furs and peltry, at the close of the hunting season.
Bows and arrows, and spears, were also fabricated by those who
preferred the ancient weapons of their people.
It was on such occasions, that Bolingbroke had heretofore discovered
his influence to be at the greatest height among his savage
customers; who treated his suggestions with deference, in proportion
to the amount of the favours which they solicited at their
hands. In the wilderness, as in the marts of civilized life, people
are never so kind to each other as at the moment when the relation
of debtor and creditor is about to be created, and never less
cordial than during the existence of that relation. Bolingbroke
had found himself at one season, worshipped as the idol of the
tribe, and at another, feared as its master; but by being alternately
an indulgent creditor, and an unassuming friend, had retained
its confidence. It was, therefore, with no small degree of
chagrin that he saw his business about to be shared, and his influence
divided with others. His convictions, as to the propriety
of entering upon the honourable state of matrimony, became greatly
strengthened by this new evidence of the evanescent nature of his
popularity; and his love to the New Moon increased to a steady
flame, as the propitious influence which this bright luminary
might shed over his fortunes became clearly developed.
The councils continued to be held, and while the chief men
were employed in maturing the weighty affairs of their little
hour was filled with sport and feasting. The men amused themselves
with various pastimes, such as gambling, dancing, football,
and racing. The young braves were painted with more than
ordinary care, and freshly anointed with the fat of the bear, from
the crown of the head to the soles of the feet. Some gave themselves
up to the affairs of courtship and gallantry—some showed
off their horses and their horsemanship—others did honour to the
chiefs and distinguished braves, by dancing before the doors of
their respective lodges—while a few, ludicrously apparelled,
moved about the village, exciting laughter by the performance of
coarse feats of buffoonery. Men were seen wrapped in the skins
of wild beasts, equipped with horns and tails, bellowing in imitation
of the animals they represented, and proving that men and
brutes are separated by a step as brief as that which divides the
sublime from the ridiculous.
The criers passed through the streets, inviting individuals by
name, in a loud voice, to feasts given by their friends, charging
them at the same time to be careful to bring their own bowls and
spoons; and again proclaiming on the part of the guests, that the
entertainments were over, praising the hospitality of the hosts, and
the goodness of the provisions; while others, again, published the
resolves of the council, and admonished the people to hasten their
preparations for departure.
At length, every requisite arrangement being complete, the
women, to whom the prospect of such a journey is always gratifying,
were seen rapidly moving about, assiduously occupied in
packing up, and loading upon the horses, all their household goods,
and personal chattels—pots, kettles, and children—provisions, tents,
trinkets, and trumpery. It was obvious that they felt their own importance;
their active motions, busy faces, evinced that, for the moment,
they had broken through all the salutary restraints of discipline,
and assumed the reins of government; and they even ventured
to rate their husbands, and other unfortunate men who fell
in their way, severely, for real or supposed trespasses, upon what
they considered their peculiar province—as we are assured the
ladies of another people, which shall be nameless, are accustomed
to do, on certain privileged days, or when their liege lords intrude
which they regard as inviolate. From all which it may be safely
inferred, that the ingenious writer who had discovered that there
is a great deal of human nature in man, might have added, “and
in women.”
The march of the tribe from the village presented a picturesque
and beautiful scene. It was a bright summer morning. The sun
was just rising over the rounded bluffs, and throwing his beams
obliquely along the surface of the turbid Missouri. The prairie
was clad in its richest apparel. The young grass covered it with
a thick sward, which still preserved the living freshness and
grateful verdure of spring, while flowers infinite in number, and
diversified in hue, reared their heads to the surface of the grassy
carpet, and reposed upon it, like colours upon the canvass of the
painter. The whole plain displayed a series of graceful undulations—not
hills and vales—but gentle swells and depressions,
which, at this early hour of the day, received the sunlight at such
a variety of angles, as to afford an endless diversity of light and
shade, while it heightened the effect of the perspective, by throwing
up a few points into prominent relief, and casting others, whose
features were as distinctly visible, into an imaginary back-ground.
As the cavalcade commenced its march, a long train of warriors,
on horseback, were beheld issuing from the village, arrayed
in all the pomp, and all the dignity, of Indian display. Their
faces were carefully painted in the best style, some gaily with a
profusion of crimson, others lowering in the gloomy ferocity of
black, while their bodies were adorned with the trappings of savage
magnificence, and their heads arrayed in feathers of a variety
of gaudy hues.
They were armed with the numerous implements of war and
hunting—with guns, bows, war-clubs, tomahawks, and knives—
and mounted upon active horses, with vicious eyes and untamed
spirits, that evinced submission to the power of their riders, but
not affection for their persons. Some rode without stirrups, some
without saddles, and some with saddles richly ornamented. Their
bridle-bits were of every variety, from the plainest snaffle, to the
most powerful curb. The bridles of many were decorated with
gaudy-coloured ribbon, tape, or tinsel, or with bits of tin, or pieces
many had adorned the manes and tails of their horses, while not
a few rode ragged steeds barebacked, and guided them with halters.
Although in the appearance of some of these native warriors,
the grotesque predominated, while extreme poverty was displayed
in the equipment of others, there was observable in each, the same
unconstrained air, and indescribable wildness, peculiar to this
original people; and there were a few braves mounted on fine
horses, well clad, completely armed and appointed, of sedate carriage,
and military bearing, and whose whole conduct bore the
decisive stamp of dignity.
