For the Southern Literary Messenger.
A few weeks since D. D. Mitchell, Esq., a resident for many years past, near the falls of Missouri, in the vicinity of the Rocky Mountains, was in this city, on a visit to his native State, and it was my good fortune to become personally acquainted with him. He has been an enterprising and successful adventurer in the American fur trade, and is now in command of a fort and trading establishment in the neighborhood of the Black-feet, a nation of Indians with whom the whites have had but little intercourse, and whose peculiar character and manners we have had few opportunities of knowing. Besides being a bold and active participator in many of the bloody conflicts of various tribes, Mr. Mitchell has been a keen observer of Indian customs, traits, and superstitions; and so great a favorite was he among the powerful tribe of the Black-feet, that they created him a chief, with the title of the Spotted Elk. Mr. Mitchell did me the favor whilst here, to submit some of his manuscripts to my inspection. They contain sketches of the Indian character, and of the country, on the head waters of Missouri, hitherto almost unexplored by the white man, and also various interesting anecdotes and observations, highly creditable to the intelligence, discernment and enterprise of the writer. I cannot withhold from the patrons of the Literary Messenger, some share of the pleasure I have myself experienced, in reading these valuable papers, and, for the present, I send to the publisher, a remarkable Indian love tale, which Mr. Mitchell, besides his written testimony, privately assured me was founded on fact.—Washington Irving, in his recent "Tour on the Prairies," makes the following remark: "As far as I can judge, the Indian of poetical fiction, is like the shepherd of pastoral romance, a mere personification of imaginary attributes." It may be so, and perhaps most heroes and heroines of novels and romances, are principally creations of fancy; but if the author of the Sketch Book, meant to assert, that the children of the forest were altogether unsusceptible of some of the noble and tender emotions of our nature—he stands opposed by undoubted evidence to the contrary. Who does not believe, for example, what our own history has taught, of the matchless purity and guileless simplicity of Pocahontas—the lofty spirit of Totopotomoi, and the rare magnanimity of Logan? The passion of love indeed, as modified and refined in civilized life, has not often been found in the breast of the Indian warrior, but even to this general truth, there have been numerous exceptions, and among them, I have never met with one so marked and striking, as that which is recorded in the following story.
H.
THE WHITE ANTELOPE;
OR, INDIAN LOVER.
From the Manuscripts of D. D. Mitchell, Esq.
Some time during the autumn of 1832, a young blood Indian (of the race of the Black-feet,) arrived at the fort all alone. He had no furs, or other articles of traffic with him, and was not equipped in the usual style for war. His pale haggard appearance, and deep settled melancholy, attracted the observation of all who saw him; but as a residence of several years among the Indians, had taught us something of their rules of politeness, I forbore to question him as to the cause of his grief, more especially as he did not seem to be in a very communicative mood. I ordered him something to eat, but he pushed the proffered repast aside, and refused to partake. Our interpreter then handed him a pipe, which he received in a cold mechanical manner, appearing scarcely conscious of what he did; and instead of sending up dense columns of smoke in rapid succession, as is usually the case, he sat with the pipe extended across his knees, absorbed in a deep reverie, and now and then heaving profound sighs, which appeared to arise from the inmost recesses of his soul. The pipe having gone out, the interpreter relighted it, and again placed it in the young Indian's hand. He started up, and after a few hasty whiffs, seized his bow and arrows, and walked hastily out of the fort. Our curiosity having been excited by his mysterious conduct, several of us followed in order to watch his motions. He went to the river bank, and having thrown off his robe, which he fastened to the back of his head, in order to keep it dry, he deliberately plunged into the river and swam for the opposite shore. I called to him through the interpreter, promising if he would return, to send him over in my skiff, reminding him at the same time that the current was wide, and the water extremely cold—but he only turned his head around, and with a bitter smile, exclaimed, "the fire which is burning in my heart, will keep me warm!" He spoke no other word, but dashing through the waves, which a keen October wind had lashed into motion, we saw him presently ascend the rocky cliffs of the other side, and striking into the path which led to the mountains, he disappeared, with the speed and agility of an antelope. Several conjectures were made among us, respecting the singular conduct of this seemingly unhappy youth; but as none could furnish an explanation entirely satisfactory, the affair in a few days, ceased to be the subject of inquiry or conversation.
On a cold stormy evening, about the middle of the following February, I was standing on the bank of the river, giving some directions to the men engaged in constructing a kind of harbor or basin, to secure our boats, on the opening of spring, from the drifting ice, when I was startled by the quick report of a gun, and a loud shout of triumph, which proceeded from the opposite shore, and were echoed in long reverberations from the rocky cliffs of the Missouri. Broad flakes of snow were falling around me, and whirling in every direction, so that I was prevented from perceiving objects on the opposite side; but I supposed that some war party was probably returning from a victorious campaign. When about to return to the fort, I discovered two Indians, a young man and woman, crossing the river on the ice; they both approached the spot where I stood; the youth holding his hand towards me, in a manner which denoted confidence and friendship. Though actually shivering with cold, his countenance seemed to beam with joy and animation, and pointing my attention to the comely girl, at his side, he exclaimed, whilst his dark eyes sparkled with triumph, "Now she is mine, for I have fairly won her in battle!" and at the same moment he cast a glance at two bloody scalps, which hung suspended from his ram-rod. I now recognised the mysterious young man, who had visited the fort in October; but his manner and appearance were altogether changed. His step was now buoyant and elastic, and in place of the gloomy silence and mental agony which marked his previous deportment, he was now gay and talkative, indulging in the light laugh and ready jest. Being anxious to know something of his story, I invited the lover and his young Indian maiden into the fort, an invitation which they readily accepted. After a hearty meal, and a few whiffs of the pipe, the warrior swain, drawing his Indian beauty closer to his side, and assuming as much gravity of feature, as his thrilling sensations of happiness would allow, related in a very circumstantial manner, the following story:—
"I have loved this girl," said he, "as far back as I can remember;" and at the same moment, as he laid his hand on her shining dark hair, the black eyed damsel of the Prairies rewarded her lover's confession with a smile of approbation. "I loved her," he continued, "long before I knew the meaning of love; for when a small boy, I once shot my arrow at her mother for striking the daughter. I afterwards wondered at myself for doing so, especially as my father talked to me angry, and said that the girl was no relation of mine. I remember too, when we played at ball on the ice, if we happened to be opposed in the game, I would not win from her, though every thing I had was staked. Those were happy days. In the winter, we made snares for rabbits and foxes, or climbed to the top of some high hill, and amused ourselves by rolling the snow down its sides, which, as it rolled, grew bigger and bigger, until it reached the bottom, where it lay till the warm sun in the spring melted it away to fog, and raised it again to the clouds. Even so has it happened to us. We continued to roll down the stream of life, increasing in size and in love, until now we have reached years of maturity; and we will continue to love each other, until time wastes us away like the snow ball, and the Great Spirit takes us up into his own land.