He rallied, and went on—"They've enymost spilt it now. When I was young, I could see a deer a mile away—no underbrush to shade my rifle. The deer, too, look'd grander like, somehow, than they do now. They had a freedom in 'em. They seemed to know the woods was theirs. They kinder go sneakin' round now, as though some critter was arter 'em. This stream was filled with ducks, flappin' their wings, and washin' themselves; and many a time I've heer'd 'em, jest as the sun was a-settin', talkin' to themselves, and gettin' ready to go to bed. But the settlers came in, dammed the river, and down came the sawdust, and it roar'd and rattled 'em all away. The partridges used to drum and drum in the still afternoon, and whirr about—and they are gone, too. I don't believe natur' likes to be disturbed. She sorter rebels agin the plough at first. She allers sends up coke and bramble when the furrows are first made—fights it as well as she can, till they get her under, and put her inter what they call crops. The Lord made the airth well enough to begin with. He knew what we wanted. He gave us airth and sky, woods and water—birds and fish to eat—and it all rais'd itself, and enough on't, too. This thing they call civ'lation is right agin natur'. It makes poor young men and wim'in'. They hain't got no stuff in 'em—they can't do anythin'—they are peepin' round, full of pain of every sort—full of rheumatiz, agers, janders, and all sorter ails. I've gone morn'er twenty miles a day, loaded with game, and not a tired hair in me—can do it agin." And thus Venison preached, too much and too long for me to record in full.
Venison continued, and declared that "there was enough of everything just as it was." He attempted to show that there were seeds of life deep in the earth, planted there from the beginning, that came forth in due time, and replenished the earth. He never "see'd any coke till they ploughed a furrow, and built that ere rail fence"—"and down in that ere breakin' (which I saw had been neglected, and was overgrown heavily), the blackberries and ten thousand other things were comin' up." He said he "would jest like to know where all that seed had been lyin' since the world was made—how long it would have laid, he'd jest like ter know, if that ere plough hadn't stirred up the sile." And thus he attempted to illustrate his theory of vegetation.
"Not only the trees, but the Injuns were goin'. 'Tain't as 'twas with 'em when they went a-whoopin' around among the streams and woods. I've see'd mor'n nor forty canoes sailing away here on this river at on'st—and then we had raal Injuns—tall, six-foot fellers, with eyes like the eagle. But they, too, are pinin' out like. The white man, and the white man's ways, and the white man's drink, has taken all the tuck out on 'em. They know, what are left on 'em, that they ain't raal Injuns any more. They don't whoop any more. They hang about the towns a while, and get full of pizen, and then slink away silently inter the forest again. Sometimes, when huntin' season comes on, they fire up, and chase the game, but it is kinder melancholy, after all—like a flame jest spirtin' out a minute from a charr'd and half-burning log. There's old Sakoset (I've known him enymost on to forty years), was jest as much of a king, and had jest as much of a throne, as old George Third ever had. He lov'd his tribe, and they lov'd him. His word was law. These were all his grounds for a hundred miles round. I know it warn't mark'd off into counties, townships, and school de-stricts. They didn't have any place to file away papers, nor didn't write everythin' they did in books—but they had their laws jest as well, all written down inter their heads; and they knew their history—they had, what white men call their traditions—they knew all about their fathers and grandfathers, and great-great-grandfathers—and old Sakoset was their chief. He was six feet three inches by measure, and as straight as that 'ere hickory. He was knit all over as tight as an oak. He was as hansome as a picter, and I've seen him in council, when I tho't he was the noblest lookin' mortal on this airth. And there warn't no man, no gov'ment (Venison grew excited here) that had as good a right to these 'ere grounds as Sakoset. God gave 'em to him, and the white man stole 'em away, stole 'em, sir!—stole 'em. Yes, sir! they passed a law that they should be removed 'yond the 'Sippi—gave 'em huntin' grounds, as they call 'em—drove 'em together like scar'd sheep, and forc'd 'em away from their own sile. But old Sakoset didn't like his new home, wouldn't stay, and he and a few of his tribe straggled back here agin, and now wander round these woods. But he ain't the same man any more; he's all broke down like; 'tain't the same place to him, he says. The stream winds round the hill yet, and the mountain is there, but the forest is mostly down, and the white man is everywhere. Sakoset says but little; goes round dreamin'-like; hangs about alone in the woods, a-thinkin', and sees in his mind his tribe all before him as it was when he was king over them on these grounds. I saw him a few days ago up in the Injun buryin'-ground sittin' so still, I first tho't he was a monerment somebody had put up—but 'twas Sakoset."
Venison was here attracted by the roar of a gun, and a deer rushed past, breaking his discourse, and we both followed the hunter and the hunted, to see how the chase would end—saw the deer plunge into the river, the dogs after him, and I watched them until they floated away around the bend beyond my sight.
CHAPTER XVI.
Some Account of John Smith.—Nicknames.—Progress of the Age.—The Colonel's Opinion of Science.—John Smith's Dream.—Ike Turtle's Dream.—Ike takes the Boots.
Pioneers—men who grow up in the woods—are famous for luxuriant imaginations. Everything, with them, is on a sweeping scale with the natural objects amid which they dwell. The rivers, and lakes, and plains are great, and seem to run riot—so men sometimes run riot too, in thought, and word, and deed. They deal largely in the extravagant, and do extravagant things in an extravagant way.
I have seen a rusty pioneer, when giving his opinion upon some trite matter, garnish his language with imagery and figures, and clothe himself with an action, that Demosthenes would have copied, if he had met with such in his day. Gestures all graceful, eye all fire, language rough, but strong, and an enthusiasm that was magnetic—a kind of unpremeditated natural eloquence, that many a one has sought for, but never found.