Arthur O'Leary: His Wanderings And Ponderings In Many Lands. Lever Charles James

on foot, great part of it through dense forests and over wild uninhabited prairies, passing through the hunting-grounds of several hostile tribes, fording rivers and climbing mountains, and all, for the moderate payment of ten pounds a year, half of which he spent in rum before he left Quebec, and while waiting for the return mail; and strangest of all, though for forty years he had continued to perform this journey, not only no accident had ever occurred to the letters, but he himself was never known to be behind his appointed time at his destination.

      “‘Tahata,’ for such was his name, was, however, a character of great interest; even to the barbarous tribes through whose territories he passed. He was a species of savage newspaper, recounting various details respecting the hunting and fishing seasons, – the price of skins at Quebec or Montreal, – what was the peltry most in request, and how it would bring its best price. Cautiously abstaining from the local politics of these small states, his information only bore on such topics as are generally useful and interesting, and never for a moment partook of any partisan character; besides, he had ever some petty commission or other, from the squaws, to discharge at Quebec. There was an amber bead, or a tin ornament, a bit of red ribbon or a glass button, or some such valuable, everywhere he went; and his coming was an event as much longed and looked for, as any other that marked their monotonous existence.

      “He rested for a few days at our village, when I learned these few particulars of his life, and at once resolved, come what might, to make my escape with him, and, if possible, reach Quebec. An opportunity, fortunately, soon offered for my doing so with facility. The day of the courier’s departure was fixed for a great fishing excursion, on which the tribe were to be absent for several days. Affecting illness, I remained on shore, and never stirred from the wigwam till the last canoe had disappeared from sight: then I slowly sauntered out, and telling the squaws that I would stroll about, for an hour or so, to breathe the air, I followed the track which was pointed out to me by the courier, who had departed early on the same morning. Before sunset I came up with my friend, and with a heart overflowing with delight, sat down to partake of the little supper he had provided for our first day’s journey; after that, each day was to take care of itself.

      “Then began a series of adventures, to which all I have hitherto told you, are, as nothing. It was the wild life of the prairies in companionship with one, who felt as much at home in the recesses of a pine forest, as ever I did in the snug corner of mine inn. Now, it was a night spent under the starry sky, beside some clear river’s bank, where the fish lay motionless beneath the red glare of our watch-fire; now, we bivouacked in a gloomy forest, planting stockades around to keep off the wild beasts; then, we would chance upon some small Indian settlement, where we were regaled with hospitality, and spent half the night listening to the low chant of a red man’s song, as he deplored the downfall of his nation, and the loss of their hunting-grounds. Through all, my guide preserved the steady equability of one who was travelling a well-worn path – some notched tree, some small stone heap, some fissured rock, being his guide through wastes, where, it seemed to me, no human foot had ever trod. He lightened the road with many a song and many a story, the latter always displaying some curious trait of his people, whose high sense of truth and unswerving fidelity to their word, once pledged, appeared to be an invariable feature in every narrative; and though he could well account for the feeling that makes a man more attached to his own nation, he more than once half expressed his surprise, how, having lived among the simple-minded children of the forest, I could ever return to the haunts of the plotting, and designing white men.

      “This story of mine,” continued Mr. O’Kelly, “has somehow spun itself out far more than I intended. My desire was, to show you briefly, in what strange and dissimilar situations I have been thrown in life – how, I have lived among every rank, and class, at home and abroad, in comparative affluence – in narrow poverty; how, I have looked on, at the world, in all its gala dress of wealth, and rank, and beauty – of power, of station, and command of intellect; and how I have seen it poor, and mean, and naked – the companion of gloomy solitudes, and the denizen of pathless forests; and yet found the same human passions, the same love, and hate, the same jealousy, and fear, courage, and daring – the same desire for power, and the same wish to govern, in the red Indian of the prairie, as in the starred noble of Europe. The proudest rank of civilized life has no higher boast, than in the practice of such virtues as I have seen rife among the wild dwellers in the dark forest. Long habit of moving thus among my fellow men, has worn off much of that conventional reverence for class, which forms the standing point of all our education at home. The tarred and weather-beaten sailor, if he be but a pleasant fellow, and has seen life, is to me as agreeable a companion as the greatest admiral that ever trod a quarter-deck. My delight has been thus, for many a year back, to ramble through the world, and look on its game, like one who sits before the curtain, and has no concern with the actors, save, in so far as they amuse him.

      “There is no cynicism in this. No one enjoys life more than I do. Music is a passion with me – in painting, I take the greatest delight, and beauty, has still her charm for me. Society, never was a greater pleasure. Scenery, can give me a sense of happiness, which none but solitary men ever feel – yet, it is less as one identified with these, than as a mere spectator. All this is selfish, and egotistical, you will say – and so it is. But then, think what chance has one like me of any other pleasure! To how many annoyances should I expose myself, if I adopted a different career: think of the thousand inquiries, of, – who is he? what is his family? where did he come from? what are his means? and all such queries, which would beset me, were I the respectable denizen of one of your cities. Without some position, some rank, some settled place in society, you give a man nothing – he can neither have friend, nor home. Now, I am a wanderer – my choice of life, happily took an humble turn. I have placed myself in a good situation for seeing the game – and I am not too fastidious, if I get somewhat crushed by the company about me. But now, to finish this long story, for I see the day is breaking, and I must leave Antwerp by ten o’clock.

      “At last, then, we reached Quebec. It was on a bright, clear, frosty day in December, when all the world was astir – sledges flying here and there – men slipping along in rackets – women, wrapped up in furs, sitting snugly in chairs, and pushed along the ice some ten or twelve miles the hour – all gay, all lively, and all merry-looking – while I and my Indian friend bustled our way through the crowd towards the post-office. He was a well-known character, and many a friendly nod, and a knowing shake of the head welcomed him as he passed along. I, however, was an object of no common astonishment, even in a town where every variety of costume, from full dress to almost nakedness, was to be met with daily. Still, something remained as a novelty, and it would seem I had hit on it. Imagine, then, an old and ill-used foraging-cap, drawn down over a red night-cap, from beneath which my hair descended straight, somewhere about a foot in length – beard and moustaches to match – a red uniform coat, patched with brown seal-skin, and surmounted by a kind of blanket of buffalo hide – a pair of wampum shorts, decorated with tin and copper, after the manner of a marquetrie table – gray stockings, gartered with fish skin – and moccasins made after the fashion of high-lows, an invention of my own, which I trust are still known as ‘O’Kellies,’ among my friends the red men.