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Title: Traditions of the North American Indians, Vol. 1

Author: James Athearn Jones

Release date: March 15, 2007 [eBook #20826]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Schaal, Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and
        the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRADITIONS OF THE NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS, VOL. 1 ***




Produced by David Schaal, Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by the Canadian Institute for
Historical Microreproductions (www.canadiana.org))









TRADITIONS OF THE NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS:

               BEING

    A SECOND AND REVISED EDITION OF

      "TALES OF AN INDIAN CAMP."

                  BY

         JAMES ATHEARN JONES.

           IN THREE VOLUMES.

                VOL. I.


LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BULINGTON STREET. 1830
F. SHOBERL, JUN., LONG ACRE.



[Illustration: _Designed & Etched by W. H. Brooks, A. R. H. A._
    I bore her away in my arms from the battle of Warriors. _page 23_.
_London, Published by Colburn & Bentley, April 1830_.]




TO

WASHINGTON IRVING, ESQ.


THESE VOLUMES ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY HIS
FRIEND AND COUNTRYMAN, THE AUTHOR.




ADVERTISEMENT.


It has been thought that the introduction prefixed to the first edition,
and which was intended as a mere framework upon which to hang the
traditions, was not satisfactorily contrived, and that the title did not
set forth the true nature of the work. I think so myself, and have
therefore suppressed that introduction, and given to the work a strictly
accurate title. I have supplied the place of the introduction with a
brief statement of the opportunities I have had of studying the Indian
character, and with an exhibition of proofs of the genuineness of the
traditions themselves. The public having been pleased to say that "_if_
the matter was genuine, the manner was good," and that a successful
attempt to "stamp the legends with the character of authenticity" would
elevate them to the dignity of "historical records," I have been at some
pains to collect and offer the required proofs.




INTRODUCTION.


I was born within twelve miles of a principal tribe of Indians, within
two miles of a small band, and within six miles of two other small bands,
of that tribe. They were a remnant of the Pawkunnawkuts, who, at the
first settlement of the country, were a very numerous, powerful, and
warlike nation, but at the time of my birth had dwindled in numbers to
about five hundred souls, and were restricted in territory to some
six or seven thousand acres. They then, and at present, sank their
primitive appellation in the less poetic name of Gayheads, which was
given them by the white people with reference to the little elbow or
promontory of land where they lived. Though the manners and customs of
the Whites had made sad inroads on the primitive Indian character,
there yet remained, at the time of my birth, enough to make them
objects of ardent and profitable interest.

The recollections of my earliest childhood are of Indians. My
grandfather had an old Indian woman in his house for the greater part
of the first fifteen years of my life. Our house-servants and
field-labourers were chiefly Indians. It was my grandfather's custom,
and had been that of his ancestors, ever since their settlement, a
hundred and fifty years ago, in the vicinity of the tribe, to take
Indian boys at the age of four or five years, and keep them until they
had attained their majority, when they usually left us, chiefly to
become sailors--an employment in which their services were specially
valued. During my minority we had three of these little foresters in our
house, and these drew around them their fathers, and mothers, and
sisters, and brothers: very frequently our house was an "Indian Camp"
indeed. From the boys I learned the sports and pastimes of Indian
childhood, and, from the aged, their traditional history and wild
legends of supernatural horrors. So thoroughly has my mind become imbued
with their superstitions, that at times I find difficulty in reconciling
myself to the plain matter-of-fact narratives of the men of my own creed
and colour. I have to pinch myself like one awaking from an unpleasant
dream, and to say to the wild creations of Indian fancy, "Ye are shadows
all."

It is quite impossible that any one, who has not been among and "of"
the North American Indians, should be able to form even a tolerable idea
of the extent to which they are acted upon by their superstitions. They
are governed entirely by them; they enter into their conceptions of
every occurrence. The old Indian woman, before mentioned, afforded a
striking example of the strength of their faith in these "thick coming
fancies." There was nothing, I believe I may say in the world, which was
not with her a "spirit." The waves were "spirits"--the meteors were
"spirits"--the winds singing their lullabies were "spirits"--the
thunders were "spirits." In the long winter evenings, when seated before
the wood fire, which at that season of the year is perpetually burning
on a New England hearth, the sound was heard of a cricket chirping in
the hollow wood; starting with alarm she would exclaim "a spirit!" and
minutes would elapse before she would regain her composure. Seated in a
little chair at her side, how I used to enjoy her long but never tedious
stories of the wonderful things she had seen and heard--of the phantoms
which had visited her bedside, or whispered strange things in her
ear--of the several conversations she had had, face to face, with the
Father of Evil! Once in particular she had seen the latter grim
personage when she was returning from a "husking frolic," _i.e._ an
assemblage of persons met for the purpose of stripping the husks from
Indian corn. She described him as a rather tall and exceedingly gaunt
old gentleman, wearing his hair much as Andrew Skurliewhitter is
described as wearing his in "The Fortunes of Nigel;" his face the colour
of flame, his eyes green as grass, an enormous yellow cocked hat upon
his head, and his robe of woven sea-weed. She averred that he had
neither a club foot as some have pretended, nor a "sooty black skin"
according to the opinion of others. She described the spot where she saw
him with such exceeding accuracy, that I never thereafter, for more than
ten years, passed the particular "bush in the little valley, three steps
from the gate," by daylight, without a shudder, and never at all by
night. She had seen the spirit of her mother, too, employed in knitting
woollen hose for her father's spirit. There was not one of my ancestors
to whom she had been personally known--and she was very aged at the time
of my birth--who had not appeared to her after death, each "with a
circumstance" whose simplicity and truth to nature almost impressed you
with a belief that such a thing had really been.--I implicitly believed
all old Mima's stories, for could I be made to entertain a suspicion
that she who watched every night by my pillow, and gathered me berries,
and waded into the water to pluck lilies for me, and procured me a
thousand playthings--the devices of savage ingenuity--could tell me
false tales? It was from this aged Indian woman that I heard some of
the traditions which are recorded in these volumes; and from these
preceptors and playmates of my childhood I acquired that acquaintance
with their manners, customs, and superstitions, and knowledge of their
disposition, and imbibed that sympathy with their sufferings, which have
led to the publication of these volumes. I feel, indeed, a singular
interest in them--an interest the strength of which is scarcely to be
accounted for on the common principles of youthful friendships.

My acquaintance with them did not terminate with the period which sent
me forth into the wide world a traveller for gain or pleasure, an
adventurer in quest of wealth or happiness. I have since travelled among
the Chickasaws, the Cherokees, the Creeks, and the Shawanos, besides the
nondescripts who figure in the drunken riots which daily occur on the
Levee of the city of New Orleans. And my frequent visits to the scenes
of my childhood, and renewal of acquaintance with the red associates of
my youth, have served to keep alive and vivid the recollections of
the period which may be said to have afforded me almost as many
opportunities of studying their character as if I had been born an
Indian.

I conceived, more than ten years ago, the idea of collecting the various
traditions and popular Indian stories, with a view to their publication
at a convenient day. Believing that a collection of their traditions,
illustrated by elaborate notices of their peculiar customs and manners,
would be both instructive and amusing, I set myself down to the reading
of the books which should add to the fund of legendary lore I had
acquired by my residence among them. In all my travels, and these have
been through every state but one in the American Union, and the
"territories," with the exception of Michigan and the "North Western,"
my inquiries have been for "Indians," and respecting "Indian
traditions." If I saw an Indian, I questioned him as to his ideas of a
future state, the creation of man, &c. and endeavoured to wile from him
an "auld warld story," to use Edie Ochiltree's language. I think I have
never lost sight of my object in any situation where any thing could be
done for its advancement.

I had been early led to place a greater value upon the traditions of the
Indians than has been attached to them by those who do not view them as
a series of authentic annals. For myself, I hold them in the light of
historical records, mixed up indeed with much that is fabulous, but not
in a greater degree than the early annals of other unenlightened
nations, who could not perpetuate them by means of letters. After all it
will remain for the reader to fix the degree of estimation in which
these traditions shall be held, and to determine the degree of credit
that is to be attached to them.

I cannot but think that I have rendered an acceptable service to the
world in preserving these traditions from the oblivion that surely
awaits them in their uncollected state. The North American Indians are a
people, who, in the nature of things, and according to that which has
happened to all, are doomed to be of the number of those

  The sole memorial of whose lot
  Remains--they _were_, and they _are not_.

In a very few years nothing will remain of them but a nameless barrow.
The day may come, when even conjecture will be at fault, as with the
builders of the western mounds, in determining who they were, from whom
they originated, what were their peculiar opinions, and the various
other matters and things concerning them.

It has been by some thought necessary that I should present to the
public proofs of the genuineness of these traditions. I shall proceed to
give such as I have been able to collect, and the nature of the case
will admit of my offering. Where they rest on my own word that they are
authentic, the corroborating testimony I rely upon is their asserted
conformity with Indian ideas, opinions, customs, and phraseology.

The first tradition, in the collection, "The Man of Ashes," is referred
to by Mr. Johnstone, residing at Piqua, in the state of Ohio, and acting
as agent for the American government among the Shawanos tribe at that
place, in a communication made by him to the American Society of
Antiquaries, and published in the first volume of their Transactions.
Not having that work at hand, I cannot name the page. I also heard it
from a Shawano when I was at Piqua, in 1823. It is probably an account
mixed up with much that is fabulous of their first meeting with, and
massacre of, a party of white people in alliance with a hostile tribe.

The second tradition, "Pomatare, the Flying Beaver," was related to me
at the same time by the same Indian. It is also briefly referred to by
Mr. Johnstone, in the communication in which mention is made of the
first tradition. Many other writers speak of a tradition current among
the Indians, of their having crossed the sea to arrive at their present
place of residence. I cannot help regarding it as a very strong
corroboration of this tradition, that all the American Indians call the
world--_i.e._ the place where they dwell--their ideas extend no
further--an "island." Does not the universality of this opinion prove
that they are from a common stock, and once--perhaps ages ago--had
demonstration of the fact that water flows between the continent upon
which they now dwell, and that from which the tradition supposes they
came?

The tradition entitled "The Alarm of the Great Sentinel," (Vol. 1, p.
61,) rests on the authority of Heckewelder, the well-known Moravian
missionary at Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, and may be found in "Transactions
of the American Philosophical Society." (Phila., 1819, Vol. 1, p. 206).
Much controversy has prevailed in America respecting the degree of
credit to be attached to this writer. None have pronounced him
dishonest, but several have accused him of having a very strong bias
towards the Indians, and of permitting his prejudices to colour his
elaborate accounts of their modes and manners. Two very able writers,
Mr. Duponceau, and Mr. Rawle, have come forward to vindicate him from
the charge of partiality, and I think have fully done so. The tradition
probably refers to an unsuccessful attempt at surprisal by their
enemies.

"The Mother of the World" is told briefly in Hearne's "Journey to the
Northern Ocean," p. 342. Hearne has been generally reckoned an accurate
reporter of what he heard and saw on that journey. His assertion that
the Indians have no religion is, however, totally untrue. Mackenzie also
refers to the same tradition, in his "General History of the Fur Trade,"
prefixed to his "Voyage to the Northern Ocean." (London, 1801, _quarto,_
cxviii). Mackenzie is a high authority in all that relates to the
Indians.

"The Fall of the Lenape" (Vol. 1, p. 87) is told by Mr. Heckewelder, in
the volume before referred to, page 36. It is undoubtedly an authentic
account of the overthrow of the Delawares by the Iroquois, aided by the
insidious counsels of the white people.

"The Marriage of the Snail and the Beaver" (Vol. 1, p. 103) is referred
to by Lewis and Clarke, in "Travels to the Pacific Ocean." (London,
1815, Vol. 1, p. 12.) It probably relates to the marriage and consequent
settlement of the founder of the Osage Indians with a woman of a tribe
whose _totem_ or badge was a beaver.

"The Choice of a God" (Vol. 1, p. 117) was related to me by my old
Indian nurse. I heard a rather different version of it from a venerable
clergyman of the name of Thaxter. He had it from a Captain Richardson,
who was killed at Cape Breton in the "Old French War." It is a very
common tradition, though it has not, as far as I know, been before in
print. This tradition also refers to the first meeting of the natives
with the whites.

"The Resurrection of the Bison" (Vol. 1, p. 143) is told by James in his
"Account of an Expedition to the Rocky Mountains." (London, 1823, Vol.
1, p. 257). I have been informed that it is a common tradition among the
Rocky Mountain Indians.

"The Wahconda's Son" (Vol. 1, p. 147) is also from James's "Account of
an Expedition to the Rocky Mountains" (London, 1823. Vol. 1, 251), and
is mentioned by other writers and travellers. This also refers to a
transaction in which white people were concerned.

"The Idols" (Vol. 1, p. 173) is referred to by Lewis and Clarke in
"Travels to the Pacific Ocean" (London, 1815, Vol. 1, p. 146). It is a
genuine Indian superstition.

"The Discovery of the Upper World" (Vol. 1, p. 201) is referred to by
James in his "Account of an Expedition to the Rocky Mountains." (London,
1823, Vol. 1, p. 258); by Heckewelder in the work before referred to, p.
242, and numerous other writers.

For the tradition entitled "Love and War" (Vol. 1, p. 213) I am indebted
to Mr. Henry Schoolcraft. It is taken from a work of his published some
years ago, the title of which I forget. No other alterations had been
made in this tradition than those which were requisite to make it
conform strictly to what I deemed were Indian manners, customs,
phraseology, and opinions.

The series of traditions entitled "Legends of the Happy
Hunting-Grounds," (commencing at p. 225 of volume first) being in my
estimation by far the most interesting and valuable in the volume,
deserve a more elaborate commentary with a view to the authenticating
them. They are all of them genuine, but there is but one of them that
belongs, as has been supposed in the tradition, exclusively to the tribe
of whom it is related. Thus "Akkeewaisee, the Aged," which is supposed
to describe the heaven of the people called the Dahcotahs, describes
also that of many other tribes. Keating assigns the belief to the
Dahcotahs. (See his Narrative of an Expedition to the Source of St.
Petre's river. London, 1825, Vol. 1., p. 410).

The second tradition in the series, "The Delaware Heaven," I believe is
peculiar to the tribes which compose that nation, and rests upon the
authority of Loskiel. (History of the Missions of the United Brethren.
Lond. 1794, p. 35). He was a Moravian missionary, and has been esteemed
an accurate and faithful relator of what he saw.

The third of these series of traditions relating to the future residence
of the soul, entitled "The Hunting-Grounds of the Blackfoots," is a
current tradition with many tribes, but, in order to give it a more
distinct shape, I have assigned it to the Blackfoot tribe.

The legend entitled "The Stone Canoe" is referred to by Mackenzie.
("Voyages from Montreal to the Frozen Ocean." Quarto, London, 1801,
Prelim. Account, cxix).

"The Little White Dove" I have heard of frequently, and yet I cannot
at this moment give any authority. It was probably an American
author--certain I am that it is a genuine tradition.

The last of the Legends, entitled "The Teton's Paradise," is so well
and so generally known to be a genuine tradition, that I shall content
myself with referring only to Hearne. ("Journey to the Northern Ocean,"
p. 346). He does not indeed speak of it as a Teton tradition, but as it
is known to prevail over the entire northern and western region, I have
assigned it to the Tetons.

"The Legends of Creation," with which the second volume commences, are
very interesting, for a number of them clearly refer to the great
Deluge. The first of these legends, "The Two Chappewees," is in two
parts: one is copied nearly verbatim from Captain (now Sir John)
Franklin's admirable account of his Journey to the Polar Ocean; the
other is referred to by Hearne.

The second of these legends, "Sakechak, the Hunter," is referred to by
Charlevoix, (in his Journal. London, 1761. Vol. 11, p. 228). The accuracy
of this writer is well established: no traveller in that region may be
so safely relied on. P. de Acosta is of opinion that this and all the
other traditions do not respect the universal deluge, but another peculiar
to America. I do not agree with him in opinion: I have always thought
that all refer to the deluge mentioned in the first Chapter of Genesis.

"The Bird of Ages." This legend of the Creation is referred to by
Mackenzie. ("General History of the Fur Trade." _Quarto_. London, 1801,
p. cxviii). Reference is made to the same tradition in Hearne's "Journey
to the Northern Ocean."

"The Great Hare" is referred to by Charlevoix in his "Journal." (London,
1761, vol. 11. p. 142.) He refers to another tradition in which there is
mention made of another deity who opposed the designs of the Great Hare.
This he thinks of foreign extraction, and so do I, from the circumstance
that the opposing god is there called the "Great Tyger," which animal is
not found in Canada.

Legend of the "The Six Nanticokes" is referred to by Loskiel. ("History
of the Mission of the United Brethren." London, 1794, p. 24). The
version I have given is from the relation of an old Indian preacher by
the name of Hiwassee.

"The Coming of Miquon" (Vol. 2, p. 99) is told by Heckewelder ("Trans.
of American Philos. Soc." Vol. 1, p. 54), and is the genuine Delaware
tradition of the first meeting of the Lenni Lenape with the white
people, whom they say they were the first to welcome. Mr. Heckewelder
says "he had the relation from an intelligent Delaware Indian," and that
it "may be considered as a correct account of the tradition existing
among them of this momentous event." It will be seen that the first
coming of the white people is referred to in several other traditions.

"The Funeral Fire" (Vol. 2, p. 115) is copied from the volume of Mr.
Schoolcraft before referred to. I have made the additions and alterations
required to make it in keeping with Indian phraseology and opinions.

"The Portioning of the Sons" (Vol. 2, p. 125) is referred to by Keating
in his "Narrative of an Expedition to the Source of St. Peter's River."
(London, 1825. Vol. 1, p. 233).

"The Maiden's Rock" (Vol. 2, p. 131) is copied from Keating's Narrative,
Vol. 1, p. 290.

"The Expedition of the Lenni Lenapes" (Vol. 2, p. 141) is told by
Heckewelder in the Vol. of Philosophical Transactions before referred
to, p. 29.

"Ghitshee Gauzinee." (Vol. 2, p. 181). For this tradition I am indebted
to the excellent work of Mr. Schoolcraft.

"Ampato Sapa" (Vol. 2, p. 189) is told by Keating. ("Narrative," &c.
Vol. 1, p. 310).

"The Caverns of the Kickapoo" (Vol. 2, p. 201) is referred to by Keating
in the before-mentioned narrative, Vol. 1, p. 250.

"The Mountain of Little Spirits" (Vol. 2, p. 207) is referred to by
Lewis and Clarke in "Travels to the Pacific Ocean." (London, 1815, Vol.
1, p. 72). This may be regarded as a genuine Indian superstition.

"The Valley of the Bright Old Inhabitants" (Vol. 2, p. 223) is referred
to by Adair in his "History of the American Indians." (Quarto. London,
1775, p. 237).

"The Legend of Moshup" (Vol. 2, p. 261) is one of those related to me by
my old Indian nurse. It is, I think, corroborated in a communication
made to the Massachusetts Historical Society, and published in their
Transactions; but, not having been able to find a copy in England, I
must beg the reader to rest satisfied with my assertion that,
independently of my nurse's version, a communication made to the
before-mentioned society stamps the tradition as genuine.

"The Phantom Woman" (Vol. 2, p. 273) I heard from a Winnebago Indian at
Washington, and I have somewhere met with it in print; I dare not
assert, but I think, that it is referred to by a Mr. McKenney, in a
book of travels published some years ago in America.

"The Two Ghosts" (Vol. 2, p. 285) is from Mr. Schoolcraft's work.

"The Vision of the Abnakis Chief." (Vol., 2, p. 303). This was a legend
of my old nurse, and evidently refers, like several others, to the
coming of the Whites.

"The Lake of the White Canoe" (Vol. 3, p. 1) is a common tradition in
the region where the incidents are supposed to have happened. I should
remark, however, that the tale is not always told of Indians, but by
some is supposed to have happened to a pair of White lovers. The better
account, however, makes them Indians. What adds to the interest of this
tradition is, that Mr. Thomas Moore has made it the subject of a
beautiful ballad entitled "The Lake of the Dismal Swamp." His having
taken up the story should, I am aware, have prevented me from attempting
to tell it, since it is impossible that any thing from my pen should
equal his beautiful poetical version.

"A Legend of the Bomelmeeks" (Vol. 3, p. 33) I heard from an Indian of
the Seneca tribe, whom I saw at Albany, in the State of New York. I am
not aware of its having been in print before.

"The King of the Elks" (Vol. 3, p. 47) I heard from the same old Indian
story-teller. I am not aware of its resting on any other foundation.

"The Daughters of the Sun" (Vol. 3, p. 77) is referred to by Leyden in
his "Scenes of Infancy," and by Bertram in his "Travels through the
Carolinas." (London, 1794. p. 25).

"The Island of Eagles"--(Vol. 3, p. 117). I heard this tradition from an
Indian whom I saw at Wheeling, in the State of Ohio, in 1823. I had
before read Carver's description of this island, and upon meeting with
this Indian, who had been there, and questioning him, he related this
tradition.

"Legend of Aton-Larre." This I heard from an old Indian at Fayetteville,
North Carolina, while I was travelling through that state in 1819.

"The Fire Spirit." (Vol. 3, p. 167). This was derived from the same
source as the last. I have read or heard a rather different version, but
I cannot recollect where.

"The Origin of Women." (Vol. 3, 175). For this tradition I have to
confess my obligation to a work which has, I suspect unjustly, been
considered a very indifferent authority--"Hunter's Memoirs." I have
never been able to convince myself that Hunter had not passed a part of
his life among the Indians.

"The Hill of Fecundity" (Vol. 3, p. 183) is referred to by James in his
"Account of an Expedition to the Rocky Mountains." (London, 1823, Vol.
1, p. 253).

"Legend of Coatuit Brook." (Vol. 3, p. 305) This is mentioned in the
"Transactions of the Massachusetts Historical Society;" but I cannot,
for the reason before given when referring to these transactions, name
the volume and page. However, the tradition I have given--much fuller
than the former--was told me by an Indian of the Marshpe tribe, dwelling
in the vicinity of the Brook Coatuit.

"The Spirit of Vapour" (Vol. 3, p. 313) is referred to by Mackenzie in
his "General History of the Fur Trade," page cvi, prefixed to his
"Journal of a Voyage to the Frozen Ocean." (_Quarto._ London, 1801).

"The Devil of Cape Higgin" (Vol. 3, p. 321) was related to me by my old
nurse, and is a well known tradition, though not otherwise in print than
through my means.

"The Warning of Tekarrah" is a genuine tradition related to me by a Mr.
Clarke, an American gentleman of worth and intelligence, who left
England in June last for the United States.

But, while I distinctly aver the authenticity of those traditions which
rest upon my own authority, and submit the proofs of the genuineness of
the others, it must be understood that they have, with a few exceptions,
been much elaborated, though always with a careful reference to the
manners, customs, rites, opinions, &c. of the people whose history they
were supposed to tell. I have endeavoured to tell these stories as I
thought a genuine Indian would tell them, using only their figures,
types, and similitudes, and rejecting all inappropriate phrases, and
those which savoured of a foreign origin. I cheerfully submit to the
public whether I have not faithfully executed the task which I proposed
to myself--that of giving a collection of genuine Indian traditions in
the peculiar phraseology, and in strict consonance with the known habits
and customs, of that singular people.




CONTENTS

OF

THE FIRST VOLUME.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Introduction                                                        v
  The Man of Ashes                                                    1
  Pomatare, the Flying Beaver                                        47
  The Alarm of the Great Sentinel. A Tradition of the Delawares      61
  The Mother of the World. A Tradition of the Dog-Ribs               73
  The Fall of the Lenape                                             87
  The Marriage of the Snail and the Beaver                          103
  The Choice of a God                                               117
  The Resurrection of the Bison                                     143
  The Wahconda's Son                                                147
  The Idols. A Tradition of the Ricaras                             173
  Discovery of the Upper World. A Tradition of the Minnatarees      201
  Love and War                                                      213
  Legends of the Happy Hunting-Grounds.
     I. Akkeewaisee, the Aged                                       225
    II. The Delaware Heaven                                         233
   III. The Hunting-Grounds of the Blackfoots                       245
    IV. The Stone Canoe                                             255
     V. The Little White Dove                                       269
    VI. The Teton's Paradise                                        279





INTRODUCTION.


In the year 1695, a number of _savans_ associated in Paris for the
purpose of procuring information respecting the American Indians. They
were called shortly _The Theoretical and Speculative Society of Paris_,
but their title at large was _The Society for Prosecuting Researches in
the Western Hemisphere, and for procuring Speculations to be made, and
Theories drawn up, of the Origin and History of its Ancient and its
Present Inhabitants_. The undertaking met with almost prompt and cordial
support; the proudest names and the brightest lights of the age were
enlisted in it. The celebrated Madame de Maintenon became the patroness,
forbidding, however, the Society to speculate upon her affairs; the
illustrious Duke de Rohan became the president; the Czar Peter an
honorary member; and the Society was otherwise royally and nobly
officered and befriended. So numerous were the applications to be
received as members, that it was found necessary to establish the rule,
since adopted by certain colleges, of conferring diplomas upon all who
asked for them. It is stated, that there was as loud a call upon the
time and attention of the publishing committee, no fewer than seven
hundred papers of theories and speculations, all essentially varying,
having been presented at the second weekly meeting.