They moved slowly; but here and there might be seen a young
brave, urging his horse rapidly along the flank of the column, or
seeking to attract attention by dashing off from the line of march,
across the plain, at full speed, with his feet pressed in his
courser's sides, his body bent forward, his buffalo spear poised,
as if for striking, and his long plume of feathers streaming upon
the wind. Behind the main body of horsemen, followed the
women, the children, and the old men, a few of whom were
mounted on lean ponies, but the greater part were on foot,
trudging soberly along—except the younger ladies, who amused
themselves with jeering any of the junior warriors, who happened
to lag behind, or who was casually thrown among the non-combatants
by the laming of a horse, or the loss of an indispensable
part of his armament. Under the charge of this body of women
and unsexed men, was a train of pack-horses, bearing the mats,
skin-lodges, and other moveables. On the packs might be seen
many a little urchin, too big to be carried on his mother's back,
yet too small to walk, who enjoyed the high privilege of being
lashed among the baggage, and treated as an article of furniture
—where he sat—comfortably enough, poking out his dark face
from among the packages, and staring with his little wild black
eyes, like a copper-headed snake. With this part of the cavalcade,
too, were the dogs, which, when not abroad on duty with
their masters, usually seek the society of the ladies, and the
agreeable atmosphere of the culinary department. Those in question,
were particularly given to these loafing habits, and forever
women, who, heartily despising the sycophants, gave them more
kicks than coppers. From their appearance one would not suppose
their company was desirable; for the Indian's dog is a lean,
hungry, ferocious animal—a bad medium between the savage
wolf and the civilized dog—who is but little respected at home or
abroad, and sneaks about, with his bushy tail drooped, his pointed
ears erect, and his watchful eye gleaming with a thievish expression
of mischief and distrust. Resembling the wolf in appearance
and manners, he seems to be obedient from fear only,
and to have but little in common with the generous and affectionate
animal who is the friend, as well as the servant, of civilized
man, and of whom the poet testified, when he said, “they are
honest creatures.”
Leaving the village, the Indian train ascended a long gradual
swell, until they reached a beautifully rounded eminence, that
commanded an extensive view of the prairie, over which they
were about to travel. Nothing could be more striking than this
wild picture of native luxuriance, and aboriginal display. A
wide expanse of scenery was spread before the eye. The interminable
plain extended further than the vision reached, spreading
out a landscape which was bounded only by the dim sea-like
horizon; and there was something peculiarly picturesque in the
march of the Omawhaws, whose long party-coloured line would
and undulated among the slopes and mounds of the prairie, headed
by armed braves, and flanked by young horsemen, darting off
from the main body, to show the speed of their horses, and displaying
their own dexterity by a variety of evolutions.
When the party reached the most elevated point of the plain,
it halted, and many a glance was thrown back towards the deserted
wigwams. Not a living thing moved in the village, whose
lowly huts, untenanted, seemed to form a part of the natural
landscape. Beyond it flowed the broad and turbulent Missouri,
on its journey of a thousand leagues, and further-towards the
East, was a range of low, pointed hills, whose sides were thinly
clothed with timber, while their bald summits were only covered
with a verdant carpet of grass. The newly risen sun had just
appeared beyond these hills, lighting up their peaked tops with
characteristic horizon of this peculiar country. Over this scene
they gazed for a few moments with emotion, for some of them
might never return to the wigwams of their tribe, and those who
should survive might find their fields ravaged, and the graves of
their fathers desecrated. Even an Indian loves his home. Erratic
as are his habits, and little as he seems to understand or enjoy
domestic comfort, he acquires, unconsciously, an attachment
towards the spot on which he resides, and a reverence for the associations
by which it is surrounded. This attachment is weak
compared with that of the civilized man, but the savage feels it,
though in a modified form, and with but a slight reference to locality.
There are dear and joyful recollections connected with
the fireside, however humble it may be, and the turf that covers
the remains of departed friends, is sacred even in the eyes of the
uneducated savage.
Bolingbroke was not a man to appreciate an interesting landscape,
or to sympathize with a flow of tender feeling. He sat on
his horse, apart from the others, and was calculating the probable
advantages of an union with the daughter of the chief of the
Mahas, and revolving in his mind the means by which he might
most speedily bring about so desirable an alliance, when the
Blackbird himself rode up beside him.
“Is the Wise Stranger sorrowful in spirit?” said the chief,
“or does he mourn because the Omawhaws are quitting the
graves of their fathers?”
“Neither,” replied the politic trader; “the Great Spirit has
not thrown any cloud over the heart of his white son, and the
graves that we are leaving are not those of my fathers.”
“Then why should the trader of the white people be sad,
when his red brethren are going to hunt on the plains where the
buffaloes feed?”
“I am thinking of something I had forgotten.”
“Has the Master of Life told my friend in a dream, that he
has failed to do something that he ought to have done?”
“Yes, my father; even thus has the Master of Life whispered
to my heart, while my eyes were sleeping. I have seen my
of the Omawhaws is my friend.”
The chief directed a calm thought penetrating glance of inquiry
towards his companion, but the countenance of the trader betrayed
no emotion. It was evident that the offence was not one
of deep dye. His eye wandered back to the cavalcade, and rested
on the warrior train. The young trader resumed:
“My father has always been kind to me.”
“The pale face has reason to believe that the Blackbird is his
friend,” replied the chief composedly.
“I have endeavoured to convince the great chief that I desire
to serve him. I have no other pleasure than to make the Omawhaws
happy, by supplying their wants.”
“The white stranger has done his duty—I am satisfied.”
Here a pause ensued, and these well-matched politicians gazed
along the line, which was now beginning to be again set in motion—each
endeavouring stealthily to catch a glance at the countenance
of the other. The young merchant was the first to renew
the conversation.
“In making my presents to the chiefs,” he said, “I have endeavoured
to distinguish who were the most worthy, and who stood
highest in the estimation of the Mahas, by the value of the gifts
which I made them. But I fear that I did not sufficiently recollect
the high claims of Blackbird, who is elevated above all others
by his wisdom, his many victories, and his friendship for the
white people. I am a young man, and the Great Spirit has not
been pleased to give me that wisdom which he reserves for great
chiefs, whose business is to govern tribes.”
As he said this he drew from his bosom an elegantly mounted
dirk, a favourite ornament and weapon of the Indian, and as he
presented it added:
“Will the head man of the Omawhaws accept this as a small
part of the atonement which my negligence imposes upon me,
and depend upon my word that in future I shall not forget the
distance between a great chief and his inferiors?”
