THE INDIAN WIFE. BY THE AUTHOR OF HODOMOK.

—May slighted woman turn,
And as a vine the oak hath shaken off,
Bend lightly to her tendencies again?
Oh, no! by all her loveliness, by all
That makes life poetry and beauty, no!
Make her a slave; steal from her rosy cheek
By needless jealousies; let the last star
Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain;
Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all
That makes her cup a bitterness—yet give
One evidence of love, and earth has not
An emblem of devotedness like hers.
But oh! estrange her once, it boots not how,
By wrong or silence, anything that tells
A change has come upon your tenderness—
And there is not a high thing out of heaven
Her pride o'ermastereth not.
WILLIS.

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Tahmiroo was the daughter of a powerful Sioux
chieftain; and she was the only being ever known to
turn the relentless old man from a savage purpose.
Something of this influence was owing to her infantile
beauty; but more to the gentleness of which that beauty
was the emblem. Her's was a species of loveliness
rare among Indian girls. Her figure had the flexile
grace so appropriate to protected and dependant woman
in refined countries; her ripe, pouting lip, and dimpled
cheek wore the pleading air of aggrieved childhood;
and her dark eye had such an habitual expression of
timidity and fear, that the young Sioux called her the
`Startled Fawn.'

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I know not whether her father's broad lands, or her
own appealing beauty, was the most powerful cause of
admiration; but certain it is, Tahmiroo was the unrivalled
belle of the Sioux. She was a creature all formed
for love. Her downcast eye, her trembling lip, and
her quiet, submissive motion, all spoke its language;
yet various young chieftains had in vain sought her affections,
and when her father urged her to strengthen
his power by an alliance, she answered him only by her
tears.

This state of things continued until 1765, when a
company of French traders came to reside there, for
the sake of deriving profit from the fur trade. Among
them was Florimond de Rancé, a young, indolent Adonis,
whom pure ennui had led from Quebec to the Falls
of St Anthony. His fair, round face, and studied foppery
of dress might have done little toward gaining the
heart of the gentle Sioux; but there was a deference
and courtesy in his manner, which the Indian never
pays to degraded woman, and Tahmiroo's deep sensibilities
were touched by it. A more careful arrangement
of her rude dress, an anxiety to speak his language
fluently, and a close observance of European
customs soon betrayed the subtle power, which was fast
making her its slave. The ready vanity of the Frenchman
quickly perceived it. At first he encouraged it
with that sort of undefined pleasure, which man always
feels in awakening strong affection in the hearts of even
the most insignificant. Then the idea that, though an
Indian, she was a princess, and that her father's extensive
lands on the Missouri were daily becoming of
more and more consequence to his ambitious nation,
led him to think of marriage with her as a desirable object.
His eyes and his manner had said this, long before
the old chief began to suspect it; and he allowed

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the wily Frenchman to twine himself almost as closely
around his heart, as he had around the more yielding
soul of his darling child.

Though exceedingly indolent by nature, Florimond
de Rancé had acquired skill in many graceful arts,
which excited the wonder of the savages. He fenced
well enough to foil the most expert antagonist, and
in hunting, his rifle was sure to carry death to the
game. These accomplishments, and the facility with
which his pliant nation conform to the usages of savage
life, made him a universal favorite, and at his request,
he was formally adopted as one of the tribe. But
conscious as he was of his power, it was long before he
dared to ask for the daughter of the haughty chief.
When he did make the daring proposition, it was received
with a still and terrible wrath, that might well
frighten him from his purpose. Rage showed itself only
in the swelling veins and clenched hand of the old
chief. With the boasted coldness and self-possession of
an Indian, he answered, `There are Sioux girls enough
for the poor pale faces that come among us. A king's
daughter weds the son of a king. Eagles must sleep
in an eagle's nest.'