It will be seen from the date that it was a very important era in
speculative philosophy. Father Hennepin had just returned from Canada,
and published his _Discovery of a Large Country_, the greater part of
which had remained unknown till then, and has not been seen since. Other
French missionaries were daily arriving from New France, as the French
possessions in America were denominated, and spreading tales, partly
true, partly-false, of the wonderful things they had seen. The questions
so very important and so essential to be solved, whether the ancient
inhabitants of North America, the race which is supposed to be extinct,
were of Malay origin, and came from Australasia, or from the islands of
the Pacific Ocean, and whether the surviving race are descended from the
Tartars, the Scandinavians, the Jews, or the Welsh, began to be agitated
about this time, though they were not debated with the profound
shrewdness and sagacity which Adair, Barton, Boudinot, and other
enlightened men, have since evinced on the subject.

With a view to remove the difficulty, and solve the problem, if it were
solvable, it was determined by this learned Society to dispatch
forthwith to America a man, whose mind should be well stored with
science, literature, and philosophy, whose constitution and habits of
body should be equal to the hardships he must necessarily undergo, and
who should be of a temper to despise the dangers he must of course
encounter, in prolonged travels among scattered tribes of wild and
barbarous Indians. It was almost impossible, the Society knew, to find a
person fitted in every respect for the mission. In an age of theories,
it is no easy matter to meet with a man possessed of the common elements
of being, who has not submitted to the tyranny of opinion, and adopted
the theory most in vogue. Few of us like to be singular, and hence we
often adopt opinions, which, at first, we entertain most unwillingly,
but which, after we have defended a few times, we come to love most
heartily. Nothing so heightens our passion for a beautiful woman as
obstacles thrown in our way; nothing so confirms our admiration of a
theory as shallow cavils; a weak battery raised against a besieged town
always increases the courage, and heightens the resistance, of the
besieged.

In respect of the person who should be sent on this honourable mission,
the Society were for a long time much perplexed, and began to fear the
"foundering of their hobby from want of a jockey of required weight." It
was necessary that he should be deeply imbued with classic lore, and
profoundly skilled in languages, because he was to "detect lingual
affinities," and further, might have to read manuscripts, and decipher
inscriptions, of the ancient people. He was required to be deeply
conversant with military science, in all its details, for he was to
report of the nature of Indian tactics, fortifications, and defensive
structures; and it was essential that he should be a theologian, for he
was not only to sow the Word as he went, but to gather, if possible,
from the religious opinions, rites, and observances, of the nations
scattered over North America, proofs of a similitude to other people, or
to accumulate data for the opposite belief. It was very difficult to
discover a man so eminently gifted and taught, and the Society found
themselves heavily burthened with the search. Nevertheless one was at
length found, imbued to a reasonable degree with the requisite qualities
in the person of M. Philippe Verdier, of the city of Nanci. They applied
to him to undertake the proposed mission, and he consented, protesting,
according to custom, his utter unworthiness, and his belief that France
had many sons more competent to the task than himself.

M. Verdier had studied in his youth, with the view of becoming a priest,
and was profoundly skilled in the learning proper for that vocation.
Afterwards, when he had abandoned all thoughts of entering the
priesthood, he served in Holland under Condé, and there, and in many
other countries, in succeeding wars, acquired the character of a valiant
soldier and expert tactician. Excellence in poetry and metaphysics came
to him naturally, and a thorough acquaintance with languages, both dead
and living, by laborious study and prolonged travel. He had resided some
time in the Australasian islands and those of the Pacific Ocean, and had
travelled over the Peninsula of Malacca and the Island of Madagascar. He
had thence brought numerous things which have since been of great
service to philosophers, in explaining difficulties and solving problems
connected with the antiquities and history of the western aborigines.
His museum of curiosities contained a feathery mantle such as were found
enwrapping the American mummies, a pair of mocassins made of the rind of
plants, curious carvings which were pronounced by the French _savans_
to resemble much the pieces of sculpture brought by M. Jaques de
Numskull from the Ohio, and a human cranium or two, to which were added
a Madagascar humming-bird, and a Malacca pepper plant. From the nature
of these acquisitions, he was supposed to be well qualified to decide
upon the merits of that part of the theory of the indigenous inhabitants
of America, which represents the _extinct_ race as descended from the
Malays of eastern Asia!!!

M. Verdier was quite as well qualified to act upon the other theory. He
had travelled to Tartary in the suite of the French ambassador, and
resided some years at the court of the Great Khan, where he had acquired
the Tartar language, and become deeply learned in the history and
customs of that ancient people. He had taken numerous drawings of their
physiognomy and features, and many casts of Tartar visages. With a view
to learn their opinions of the Deity, and a future state, he had
officiated for a full year as the conjuror or powwow of a tribe. When he
returned to Europe, he brought with him a couple of human teeth, a pipe,
a bow and arrow, a jackall, a wild sheep, a sharp-nosed, thievish
Siberian cur, with his sleigh and harness, and a very pretty Samoyede
girl, the last with a view to ascertain the peculiar cast of features
and shade of complexion which should mark a half-breed, which he was so
fortunate as to possess in a short time thereafter, together with a
couple of copies to bestow upon his friends.

It was a singularly lucky circumstance that the learned association were
apprised in season of the merits of M. Verdier. There was not another
man in France so well qualified to perform the generous behests of the
Society, and to prosecute their enquiries to a beneficial result. It
would seem as if he had aimed his studies, directed his researches,
timed his travels, and planned his occupations, with a kind of
presentiment, that he should in time be called to the very task he
undertook. Indeed some have said that there was an actual precognition
of it, by means of a vision, while he was yet a student in theology with
the Abbé Guissot. But, the Society, upon the motion of a learned member,
caused their doubts of the truth of the story to be placed upon record.

Previously to the departure of M. Verdier, a special meeting of the
Society was called, and a committee of thirty members appointed to
prepare suitable directions, in the form of interrogatories, for his
guidance. They were to report on two different sets, the first (A.)
which were to relate to the ancient inhabitants of the country; the
second (B.) to the race who were its then possessors. After a sitting
of twenty days in the hall of the Sorbonne, the Committee reported on
the papers A. and B., which were accepted without debate.


A.

     1. He was to ascertain when the tumuli, or mounds, were built,
        and for what use.

     2. Who built them? Were they Malays? If they were Malays, did
        they come from Australasia, or from the Islands of the Pacific
        Ocean?

     3. If they were not Malays, who were they? Were they
        Mauritanians, _vide_ Postel; or Scandinavians, _vide_ Busbeck;
        or Canaanites, _vide_ Gomara, and John de Lery; or descendants
        of the tribes led captive by Psalmanazar, _vide_ Thevet; or of
        Shera and Japhet, _vide_ Torniel; or a colony of Romans,
        _vide_ Marinocus; or Gauls, _vide_ James Charron; or
        Friezelanders, _vide_ Hamconius and Juffredus Petri; or Celtæ,
        _vide_ Abraham Milius; or Phoenicians, _vide_ Le Compte; or
        Carthaginians, _vide_ Father Acosta, &c. &c.?

     4. Had this ancient people the art of embalming human bodies,
        or is that art of modern invention, as some pretend?

     5. If M. Verdier find they are of Malay origin, he must
        ascertain in what year of the world they went to America, and
        who was their leader;

     6. How long they resided there, and under which pope they were
        driven away or exterminated.

     7. In what manner, and by what conveyance, was the
        transportation made? Did they cross Behring's Straits, or on
        the ice from Japan to California? Were the first settlers the
        crew of some vessel or vessels driven to the western continent
        by stress of winds, or were they led thither by some
        far-sighted captain?

     8. Finally, how many ships did it take to carry them over?

Many pages of remarks, by different members, were appended to this
paper. The other paper, marked B., read as follows:


B.

     1. Is the similarity of physiognomy and features between the
        present race of American Indians and the Asiatic Tartars
        strong enough to induce an unprejudiced observer to pronounce
        them members of the same great family of mankind, or, to speak
        so as to be understood, 'does an Indian look like a Tartar?'

     2. Are the coincidences of sound and signification in the
        languages of North America and Tartary sufficiently numerous
        and unequivocal to induce one to pronounce them of a common
        origin?

     3. Do the customs and manners of the North American Indians
        correspond in any material degree with those of their supposed
        brethren, the Tartars?

     4. Are there any animals, wild or domestic, tameable or
        untameable, in America, which are of a species known to exist
        at this day in Tartary? And is there any thing in the
        vegetable kingdom of the west which bears marks of derivation
        from that country?

     5. Is there any reason to think these Indians descended from
        the Welsh? What are we to think of the voyage of Madoc and his
        supposed colonization of the Western continent? Upon this
        point M. Verdier will do well to examine their pedigrees with
        great care.

The committee deem it altogether impossible to particularise all the
subjects upon which questions may be put, to the fair furtherance of the
objects which the Society has in view in sending out M. Verdier. A great
deal must be left to his discretion and judgment. Many reflections will
occur to him, as he personally surveys the monuments, and becomes
acquainted with the people of that continent, which does not occur to
us, and perhaps never would to him but for such visit.

The Society hope every thing from the zeal, the perseverance, and the
talents, of their missionary. They hope to be able to record as a
benefactor to this Society, to the kingdom, to the world, not only M.
Verdier, but the gentleman who first recommended him to their notice.

Thus furnished with ample directions, and with a letter to the governor
of the French possessions in Canada, M. Verdier set out upon his travels
in May 1697. The Society liberally afforded him the means of
conciliating the Savages, furnishing him with abundance of those
articles which they were supposed to covet, such as beads, knives, &c.
The ship in which he sailed had a very short passage, at least for a
period when the arts of ship-building and navigation were so little
understood, and landed him safely at Quebec some days before the
setting-in of winter. The dignity of our traveller's mission, the high
reputation of the Society under whose auspices he acted, together with
his own merit, attested by strong letters of introduction, operated to
procure him a most cordial and gratifying reception. All ranks joined in
evincing unbounded respect both for him and his object, and in placing
all possible helps within his reach. One admitted him to his museum of
Indian curiosities, another presented him with a bundle of Indian
manuscripts, a third took measures with the Indian chiefs for his
unmolested passage through their country, a fourth instructed him in the
Indian language, and taught him the peculiarities of their hundred
dialects. Nor were the women behind the other sex in kindness to our
traveller. He was invited to take up his abode altogether with the
Ursuline nuns, with whom he rose to such high favour, that they would
confess to no other during his stay in the city. The married ladies were
quite as courteous as those who were vowed to a single life, and feasted
and caressed him beyond our ability or wish to describe.

He did not leave Quebec until the return of spring, when, in the
prosecution of his object, he bade adieu to his pleasant quarters, and
travelled into the country of the Iroquois or Five Nations. His friend,
the Governor, persuaded him much to take an interpreter with him, and
nominated good old father Luke Bisset for that purpose. But M. Verdier
declined, trusting that the "coincidences of sound and signification,"
(suggested in query 2, paper B,) would free him from all difficulties on
that score. He hired an Indian, who had come to Quebec to dispose of his
furs, to act as his guide, and a French boy to carry his change of linen
and his presents, the last named being a labour to which no Indian will
submit, unless he has become an outcast from his tribe, or otherwise
disgraced and dishonoured.

They set out for the country of the Iroquois in the month of May, 1698.
After travelling for many weeks, at a great rate, for the Savages are
inconceivably swift walkers, and can endure great fatigues, they
arrived at the principal town of the Five Nations. There, and elsewhere
within the limits of that confederacy, our traveller abode two full
years. The public must not expect to find in this brief introduction a
cursory statement, much less a minute journal of his curious
observations and discoveries during that period. The Editor would make a
very bad use of the confidence reposed in him, if he were to attempt
either. Public curiosity, however, will be gratified, for the highly
learned and philosophical reports of M. Verdier on the philology,
origin, history, manners, and customs, of the Aborigines of America,
will soon be published under the eye of a competent gentleman. But, for
the immediate satisfaction of those who have had their minds highly
excited on the subject, and prefer to have their knowledge in advance,
the Editor begs leave to observe, that these reports fully prove that
the Indians of North America and the Tartars of the Eastern continent
are of a common stock. The former, M. Verdier proves, by a long train of
reasoning, to be descended from a Calmuck, who, in the year 622, (the
year of Mahomet's flight from Mecca) married a Samoyede woman, and, with
a party of his countrymen, crossed Behring's Straits to the Western
Continent. The exceedingly subtle and plausible process by which he
arrived at the exact year in which they crossed, and determined that the
emigrants were of two different tribes--again, that the chief was tall
and lean, his wife short, pursy, and thick-breathed, proved the value of
trifling circumstances to the creation of beautiful theories, and with
what wonderful ingenuity philosophic minds apply themselves to subjects
capable of being theorised. Thus, from the circumstance that the Indian
curs, when they were possessed of a bone, would snarl and show their
teeth if one went near them, and even hide it in the ground rather than
have it taken from them, he drew the conclusion that they were the true
_canis sibericus_, which is known to possess these singular traits of
canine sagacity and ferociousness. Additional proof was found in the
fact, that an Indian dog of the same species bit M. Verdier in his heel,
setting his teeth in precisely the same spot, where, some years before,
a Tartar dog had placed his, making but a single scar. He caused an
Iroquois cur to be tied by his tail to a log of wood, and the celerity
with which he drew it, yelping and screaming over a bed of ice, fully
convinced M. Verdier that he was a legitimate descendant from those
which perform the part of dray-horses among the Tartars. So much for
canine resemblances, which one would think of little importance, yet
were the chief prop to a learned theory upon this very subject,
published some years ago by an erudite American gentleman.

His inquiries concerning the other object of his mission were as deep,
and his conclusions as profitable. It may be remembered, that the
principal aim of the Society in sending M. Verdier to America, was to
ascertain who were its primitive inhabitants, and the builders of the
stupendous mounds found there. Having, by severe study, mastered the
Indian language and its numerous dialects, he assumed the dress of a
chief, and set out for the Ohio. He took with him seven Indian chiefs
belonging to the Seneca tribe, great warriors, great talkers, and great
smokers, who could live seven days without food, and feast the next
seven without intermission. Their names, rendered into English, were The
Flying Medicine, The Hollow Bear, The Little Dish, The Wicked Cow, The
Black Mocassins, The Big Thief, and The Guard of the Red Arrows. The
party were provided with parched corn and jerked beef, the common
hunting provisions of the Indians. Though filled with pacific
intentions, and meaning to rely for safety principally on the calumet,
or pipe of peace, they nevertheless went completely armed. It would have
ill suited Indian ideas of dignity and honour had they left behind what
they believe to be the essential emblems of both.

Three years were spent by M. Verdier in surveying the country west of
the Alleghany mountains. In that time he visited and examined all the
mounds or _tumuli_, "deciphered a great many _resemblances_ of
inscriptions," and penetrated into many saltpetre caves in search of
mummies and triune idols. He succeeded in proving to his own
satisfaction, and, as we shall see, to that of his employers, that the
tumuli were erected for burying-places; that their builders were Malays
who chartered the ship Argo from Jason, and came over from the Sandwich
Islands in the ninth year of pope Boniface the third; that they had the
art of embalming in nitre, and were adepts at making triune idols. They
were idolaters, worshippers, he was convinced, of Brahma and his Hindoo
brothers. He was puzzled for a while to tell what became of them
finally; nor were his doubts cleared up until he travelled into Mexico.
A residence of a few months among the Aztecas of that region convinced
him that they were, to use the words of an eminent American philosopher,
whose cogitations upon this subject have been read from Labrador to
Tobolsk, "descendants of the extinct race." He examined the pyramids of
Cholula, which agreed in all respects with the works in Ohio, and thence
argued that the Malays who built the former were also the builders of
the latter.

Though M. Verdier had been very industrious, and had theorised and
speculated himself almost into insanity, he thought he had not done
enough to secure a gracious reception at home. With a view to make
himself master of all which could aid him in preparing his report, he
determined to call a general meeting of the Indian tribes, in order to
acquire a knowledge of their traditionary lore, and it is from this
period that he seems to have laboured to a more useful purpose than that
of making "velvet purses of sows' ears, and twisting ropes of sand." The
shafts of ridicule may with propriety be levelled at all attempts to
ascertain the origin of the American Indians, but their Traditions are
their history and learning, and therefore entitled to respectful
consideration. He dispatched messengers to all the tribes far and near,
with the information that a grand council would be held at
Machilimakinak, i.e. a great place for turtles, in the moon next after
the gathering of the corn, at which they were invited to attend and
offer sacrifices to the Great Spirit. They were especially requested to
bring with them their story-tellers as well as their _pow-wows_, or
priests, with whom M. Verdier was anxious to confer. Nothing more fully
proves the excellence of his heart than his willingness to meet and
confer, as the phrase of our day is, with "ministers of a different
denomination." But M. Verdier was a charitable man, and partook of none
of that bigotry laid often unjustly to the charge of Roman Catholics. He
believed that many went to heaven who denied the infallibility of the
pope; and feared that many took the downward road who made that dogma
the standard of their faith.

As the time fixed for the convening of the grand council approached,
Indians were observed in every direction proceeding to the rendezvous.
Never within the memory of the Indian had there been so full a council.
There were plenipotentiaries from many of the New England tribes, from
some who lived far down the Mississippi, and others who hunted in the
shade of the Rocky Mountains--to say nothing of those who came from the
regions of Polar ice. Their lodges covered a thousand acres. The spot
selected for their encampment was a _prairie_ of almost boundless
extent, having on one side a forest impervious save to an Indian hunter.
This forest abounded with game, and vast herds of buffaloes were
feeding on the skirts of the _prairie_. It may be observed in passing,
that sites for the temporary sojourn of the Savages are always chosen
with reference to facilities for the prosecution of the chace, and for
obtaining water and fuel. That, selected in this case, afforded each of
these in abundance, and to our traveller a prospect as replete with
natural beauty as it was with novelty. He beheld, stretched out before
him, a green meadow extending farther than the eye could reach, diversified
only by groupes of Indian bark huts, and parties of hunters going to
or returning from the chace--of women employed in the various duties
imposed upon them in savage life, and children playing at the simple
games of savage childhood. There, was a hunter, stately and tall, his
eye like the eagle's, and his foot like the antelope's, cautiously
approaching an angle of the grove, where his wary eye detected a deer;
here, a proud chief, his crest surmounted by an eagle's feather,
haranguing the warriors of his tribe with far more dignity and grace
than Alexander displayed in giving audience to the Scythian
ambassadors, or Hannibal in his address to his army before the battle
of Cannæ. It was a novel scene to M. Verdier, and he enjoyed it with
all the zest of a profound and philosophic observer of human
character.

When the nations were all assembled, Shongo Tongo, or the Big Horse, a
chief of the Ottoes, rose, and said:--

     "Father, you see before you the warriors of many nations. All
     the red men of the land are gathered together in the great
     plain where no trees grow. They have come at your bidding, and
     at your bidding have buried their war-clubs. They forget that
     they have been enemies. They smoke in the calumet of peace,
     and are friends because you wish them to be so. Is it well?

     "My father, your children will dance before your tent. It is
     thus we honour the brave. It is thus we honour the stranger."

To this speech, M. Verdier returned a suitable answer, adapting his
words to their simple comprehension, yet using the metaphorical style so
common among them. He was glad, he told them, that "words of peace were
in their mouths; that there was a mild sky, and that the winds were low.
He wished it was always so."

They heard him without giving any tokens of approbation, for it is very
uncommon for the Indian to bestow such upon an orator. When he had
finished his speech, their wild dances commenced by the striking up of
their instrumental and vocal music. The instruments were a gong made of
a large keg, over one of the ends of which was stretched a skin which
was struck by a small stick, and an instrument consisting of a stick of
firm wood, notched like a saw, over the teeth of which a smaller stick
was rubbed forcibly backward and forward. They had besides rattles made
of strings of deer's hoofs, and also parts of the intestines of an
animal inflated, inclosing small stones, which produced a sound like
pebbles in a small gourd. With these, rude as they were, very good time
was preserved with the vocal performers, seated around them, and by all
the natives as they sat, in the inflection of their bodies, or the
movements of their limbs. After the lapse of a little time, three
individuals leaped up and danced around for a few minutes; then, at a
concerted signal from the master of the ceremonies, the music ceased,
and they retired to their seats uttering a loud noise, which, by patting
the mouth rapidly with the hand, was broken into a succession of sounds,
somewhat like the hurried barking of a dog. In the intervals of dancing,
a warrior would step forward, and, striking the flagstaff they had
erected with a stick or a whip, would recount his martial deeds. This
ceremony was called _striking the post_, and whatever was then said
might be relied upon as truth, for the custom bound every warrior to
expose the falsehood of the _striker_, and disgrace him for
exaggeration if he indulged in it.

A tall, grey-headed chief rose, and, after lashing the post with his
whip, commenced the narration of his exploits. He was succeeded by a
young and ardent warrior, whose soul apparently was full of poetry, and
burning with love of martial glory. After walking leisurely twice or
thrice around the post, he quickened his step, and broke out into the
following wild song of boasting and triumph:--

    Down I took my spear, my tough spear--
    Down I took my bow, my good bow,
    Fill'd my quiver with sharp arrows,
    Slung my hatchet to my shoulder.
    Forth I wander'd to the wild wood.
    Who comes yonder?
    Red his forehead with the war-paint--
    Ha! I know him by his feather--
    Leader of the Ottawas,
    Eagle of his warlike nation,
    And he comes to dip that feather
    In a vanquish'd Maqua's blood.

    Then I pois'd my tough ash spear,
    Then I bent my pride of bows,
    From my quiver drew an arrow,
    Rais'd my war-cry--ha! he falls!
    From his crest I took the feather,
    From his crown I tore the scalp-lock.
    Shout his friends their cry of vengeance--
    What avails it? are they eagles?
    Nought else may o'ertake the Maqua.

    Came the Hurons to our border--
    Hurons from the Lake of Thunder--
    Hurons far renown'd for valour--
    Forth I went with six to meet them:
    In my cabin hang ten scalp-locks.
    Should I fear a mortal warrior?
    No--a Maqua never trembles.

    Why should I fear?
    I never told a lie,
    Kind have I been to father and to mother,
    I never turn'd my back upon a foe.
    I slew my people's enemies--
    Why should I fear to die?
    Let the flame be kindled round me,
    Let them tear my flesh with pincers,
    Probe me with a burning arrow,
    I can teach a coward Mingo
    How a valiant man should die.

These were not exactly the kind of tales which M. Verdier had crossed
the ocean and threaded the forest to hear, but he patiently awaited
their conclusion. At a signal from a venerated chief, their martial
narratives were dropped, and all retired to their seats. The dance was
succeeded by a feast, of which the chiefs and warriors, together with
their guest, first partook, and afterwards the men of inferior note.
Before a mouthful was tasted, however, the best and juiciest pieces of
the deer were selected as an offering to the Great Spirit. They were not
laid upon the fire till the priest had been called to the performance of
certain rites and ceremonies by the following hymn, chanted in their
peculiarly solemn and impressive manner:--

    INDIAN HYMN, OR INVOCATION.

    From the wilderness we bring
    The fat buck we have slain,
    We have laid him on the coals:
    Lord of Life!
    Lord of Life!
    We have opened the door,
    That the smoke may ascend
    To thy nostrils, and please thee,
    Great Master of Breath,
    Of our breath!

    We will call the wise priest--
    He will come!
    He will come!
    He will utter thy name with his lips;
    He will ask that thy hand may be light
    On our race, in thy wrath,
    In thy wrath!

When the priest had performed certain ceremonies over the holocaust, he
retired, and the hymn was resumed as follows:--

    We have call'd the wise priest--
    He has come!
    He has come!
    He has utter'd thy name with his lips,
    He has open'd his breast to thine eye,
    He has ask'd that thy hand may be light
    On our race, in thy wrath,
    In thy wrath.

    Hear us, Master of Breath!
    Nor destroy,
    Nor destroy:
    If thou wieldest the bolt of thy rage,
    If thou callest thy thunder to shake,
    If thou biddest thy lightning to smite,
    We must pass to the feast of the worm,
    Of the worm.

    Oh! grant us our prayers,
    Lord of life!
    Lord of life!
    Make us victors o'er every foe,
    Make us strong in the den of the bear,
    Make us swift in the haunts of the buck,
    Great Master of Breath,
    Of our breath!

