Karen Locklear

27 February 2005

Lesson Learned within Desire and Loss

            As Americans, our culture and heritage is based upon this desire for the bigger, better, more powerful objects of desire. This desire is what has made our nation what it is today, for better or worse. However fulfilling such desires has a certain risk factor; many times those willing to bet upon chance often loose dearly.

            Columbus journals his travels, discussing his risks of life and limb for unknown riches all over the world, describing these foreign lands as the “ . . . most beautiful . . . all are accessible and filled with trees of a thousand kinds and tall, and they seem to touch the sky” (27).  These lines create the great images of this unknown land, with foliage unbeknownst to Columbus as an explorer. But it’s more than new and different; it’s adventure. From these journeys Columbus, amongst many explorers, brought the realization to Europeans there is a world which exists outside of Europe.

            According to Michelle Glenn, midterm 2002, it is obvious Columbus enjoys the idea of exploration, but this desire for the new and undiscovered doesn’t end with just finding new land:

Despite his excitement over the discovery and naming of these islands, it is no longer enough for him, and desire for more land tugs at his heart  . . . Although he could have given up after their findings . . . instead, he follows the island’s coastline eastward and discovers another island, which he names “Espanola” (Columbus, “Luis” 12).

The need for such discovery never goes away.  Eventually, Columbus feels the desire to expand his journey from the aesthetics of to an opportunity for power and respect:

. . . You would leave them (Caribbean islands) to me to govern in your royal name. It pleased you; it was a privilege and agreement, and under seal and oath, and you granted me the title of viceroy and admiral and governor general for all. (27)

            An individual unwilling to make the necessary sacrifices could not reap such rewards as a governorship of a colony. From these risks Columbus receives opportunity in which the average man can only dream. But the risk factor must also be acknowledged.  In his fourth voyage Columbus describes individuals “ . . . in an exhausted state; although they are not dead, the infirmity is incurable or very extensive; let him who brought them to this state come now with the remedy if he can or if he knows it . . .” (27).  Such descriptions from Europeans who dared to cross the Atlantic were not particularly uncommon; it was more the norm. Other exploration narrations, including those of William Bradford, Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca, and John Smith, to name only three, detail sordid stories of disease, accidental death and dismemberment, illness, catastrophic weather conditions, and general catastrophe, as means of creating exceptional lives for themselves. Stories as such could serve as deterrents for those wishing to discourage risk-taking behaviors faced on such a journey.

            In Last of the Mohicans, we see Alice and Cora on a journey into deep the “Indian territory” to visit their father who is located at Fort William Henry. Even with escort the two surely must comprehend the risk in traveling through this area during the heart of the French and Indian War. It becomes evident the travelers comprehend this as they choose their path when “instead of penetrating the thicket, they followed the route of the column; a measure which Heyward stated had been dictated by the sagacity of their guide” (15). This cautionary move, necessary for the moment, becomes superfluous with the novel, as the group still faces tragedy after tragedy:

But Cora neither heard nor heeded his demand. The form of the Huron trembled in every fibre, and he raised his arm on high, but dropped it again with a bewildered air, like one who doubted. Once more he struggled with himself and lifted the keen weapon again; but just then a piercing cry was heard above them, and Uncas appeared, leaping frantically, from a fearful height, upon the ledge. Magua recoiled a step; and one of his assistants, profiting by the chance, sheathed his own knife in the bosom of Cora (407).

            Again, we see the fearful moment of the attack of by the Native, which leads to the demise our heroine. It is interesting here that it is the nameless Huron is hesitant to commit such an act. However, the “assistant” committed the fatal blow, showing his loyalty and duty to the one above him.  Why does he take it upon himself to do this? Is it the desire to be seen as brave within the tribe?

            Cora here becomes the cautionary tale of life in the Americas. However she is mourned greatly and seen as a martyr within the story, She, along with Uncas, receive elaborate burials and Uncas is seen as a hero.

            A Narrative of Captivity, which documents the author’s experiences as a captive of the Wampanoag Indians during the latter part of the sixteenth century, personifies the great losses of one who dared to settle within the unknown land known as the Americas. Rolandson, daughter of a wealthy landowner in Massachusetts and wife to a minister, reaped the benefits of her adventure seeking European forefathers. However, she is kidnapped and these benefits become minimal for all she looses:

. . . They stopped, and now down I must sit in the snow, by a little fire, and a few boughs behind me, with my sick child. . . My own wound also growing so stiff that I could scarce sit down or rise up . . .  (138)

            Some consider this piece of literature to be a cautionary tale, frequently read in England, where readers were quite eager to hear of “lurid tales of the native inhabitants in the Americas” (Holt 42). These captivity stories lead to a European fear of the Native Americans, creating more problems for Europeans within the colonies.

            Kimberly Jones (midterm 2000) uses the Rolandson text to discuss the gothic images of “Christians lying in their blood, some here, some there. . “ (150), an image that now creates the automatic impression that Europeans are good and the Natives are evil. As simplistic as it sounds, such images did create fear within the minds of many Europeans overseas and within the colonies. 

            The spiritual side of the individuals is partially what gets many of these characters through their times of struggle. Part of Roldanson’s desire is to overcome and get through this eleven-week period of horror. As means of solace she stays as close as she can to her Bible, and discusses her overwhelming feelings in relation to her personal spirituality:

It is not my tongue, or pen, can express the sorrows of my heart, and bitterness of my spirit that I had at this departure: but God was with me in a wonderful manner, carrying me along, and bearing up my spirit, that it did not quite fail. (138)

            In the end she loses her child, her personal health, her feelings of personal safety (if she had that to begin with). However, as minimal as it may seem, she gains the knowledge her faith can carry her this journey. This form of spirituality in dealing with trials can be seen through David in Last of the Mohicans, who sings hymns throughout this trying journey. Ironically enough, this behavior allowed him freedom as a captive, as the Indians assumed he was insane for singing all the time, and allowed him to come and go as he pleased. His singing was also an influence on the group:

The melody, which no weakness could destroy, gradually wrought its sweet influence on the senses of those who heard it. It even prevailed over the miserable travesty of the song of David, which the singer had selected from a volume of similar effusions and caused the sense to be forgotten in the insinuating harmony of the sounds (94).

Romanticism is based upon those who are in an unpleasant situation and attempt to improve upon it through their on ingenuity. The stakes are high and the costs can be dear. But the opportunities gained and the knowledge received in the process can be priceless if all works out in the end.