“The white stranger has been very properly called wise,” said
the crafty chief, “and the head man of the Maha people knows
how to value his friends. I have looked back at our path—it is
hereafter, that I am his friend.”
Thus saying, he eyed with complacency the beautiful weapon
that he had received, drew it, and examined the blade—passing
his eye along it with the keen scrutiny of one intimately versed
in the mechanism and use of military implements; then having
arranged it upon his person, with the true savage love of finery,
in the most conspicuous manner, he rode away, muttering to himself,
“What does the trader want in return for so fine a present?”
He did dream that it was his daughter that was wanted.
In a few days they arrived at the pastures of the buffalo, and
beheld the plains covered with herds of wild cattle as far as the
eye could reach in every direction. It would seem that here
were “the cattle upon a thousand hills,” that were shadowed out
to the mind of the inspired poet. The animating scenes of the
hunt commenced. Parties of hunters mounted upon fleet horses
well trained to this sport, dashed in among the grazing herds. At
their approach the buffaloes fled in alarm; the hunters pursued at
full speed, each horseman selecting his victim. The swiftness of
the horse soon outstripped the speed of the buffalo, and placed the
hunter by the side of his noble game; when dropping the bridle,
while his trained steed, continued to bear him gallantly along,
maintaining his position side by side, with the buffalo, he discharged
his arrows, or his bullets, into the panting animal until
it fell mortally wounded. Then the hunter, quitting his prey,
dashed again into the affrighted herd to select another object of
pursuit.
It was an inspiring sight to behold the wide plain,—an immense
meadow, studded with ornamental groves, covered with numerous
herds, quietly grazing like droves of domestic cattle; then to
see the Omawhaw bands, under the cover of some copse or swelling
ground, covertly approaching from the leeward, so that the timid
animals might not scent their approach in the tained breeze; and,
at last, to view the confusion occasioned by their sudden onset.
On discovering their enemies, the alarmed herd, following its
leaders, would attempt to move away rapidly in a solid phalanx;
but the hunters, penetrating boldly into the heart of the retreating
body, dispersed it in every direction—and the maddened animals
the fierce wild hunters. The vicissitudes of the chase were numerous
and diversified. Sometimes a horse fell, and the prostrate
rider was saluted with loud shouts of derision; sometimes a large
bull turned suddenly upon his pursuer; and burying his horns
deep in the flanks of the steed, hurled him upon the plain; and
more than once the hunter, thus thrown, with difficulty escaped
being trodden to death by the furious herd.
Bolingbroke engaged with ardour in this sport. He was a
skilful and daring horseman; and though at first awkward, from
his ignorance of the artifices of the chase, he soon became sufficiently
expert to be considered as an useful auxiliary by his companions.
The warriors began to treat him with increased respect;
and even the squaws, whose favour he had heretofore conciliated
by timely presents, looked upon him with more complacency,
after witnessing these displays of his activity and courage.
A daring horseman gallops rapidly into a lady's affections.
The sex admire intrepidity, and give their suffrages decidedly in
favour of a dashing fellow who combines boldness with grace and
skill. Bolingbroke found favour in the eyes of the New Moon;
and, though she carefully concealed her sentiments in her own
bosom, he soon ceased to be an object of indifference. He was
her father's friend, and she began to discover that it was her duty
to admire his exploits, and approve his conduct. One day, as he
was returning to camp alone from a successful hunt, he overtook
the fair Menae, who was also separated accidentally from the
company. It was an opportunity too favourable to be lost. As
he joined her she threw her eyes upon the ground, and walked
silently forward. He dismounted, and throwing his bridle over
his arm, placed himself at the side of the Omawhaw beauty.
How awkward it is to begin a conversation under such circumstances!
Among us, a remark on the weather would have furnished
a theme for the lovers to begin upon; but these meteorological
discussions were not fashionable at the Omawhaw village.
One of Miss Edgeworth's heroes pulled a flower to pieces on a
similar occasion, before he could open his mouth; but Bolingbroke
was a man of business, and came at once to the point.
“The daughter of Blackbird looks upon the ground,” said he;
“she does not seem pleased to see the white friend of her father.”
“The white stranger is glad because he has had a good hunt,”
replied the maiden, “and others seem to him to be sad, because
they are not so joyful as himself.”
“When I look at the New Moon,” rejoined the lover, “my
heart is always filled with gladness, for she is very beautiful.”
“I have often heard,” replied Menae, “that the white men
have forked tongues, and do not mean what they say.”
“Others may have lying lips, but mine are true. I have
never deceived the Omawhaws. I speak truth, when I say that
I love the beautiful Menae, for she is handsomer than all the other
daughters of her tribe. If she will be my wife I will build a
wigwam in the village of the Omawhaws, and quit forever the
graves of my fathers, and the council-fires of the white people.”
“The wise stranger would send a cloud over his father's house.
How many of the girls of the pale faces are looking up the great
river, to see him return, as he promised them?” inquired she
archly.
“Not one! Not one! You are the only woman I have ever
loved—I will never love another. Become my wife, and I promise
you, here in the presence of the Master of Life, that I will
never seek the love of any other. Menae shall be the sole companion,
and dearest friend, of my life.”
“I am the daughter of a great chief,” replied the Indian maid.
“Ah! I understand you—you are too proud to marry one who
is not of your nation.”
“The roaring of the buffalo has made the ear of the white
hunter dull. I am the daughter of a chief, and I may not give
myself away.”
“Lovely Menae!” exclaimed the trader, as he attempted to
seize her hand; but she quietly folded her arms, and looked at
him with composure, assuming a dignity which effectually repelled
any further advance. She then addressed him with a
touching softness of voice.
“There is a path to my heart which is right; it is a straight
path.” She paused; but her eye, which beamed softly upon her
lover, expressed all that he could have wished. She added, “If
gain a young maiden's affections by any crooked way.”
So saying, she walked quietly away, while the politic trader,
who understood her meaning, respectfully withdrew, satisfied that
the lady would interpose no objection to his suit, if the consent of
a higher authority could be secured.