When the feast and sacrifices were concluded, M. Verdier rose and
addressed the assembly in these words:

     "Brothers and warriors, I have come from a far country to
     listen to the words of an Indian's mouth. I have left behind
     me my father, and my mother, and my wife, and my children, and
     the burial-places of my ancestors, and the council-fire of my
     great chief, and the temples of the Master of Life, to dwell
     with the Indians in their wigwams, to go with them to the
     chace, to feast with them, to talk with them, to offer
     sacrifices with them. I knew the dangers I must encounter
     before I could enter their habitations. I knew how dreadful
     was the rage of the Great Ocean, and how dismal the howling of
     the winds upon it, in the season of darkness, but I said I
     will despise the dangers, for I want to look upon the face of
     the red man, and smoke with him in the calumet of peace.

     "Brothers and warriors, I am here--I am glad I came. I have
     seen the red man--I love him. And I have called together all
     the red men of the land, that I may learn more of their
     thoughts and love them more; that I may be able to carry back
     to my sons, and to the chiefs and the warriors of my own land,
     proofs of their wisdom, and sagacity, and valour.

     "Brothers and warriors, the history of the red man is found
     only in his traditions, it exists but in his memory. Will you
     instruct me in those traditions? Will you relate to me the
     tales which have been handed down to you from old times--the
     traditions which tell of the great actions of your fathers, of
     the favours, and mercies, and punishments, of the Great
     Spirit? These are the things I would hear. I came hither to
     hear them. The Great Spirit forbid you should refuse my
     request!"

When M. Verdier had finished his speech, Meshewa, a young warrior of the
Shawano nation, rose and said:

     "Brothers and warriors, I am a little man, no higher than the
     shoulder of my brother Meshepeshe, yet I must speak, the Great
     Spirit bids me speak. He says to me, Wild Horse, rise and
     relate a tradition of your nation. I will relate this
     tradition, but I will tell you no lie. Who is there that ever
     saw Meshewa look upon the ground, or hold his hand before his
     eyes, when he told his story? He looks up bold as an eagle, he
     opens his mouth fearlessly, and they who hear his words write
     them down on the green leaf of their memory.

     "Brothers and chiefs, we have here with us a man, whose face
     is of the colour of the skin of a plucked plover--he listens.
     He has come, as he has told you, from a land which lies beyond
     the Great Salt Lake. I believe him, for he does not hide his
     face, or look ashamed when he speaks.

     "Chiefs and brothers, this man was once a warrior, but, when
     he was no higher than the tree of twelve moons, he offered
     sacrifice in his own country to the Great Spirit, and knew all
     the rites proper to be observed in his worship. When the
     winter snows are rushing to the embrace of the Great River,
     and the birds have returned to their bowers, and the sap is
     recruiting the soul of the thirsty tree, he will go to his
     wife and children, who live very far towards the morning sun.
     The woman with the bright eyes will come out of her wigwam to
     meet him, and will ask him if he has brought back his heart.
     His son will climb to his knee, and weep to have the
     traditions of our country told him. Our brother will not fear
     to answer the questions of the woman, for he is prudent and
     wise. And shall we not teach him to still the cry of the boy?
     We shall.

     "Brothers and chiefs, the stranger loves to hear our words,
     ask him if he does not. He desires that our mouths should
     open, and repeat the stories which have been told us by our
     fathers, and the fathers and mothers of our fathers--stories
     of deeds which were done when the oak trees, now dying of age,
     were saplings no higher than my knee. Shall he hear them? He
     shall. The Good Spirit bids us speak, but he bids us speak
     only truth. If we lie he will be angry with us, and will give
     us up to our enemies, or the beasts of prey. He will spoil our
     harvests. And when were deer ever found in the hunting-path of
     the liar?

     "Brothers and chiefs, I am young. The sprout from the seed of
     the oak, planted on the day I was born, yet bends to the earth
     with the weight of the wild cat. The knees of my father are
     not feeble with age, nor is his hair thin or white. My mother
     has a young panther in her lodge, she gives it her own milk.
     Yet I will tell you a story. It is a tale of my nation, a tale
     of an old day, delivered from father to son till it has
     reached my time. Listen!"

The youthful chief then rose, and related the Shawano tradition,
entitled "The Man of Ashes."




TALES OF AN INDIAN CAMP.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MAN OF ASHES.


A great while ago, the Shawanos nation took up the war-talk against the
Walkullas, who lived on their own lands, on the borders of the Great
Salt Lake[A], and near the Burning Water[B]. Part of the nation were not
well pleased with the war. The head chief and the counsellors said the
Walkullas were very brave and cunning, and the priests said their god
was mightier than ours. The old and experienced warriors said the
counsellors were wise, and had spoken well; but the Mad Buffalo(1), and
the young warriors, and all who wished for war, would not listen to
their words. They said that our fathers had beaten their fathers in many
battles, and that the Shawanos were as brave and strong now as they ever
were, and the Walkullas much weaker and more cowardly. They said, the
old and timid, the faint heart, and the failing knee, might stay at home
and take care of the women and children, and sleep and dream of those
who had never dared bend a bow, or look upon a painted cheek, or listen
to a war-whoop; while the young warriors went to war, and drank much
blood. And, when two moons were gone, they would come back with many
prisoners and scalps, and have a great feast, and eat Walkullas roasted
in the fire. The arguments of the fiery young orators prevailed with all
the youthful warriors; but the elder and wiser listened to the priests
and the counsellors, and remained in their villages, to see the leaf
fall and the grass grow, and to gather in the nut and follow the trail
of the deer.

[Footnote A: Great Salt Lake, the ocean.]

[Footnote B: A boiling stream, near the mouth of the river Walkulla, in
Florida.]

Two moons had passed--then a third--then came the night enlivened by
many stars--but the warriors returned not. As the land of the Walkullas
lay but a woman's journey of six suns from the villages of our nation,
our people began to fear that our young men had been overcome in battle,
and were all slain. The head chief and the counsellors, and all the
warriors who had remained behind, came together in the great wigwam[A],
and called the priests, to tell them where their sons were. Chenos, who
was the wisest of them all, as well he might be (for he was older than
the oak-tree whose top dies by the hand of Time), answered that they
were killed by their enemies, the Walkullas, assisted by men of a
strange speech and colour, who lived beyond the Great Salt Lake, fought
with thunder and lightning, and came to our enemies on the back of a
great bird with many white wings. When he had thus made known to our
people the fate of the warriors, there was a dreadful shout of horror
throughout the village. The women wept aloud, and the men sprung up and
seized their bows and arrows, to go to war upon the Walkullas, and the
strange warriors who had helped to slay their sons; but Chenos bade them
sit down. "There is one yet living," said he. "He will soon be here. The
sound is in my ear of his footsteps, as he crosses the hollow hills. He
has killed many of his enemies; he has glutted his vengeance fully; he
has drunk blood in plenteous draughts. Long he fought with the men of
his own race, and many fell before him; but he fled from the men who
came to the battle armed with the red lightning, and hurling unseen
death. Even now I see him coming. The shallow streams he has forded, the
deep rivers he has swum. He is tired and hungry; and his quiver has no
arrows, but he brings a prisoner in his arms. Lay the deer's flesh on
the coals, and bring hither the pounded corn. Taunt him not, for he is
valiant, and has fought like a hungry lion."

[Footnote A: Great wigwam, an Indian expression, signifying the
council-house.]

As the wise Chenos spoke these words to the grey-headed counsellors and
warriors, the Mad Buffalo walked, calm and cool, into the midst of them.
There he stood, tall and straight as a young pine; but he spoke no word,
looking with a full eye on the head chief and the counsellors. There was
blood upon his body, dried on by the sun, and the arm next his heart was
bound up with the skin of the deer. His eye looked hollow, and his body
gaunt, as though he had fasted long. His quiver had no arrows; but he
had seven scalps hanging to the pole on his back, six of which had long
black hair, but that which grew upon the seventh was yellow as the
fallen leaf, and curled like the tendrils of the wild ivy.

"Where are our sons?" enquired the head chief of the warrior.

"Ask the wolf and the panther," he answered.

"Brother, tell us where are our sons!" exclaimed the head chief, louder
than before. "Our women ask us for their sons--they want their sons.
Where are they?"

"Where are the snows of the last year?" asked the head warrior. "Have
they not gone down the swelling river into the Great Lake? They have,
and even so have your sons descended the stream of Time into the lake of
Death. The great star sees them as they lie by the water of the
Walkulla, but they see him not. The panther and the wolf howl unheeded
at their feet, and the eagle screams, but they hear him not. The vulture
whets his beak on their bones; the wild cat rends their flesh: both are
unfelt--because they are dead."

When the head warrior had told these things to our people, they set up
their loud death-howl. The women cried; but the men sprung up, and took
down their war-spears, and their bows and arrows(2), and filled their
skins with parched corn, and prepared to dry meat for their journey,
intending to go to war with the Walkullas and their allies, the slayers
of their sons. But the chief warrior rose again, and said--

"Fathers and warriors, hear me, and believe my words, for I will tell
you the truth. Who ever heard the Mad Buffalo lie, and who ever saw him
afraid of his enemies? Never, since the time that he chewed the bitter
root, and put on the new mocassins(3), has he lied, or fled from his
foes. He has neither a forked tongue nor a faint heart. Fathers, the
Walkullas are weaker than we; their arms are not so strong, their hearts
are not so big, as ours. As well might the timid deer make war upon a
hungry wolf, as the Walkullas upon the Shawanos. We could slay them as
easily as a hawk pounces into a dove's nest and steals away her
unfeathered little ones; the Mad Buffalo alone could have taken the
scalps of half the nation. But a strange tribe has come among them--men
whose skin is as white as the folds of the cloud, and whose hair shines
like the great star of day. They do not fight, as we fight, with bows
and arrows and with war-axes, but with spears[A], which thunder and
lighten and send unseen death. The Shawanos fall before it, as the
grapes and acorns fall when the forest is shaken by the wind in the
Beaver-Moon(4). Look at the arm nearest ray heart; it was stricken by a
bolt from the stranger's thunder. But he fell by the hand of the Mad
Buffalo, who fears nothing but shame, and his scalp lies at the feet of
the head chief.

[Footnote A: Muskets, which were termed "spears" by the Indians in the
earlier part of their intercourse with the Europeans.]

"Fathers, this was our battle. We came upon the Walkullas, I and my
brothers, when they were unprepared. They were just going to hold the
dance of the green corn. The whole nation had come to the dance; there
were none left behind, save the sick and the very old. None were
painted; they were all for peace, and were as women. We crept close to
them, and hid in the thick hazles which grew upon the edge of their
camp; for the Shawanos are the cunning adder, and not the foolish
rattlesnake. We saw them preparing to offer a sacrifice to the Great
Spirit. We saw them clean the deer, and hang his head, and his horns,
and his entrails, upon the great white pole with a forked top, which
stood over the roof of the council-wigwam. They did not know that the
Master of Life(5) had sent the Shawanos to mix blood with the
sacrifices. We saw them take the new corn, and rub it upon their hands,
and breasts, and faces. Then the head chief, having first thanked the
Master of Life for his great goodness to the Walkullas, got up, and gave
his brethren a talk. He told them that the Great Spirit loved them, and
had made them victorious over all their enemies; that he had sent a
great many fat bears, and deer, and mooses, to their hunting-grounds;
and had given them fish, whose heads were very small and bodies very
big; that he had made their corn grow tall and sweet; and had ordered
his suns to ripen it in the beginning of the harvest-moon, that they
might make a great feast for the strangers, who had come from a far
country on the wings of a great bird to warm themselves at the
Walkullas' fire. He told them they must love the Great Spirit, take care
of the old men(6), tell no lies, and never break the faith of the pipe
of peace; that they must not harm the strangers, for they were their
brothers, but must live in peace with them, and give them lands, and
wives from among their women. If they should do these things, the Great
Spirit, he said, would make their corn grow taller than ever, and direct
them to hunting-grounds where the mooses should be as thick as the
stars.

"Fathers and warriors, we heard these words, but we knew not what to do.
We feared not the Walkullas; the God of War(7), we saw, had given them
into our hands. But who were the strange tribe? Were they armed as we
were, and was their Great Medicine[A] like ours? Warriors, you all knew
the Young Eagle, the son of the Old Eagle, who is here with us; but his
wings are feeble, and he flies no more to the feast of blood. Now, the
Young Eagle feared nothing but shame. He said, 'I see many men sit
around a fire, I will go and see who they are.' He went. The Old Eagle
looks at me as if he would say, Why went not the head warrior himself? I
will tell you. The Mad Buffalo is a head taller than the tallest man of
his tribe. Can the moose crawl into the fox's hole?--can the swan hide
himself under a hazle-leaf? The Young Eagle was little, save in his
soul. He was not full grown, save in his heart. He could go, and not be
seen or heard. He was the cunning black snake, which creeps silently in
the grass, and none think him near till he strikes; not the foolish
rattlesnake, which makes a great noise to let you know he is coming.

[Footnote A: Great Medicine, Supreme Being; medicine simply means a
spirit.]

"He came back, and told us that which made us weep. He told us, there
were many strange men a little way from us, whose faces were white, and
who wore no skins, whose cabins were white as the snow upon the Backbone
of the Great Spirit[A], flat at the top, and moving with the wind like
the reeds on the bank of a river; that they did not talk like the
Walkullas, but spoke a strange tongue, the like of which he had never
heard before. Many of our warriors would have turned back to their own
lands; the Flying Squirrel said it was not cowardice to do so. But the
Mad Buffalo never turns on his heel till he has tasted of the blood of
his foes. And the Young Eagle said he had eaten the bitter root, and put
on the new mocassins, and had been made a man, and his father and the
old warriors would cry shame on him if he took no scalp. Both he and the
Mad Buffalo said they would go and attack the Walkullas and their allies
alone. But the young warriors said they would also go to the battle, and
with a great heart, as their fathers had done. And then the Shawanos
rushed upon their foes.

[Footnote A: Backbone of the Great Spirit, the Alleghany Mountains.]

"The Walkullas fell before us like rain in the summer months; it was as
a fire among the dry rushes. We went upon them when they were
unprepared--when they were as children; and for a while the Great Spirit
gave them into our hands. But a power rose against us, which we could
not withstand. The strange men came upon us armed with thunder and
lightning. Why delays my tongue to tell its story? Fathers, your sons
have fallen, like the leaves of the forest-tree in a high wind; like the
flowers of spring after a frost; like drops of rain in the
Sturgeon-Moon. Warriors, the sprouts which shot up from the roots of the
withered oaks have perished. The young Braves of our nation lie, food
for the eagle and the wild cat, by the arm of the Great Lake.

"Fathers, the bolt from the strangers' thunder entered my flesh, yet I
did not fly: these six scalps I tore from the Walkullas; but this has
yellow hair. Have I done well?"

The head chief and counsellors answered he had done well; but Chenos
answered "No. You went into the Walkullas camp," said he, "when the
tribe were feasting to the Great Spirit, and you disturbed the
sacrifice, and wickedly mixed human blood with it. Therefore has this
evil come upon us; for the Great Spirit is very angry."

The head chief and the counsellors asked Chenos what must be done to
appease the Master of Breath.

Chenos answered--"The Mad Buffalo, with the morning, will offer to him
that which he holds dearest."

The Mad Buffalo looked fiercely on the priest, and said--"The Mad
Buffalo fears the Great Spirit; but he will offer none of his kin,
neither his father nor his mother, nor the children of his mother; but
he will kill a deer, and, with the morning, it shall be burned to the
Great Spirit."

Chenos said to him, "You have told the council how the battle was
fought, and who fell; you have showed the spent quiver, and the seven
scalps, one of which has shining hair, but you have not spoken of your
prisoner. The Great Spirit keeps nothing hid from his priests, of whom
Chenos is one. He has told me you have a prisoner, one with tender feet
and a trembling heart."

"Let any one say the Mad Buffalo ever lied," said the head warrior. "He
never spoke but truth. He has a prisoner, a woman, taken from the
strange camp; a daughter of the sun; a maiden from the happy islands,
which no Shawano has ever seen. And as soon as I have built my house,
and gathered in my corn, and hunted, and brought home my meat, she shall
live with me and become the mother of my children."

"Where is she?" asked the head chief.

"She sits on the bank of the river, at the bend where we dug up the
bones of the great beast, beneath the tree which the Master of Breath
shivered with his lightnings. I placed her there because the spot is
sacred, and none dare disturb her. I will go and fetch her to the
council fire. But let no one touch her, or show anger, for she is
fearful as a young deer, and weeps like a child for its mother."

Soon he returned, and brought with him a woman whose face was hidden by
a veil whiter than the clouds. The head chief bade her, by signs, to
throw the covering from her face, and stand forth before the council.
She did so; but she shook like a reed in the winter's wind, and many
tears ran down her cheeks, though the head warrior kept at her side,
and with his eyes bade her fear nothing. The Indians sat as though their
tongues were frozen, they were so much taken with the strange woman.
Well might they be. Why? Was she beautiful? Go forth to the forest when
it is clothed with the flowers of spring, look at the tall maize when it
waves in the wind, and ask if they are beautiful. Her skin was white as
the snow which falls upon the mountains beyond our lands, save upon her
cheeks, where it was red; not such red as the Indian paints when he goes
to war, but such as the Master of Life gives to the flower which grows
among thorns. Her eyes shone like the star which never moves[A], and
which guides the bewildered Indian hunter through the untravelled
wilderness to his home. Her hair curled over her head like wild vines
around a tree, and hung upon her brow in clusters, like bunches of
grapes. Her step was like that of a deer when he is scared a little. The
Great Spirit never made any thing so beautiful, not even the sun, the
clouds, or the stars.

[Footnote A: The North Star, in their beautiful, poetical language, "the
star which never moves," and "The Hunter's Star."]

The Mad Buffalo said to the council, "This is my prisoner. I fought hard
for her. Three warriors, tall, strong, and painted, three pale men
armed with the red lightning, stood at her side. Where are they now? I
bore her away in my arms, for fear had overcome her; and, when night
came on, I wrapped skins around her, and laid over her the leafy
branches of the tree to keep off the cold, and kindled a fire, and
watched by her till the sun rose; for I love her. Who will say that she
shall not live with the Mad Buffalo, and be the mother of his children?"

Then the Old Eagle got up, but he could not walk strong, for he was the
oldest warrior of his tribe, and had seen the flowers bloom many times,
and the infant trees of the forest die of old age, and the friends of
his boyhood laid in the dust. He went to the woman, and laid his hands
on her head, and wept(8). The other warriors, who had lost their kindred
and sons in the war with the Walkullas, did the same, shouting and
weeping very loud. The women also wept, but they did not come near the
prisoner.

"Where is the Young Eagle?" asked the Old Eagle of the Mad Buffalo. The
other warriors, in like manner, asked for their kindred who had been
killed.

"Fathers, they are dead," answered the head warrior. "The Mad Buffalo
has said they are dead, and he never lies. But let my fathers take
comfort. Who can live for ever? The foot of the swift step, and the
hand of the stout bow, become feeble; the eye of the true aim grows dim,
and the heart of many days quails at the fierce glance of warriors.
'Twas better that they should die like brave men in their youth, than
become old men and grow faint."

"We must have revenge. We will not listen to the young warrior, who
pines for the daughter of the sun[A]; revenge we will have!" they all
cried. Then they began to sing a very mournful song, still weeping. The
Mad Buffalo offered them the pipe of peace, but they would not take it.

[Footnote A: "Daughter of the Sun."--See the Tradition _infra_.]


Song.

    Where are our sons,
    Who went to drink the blood of their foes?
    Who went forth to war and slaughter,
    Armed with tough bows and sharp arrows?
    Who carried long spears, and were nimble of foot
    As the swift buck, and feared nothing but shame?
    Who crossed deep rivers, and swam lakes,
    And went to war against the Walkullas?

    Ask the eagle--he can tell you:
    He says, "My beak is red as the red leaf,
    And the blood of the slain of your land has dyed it."
    Ask the panther if he is hungry?
    "No," he shall say; "I have been at a feast."
    What has he in his mouth?
    Look! it is the arm of a Shawanos warrior!

    Why do our old men weep,
    And our women, and our daughters, and our little ones?
    Is it for the warriors who went forth to battle?
    Is it for them who went forth in glory,
    And fell like the leaves of the tree in autumn?
    Is it for them?

    What doth the Indian love?--Revenge.
    What doth he fight for?--Revenge.
    What doth he pray for?--Revenge.
    It is sweet as the flesh of a young bear;
    For this he goes hungry, roaming the desert,
    Living on berries, or chewing the rough bark
    Of the oak, and drinking the slimy pool.

    Revenged we must be.
    Behold the victim!
    Beautiful she is as the stars,
    Or the trees with great white flowers.
    Let us give her to the Great Spirit;
    Let us make a fire, and offer her for our sons,
    That we may have success against the Walkullas,
    And revenge us for our sons.

When the strange woman saw them weeping and singing so mournfully, she
crept close to the head warrior for protection. Tears rolled down her
cheeks, and she often looked up to the house of the Great Spirit, and
talked; but none could understand her, save Chenos, who said she was
praying to her god. All the time, the Old Eagle, and the other
warriors, who had lost their sons, were begging very hard that she
should be burned to revenge them. But Chenos stood up, and said:

"Brothers and warriors! our sons did very wrong when they broke in upon
the sacred dance the Walkullas had made to their god, upon the coming in
of the new corn, and he lent his thunder to the strange warriors, and
they killed ours easily. Let us not draw down his anger farther upon us
by doing we know not what. It may be if we offer this woman upon his
fire, he will himself come with his thunder and strike us, as he did the
sacred tree, and we shall all die. Let the beautiful woman remain this
night in the wigwam of the council, covered with skins, and let none
disturb her. To-morrow we will offer a sacrifice of deer's flesh to the
Great Spirit; and, if he will not give her to the raging fire and the
torments of the avengers, he will tell us so by the words of his mouth.
If he do not speak, it shall be done to her as the Old Eagle and his
brothers have said."

The head chief said, "Chenos has spoken well; wisdom is in his words.
Make for the strange woman a soft bed of skins, and treat her kindly,
for it may be she is the daughter of the Great Spirit."

Then the Indians all returned to their cabins and slept, save the Mad
Buffalo, who, fearing for the life of his prisoner, laid himself down at
the door of the lodge and watched.

When the morning came, the head warrior went to the forest and killed a
deer, fat and proper for an offering, which he brought to Chenos, who
prepared it for a sacrifice; and he sang a song while the flesh lay on
the fire:--

Song of Chenos.

    We have built the fire;
    The deer we have kill'd;
    The skin and the horns we have parted from the flesh;
    The flesh is laid on the burning coals;
    The sweetness thereof goes up in the smoke:--
    Master of Life, wilt thou come and claim thine own?

    Wilt thou come, Great Spirit of our fathers,
    And say if we may harbour revenge, and not anger thee?
    Shall we plant the stake, and bind the fair-one?
    The beautiful maid, with her hair like bunches of grapes,
    And her eyes like the blue sky,
    And her skin white as the blossoms of the forest-tree,
    And her voice as the music of a little stream,
    And her step as the bound of the young fawn?
    Shall her soft flesh be torn with sharp thorns,
    And burn'd with fiery flames?

"Let us listen," said Chenos, stopping the warriors in their dance. "Let
us see if the Great Spirit hears us."

They listened, but could not hear him singing. Chenos asked him why he
would not speak, but he did not answer. Then they sung again:--

    Shall the flame we have kindled expire?
    Shall the sacrifice-embers go out?
    Shall the maiden be free from the fire?
    Shall the voice of revenge wake no shout?
    We ask that our feet may be strong
    In the way thou wouldst have us to go;
    Let thy voice, then, be heard in the song,
    That thy will, and our task, we may know.

"Hush," said Chenos, listening; "I hear the crowing of the Great
Turkey-Cock[A]; I hear him speaking." They stopped, and Chenos went
close to the fire, and talked with his master, but nobody saw with whom
he talked. "What does the Great Spirit tell his prophet?" asked the head
chief.

[Footnote A: Thunder, also called the "hissing of the Great Serpent."]

Chenos answered, "He says the young woman must not be offered to him; he
wills her to live, and become the mother of many children."

Many of the chiefs and warriors were pleased that the beautiful woman
was to live. They wished to make her their daughter; but those who had
lost their brothers and sons in the war were not appeased. They said,
"We will have blood. We will have revenge for our sons. We will go to
the priest of the Evil Spirit, and ask him if his master will not give
us revenge."

Not far from where our nation had their council-fire there was a great
hill, covered with stunted trees, and moss, and rugged rocks. There was
a great cave in it, how great none of the Indians could tell, save
Sketupah, the priest of the Evil Spirit, for no one but he had ever
entered it. He lived in this cave, and there did worship to his master.
It was a strange place, and much feared by the Indians. If a man but
spoke a word at the mouth of it, somebody from within mocked him in a
strange, hoarse voice, which sounded like the first of the thunders. And
just so many and the same words as the man at the mouth of the cave
spoke, the spirit in the cave repeated.[A]

[Footnote A: The Indians think that echoes are the voice of a spirit.]

