 | Tales of the border |  |
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 Omawhaw Indians. 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, even in his
simplest state, his superiority over the brute of
the forest.
The ruin is extensive, but 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
which 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, is
entirely destroyed, and its remains are only distinguished
from those of the other lodges by their
larger size and central situation. Here too is still
seen, crumbling to decay, the post around which
the warriors danced,—where the war-song has
often been sung—where the buffalo-dance has frequently
been witnessed—and where perhaps, too,
many an unhappy prisoner has endured the most
dreadful tortures that ingenious hatred could invent.
The village was bounded, on one side, by the
Missouri, whose bold current, discoloured by the
earthy substances with which it loads itself in its
violent career, swept along the foot of the bluff on
which it stood;—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. In front a wide 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 squaws practised their rude
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 whites. 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 oppressed 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 here to indulge that pensive
train of thought, which is always awakened
by the sight of the 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 deserted scene, to picture
the deeds of its former inhabitants, and to revive
the employments of those who now slumber in the
tomb. The hearth-stone, which once glowed with
over that spot which was once the seat of
festivity. 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 downcast eye to the
voice of adulation, or laughing away the hours
with the careless joy of youthful hilarity; the wife
was seen surrounded by the maternal cares, and
the quiet blandishments, of domestic life; and the
child sported in boisterous mirth. Yes—it is the
same feeling;—the wretched wigwam of the poor
Indian was as much his home as the villa of the
Roman senator; and, though the ruins of the one,
from their superior magnificence, may excite more
curiosity than those 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 no
more. 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
who have fled to other lands have long vanished
from the green sward and the neglected streets.
It was thus with Nineveh and Babylon; it was
thus with the desecrated seats of the Druids, and
with the strong castles of feudal Europe. The
story of what they once were lives in song and
history; romance has gathered a few fragments,
and entwined them with 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 ashes of the unconscious
dead.
However unsatisfactory may be our researches
in such scenes, we linger among them with mournful
pleasure. There is something which is remarkably
exciting in the contrast between the present
and the past. Nothing seizes the imagination so
suddenly, or so strongly, as 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, we stand in the
midst of death. The abodes of those who once
lived are deserted, and an awful silence prevails.
of the spot formerly occupied by the social
circle. The weed and the briar 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 the
aggressor and the victim. And 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;
and the places that knew us once shall know us no
longer, for ever.
We are growing serious. Let us return to the
village. It was, in days past, a pleasant spot, to
those who could find pleasure in the savage state.
The Omawhaws dwelt here for five months in the
year, employed in raising beans and corn for their
subsistence in the winter, and in dressing the buffalo
skins which had been taken in the hunt of the
preceding season. 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
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 remains of Washinggahsaba,
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 his remains, on
which food was regularly placed for several years
afterwards. 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 deceased. A staff supporting a white flag,
site of this solitary grave, and called for a tribute
of respect to one whom his people delighted to
honour, is no longer in existence.
The Blackbird was a person of singular capacity,
and the greatest man of his tribe. He had
an intellect which obtained the mastery of other
minds, and gave him absolute power over those
around him. They honoured his talents, not his
virtues. Though a great, 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 win
their affections. They clung to him with devoted
fidelity—followed, served, and obeyed, with a superstitious
attachment, 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 gained the reputation of a great medicine
man, who was supposed to wield a mysterious
influence over the lives of those around him, 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
power quelled the wild spirit of the Omawhaw,
who stood submissive, awed into silence, in the
presence of the despotic chief, and trembled, even
in his absence, if a rebellious thought spontaneously
swelled his bosom. He was considered as
the friend of the Great Spirit; and it was thought
that the Omawhaws were particularly honoured,
in having such 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 an individual, and the blighting
prophecy was uttered,—the 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 whites 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, its harvest is
distrust and hatred. Who would be great on
such 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 power. It is supposed that they
secretly furnished him with the most subtle drugs,
supplied them, and who 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 operations 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
double prices, so that the trader lost nothing by
his rapacity.