Having taken his resolution, he proceeded to the lodge of the
Blackbird, and endeavoured to conciliate the favour of both the
parents of Menae by liberal presents. He adverted artfully to
the advantages which would accrue to both parties by an alliance
between the chief and himself, avowed his love for their daughter,
and his decided wish to marry one of the Omawhaw tribe. He
promised, if they would transfer their daughter to him in marriage,
to treat her kindly, and to introduce no other wife into his
lodge. He suggested that he had now established a permanent
trading house at their village, where he should reside during the
greater part of the year, and where he would be fully able to
protect and support, both his proposed wife, and her kindred, if
necessary. In return, he hoped the nation would give him the
preference in their trade, and consider him as one allied to them
in affection and interest.
To this very business-like harangue, which was sufficiently
sentimental for the ears to which it was addressed, the parents
made a suitable reply. They thanked him for his liberal offers,
and were gratified that he had taken pity on their daughter; they
would not object to the connection, and hoped their daughter
would accept him. The mother added that Menae was stronger
than she looked, and could carry a great many skins; and,
though she was not very expert at hoeing corn, she was young
enough to learn. The chief gave him the comfortable assurance
that it was quite indifferent to them how many wives he might
choose to have, provided he could support and govern them—for
his part, he had had his own trouble with one; but he commended
the prudence of his young friend in confining himself to a single
squaw for the present, until he should become experienced in the
inequalities of the female temper, and have learned the difficult
art of ruling a household.
The parents retired, and opened the subject to their daughter,
with one who was, in their opinion, a greater man than any of
the Omawhaws. His wealth exceeded that of all the tribe; his
store of guns, ammunition, trinkets, and clothing, seemed to be
inexhaustible; and they earnestly requested her to secure her
own happiness, and advance the interests of her family, by accepting
an offer so tempting.
The New Moon, though delighted with her conquest, thought
it proper, as young ladies are apt to think on such occasions, to
support her dignity by affecting some reluctance. In the first
place, the gentleman's complexion was against him, and she
would have given any thing—except himself—if it had been a
shade or two darker. Then his taste in dress was by no means
such as accorded with her ideas of manly beauty; and she
regretted that he did not paint his handsome face, decorate his
hair with the feathers of the eagle, ornament his nasal protuberance
with rings, and cover his shoulders with the ample folds of a
Makinaw blanket. Above all, he had never struck an enemy in
battle; not a single scalp attested his prowess as a warrior; and
although he managed a horse with skill, and had wielded the rifle
successfully in the chase, he was as ignorant as a woman of the
use of a tomahawk, or a scalping knife. Notwithstanding all
this, she admitted that the white trader was wise—he was young,
had a good eye, and a stout arm, and might, in time, with proper
tuition, become worthy to be ranked among the head men of the
Omawhaws. Upon the whole, she expressed her own unworthiness,
her ignorance of what would be right on such an occasion,
her willingness to obey the wishes of her parents, and to advance
the interests of her nation; and as it seemed to be their desire,
and her duty, she would marry the trader.
They were united accordingly, and the beautiful Menae entered
upon a new existence. Marriage always effects a decided
change upon the sentiments of those, who come within its sacred
pale under a proper sense of the responsibilities of the married
state. However delightful the intercourse of wedded hearts,
there is, to a well-regulated mind, something extremely solemn in
the duties imposed by this interesting relation. The reflection
that an existence which was separate and independent is ended,
soul, is deeply affecting, as it imposes the conviction that
every act which shall influence the happiness of the one, will
colour the destiny of the other. But when the union is that of
love, this feeling of dependance is one of the most delightful that
can be imagined. It annihilates the habit of selfish enjoyment,
and teaches the heart to delight in that which gives pleasure to
another. The affections become gradually enlarged, expanding
as the ties of relationship, and the duties of life, accumulate
around, until the individual, ceasing to know an isolated existence,
lives entirely for others, and for society.
But it is the generous and the virtuous alone, who thus enjoy
this agreeable relation. Some hearts there are too callous to
give nurture to a delicate sentiment. There are minds too narrow
to give play to an expansive benevolence. A certain degree
of magnanimity is necessary to the existence of disinterested love
or friendship.
The beautiful Menae was of a noble, generous nature. She
had never been selfish; and now that her affections had an object
on which to concentrate their warmth, her heart glowed with
disinterested emotion. With a native ingenuousness of soul that
had always induced her, even without reflection, to consult the
happiness of others in preference to her own, she had now an object
whose interests were so dear, that it was as delightful as it
was natural, to sacrifice to them all her own inclinations. From
the moment of her marriage, she began to adapt her conduct to
the taste of her husband. She adopted his opinions, imitated his
manners, and gradually exchanged the ornaments of her tribe for
those which accorded better with his fancy. It cost her not a
pang, nor a regret, to throw aside the costume which she had considered
graceful, and had worn with pride in the meridian of her
beauty, and to invest her charms in a foreign drapery, which was
far less becoming in her own eyes. Whatever her husband admired
became graceful in her estimation; and that which rendered
her attractive to him, she wore with more than youthful
delight. A similar change took place in her domestic arrangements.
Instead of the rude wigwam of the Indian, Bolingbroke
had built a small, but neat cottage, and had furnished it with
and his wife eagerly endeavoured to gratify his wishes, by adapting
herself to his habits of living. She learned to sit upon a
chair, to eat from a table, and to treat her husband as a companion,
rather than as a master. Hour after hour did she listen attentively
to his descriptions of the habits of his countrywomen; and
carefully did she treasure up in her memory every hint which
might serve as a guide in her endeavour to render her own deportment
pleasing to him to whom she had given an unreserved
affection. From him she had learned to attach a name, and an
endearing value, to the spot which he called his home; and for
his sake she sought to throw every enchantment around the scene
of their domestic enjoyments. With all that wonderful facility
with which the female heart, when stimulated by the desire of
pleasing, can mould itself to the wishes of another, she caught his
opinions, and learned to understand his tastes—entwining her own
existence around his, as the ivy clings to the oak. Her cottage
soon became conspicuous for its neatness and beauty. She transplanted
the wild rose and the honeysuckle from the woods, and
trained them over her door, in imitation of the bowers that he had
described to her. Her table was spread with the dainties which
he had taught her to prepare; her furniture arranged in the order
which he dictated, and all her household duties directed with
the nicest regard to his feelings or prejudices.
