University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

The next scene in the slowly unfolding panorama of our
story opens at the house of Gaut Gurley, on the banks of
the Magalloway. Gaut reached home, on the evening of the
logging bee, about sunset; and, having put out his team, entered
his house, where he found his wife alone, his daughter
being absent on a visit to a neighbor. Contrary to what might
have been expected, after the favorable impression he had so
evidently made on the settlers that day, and the attainment of the
still more important object with him, the regaining of his old fatal
influence over Elwood, he appeared morose and dissatisfied.
Something had not worked to his liking in the complicated
machinery of his plans, and he showed his vexation so palpably
as soon to attract the attention of his submissive but by no
means unobservant wife, who, after a while, plucked up the
courage to remark:

“What is the case, Gaut? Have you been working yourself
to death for those Elwoods, to-day, or has something gone
wrong with you, that makes you look so sour this evening?”

“I have worked hard enough, God knows; but that I intended,
for I had objects in view, most of which I think I have
accomplished, but —”

“But not all, I suppose you would say?”

“Well, yes, there is one thing that has not gone exactly to
suit me, over there.”

“What is that, Gaut?”

“It is of no consequence that you should know it. If I

should name it, you would not see its bearing on my plans, I
presume.”

“Perhaps not, for I don't know what your plans are, these
days. I used to be able to guess out the objects you had in
view, before you came here, whether you told me or not. But,
since you have been in this settlement, I have been at loss to
know what you are driving at; I can't understand your movements
at all.”

“What movements do you mean, woman?”

“All of them; but particularly those that have to do with
the Elwoods.”

“What is there in my course toward them, since they came
here, that you can't understand?”

“Well, I'll tell you, Gaut. When you believed Elwood to be
rich, I could easily see that you thought it would be an object
to bring about an acquaintance between his son and only heir,
and our Avis; and I knew you was, those days, studying how
it could be done, and I always suspected that you in some
way disposed of that picture of her for the purpose, instead of
sending it to your relations, and —”

“And what?” exclaimed Gaut, turning fiercely on his wife.
“Suspected! What business had you to suspect? And you
told Avis what you thought, I suppose?”

“Not a word, never one word; for I knew she was so
proud and particular, that, if she mistrusted any thing of that
kind to have been done, she would flounce in a minute. No, I
never hinted it to her, or anybody else, and it was guesswork,
after all,” replied the abashed wife, in a deprecating tone, — she
having been tempted, by the unusual mood which her stern
husband had manifested for discussing his private affairs with
her, to venture to speak much more freely than was her wont.

“Well, see that you don't hint any thing about that, nor any
thing else you may take it into your silly head to guess about
my objects,” rejoined the other, in a somewhat mollified tone.
“But now go on with what you were going to say.”

“Well, I could understand your course before Elwood failed;
but, when he did, I could see no object, either in following him
here, or having any thing particular to do with him, or any of
his family. But you seized on the first chance, after we came
here, to court them, and have followed it up; first, in the affair
of the young man and Avis, and then, in drumming up the whole
settlement in getting up this logging bee for the old man. Now,
Gaut, you don't generally drive matters at this rate without
something in view that will pay; and, as I can see nothing to
be gained worth so much pains, I don't understand it.”

“I didn't suppose you did, and it is generally of little consequence
whether you see through my plans or not; but, in this
case —”

Here Gaut suddenly paused, rose, and took several turns
across the room, evidently debating with himself how far it was
policy to disclose his plans to his wife; when, appearing to
make up his mind, he again seated himself and resumed:

“Yes, as this is a peculiar case, and coming, perhaps, in part
within the range of a woman's help, if she knows what is wanted,
and one which she may unintentionally hurt, if she don't,
I suppose I must give you some insight into my movements, so
that you can manage accordingly, help when you can, and do no
mischief when you can't; as you probably will do, for you well
know the consequences of doing otherwise.”

“I will do all I can, if I can understand what you want, and
can see any object in it,” meekly responded the woman.

“Well, then, in the first place,” resumed the other, “you
know how many years I slaved myself, and what risks I run, to
help Elwood make that fortune; how he threw me off with simple
wages, instead of the share I always intended to have for
such hard and dangerous services; and how he failed, like a fool,
before I got it.”

“I knew it all.”

“Then you can easily imagine how much it went against my
grain to be balked in that manner. At all events, it did; and

I soon determined not to give up the game so, even if that was
all. And ascertaining that Elwood, by allowances made by the
creditors to his wife, and sales of furniture which they allowed
the family to retain, brought quite a little sum of money into
the settlement, — enough, at any rate, to pay for his place, put
him well afloat, and make him a man of consequence in such a
new place, — I soon made up my mind on buying and settling,
for present purposes, here, too, as we did.”