In vain Tahmiroo knelt and supplicated. In vain she
promised that Florimond de Rancé would adopt all
his enmities and all his friendships; that in hunting,
and in war, he would be an invaluable treasure. The
chief remained inexorable. Then Tahmiroo no longer
joined in the dance, and the old men noticed that her
rich voice was silent, when they passed her wigwam.
The light of her beauty began to fade, and the bright
vermillion current, which mantled under her brown
cheek, became sluggish and pale. The languid glance
she cast on the morning sun and the bright earth, entered
into her father's soul. He could not see his

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beautiful child thus gradually wasting away. He had
long averted his eyes, whenever he saw Florimond de
Rancé; but one day, when he crossed his hunting
path, he laid his hand on his shoulder, and pointed to
Tahmiroo's dwelling. Not a word was spoken. The
proud old man, and the blooming lover entered it together.
Tahmiroo was seated in the darkest corner of
the wigwam, her head leaning on her hand, her basket
work tangled beside her, and a bunch of flowers, the
village maidens had brought her, scattered and withering
at her feet. The chief looked upon her, with a vehement
expression of love, which none but stern countenances
can wear. `Tahmiroo,' he said, in a subdued
tone, `go to the wigwam of the stranger, that your
father may again see you love to look on the rising sun,
and the opening flowers.' There was mingled joy and
modesty in the upward glance of the `Startled Fawn'
of the Sioux; and when Florimond de Rancé saw the
light of her mild eye, suddenly and timidly veiled by its
deeply fringed lid, he knew that he had lost none of his
power.

The marriage song was soon heard in the royal
wigwam, and the young adventurer became the son of
a king.

Months and years past on, and found Tahmiroo
the same devoted, submissive being. Her husband
no longer treated her with the uniform gallantry of a
lover. He was not often harsh; but he adopted something
of the coldness and indifference of the nation he
had joined. Tahmiroo sometimes wept in secret; but so
much of fear had lately mingled with her love, that she
carefully concealed her grief from him who had occasioned
it. When she watched his countenance, with
that pleading, innocent look, which had always characterized
her beauty, she sometimes would obtain a glance

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such as he had given her in former days, and then her
heart would leap like a frolicsome lamb, and she would
live cheerfully on the remembrance of that smile, through
many wearisome days of silence and neglect. Never
was woman, in her heart breaking devotedness, satisfied
with such slight testimonials of love, as was this gentle
Sioux girl. If Florimond chose to fish, she would herself
ply the oars, rather than he should suffer fatigue;
and the gaudy canoe her father had given her, might
often be seen gliding down the stream, while Tahmiroo
dipped her oars in unison with her soft, rich voice, and
the indolent Frenchman lay sunk in luxurious repose.
She had learned his religion; but for herself she never
prayed. The cross he had given her was always raised
in supplication for him; and if he but looked unkindly
on her, she kissed it, and invoked its aid, in agony of
soul. She fancied the sounds of his native land might
be dear to him, and she studied his language with a
patience and perseverance to which the savage has seldom
been known to submit. She tried to imitate the
dresses she had heard him describe; and if he looked
with a pleased eye on any ornament she wore, it was
always reserved to welcome his return. Yet, for all
this lavishness of love, she asked but kind, approving
looks, which cost the giver nothing. Alas, for the perverseness
of man, in scorning the affection he ceases
to doubt! The little pittance of love for which poor
Tahmiroo's heart yearned so much, was seldom given.
Her soul was a perpetual prey to anxiety and excitement;
and the quiet certainty of domestic bliss was
never her allotted portion. There were, however, two
beings, on whom she could pour forth her whole flood
of tenderness, without reproof or disappointment. She
had given birth to a son and daughter, of uncommon
promise. Victoire, the eldest, had her father's beauty,

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save in the melting dark eye, with its plaintive expression,
and the modest drooping of its silken lash. Her cheeks
had just enough of the Indian hue to give them a warm,
rich coloring; and such was her early maturity, that at
thirteen years of age, her tall figure combined the
graceful elasticity of youth, with the staid majesty of
womanhood. She had sprung up at her father's feet,
with the sudden luxuriance of a tropical flower; and her
matured loveliness aroused all the dormant tenderness
and energy within him. It was with mournful interest
he saw her leaping along the chase, with her mother's
bounding, sylphlike joy; and he would sigh deeply
when he observed her oar rapidly cutting the waters of
the Missouri, while her boat flew over the surface of
the river like a wild bird in sport—and the gay young
creature would wind round among the eddies, or dart
forward, with her hair streaming on the wind, and her
lips parted with eagerness. Tahmiroo did not understand
the nature of his emotions. She thought, in the
simplicity of her heart, that silence and sadness were
the natural expressions of a white man's love; but when
he turned his restless gaze from his daughter to her,
she met an expression which troubled her. Indifference
had changed into contempt; and woman's soul, whether
in the drawingroom or the wilderness, is painfully alive
to the sting of scorn. Sometimes her placid nature
was disturbed by a strange jealousy of her own child.
`I love Victoire only because she is the daughter of
Florimond,' thought she; `and why, oh! why does he
not love me for being the mother of Victoire?'