He delighted in the display of his power, and
seemed, on some occasions, to exert his 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 bank of a
fine flowing stream. They had been travelling
over plains exposed to the sun, and destitute of
water, and the sight of a clear rivulet filled the
with thirst, the chief, to their surprise, permitted
none to drink, but a white man, who happened to
be in 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 warriors,
fierce, and wild, and untamed, as they were,
neither hesitated nor 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 fidelity, the gentler emotions of
the heart—has lately drawn so true a picture of
the love of a father for his 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 female of the tribe. The Indian women
figure of which an 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 mantled in her cheek when she spoke. Her
figure was beautifully rounded, and her limbs of
exquisite proportion. But her superiority was
that 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 euphonous 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 female mind. No woman grows to
maturity unconscious of a possession, which, if
rightly used, is her richest treasure. It is that
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
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 virtue; but a deadly curse in the
possession of a weak or vicious woman.
The destiny of a beautiful girl is most usually
coloured by the possession of this fascinating
treasure. 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, and learns to live 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
that of a worthless weed.
But where the mind is sound, and the heart
pure, beauty elevates the character of a young
female. The admiration which she receives,
even in childhood, softens her affections, and stimulates
her latent ambition. The glance, and the
awakens the responsive sentiment which gives the
proper tone to her affections. 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, her brain is
not turned by the idle breath of unmeaning compliment.
Confident in her powers of pleasing, she
rises above the little stratagems, and sordid jealousies,
of her sex, and scorns to use any allurement
to extort those attentions to which she feels
herself 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 woman as to be almost virtues,
though, in fact, they involve little moral responsibility.
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
aim at great wealth, than him who, having nothing
to begin with, has no expectation of accumulating
a fortune—so the beauty has a capital, which
I know not whether any of this philosophy holds
good among the Omawhaws—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 a chief—or because a portion of her father's
talents had descended to her—but I am inclined
to think it was because she was remarkably handsome.
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 fashion of the Omawhaws, than any other
young lady of that nation:—all which I am ready
to verify.
Among the Omawhaws, females are usually betrothed
in childhood, but the daughter of Blackbird
had remained free from any engagement. Great
men sometimes trample on national usages which
interfere with their own designs, and the politic
chief of the Omawhaws might have kept his
daughter free from any engagement, in order to
best match which his situation might command.
Or, perhaps, the awe in which the chief was held,
and 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. Menae
had now reached her fifteenth year, and the young
warriors 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 their attention
to 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 grisly 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 white men became
quite the fashion. 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 favour.
More than a year previous to the time at which
our tale commences, a young trader had arrived
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, and
his speech prompt and frank, yet cautious and
respectful. The squaws called him the handsome
white man, but the more discriminating warriors
designated him the wise stranger.
He was one of a very numerous and successful
class, who are chiefly distinguished by 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 pronounced to be a young gentleman
of excellent heart; but the truth was, that
his 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 any thing
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
than by stratagem or force; and because it was
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 over it
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 of his cogitations
was a conviction that the most feasible plan for
rising above competition would be that of wedlock,
—that of identifying himself with the tribe, enlisting
a powerful friend by a marriage with the daughter
of some influential person; nor did he hesitate a
moment 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. It was so with Menae; the white
stranger had as yet made no impression on her
heart. Some presents, of more value than those
which he had been in the habit of giving to the
had begun to suspect; and she whispered to herself,
in the exultation of a girl over her first conquest,
“the handsome white man loves the New
Moon.”
Just at this crisis arrived the season of the grand
summer hunt, when, the corn having been weeded,
the whole tribe abandoned the village, and proceeded
to the great plains where the buffaloes
graze in vast herds. This is an occasion of great
rejoicing. For several days previous to the departure
of the tribe, 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,
there were also others who
supply of guns and ammunition; and the hunters
made their contracts individually, in accordance
with which they were provided with rifles, gunpowder,
and other articles, to be paid for in furs
and peltry, at the close of the hunting season.