“Yes, but what do you expect to make here more than in any
other new country? And what can you make out of the
Elwoods, more than any other new settlers?”

“A good deal, if all things work to my mind. There is
money to be made here. I could do well in the fur business
alone, and at the worst. And, by the aid of one who could be
made to favor my interests, there is no telling what could be
done. Now, what claim had I on any other settler to be that
one to aid me? On Elwood I had a claim to help me to property
in turn; and I determined he should do it. But he must
first be brought into the traces. He has got out with me,
and must be reconciled before I can do much with him.”

“Well, I should think he ought to be by this time, after what
you have been doing for him, without his asking.”

“Without asking? Why, that was just the way to do it. As
I calculated, he was taken by surprise, disarmed, and yielded;
so that object is accomplished, as well as making the right
impression on the other settlers by beating them at their own
work.”

“I begin to understand, now.”

“You will understand more, soon; that was only part of my
object.”

“What was the other part?”

“To insure the consummation of the match between Avis
and young Elwood, which now seems in fair progress, but which
would be liable to be broken off, if his family should continue to
be unfriendly to me.”

“Why, that was the thing I could understand least of all.
The young man is well enough, I suppose, but I thought you
had looked to have Avis make more of herself, and do better
for us. She is still young, and we don't know what chances she
may have. If she and the young man should keep on intimate,
and set their hearts on it, I don't know that I should oppose it
much; but what object we can have in helping it on, I can't, for
the life of me, see. I have not said a word against it, because
I saw that you were for it. But, if I had been governed by my
own notions, I should have sooner discouraged than helped it on.”

“I suspected so; and, for that reason, as well as others, I
see I must tell you a secret, which the Elwoods themselves don't
know, and which I meant should never pass my lips; and, when
I tell it to you, see that it never passes yours. That young
man, Claud Elwood, whom you think so ordinary a match, is
heir to a large property. A will is already executed making
him so.”

“Is that so, Gaut?”

“Yes, I have known it for months. I made the discovery before
I decided to move here.”

“It is a wonder how you could keep it from me.”

“Humph! It is a greater wonder how I came to tell you at
all, and I fear I shall yet repent it; but things had come to a
pass that seemed to make it necessary.”

“But who is the man, and where, who is going to give the
young man such a property?”

“It is not for you to know. I have told you enough for all
my purposes. And this brings me back to your first question,
when I admitted that there was one thing which had not gone
to my liking. There was, indeed, one thing that disturbed and
vexed me; and that was the discovery I made, over there, to-day,
that Elwood's wife is an enemy to me. I contrived all
ways to get speech with her, but she studiously avoided giving me
a chance, nor was I able once even to catch her eye, that I might
give her a friendly nod of recognition. I know she never

wished me about, in former times, but I then attributed her
coldness to the pride of the rich over the poor. But I now
think it was because she hated me. I am satisfied she is an
enemy, at heart; and will, for that reason, prove a secret and
I fear dangerous opposer to a match which will connect me
with her family, unless something is done to reconcile her.”

“How can that be done?”

“Perhaps you can do something. We start, in about a
fortnight, on the fall hunt, — both the Elwoods, myself, and
others. When we are gone, you can go down into that neighborhood,
get acquainted with some of the women, and get them
to call with you on Mrs. Elwood; and, if Avis could be made
to go and see her, so much the better. She would make an
impression without trying. You would have to manage, but
how, I am not now prepared to decide. I will think of it, and
you may, and we will talk it over again. I have told you this,
now, that you might understand the situation of affairs; and
the object, which you will now see, is worth playing for. And,
if we can can carry this last point, the last danger will be
removed, — unless Claud himself proves fickle.”

“I guess there will not be much danger of that in this settlement.
What girl is there that he could think of in comparison
with Avis?”

“I think there is none; and still, there is one whom I would
rather he would not see.”

“Who can that be, I should like to know?”

“She is the daughter, or is claimed to be, of an old Indian
chief, called Wenongonet, who lives up the lakes, and was once
a man of some consequence, both with Indians and whites.”

“An Indian girl! Fudge!”

“You might alter that tune, if you should see her. She is
white as you are, and has, most of the time, of late years, lived
in some of the old settlements, been schooled, and so on. I
saw her, soon after we came here, with another woman, at the
south end of the lake, where she was visiting in the family of

one of the settlers, and I inquired her out, as she appeared so
much above the common run of girls. But she is courted,
they say, by a young educated Indian, called Tomah, from
Connecticut-river way, where I used to see him. He ought to
be able to take care of her. But hark! what was that? It
sounded like the trotting of some heavy horse. I'll see.”

So saying, Gaut rose and went to the window, when, after
casting a searching look out into the road, and pausing a moment,
in evident doubt and surprise at what met his gaze, he
muttered: “The devil is always at hand when you are talking
about him; for that must be the very fellow, — Tomah himself!
But what a rig-out! Wife, look here.”

