University of Virginia Library

THE LOVER'S LEAP.

There are some poets who esteem women
slightly, asserting that the sex is fickle, false, and
inconstant; and others there are, who will have
it, that devotion, fidelity, and disinterestedness,
are only to be found in the breast of woman.
Far be it from us to decide on a subject so abstruse,
when so many doctors disagree; yet we
trust we shall be excused for placing a story in
our pages which would tend to make the balance
incline in favor of the fair.

Once upon a time, as story books say, there
lived a woman, or, to be perfectly correct, two
women, who bore to each other the relation of
mother and daughter. Tradition has not preserved
the name of either; and that of the mother
would be remembered only to be contemned, so
that it is the less matter. But it is a pity that the
appellation of a being so heroic as the daughter

should be forgotten. All the Dahcotahs can say
on the subject is, that she was Weenoona, or the
oldest girl of the family.[71] By this title, then,
we shall designate her. Weenoona, in the opinion
of the young hunters, was the prettiest
maiden in the tribe; but the women, and more
especially the girls, who ought to be the best
judges in such matters, were of a quite contrary
opinion. If we were telling this to one of those
philosophers who believe with Jean Jacques, that
envy and jealousy are strangers to savage life,
it would probably startle him; but those who are
better judges of human nature, will not be astonished
when we say, that these vices, as well as all
uncharitableness, are as often found in a lodge as
in a palace. To return, however, to our heroine:
she was tall and slender, and was accounted
the best garnisher of moccasins in the village.
Not less remarkable was her nicety with regard
to her person, for she made it a point to wash
every day, whereas her companions do not perform
more than two or three ablutions per annum.
Her features were the faithful index of her disposition,
which was mild and yielding. She was
never known to requite insult with insult, nor reproach
with reproach; and when beaten by her
mother, no unfrequent occurrence, she would retire
to the woods and weep. Such as she was,
scarcely a young man in the village took to himself
a wife, without first offering himself as a
candidate for her favor, and being in consequence
rejected. The other maidens pointed at her, and
advised the men never to take a wife like her.
`She is no hand at chopping wood,' said one.
`She cannot carry half so big a load as myself,'
said another. `She cannot hoe in the cornfield
when the sun shines,' cried a third. `What kind
of creatures would the children of such a puny
thing be?' demanded a fourth.

But notwithstanding all this, she was loved by
many, as far as savages are capable of loving.
Scarcely a night passed, that some young man
did not enter her father's lodge, and hold a lighted
match before her eyes. But it was invariably allowed
to burn, a sign that the suitor might prefer
his vows elsewhere. The advice and exhortations
of her parents passed unheeded, and she bloomed
in single blessedness till her eighteenth year, a
circumstance not common among the Dahcotahs.

The fact was, her heart was no longer her own
to bestow. She had placed her affections on a
young savage, the best hunter and the most daring
warrior in the band. Who danced so well as
Chakhopee Dootah?[80] Who killed half so many
deer? Who gave so many beaver skins to the
trader? and who, at his age, had struck so often
on the dead bodies of his enemies? But these
accomplishments were lost on the parents of Weenoona.
His father had accidentally killed the
brother of her father. The misfortune was universally
attributed to accident, and the wrath of
the injured family had been appeased by gifts;
the perpetrator of the mischief had long been dead,
but enduring hatred still rankled in the heart of

the father of Weenoona. The proposals of Chakhopee
Dootah were rejected with scorn, his gifts
were refused, and the poor girl was forbidden to
have anything to say to him. If, therefore, she
sometimes staid longer in the woods than was necessary
to collect her bundle of dried sticks, and
if she had in consequence to sustain the reproaches
and the blows of her mother, it must by no means
be inferred that she merited such treatment by
disobedience.

The young man, on his part, did all that he
could to extinguish the resentment of the father
of Weenoona, and to gain his approbation. He
was the foremost in every war party, and untiring
in the chase. But it availed him nought. The
old man told him in plain terms that he intended
his child for the wife of a trader. If she could
be married to a white man, she would be exempt
from labor, and have plenty of blankets, and other
worldly goods, to bestow on her aged parents.
Chakhopee Dootah was a good hunter; but no
hunter could command the wealth of the men
with hats. To all his logic the old savage was
deaf, and returned the same answer to all his
proffers.

