An earnest consideration of the “Indian question” must impress every lover of our country with the most serious conviction of its importance and the fearful accounting which awaits us before the solemn tribunal of the future, if we follow the policy which has unhappily been hitherto adopted in relation to it.
Leaving out all thought of the principles of eternal justice, and consulting only the promotion of our temporal interests, the course we have pursued could not have been more fatal if projected for the sole purpose of defeat and ruin.
How much more wisely did France deal with the aborigines from the start than England! With what untiring patience did her colonial governments meet each successive savage outbreak, subduing the ferocious foe with weapons of Christian forbearance and clemency! They waged no war of retaliation and extermination against these “children of larger growth,” whom they found roaming through the forests of New France. They made no treaties with them, as we have done from the first, with the sole purpose, as it would seem, of breaking them. In their traffic with the Indians they forced no worthless rubbish upon them at prices far exceeding the value of the very best, and in exchange for their wares at a rate much below the half of their real worth. The dealings of traders with them were not only jealously watched and guarded by every possible check to the greed for gain, but a breach of justice and equity in those dealings was sure to meet its provided penalty.
France bequeathed to England with the cession of her Canadian provinces, in 1763, the wisest system—wisest because based upon an immutable foundation of Christian equity—which could have been adopted in regard to her Indian tribes; and England, though not always so scrupulously watchful of the transactions of her traders, was sagacious enough to perceive its wisdom and to uphold and continue it, in all its leading features, throughout her American dependencies.
Herein, as we apprehend, lies the secret of her success in this matter, which contrasts so strikingly with our miserable failure—herein, and not, as has been asserted, in any essential difference between these aboriginal races; for the savage is, after all, much the same through all his nations and tribes, and has a vast amount of human nature in his unsubdued bosom, which is as easily melted by kindness as exasperated by cruelty and oppression.
Circumstances recently brought to our notice have served to confirm and illustrate convictions we had long entertained on this subject, and we have thought the relation of them might not prove inappropriate or without interest at this time.
In the autumn of 1874 we went with a party of friends to the railroad depot at St. Albans, Vermont, to take leave of a portion of our number who were about to depart for Florida to pass the winter. While we were awaiting the arrival of the train from the north our notice was attracted by a group of Indian children who passed among the crowd assembled there, in quest of purchasers for their toilet articles and Indian knick-knacks.
An old lady of our party—whose father left Vermont with his family early in this century, when she was very young, to settle in northwestern New York, and who was now visiting the home and friends of her childhood for the first time—seemed to take a particular interest in these children. Calling a little girl to her, she asked what place they were from. “From St. Regis,” was the reply. “And did you ever hear of Margaret La Lune?” she asked. “She is our grandmother,” they answered, “and is in this village now.”
At that moment a very old squaw, dressed in a remarkably neat Indian costume, with a blanket of snowy whiteness thrown loosely around her aged form, entered the room. To our astonishment, our friend no sooner saw her than she ran to her with open arms, embraced her, and kissed each of her wrinkled and swarthy cheeks!
This sudden demonstration was evidently no surprise to the Indian woman; for when, after a moment of silence, our friend asked, “Why, Margaret! how does it happen that you remember me after so many years?” she simply replied: “My daughter should know that our people never forget!” finishing the sentence with some expressions in her own language which fell upon our ears more like vibrations produced by the wind passing over the chords of some musical instrument, than like any articulate utterance. Our amazement was not diminished when we heard our friend reply in the same tone and language.
Before we could express our surprise the train arrived. The bustle of departure and last words were hardly over when we found that the Indian party had also gone on to Burlington in the same train.
Upon our return home we beset our visitor with questions as to this singular interview and the warm affection which seemed to exist between her and the old squaw.
“I became acquainted with her, for a brief space, long ago, when I was a little child,” she replied, “and, though I have never seen her since, incidents occurred some years later which revived my recollections of her and fixed them in my memory.”
When we insisted upon hearing all about it, she related the following story of
THE WILD ROSE OF ST. REGIS.
When my father removed in 1815 to the new settlement at Rossie, on the western confines of St. Lawrence County, N. Y., the forests covering the territory lying on Black Lake, and the borders of the Indian River—which empties into that lake a few miles below Rossie—had scarcely yet been disturbed by the axe of the settler. Hordes of wild beasts held almost undisputed sway over regions now occupied by cultivated farms and smiling villages.