Sketupah was a strange old creature, whom the oldest living man of the
nation never saw but as he now was. He would have been very tall if he
had been straight, but he was more crooked than a warped bow. His hair
looked like a bunch of snakes, and his eyes like two coals of fire. His
mouth reached from ear to ear, and his legs, which were very long, were
no bigger than a sapling of two snows. He was, indeed, a very fearful
old man, and the Indians feared him scarcely less than the Evil One.
Many were the gifts which our nation made to Sketupah, to gain his
favour and the favour of his master. Who but he feasted on the fattest
buffalo hump? Who but he fed on the earliest ear of milky corn?--on the
best things which grew on the land or in the water? The fears of the
Indian fed him with the choicest things of the land.

The Old Eagle went to the mouth of the cave, and cried with a loud
voice, "Sketupah!"

"Sketupah," answered the hoarse voice of the Evil Spirit from the hollow
cave. Soon Sketupah came, and asked the Old Eagle what he wanted.

"Revenge for our sons, who have been killed by the Walkullas and their
friends, who live beyond the Great Lake, and came on the back of a great
bird. Revenge we must have."

"Revenge we ask, revenge we must have," said the hoarse voice in the
cave.

"Will your master hear us?" asked the Old Eagle of the priest.

"My master must have a sacrifice, he must smell blood," said the ugly
old man. "Then we shall know if he will give you revenge. Go in the
morning to the woods, and take a wolf, a rattlesnake, and a tortoise,
and bring them to me at the mouth of the cave, when the great star of
day is coming out of the Suwaney."

The Old Eagle, and the other chiefs and warriors who asked revenge, did
as Sketupah bade them. They went to the woods, and took a wolf, a
tortoise, and a rattlesnake, and brought them, the wolf growling, the
snake hissing, and the tortoise snapping his teeth, to the priest.

He bade them build a fire of pine, and the tree which bears poisonous
flowers[A], and the hemlock, and the grape-vine which bears no fruit.
They did as he bade them, and made the fire flame high. Then Sketupah
prepared the sacrifice. First he skinned the wolf, then he shelled the
tortoise. He bound the wolf's skin upon himself with the snake, and with
his entrails he fastened the shell of the tortoise upon his head. Then
he laid the carcasses of the wolf, and the snake and the tortoise, upon
the fire, and danced around it, while he sang to his master the
following song:--

Song of Sketupah.

    We have slain the beasts:--
    The hissing snake, with poisonous fangs;
    The wolf, whose teeth are red with Indian blood;
    And the creeping tortoise, the dweller in deep fens;
    We have slain them.
    Lo! they are laid on hissing coals:
    Wilt thou come, Spirit of Evil, and claim thine own?

    The sons of the Shawanos lie low,
    Far from the burial-place of their fathers;
    Red wounds are on their breasts,
    Cold and stiff are their limbs;
    Their eyes see not the ways of men,
    Nor the rising or setting of the great star,
    Nor the blooming of spring-flowers,
    Nor the glad glances of young maidens:
    They sleep in the vale of death.

    They fell, and no revenge,
    No torments of foes, appease them in the land of spirits;
    No shoutings of brother warriors
    Gladden their shades;
    The camp of their nation is mute;
    They are forgotten by their women;
    The bright eyes of their maidens
    Have no tears in them:
    They sleep forgotten by all.

    Shall they have no revenge?
    Shall we not plant the stake, and bind the fair-one?
    The beautiful maid, with her hair like bunches of grapes,
    And her eyes like the blue sky,
    And her skin white as the blossoms of the forest-tree,
    And her voice as the music of a little stream?
    Shall she not be torn with sharp thorns,
    And burned in fiery flames?

[Footnote A: The Magnolia, whose flowers are said to be poisonous.]

He ceased singing, and listened, but the Evil Spirit answered not. Just
as he was going to begin another song, they saw a large ball rolling
very fast up the hill towards the spot where they stood. It was the
height of a man. When it came up to them it began to unwind itself
slowly until at last a little strange-looking man crept out of the ball,
which was made of his own hair. He was no higher than my shoulders. One
of his feet made a strange track, the like of which the Indians had
never seen before. His face was as black as the shell of the butter-nut,
or the feathers of the raven, and his eyes as green as grass. And
stranger yet was his hair, for it was of the colour of moss, and so long
that, as the wind blew it out, it seemed the tail of a fiery star. There
he stood, grinning and laughing very loud. "What do you want of me?" he
asked Sketupah.

The priest answered, "The Shawanos want revenge. They want to sacrifice
the beautiful daughter of the sun, whom the Mad Buffalo has brought from
the camp of the Walkullas."

"They shall have their wish," said the Evil Spirit. "She shall be
sacrificed. Go and fetch her to the hill."

Then the Old Eagle, and the chiefs and warriors, went to fetch the
beautiful maiden to the hill of sacrifice. They found her sitting in her
cabin, with the chief warrior watching at her door. He would have fought
for her, and had already raised his spear to strike the foremost
warrior, when Chenos commanded him to be still; "for," said he, "my
master will see that she does not suffer. Before the star of day sets in
the Mighty River, the nation of Shawanos shall see whose god is greatest
and strongest--Sketupah's, or mine."

Then they built the fire, fixed the stake, and bound the beautiful woman
to it. Till now the head warrior had stood still, for he looked that the
priest of the Great Spirit should snatch her away from the Evil One. But
when he saw her bound to the stake, and the flames beginning to arise,
he shouted his war-cry, and rushed upon the priest of the Spirit of
Evil. It was in vain; Sketupah's master did but breathe upon the face of
the stern warrior, when he fell as though he had stricken him with a
blow, and never breathed more. The Evil Spirit then commanded them to
seize Chenos.

Then they seized the priest of the Master of Breath, to bind him for the
flames. But Chenos shouted aloud, "Come, Master of Life, for the hands
of the Evil One are upon me. Come, break my bands, and redeem me from
the flames they have kindled for me."

As soon as he had said this, very far over the tall hills, which Indians
call the Backbone of the Great Spirit, the people saw two great lights,
brighter and larger than stars, moving very fast towards the lands of
the Shawanos. One was just as high as the other, and they were both as
high as the goat-sucker flies before a thunderstorm. At first they were
close together, but as they came nearer they grew wider apart. Soon our
people saw, by their twinkling, that they were two eyes, and in a little
while the body of a great man, whose head nearly reached the sky(9),
came after them. Brothers, the eyes of the Great Spirit always go before
him, and hence nothing is hid from his sight. Brothers, I cannot
describe the Master of Life as he stood before the warriors of our
nation. Can you look steadily on the star of the morning? No. Nor could
you look upon the mighty being whom the voice of Chenos in distress had
called from beyond the River of Rivers. When you tried to do so, you
were dazzled with his brightness, and turned away your eyes to look upon
trees and streams.

When the Evil Spirit saw the Spirit of Good coming, he began to grow in
stature, and continued swelling until he was as tall and big as he. When
the Spirit of Good came near, and saw how the Evil Spirit had grown, and
that he had thrown away the calumet of peace, he stopped, and, looking
very angrily at the Evil Spirit, said, with a voice that shook the very
hills, "You lied."

"I did not," answered the Evil Spirit.

"You did. You promised to stay among the white people, and the nations
towards the rising sun, and not trouble my Indian people any more."

"Ay, ay," answered the Evil Spirit, "but this woman came from my
country; she is white, she is mine. I came for her."

"You came to destroy her; do I not find her bound to a stake, and the
flames kindled to destroy her? Nor was she yours, for I gave her for a
wife to the warrior whom you have killed."

"I must have her," said the Spirit of Evil saucily.

"When your strength grows to be greater than mine, and your eyes see
farther, and your spirit waxes stronger, and your heart fuller of
justice and valour, then you may say _must_. Tell me no more lies, bad
Manitou, lest I punish you. Go back to the nations of the East, and see
you trouble my brave Indians no more."

The cowardly spirit made no answer, but shrunk down to the size he was
of when he first came to our people. Then he began as before to roll
himself up into his own hair, which he soon did, and then rolled away as
he came into the hollow hill. When he was gone, the Great Spirit also
shrunk till he was no larger than a Shawano, and began talking to our
people in a soft and sweet voice:--

"Men of the Shawanos nation, I love you, and have always loved you. I
bade you conquer your enemies, I gave your foes into your hands. I sent
great herds of fat deer, and many bears and mooses, to your
hunting-grounds, and made my suns so shine upon your fields, that your
corn grew up like trees. Who lived so well, who fought so bravely, as
the Shawanos? Whose women bore so many sons as yours? Is not the Suwany
a lovely river? Are not the young sprouts of the oak, and the heart of
the ash which grow upon its banks, the stoutest and the toughest in all
the land for bows? The grass grows high, the water is cold and sweet, is
it not a pleasant land? It is, and the Shawanos have been a favoured,
and a happy people.

"Why did you disturb the sacrifice which the Walkullas were offering to
me at the feast of green corn? Why did you fall upon them when they had
laid down their weapons, and wiped off their paints to dance in my name?
You even slew the priest who offered me the offering. I was angry, and
gave your warriors into the hands of their enemies, only I let the head
warrior escape to tell you the fate of your young men.

"Men of the Shawanos nation! The strange people, who came over the Salt
Lake on the great bird, are your brothers. Though they are white, and
you are red, though their hair is of the colour of the setting sun, and
yours is as black as charred wood, yet you are brothers. I made you all,
and I made you all alike. The Shawanos are red, because fear never
enters their hearts to scare the blood from their cheeks: the heart of
the white man is the heart of a bird; it is chilled with fear, therefore
he is pale. I brought the Shawanos from the land of white men; then he
was white, but living among bears, and snakes, and tigers, and
bloody-minded warriors, has made him strong in heart, and he has lost
his paleness.

"My good Shawanos! The Walkullas and their allies, from over the Great
Lake, killed many of your warriors, and have thinned your nation, but I
will give you other and stronger men. You have now but three
tribes--soon there shall be four, and the fourth shall be great and
powerful beyond all other Indians.

"Shawanos, hear my words and forget them not; do as I bid you, and you
shall see my power and my goodness. Offer no further violence to the
white maiden, but treat her very kindly. If you do not so, then shall my
anger be upon your nation, and you shall fall by the hands of women, and
wild beasts, and the lightnings of my breath.

"Go now, and rake up the ashes of the sacrifice-fire into a heap,
putting all the coals together, and gathering up the brands. When the
great star of evening rises, open the ashes, put in the body of the Mad
Buffalo, lay on much wood, and kindle a fire in it. Let all the nation
be called together, for all must assist in laying wood upon the fire.
But they must put on no pine, nor the tree which bears white flowers,
nor the grape-vine which yields no fruit, nor the shrub whose dew
blisters the flesh. The fire must be kept burning two whole moons; it
must not go out, it must burn day and night. On the first day of the
third moon, put no wood on the fire, but let it die. On the morning of
the second day, the Shawanos must all come to the heap of ashes, every
man, woman, and child, must come, and the aged who cannot walk must be
helped thither. Then Chenos and the head chief must bring out the
beautiful woman, and place her near the ashes. Be not terrified at what
you see, and do what Chenos shall tell you; this is the will of the
Great Spirit."

When he had finished these words, he began to swell until he had reached
his former bulk and stature. Then at each of his shoulders came out a
wing of the colour of the gold-headed pigeon. Gently shaking these, he
took flight from the land of the Shawanos, and was never seen in those
beautiful regions again.

The Shawanos did as he bade them. They put the beautiful woman into the
house of the great council, and then went and raked up the coals of the
fire and the unquenched brands, and covered them with ashes. When the
morning came, they laid the body of the head warrior on the ashes, and
built a great fire over it. They kept this fire burning two whole moons.
But they were careful to burn no pine, nor the tree which bears
poisonous flowers, nor the vine which yields no grapes, nor the shrub
whose dew blisters the flesh. On the first day of the third moon, they
let the fire go out, and with the next sun all the Shawanos, men, women,
and children, even the aged whose knees trembled so much that they could
not walk, came or were brought together beside the embers. Then the
priest and the head chief brought the beautiful woman from the cabin,
and placed her beside the ashes. The Mequachake tribe, who were the
priests of the nation, stood nearest, then the Kiskapocoke tribe, who
were the greatest warriors. By and by, there was a terrible puffing and
blowing in the ashes, which flew towards the sun, and the great star,
and the River of Rivers, and the land of the Walkullas. At last, the
priests and warriors who could see began to clap their hands, and dance,
crying out "Piqua!" which in the Shawanos tongue means "a man coming out
of the ashes," or a "man made of ashes." They told no lie. There he
stood, a man tall and strait as a young pine, looking like a Shawanos,
but he was handsomer than any man of our nation. The first thing he did
was to utter the war-whoop, and cry for paint, a club, a bow and arrow,
and a hatchet, which were given him. But looking around he saw the white
maiden, and straight dropping all his weapons of war, he walked up to
her and gazed in her eyes. Then he came to the head chief, and said, "I
must have that woman for my wife."

"What are you?" asked the head chief.

"A man made of ashes," he answered.

"Who made you?"

"The Great Spirit. And now let me go, that I may take my bow and arrows,
and kill my deer, and come back, and take the beautiful maiden to be my
wife."

The chief said to Chenos, "Shall he have her? Does the Great Spirit give
her to him?"

Chenos said, "Yes, for they love each other. The Great Spirit has willed
that he shall have her, and from them shall arise a tribe to be called
'Piqua.'"

Brothers, I am a Piqua, descended from the "man made of ashes." If I
have told you a lie, blame not me, for I have but told the story as I
heard it. Brothers, I have done!

       *       *       *       *       *

Though it could not be doubted that the Indians were delighted with the
tale which had just been related to them, for they relish story-telling
with as much zest as the Wild Arabs, they did not express their
pleasure by any of those boisterous emotions of joy and satisfaction
which, in civilized countries, and among men of a less taciturn
disposition, are accorded to a good story well told. They neither
shouted, nor clapped their hands, nor gave any other indication of
pleasure. It is a strong as well as universal trait of the Indian that
he is perfectly master of his feelings, never suffering them under any
circumstances to escape from his controul and management. At the stake
and the feast, in the field and the council, he alike subdues his mind,
and utters but a gruff "Hah!" at scenes and tales which would make an
Englishman very noisy and boisterous. That they liked the stories which
had been told them, could be gathered from nothing that they said or
did. It would have been accounted highly disgraceful to testify their
approbation by exclamations. But their perfect silence and deep
stillness spoke their satisfaction as plainly as the noisiest joy could
have done. The attention of an Indian is more all-absorbing than that of
a white man. It is never distracted or divided, he is never listless or
absent. With dilated nostrils, and in a posture slightly inclined
forward, he listens with his whole soul. Not a word escapes him. While
an educated white man would be continually snapping the thread of the
narrative by a reference in his mind to parallel passages in his former
reading, the savage sees nothing but the present speaker, hears nothing
but a tale fraught with incidents to which his own recollections are not
permitted to offer a parallel. The next portion of the manuscript
carries us to the Tale of Pomatare, or the Flying Beaver.


NOTES.

       *       *       *       *       *

(1) _Mad Buffalo._--p. 1.

The name assumed by the warrior is generally expressive of something
seen in the dream which follows the feast of initiation into manhood.
Whatever object was then seen becomes the "medicine," and the name
assumed has some relation to the guardian spirit. Thus Little Bear,
Black Bear, Bender of the Pine Tree, Snapping Turtle, Guard of the Red
Arrows, &c.

(2) _War-spears, and bows and arrows._--p. 5.

It may interest some of our readers, especially the military, to know
the manner in which the Indians arm themselves for combat. They
generally go well armed, that is, they are well provided with offensive
weapons. Such as have intercourse with the Europeans make use of
tomahawks, knives, and fire-arms; but those whose dwellings are situated
to the eastward of the Mississippi, and who have not an opportunity of
purchasing these kinds of weapons, use bows and arrows and also the
Casse-Tête or War-Club.

The Indians who inhabit the country which extends from the Rocky
Mountains to the South Sea, use in fight a warlike instrument that is
very uncommon. Having great plenty of horses, they always attack their
enemies on horse-back, and encumber themselves with no other weapon than
a stone of middling size, curiously wrought, which they fasten, by a
string about a yard and a half long, to their right arms, a little above
the elbow. These stones they conveniently carry in their hands till they
reach their enemies, and then, swinging them with great dexterity as
they ride full speed, never fail of doing execution. Some of these
western tribes make use of a javelin, pointed with bone, worked into
different forms; but their general weapons are bows and arrows, and
clubs. The club is made of a very hard wood, and the head of it
fashioned round like a ball, about three inches and a half in diameter.
In this rotund part is fixed an edge resembling that of a tomahawk,
either of steel or flint. The dagger is peculiar to the Naudowessie
nation. It was originally made of flint or bone, but since they have had
communication with the European traders they have formed it of steel.
The length of it is about ten inches, and that part close to the handle
nearly three inches broad. Its edges are keen, and it gradually tapers
towards a point. They wear it in a sheath made of deer leather, neatly
ornamented with porcupine quills; and it is usually hung by a string
decorated in the same manner, which reaches as low as the breast.

Among the Delawares the offensive weapons formerly in use were bows,
arrows, and clubs. The latter were made of the hardest wood, not quite
the length of a man's arm, and very heavy, with a large round knob at
one end. For other descriptions of Indian weapons of war, see Long,
Loskiel, and Mackenzie--especially the latter.

(3)_Since he chewed the bitter root, and put on the new mocassins._--p.
6.

The ceremony of initiation into manhood is one of the most important
that occurs among the Indians, and displays in a remarkable degree the
power which superstition has acquired over their minds. It varies
essentially among the different tribes, but the following description
will briefly exhibit the custom which has obtained in the tribes named
in the tradition, and will give a tolerable idea of that in use among
the more remote bands.

"At the age of from fifteen to seventeen years, this ceremony (that of
initiating youth into manhood) is usually performed. They take two
handfuls of a very bitter root, and eat it during a whole day; then they
steep the leaves and drink the water. In the dusk of the evening, they
eat two or three spoonfuls of boiled corn. This is repeated for four
days, and during this time they remain in a house. On the fifth day they
go out, but must put on a pair of new mocassins. During twelve moons,
they abstain from eating bucks, except old ones, and from turkey-cocks,
fowls, bears, and salt: During this period they must not pick their
ears, or scratch their heads with their fingers, but use a small stick.
For four moons they must have a fire to themselves to cook their food
with; the fifth moon, any person may cook for them, but they must serve
themselves first, and use one spoon and pan. Every new moon they drink
for four days a decoction of the bitter snake-root, an emetic, and
abstain from all food, except in the evening, when they are permitted to
eat a little boiled corn. The twelfth moon they perform for four days
what they commenced with on the first four days; the fifth day they come
out of their house, gather corn cobs, burn them to ashes, and with
these rub their bodies all over. At the end of the moon they undergo a
profuse perspiration in the Sweating-house, then go into the water, and
thus ends the ceremony. This ceremony is sometimes extended to only
four, six, or eight, months, but the course is the same."

After this they are at liberty to assume the arms of a man, and take
upon themselves the quest of glory. And they have adopted one at least
of the maxims of civilized life--"none but the brave deserve the fair."
They are not deemed worthy to attempt the siege of the forest maiden's
heart till they have been received into the fraternity of warriors.
There can be no doubt whatever that this is essentially an Order of
Knighthood; and as such the custom is entitled to receive a more
lengthened notice than I am permitted to give it in this place.

(4) _Beaver-Moon._--p. 6.

With the Indians every month has a name expressive of its season. The
appellations will vary of course as the circumstance which gives the
month its name is more or less hastened or deferred. The "_corn-moon_"
of the Iroquois, on the northern lakes, would hardly be the _corn-moon_
of the Creeks in Georgia. The Northern Indians call March, (the month in
which their year begins,) the _worm-month_, because in this month the
worms quit their retreats in the bark of the trees, where they have
sheltered themselves during the winter.

April is the _moon of plants_.

May the _moon of flowers_.

June _the hot moon_.

July the _buck-moon_.

August is called the _sturgeon-moon,_ because that fish becomes abundant
in this month.

September, the _corn-moon_, because the corn is gathered in that month.

October, the _travelling-moon_; as at this time they leave their
villages, and travel towards the place where they intend to spend the winter.

November, the _beaver-moon_; the month of commencing their hunts for the
beaver.

December, the _hunting-moon_, because they employ this month in pursuit
of game.

January, the _cold moon_, as this month has the most intense cold of any
month.

February, the _snow-moon_, because most snow falls in this month.

The Delawares, while they lived on the Atlantic coast, called March the
_shad-moon_; after they removed to the interior they called it the
_sap-moon_; October was their _corn-moon_, &c.

It may be remarked, that the designations given to the months are
derived from some remarkable trait of character, peculiarity of season,
or extraordinary event. Were they in England, they would suit those
names to the prominent circumstance occurring in the month. The March of
the present year would probably have been the "Month of the Silver
Cross," i.e. "The Catholic Month;" and, were they living at the West
End, and frequenters of the Park, at the season when it is crowded with
beautiful faces, that season would undoubtedly receive the name of the
"Season of Starflowers," or the "Month of the Rainbow birds."

(5) _Master of Life_.--p. 7.

The belief entertained by savage nations respecting the Supreme Being,
and a future state, is always entitled to a most respectful
consideration, because, when it admits the existence of a supreme,
over-ruling, almighty intelligence, it furnishes the believer with an
unanswerable argument for his creed. I have, therefore, devoted a few
pages to the subject, which I presume no one will think misapplied.
Hearne says, "Religion has not as yet begun to dawn among the Northern
Indians--I never found any of them that had the least idea of
futurity."--(_Hearne's Journey to the Northern Ocean.)_ And Colden, in
his History of the Five Nations, says, "It is certain they have no kind
of public worship, and I am told they have no radical word to express
God, but use a compound word signifying the Preserver, Sustainer, or
Master of the Universe; neither could I ever learn what sentiments 'they
have of future existence."--(_Colden's History of the Five Nations,_ p.
15.) I have found no other writer who has advanced a like opinion to the
two quoted above, and little importance has been attached to their
opinions with respect to Indians. Charlevoix, the most accurate observer
of Indian manners who has yet committed his thoughts to paper, says,
"Nothing is more certain, than that the savages of this continent have
an idea of a First Being, but, at the same time, nothing is more
obscure." They agree in general in making Him the First Spirit, the Lord
and Creator of the world. "Every thing," says be, "appears to be the
object of a religious worship."--(_A Voyage to North America, by Father
Charlevoix_, vol. ii. 107.) Heckewelder affirms, that "Habitual devotion
to the Great First Cause, and a strong, feeling of gratitude for the
benefits which He confers, is one of the prominent traits which
characterise the mind of the untutored Indian."--(_Heck. Hist. Ace._ p.
84.) Loskiel says, (_History of the Mission of the United Brethren_, p.
33) "The prevailing opinion of all these nations is, that there is one
God, or, as they call Him, one Great and Good Spirit, who has created
the heavens and the earth, and made man and every other creature."
Mackenzie affirms that they believe in a future state of rewards and
punishments. I have observed that they had not any particular form of
religious worship, but, as they believe in a good and evil spirit, and a
state of future rewards and punishments, they cannot be devoid of
religious impressions.--(_Mackenzie's General History of the Fur Trade_,
vol. i p. 145, 156.) The religion of the Mandans, say Lewis and Clarke,
(vol. i. p. 138,) consists in the belief of one Great Spirit. As their
belief in a Supreme Being is firm and sincere, so their gratitude to Him
is fervent and unvarying. They are tormented by no false philosophy, led
astray by no recondite opinions of controversialists, whether _He is all
in all_, or shares a "divided throne." Simple and unenlightened sons of
nature, they hold the belief which has never failed to present itself to
such, _that there is a God_, and to be grateful and worship that God is
the second innate principle of our nature. There are no people more
frequent and fervent in their acknowledgments of gratitude to God. Their
belief in Him is universal, and their confidence in his goodness and
mercy almost exceeds belief. Their Almighty Creator is always before
their eyes on all important occasions. They feel and acknowledge, his
supreme power. They also endeavour to propitiate Him by outward worship
or sacrifices. These are religious solemnities, intended to make
themselves acceptable to the Great Spirit, to find favour in His sight,
and to obtain His forgiveness for past errors and offences.

In Winslow's "Good News from England, or a relation of remarkable things
in that plantation," anno. 1622, occur the following remarks on the
subject of the belief of the Indians of that country in a Supreme Being.

"A few things I thought meete to add heereunto, which I have observed
amongst the Indians, both touching their religion, and sundry other
customes among them. And first, _whereas myselfe and others, in former
letters_, (which came to the presse against my wille and knowledge,)
_wrote_ that the Indians about us, are a _people without any religion,
or knowledge of any God, therein I erred, though wee could then gather
no better, for as they conceive of many divine powers, so of one whom
they call Kietan to be the principall maker of all the rest, and to be
made by none. Hee (they say) created the heavens, earth, sea, and all
creatures contained therein."_

Long says, the tribes in the shade of the rocky mountains believe the
Wahconda to be "the greatest and best of beings, the creator," &c.

In conclusion it may be affirmed, that a constant, abiding, and
unwavering belief in the existence of a Supreme Being, and in his
goodness, is that entertained by the Western Indians.

