Reader, hast thou ever, in summer, watched a coming storm? Hast thou seen a cloud overcast the heavens, spreading abroad darkness and gloom?—The storm bursts,—the big drops come dancing to the earth, and the sky is cleared! How brightly then shines the sun! how the rain drops glitter in its beams! Beautiful as the rain drops are the traces of grief. Tears are to grief, what rain is to the parched earth. Oh! how beautiful are the remains of affection! Such were now the traces which time had left on the captive maiden. There are the cold and heartless, who, in the language of the world, would merely have said that she had broken,—how I hate the word in that sense,—and who would have thought her less beautiful than in girlhood she promised to be. With the world, it may be that she was. But to many, she would have been far dearer than in happier days; though less brilliant, there was something more touching in her melancholy,—something better calculated to sink deep into the heart, and call into play the finer feelings of our nature. The recollection of her family was now like a distant view, shadowy and undefined, and she rarely recurred to the sad evening of her misfortunes; but if she did, and would but for an instant dwell thereon, it was like applying the telescope to distant objects. The scene arose before her in all its startling horror, and she gave vent to her grief in a gush of tears.
But these scenes, as I have stated above, now occurred but rarely:—time had added its soothing power, and the captive now in her musings, began to turn her thoughts to still earlier days. The heart is more susceptible in misfortune, and loves then also to brood over moments which once were happy; probably because there is relief in indulging in anticipations or recollections which drive away heavier thoughts. So that now there were moments when she pondered over her heart's earliest joys, and dwelt with delight on the recollection of him who first, by his kind and gentle manner, won her affections, taught her to extract music from the gushing of fountains, and pleasure from the inspection of a flower, or the sight of a landscape.
This may not be intelligible to all my readers, for there are some persons who know nothing of the sympathies of the human heart. But is there one who has not felt his increased capability for enjoyment, when the heart is first warmed into life,—when the springs of affection first begin to flow. It is then that, stripped of sensuality, our thoughts seem purified. It is then, that even nature, seen through the first springings of pure affection, is lovelier than it is ever seen afterward, and we can then feel that we live. But delightful as those feelings are, like dew drops on flowers, they are beautiful, but last not;—no, an entrance into the world, is to them what frost is to the flowers. Yes, they wither and die, even while the functions of life are green on the tree. Feeling is to life, what malmsey is to wine. Yes, all that is beautiful and bright in life, dies while we are on the threshold. The loss of early feelings is beautifully described by Byron in the lines beginning
“There's not a joy the world can give,
Like that it takes away,
When the flow of early thought declines
In feeling's dull decay.”
There is a sad truth in the lines here alluded to, which all who have read them, must have often felt.
Gentle reader, hast thou ever watched and wept over the loss of thy early feelings; hast thou seen them fast ebbing away, and felt thyself growing old, while thou wert yet young in years. I have, and like a mother over a dying child, like a lover over the sinking pulse of his mistress, I have watched and wept as they left me.
Reader, I have called thee gentle above, and I feel a sympathy for thee, though thou art unknown, for thou wilt see my wayward thoughts, and recollect that while tracing them, I held communion with thee. Yes, even at this moment, speculations float across my mind, as to the characters of the persons who may read them, and as to the impressions which my wayward fancies may produce. They may be glanced over, think I, by some early associate, and remind him perhaps of some long forgotten friend. But reader, whoever thou art, and whatever may be the cast of thy opinions, I sincerely hope, if thou wishest it, that the perusal of them may have the same effect upon thee, which the mere exertion of tracing them out has had upon me. It has served to rob life for a time of the tedium and weariness which often sits heavily upon me.
It would be tedious were we to trace minutely the movements of Netnokwa and her party, from the time that she left Rainy Lake, until her arrival among her own tribe—suffice it, that they all encountered more dangers and difficulties than belong to ordinary adventures, and after a long and toilsome journey arrived there safe. A longer acquaintance with the captive maiden only served to increase their affections, and they now strictly regarded her as a member of their family. No act of kindness on their part was wanting, and so devoted was Miskwa in her attentions, that she won the heart of the captive, whom she also cheered by giving a promise both for herself and mother, that as soon as the dread influence which the Prophet exercised over the tribes, should in some measure subside, or any other circumstance render it practicable, that they would restore her to the settlements. This promise rendered her cheerful at moments, and caused her to entertain for Miskwa the kindest possible feelings, nor was she otherwise than fond of Netnokwa; but Miskwa was of her own age, and though of a different complexion, still in her she found a kindred spirit. Thrown constantly in her company, they soon became inseparable companions, divided all their duties, and enjoyed together all their little amusements; and such was the power of culture and of mind, that Miskwa insensibly adopted many of the habits of the captive, and satisfied that in doing so she was improved, even attempted to learn her language. But grateful as was the captive, her heart was sad, her sources of amusement were only transient gleams of joy, flitting by like fleeting clouds—her thoughts were afar off—and when she recollected that it was the Prophet's influence which detained her from that land which she so much wished again to see—she began to inquire who he was, and what were his doctrines. The information received, only served to convince her of the futility of his pretensions; and when she heard a list of the victims which his doctrine of witchcraft had consigned to the stake, she no longer hesitated, but spoke of him as a bad man, and endeavoured to convince Netnokwa and Miskwa, that he was not even entitled to their good opinion. She spoke of the Great Spirit as the author of all goodness and mercy; it was the light in which Miskwa and her mother regarded him, and then asked them how, thinking as they did of him, they could believe that he would authorize the acts of the Prophet. Many conversations on this subject had taken place, and though always urged by the captive with the utmost timidity, and though Netnokwa and her daughter at first shrunk from them as from something fearful, yet their frequency, and the confident manner in which the captive, the more she spoke of it, now asserted, that his assumed character was a mere delusion, tended at least to familiarize them with the subject, and also caused the first dawnings of doubt.
It was a lovely evening, when two maidens were seen standing near the door of a neat little cottage situated on the banks of one of those many nameless tributaries which add their quota to the upper Red river. Many wild vines crept over and around it, and the sweetest flowers of the prairie and forest, tastefully arranged, bloomed in the richest luxuriance. It was not like an Indian wigwam, for taste, and refinement and cultivation, seemed blended in every thing therewith connected; and the wonder was, that so beautiful a spot, could be found so far from the white settlements, and embosomed in so vast and trackless a wilderness. Many hundred miles would scarcely have brought its inmates to the farthest advanced posts of civilization, and yet at that distance they now dwelt, and formed and fashioned for amusement their little Paradise with its garden of Eden which they themselves had created. One would have wondered and admired; and it was woman's delicate hands which had wrought it all.
Hast thou never observed that an accomplished and virtuous female seems, by her mere presence, to impart a charm to every thing around her, and add a beauty to every thing she touches. I mean not however to include the dispensers of fashion, or the mere creatures of art, for accomplished as they may be, there is always a frivolity of manner about them, which places them lower in the scale of excellence, and tends in a great measure to destroy their power; but I mean woman, lovely, beautiful and fascinating as she is, when her time is devoted to the improvement of her mind, and the cultivation of her heart. As pure in excellence as the snow in whiteness, was the captive maiden, for her intercourse with the world had never been sufficiently great to deform her either by fashion or by art, and the loss of her family had created in her breast no resentment against the authors of her misfortune, but had tended rather to soften her feelings towards the whole human race. This resulted partly from the destitute condition in which she found herself, and also from the resignation with which she submitted to the will of Providence.