A place of more weird and savage aspect than Rossie presented, situated on both sides of that dark stream, can hardly be conceived. Rich beds of iron ore of a superior quality abounding among its rugged hills, and extensive lead-mines, furnished material for the operation of numerous furnaces, which, with the necessary habitations for their operatives, formed the little village. The largest Indian encampment in the county was also pitched upon its border, a short distance down the river.
The young squaws of the encampment mingled with the little girls of the settlement, and often became strongly attached to them. I was fascinated from the first with the manner of life in a wigwam, and soon became a special favorite with the Indian women. They frequently persuaded my mother to let me pass day after day in their wigwams, where I was carefully guarded and taught many of the simple arts in which they excel, and, as an unusual mark of their high regard, instructed in some of the secrets of those arts—such as the process for dyeing the quills of the porcupine with brilliant, unfading colors of every hue, in which they are so skilful; the mode of embroidering with them; the use of the moose-hair in such embroidery, and the manner of preparing it. I entered upon these pursuits with enthusiastic ardor and diligence, acquiring also—as a necessary consequence of this intercourse and training—with the facility of a youthful tongue, a sufficient knowledge of their language to communicate readily with them on all ordinary matters.
My mother was so fully engrossed with cares attendant upon the management of a large household, required in my father’s extensive business, that she had little time to devote to me beyond assuring herself of my safety. I recall with vivid distinctness, after the lapse of so many years, the startled surprise, not to say horror, with which she met my triumphant exhibition of a superb pair of moccasins for herself, lined with the soft, snow-white fur of the weasel, the work of my own hands. I had dressed and dyed the skins of which they were made, colored the brilliant quills and moose-hair profusely wrought into them, and finally cut, stitched, and embroidered them, under the direction of a pious old squaw who always watched over me during my visits to the wigwams.
My mother examined them in great surprise, her countenance expressing mingled pride and pity as she exclaimed: “Poor child! we must send you away somewhere to school; for I am afraid you will become a thorough little squaw if we keep you in this wild place among such savage companions.”
I felt deeply wounded by the want of respect for my dear friends which her remarks implied, and insisted warmly that the squaws were better, more gentle, and a great deal more pious than the civilized women of the place; that they were never guilty of backbiting or quarrelling among themselves; never raised their voices above the soft tones of their ordinary conversation, but lived in peace and harmony, saying their prayers devoutly morning and night, and requiring their children to do the same. I enumerated eagerly all the good qualities for which I admired them, to which she cordially assented, but insisted, nevertheless, that, as I was destined to live among civilized people, it was not desirable for me to acquire the habits and tastes of these children of the wilderness.
One morning not long after this occurrence, as I was playing with the Indian children near an untenanted house on the bank of the river, they told me in their own language that we must not make much noise; “for there was a fading flower in that house, and the medicine-women feared it had been chilled by the breath of the destroyer.” I understood their meaning and asked one of them to go in with me to see the young invalid.
When we entered, an elderly squaw, the fine texture and snowy whiteness of whose blanket marked her as one of the best of her race, was bending over the slight form of a beautiful young girl who was lying on a bed of hemlock boughs which had been prepared in one corner of the room, and wrapping a blanket around her, while she lavished upon her those tender epithets and pet names with which the Indian dialects abound. As she turned and saw me, she said: “See, here is the little pale-face of whom Loiska told us, come to see my Rose of the woods! Will not the sweet flower lift its head to the sunshine of the pale-face?”
The maiden smiled and extended her wasted hand to take mine. I shuddered at its clammy coldness.
“See, dear mother,” she said plaintively, “the White Lily shrinks from the touch of the dews that lie upon your Rose! You must not be false to yourself or to me; for it is an angel who whispers to the little one that these are the dews of death. Your best skill cannot stay them, and they will cease only at the call of the great messenger, who will remove your flower to the garden of that ‘Mystical Rose’ whose fragrance we love so well.”
“Oh! let not my blossom say so. The journey was long and the bed was hard. The rays of the sun upon the water were too strong for our tender bud, and it wilted, but will soon revive in these pleasant shades. The pale-face will procure from her mother, who is passing kind to our people, strengthening food and refreshment for the Wild Rose!”
“Yes! yes!” I cried, “she will and we will not let it droop. I will go directly to my mother, and I know she will help you!”