(6)_Take care of the old men_.--p. 8.

The American Indians pay great respect to old age. They will tremble
before a grandfather, and submit to his injunctions with the utmost
alacrity. With them, especially with the young, the words of the ancient
part of the community are esteemed as oracles, and their sayings
regarded with the veneration paid of yore to the leaves of the Sybil. If
they take during their hunting parties any game that is reckoned by them
uncommonly delicious, it is immediately presented to the eldest of their
relations.

From their infancy they are taught to be kind and attentive to aged
persons, and never let them suffer for want of necessaries and comforts.
The parents spare no pains to impress upon the minds of their children
the conviction that they would draw down upon themselves the anger of
the Great Spirit, were they to neglect those whom in his goodness he had
permitted to attain such an advanced age. It is a sacred principle among
the Indians, that the Great Spirit made it the duty of parents to
maintain and take care of their children until they should be able to
provide for themselves, and that, having while weak and helpless
received the benefits of maintenance, education, and protection, they
are bound to repay them by a similar care of those who are labouring
under the infirmities of old age. They do not confine themselves to acts
of absolute necessity; it is not enough that the old are not suffered to
starve with hunger or perish with cold, but they must be made as much as
possible to share in the pleasures and comforts of life.(_Heck. 152,
153_.) He goes on to remark that they are frequently carried to the
chase on a horse, or in a canoe, that their spirits may be revived by
the sight of a sport in which they can no longer participate. 153. "At
home the old are as well treated, and taken care of, as if they were
favourite children. They are cherished, and even caressed, indulged in
health, and nursed in sickness, and all their wishes and wants attended
to. Their company is sought by the young, to whom their conversation is
considered an honour. Their advice is asked on all occasions, their
words are listened to as oracles, and their occasional garrulity, nay
even the second childhood often attendant on extreme old age, is never
with the Indians a subject of ridicule or laughter."

Age is every where much respected, for, according to their ideas, long
life and wisdom are always connected together.

Young Indians endeavour by presents to gain instruction from the aged,
and to learn from them how to attain to old age. _Loskiel_, part I, p.
15

Age seemed to be an object of great veneration among these people, for
they carried an old woman by turns on their backs, who was quite blind
and infirm, from the very advanced period of her life. _Mackenzie_, 293.

(7) _God of War_.--p. 8.

The terms, Great Spirit and God of War, are synonimous with many of the
Indian tribes, but not with all. The Hurons call him Areskoui; the
Iroquois, by a slight deviation, Agreskoui. Other nations have adopted
other names.

(8) _He went to the woman, laid his hand on her, and wept_.--p. 14.

Being then out of all hopes of surprising their enemies, three or four
of the eldest of them laid their hands on my head, and began to weep
bitterly, accompanying their tears with such mournful accents as can
hardly be expressed; while I, with a very sorry handkerchief I had left,
made shift to dry up their tears; to very little purpose however, for,
refusing to smoke in our calumet, they thereby gave us to understand
that their design was still to murder us. (_Hennepin's Voyage_, printed
in Transactions of American Ant. Soc. Vol. I. page 83, and see page 85
of the same vol.)

This "imposition of hands," accompanied with tears, was for the purpose
of exciting compassion for the recent loss of their relations in
conflict, and thus procuring revenge.

I am by no means certain that the above is a correct explanation of the
practice, though, in the tale or tradition in which I have introduced
it, I have considered it so. Tonti, in his relation of De La Salle's
Expedition, supposes it to arise from a more subdued feeling. The
passage, as the reader will see, is replete with poetical beauty. His
words are--"We arrived in the midst of a very extraordinary nation,
called the _Biscatonges_, to whom we gave the name of weepers, in regard
that upon the first approach of strangers, all these people, as well men
as women, usually fall a-weeping bitterly: the reason of this practice
is very particular; for these poor people imagining that their relations
or friends deceased are gone a journey, and continually expecting their
return, the remembrance of 'em is renewed upon the arrival of new
passengers; but forasmuch as they do not find in their persons those
whose loss they lament, it only serves to increase their grief. That
which is yet more remarkable, and perhaps even very reasonable, is that
they weep much more at the birth of their children than at their death,
because the latter is esteemed only by 'em, as it were a journey or
voyage, from whence they may return after the expiration of a certain
time, but they look upon their nativity as an inlet into an ocean of
dangers and misfortunes."

(9) _A great man whose head nearly reached the sky._--p. 26.

The God of the Indians has always a corporeal form, and is generally of
immense stature. He is chiefly represented as a man possessed of great
dimensions and mighty corporeal strength. Sometimes however he takes the
shape of a beast. Charlevoix says: "Almost all the Algonquin nations
have siren the name of the _Great Hare_ to the first spirit. Some call
him _Michabou_, _i.e._ God of the Waters; others _Atoacan_, the meaning of
which I do not know. The greatest part say that, being supported on the
waters with all his court, all composed of _four-footed creatures like
himself_, he formed the earth out of a grain of sand taken from the
bottom of the ocean, &c. Some speak of a God of the Waters, who opposed
the design of the _Great Hare_, or at least refused to favour it. _This
God is, according to some, the Great Tiger_." _Charlevoix_, ii, 107, 108.
And see tradition _supra_. The Hurons believe him to be the sun. _Ibid_.
The same author remarks (_page_ 109) that "the Gods of the savages have,
according to their notions, bodies and live much in the same manner as
we do," &c.

Carver says "the Indians appear to fashion to themselves corporeal
representations of their Gods, and believe them to be of a human form."
Wennebea, one of the Indian chiefs seen by Long in his expedition to the
source of St. Peter's River, thought the Great Spirit had a human form,
and wore a _white hat_. It surely cannot after this be held that the
"ideas of an Indian have _always_ a degree of sublimity."

I have never seen an Indian who believed the Supreme Being to have other
than a human form, or to be of less than Almighty power and dimensions.
An Indian, who was in the service of the Author during the entire period
between childhood and manhood, and used to delight and astonish him with
his sublime though most natural conceptions of Infinity and the Godhead,
always called him the Great Good Man. The "Prince of the power of the
air," he very appositely called the "Little Bad Man."




POMATARE, THE FLYING BEAVER.


Pomatare rose and said:--"Brothers, a very great while ago, the
ancestors of the Shawanos nation lived on the other side of the Great
Lake, halfway between the rising sun and the evening star. It was a land
of deep snows and much frost; of winds which whistled in the clear cold
nights, and storms which travelled from seas no eye could reach.
Sometimes the sun ceased to shine for moons together, and then he was
continually before our eyes for as many more. In the season of cold, the
waters were all locked up, and the snows overtopped the ridge of our
cabins; then he shone out so fiercely that men fell down stricken by his
fierce beams, and were numbered with the snow which had melted, and run
to the embrace of the rivers. It was not like the beautiful lands, the
lands blessed with soft suns and ever-green vales, where we now dwell.
Yet it was well stocked with deer, and the waters with fat seals and
great fish, which were caught just when the people pleased to go after
them. Still our nation were discontented, and wished to leave their
barren and inhospitable shores. The priests had told them of a beautiful
world beyond the Great Salt Lake, from which the glorious sun never
disappeared for a longer time than the duration of a child's sleep,
where snow-shoes were never wanted--a land clothed with eternal verdure,
and bright with never-failing gladness. The Shawanos listened to these
tales till their minds came to loathe their own simple comforts; they
even forgot the spot which contained the ashes of their ancestors; all
they talked of, all they appeared to think of, was the _land of the
happy hunting-grounds._[A]

[Footnote A: Place of souls after death--the Indian elysium.]

"Once upon a time, in the season of opening buds, and the singing of
birds, and the whistling of the breeze among the wild flowers, the
people of our nation were much terrified at seeing a strange creature,
much resembling a man, riding along the adjacent waves upon the back of
a fish. He had upon his head long green hair, much resembling the coarse
weeds which the mighty storms of the month of falling leaves root up
from the bottom of the ocean, and scatter along the margin of the
feathery strand where we now dwell. Upon his face, which was shaped like
that of a porpoise, he had a beard of the colour of ooze. Around his
neck hung a string of great sea-shells, upon his forehead was bound
another made of the teeth of the cayman, and in his hand was a staff
formed of the rib of a whale. But, if our people were frightened at
seeing a man who could live in the water like a fish or a duck, how much
more were they frightened when they saw, that from his breast down he
was actually a fish, or rather two fishes, for each of his legs was a
whole and distinct fish. And, when they heard him speak distinctly in
their own language, and still more when he sang songs sweeter than the
music of birds in spring, or the whispers of love from the lips of a
beautiful maiden, they thought it a being from the Land of Shades, a
spirit from the happy fishing grounds beyond the lake of storms, and ran
into the woods like startled deer. And this was his song:

    SONG OF THE MAN-FISH.

    I live in the depths of brine,
    Where grows the green grass slim and tall,
    Among the coral rocks;
    And I drink of their crystal streams, and eat
    The year-old whale, and the mew;
    And I ride along the dark blue waves
    On the sportive dolphin's back;
    And I sink to rest in the fathomless caves,
    Beyond the sea-shark's track.

    I hide my head, in the pitiless storm,
    In caverns dark and deep;
    My couch of ooze is pleasant and warm,
    And soft and sweet my sleep.
    I rise again when the winds are still,
    And the waves have sunk to rest,
    And call, with my conch-shell, strong and shrill,
    My mate to the Salt Lake's breast.

"And there he would sit for hours, his fish-legs coiled up under him,
singing to the wondering ears of the Indians upon the shore the
pleasures he experienced, and the beautiful and strange things he saw,
in the depths of the ocean, always closing his strange stories with
these words, shouted at the top of his lungs: "Follow me, and see what I
will show you!" Every day, when the waves were still, and the winds had
gone to their resting-place in the depths of the earth(1), to get sleep
that they might come out refreshed for their race over the green vales
and meadows, the monster was sure to be seen near the shore where our
tribe dwelt. For a great many suns, they dared not adventure upon the
water in quest of food, doing nothing but wander along the beach,
watching the strange creature as he played his antics upon the surface
of the waves, and listening to his charming songs, and to his
invitation, "Follow me, and see what I will show you!" But the longer he
stayed, the less they feared him. They became used to him, and as, the
oftener the tiger glares upon you from the thicket, the oftener you hear
the whoop of death, the more you come to despise them, so in time they
began to think him a spirit who was neither made for harm, nor wished to
injure the poor Indian. Then they grew hungry, and their wives and
little ones cried for food. And as hunger does away all fear, except
that which relates to the satisfying it, in a few days three canoes,
with many men and warriors, no longer decorated with war-paint, no
longer armed with bows and arrows and sharp spears, but with the pale
cheeks of men of peace, and bearing the implements of fishermen,
ventured off to the rocks in quest of the finny brood.

"When our fathers reached the fishing-place, they heard, as before, the
voice shouting, "Follow me, and see what I will show you!" Presently the
Man-Fish appeared, sitting on the water, with his legs, or the fins
which served for legs, folded under him, and his arms crossed on his
breast, as they had usually seen him. There he sat, eyeing them
attentively, while they tried to bring up the fat things of the deep.
When they failed to draw in the fish they had hooked, he would make the
very water shake, and the deep echo with shouts of laughter, and would
clap his hands with great noise, and cry, "Ha! ha! my boy, there he
fooled you!" When they caught any he was very angry, and would scold
like an old woman when her husband returns from hunting and brings no
meat. When they had tried long and patiently, and taken little, and the
sun was just hiding himself behind the dark clouds which skirted the
Region of Warm Winds,[A] the strange creature, popping up his head
within a few paces of the canoe, cried out still stronger than before,
"Follow me, and see what I will show you!" Kiskapocoke, who was the head
man of the tribe, asked him what he wanted, but he would make no other
answer than "Follow me!" Kiskapocoke said, "Do you think I will be such
a fool as to go, I don't know with whom, and I don't know where?"

[Footnote A: Region of Warm Winds--the South and South-west.]

""Ah! but see what I will show you," cried the Man-Fish, throwing up one
of his odd legs, and flirting the water all over the speaker in the
boat.

""Can you show us any thing better than we have yonder?" asked the
warrior, pointing to their cabins on the shore--"good wives, good
children, good dogs--plenty of deer, plenty of train-oil, plenty of
every thing?"

""Yes, and plenty of storms in the moons of falling leaves and melting
ice, and plenty of snow in the time between them; and oftentimes plenty
of hunger, and always plenty of danger from bears, and wolves, and
painted warriors. But go with me, and see what I will show you--a land
where there is a herd of deer for every one that skips over your
ice-bound hills, where there are vast droves of creatures larger than
your sea-elephants, called, in the language of the people of the land,
_bisons_, where there is no cold to freeze you, where the glorious sun
is always soft and smiling, where the trees and the fields are always in
bloom, where the men always grow tall as stately pines, and the women
beautiful as the stars of night."

"Our fathers began now to be terrified, and wished themselves on the
land. But, the moment they tried to paddle towards the shore, some
invisible hand would seize their canoes, and draw them back, so that an
hour's labour did not enable them to gain the length of their boat in
the direction of their parted friends and relatives. Then there was much
laughing all around them, and fins of all sizes, shapes, and colours,
flirted the water over them, till they were as wet as if they had been
swimming. At last Kiskapocoke said to his companions, "What shall we
do?"

""Follow me!" said the Man-Fish, popping up his head as before.

"Then Kiskapocoke said to his companions, "Let us follow him, and see
what will come of it." So they followed him, he swimming and they
paddling, until night came. Then a great wind and deep darkness
prevailed, and the Great Serpent commenced hissing in the depths of the
ocean. They were terribly frightened, and thought not of living till
another sun, but of perishing in the great deep, far from the lands of
their fathers, and without glory. But the Man-Fish kept close to the
boat, and bade them not be afraid, for nothing should hurt them, if they
only followed him and saw what he would show them. And thus they
continued, amidst the raging of the winds and the waves, and the
thunders and the lightnings, to paddle their slender canoes till the sun
arose.

"When morning came, nothing could be seen of the shore they had left. The
winds still raged, the seas were very high, and the water ran into their
canoes like melted snows over the brows of the mountains in the months
of spring. But the Man-Fish handed them large shells, wherewith they
were enabled to bale it out. As they had brought neither food nor water
with them, and had caught neither fish nor rain, they had become both
hungry and thirsty. Kiskapocoke told the strange creature they wanted to
eat and drink, and that he must enable them to do both. "For," said he,
"since you brought us here, you would be a very bad fish to let us
starve or die of thirst."

""Oh! very well," answered the Man-Fish; "stop where you are then, while
I go down, and get you victuals and water; and be sure, this time, that
you do _not_ follow me." With that he made a plunge into the depths of
the wave. Down he went, how far our fathers could not say, only this
they knew that, when he came back again, he puffed and blew like a
whale, and said, he was very tired. He brought with him a great bag full
of parched corn, not at all wet, a great shell full of good sweet water,
and a big piece of roasted fish. "I am confoundedly tired, and I got
scorched into the bargain," said he, muttering to himself. "So much for
having a cross wife."

"Thus they went on paddling and paddling, day and night, wet, cold, and
sometimes hungry, for two moons and a half, till at last, one morning,
the Man-Fish cried out "Look there!" Upon that they rubbed up their
eyes, and, looking sharp in the direction he pointed, saw land, high
land, covered with great trees, and glittering as the sand of the
Spirit's Island(2). Behind the shore rose tall mountains, from the tops
of which issued great flames, which shot up into the sky as the forks of
the lightning cleave the clouds in the Hot Moon. The waters of the Great
Salt Lake broke into small waves upon its shores, which were covered
with seals sporting, and wild ducks pluming themselves, in the beams of
the warm and gentle sun. Upon the shore stood a great many strange
people, but, when they saw our warriors step upon the land, and the
Man-Fish coming up out of the water, and heard his cry, "Follow me!"
they all ran into the woods like startled deer, and our fathers saw no
more of them.

"When our fathers were all safely landed, the Man-Fish told them to let
the canoe go, "for," said he, "you will never need it more." They had
travelled but a little way into the woods when he bade them stay where
they were, while he told the Spirit of the land that the strangers he
had promised were come, and with that he descended into a deep cave near
them. Soon he returned, and with him a creature as strange as himself,
or still stranger. His legs and feet were those of a man; he had
leggings and mocassins like an Indian's, tightly laced, and beautifully
decorated with wampum; but his head was like a goat's, even to the huge
horns and long beard; his hands were a goat's fore-feet, and the upper
part of his body was covered with moss-coloured hair, soft and shining,
like that of the goats which browse upon the steeps of the Spirit's
Backbone. Yet he talked like a man, though his voice was the voice of a
goat, and his language was one well understood by our fathers. He stood
up, with his feet or hands, whichever they might be called, resting upon
a little rock before him, like a goat which clambers up to nip the
loftier buds, and made them a long speech.

""You are going to a beautiful land," said he, "to a most beautiful
land, men from the Clime of Snows. There you will find all the joys
which an Indian covets. The beasts you will see will be fat, tame, and
numerous as the trees of the forest, and the fowls and birds which will
cover your waters and people your woods will be sleek as the forehead of
a young girl. Then, how lovely and kind are its maidens, how green and
gay its hills and valleys, how refreshing the winds which sweep over the
bosom of the great lake on its border, how sweet, clean, and cool, the
beautiful streams which wind along its corn-littered vales! Oh, it is a
lovely land, and the strangers have done well to leave the misery which
awaited them in the regions of the star that never sets, for the peace
and happiness which will be theirs in the land of unceasing summer."

"Brothers and chiefs! our ancestors travelled many moons under the
guidance of the Man-Goat into whose hands the Man-Fish had put them when
he retraced his steps to the Great Lake. They came at length to the land
which the Shawanos now occupy. They found it, as the strange spirits had
described it, a fit abode for the Great Spirit, a land of good and happy
enjoyments to his creatures. They married the beautiful and affectionate
maidens of the land, and their numbers increased till they were so many
that no one could count them. They grew strong, swift, and valiant, as
panthers, bold and brave in war, keen and patient in the chace. They
overcame all the tribes eastward of the River of Rivers,[A] and south to
the further shore of the Great Lake[B]. The dark-skin, whose eye beheld
their badge of war, fawned on them, or fled, became women before them,
or sought a region where neither their war-cry nor the twanging of their
bows was heard breaking the silence of the dark night.

[Footnote A: River of Rivers. Mississippi.]

[Footnote B: Great Lake, the ocean.]

"Brothers, we are called _Shawanos_ from the name of the river which runs
through our hunting-grounds. This is all I have to say."

NOTES.

       *       *       *       *       *

(1) _The winds had gone to their resting-place in the depths of the
earth_.--p. 50.

The Indians think that a calm is caused by the winds' steeping. They
believe that it is quite as necessary for them to be refreshed by rest
and slumber, as for man to have his periodical exemptions from fatigue.
I never met with an Indian who entertained any thing like the opinion of
their cause current among philosophers. Attempting once to explain the
phenomenon to a groupe of Indians, I found myself treated with as much
contempt and abhorrence as a company of pious Christians would express
for an Atheist who broadly avowed his creed.

(2) _Glittering at the sand of the Spirit's Island_.--p. 55.

The Chipewas say, that some of their people, being once driven on the
bland of Maurepas, which lies towards the north-east part of lake
Superior, found on it large quantities of heavy, shining, yellow sand,
that from their description must have been gold-dust. Being struck with
the beautiful appearance of it, in the morning, when they reentered
their canoe, they attempted to bring some away; but a spirit of amazing
size, according to their account sixty feet in height, strode into the
water after them, and commanded them to deliver back what they had
taken. Terrified at his gigantic stature, and seeing that he had nearly
overtaken them, they were glad to restore their shining treasure; on
which they were suffered to depart without further molestation.




THE ALARM OF THE GREAT SENTINEL.

A TRADITION OF THE DELAWARES.


Once upon a time, a young Indian of the Delaware nation, hunting in the
lands which belonged to his tribe, had the good fortune to take captive
an old white owl, who had for his lodge a hollow oak in which he dwelt
with his family. As it was a time of great scarcity among the Indians,
all their late hunts having been singularly unsuccessful, the hunter
determined to kill the owl and make a present of its flesh to the maiden
he loved, who had tasted no food for many suns. As he was rubbing his
knife upon a stone, that it might be sharp and do the murder easily, the
owl, who, with his leg tied to a tree, was looking on with a very
curious and knowing air, turning his head first one way and then another,
now scratching it with his untied claw and now shaking it as the beams
of the sun came into his eyes, asked him what he was doing. The young
hunter, who, being a good and brave warrior, scorned to tell a lie(1)
even to an owl, answered that he was making ready to cut off his head.

"Poh, poh," said the cunning old fellow, "if you kill me, what will my
wife, and my daughters, and my little ones, do? My woman is old and
blind, and the rest are but so-so. Who will catch mice for them, pray?"

"They will be adopted into other families, I suppose," answered the
hunter, "or the old woman will get another husband."

"Such may be the Indian custom," said the owl, "but it is not the custom
of my nation. Besides, the woman is so old and ugly that the Evil One
would not take her for a second wife. No, no, if you take my life, the
little ones will starve. Their eyes are very weak in the day time, and
they are too young and shy to go out by night. If you kill me they will
starve," repeated the owl.

"I am very hungry," said the hunter. "Neither fish nor flesh has been
taken by my nation for many days; the maiden whom I love is dying for
want of food. You would be a nice dish for her."

"Old and tough, old and tough," said the owl, winking very knowingly.
"But does not the Lenape hunter know that there are things to be worse
feared than death? The warrior should fear captivity and disgrace before
the evils of an unsatisfied appetite."

"The Delawares are men," said the hunter, proudly. "They are the masters
of the earth, they are never captured. They will themselves take care
that no disgrace falls upon them. The owl must be cooked for the dinner
of the Lenape maiden."

"The youngest son of the head chief of the Gray Owls is this night to
marry my daughter," said the captive. "May I not go to the feast? The
guests are assembled, the food is prepared, they wait but my presence."

"No," answered the hunter.

"Then will a warrior of the Delawares be a greater fool than the Mingo
who married a rattlesnake[A], and forgot to cut off her tail. He will be
deaf to the voice of a Great Medicine[B]; the owl bids him beware."

[Footnote A: See the Tradition in the third volume.]

[Footnote B: Medicine means Spirit--Great Medicine, Great Spirit.]

"Is my brother a Medicine?" asked the alarmed hunter.

"He is," answered the grave old bird, shaking his head. "If now the
Delaware hunter will suffer the owl to return to his family in the
hollow oak, the good deed shall never be forgotten by my tribe. There
shall be two eyes watching for the safety of the Delawares upon every
tree around their lodges. While they, wearied out by war or the chase,
are sleeping in darkness and imagined security, the owl shall stand
sentry, and warn them if danger should be nigh. When they hear the voice
of the owl, calling out in the depths of the night, 'Up! up! danger!
danger!' let them grasp their bows and war-spears, and be men."

"Go," said the hunter, cutting the string which bound the prisoner to
the tree of death. So the old white owl, with a couple of mice in his
claws, went back to his lodge in the hollow oak, to comfort his old
woman whom the Evil One would not have, and to see his daughter married
to the young gray owl, while the youthful hunter departed to pursue a
deer, which that moment appeared in a glade of the neighbouring forest.

Many seasons had passed away, flowers had sprung up to wither, and the
sprouts from the seed of the oak had become lofty trees that bent not
with the weight of the panther. The young hunter married the maiden for
whose sake he would have killed the old white owl; their children were
many and good; and the hunter himself had become head chief of the
Unamis or Turtles, the most potent tribe of Delawares, and who reckon
themselves the parent of all other Indians. They had fought many great
battles; they had warred with the nations of the North and the South,
the East, and the West, with the Shawanos of the Burning Water[A], the
Mengwe of the Great Lakes, the Sioux who hunt beyond the River of
Fish[B], and the Narragansetts who dwell in the land of storms: and in
all and over all they had been victorious. The warriors of the Smoking
Water had confessed themselves women, the Sioux had paid their tribute
of bear-skins, the Narragansetts had sent beautiful shells for their
women, and the Mengwees had fled from the war-shout of the Delawares, as
a startled deer runs from the cry of the hunter. Our warriors had just
returned from invading the lands of the latter tribe, and had brought
with them many scalps. They were weary and exhausted, but an Indian
warrior never admits that he is either. So they feasted and rejoiced
loud and long. They sung in the open ears of their people their
exploits, the foes by their valour laid low, or duped by their cunning,
or victims to their patience in awaiting the proper moment for attack,
or to their speed and celerity in pursuit. And they danced the dance of
thanksgiving in honour of their protecting Wahconda,[C] and gave the
scalp-yell for every scalp taken, as is the custom of Indian warriors
when returned from a successful expedition.

[Footnote A: Burning Water, the river Walkulla, in Florida, near the
source of which there is, or was, a burning spring. See the Tradition.]

[Footnote B: River of Fish, another name for Mississippi, from the
Indian words _naemes_ a fish, _sipu_, a river.]