In an evil hour for the lovers, Raymond, a
French trader from Montreal, erected his log
house at a short distance from the village. The
charms of Weenoona caught his eye, and he offered
a great price for her. The proffer was
very acceptable to her father, but she heard the
proposition with fear and trembling. When he
came into the lodge, she fled to the woods to

avoid his hateful presence, or if compelled by
her mother to remain, she turned his attempts at
wooing in her own tongue, into ridicule, and
would only accept his gifts at the express command
of her parents. He was not discouraged,
for he knew that very few of the Indian maidens
disposed of themselves, and though force is little
known in the treatment of their children among
the Dahcotahs, he thought, and very justly, that
perseverance might bring his wishes to pass.
The life of Weenoona soon became a burthen to
her. All her attempts to please were met with
reproach. If she brought wood to her father's
lodge, he upbraided her with her inferiority in
strength to others of her sex and condition, and
told her she was unfit to be the partner of a hunter
and warrior. `When he kills a deer,' said he,
`you could not go forth and bring it home on
your back, and if he wanted a field of corn, or a
canoe, you could not hoe and plant the one, nor
cut down a great black walnut, to make the other.
No, you are only fit to lead the lazy life of
a white woman, and to have a white dog to do
your bidding, and supply your wants. You will
do very well to take the Frenchman. He is rich,
and you will never need anything, and if you
manage right, neither will your old father and
mother.' One day, after a lecture of this kind,
she had escaped from the presence of her incensed
father, and repaired to the banks of a small stream
in the vicinity, there to vent her grief in tears and
lamentations. She had been there but few moments,
when Chakhopee Dootah appeared descending
the opposite bank, bearing the carcass of
a deer that he had just killed. At the sight of
him her cries ceased, and her countenance brightened.
Coming up, he threw down his load and
sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree beside her.
`What ails you?' he asked.

`My father is always angry, and scolding at me.
I have a great mind to hang myself on one of
these branches, or to throw myself into the water.'

`And what does he scold you for? What
have you done to make him angry?'

`I have done nothing to anger him. Last
night the Frenchman came into our lodge with a
new gun, and my father wanted it. He had no
furs to buy it, and the trader would not give it to
him on credit; but he said he should have it,
and many things beside, if I would consent to live
with him. I laughed at his speech, and told him
that I hated him. My father scolded, and my
mother beat me, and I have had no peace since.
Other mothers take the part of their children, but
mine sets my father on to ill treat me. O, I wish
I were dead! I wish I were dead!'

`Do not think of hanging yourself. Remember,
that to reach the other world you will have
to swim across a rapid river, and drag the tree
after you by the neck. Live rather for me. I
can maintain you as well, or better, than any
white man, and your father will be reconciled to
the match when he finds he cannot help it. Fly
with me to-night to the Ioways, and we will remain
with them till the storm blows over.'

`No, I cannot leave my parents. Though

they use me harshly, they love me; and they
have no child but myself. Be not afraid, they
will not use force, and I will suffer everything
sooner than marry the trader. I wish he would
remain at home among his own nation. I hate
his ugly, pale face.'

`I will watch his lodge, and the first time I
catch him alone, I will send a chewed bullet
through his heart.[72] He shall not stand in my
way much longer.'

`Do not do so, he is not to blame. They tell
me, and he tells me, that I am like a French woman;
and that is probably the reason he seeks
me. It is not his fault. If my father had not
encouraged him, he would have given me up,
long ago. If you kill him, you will bring misfortune
on the whole tribe. The whites will stop
the trade, and our people will not be able to get
guns or ammunition till you are given up to punishment.
They will slay you, for there is no
buying yourself off with gifts, as there is among
us. And then I shall lose you forever.'

`I care not. I am a man, and do not fear
death. It will be your father, and not I, that
will bring this misfortune on our people. Nay, it
shall not happen at all. I will go this moment
and stab him, behind his own counter, and then
go strait to Prairie du Chien, and surrender myself.
Do not think to dissuade me. I will do
as I have said, unless you consent to elope with
me.'

`Then hear me, Chakhopee Dootah; I will
do as you would have me,' said she, perhaps not

displeased to be thus urged. `Sooner than such
things shall happen, I will do anything you wish.
But will you not hereafter reproach me with having
yielded too easily? Will you not be sorry
that you have taken so feeble a creature to your
lodge?'

`When I do, may I die in a snowdrift, and
may the wolves feast upon my carcass. Meet
me then, here, to-night, when the moon rises. I
will have my two horses ready, and you shall
ride the best. I care not if it be spoiled. I can
steal another from the Saques, but I cannot get
another Weenoona.'

`You can get many better, if you will. But
I will not fail you;' and with these words the
simple lovers parted.