And had she no prejudices to be respected—no habits to be
indulged—no wishes to be gratified? None. She loved with the
pure devotion of a generous woman. She had a heart which
could sacrifice every selfish wish upon the altar of affection—a
mind so resolute in the performance of duty, that it could magnanimously
stifle every desire that ran counter to its own high standard
of rectitude. She possessed talent and feeling; and to those
ideas of implicit obedience and profound respect for her husband,
which constitute nearly the whole code of ethics of an Indian female,
she added a nice perception of propriety, and a tenderness
that filled her whole heart. She had no reserved rights. In giving
herself to her husband she severed all other ties, and merged
her whole existence in his; and the language of her heart was,
“thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.” Such
the deep devotion, the high-minded elevation of that passion,
when sanctioned by duty, in the bosom of a well-principled and
delicate female!
The New Moon of the Omawhaws was a proud and happy wife.
Her young affections reposed sweetly in the luxury of a blameless
attachment. She had married the man of her choice, who
had freely selected her from all her tribe. That man was greater
than those around him, and in her eyes, superior to most of his
sex. He had distinguished and honoured her. He had taken
her to his bosom, given her his confidence, surrounded her with
luxuries and marks of kindness.
Yet there were some thorns in her path; and, in the midst of
all the brightness of her sunniest days, her dream of bliss was
sometimes chilled by clouds that threw their dim shadows over it.
Almost unconsciously to herself a sadness would rest for a moment
upon her heart, and fly before she had time to inquire whence
it came. There was a dark spot in her destiny, of the existence
of which she was scarcely sensible, because she turned her eyes
away from it in fear or in pride. A chill sometimes crept over
her heart; but without waiting to inquire its cause, she chased
it away, gazed again upon the bright vision of her wedded joy,
and forgot that an unpleasant image had been present. Was it
the occasional coldness of Bolingbroke, who, immersed in the
cares of business, or abstracted in the anticipations of a future affluence,
received the endearments of his wife with indifference?
Or was it the estranged deportment of her tribe, who began to regard
her as an alien? She knew not—she never permitted herself
to doubt the love of her husband, and she prized the affection
of others too little in comparison, to inquire into the ebb and flow
of its tide.
The time, however, arrived when Menae began to discover that
she had a difficult task to perform. Her husband was a trader,
bent on the accumulation of wealth, by catching every gale of
fortune that might chance to blow—her relatives and those by
whom she was surrounded, were fierce and crafty savages, ignorant
of the principles of justice, and destitute of any fixed standard
of moral right. His interests and theirs were often opposed;
they were as ready to crush or to plunder him, whenever he
happened to cross their purposes, or to awaken their suspicion.
His popularity rose and fell with the changes of the season. A
new supply of goods rendered him the idol of the tribe—an exhausted
stock exposed him to insult and injustice. Previous to
the annual hunt, or to a warlike expedition, he was flattered and
obeyed by those improvident warriors, who, having made no preparations
for such an occasion, were dependent upon him for the
outfit which was necessary to enable them to take the field; but
when the spoils of the chase or of battle came to be divided, and
the largest portion was claimed by the trader in payment of his
debts, he became for the moment an object of hatred; and it required
all the power of the chiefs, and all the cunning of his own
politic brain, to secure him from their vengeance. On such occasions
he found his wife an invaluable counsellor, and an efficient
friend. Her influence with the tribe was by no means contemptible.
Her own popularity, and her ready access to the ear of her
father, whom all others feared to approach, gave her a degree of
authority among the warriors which she seldom used, and never
exerted in vain.
But her influence was gradually diminishing. As Bolingbroke
grew rich, he became more and more rapacious. The other traders
were practising every popular art to recommend themselves,
to destroy him, and to rise upon the ruins of his prosperity; and
his vigilant wife more than once protected his life and property,
by discovering the designs of his enemies, and secretly appealing
to her father for protection. These things, however, did not disturb
her peace. Vigilant by nature—accustomed to danger from
childhood, and inured to all the vicissitudes of the savage mode
of life—she could watch with composure over a husband's safety,
and expose her own existence without fear. Perhaps, to one of
her habits, the excitement of such a life was agreeable; and she
certainly felt a pride in becoming thus important to him who was
the sole object of her love.
But while she despised the machinations of her husband's foes,
with all the disdain of a proud woman, it was not without uneasiness
that she discovered a sensible diminution in the cordiality of
tribe, and such marriages always produce estrangement. They
saw her abandoning the customs of her country, and throwing
aside the dress of her people. She mingled but little with the
women of the Omawhaws; and while she tacitly condemned some
of their practices by her own deportment, she withdrew her sanction
from some of their ancient rites by her absence. Her improvements
in domestic economy were regarded with ridicule and
jealousy. The young braves no longer regarded her with pride,
as the beauty of their nation, but considered her as one who had
apostatized from the customs of her fathers, and degraded herself
by linking her destiny with that of a stranger from a foreign land.
She felt that she, who had been the idol of the tribe, was sustained
by the wealth of her husband and the power of her father, and
not by the affection of those around her.
It was the custom of Bolingbroke to descend the river annually
to St. Louis, for the purpose of renewing his stock of merchandise
—and he had been married but a few months when the first absence,
of this kind occurred. On his return, his young wife received
him with the utmost tenderness. He was charmed to hear
of the discretion with which she had conducted herself in his absence,
and to perceive the many evidences of the manner in which
she had spent her time. He learned that she had lived a retired
life, engaging in none of the public festivals, and receiving few
visiters at her house. She had laboured incessantly in decorating
their dwelling, or in fabricating such articles of dress for her husband
as she thought would please his fancy; while she had noticed
with careful attention the movements of the tribe, and gathered
up every rumour, the intelligence of which might be useful
to him in his mercantile concerns.