[Footnote C: Wahconda, Great Spirit, the Supreme Being.]

The song and the dance finished, the Unamis, who are the grandfather of
nations, were sleeping quietly in their lodges on the beautiful banks of
the Lenape wihittuck[A], dreaming of no danger, keeping no watch. Buried
in deep slumber, and communing with the Manitou[B] of Dreams(2), they
lay, one in the arms of his wife, another by the couch of his beloved
maiden, one dreaming over dreams of war and slaughter, another of love
and wedded joys, one in fancy grasping the spear and the war-club,
another and a younger the bosom of a dusky maiden of his tribe. Over
their heads the tall forest tree waved in the night wind, giving the
melancholy music of sighing branches; beside them ran the clear waters
of the river, slightly murmuring as they rolled away to the land, which
our nation gave to their good brother Miquon[C]. All was so hushed in
the camp of the Unamis that the lowest note of the wren could have been
heard from limit to limit.

[Footnote A: Lenape wihittnck, the "river of Delawares," the Delaware.]

[Footnote B: Manitou, a subordinate spirit, or tutelar genius.]

[Footnote C: Miquon, William Penn, the Founder of Pennsylvania.]

Hark! what noise is that? I hear a rustling of the dry grass and low
bushes, at the distance of three bowshots from the camp of the sleeping
Unamis. I behold the grass bowed down, I see the bushes yielding to some
heavy creature is pressing through them. Is it the buffalo? No, he has
neither the power nor wit to hide himself. Is it the deer? No, he has
gone to drink of the salt waters of the Great Lake. Is it the cougar?
No, for he never crouches except when he springs on his victim. Hush! I
see one of the unknown beasts raising itself above the copse. Slow and
warily, first appears an eagle's leather, then a black scalp-lock, then
a pair of shining eyes, but they are neither the wolfs, nor the wild
cat's. Oh! I know him now, and I know his band. It is they who let the
Leni Lenape fight the Allegewi[A] while they looked on, it is the dogs
of the lakes, the treacherous Mengwe. Slowly they dropped again into the
copse, and the band moved onward to gain that fatal station which should
give into their power the unsuspecting Unamis. But they did not know
that two curious eyes were watching their every movement; they did not
know that perched on the limb of a decayed tree in front of their
hiding-place sat an old white owl.

[Footnote A: See the Tradition of the Fall of the Leni Lenape.]

Nothing said the owl, it was not time yet, and he suffered the
treacherous Mengwe to approach within two bowshots of the sleeping
warriors. All at once, with a voice that penetrated every glade of the
forest, this great sentinel over mankind shouted "Up! up! danger!
danger!" All the birds of the species were alert at their posts, and all
within hearing of the shout of their chief repeated the words of alarm.
"Up! up! danger! danger!" rung through the hollow woods, and
reverberated among the hills. Up sprung the Unamis, and sallied
cautiously out to find the cause of alarm. They were just in time to
discover the backs of the flying Mengwe, from whose treacherous spears
they were saved by the timely cry of their vigilant and grateful
sentinel, the old white owl.

Since that time, the hunters of the Delawares never harm this wise and
good bird(3). When in the night it is heard sounding its notes, or
calling to its mate, some one in the camp will rise, and taking some
_glicanum_, or Indian tobacco, will strew it on the fire, that the
ascending smoke may reach the bird, and show him that they are not
unmindful of his kindness to them and their ancestors.


NOTES.

       *       *       *       *       *

(1) _Scorned to tell a lie_.--p. 61.

The Indians pay a most scrupulous attention to truth, not because they
attach any peculiar moral virtue to it, or think the breach of it will
be punished, but because they esteem the telling a lie a mark of
cowardice. Civilized nations view lying as both unmanly and criminal;
the Indian, as indicating the fear of the liar to meet the consequences
of disclosing the truth. It has been adduced by more than one writer to
prove the existence of an _innate_ love of truth in the human breast.

(2) _Manitou of Dreams_.--p. 66.

The life of an Indian is regulated by his dreams. There is not a single
enterprise of any importance undertaken till the Manitou of sleep has
been consulted. When a child is born, the nature of his future
occupation is taught by dreams; when he arrives at manhood, the name by
which he is in future to be known is given in consequence of what is
seen in the dream which follows the feast of initiation into manhood.

There is nothing in which they have shown more superstition and
extravagance, than in what regards their dreams; but they differ much in
the manner of explaining their thoughts on this matter. Sometimes it is
the reasonable soul that wanders out, while the sensitive soul continues
to animate the body; sometimes it is the familiar genius that gives good
advice about future events; sometimes it is a visit they receive from
the soul of the object they dream of. But, in whatsoever way they
conceive of a dream, it is always regarded as a sacred thing, and as the
means which the Gods most usually employ to declare their will to men.

"Prepossessed with this idea," says Charlevoix, (a writer I delight
to quote) "they cannot conceive that we should take no notice of them.
For the most part they look upon them as desires of the soul inspired by
some spirit, or an order from it. And, in consequence of this principle,
they make it a duty of religion to obey these commands. A savage, having
dreamt that his finger was cut off, really had it cut off when he awoke,
after he had prepared himself for this important action by a feast.
Another, dreaming that he was a prisoner in the bands of his enemies,
was greatly embarrassed. He consulted the jugglers, and, by their
advice, got himself tied to a post, and burned in various parts of the
body."--_Charlevoix,_ ii. 18.

Dreams are resorted to for the purpose of procuring a proper Manitou or
guardian spirit for the child. This is the most important affair of
life. They begin by blacking the face of the child; then it must fast
for eight days, without baring the least nourishment; and, during this
time, his future guardian genius must appear to him in his dreams. Every
morning, they take great care to make him relate them. The thing the
child dreams of most frequently is supposed to be his genius; but no
doubt this thing was considered at first only as a symbol or shape under
which the spirit manifests itself.

Nor is this potency of dreams peculiar to one tribe or nation; it
obtains, both as a belief and practice, throughout the entire continent,
over which that perfect anomaly in the human kind, the red men, are
scattered. Equally among the Esquimaux of the regions of eternal ice,
and the Abipones of Paraguay, dreams are reckoned the revelations of the
God of the Universe.

(3) _Wise and good bird.--p._ 68.

It is singular that the owl should be the symbol of Wisdom, Minerva's
bird, alike with the classic Greeks and Romans, and the American
savages. This is one of the many arguments to be drawn from existing
manners and customs, to prove that the peopling of the western continent
by the race who at present occupy it took place at a period, which may
well have permitted their drawing upon classic models for a portion of
their beautiful figures and allegories. Unhappily, our desire to know
them thoroughly and truly has only been awakened since their minds have
been _corrupted_, and the strong traits of their character blunted by a
participation in our enervating and demoralising _comforts_! They can
now be studied only in the reports made of them by early travellers.




THE MOTHER OF THE WORLD.

A TRADITION OF THE DOG-RIBS.


In the frozen regions of the North, beyond the lands which are now the
hunting-grounds of the Snakes and Coppermines, there lived, when no
other being but herself _was_, a woman who became the mother of the
world. She was a little woman, our fathers told us, not taller than the
shoulders of a young maiden of our nation, but she was very beautiful
and very wise. Whether she was good-tempered or cross, I cannot tell,
for she had no husband, and so there was nothing to vex her, or to try
her patience. She had not, as the women of our nation now have, to pound
corn, or to fetch home heavy loads of buffalo flesh, or to make
snow-sledges, or to wade into the icy rivers to spear salmon, or basket
kepling, or to lie concealed among the wet marsh grass and wild rice to
snare pelicans, and cranes, and goosanders, while her lazy,
good-for-nothing husband lay at home, smoaking his pipe, and drinking
the pleasant juice of the Nishcaminnick by the warm fire in his cabin.
She had only to procure her own food, and this was the berries, and
hips, and sorrel, and rock-moss, which, being found plentifully near her
cave, were plucked with little trouble. Of these she gathered, in their
season, when the sun beamed on the earth like a maiden that loves and is
beloved, a great deal to serve her for food when the snows hid the earth
from her sight, and the cold winds from the fields of eternal frost
obliged her to remain in her rude cavern. Though alone, she was happy.
In the summer it was her amusement to watch the juniper and the alders,
as they put forth, first their leaves, and then their buds, and when the
latter became blossoms, promising to supply the fruit she loved, her
observation became more curious and her feelings more interested; then
would her heart beat with the rapture of a young mother, whose gaze is
fixed on her sleeping child, and her eyes glisten with the dew of joy
which wets the cheeks of those who meet long parted friends. Then she
would wander forth to search for the little berry whose flower is
yellow, and which requires keen eyes to find it in its hiding-place in
the grass, and the larger[A] which our white brother eats with his
buffalo-meat; and their progress, from the putting forth of the leaf to
the ripening of the fruit, was watched by her with eager joy. When tired
of gazing upon the pine and stunted poplar, she would lie down in the
shade of the creeping birch and dwarf willow, and sink to rest, and
dream dreams which were not tinged with the darkness of evil. The
sighing of the wind through the branches of the trees, and the murmur of
little streams through the thicket, were her music. Throughout the land
there was nothing to hurt her, or make her afraid, for there was nothing
in it that had life, save herself and the little flower which blooms
among thorns. And these two dwelt together like sisters.

[Footnote A: The cranberry.]

One day, when the mother of the world was out gathering berries, and
watching the growth of a young pine, which had sprung up near her friend
the flower, and threatened, as the flower said, "to take away the beams
of the sun from it," she was scared by the sight of a strange creature,
which ran upon four legs, and to all her questions answered nothing but
"Bow, wow, wow." To every question our mother asked, the creature made
the same answer, "bow, wow, wow." So she left off asking him questions,
for they were sure to be replied to in three words of a language she
could not understand. Did he ask for berries? no, for she offered him a
handful of the largest and juiciest which grew in the valley, and he
neither took them nor thanked her, unless "bow" meant "thank you." Was
he admiring the tall young pines, or the beautiful blossoms of the
cranberry, or the graceful bend of the willow, and asking her to join
him in his admiration? She knew not, and leaving him to his thoughts,
and to utter his strange words with none to reply, she returned to her
cave.

Scarcely was she seated on her bed of dried leaves when he came in, and,
wagging his tail, and muttering as before, lay down at her feet.
Occasionally he would look up into her face very kindly, and then drop
his head upon his paws. By and by he was fast asleep, and our mother,
who had done no evil action, the remembrance of which should keep her
awake, who never stole a beaver-trap(l), or told a lie, or laughed at a
priest, was very soon in the same condition. Then the Manitou of Dreams
came to her, and she saw strange things in her sleep. She dreamed that
it wan night, and the sun had sunk behind the high and broken hills
which lay beyond the valley of her dwelling, that the dwarf willow bowed
its graceful head still lower with the weight of its tears, which are
the evening dew, and the dandelion again imprisoned its leaves within
its veil of brown. So far her dreams so closely resembled the reality,
that for a time she thought she was awake, and that it was her own
world--her cave, her berries, and her flowers, which were before her
vision. But an object speedily came to inform her that she dwelt in the
paradise of dreams--in the land of departed ideas. At the foot of her
couch of leaves, in the place of the dog which she had left there when
she slept, stood a being somewhat resembling that she had beheld in the
warm season, when bending over the river to lave her bosom with the
cooling fluid. It was taller than herself, and there was something on
its brow which proclaimed it to be fiercer and bolder, formed to wrestle
with rough winds, and to laugh at the coming tempests. For the first
time since she was, she turned away to tremble, her soul filled with a
new and undefinable feeling, for which she could not account. After
shading her eyes a moment from the vision, she looked again, and though
her trembling increased, and her brain became giddy, she did not wish
the being away, nor did she motion it to go. Why should she? There was a
smile upon its lip and brow, and a softness diffused over every feature,
which gradually restored her confidence, and gave her the assurance that
it would not harm her. She dreamed that the creature came to her arms,
and she thought that it passed the season of darkness with its cheek
laid on her bosom. To her imagination, the breath which it breathed on
her lips was balmy as the juice of the Sweet Gum Tree, or the dew from
her little neighbour, the flower. When it spoke, though she could not
understand its language, her heart heaved more tumultuously, she knew
not why, and when it ceased speaking, her sighs came thick till it spoke
again. When she awoke it was gone, the beams of the star of day shone
through the fissures of her cavern, and, in the place of the beautiful
and loved being lay the strange creature, with the four legs and the old
"bow, wow, wow."

Four moons passed, and brought no change of scene to the mother of the
world. By night, her dreams were ever the same: there was always the
same dear and beloved being, each day dearer and more beloved, coming
with the shades, and departing with the sun, folding her in its arms,
breathing balm on her lips, and pressing her bosom with its downy cheek.
By day, the dog was always at her side, whether she went to gather
berries or cresses, or to lave her limbs in the stream. Whenever the dog
was there, the more beloved being was not; when night came, the dog as
surely disappeared, and the other, seen in dreams, supplied his place.
But she herself became changed. She took no more joy in the scenes which
once pleased her. The pines she had planted throve unnoticed; the
creeping birch stifled the willow and the juniper, and she heeded it
not; the sweetest berries grew tasteless--she even forgot to visit her
pretty sister, the rose. Yet she knew not the cause of her sudden
change, nor of the anxiety and apprehension which filled her mind. Why
tears bedewed her cheeks till her eyes became blind, why she trembled at
times, and grew sick, and feinted, and fell to the earth, she knew not.
Her feelings told her of a change, but the relation of its cause, the
naming to her startled ear of the mystery of "the dog by day, and the
man by night," was reserved for a being, who was to prepare the world
for the reception of the mighty numbers which were to be the progeny of
its mother.

She had wandered forth to a lonely valley--lonely where all was
lonely--to weep and sigh over her lost peace, and to think of the dear
being with which that loss seemed to her to be in some way connected,
when suddenly the sky became darkened, and she saw the form of a being
shaped like that which visited her in her sleep, but of immense
proportions, coming towards her from the east. The clouds wreathed
themselves around his head, his hair swept the mists from the
mountain-tops, his eyes were larger than the rising sun when he wears
the red flush of anger in the Frog-Moon, and his voice, when he gave it
full tone, was louder than the thunder of the Spirit's Bay of Lake
Huron. But to the woman he spoke in soft whispers; his terrific accents
were reserved for the dog, who quailed beneath them in evident terror,
not daring even to utter his only words, "bow, wow." The mother of the
world related to him her dreams, and asked him why, since she had had
them, she was so changed--why she now found no joy in the scenes which
once pleased her, but rather wished that she no longer was, her dreams
being now all that she loved. The mighty being told her that they were
not dreams, but a reality; that the dog which now stood by her side was
invested by the Master of Life with power to quit, at the coming in of
the shades, the shape of a dog, and to take that of MAN, a being who was
the counterpart of herself, but formed with strength and resolution, to
counteract, by wisdom and sagacity, and to overcome, by strength and
valour, the rough difficulties and embarrassments which were to spring
up in the path of human life; that he was to be fierce and bold, and she
gentle and afraid. He told her that the change she complained of, and
which had given her so much grief, wetted her cheek with tears, and
filled her bosom with sighs, was the natural result of the intimate
connection of two such beings, and was the mode of perpetuating the
human race, which had been decreed by the Master of Life; that before
the buds now forming should be matured to fruit, she would give birth to
two helpless little beings, whom she must feed with her milk, and rear
with tender care, for from them would the world be peopled. He had been
sent, he said, by the Good Spirit to level and prepare the earth for the
reception of the race who were to inhabit it.

Hitherto the world had lain a rude and shapeless mass--the great, man
now reduced it to order. He threw the rough and stony crags into the
deep valleys--he moved the frozen mountain to fill up the boiling chasm.
When he had levelled the earth, which before was a thing without form,
he marked out with his great walking-staff the lakes, ponds, and rivers,
and caused them to be filled with water from the interior of the earth,
bidding them to be replenished from the rains and melted snows which
should fall from the skies, till they should be no more.

When he had prepared the earth for the residence of the beings who were
to people it, he caught the dog, and, notwithstanding the cries of the
mother of the world, and her entreaties to him to spare its life, he
tore it in pieces, and distributed it over the earth, and the water, and
into air. The entrails he threw into the lakes, ponds, and rivers,
commanding them to become fish, and they became fish. These waters, in
which no living creature before moved, were now filled with salmon,
trout, pike, tittymeg, methy, barble, turbot, and tench, while along the
curling waves of the Great Lake the mighty black and white whale, the
more sluggish porpoise, and many other finny creatures, sported their
gambols. The flesh he dispersed over the land, commanding it to become
different kinds of beasts and land-animals, and it obeyed his commands.
The heavy moose, and the stupid we-was-kish, came to drink in the
Coppermine with the musk-ox, and the deer, and the buffalo. The
quiquehatch, and his younger brother, the black bear, and the wolf, that
cooks his meat without fire,[A] and the cunning fox, and the wild cat,
and the wolverine, were all from the flesh of the dog. The otter was the
tail of the dog, the wejack was one of his fore-paws, and the horned
horse, and the walrus, were his nose.

[Footnote A: It is a prevalent opinion with the savages, that the wolf
cooks his meat before he eats it.]

Nor did the great man omit to make the skin furnish its proportion of
the tribes of living beings. He tore it into many small pieces, and
threw it into the air, commanding it to become the different tribes of
fowls and birds, and it became the different tribes of fowls and birds.
Then first was seen the mighty bird which builds its nest on trees which
none can climb, and in the crevices of inaccessible rocks--the eagle,
which furnishes the Indians with feathers to their arrows, and steals
away the musk-rat and the young beaver as his recompense. Then was the
sacred falcon first seen winging his way to the land of long winters;
and the bird of alarm, the cunning old owl, and his sister's little son,
the cob-a-de-cooch, and the ho-ho. All the birds which skim through the
air, or plunge into the water, were formed from the skin of the dog.

When the great man had thus filled the earth with living creatures, he
called the mother of the world to him, and gave to her and her offspring
the things which he had created, with full power to kill, eat, and never
to spare, telling her that he had commanded them to multiply for her use
in abundance. When he had finished speaking, he returned to the place
whence he came, and has never been heard of since. In due time, the
mother of the world was delivered of two children, a son and a daughter,
both having the dark visage of the Indian race, and from them proceeded
the Dog-ribs, and all the other nations of the earth. The white men
were from the same source, but the father of them, having once upon a
time been caught stealing a beaver-trap, he become so terrified that he
lost his original colour and never regained it, and his children remain
with the same pale cheeks to this day.

Brothers, I have told you no lie.


NOTE.

       *       *       *       *       *

(1) _Never stole a beaver-trap._--p. 76.

Thieving is considered disreputable among the Indians; that is, it is
highly criminal and infamous to steal from each other. Thieves are
compelled to restore what they have stolen, or to make satisfactory
amends to the injured party; in their default, their nearest relations
are obliged to make up the loss. If the thief, after sufficient warning,
continues his bad practices, he is disowned by his nation, and any one
may put him to death the next time he is caught in the act of stealing,
or that a theft can be clearly proved to have been committed by him. "I
once," says Heckewelder, "knew an Indian chief who had a son of a
vicious disposition, addicted to stealing, and would take no advice. His
father, tired and unable to satisfy all the demands which were made upon
him for the restitution of articles stolen by his son, at last issued
his orders for shooting him, the next time be should be guilty of a
similar act"--_Heckew_., 328.

Theft is always looked upon as a blot which dishonours a family, and
every one has a right to wash away the stain with the blood of the
delinquent. "Father Breboeuf," says Charlevoix, (vol. ii. p. 28) "one
day saw a young Huron who was killing a woman with a club; he ran to
him to prevent him, and asked him why he committed such violence. 'She
is my sister,' replied the savage; 'she is guilty of theft, and I will
expiate by her death the disgrace she has brought upon me and all my
family.'"




THE FALL OF THE LENAPE


The Delawares are the grandfather of nations, the parent stock from
which have proceeded the many tribes who roam over the woods of this
vast island. From them are descended the red men of the east and the
west, of the shores of the Great Sea and of the northern lakes. Among
these the Mengwe was a favoured grandchild. In the days that are gone,
the Delawares fought his battles, his war was theirs; and the hostile
shout that woke in his woods was answered by the defiance of the sons of
the Leni Lenape.

But the Mengwe was ungrateful, and forgot these benefits; he was
treacherous, and raised his hand against his benefactors and former
friends. His hostile bands invaded the lands of his grandfather, but
they were defeated, and fled howling to their wilderness. The Mengwe, by
their cunning and duplicity, had brought all the tribes of the land upon
the Lenape, whose sons nevertheless continued in possession of their
hunting-grounds, for they were very brave. Still their enemy continued
his arts. He first sought to raise quarrels and disturbances, which in
the end might lead to wars between the Lenape and the distant tribes
who were friendly to them, for which purpose they privately murdered
people on one or the other side, seeking to make the injured party
believe that some particular nation or individual had been the
aggressor. They left a war-club painted as the Lenape paints his[A] in
the country of the Cherokees, where they purposely committed a murder,
and that people, deceived by appearances, fell suddenly on the Lenape,
and a bloody and devastating war ensued between the two nations. They
frequently stole into the country of the Lenape and their associates,
committing murders and making off with plunder. Their treachery having
at length been discovered, the Lenape marched with a powerful force into
their country to destroy them. Finding that they were no match for the
brave Delawares, Thannawage, an aged and wise Mohawk, called the
different tribes of the Mengwe to the great council-fire. "You see,"
said he, "how easily the sons of our grandfather overcome us in battle.
Their pole is strung full of the scalps of our nation, while ours has
but here one and there one. This must not be; the last man of the Mengwe
is not yet prepared to die. We must become united, the Mohawks, the
Oneidas, the Onondagos, the Cayugas, and the Senecas, must become one
people; they must move together in the conflict, they must smoke in one
pipe, and eat their meat in one lodge." The people listened to the words
of Thannawage, and the five nations became one people.

[Footnote A: The different tribes are known by their manner of painting
their war-clubs.]

Still, though united they did not prevail over the Lenape and their
connexions; the latter were most usually victorious. While these wars
were at their greatest height, and when neither could decidedly
pronounce themselves conquerors, the Big-knives arrived in Canada, and a
war commenced between them and the confederated Iroquois. Thus placed
between two fires, and in danger of being exterminated, they resorted to
their old cunning and knavery. They sent a deputation of their principal
warriors, with the sacred calumet (1) and the belt of peace, to the sons
of their grandfather. But they appeared not to wish for peace, but to be
guided by wisdom and compassion alone, and to be fearful only of being
considered as cowards. "A warrior," said they, "with the bloody weapon
in his hand should never intimate, a desire for peace, or hold pacific
language to his enemies. He should shew throughout a determined courage,
and appear as ready and willing to fight as at the beginning of the
contest. Will a man who would not be thought a liar threaten and sue in
the same breath; will he hold the peace-belt in one hand, and smoke the
unpainted calumet, while his other hand grasps a tomahawk? Will he
strike his breast, and say 'I am brave and fearless,' yet shew that he
is a mocking-bird? No, men's actions should be of a piece with their
words, whether good or bad; good cannot come out of evil, neither can
the brave man feel faint-hearted, or the fawn become a tiger. The Mengwe
were brave: they would not abase themselves in the eyes of the Lenape by
admitting that they were vanquished, or proposing peace. They made use
of their women to soften the hearts of our nation. They said to their
wives and the wives of the Lenape, Are you tired of the fathers of your
children?--to the mothers, Does the Lenape hate her sons?--to our young
women, Do the eyes of the maidens turn with aversion from the youths of
your nation? if the wife is tired of her husband, if the mother hate her
sons, if the dark-eyed maiden feels no grief when the Lenape youth goes
forth to battle and certain death, nor sheds a tear when he paints his
face, and dresses his hair, and fills his quiver with arrows, then let
them remain silent, and the messengers of the Mengwe will return to
their nation."

The women to whom they spoke were moved by the eloquence of the
treacherous Iroquois, and they persuaded the enraged combatants to bury
their hatchets, and make the tree of peace grow tall and firm-rooted.
They lamented, with great feeling and many tears, the loss which their
country had sustained in these wars: there was not a woman among them
who had not lost a son, or a brother, or a father, or a husband. They
described the sorrows of bereaved mothers and widowed wives; the pains
mothers endured ere they were permitted to behold their offspring; the
anxieties attending the progress of their sons from infancy to manhood,
from the cradle to the hour when they chewed the bitter root, and put on
new mocassins; these unavoidable evils they had borne: but, after all
these trials, how cruel it was, they said, to see those promising youths
reared with so much care, and so tenderly beloved, fall victims to the
insatiable rage of war, and a prey to the relentless cruelty of their
enemies. "See them slaughtered," cried they, with tears and groans, "on
the field of battle. See them put to death as prisoners by a protracted
torture, and in the midst of lingering torments. Hark, the death-cries!
'Tis the Iroquois, 'tis the Delawares, 'tis the Delawares returning from
battle! I see the beautiful young warriors among them, crowned with
flowers, their faces painted black, and their arms tied with cords.
Hark! they are singing their death-song. 'I am brave and intrepid, I do
not fear death, I care not for tortures. Those who fear them are less
than women. I was bred a warrior; my father never knew fear, and I am
his son.' Then we behold them surrounded with flames, their flesh torn
from their bones, the skin of their head peeled off, coals heaped
thereon, and sharp thorns driven into their flesh. The thought of such
scenes makes us curse our own existence, and shudder at the thought of
bringing children into the world."

