“All good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my good”——
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 guess-work, 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 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 thief, 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 ones 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:
“Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind:
His soul proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk or milky way;
Yet simple nature to his hope has given,
Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heaven,
Some safer world in depth of wood embraced;
Some happier island in the wat’ry waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christian thirsts for gold.
To be content’s his natural desire;
He asks no angel’s wings, no seraph’s fire;
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.”
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.