I was thrilled by their look of grateful surprise when they found I could understand their language, and their softly-ejaculated benedictions followed me as I bounded away in quest of my mother. I found her busily engaged in household matters, and, seizing her with irresistible energy, literally dragged her into the presence of my new friends, telling her what I knew of them by the way.
When we arrived she inquired tenderly as to the symptoms of the lovely invalid. Finding they had come from St. Regis by water, and had brought her on a bed of boughs in their canoe to Ogdensburg, thence up the Oswegatchie to Black Lake, and thus far up the Indian River, she also was of the opinion that the frail child was exhausted by fatigue, and that rest would revive her.
They had undertaken the journey in the hope that a change would be a benefit to her health. Her father came with them and was at the camp, but the mother preferred a place where her charge could be better sheltered than in a wigwam.
My mother went home, and, gathering comfortable furniture for their room, despatched a man with it; then, preparing some hot wine negus with toasted crackers, she sent them by me to refresh the sufferer while some nourishing broth could be made ready.
From that time I forsook the wigwams and devoted myself to my Wild Rose; who became so fond of me that she could scarcely consent to my leaving her for the nights. Each morning found me at her bedside before sunrise, with my own breakfast as well as hers, that we might partake of it together, and with a profusion of fresh flowers from the abundance of my mother’s flower-garden wherewith to adorn her room. The Indian children had helped me to festoon it with wreaths of ground pine and boughs, until it was an evergreen bower in which we took great satisfaction.
My mother gathered from her her little history. She had been betrothed to a young son of their chief, and they were to have been married the previous fall. The time for the nuptials had been appointed and her bridal dress prepared. The young man was sent by his father on some business to Montreal a few days before the time thus appointed. On the way his canoe was drawn suddenly into a whirlpool in the rapids, dashed to fragments upon the rocks, and he perished. The shock of this terrible calamity was fatal to her health, which had never been robust. From that moment she drooped, and, though quite calm, even cheerful, had been gradually wasting and sinking. They improved the first mild days of spring to try the effect of a change of air and scene, after she had received the last sacraments from their priest in preparation for the worst.
For a few weeks she seemed to revive, and even walked with me once as far as my own home. Her appetite improved, and she relished all that my mother’s care provided for her food.
As I remember her at this distant day, I know she must have been a being of superior beauty and loveliness; but there was nothing about her which so fascinated and impressed my young heart as the spirit of piety that governed all her words and actions, and seemed to flow from the depths of her pure soul like transparent waters from a fountain, refreshing every one who came within their influence.
One warm evening in the early summer we sat together for a long time in silence and alone, watching a beautiful sunset over the wild “Rossie Hills,” when her soft voice breathed in her own musical language expressions which subsequent events fixed indelibly in my memory.
“My sweet Lily,” she said, “will often uplift her pale face to the smiles of the glorious sunset when the Rose, who loved to bask with her in their golden gleam, will be blooming in gardens which need them not; for the ‘Sun of Righteousness’ will be their light, and will fill them with glories unknown to earthly bowers, and his Blessed Virgin Mother will smile upon them. But the incense of prayer, like the breath of its own perfume, will ever float from the Rose to the throne of the Eternal that her Lily may be transplanted at last to a place by her side in that happy home where sighing, and parting, and sorrow shall cease for ever! Oh! will she not strive for admittance to the garden of our Lord here, that she may rejoice in the light of his countenance hereafter?”
In a voice broken by my sobs I promised all she asked, and I doubt not her prayers helped me long afterwards in obtaining the grace to fulfil the promise.
The next morning I found her much exhausted, and that she had passed a restless night. Her mother raised her in her arms while she took the broth I brought for her breakfast, of which she was very fond. She seemed weary, and, as her mother lowered her gently to the pillow, she suddenly lifted her eyes to heaven, while a smile of celestial rapture stole over her beautiful face, and exclaimed, “Pray for me, my own mother; for, behold! the bright angel is spreading his wings to bear your Rose to the presence of her Redeemer!”—and was gone. The Indian mother and myself were alone with the lifeless form of our beloved one.
The change, the shock, was so sudden and unlooked for that I stood horror-struck and paralyzed, for the first time, before the dread messenger who had stolen the breath of my sweet Rose. The whole scene was so incomprehensible to me that I could not believe the tones of her dear voice were hushed for ever, but persuaded myself that she had only fallen asleep.
Amazed, I watched the poor mother as she calmly recited the prayers for the departing spirit over her child for some time, the only outward sign of her anguish being the tears which flowed in torrents down her cheeks, while every line of her wan features expressed unquestioning resignation to the will of Him who had given and taken her treasure.