It was too evident, that De Rancé wished his daughter
should be estranged from her mother, and her mother's
people. With all members of the tribe, out of his own
family, he sternly forbade her having any intercourse;
and even there he kept her constantly employed in taking

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dancing lessons from himself, and obtaining various
branches of learning from an old Catholic priest, whom
he had solicited to reside with him for that purpose.
But this kind of life was irksome to the Indian girl,
and she was perpetually escaping the vigilance of her
father, to try her arrow in the woods, or guide her
pretty canoe over the waters. De Rancé had long
thought it impossible to gratify his ambitious views for
his daughter, without removing her from the attractions
of her savage home, and each day's experience convinced
him more and more of the truth of this conclusion.

To favor his project he assumed an affectionate manner
towards his wife; for he well knew that one look or
word of kindness would at any time win back all her
love. When the deep sensibilities of her warm heart
were roused, he would ask for leave to sell her lands;
and she, in her prodigality of tenderness, would have
given him anything, even her own life, for such smiles
as he then bestowed. The old chief was dead, and
there was no one to check the unfeeling rapacity of the
Frenchman. Tracts after tracts of Tahmiroo's valuable
land were sold, and the money remitted to Quebec,
whither he had the purpose of conveying his children,
on the pretence of a visit, but in reality with the firm
intent of never again beholding his deserted wife.

A company of Canadian traders happened to visit
the Falls of St Anthony, just at this juncture, and
Florimond de Rancé took the opportunity to apprise
Tahmiroo of his intention to educate Victoire at one of
the convents in Quebec. The Sioux pleaded with all the
earnestness of a mother's eloquence; but she pleaded
in vain. Victoire and her father joined the company
of traders, on their return to Canada. Tahmiroo knelt
and fervently besought that she might accompany them.
She would stay out of sight, she said; they should not

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be ashamed of her, among the great white folks at the
east; and if she could but live where she could see
them every day, she should die happier.

`Ashamed of you! and you the daughter of a Sioux
king!' exclaimed Victoire proudly, and, with a natural
impulse of tenderness, fell on her mother's neck, and
wept.

`Victoire, 't is time to depart!' said her father sternly.
The sobbing girl tried to release herself; but she could
not. Tahmiroo embraced her with the energy of despair;
for, after all her doubts and jealousies, Victoire
was the darling child of her bosom—she was so much
the image of Florimond when he first said he loved her.
`Woman! let her go!' exclaimed De Rancé, exasperated
by the length of the parting scene. Tahmiroo
raised her eyes anxiously to his face, and she saw that
his arm was raised to strike her.

`I am a poor daughter of the Sioux; oh! why did
you marry me?' exclaimed she, in a tone of passionate
grief.

`For your father's lands,' said the Frenchman coldly.

This was the drop too much. Poor Tahmiroo with a
piercing shriek fell on the earth, and hid her face in the
grass. She knew not how long she remained there.
Her highly wrought feelings had brought on a dizziness
of the brain; and she was conscious only of a sensation
of sickness, accompanied by the sound of receding
voices. When she recovered, she found herself alone
with Louis, her little boy, then about six years old.
The child had wandered there, after the traders had
departed, and having in vain tried to waken his mother,
he had laid himself down at her side, and slept on his
bow and arrows. From that hour Tahmiroo was
changed. Her quiet, submissive air gave place to a
stern and lofty manner; and she, who had always been

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so gentle, became as bitter and implacable as the most
blood thirsty of her tribe. In little Louis all the strong
feelings of her soul were centered; but even her affection
for him was characterized by a strange and unwonted
fierceness. Her only care seemed to be to
make him like his grandfather, and to instil a deadly
hatred of white men; and the boy learned his lessons
well. He was the veriest little savage that ever let fly
an arrow. To his mother alone he yielded anything
like submission; and the Sioux were proud to hail the
haughty child as their future chieftain.