Another year came, and again he left her. His absence was
protracted during several months, and within this period she became
the mother of a daughter, which she nursed with the fondest
solicitude. Her love for her husband, and her anxiety for his return,
seemed to increase after this event. With her infant in her
arms, she wandered out daily to a secluded spot on the bank of
the river, where she would sit for hours, following the downward
course of the river with eager eyes, to gain the earliest notice of
for the moment when she could place the interesting
stranger in his arms, and see him gaze with delight at that beautiful
miniature in which each might see the features of the other.
Nor was she disappointed. Bolingbroke caressed his child with
fondness, and she was the happiest of mothers—the produest of
wives.
We must touch briefly upon the subsequent events of this narrative.
Another and another year rolled away, and Menae was
still the devoted wife, while Bolingbroke was become a cold,
though a civil husband: he bending all his energies to the acquisition
of wealth, she bringing in her diurnal tribute of love, and
living only to promote his happiness. They had now two children,
and when the time approached for his annual visit to the
settlements of the white people, he proposed to carry the eldest
with him. The wife, always obedient, reluctantly consented, and
commanded her feelings so far as to behold their departure in
mute, suppressed affliction. But, although one charge remained,
upon which she might lavish her caresses, no sooner had her
husband commenced his voyage, than her maternal fondness overpowered
her, and she ran screaming along the shore of the river,
in pursuit of the boat, tearing out her long glossy tresses, and appearing
almost bereft of reason. Unable to overtake the boat, she
returned disconsolate, and assumed the deepest mourning which
the customs of her tribe impose on the state of widowhood. She
cut off her beautiful raven locks, gave away her ornaments, and
every thing that she had worn in her day of pride, and clothed
herself in humble attire. Confining herself to her own dwelling,
she refused the visits of her friends, and repelled their offers of
consolation. She said that she well knew that her daughter
would be better treated among the whites than she could be at
home, but she could not avoid regarding her own situation to be
the same as if the Wahcondah had taken away her offspring forever.
By degrees her remaining child began to absorb the entire
current of her affections, and, on his account, she resumed the
performance of her household duties, though she would not throw
aside her mourning. One day, she had gone in company with
was engaged in agricultural labours, her infant boy being secured,
after the Indian fashion, to a board, which she had carefully
leaned against a tree. They were discovered by a lurking war
party of the Sioux, who rushed upon them suddenly, in the expectation
of gratifying their vengeance by the massacre of the
whole party. An exclamation of terror, uttered by one of the
females, on discovering the enemy, caused the alarmed women
to fly precipitately; and Menae, in the first moment of affright,
was in the act of retreating with the others, when she recollected
her child. To save a life more precious than her own, she swiftly
returned in the face of the Sioux warriors, snatched her child
from the tree, and bore him rapidly away. She was closely pursued
by one of the savages, who had nearly overtaken her, when
she arrived at a fence which separated the field from the enclosure
surrounding the trading-house. A moment's hesitation
would have been fatal—but, with a presence of mind which always
distinguished her above other women, she gathered all her
strength, threw the child, with its board, into the enclosure, and
then, placing her hands on the fence, leaped nimbly over. Several
of her companions were murdered, while she escaped, with
her child, unhurt.[3]
After a longer absence than usual, Bolingbroke returned, bringing
with him an accomplished lady, of his own people, whom he
had married, but unaccompanied by his Indian daughter, whom
he had placed at school. Menae heard this intelligence with the
deepest sorrow, but with less surprise than such an event would
have occasioned a wife in a civilized land; as the practice of polygamy,
which prevails among the Omawhaws, had perhaps prepared
her to regard such an occurrence as not improbable. She
was stung to the heart, by the conviction that she had lost the
love of him, who was dearer to her than all the world, and for
whom she had sacrificed so much; and mortified that another
should be preferred to herself. But the legality of the transaction,
and its frequency among the people of her tribe, lulled, in
some degree, the sense of degradation, and blunted the sharpness
the actor as faithless and ungrateful. In secresy she
wept bitterly over her disappointed pride, and blighted joy; but
professed in public a cheerful acquiescence in the decision of her
husband. The Blackbird was now dead; and the keen-sighted
Menae could not blind herself to the conviction, that the decease
of her father had rendered her of less importance to the mercenary
trader.
Previous to the arrival of Bolingbroke at the Omawhaw village,
he despatched a message to the trading-house, announcing
his marriage, and forbidding his Indian wife from appearing in
the presence of her rival. To this cruel mandate she submitted,
with that implicit obedience which the females of her race are
accustomed to pay to the commands of their husbands, and departed
to a distant village of her nation. But what woman can
trust the weakness of her heart? Conjugal love, and maternal
fondness, both allured her to the presence of him who had so long
been the master of her affections. Which of these was the prevailing
inducement, it is difficult to conjecture; she longed to see
Bolingbroke, and her heart yearned for tidings from her absent
child, but without this plea, her pride would probably have forbidden
her from seeking an interview with the destroyer of her
peace. Unable to remain in banishment, she returned to her native
village, with her little boy on her back, and encamped in the
neighbourhood of her husband's residence—in sight of that cottage
which her own hands had embellished, in which she had
spent years of domestic felicity, and where another now reigned
in her place. She sent her son to the trader, who treated him
affectionately. On the following day he commanded her presence,
and she stood before him, in the house which had been her own,
with her arms meekly folded upon her breast, gazing calmly on
the cold but handsome features of him, who was the lord of her
destiny. Suppressing every other feeling, and avoiding all other
topics, she enquired for her daughter, and listened with interest
to such information as he was pleased to give her. She then,
with much composure, desired to know his intentions in relation
to the future disposition of both her children. To this question
he gave an evasive manner; and directed her to accompany her
without a murmur.