It was on such occasions, that Bolingbroke had
greatest height among his savage customers; who
treated his suggestions with deference, in proportion
to the amount of the favours which they
solicited at his hands. In the wilderness, as in
the marts of civilised 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 obligation. 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 now saw his business
about to be shared, and his influence divided, with
others. His convictions, as to the propriety of
entering into the honourable state of matrimony,
became greatly strengthened by this new evidence
of the evanescent nature of his own popularity;
and his love for the New Moon increased to a
steady flame, as the propitious influence which
this bright star might exert 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 state, every leisure
interval was filled with sport and feasting. The
such as cards, dancing, foot-ball, and racing. The
younger warriors were painted with more than
ordinary care; some gave themselves up to the
affairs of courtship and gallantry-others did
honour to the chiefs and distinguished braves, by
dancing before the doors of their respective lodges
—while a few, ludicrously appareled, moved about
the village, exciting laughter by the performance
of coarse feats of buffoonery. 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 that the entertainments were over,
praising the hospitality of the several hosts, publishing
the resolves of the council, and admonishing
the people to hasten their preparations for
departure.
At length, every requisite arrangement being
complete, the females, to whom the prospect of
such a journey is always gratifying, were seen
moving rapidly about, assiduously occupied in
loading their horses with such moveables as were
necessary to be transported. It was obvious that
they felt their own importance; their active motions,
busy faces, and loud talking, evinced that
for the moment they had broken through all the
salutary restraints of discipline, and assumed the
rate their husbands severely, for real or supposed
trespasses, upon what they considered their peculiar
province—as we have understood the ladies of
another tribe, which shall be nameless, are accustomed
to do, when their liege lords intrude upon
them while in the performance of any household
solemnities which they regard as inviolate.
The march of the tribe from the village presented
a picturesque and beautiful scene. It was
a bright morning in June. 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 beautiful verdure of spring, and
flowers, infinite in number, as diversified in hue,
reared their heads to the surface of the grassy
carpet, and seemed to repose upon it, like colours
upon the canvass of the painter. The whole plain
presented a series of graceful swells and depressions,
which, at this early hour of the day, received
the sunlight under 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
in all the grave 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 trapping 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 small 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 on saddles richly ornamented. The
bridles of many were decorated with gaudy coloured
ribbon, tape, or tinsel, or with bits of tin,
or pieces of dressed deer skin cut into fringe, or
rolled into tassels; and many had adorned the
manes and tails of their horses. 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 warriors
mounted on fine horses, well clad, completely
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 party, 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 squaws, the children,
and the old men, a few of whom were mounted on
lean ponies, but the greater part on foot, trudging
soberly along—except the younger females, who
amused themselves with jeering any of the junior
warriors who happened to lag behind their comrades.
Under charge of this body of non-combatants,
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 to 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, who, when not
the society of the ladies, and the agreeable atmosphere
of the culinary department. Those in question
were particularly given to these lounging
habits, and for ever stealing after the flesh pots,
and endeavouring to curry favour with the women.
From their appearance, one would suppose their
company not to have been desirable; for the Indian's
dog is a lean, hungry, ferocious animal, who
gets more kicks than favours, and who sneaks
about, with his bushy tail drooped, his pointed
ears erect, his long nose thrust forward, and his
watchful eye gleaming with mischief and distrust.
Resembling the wolf in appearance and manners,
he seems to be obedient from fear only, and to
have little in common with the generous and affectionate
animal, who is the friend, as well as the servant,
of civilised man, and of whom the poet
testified, when he said, “they are honest creatures.”
On 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 pomp. A wide expanse of scenery was
spread before the eye. The interminable plain
seemed to extend further than the vision could
in the march of the Omawhaws, whose
long party-coloured line wound and undulated
among the slopes and mounds of the prairie,
headed by armed warriors, 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 a glance was thrown
back towards the deserted wigwams. Not a living
thing moved in the village, whose lowly huts, untenanted
and still, seemed to form a part of the
natural landscape. Beyond it flowed the broad
and turbulent Missouri, and further towards the
east, was a range of low, pointed hills, whose
sides were thinly clothed with timber, while their
bald summits were covered with only a verdant
carpet of grass. The newly risen sun had just
appeared beyond these hills, lighting up their
peaked tops with the full effulgence of his splendour,
and strongly marking the characteristic
horizon of this peculiar region of country. Over
this scene they gazed for a few moments with
eomtion, 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,
comfort, he acquires, unconsciously, an
attachment towards the spot on which he resides,
and a reverence for the associations by which it is
surrounded. 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 as holy in the eyes of the
uneducated savage, who has never been taught to
analyse the operations of his own mind, as in those
of the person of refinement, who recognises the
good taste and virtuous feeling of this natural emotion
of the heart.