The woman promptly came to the window, when her eyes
were greeted with the appearance of a smart-looking and
jauntily-equipped young Indian, mounted on the back of a
stately, antlered moose, that, by some contrivance answering
to a bridle, he was about bringing to a stand in the road, opposite
to the house. Without heeding the exclamations of surprise
and questions of his wife, who had never seen an animal of
the kind, Gaut stepped out of the door, and, after pausing long
enough to satisfy himself that he was not known to the other,
said, after the distant greeting customary among strangers had
been exchanged:

“That is a strange horse you are travelling on, friend.”

“No matter that, when he carry you well,” replied the Indian,
whose language was a little idiomatic, notwithstanding
his education.

“Perhaps not; but I should think he would be a hard trotter
for most riders.”

“Moose don't care for that: he say, he carry you ten miles
an hour, you not the one to complain: if you no like, you no
ride.”

“How did you tame him to be so manageable?”

“Caught him a little calf, four years ago; trained him young

to mind halter; then ox-work, horse-work. This year ride
him. No trouble, you let him enough to eat.”

“Where did you catch him?”

“Over the mountain. Live there. My name John Tomah.
Been here to hunt some, but not see you before. Another man
live in this house last spring.”

“Yes, I am a new-comer. But I have heard some of the
settlers speak of you, I think. You are the Indian that has
been to college?”

“Yes, been there some, but in the woods more. Love to
hunt, catch beaver, sable, and such things. Come here to hunt
now, soon as time. But must have moose kept when off hunting:
thought the man lived here do that. May be you keep
him, while I come back. Pay you, all right.”

“Yes, if I could; but where could I keep him? He would
jump any pasture or yard fence there is here, and then run
away, would he not?”

“No. Stay, after week or two, and get wonted, same as
horse or cow. I go to work, make yard, keep him in a while,
and feed him with grass or browse. I tend him first. You
keep him, — you keep me, till go hunting; then get boy. Pay
well, much as you suit.”

Gaut Gurley never acted without a strong secret motive.
He had been intently studying the young Indian during the
conversation just detailed, with a view of forming an opinion
how far his subservience could be secured; and, appearing to
become satisfied on this point, and believing the first great
step for making him what was desired would be accomplished
by yielding to his request gracefully, however much family
inconvenience it might occasion, Gaut now turned cordially to
him, and said:

“Yes, Tomah, I will do it. I like your looks, and I will do
it for you, but wouldn't for anybody else. We can get along
with your animal, somehow; and you shall stay, too, till our
company start on our hunt, and then you shall go with us. I

will see that you have fair play. I will be your friend; and
perhaps I may want a good turn of you some time.”

“Like that; go with you; show you how catch beaver. Do
all I can.”

“Very well; and perhaps I can help you in some way.
You have an affair that you feel a peculiar interest in, with
somebody on the upper lake, and —”

“You know that?” interrupted the startled but evidently not
displeased Indian.

“Yes, I have heard something about it.”

“But how you help there?”

“O, I can contrive a way for you to make the matter work
as you wish, if you will only persevere.”

“Persevere? Ah, means keep trying. Yes, do that; but
she don't talk right, now; perhaps, will, you help, then we be
great friends, sure.”

The treaty being thus concluded, the gratified young Indian
dismounted, with his rifle and pack, containing his blanket,
hunting-suit, etc., which he carried before him, laid across
the shoulder of his novel steed; and, under the guidance of
Gaut, he led the animal into the cow-yard, where he was tied
and fed, and the fence, already made high to exclude the
wolves, as usual among first settlers, was topped out by laying
on a few additional poles, so as to prevent the possibility of
his escape. This being done, Gaut conducted his new-found
friend into the house, and introduced him, to his wife and also
to his daughter, who had by this time returned, as the young
Indian that had been to college, but still had a liking for the
woods.

“I have often thought I should feel interested in seeing an
educated native of the forest,” remarked Avis, after the civilities
of the introduction had been exchanged. “Books, when
you became able to read and understand them,” she continued,
turning to the Indian, “books must have opened a new world
to you, and the many new and curious things you found in

them must have been exceedingly gratifying to you, Mr. Tomah.”

“Yes, many curious things in books,” replied Tomah, indifferently.

“And also much valuable knowledge?” rejoined Avis, interrogatively.

“Valuable enough to some folks, suppose,” replied the other,
with the air of one speaking on a subject in which he felt no
particular interest. “Lawyers make money; preachers get
good pay for talking what they learn in books; so doctors.”

“But surely,” persisted the former, who, though disappointed
in his replies, yet still expected to see, if she could draw him
out, the naturally shrewd mind of the native made brilliant by
the light of science, “surely you consider an education a good
thing for all, giving those who receive it a great advantage
over those who do not?”