The prayers concluded, she tenderly closed the dear eyes, adjusted the slender form, folded the delicate hands over a crucifix on her breast, and entwined the beads, which had so seldom been laid aside by them in life, closely around them in death. When she sat down at length, and, opening her blanket, extended her arms towards me, the first glimpse of the dread reality burst upon me in a flood of crushing agony, and, springing to the open arms which drew me in a close embrace to her bosom, I wept aloud in a paroxysm of frantic, uncontrollable grief. She fondly soothed and caressed me, bestowing upon me those expressions of tender affection which she had been wont to pour into the ears now closed for ever, and uttering fervent prayers to heaven that its choicest dews might descend upon the Lily which had cheered the last hours of her sweet Rose.
I was inconsolable, and told her vehemently that, since Heaven had taken the Rose, the Lily would go too, and that it would never lift up its head again; and, indeed, my grief was so violent as to injure my health, and I was soon sent away to new scenes.
My mother assisted in preparing the frail form of the Indian maiden for the grave. Her mother had brought with her the bridal dress of her child, and in that they arrayed the beautiful departed for the bridal of death. Then, enfolding her in a linen sheet, they wrapped her blanket about her and gently laid her down upon the bed of boughs her father had prepared in the canoe for her removal to the graves of their kindred at St. Regis. Then followed the sad leave-taking and the departure.
The dismal forests which clothed each margin of the Indian River seemed to bend over that sombre stream in reverential sympathy as the Indian father and mother, with their faded Rose, floated silently down its dark waters and out of our sight for ever!
* * * * *
Some years had elapsed since this event, and during the interval misfortunes had overwhelmed our family. At the very time of severe reverses in his business my father was taken with a malignant fever and died. My mother, my young brother, and myself were thus left in desolate affliction to battle with adversity as best we might. Our pleasant home was surrendered to creditors, and we sought the forests of Upper Canada, whither a family who had long been tenants on our farm had gone several years before. They had taken up a tract of land under a government grant to settlers, and, when they heard of our great calamity, wrote, urging us to do the same, as they could render great assistance to us if we were near them.
The land we took was covered with very valuable timber, and the first object was to get a portion of it to the Quebec market, that its avails might pay for clearing the land and preparing our new home.
My brother—hitherto the pet of the family, and in danger of being the spoiled child of fortune—set about the task with an energy that surprised every one. He was greatly beloved by the Indian hunters, who knew my father and had received many favors from him in the days of our prosperity. They assisted us in our removal, and remained to help and encourage my brother in the lumbering business, so new to him, under the direction of “Captain Tom,” an old Indian who was very skilful in such operations. We removed late in the fall, taking with us a supply of provisions more than sufficient for the winter, and but little else of worldly gear.
When the spring opened, thanks to our kind neighbors with their oxen, and the good Indians, a quantity of lumber of various kinds had been drawn to the river bank, and as soon as the ice went out they put it into rafts for transportation. These were constructed in separate sections, each with its rude little caboose to shelter the two men who went with it. The sections were then firmly united in one long raft by means of strong withes, in such a manner that they could be readily detached by cutting the withes, if necessary, in making the dangerous descent of the rapids above Montreal.
A few days before they set out a vicious, drunken Indian called “Malfait,” who had been loitering around all winter, quarrelling with the men and giving no assistance, applied to Captain Tom for whiskey and for permission to go down on the rafts, both which requests were refused. He went away muttering threats, and the old Indian feared he was meditating mischief.
My brother wished to go with Captain Tom on the forward section, as was the custom for the one who conducted the navigation. We gave a very reluctant consent, and our parting with him was saddened by many misgivings.
They proceeded prosperously on their voyage as far as the “Long Sault,” so called, the first dangerous rapid, the chief difficulty in passing which, for experienced navigators, was to avoid being drawn, by an almost irresistible current at one point, into a furious maelstrom called the “Lost Channel,” from which few had ever escaped who once entered it.
They reached the head of the Long Sault late in the afternoon, and anchored there for the night, with the roar of the tumbling waters in their ears. The moon was shining brightly, and they betook themselves to rest early, that they might start betimes in the morning. Very late in the night my brother was awakened from a sound sleep by the old Indian, who laid his hand heavily upon him and told him to keep very calm and not to struggle or make the least effort to shield himself. “For,” said he, “we are entering the Lost Channel; our part of the raft has been cut loose. I have bound you firmly to the same stick of timber to which I am now binding myself. We can only leave ourselves in the hands of the Great Spirit; for no other arm can help us.”