Two months afterwards, she was recalled. She lost no time in
presenting herself before the husband whom she still tenderly
loved, notwithstanding his unprincipled desertion. Her resentment
had in a great measure subsided, and rather than be banished
entirely from his affection, she was content to share it with
another, according to the usages of her tribe. Such she supposed
to be his intention in sending for her, and she freely forgave the
temporary aberration of his love, under the supposition that she
would be to him hereafter, if not his sole favourite, at least a respected
wife, that her children would find a home under his roof,
and that he would be to her and them a faithful protector. Alas!
how the heart, given up to the illusions of love, cheats itself with
visions of future bliss! How often does the young wife build up a
fabric of happiness, which like the icy palace of the Russian potentate,
is splendid to the eye in the hour of its illumination, but
melts away with the first change of the season! The New Moon
hastened to her husband, full of hope, and newly-kindled affection;
but bitter was her disappointment, when, after an austere
reception, he demanded the surrender of her son, and renounced
any future association with herself, directing her to return to her
people, and to provide for her own support as she might see
proper.
Indignant at being thus repudiated, overcome by feelings which
she could not control, and alarmed at the proposed separation from
her child, she rushed from the house with the infant in her arms,
and finding a canoe on the river shore, paddled over to the opposite
side, and made her escape into the forest. The weather was
cold and stormy, the snow was falling, and the wretched mother
had no shelter to protect her. Thoughout the whole night she
wandered about in the wilderness, hugging her babe to her bosom,
and keeping it alive by the warmth of her own breast. But, worn
down with fatigue and exposure, and discouraged by her disconsolate
condition, she determined in the morning to return, and,
with the feelings of a wife and mother, to plead her cause before
the arbiter of her fate.
Early in the morning, the wretched woman, faint, hungry, and
of her beauty, had sued for her favour. She, who had loved, and
cherished, and counselled, and protected him, and who had higher
claims upon him than any other living individual, stood a trembling
suppliant at his door.
“Here is our child,” said she; “I do not question your fondness
for him—but he is still more dear to me. You cannot love
him with a mother's love, nor keep him with a mother's care.
You say that you will keep him for yourself, and drive me far
from you. But, no—I will remain with him. You may spurn
me from your own society, but you cannot drive me from my
child. Take him and feed him. I can find some corner into
which I may creep, in order to be near him, and hear him when
he cries for his mother, and sometimes see him. If you will not
give me food, I will remain until I starve, and die before your
eyes.”
There are those who have no feeling. The trader had none.
Not a chord in his bosom vibrated to this eloquent appeal. A
young and beautiful woman reduced to penury—a mother folding
her infant in her arms—his own wife, the mother of his children
—she who had cherished his interest and honour more dearly than
her own life, and who would have endured any anguish to have saved
him from a momentary pang;—with all these, and a thousand
other claims upon his sympathy and justice, she was an unsuccessful
suppliant.
He offered her money, and desired her to leave the child. Her
blood rushed to her heart at the base proposal, and she indignantly
replied—“Is my child a dog, that I should sell him for merchandise?
You cannot drive me away; you may beat me, you
may taunt me with insults, but I will remain. When you married
me, you promised to use me kindly as long as I should be
faithful to you; that I have always been so, no one can deny.
I have loved you with tenderness, and served you with fidelity.
Ours was not a marriage contracted for a season—it was to terminate
only with our lives. I was then a young girl, the daughter
of the head man of the Omawhaws, and might have been united to
a chief of my nation; but now I am an old woman, the mother
of two children, and what Omawhaw will regard me? Is not
me before you possessed her. It is true, her skin is whiter than
mine, but her heart cannot be more pure towards you, nor her
fidelity more rigid. Do not take the child from my breast—I
cannot bear to hear it cry, and not be present to relieve it; permit
me to retain it until the spring, when it will be able to eat,
and then, if it must be so, take it from my sight, that I may part
with it but once.”
The trader remained inexorable; he listened, with apathy, to
the feeling appeal of his wife; but, finding her inflexible, and
knowing her high spirit, he attempted no reply—coolly remarking
that she might remain there if she pleased, but that the child
should immediately be sent down to the settlements.
The affectionate mother had thus far sustained herself, during
the interview, with the firmness of conscious right, and had successfully
curbed the impulse of her feelings; but nature now
yielded, the tears burst from her eyes—and clasping her hands,
and bowing her head, she gave way to her grief, exclaiming—
“Why did the Master of Life hate me so much, as to induce me
to put my child again into your power?
“But, no,” she continued, after a momentary pause, “we are
not in your power—you have renounced my obedience—I no
longer owe you any duty. I belong to a free wild race, that has
never submitted to oppression. The pale face shall learn that the
blood of an Omawhaw chief runs in the veins of his discarded
wife. For herself, she has no wrongs to resent—but for her child
she can strike the death-blow with as firm an arm as that of the
warrior. My son shall not go to the fires of the white people,
to be their servant, and to be insulted for his descent from an
Indian mother. He shall not be trained up in the corn-fields like
a squaw, or be taught to sell his honour for money, like the trader
of the white Americans. I shall take him with me. He is mine,
and shall never be taken alive from my arms. Attempt to separate
us, and I will strike this knife to his heart, and then put an
end to my own wretched existence!”
So saying, she darted away with a swiftness which announced
that the resolution of her mind had imparted new vigour to her
purpose, and suffered her to retire without pursuit.
Two weeks afterwards, a haggard female was seen slowly approaching
a distant hunting-camp of the Omawhaws, bearing an
emaciated child on her back. It was she who once had been the
pride of their nation—the daughter of that dreaded chief whose
word was law. She had wandered through the woods, thinly
clad, and almost without food, subsisting upon such small game
as she could entrap by artifice. At night she crept into a hollow
tree, or scraped the snow from the ground, and nestled in the
leaves. She had traversed the wide prairies, now desolate and
snow-clad, on whose broad expanse scarce a living animal was
seen, and over which the bleak wind swept with unbroken power.