Unfortunately for the success of the assignation,
it was seen and overheard. A girl who had
long sighed in secret, and made advances in public,
to Chakhopee Dootah, had heard the lamentations
of Weenoona, as she was seeking a load
of wood. She advanced towards the sound, and
came in sight of the afflicted maiden, just as her
lover made his appearance. She approached
them under the bank, and while their attention
was absorbed in each other, heard every word
that passed. Forthwith she repaired to the village,
and made the parents of Weenoona acquainted
with the whole plan, recommending to
them to watch her closely and to give her a sound
castigation into the bargain. Bitter were the reproaches
the poor girl was compelled to endure
on her return, and hard and heavy were the blows

her mother inflicted on her, with the blade of a
paddle. At night she was tied to one of the poles
of the lodge, and had the additional misery of reflecting
that Chakhopee Dootah would look upon
her as faithless to her word.

The next day she had the mortification to see
him flirting with other girls, before her eyes, and
looking at her with an expression that signified,
`There are as fat does yet running wild, as ever
were taken.' Nor could she get an opportunity
to undeceive him, for her mother was as watchful
as Argus, and did not even suffer her to go for
wood or water alone. Raymond, too, who had
heard of her adventure, tormented her with his
addresses, and upbraided her in bitter terms.
But she found means, through the medium of a
married woman, one of her particular friends, to
explain her conduct to him. He again vowed,
that he would abstain from war and the chase, till
he found an opportunity to carry her off.

He was not able to keep his word. Old Tahtunker,
(the Buffalo) the aged war chief, dreamed
a dream. He thought that he was on the head
waters of the Buffalo river, and there saw an encampment
of twelve Chippeway lodges. Anon it
was attacked by a band of Sioux, headed by
Chakhopee Dootah. The Chippeways, at the
first alarm, dug holes in the ground, within their
lodges, and defended themselves desperately.
But Chakhopee Dootah, throwing down his gun
and tomahawk, rushed upon the camp, and in
spite of a shower of balls, succeeded in setting
fire to it. The enemy, thus forced from their

cover, were cut off, men, women, and children.
The hero of this battle appeared to be wounded
in the shoulder. In the morning the old warrior
assembled the young men at a solemn feast, and
communicated his vision to his admiring auditors.
It was unanimously admitted that the war post
should be erected, and that it was the will of the
Master of Life that Chakhopee Dootah should
take the lead. Such a call was imperative, and
he departed accordingly, with all the customary
formalities.

Weenoona now obtained more liberty than before,
and her father went to the chase without
fear of losing his child. A misfortune full as serious
in his estimation, was, however, to befall
him. He encountered a she bear, fired, and
wounded her. Before he had time to reload his
gun, she overtook him. Defending his face with
his left arm, he drew his knife, and despatched
her with repeated stabs. Yet such was the animal's
tenacity of life, that notwithstanding the
mortal wounds she received, she scratched him
sorely, and lacerated his arm, breaking it in three
places before she fell. He returned to the village,
and went under the hands of a juggler and
physician, these two professions being commonly
united in one person among the Indians.

Now it was, that he regretted that he had no
son. The meat killed by the others was indeed
as free to him as to them, but he could not follow
them in their hunts, and he felt the miseries of
dependence, though not in the same manner and
degree a white man would.

The band now moved to Lake Pepin, for the
purpose of taking fish. The family of Weenoona
accompanied it. They encamped with the rest,
at the foot of a high precipice. The condition of
our heroine was miserable indeed. She saw the
suffering condition of her father, whose arm, set
rudely by the Indian surgeon, kept him in continual
agony, and heard his incessant and peevish
complaints. Her mother told her that she was a
bad child to see her parents poor and miserable,
when one word from her lips would put them in
possession of everything they needed. One more
trial was necessary to drive her to despair, and
that was not long in coming.

Raymond had not, as was the usual course, gone
in the spring to Michilimacinac for a new supply
of goods. He had instead, despatched three
of his men with his boat, and remained himself to
plant corn, with the three others. At this time he
began to feel lonesome, and resolved to make
a last effort to gain possession of Weenoona, and
failing of success, to take another to wife. He
was a gross, ignorant sensualist, and attributed the
repugnance of the mistress of his affections to maiden
coyness. As to her attachment to Chakhopee
Dootah, he thought of it as a girlish folly,
that he would soon overcome. He was not, however,
of a bad disposition, and if he could have
foreseen the fatal consequence of his pursuit, he
would have given it over. He loaded a large canoe
with merchandize, and embarking with one
of his men, arrived at the encampment. The old
savage and his wife came out of the lodge to gaze

upon the goods as the canoe was unladen. `All
this will I give you,' said Raymond, `if I may
have your daughter to wife.' At the same time
he threw an English three point blanket over the
old man's shoulders, and another of the same
quality, though less in dimensions, upon his wife.