Again they gave utterance to loud lamentation and wailing for the
unavoidable separation they were doomed to experience from their
husbands. The men they had selected for their partners, who were to
protect and feed them, to cherish and make them happy, left them exposed
to hunger and a thousand enemies, while they courted dangers in distant
regions. Or, if they followed their husbands, they were exposed in a
greater degree than those husbands themselves to the risks attending the
perilous warfare.

Then the young maidens took up the song, and painted the share of
sorrows which fell to them. Often, when beloved by a youthful hunter,
their hearts were doomed to wither in the pang of an eternal separation.
The eyes they so loved to look upon were soon to be deprived of their
lustre--the step so noble, fearless, and commanding led them but to
death. They called passionately upon their countrymen and upon the
Iroquois to put a stop to war. They conjured them, by every thing that
was dear to them, to take pity on the sufferings of their wives and
helpless infants, their weeping mothers, and beloved maidens; to turn
their faces once more towards their homes, families, and friends; to
forgive the wrongs each nation had suffered from the other, lay aside
their weapons, and smoke together in the pipe of peace and amity. They
had each given sufficient proofs of courage; the contending nations were
alike high-minded and brave: why should they not embrace as friends who
had been respected as enemies?

Thus spoke the women, at the prompting of the artful Mengwe; it is not
necessary to say that they were listened to. The Delawares at length
came to believe that it would be an honour to a powerful nation, who
could not be suspected of wanting either courage or strength, with arms
in their hands and recent victory perched on the staff of their nation,
to assume that station by which they would be the means, and the only
means, of saving the Indian race from utter extirpation.

To the voice of the women the artful Mengwe added many arguments, which
were of weight with the unsuspecting Delawares, and many pleas
addressed to their generosity. There remained, they said, no resource
for them but that some magnanimous nation should assume the part and
situation of _the woman_(2).

It could not be given to a weak and contemptible tribe; such would not
be listened to: it must be given to a valiant and honoured tribe, and
such were the Delawares--one who should command influence and respect.
As men, they had been justly dreaded; as women, they would be respected
and honoured; none would be so daring or base as to attack or insult
them; as women, they would have a right to interfere in all the quarrels
of other nations, and to stop or prevent the effusion of Indian blood.
They entreated them, therefore, to become _the woman_ in name and in
fact; to lay down their arms and all the insignia of warriors; to devote
themselves to planting corn and other pacific pursuits, and thus become
the means of preserving peace and harmony among the nations.

Unhappily, our nation listened to this croaking of a raven; and forgot
how many times it had been heard before disturbing their slumbers and
ringing its echoes in the hollow night. They knew it was true that the
Indian nations, excited by their own wild passions, were in the way of
total extirpation by each other's hand. And, foolish men! they believed,
notwithstanding all past experience, that the Mengwe were sincere, and
only wished the preservation of the Indian race. As if the panther could
forget its nature, or the rattlesnake cease to remember its means of
defence; as if the Mengwe had forgotten the blood of their race, which
had been shed by the sons of the Lenape, and could think of forgiveness
while their defeats were the subject of every dream.

In a luckless hour, the Delawares gave their consent, and agreed to
become women. Then the Iroquois appointed a great feast, and invited the
Delaware nation to it. They came at the bidding of their treacherous
foes, and were declared by them, in the following words, to be no longer
men and warriors, but women and peace-makers. "We dress you," said the
orator, "in a woman's long habit, reaching down to your feet, and we
adorn your ears with rings," meaning that they should no more take up
arms. "We hang a calabash, filled with oil and medicines, upon your arm.
With the oil you shall cleanse the ears of other nations, that they may
attend to good and not to bad words; and with the medicine you shall
heal those who are walking in foolish ways, that they may return to
their senses, and incline their hearts to peace. And we deliver into
your hands a plant of Indian corn and a hoe, which shall be the emblems
of your future calling and pursuits." So the great peace-belt, the chain
of friendship, was laid upon the shoulders of the new mediator, who
became a woman, buried the tomahawk, planted the corn, and forgot the
glories which Areskoui confers upon the successful and dauntless
warrior.

Before this, no Mengwe had been permitted, even when at peace, to visit
the country of the Delawares. Whenever such had appeared, whenever the
blue feather of an Iroquois was seen in a glade of the Lenape
wihittuck[A], its possessor was hunted down as one hunts a wolf or a
bear. But, now _the woman_ had voluntarily abandoned her bow and her
spear, what had she to do with weapons of war? The former warrior needed
now no paints, unless to attract the eye of a maiden; the Mengwe needed
not to fear the Lenape women. Then the pleasant glades of the Lenape
wihittuck became thronged with curious eyes and false hearts; hostile
feet threaded the mazes of her forest; hostile hands were laid upon the
most fertile spots of her territory. To-day, came a few Iroquois; they
wished for but a little piece of land--they had it. To-morrow, came
another band; they wanted permission to kill a very few deer--it was
granted them, and the cry of the hunter of the lakes was heard from the
sea to the mountains. One remained, that the seeds of peace might not
wither; another, to protect, oh changed times! _the woman_, who was the
peace-maker, from the tomahawks of hostile tribes. But, while they were
amusing the Lenape with flattering tales and the songs of mocking-birds,
they were concerting measures to destroy them. They left war-clubs, such
as the Delawares used, in the lands of the Cherokees, to incite them to
fall upon us. Why delays my tongue to finish its tale? The fatal
unmanning of our tribe wrought our ruin. The white people encroached
upon us, because we were women and could not resent; the men of our own
colour were not more just or generous. The Delawares stand abased by the
children of their grandchild, overthrown by men defeated in a hundred
battles. They are no longer warriors, but women.

[Footnote A: Lenape wihittuck, river of the Lenape.]

Brothers, I would weep, were I not a man, for the downfall of my nation.


NOTES.

       *       *       *       *       *

(1) _Sacred Calumet_.--p. 89.

The text deserves an elaborate comment, as connected with the wars of
the savages; in other words, their sole employment. The pipe of peace,
which is termed by the French the _Calumet_, for what reason has never
been learned, is about four feet long[A]. The bowl is made of red marble,
and the stem is of light wood, curiously painted with hieroglyphics in
various colours, and adorned with feathers of the most beautiful
birds; but it is not in the power of language to convey an idea of the
various tints and pleasing ornaments of this much esteemed Indian
implement.

[Footnote A: La Hontan explains the meaning of the word thus: "Calumet,
in general, signifies a pipe, being a Norman word, derived from
_Chalumeau_." The definition displays, in a remarkable degree, the
silliness of that writer. The savages do not understand this word. "The
Pipe of Peace is called, in the Iroquois language, _Ganondaoe_, and by
the other savages, _Poayem_." So says the accurate Carver.]

Every nation has a different method of decorating these pipes, and they
can at first sight tell to what band it belongs. It is used as an
introduction to all treaties, and great ceremony attends the use of it
on these occasions.

The assistant of the great warrior, when the chiefs are assembled and
seated, fills it with tobacco mixed with certain herbs, taking care, at
the same time, that no part of it touches the ground. When it is filled,
he takes a coal that is thoroughly kindled, from a fire which is
generally kept burning in the midst of the assembly, and places it on
the tobacco.

As soon as it is sufficiently lighted, he throws off the coal. He then
turns the stem of it towards the heavens, after this, towards the earth,
and now holding it horizontally, moves himself round till he has
completed a circle, by which first action he is supposed to present it
to the Great Spirit, whose aid is thereby supplicated; by the second, to
avert any malicious interposition of the Evil Spirits; and, by the
third, to gain the protection of the Spirits inhabiting the earth, the
air, and the waters. Having thus secured the favour of those invisible
agents, in whose power they suppose it is either to forward or obstruct
the issue of their present deliberations, he presents it to the
hereditary chief, who, having taken two or three whiffs, blows the smoke
from his mouth, first towards heaven, and then around him upon the
ground.

It is afterwards put in the same manner into the mouths of the
ambassadors or strangers, who observe the same ceremony; then to the
chief of the warriors, and to all the other chiefs in turn, according to
their gradation. During this time, the person who executes this
honourable office holds the pipe slightly in his hand, as if he feared
to press the sacred instrument, nor does any one presume to touch it but
with his lips.

The calumet of the savages, is properly the tube of peace, but they
comprehend under this name the pipe also, as well as its tube. The
custom is to smoke in the calumet when you accept it, and perhaps there
is no instance where the agreement has been violated, which was made by
this acceptance. The savages are at least persuaded that the Great
Spirit would not hare met a breach of faith unpunished. If, in the midst
of a battle, the enemy presents a calumet, it is allowable to refuse it;
but, if they receive it, they most instantly lay down their arms. There
are calumets for every kind of treaty. In trade, when they have agreed
upon the exchange, they present a calumet to confirm it, which readers
it, in some manner, sacred. When it concerns war, not only the tube, but
the feathers which adorn it, are painted red.

La Hontan enters into many speculations as to the origin of this
instrument and practice, and very properly scoots the idea that it was
derived from the ancient caduceus of Mercury. He supposes that it arose
from their habit of using the pipe while deliberating in council.

(2) _Assume the part and situation of the woman_.--p. 94.

This signifies the _disarming of a man_, who thenceforth may become a
mediator or peace-maker, and is never allowed to resume the weapons or
practices of warfare. In addition to this, the "metaphorical woman" is
liable to be called to take part with the real woman in the labours of
the field and the cabin.




THE MARRIAGE OF THE SNAIL AND THE BEAVER.


If my brother knows anything of the Osages, as they are called by the
people of his nation, but by themselves, and all the neighbouring
tribes, the Wasbashas, he knows that they live on the banks of the large
and beautiful river, the Osage, which empties itself into the Missouri,
at the distance of a hunter's journey of three suns from its mouth. Once
the people of my nation were all united like a family of children which
have but one mother, but subdivisions of the original stock have taken
place, and they are now divided into three tribes, the Great Osages and
the Little Osages, who have raised their cabins on the south bank of the
river, and the sister's sons who broil their meat on the banks of the
stream which our white brother calls the Vermilion. Are we brave and
valiant? Ask the nations around us. Behold the Dahcotah scalps drying in
the smoke of our cabins! Are we strong? Here is the bow of an Osage
boy--bend it. Are our women beautiful? Look at them, and be convinced.

The story which our fathers told us of our origin is this, and they
believed it, for their lips never dealt in falsehood, nor were their
tongues forked. The father of our nation was a SNAIL. It was when the
earth was young and little: it was before the rivers had become wide and
long, or the mountains lifted their peaks among the clouds, that this
snail found himself passing a quiet existence on the banks of our own
beloved river. His wants and his wishes were but few and well supplied,
and as quiet and rest, and the freedom to move neither often nor much,
were to him the height of happiness, he was happy. He seldom hunted,
and, when he did, it was in the immediate neighbourhood of his lodge,
never moving unless at the call of hunger, and then according to his
nature he satisfied his appetite upon whatever was nearest at hand,
rather than take the chance of faring better by going further. And thus
lived our great forefather, the snail.

At length the region of the Missouri was visited by one of those great
storms which so often scatter desolation over it, and the river,
overflowed by the melted currents of snow and ice from the regions of
the mountains, swept away every thing from its banks, and among other
things the drowsy snail. Seated upon a log, and enjoying greatly a
circumstance which gave him all the pleasure of travel without its
fatigue, our lazy ancestor drifted down many a day's journey, till the
torrent, subsiding, left him and his log upon the bank of the River of
Fish. He mow found himself in a strange country, but there was plenty of
slime, both on ground and leaf, and there was no occasion for rapid
motion; then what cared he? It was in the middle of the season of hot
suns, which beamed fiercely upon him, till he became baked in the slime
to the earth, and found himself as incapable of moving as the clod upon
which he dwelt. Gradually he grew in size and stature, and his form
experienced a change, till at length what was once a snail, creeping
upon all-fours on the earth, ripened into man, erect, tall, and stately,
strong of limb, rugged of purpose, and formed to overcome by either
strength or cunning, every thing which dwelt on the earth, or in the
air, or in the water. For a long time after his change from a beast to a
human being, he remained stupified, not knowing what he was, where he
was, or by what means to sustain life. At length recollection returned
to him: he remembered that he was once a snail, and dwelt upon another
river--he remembered where that river lay. He now became animated with a
wish to return to his old haunts, and accordingly directed his steps
towards that part of the great island[A] from which he had been removed.
Hunger now began to prey upon him, and bade fair to close his eyes
before he should again behold his beloved haunts on the banks of the
Osage. The beasts of the forest were many, but their speed outstripped
his; he could not catch them: the birds of the air fluttered upon sprays
beyond his reach; the fish, gliding through the waves at his feet, were
nimbler than he, and eluded his grasp. Each moment be grew weaker, the
films gathered before his eyes, and in his ears there rang sounds like
the whistling of winds through the woods in the month before the snows.
At length, wearied and exhausted, he had laid himself down upon a grassy
bank to die.

[Footnote A: The Indians always speak of the earth as a "great island."]

As he lay, thinking of nothing but food and the means of obtaining it,
some one at his side said, with a voice soft as the bleat of a young
kid, "Wasbasha?"

Our father, who had heard birds sing and wail, and beasts cry and growl,
but never till now had heard one utter intelligible sounds, answered
"Eh!" Raising himself with difficulty, upon his side he beheld that
which spoke to him. He saw, mounted upon a noble beast, white as the
snow of winter, a being, like to nothing which is seen among the sons of
the earth. He was tall of stature, his eyes glittered like the stars of
morning, or the tears of a young maiden who weeps for joy, and his hair
shone like the blush of sunset upon the folds of a cloud. His was indeed
a glorious form; and power as well as beauty sate enthroned upon it:
while the Wasbasha gazed, he trembled like a fawn caught in the toils of
the hunter, or the wolf penned in the crevice of a rock. Again the
glorious being spoke to our terrified but admiring father.

"Why does he who is the kernel of the snail look terrified, and why is
be faint and weary?"

"That I tremble," answered our father, "is because I fear thy power, and
quail before the lightnings of thine eye--that I am faint is because I
lack food."

"As regards thy trembling, be composed; the Master of Breath punishes
not till sin is committed--thou hast not sinned, be calm. But art thou
hungry?"

"I have eaten nothing," replied our father, "since I ceased to be a
snail."

Upon hearing this the Great Spirit drew from under his robe a bow and
arrow, and bade our father observe what he would do with it. On the
topmost limb of a lofty maple, at the distance of a bowshot, sat a
beautiful bird, with its bright green neck and train of variegated
feathers, singing and fluttering among the red leaves of its
nestling-tree. Bending the bow, he placed before it an arrow, and,
letting it fly, the bird dropped dead upon the earth. A deer was seen at
a still greater distance, browzing upon the tree which supplies its
best-loved food. Again the skilful archer drew his bow, and the animal
lay food for the son of the snail.

"There are victuals for you," said the Spirit, "enough to last you till
your strength enables you to beat up the haunts of the deer and the
moose. And here is the bow and arrow--the heart of the fir supplies the
one, the other is the thigh-bone of the buck. Son of the mighty river,
you are naked and must be clothed. The winter is coming; the snows will
descend, and the winds will leave their caverns in the mountains towards
the setting sun, to war upon the unsheltered kernel of the snail.--You
must be clothed."

Saying this, the Great Being called our father to him, and taught him
how to skin the deer, and how to apply it for the protection of his
person from the frost, and the wind, and the snow. Having done this, and
given him the beasts, and fishes, and all feathered creatures, to be his
food and his raiment, he bade our father farewell, and took his
departure for his home beyond the mountains; and he who had received the
gifts proceeded on his journey towards the Osage.

Strengthened, and rendered cheerful and buoyant, by invigorating food
and refreshing sleep, our father's steps were light, and his journey was
soon near its completion. He soon trod upon the banks of his beloved
river; a few more suns and he would sit down upon the very spot, where,
for so many seasons, he had crawled on the slimy leaf, so often dragged
his lazy legs over the muddy pool. He had seated himself upon the bank
of the river, and was meditating deeply on these things, when up crept
from the water a stranger looking animal with four legs, a broad tail
covered with scales like a fish, and two short ears nearly hidden by the
long fur which covered his body. His colour was that of the berry which
grows within a prickly husk,[A] and is eaten by our Indian people with
their roasted opossums. Approaching our father in a saucy and menacing
manner, and displaying a set of teeth which were none of the handsomest,
he demanded, in an angry tone, "Who are you?"

[Footnote A: The chesnut.]

"I am a snail," answered our father. "Who are you?"

"I am head-warrior of the nation of beavers," answered the other. "By
what authority have you come to disturb my possession of this river? We
have held it from the time that Chappewee's musk-rat brought up the
earth from the bottom of the deep waters. By what right do you come to
disturb our possession of this river?"

"It is not your river," answered the Wasbasha. "It has been mine ever
since the melted snows ran into it. It was mine while I was a weak, and
foolish, and lazy snail; and it is surely mine now I am a wise and
valiant man, and a courageous and expert hunter."

While they stood quarreling hard, and at the point of coming to blows,
there crept out of the water another creature--a young maiden
beaver--just like the one who was disputing our father's right to his
land, only far more beautiful and glossy. She enquired what they were
quarrelling about.

"Why," answered the chief warrior of the beavers, "the strange creature
with whom I was talking, and who, I am sure, is nothing but a polecat
sewed up in a deer-skin, says he owns all the river. He says the Great
Being who is over man and beast, the Master whom even beavers worship,
gave it to him."

"Is that all?" replied the maiden; "but you need not answer, for I
listened with a curious ear to your discourse, and heard it all. It is
not worth going to war about, father--make peace with the stranger, and
each of you retain a sufficiency of the water of the river for his
purposes; and then you can help each other when enemies assail you." And
then, casting a fond look upon the Osage, she called her father aside,
and whispered a long time in his ear, frequently turning her beautiful
eyes, bright with love, upon our ancestor. When they had done talking,
the old warrior came up to the son of the snail and asked him, in an
altered tone, to go home with him to his cabin. So the Osage went home
with the chief beaver and his beautiful daughter.

They soon came to a number of small cabins built on the banks of the
river, and into one of these they entered, the beaver bidding the Osage
first wipe his feet upon the mat which lay beside the door. The Osage
found the floor of the cabin strewed with the newly-gathered branches of
the box and fir. The roof and walls were white as the robe which our
white brother folds around his breast, and a cool, refreshing air
entered the building through the windows which opened on the river.
Around the room--which was four steps of a long-legged man each
way--were hung skins, and skulls, and scalps of otters--trophies of the
wars which the beavers had waged with that nation. In one corner of the
room sat a beaver-woman, combing the heads of some little beavers, whose
ears she boxed very soundly when they would not lie still. The warrior
whispered the Osage that she was his second wife, and was very apt to be
cross when there was work to be done, which prevented her from going to
see her neighbours. Those whose heads she was combing were her children,
he said, and she who had made them rub their noses against each other
and be friends was his eldest daughter.

Then calling aloud, "Wife," said he, "what have you to eat? The stranger
is undoubtedly hungry; see, he is pale, his eye has no fire, and his
step is like that of a moose."

Without replying to him, for it was a sulky day with her, she called
aloud, and a dirty-looking beaver entered. "Go," said she, "and fetch
the stranger something to eat."

With that the beaver-girl passed through a small door into another room,
from which she soon returned, bringing some large pieces of willow-bark,
which she laid at the feet of the warrior and his guest. While the
warrior-beaver was chewing the willow, and the Osage was pretending to
do so, they fell to talking over many matters, particularly the wars of
the Beavers with the Otters, and their frequent victories over them. He
told our father by what means the beavers felled large trees, and moved
them to the places where they wished to make dams; how they raised to an
erect position the poles for their lodges, and how they plastered them
so as to keep out rain. Then he spoke of their employments when they had
buried the hatchet; of the peace, and happiness, and tranquillity, they
enjoyed when, gathered into companies, they rested from their labours,
and passed their time in talking, and feasting, and bathing, and playing
the game of bones, and making love. All the while the young
beaver-maiden sat with her eyes fixed upon the son of the snail, at
every pause moving a little nearer, till at length she was at his side
with her fore-paw upon his arm; a minute more and she had placed it
around his neck, and was rubbing her soft furry cheek against his. Our
ancestor, on his part, betrayed no disinclination to receive her
caresses, but returned them with equal ardour. The old beaver, seeing
what was going on, turned his back upon them, and suffered them to be as
kind to each other as they pleased.

At last, turning quickly round, while the maiden, suspecting what was
coming and pretending to be abashed, ran behind her mother, said he,
"To end the foolery, what say you, son of the snail, to marrying my
daughter? She is well brought up, and is the moat industrious girl in
the village. She will flap more wall with her tail in a day than any
maiden in the nation; she will gnaw down a larger tree betwixt the
rising of the sun and the coming of the shadows than many a smart beaver
of the other sex. As for her wit, try her at the game of the dish, and
see who gets up master; and for cleanliness, look at her petticoat."

Our father answered that he did not doubt that she was industrious and
cleanly, able to gnaw down a very large tree, and to use her tail to
very good purpose; that he loved her much, and wished to make her the
mother of his children. And thereupon the bargain was concluded.

That day the beaver-maiden became the wife of the Osage, and all the
nation of beavers assembled to eat the marriage-feast. The Osage went
out and killed a lusty raccoon, upon which he fed; but his wife and all
her kindred fed upon the tender bark of the young poplar and alder. A
peace was made between the two nations, which was to last for ever, but
it was broken a long tune ago; and they now take each other's scalps
whenever they can. The next day, the Osage and his wife departed for
the former haunts of the snail, where in a few moons they arrived, and
where their descendants have dwelt to this day.

Brothers, if this is a lie, blame not me, but our fathers and mothers
who told it to us. I have done.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Author may perhaps be suspected of intending this as a satire upon
Buffon's highly _imaginative_ description of the habits of the Beaver.
Let the reader compare it with that description, and he will be able to
judge for himself. If the tale is a lie, he has only to say in the
language of the Indian--"Blame not me." Several more recent travellers
bear witness, however, to the genuineness of the Tradition.




THE CHOICE OF A GOD.


After a pause of the usual length, Miacomet, an aged Narragansett, rose
and said:

"Brother, I am a Narragansett, and my father and mother were
Narragansetts. I live a journey of more than two moons towards the
rising sun. But you will say the name of the Narragansetts is unknown to
you, and will ask what deeds have they done. Are they warlike? can they
fast long, travel far, and bear the tortures of the flame, without
betraying tears and groans? The tribes of the north, and the south, and
the west, of the Great River, and the Broad Lake, and the Spirit's
Backbone, will say this, for they know us not. Our hunting-fields lie
far apart, and our war-paths are over different forests. But it is only
to those who live a far way off, who have never heard the roaring of the
Great Lake in the time of storms, or killed the fish, whose body is a
mountain, that the Narragansetts are unknown. Our neighbours know us
well, brother; they have both seen and felt us. Come to our cabins,
brothers, and come in what guise you like. If you come in peace, you
shall be welcome, and we will make a feast for you. We will hunt the
nimble deer with you, and show you where the mighty eagle roosts, and
where the fish with shining scales abides. If you come painted, your
war-pipe filled, your bow bent, your arrow sharp and barbed, your heart
strong, and your cry loud, we too will paint ourselves; we will smoke
our pipe of war, we will bend our bow, make sharp our arrows, and stout
our hearts, and will cry our war-cry, till the startled heron shall wing
his way from the swamps to his hiding-place among the hills, and the
deer shall escape from the open space to the tangled covert. Our shouts
shall be as loud as the roar of the Lake of Whales in the time of the
Herring-Moon.

"Brother, we have with us a chief, whose face is of the colour of the
plucked pigeon; he listens. He has crossed the great waters in the
season of storms, he has forded the shallow streams and swum the
deeper, and threaded the dreary woods, and faced unaccustomed dangers,
that he may learn our traditions, our customs, our laws, and our
opinions of the Great Spirit. He has come, if he does not lie, from a
far country, a land very beautiful to the eye, a land of many villages
and much people, but who are not so wise and warlike as we are. He has
left his father and mother, and wife and children, and the bones and
burial-place of his ancestors, to listen to the wisdom of the
Indians, and to be instructed by them in the history of their tribes.
Shall we enlighten him? Shall we teach him the things which we know,
that be may go back to his countrymen prepared to repeat to them the
words of wisdom which fell from our lips; that, when he returns to his
own fire-place, he may make the young doves coo, and the eyes of then
mother glisten, with the tales he has heard in the camp of the Red Man.