My brother was paralyzed with terror as the maddened waters seized the raft as if it had been a child’s plaything, tore the heavy timbers apart, and bent and shivered many of them like saplings. The one to which he and the Indian were attached was often uplifted, by the force of the raging torrent, its full length, to be thrown violently down and swallowed in the depths of the foaming flood. The shock of these concussions soon benumbed his faculties, and his last conscious act was to recommend his soul to the mercy of God, before whose awful tribunal he supposed he was about to appear.
When he began to recover his senses, it was like waking from some frightful dream. He was too much bewildered to realize for some time that he was in a comfortable Indian lodge, with a kind old squaw in attendance upon him. She would not allow him to ask any questions or agitate himself, assuring him that all was well, and he should know the whole at a proper time. As soon as he was able to hear it she gave him the history.
On the day before their arrival at the Long Sault her son, with a party of Indian hunters who had been up the St. Lawrence and were returning to St. Regis, had fallen in with Malfait, and, from inquiries made by him, suspected that he was watching, with no good purpose, for rafts that he expected would come down the river. He suddenly disappeared, and they did not know in what direction. When her son told her the circumstance and their suspicions—for the bad character of Malfait was well known, and they had heard that Captain Tom was coming down with rafts-she set out at once with men and canoes up Lake St. Louis to the foot of the rapids, to give aid if it should be needed.
They discovered the timber to which my brother and his faithful friend were lashed, and, releasing them, brought their insensible forms as speedily as possible to her lodge on the shore of that lake, with very little hope that they would ever revive. The old Indian, however, soon began to show signs of life, and, when he was able, recounted what had happened. He had no doubt that Malfait came in the night, detached the raft, and steered it into the rapids to satisfy his malice against him.
As soon as he was strong enough to go, her son went with him down the river to look after the remainder of the raft, leaving his young friend in good hands, though still unconscious of the tender care he was receiving.
They found the rafts in Lake St. Peter below Montreal, and her son returned. She then sent him with some others to gather the timber of the wrecked raft. They collected all that could be found on the shore of the lake, to be taken when the rafts should come down next year.
“And now, my son,” she continued, when she had brought the narrative to this point, “I am known here as Margaret La Lune, but to your mother and sister as the mother of the Wild Rose of St. Regis. You may have heard them speak of her, though you were too young at the time of their acquaintance to know about it yourself. It was to her care the Great Spirit committed you in your extremity, that she might be allowed to make some return for their kindness to her and her sweet child, which she has never forgotten, and has ever since endeavored to repay by giving all the help in her power to navigators on these perilous waters. It was in one of these attempts that my husband lost his life some years ago. Great was my joy when I learned from your Indian friend that I had rescued one so dear to them from a grave in the rushing flood.”
My brother remained with her until the return of Captain Tom. He delivered the lumber to the merchant in Quebec to whom it was consigned—who had long known the sterling qualities of the faithful old Indian—and informed him of the situation in which he left his young employer. The merchant advanced money to him to pay off the men and to bear his own and my brother’s expenses home, sending by him a statement of the balance left and subject to my brother’s order. The money for their expenses was all that Captain Tom or his Indians could ever be persuaded to accept for their valuable services at that time and in after-years. Their only reply to my brother’s persuasions was, “We remember your father. He good to his Indian brothers.”
You may well imagine our surprise and gratitude when we heard from my brother’s own lips the story of all that had befallen him, and of the devotion of our excellent Margaret. She was absent when he went down the next year for the last time, and he did not see her.
Our affairs prospered beyond our expectation. We brought willing hands and courageous hearts to the strife with adverse fortunes, and, by the blessing of God upon our efforts, did not fail in time to retrieve them. My mother died a few years after my marriage with a son of our former tenant, whose sister my brother afterwards married. She divided her time between the two homes, tenderly beloved and cared for by her children and grandchildren, and honored by all who knew her.
You now understand the reason for my great surprise and affectionate meeting with Margaret at the depot, which must have seemed strange indeed to the witnesses. In our short chat I promised to go to pass some time with her upon my return home, and am not without hope that I shall persuade her to go with me to see the children and grandchildren who have often heard of her and of the fidelity with which her people treasure up the memory of kind acts.