Bolingbroke was not the man to appreciate an
interesting landscape, or to sympathise 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 Omawhaws, 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 regret that the Omawhaws
are quitting the graves of their fathers?”
“Neither,” replied Bolingbroke; “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 that I had forgotten.”
“Has the Master of life told my friend in a
dream, that he has failed to do something which
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 fault. But I feel comforted
by the reflection that the great chief of the
Omawhaws is my friend.”
The chief directed a calm though penetrating
glance of enquiry towards his companion, but the
countenance of the trader betrayed no emotion.
It was evident the offence was not one of deep dye.
His eye wandered back to the cavalcade, and rested
proudly on the warrior train. The young trader
resumed:
“My father has always been kind to the white
stranger.”
“The pale face has reason to believe that the
Blackbird is his friend,” replied the chief.
“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 man 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 endeavoured to distinguish those who were
most worthy, and who stood highest in the estimation
of the Omawhaws, by the value of the gifts
which I made them. But I fear that I did not
sufficiently recollect the high claims of the 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.
“Will the head man of the Omawhaws,” continued
he, presenting it, “accept this as a small
part of the atonement which my negligence imposes
on 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 chief, “and the head man
of the Omawhaws knows how to value his friends.
I have looked back at our path;—it is all white—
there is no cloud there. The white trader may
know hereafter that the Blackbird is his friend.”
Thus saying, he eyed the beautiful weapon
which he had received with complacency, 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 in the most conspicuous
manner upon his person, he rode away, muttering
to himself, “What does the trader want in return
for so fine a present?” He did not dream that
Bolingbroke wanted his daughter.
In a few days they arrived at the pastures of the
buffalo, and beheld the plains covered with herds
of wild cattle. 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, side by side, with the buffalo, he discharged
mortally wounded. Then the hunter, quitting his
prey, dashed again into the affrighted herd to select
another.
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
tainted 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 were
seen flying towards all points of the compass, followed
by 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
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
and quit for ever 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?” enquired 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 wil 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 youth, 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,
that he could have wished. She added, “If the
white trader is wise, as men say he is, he will not
attempt to 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 in tending 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, to whom they magnified the advantages
of the proposed alliance, 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
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
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 affects 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, and that all its hopes and
interests are blended with those of another 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 dependence
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,
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
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 some of
the comforts, though few of the luxuries, of his
country, 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
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. She was too generous to
give a divided affection. 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 is the hallowed
principle of woman's love—such the pure sentiment,
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 enquire 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 enquire into 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
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, to enquire
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;
and while he was always prepared to reap
the spoil of their labours, 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
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 had 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
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 her own friends. She had married one who
was an alien to her 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 warriors no longer regarded her with pride
as the beauty of their nation, but considered her
as one who had apostatised 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
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
Estimating his feelings by her own, she
was impatient 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 proudest 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
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 for
ever.
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 some other females to the corn-fields, adjoining
the village, and 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 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
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.[1]
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
which prevails among the Omawhaws, had
perhaps prepared her to anticipate such an occurence
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 of her resentment. She considered
the act lawful, while she condemned 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
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 that 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
question he gave an evasive answer; and directed
her to accompany her friends, who were on their
way to the hunting grounds. She departed 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 cruel 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
sun of the succeeding day! The New Moon
hastened to her husband, full of young hope, and
newly kindled affection; but bitter was her disappointment,
when, after an austere reception, he
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.
Throughout 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 shivering with cold, presented
herself before him, who, in the hour 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 can not 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
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 own nation; but now
I am an old woman, the mother of two children,
and what Omawhaw will regard me? Is not my
right superior to that of your other wife? She
had heard of 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
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 the
agony of 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-field 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,
So saying, she darted away with a swiftness
which announced that the resolution of her mind
had imparted new vigour to her limbs; while the
trader, alarmed by her threats, abandoned his 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 had once 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
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 beneficent 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 organised the flower that it turns
itself to the sun, to catch vigour from the life-giving-ray,
has so framed the human bosom that it
spontaneously expands itself 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 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
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 either of those 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
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 Omawhaws, 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
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 a
son to her now that I am a man. When I had
no home, I slept 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 loose your horse,” 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
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.
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