Such was the aspect of things on the shores of the
Mississippi, when Florimond de Rancé came among
them, after an absence of three years. He was induced
to make this visit, partly from a lingering curiosity to
see his boy, and partly from the hopes of obtaining more
land from the yielding Tahmiroo. He affected much
contrition for his past conduct, and promised to return
with Victoire, before the year expired. Tahmiroo met
him with the most chilling indifference, and listened to
him with a vacant look, as if she heard him not. It was
only when he spoke to her boy, that he could arouse her
from this apparent lethargy. On this subject she was
all suspicion. She had a sort of undefined dread that he
too would be carried away from her; and she watched
over him like a she wolf, when her young is in danger.

Her fears were not unfounded; for Florimond de
Rancé did intend, by demonstrations of fondness, and
glowing descriptions of Quebec, to kindle in the mind of
his son a desire to accompany him.

Tahmiroo thought the hatred of white men, which
she had so carefully instilled, would prove a sufficient
shield; but many weeks had not elapsed, before she
saw that Louis was fast yielding himself up to the
fascinating power, which had enthralled her own

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youthful spirit. With this discovery came horrible thoughts
of vengeance; and more than once, she had nearly
nerved her soul to murder the father of her son; but
she could not. Something in his features still reminded
her of the devoted young Frenchman who had carried
her quiver through the woods, and kissed the moccasin
he stooped to lace, and she could not kill him.

The last cutting blow was soon given to the heart of
the Indian Wife. Young Louis, full of boyish curiosity,
expressed a wish to go with his father, though he, at the
same time, promised a speedy return. He had always
been a stubborn boy; and she felt now as if her wornout
spirit would vainly contend against his wilfulness.
With that sort of resigned stupor, which often indicates
approaching insanity, she yielded to his request, exacting,
however, a promise that he would sail a few miles
down the Mississippi with her, the day before his
departure.

The day arrived. Florimond de Rancé was at a distance
on business. Tahmiroo decked herself in the garments
and jewels she had worn on the day of her marriage,
and selected the gaudiest wampum belts for the
little Louis.

`Why do you put these on?' said the boy.

`Because Tahmiroo will no more see her son in the
land of the Sioux,' said she, mournfully, `and when her
father meets her in the Spirit Land, he will know the
beads he gave her.'

She took the wondering boy by the hand, and led him
to the river side. There lay the canoe her father had
given her when she left him for `the wigwam of the
Stranger.' It was faded and bruised now, and so were
all her hopes. She looked back on the hut, where she
had spent her brief term of wedded happiness, and its
peacefulness seemed a mockery of her misery. And

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was she—the lone, the wretched, the desperate, and deserted
one—was she the `Startled Fawn' of the Sioux,
for whom contending chiefs had asked in vain? The
remembrance of all her love and all her wrongs came
up before her memory, and death seemed more pleasant
to her than the gay dance she once loved so well. But
then her eye rested on her boy—and, O God! with
what an agony of love! It was the last vehement
struggle of a soul all formed for tenderness. `We will
go to the Spirit Land together,' she exclaimed. `He
cannot come there to rob me!'

She took Louis in her arms, as if he had been a
feather, and springing into the boat, she guided it toward
the Falls of St Anthony. `Mother, mother! the
canoe is going over the rapids!' screamed the frightened
child. `My father stands on the waves and
beckons me!' she said. The boy looked at the horribly
fixed expression of her face, and shrieked aloud for
help.

The boat went over the cataract. Louis de Rancé
was seen no more. He sleeps with the `Startled Fawn'
of the Sioux, in the waves of the Mississippi! The story
is well remembered by the Indians of the present day;
and when a mist gathers over the Falls, they often say,
`Let us not hunt to day. A storm will certainly come;
for Tahmiroo and her son are going over the Falls of
St Anthony.'