behavior of Clithero, a sleepwalker, suspected of murdering Waldegrave, the friend of Huntley. Then Huntley himself becomes a victim of these nocturnal wanderings, and one day wakes up in the depths of a cavern, with no idea of how he came there. In trying to escape from his prison, he comes to an outlet of the cave, where four Indians lie asleep, with a fifth standing guard over a young woman captive. After a time the Indian sentry goes out of the cavern, whereupon Huntley, taking advantage of the opportunity thus offered for escape, makes his way noiselessly past the sleeping savages, and emerges from the cave, only to find his other antagonist seated on a ledge of rock outside. As the only path of escape is thus cut off, his only chance of escape is to strike the Indian with the tomahawk. But Huntley has never shed human blood, and so, after hesitating a long time, decides to return to his former position within the cave. Just at this moment the Indian detects his presence, and leaves him no choice but to kill or be killed. He therefore aims the fatal blow before the savage has a chance to call his companions. "The stroke was as quick as lightning, and the wound mortal and deep. He had not time to destroy the author of his fate; but sinking on the path, expired without a groan. The hatchet buried itself in his breast, and rolled with him to the bottom of the precipice.'87 He now returns to the cave, rescues the fair prisoner from her sleeping captors, and carries her to the hut of Old Deb, a venerable squaw, who, as it later proves, is largely responsible for the Indian massacres. Her wild solitary life is pictured with a certain romantic fancy which has been compared to Scott's treatment of the old hag, Meg Merrilies.88 She is not exactly a real or an idealized Indian, but more like a witch or a gypsy, a creature of darkness and weird mystery:89 87 Edgar Huntley 2. 173-174. 88 Cf. Loshe, p. 73. 89 Op. cit. 2. 245. The wildness of her aspect and garb, her shrivelled and diminutive form, a constitution that seemed to defy the ravages of time and the influence of the element; her age, which some did not scruple to affirm exceeded an hundred years, her romantic solitude and mountainous haunts suggested to my fancy the appellation of Queen Mab. The rest of the story is made up of other sensational adventures and hairbreadth escapes, frequently without much probability or connection. The Indians whom Edgar has tricked follow him to Deb's cottage, where, with the usual complication of dangers, surprises, and mishaps, the hero succeeds in killing several more of his enemies. Edgar's friends now come to his rescue, but this is frustrated when they mistake his swoon for death, and go off, leaving his body with those of the dead Indians. The young lady whom he had rescued with such heroism also vanishes, to reappear no more in the story, and Edgar is left alone, to make his way back as best he can. His adventures on the way home include killing another Indian, ‘a bloody and disastrous tale," and jumping from a high precipice into the river, when he and his friends meet and mutually mistake each other for Indians. By such a novel variety of incidents the reader's interest is sustained through a number of pages, but at many points disappointed by so much suspense which seems to result in no very natural or logical conclusion. 190 It seems necessary to repeat, perhaps with some modification, the statement made at the outset of this chapter, that the sentimentalized or idealized Indian occupies no very important place in English fiction before 1800. In Lydia, which begins with such a glorification of Indian virtue, the noble-savage motive tends to become subordinate as the story proceeds, while the realistic elements, the activities of Mrs. Rachel Stiffrump and her associates, become more and more prominent. Yet the American Indian, somewhat less ideal 90 2. 207. than Cannassatego, made no little appeal to the eighteenthcentury imagination, and was the occasion of many interesting and even novel literary effects. As the century wore on, the customs of the Indians, the dangers of the wilderness, the hardships of the frontier, more and more found their way into fiction, oftentimes as subordinate threads, to be sure, yet significant as an indication of the universal fondness for spectacular adventure, picturesque local color, veiled social satire, and thrills of mystery and horror. CHAPTER V. THE INDIAN IN DRAMA. In To the Elizabethan dramatist America and its strange inhabitants made slight appeal. With the possible exception of Shakespeare's Tempest,1 the first half of the seventeenth century shows little or no trace of American exoticism. the year 1658, however, the Indians made their appearance on the stage in Sir William Davenant's opera, The Cruelty of the Spaniards in Peru. That the performance of such a work was permitted at this time is usually explained by assuming that the exposure of Spanish cruelty was pleasing to Cromwell. The British Theatre comments on this circumstance as follows: 'We are told that Cromwell not only allowed this piece to be performed, but actually read and approved of it; and the reason given was, that it reflected on the Spaniards, against whom he was supposed to have formed great designs."2 There is not much plot to the piece, but the most important events attending the Spanish conquest of Peru are shown in a series of tableaux and songs. The general plan of the work is thus summed up in the argument: The design is first to represent the happy condition of the people of Peru anciently, when their inclinations were govern'd by Nature; and then it makes some discov'ry of their establishment under the twelve Incas, and of the dissensions of the two sons of the last Inca. Then proceeds to the discov'ry of that new western world by the Spaniard, which happen'd to be during the dissention of the two royal brethren. It likewise proceeds to the Spaniards' conquest of that Incan Empire, and then discovers the cruelty of the Spaniards over the Indians, and over all Christians, excepting those of their own nation, who landing in those parts, came unhappily into their power. And towards 1Cf. chap. 3. 'William Rufus Chetwood, The British Theatre (Dublin, 1750), the conclusion, it infers the voyages of the English thither, and the amity of the natives towards them, under whose ensignsencourag'd by a prophecy of their Chief Priest-they hope to be made victorious, and to be freed from the yoke of the Spaniard. One of the things to be noticed in this performance is the attempt to secure a realistic Peruvian atmosphere. The early pictures of the Indians had commonly shown them decked out in feathers; hence the priest of the sun who makes the first speech is described as 'cloth'd in a garment of feathers, longer than any of those that are worn by other natives, with a bonnet whose ornament of plumes does likewise give him a distinction from the rest, and carries in his hand a gilded verge.' His speech and the first song describe the early state of the Indians before the time of the first Incas: Whilst yet our world was new When not discover'd by the old; Ere beggar'd slaves we grew, For having silver hills, and strands of gold. And lookt ever young, And from restraints were free, As waves and winds at sea. After this the scene changes to a sea-coast, with the Spanish fleet shown in the distance. The second speech describes the peaceful rule of the Incas, and their subjects' alarm at the coming of the Spaniards, the bearded race, who, according to an ancient prophecy, were to spring out of the sea and conquer them: In all the soft delights of sleep and ease, Guided by winds, the bearded people come! And that dire prophecy must be fulfill'd, When two shall ruin what our twelve did build. 'Tis long since first the sun's Chief Priest foretold That cruel men, idolaters of gold, Should pass vast seas to seek their harbour here. |