“Yes, education good thing,” responded Tomah, his stolid
countenance beginning to lighten up at the idea which now
struck him as involving the chief if not the sole benefit of his
scientific acquirements; “yes, education good, very good, sometime.
Instance: I go to Boston with my moose next winter;
show him for pay, one, two days; then reckon up money —
add; then reckon up expenses — subtract; tell how much I
make. Make much, stay; make little, go to other place. Yes,
education good thing.”

“But I should think you might do better with your education
than you could by following the usual employments of
your kind of people,” resumed the other, still unwilling to see
the subject of her scrutiny fall so much below her preconception
of an educated Indian. “You say, lawyers, preachers,
and doctors make money from the superiority which their education
has given them; now, why don't you profit by your
education, and go into a profession like one of theirs, and obtain
by it the same wealth and position which you see them enjoying?”

“Did try,” replied Tomah, with an evident effort to elevate
his language, and meet the question candidly. “When I came
home from the school, people all say, Now you go and live like
white folks, in village, and study to be doctor, make money,
be great man. So went; study one year; try hard to like;
but no use. Uneasy all the time; could not keep down the
Indian in me; he always rising up, more every day, all the
time drawing me away to the woods, — pull, pull, pull. I fight
against him; put him down little some time; but he soon up
again, stronger than ever. Found could not make myself over
again; must be as first made; so gave up; left study for the
woods; and said, Now let Indian be Indian as long as he like.”

Satisfied, or rather silenced, by Tomah's reasons, Avis turned
the conversation by asking him to relate to her how he caught
and tamed his moose. She found him completely at home in
this and other of his adventures in the forest, which he was
thus encouraged to relate, and in which he often became a
graphic and interesting narrator, and displayed the keen observation
of the objects of nature, together with the other
peculiar qualities of his race, to so much advantage that she
soon relinquished her favorite idea of ever finding a philosopher
in an educated Indian.

In presenting the above picture, drawn from one of the many
living prototypes that have fallen within our personal observation,
or come within our knowledge derived from reliable
sources, we had no wish to disparage the praiseworthy acts and
motives of those spirited and patriotic men who, like Moore,
in establishing his well-known charity school, in connection with
Dartmouth college, may have, in times past, founded and endowed
schools for the education of the natives of the forest;
nor would we dampen the faith and hopes of those philanthropists
who still believe in the redemption of that dwindling race
by the aids of science and civilization; but we confess our inability
to perceive any general results, flowing from the attempts
of that character, at all adequate to the pains and outlay bestowed

on the experiment. And we think we cannot be alone
in this opinion. We believe that those results, when gathered
up so that all their meagreness could be seen, have sadly disappointed
public expectations; that this once favorite object
and theory, of elevating and benefiting the red man by taking
him from his native woods and immuring him in the school-room,
has been, in the great majority of the cases, a futile one;
and that whole system, indeed, can now be regarded as but
little less than a magnificent failure.

There have been, it is true, some brilliant exceptions to the
application of our remarks, such as may be found in the pious
and comparatively learned Samson Occom, the noted Indian
preacher of the times of the Pilgrims; in the eloquent Ojibway
chief of our own times, and a few others; as well as in the
person we have already introduced into this work, the intelligent
and beautiful Fluella. But only as exceptions to the
general rule, we fear, can we fairly regard them, — for, where
there is one Occom, there are probably ten Tomahs.

Education, or so much of it as he has the patience and
ability to acquire, seems often to unsettle and confuse the mind
of the red man; for, while his old notions and traditions are
disturbed or swept away by it, he fails of grasping and digesting
the new ones which science and civilization present to his
mind; and he falters and gropes, like an owl in the too strong
light of the unaccustomed sun. In his natural condition, he can
at least realize the happy picture which the poet has drawn of
him:

But now, in his new and anomalous position, even this happiness
and this content is taken away, while he is unable to
embrace an adequate substitute. His old faith is shaken, but
no new one is established. Before, he could see God in clouds
or hear him in the wind; but now he can scarcely see God in
any thing. His physical system, in the mean while, deprived
as it is of the forest atmosphere, in which it was alone fitted to
exist and reach its greatest perfection, suffers even more than
his mental one. And his whole man, both mental and physical,
begins to degenerate, and soon dwindles into insignificance.
Yes, it is only in his native forests that the Indian appears in
his wild and peculiar dignity of character. There only can he
become a being of romance, and there only a hero. And there,
in conclusion, we would say, in view of the unsatisfactory results
of the experiments made to elevate him by any of the
methods yet adopted, — there we would let him remain.

But we must now on with our tale, the main incidents of
which we have only foreshadowed, not touched.