`She shall be yours,' said the old savage.
`She is my own child, and I will dispose of her
as I please! Tomorrow you shall have her.'

With these words he re-entered his lodge, and
summoned his daughter before him. He told
her that longer delay was useless; that she must
make up her mind to be the wife of Raymond;
that her lover was a bad man, and was moreover
gone to war, from whence he would probably never
return. And that on the next night she
should be carried to the Frenchman's tent, whether
she liked it or not.

Weenoona laid down and spent the remainder
of the day in weeping. Her heart was broken;
but her grief was disregarded. The next day,
the wedding feast of fish, fresh and dried, was
prepared. A dance began, attended with no
small uproar. The trader took his seat upon the
buffalo robe spread for him, the repast was served
up in wooden bowls, and Weenoona was called
upon to appear. She was absent, and the girls
present left the lodge to look for her. Suddenly
a thrilling shriek stilled the confusion of tongues
within, and all hurried out to ascertain its cause.
`Where is she?' demanded Raymond. `There,
there,' answered the women, pointing to the steep
hill. All voices were hushed, in an instant, for it

was evident from her tones that she was singing
her death song. Raymond and some of the Indians
ran to overtake her and arrest her purpose.
The Frenchman was the foremost, and gained
fast upon her, but in vain; she was near the top.
The words of her song have been preserved, and
were lately translated into English verse by a
gentleman engaged in the trade. The version is
furnished with rhymes, which was not the case in
the original, and has undergone some other alterations,
it being impossible to make anything like
a literal translation.'

It was in the following terms:—

She uttered these last words on the brink of
the cliff, and as Raymond, who was now close
upon her, stretched out his hand to seize her, she
sprung off. He stood for a few moments, rooted
to the ground, his hair bristling, and his eyes starting
from their sockets with horror. Recovering,
after a few moments, from his trance, he hurried
down the hill to where the savages were raising

the death yell over the body of Weenoona. It
was literally mashed. The very form of humanity
was gone.

As soon as the funeral was over, Raymond embarked,
with his followers, in his canoe, leaving
the goods he had brought with the afflicted parents
of his bride. Fearing the vengeance of Chakhopee
Dootah, as soon as he reached his trading
house, he loaded his boat and pushed off. The
current carried him down the river, and what became
of him afterwards, we cannot say. He was
never after seen in the country.

A fever, the consequence of his wound, and the
violence of his grief for the loss of his child, carried
off the father of Weenoona. Her mother cut
her limbs so severely, to show her sorrow for her
husband and daughter, that mortification took
place, and the weather being hot, she only survived
three weeks. There was an end of the
family.

The common opinion of the Dahcotahs, was,
that the poor girl would be obliged, in the other
world, to carry about with her a burthen of the
very stones on which she dashed herself to pieces,
as a punishment. As for Chakhopee Dootah, he
did not lay violent hands on himself. At first, he
thrust splinters through his arms, and assumed the
usual signs of mourning; but within the year he
had two wives, and was as great a beau as ever.
It is rather singular, that in the expedition before
mentioned, of which he was the leader, he fulfilled

all the circumstances of the old chief's dream.
The descendants of the forgetful lover are now
many.

Gentle Reader, — Our self-imposed task is
completed. Having treated of some `things unattempted
yet in prose or rhyme,' we do not throw
by our quill because we have no more materials
on which to enlarge. No, thanks to the observations
of a wandering and unquiet life, we do not
lack argument whereon to employ our pen. But
the labor of writing is irksome to us, and it is with
heartfelt satisfaction that we approach that thrice
blessed word, FINIS. Whether thou and we shall
ever meet again, is more than doubtful. If not,
we bid thee a sorrowful farewell.

Whether we have performed the duties we prescribed
to ourselves in the preface with credit or
not, is for thee, courteous reader, to say. Of the
matter of which our maiden essay is constructed,
it is ten to one thou knowest nothing; and if so,
thou art no competent critic. But for our manner,
we ask thy indulgence and favorable construction.
If the crimes in prose and verse that
we have perpetrated are many and great, consider
that the forest has been our Alma Mater. Once
more, we bid thee farewell.