The wolf had tracked her footsteps, and howled around the dreary
spot of her lonesome encampment. Without a path or a guide—
ignorant of the intended movements of her tribe, and uncertain
where to find them—exposed to imminent and constantly impending
danger from cold, hunger, beasts of prey, and hostile savages
—this intrepid female pursued her solitary way through the vast
wilderness with unbroken spirit, trusting to her native courage
and sagacity, and praying to the Great Master of Life for assistance.
And who doubts that such a prayer is heard? Who
can doubt that the same beneficient God who decks the wilderness
with matchless beauty, and stores it with abundance, listens to
the plaintive cry of the widowed mother and her innocent babe?
How often do the weak and helpless pass unhurt through perils
under which the bold and strong would sink, or endure privations
for the support of which humanity seems unequal! And
can we see this without believing that the same unseen influence,
which tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, is ever ready
to listen to the petition of the afflicted? and that those who seem
most friendless and destitute are the favoured objects of the most
efficient protection? Yes—there is a prayer that is heard,
though it ascend not from the splendid edifices erected by pride
or piety, nor clothes itself in the rounded periods of polished
eloquence. There is a religion of the heart, and a language
of nature; and God, who so organized the flower that it turns
itself to the sun, to catch vigour from the life-giving ray, has
to Him in the hour of adversity. She prayed to the Great Spirit,
and he conducted her safely through the wilderness.
The Omawhaws had regarded the wife of Bolingbroke with
coldness, when they saw her surrounded with affluence superior
to their own, and considered her as an apostate from the ancient
customs of her people. Their love for her was turned to distrust,
while they beheld her in a foreign garb, and viewed her as the
ally of the white man. But when she came back to them a destitute,
houseless, deserted woman, they received her with kindness,
restored her to the place she had occupied in their confidence,
and poured out bitter curses upon her faithless husband. As she
repeated the story of her abandonment, even in the softened language
of an unwilling accuser, their indignant comments showed
that they had made her cause their own. Bolingbroke was no
longer protected by the mysterious power of the dreaded chief, his
rivals had already supplanted him in the affections of the tribe,
and his last offence overturned the tottering fabric of his popularity.
The passions of the Indian know no medium—what they
condemn they hate, and whatever they hate they destroy. The
doom of the trader was deliberately fixed. It was unsparing and
irrevocable. Him, and his household, and all that he possessed,
were solemnly doomed to death and plunder.
The following morning Menae stood in a secluded spot, at some
distance from the encampment, in earnest conversation with a
young warrior of a bold and prepossessing appearance, whose
hand was twisted in the mane of a fiery steed.
“You know the white trader?” said she.
“Yes, he gave me a blanket once.”
“Was that all?”
“The first time that I went to hunt, he filled my horn with
powder, and promised me good luck.”
“Think once more. You owe a larger debt than that to the
white trader.”
“When my father was killed by the Sioux, and I was badly
wounded, none of the Omawhaws took pity on me, for there was
a scarcity in the village. You took me into your wigwam, cured
my wounds, and fed me with the white man's provisions.”
“You owe him your life.”
“I owe it to you.”
“To us both.”
“I am willing to pay the debt. I have often said that I would
die for the New Moon, and I am not unfriendly to the trader; I
have eaten his bread.”
“You can be secret?”
“The serpent, which has no voice, is not more secret than I.”
“Go to the white trader. Let none see you depart—let none
but him see you at the principal village of the Omawhaws. Tell
him that Menae sent you—that she, who helped to build up his
fortune, who has for years watched over his safety, now warns
him of danger, and bids him fly to the settlements of his own people.
Say that the spirit of my father has whispered in my ear
that the Omawhaws have predicted the death of the trader. Tell
him that I shall never see him again—I would not condescend to
be his wife, or his servant; I would starve rather than eat his
bread—but I should grieve to see the father of my children die
the death of a dog, or the pale girl, whom he has chosen for his
wife, suffering the penalty of his crime. He knows I would not
deceive him. I have but one tongue—it has always spoken the
truth. We walked together for years—I have looked back at
my path, and find that it is white. Bid them fly to the fires of
the white people, before another moon shall be seen in the place
of that which is now waning. And say to Bolingbroke—to the
white trader—that if he feels any gratitude to her who has more
than once been a true friend in the hour of peril, and now saves
him, and his new wife, from the rage of the Maha braves, he will
restore her daughter to the arms of its mother. Let him do this,
and Menae will forgive his faithless treatment of herself, and forget
all her sorrows.”
The young Indian bent his head, and listened attentively, as
Menae pronounced these words with a rapid but distinct utterance.
He then said, respectfully,
“It shall be done—though it grieves me to disappoint the
Omawhaw warriors of their just vengeance. But the daughter of
Blackbird was a mother to me, when I was a sick boy; I will be
in the white man's house; it shall not be burned over his head.”
He loosened his hand from the mane of the young horse, on
whose neck he leaned, and the liberated animal dashed away
over the plain, snuffing the keen air of the morning, and throwing
up the snow with his heels.
“Why turn your horse loose,” enquired his companion, “when
you have immediate use for his services?”
The Indian smiled, and said, “No man rides on horseback
when his business is secret. My own feet will leave no track
upon the frozen snow. I have a store of dried meat hidden in
the woods, which I can easily find. Farewell. The grayest
head among the Omawhaws shall not find my trail, nor discover
my errand.”
Shortly after this event, the Indians learned, to their great disappointment,
that Bolingbroke had suddenly abandoned the village,
with all his property, and announced his intention to return no
more; but they never discovered the cause of his abrupt departure.
On the next visit of the other traders to St. Louis, the
daughter of Menae was placed under their charge, to be delivered
to her mother, who received her child with the joy of one who had
mourned over a first-born. She lived afterwards in retirement,
seldom appearing at the festivals of the nation, and observing the
decent gravity of a widowed matron—carefully bringing up her
children after the fashion of her own people, and continually advising
them to avoid the society, the customs, and the vices of the
whites.
| THE NEW MOON.
A TRADITION OF THE OMAWHAWS. The wilderness and the war path | |