"Brother, the Narragansetts have a tradition which I will repeat before
you. It has come down to us from old days, and we believe it, for it was
told us by our fathers, who were men of truth. I know not how long since
the thing was done; I cannot number the rings upon the oak since the day
of its date, nor the moons that have been born and have died. But I know
it was done, and done in the lands which my tribe now occupy. Listen.

"The Narragansetts are the oldest people in the world; older than the
Pequods; older than the Iroquois. _When_ they were created, no one
knows, save the Great Spirit--_how,_ ask not me, for I do not know.
We were when we first knew we were; we lived when we first found we had
breath, further than that I cannot tell you. How should I know more? If
a man, while he was wrapped in a deep sleep, should be carried to a far
land which he had never seen before, would he know where he was when he
waked? or could he tell how he came thither? no, nor can I tell you the
manner of the creation of man, or name, with certainty, his creator.

"But this we do know--when we are born, we are helpless children. The
Narragansetts once were such. Even when they had grown to the stature
of men, their warriors were nothing but big boys; their chiefs and
councillors no wiser than old women. There was a time when they had no
bow and arrow, no hatchet, no canoe, no cabin, no corn. They were
ignorant and foolish as white men. They would have mistaken the track of
the moose for that of a wild cat; they would have thought the tread of a
land-tortoise the trail of the grey snake; they would have killed an owl
and feasted upon it, for a heath-hen. They had nothing but feet to walk
with, hands to catch fish with, and tongues which loved best to utter
wicked lies and speak foolish words. They were only fit to serve bad
spirits, the men of the Spirit of Evil, whom they called Hobbamock(1).
And they did serve him, night and day, but he would give them very
little for their worship, treating them worse than he treated any tribe
upon the borders of the Great Lake. The Pequods killed more whales; the
people of Nope raised more _poke_. When a Narragansett caught a deer,
it was always a sick one, and had no fat upon it, and when he speared a
fish, it had only a backbone. He was, in truth, a very ungrateful
master."

There was among the Narragansetts a very wise conjuror(2) or priest,
whose name was Sasasquit. He was the priest of the Good Spirit; he was a
good man; much better than the rest of the tribe, for he never served
the Evil Spirit. He said to the Narragansetts, "If you were better men,
if you served my master, the Good Spirit, as you do the Evil Spirit, he
would give you abundance of good things. You would not, as you do now,
catch fish with heads as big as mine, and bodies no bigger than my arm,
but would take fat fish, and would take them with little trouble. You
would snare birds more easily, and, perhaps, have other gifts which now
you do not dream of."

The Sachem said to the people, "Sasasquit talks well, but talking well
is the business of a priest. Let us say to him, that we will take for
our God the Spirit which gives us the best gifts, and bid him tell his
master so."

The Narragansetts liked well what the Sachem had said, and went in a
body to Sasasquit. "We have come," said they, "to offer our services
and worship to the Great Spirit, if he will pay us better for our
worship than Hobbamock has done."

Sasasquit replied, "It is not for the worth of your worship, that the
Great Spirit will grant your wish, but because he loves to vex the Evil
Spirit. Come to-morrow to the Great Hill, when the sun first comes out
of the water, and you shall see whose God is the most generous--yours,
or mine."

Early the next day the tribe all gathered to the place where Sasasquit
had agreed to meet them. With them came Pocasset, the priest of the Evil
Spirit, wearing his robes of magic, a bear's-skin, curiously painted
with figures of beasts, and birds, and fishes, and the skin of a dog's
head drawn over his own, with the teeth standing out. When all the tribe
had assembled, Sasasquit asked the Sachem, Miantinomo, to repeat what he
had before said, that the Narragansetts would serve the Spirit that
should make them the greatest and best gifts. Then Miantinomo repeated
what he had before said, and all the Indians promised as he had
promised. Pocasset also made them a very long speech. I have forgotten
what he said, only I know he said, that "his master would have the best
of the bargain yet."

Then Sasasquit climbed up a great tree, till he came to the topmost
bough, when he commenced calling upon the Great Spirit. And this was the
song he sung:

    I call upon thee, Master of Breath!
    Master of Life! on thee I call.
    I, Sasasquit, priest of the Narragansetts,
    Call from the top of the tree,
    Cry from the depths of the valleys,
    Sing from the deep waters of the Great Lake:
    Come to me, hearken to my song.

    Shall the priest of the Evil Spirit triumph?
    Shall the priest of the Evil Spirit boast over me?
    Over thee shall he triumph?
    Thou, who art mightiest?
    Thou, who art greatest?
    Shall the people say of me--Loud he boasted,
    And fair he promised;
    But weak were his boasts,
    And false his promises.
    Hearken thou, then, for now I call,
    Hearken thou, then, for I demand a gift.

    Look, then, upon this wretched people!
    Poor are they in soul,
    Weak are they in heart,
    Hungry, fearful, timid, naked, men.
    I ask of thee a gift for them;
    A gift which shall gladden their hearts;
    A gift which shall make bright their eyes,
    And pleasant and good their lives.

When Sasasquit had finished his song, the Narragansetts saw coming
towards them, from the far regions of the North, a very big man,
taller than the tallest pine of the forest, and as large around as the
shade cast by a great tree full of leaves. Yet, monster as he was, he
came through the air ten times as swift as the swiftest eagle could
fly, using his hands and feet as a frog uses his legs in swimming. It
was but a breath, while he came from the farthest hill in view to the
place where the nation were assembled together. Down he flapped, but
spoke not a word, while he laid, at the feet of Sasasquit, a beautiful
canoe, made of a great tree hollowed out by fire. "There," said he
gruffly, "the Great Spirit sends this to the Devil's children, the
Narragansetts."

"What is it? what is it?" they all asked, crowding around, for none of
them knew what it was good for, or guessed the use it was to be put to.
The big man told them, in their own language, that it was a thing
wherein to float upon the water, to go to catch fish, and to cross
streams. When he had explained to them what it was good for, he said he
would show them how to use it. He carried the canoe to the water, and
having made a paddle, placed Sasasquit in it, and taught him how to move
the canoe by its aid. Our people were mightily pleased with the gift,
and spent the remainder of the day in learning how to manage it. "The
Great Spirit is very good," said they, "and has shown a great deal more
love for us than Hobbamock has done, for he never gave us any thing for
our worship and sacrifices, except promises and lies." They decided,
however, that they would wait and see what he would do for them before
they bestowed their worship upon his rival.

The next day the Narragansetts came together in the same place, as
soon as they could see the sun, very curious to know what the Evil
Spirit would give them to equal or surpass the Good Spirit's gift.
They waited until Pocasset had finished his invocation, and, with
lessening patience, a still longer time, but in vain. No sound was
heard, no sign was visible. Nothing was seen to announce the coming of
the Bad Man, or any of his friends. Our people grew very angry, and
talked, not only of bestowing all their worship upon the Good Spirit,
and giving him all their choice tribute of oysters and lobsters, but
also of roasting Pocasset. They said, "The priest of the Evil Spirit
is good for nothing. When Sasasquit called upon his master, he heard
him, and at his request sent us a good gift; but Pocasset's master
hears him not, though he has sung him a song which makes our ears cry
for deafness." They had just caught hold of Pocasset, and were going
to pull him to pieces, when there was a great noise of thunder, though
they saw no lightning, and a little creature started up out of the
ground, and stood in the midst of them. Never was a more ugly,
misshapen monster seen upon the earth. He was no bigger than a child
that has seen the flowers bloom and the corn ripen twice. Yet he
appeared to be very old, for his hair was of the colour of the moss
upon the sunny side of the oak; his teeth were rotten and decayed; his
knees were bent out like warped bows; and his voice was not the voice
of a young man, but sounded like the voice of the muck-a-wiss singing
in the hollow woods in the summer moons. His face was covered with
hair of the colour of the feathers of the blue heron, and stood out
like the feathers of a duck that plumes itself in the warm sun, on the
shores of the lake. His skin was blacker than charred wood, or the
black raven. The Narragansetts were dreadfully frightened, and were
going to run away, when Pocasset stopped them, saying, "Don't be
afraid, it is my master. Don't you know him whom you have served so
many years? Why he won't hurt you."

"More than you know, Poke," grunted the ugly little creature, putting
his moss-coloured hair behind his great yellow ears. "But do not be
afraid, Narragansetts, the Little Man loves you, and is come to make
you a gift. What do you think these are?"--showing them a bow and a
sheaf of arrows. The Narragansetts all declared they could not tell,
and begged the Little Man to tell them the names, and shew them the
uses of the strange instruments.

"I will," said he. "Now tell me what bird that is which sits upon the
dry branch of the aged hemlock by the little stream?"

One answered, and told him it was the bird which sang in the morning to
wake lazy sleepers, and to tell the bashful lover who loitered around
the couch of his maiden that the eyes of the sun would soon be upon
them.

"The bird that has sung in the morning shall never sing in the evening,"
said the monster grinning. With that, drawing the bow to his ear upon
the side farthest from his heart, he put an arrow before it, and,
letting it fly, the bird fell dead upon the earth beneath the tree. The
Indians, upon seeing this exploit, shouted and hurraed, and made such a
noise, that the roaring of the sea could scarcely be heard for it. They
begged Hobbamock to shew them how he killed the bird at the distance of
a stone's throw, which he did at their request again and again, and each
time they repeated their hurrahing and shouting. "And now," said he,
"whose gift do you like best--the Great Spirit's, or mine?"

They all answered that "they liked his gift best, because it would
enable them to kill their enemies, the Mohegans."

"Will you continue to worship me?"

They were upon the point of answering "Yes," when Sasasquit asked them
to wait till another sun, before they gave themselves to the Evil One.
"To-morrow," said he, "I will kindle a fire, and burn a sacrifice to my
master, and see if he wills that the Wicked Spirit shall have the
Narragansetts for ever."

On hearing this, they agreed to wait till another day, and so they told
the Evil Spirit, who grew dreadfully angry thereupon, and, shaking his
hair and breathing flames, sank into the earth, to the great joy of the
Indians.

Up with the sun was Sasasquit; and about his business he went. He built
the fire of sacrifice, piling it high with the driest trees of the
forest, and he laid thereon the best offering he could procure--a fat
fish from the river beside his cabin. He sung as before a song or
invocation, in which he mentioned the wants of the wretched Indians, and
the cunning endeavours of the Evil Spirit to keep them in his service,
and ended by begging his master to shew his own superiority, and enable
his priest to foil the tricks of his adversary. The tribe assembled,
just as they had done on the previous days. But they were more anxious
now than they had been before, because the more there is in the cabin of
a man, the greater is his thirst to increase his store, and the stronger
his inclination for that he hath not. Nor did they before even dream
that the Great Spirit could do such things as be had done for them.
Being taught that he could bestow valuable gifts where he liked, they
expected something which should far surpass all they had before
received.

They had not waited long when they saw a large black eagle flying
swiftly from the east, directly towards their village. When they first
saw him, he was high in the air, higher than the summit of Haup--high as
the mighty hills which Indians call the Alleghany, or hills of the
Allegewi. Gradually he descended, and, when he came near, they saw that
he bore a man upon his back. Nearer and nearer came the eagle and his
rider, and soon alighted on a little hill, a few steps from the Indians.
The man then got down from his strange horse. "Oh! ho!" said he, "I wish
I had taken my buffalo-cloak with me, it will be cold flying back."

"What have you brought us now?" asked the people, crowding around him.

"Oh, a thing or two," answered he that rode the eagle.

With that he pulled out of the pouch at his side a long black,
dirty-looking leaf, which smelt very strong, and also a little bowl
about the size of a man's thumb, with a long, slender handle fixed to
it. Said he to a boy standing near him, "Run, my pretty fellow, and
bring me some fire." Whilst the boy was bringing the fire, he fell to
rubbing the black leaf to pieces between the palms of his hands. The boy
brought him the fire. Then he put the powdered dust into the little
bowl, placed the fire upon the top of the dust, and fell to making a
great smoke, like that which the wind of spring brings from off the face
of the Great Waters. The Indians asked him what he called the black
leaf.

"Bacca, bacco, tobacco," answered he.

"What is it good for?" demanded they.

"Good for--good for--why--why," exclaimed he, seemingly puzzled, "why,
good for many things. Good for the tooth-ache--good to drive away the
blue devils."

The Indians, though they were well enough acquainted with devils, did
not know what he meant by "blue ones," nor do they know to this day.
They asked him to let them smoke in _the pipe_, which was the name by
which he called the instrument with the little bowl. They liked it very
well upon trying it, but they could not be persuaded to think it of as
much value as the bow and arrows which the Bad Spirit had given them.
The man who rode the eagle perceived their minds, and said "I have
another present."

He bade them bring him a small stick, which they did, and then he began
to beat the eagle. It screamed terribly beneath the lash, and turned
round upon him with its mouth open, as if it would fight him, but he
only beat it the harder. At last it did the thing he wanted it should
do, and dropped a little heap of seeds, white, flat, and not so large
over as the nail upon the little finger of a full-grown man. The man did
not beat the eagle any more after this, but stroked down its feathers
gently, and told it he was very sorry for what he had done. "Now," said
he to the Indians, "take the seeds to the water and wash them." They
washed the seeds as he directed, and brought them back to him. "Build a
fire," said he. They built a fire. Then he took some of the seeds and
raked them up in the ashes of the fire, stirring them continually, until
they were of the colour of a Narragansett's skin. When he had roasted
them as much as he would, he called the tribe around him, and bade them
taste the parched seeds. They all cried out that the seeds were good,
very good, and begged him to beat the eagle, till they had procured
enough to satisfy them all, but he would not. They asked him what the
seeds were called. He told them "corn-maize," and said he would shew
them another way to cook it. He bade them bring him a big, flat stone,
and a little round one, and to fill their great stone-kettle with water,
and to make it hot, while he pounded the corn. The man that rode the
eagle pounded the corn, and the Narragansetts boiled the water. When the
water was hot, he shook the pounded corn into the water, until it became
quite thick, stirring it quickly all the while. When it had cooled, so
that it could be eaten, he tasted it, bidding the Narragansetts do the
like. "Charming _hominy_," said he. The Indians ate very heartily of it,
and declared nothing was ever so good before, and again, one and all
thanked the Great Spirit, and said he was very kind--much kinder than
the Evil Spirit. They were, as once before, just about to declare
themselves servants to the master of the man that rode the eagle and
sent them the corn, when a very spiteful old woman--one who was always
full of mischief--got up, and advised them to wait a little longer, and
give the Little Man one more chance. "The longer the trial between the
two spirits lasted, the more the Indians got, the better," she said, and
our people said the same. Upon this the man got up on his winged horse,
very sorrowful but not very angry, and flew away, leaving them the
remainder of the seeds, which, he told them, must be planted in the
earth when the winter had departed, and the trees were putting out their
leaves, and the little blue and yellow flowers began to peep through
their frost-nipped coverings.

The next sun, when the Narragansetts went out of their lodges, there sat
the ugly little creature, with the moss-coloured beard and yellow ears,
perched upon the top of a high tree. They spoke to him, but he made no
answer--asked him what he had brought them--still no answer. All the
while his eyes were intently fixed upon the waters of the Great Lake,
which began to be tossed about with a high wind. At last, when they were
tired of watching his motions, and some of the boldest, now grown
familiar with him and no longer chilled with fear, talked of stoning him
from his roost, he cried out, pointing with his finger, "Look yonder!"
They now beheld, in the direction he bade them look, far away on the
foaming bosom of the Great Lake, something resembling a great, white
fowl. It was moving very swiftly towards the land of the Narragansetts.
The nearer it approached, the more our people were puzzled to tell what
it was; some said it was a duck, some thought it a cloud, and others
that it was the Good Spirit who had taken a new form, and was coming to
offer more proofs of his love for the Narragansetts. They asked the ugly
little man upon the tree what it was, but he only showed his teeth like
a dog that guards a bone, and would not make answer.

The strange creature was now very near, and seemed a more wondrous
object than ever. It had a body shaped very much like the canoe which
the Great Spirit had given the Indians; but it was as much larger as an
old bear is larger than a cub, the minute it is born, or an eagle is
larger than a humming-bird. It had wings, white as the wings of the
sea-gull, and as large over as a small lake. When it had come near the
shore, its many wings were drawn up and hidden, and in their stead three
tall poles were displayed, with many short ones crossing them, to one of
which the Little Man jumped from his perch on the tree.

The Indians were more astonished at this object than they had been at
any of the others. It did not appear to possess life, yet how came it
thither. Unable to tell what it meant, our people fled, startled and
frightened, into the deep thicket, and there held a council, and debated
what was best to be done. At length, encouraged by the thought that, of
all the strange creatures which had visited them, none had ever
attempted to harm them, they called up courage, and returned to the
shore. They now beheld a canoe, moved by long paddles and filled with
men, approaching the shore where they stood. It struck on the beach, and
out of it came many savages, the colour of whose faces was like that of
the stranger who is with us. They commenced talking to the Narragansetts
in a language which none of them understood, any more than they
understood the cry of the catamount. The Narragansetts were preparing to
use upon the strangers the bows and arrows which the Little Man had
given them, when one of them, laughing very loudly and sillily, held up
a strange-shaped thing, which had a long neck to it like the ugly bird
which cries in the brakes in the beginning of darkness. This he often
raised to his mouth, turning the top of the neck into it, and drinking
something from it, which he seemed to love very much. At last, down he
tumbled on the ground, singing very badly, and making very hideous
mouths, though the Indians could not tell what he laughed and mouthed
about. There he lay on his back, kicking as a frog swims, till the
Little Man went up to him, and took away the thing which held the
maddening draught. The Narragansetts demanded of the Little Man what he
had there.

"A bottle," he replied.

"What is there in it?" they asked.

"Good stuff! good rum(3)--very good rum," said he, shaking the bottle,
and winking with both eyes. "Here, taste and see," and he held out the
the bottle.

"T-a-s-t-e and s-e-e," cried the man who had fallen down, hiccuping.

The Narragansetts tasted of the rum, and liked it so well, that in a
little time they had drunk all there was in the bottle, and ask the
Little Man if he had any more. "Oh, great plenty," answered he, "the
White Men, like those who came in the canoe, let me have it dog-cheap.
I get almost all my worshippers by it; oh, I buy a great many
worshippers by it. Yes, plenty of good rum--Indians may have it almost
for nothing. The white men will bring me plenty of good rum."

"If you will let us have plenty of drink, like that in the bottle,
plenty of rum, you shall be our master," said the Indians. "It is a
great deal better than the Good Spirit's corn."

The bargain was soon made between the Evil Spirit and the Narragansetts.
The Evil Spirit agreed that his white men should let the Indians have as
much rum as the Narragansetts wanted, and they in return were to be his
servants. So, from that day to this, the Narragansetts have served the
Evil Spirit. They get from the Good Spirit the canoes which enable them
to cross rivers and catch fish, and the corn which fills their bellies,
but the bows and arrows which lead them to engage in bloody wars, and
the rum which makes dogs, and bears, and hogs, and wild cats of them,
they get from the Devil and the pale faces. Yet it must be told that
neither spirit has exactly kept his word. The Great Spirit sometimes
withers the corn by withholding rain from it, or sweeps it away by
sending too much; and the Evil Spirit often lets the pale faces drink up
all the rum before it reaches the Indians.


NOTES.

       *       *       *       *       *

(1) _Hobbamock_--p. 120.

This was the Indian Devil. "Another power they worship, whom they call
_Hobbamock_, and to the northward of us, _Hobbamoqui;_ this, as farre as
wee can conceive, is the Devill; him they call upon to cure their wounds
and diseases. When they are curable, hee perswades them hee sends the
same for some conceiled anger, but, upon their calling upon him, can and
doth help them; but, when they are mortall, and not curable in nature,
then he perswades them Kiehtan is angry, and sends them diseases whom
none can cure; insomuch, as in that respect onely they somewhat doubt
whether hee bee simply good, and therefore in sicknesse never call upon
him. _This Hobbamock appears in sundry formes unto them,_ as in the
_shape of a man, a deare, a fawne, an eagle, &c., but most ordinarily at
a snake_."--_Purchas' Pilgrims_.

Dr. Jarvis, a shrewd and learned American theologian and writer,
observes, "This Hobbamock, or Hobbamoqui, who "appears in sundry forms,"
is evidently the _Oke_ or _Tutelary Deity,_ which each Indian worships;
and Mr. Winslow's narrative affords a solution of the pretended worship
of the devil, which the first settlers imagined they had discovered, and
which has since been so frequently mentioned on their authority,
without examination. The natives, it was found, worshipped another being
besides the Great Spirit, which every one called his _Hobbamock_, or
_Guardian Oke_. This the English thought could be no other than the
_Devil_, and accordingly they asserted, without farther ceremony, what
they believed to be a fact."

(2) _Conjurors_.--p. 121.

Both Charlevoix and Heckewelder have treated of Indian priests, and
conjurors, and jugglers, as though they were separate professions, and
several late writers have fallen into the same error. Hear Carver:

"The _priests of the Indians are at the same time their physicians, and
their conjurors_; whilst they heal their wounds, or cure their diseases,
they interpret their dreams, give them protective charms, and satisfy
that desire which is so prevalent among them, of searching into
futurity. ***** When any of the people are ill, the _person who is
invested with this triple character of doctor, priest, and magician,
sits by the patient, &c."--Carver,_ 251, 252.

My opinion is decidedly with Carver, that the two professions are
conjoined. The physician never uses his simples, without invoking, in
his quality of priest, the aid of the Supreme Being.

The appearance which they make, and the dress in which their
incantations are performed, deserve mention for their singularity. The
following passage from Mr. Heckewelder describes their appearance, and
is the original of those in Mr. Cooper's Novels of The Prairie and Last
of the Mohicans: "The dress this juggler had on consisted of an entire
garment, or outside covering, made of one or more bear-skins, as black
as jet, so well fitted and sewed together that the man was not in any
place to be perceived. The whole head of the bear, including the mouth,
nose, teeth, ears, &c., appeared the same as when the animal was living,
so did the legs with long claws; to this were added a huge pair of horns
on the head, and behind a large bushy tail, moving as be walked, as
though it were on springs; but for these accompaniments, the man walking
on all-fours might have been taken for a bear of an extraordinary size.
Underneath there his hands were, holes had been cut, though not risible
to the eye, being covered with the long hair, through which he held and
managed his implements, and he saw through two holes set with
glass."--_Hist. Account,_ p. 288, 289.

He then describes the practice of these medical gentlemen of the forest:
"He approaches his patient with a variety of contortions and gestures,
and performs by his side, and over him, all the antic tricks that his
imagination can suggest. He breathes on him, blows in his mouth, and
often makes an external application of the medicines which he has
prepared, by throwing them over in his face, mouth, and nose; he rattles
his gourd filled with dry beans or pebbles; pulls out, and handles about
a variety of sticks and bundles, in which be appears to be seeking for
the proper remedy; all which is accompanied with the most horrid
gesticulations, by which he endeavours, as he says, to frighten the
Spirit or the disorder away," &c.--_Hist. Acc._. 225.

An Indian physician never applies his medicines without accompanying
them with mysterious ceremonies, to make their effect supernatural. He
therefore prepares his roots and herbs with the most singular
ceremonies, and, in mixing them up, invokes the aid of the Great Spirit.
He also accompanies his directions with various gesticulations and
enigmatical expressions. The ceremonies he uses are various. Sometimes
he creeps into the oven where he sweats, howls, and roars, and now and
then grins horribly at his patient. Altogether I cannot conceive of a
more irrational manner of performing Esculapian duties, than that
adopted by the "faculty" of the Western Wilderness.


(3) _Rum_.

That the Indians were made drunk by Hendrick Hudson, at his first
interview with them, seems well settled. A tradition also prevails among
the Iroquois, that a scene of intoxication occurred with a party of the
natives on the arrival of the first ship in their waters.

The same tradition prevailed among the tribe named in the tale. See also
the tradition of The Coming of Miquon in the second volume.




THE RESURRECTION OF THE BISON.


The men of my nation, the Minnitarees, believed that the bones of the
bison, which they had slain and divested of their flesh, rose again,
clothed with renewed flesh, and quickened with life, and became fat and
fit for slaughter in the succeeding hot month. To us it appeared
incomprehensible that thousands should be slaughtered every year by the
many tribes of red men that roam over the country of the bisons, yet
that they should increase yearly. When we asked our priests about this,
they replied that they did not die, but rose again from the plains and
the _prairies_, the same in flesh and form as when they were slaughtered
and stripped by us. For a long time, very few of us believed the words
of the priests, they had lied to us so often.

Once upon a time a party of the people of our nation, who were out upon
a hunting-excursion, lost one of their number, a boy, and returned to
the village lamenting his loss. Believing him to have been killed or
taken prisoner by the cruel Sioux, with whom they were then at war, and
who had been seen prowling about their village they assembled a
war-party, and set out to avenge his death. They had marched a weary
way, and were just entering the country of the Sioux, when they espied a
herd of bisons, one of which they succeeded in killing. Guess their
astonishment, when, on opening the belly of the animal, they found the
long-lost boy, alive, well, sleek, and hearty, after having been
imprisoned there one entire year. Relieved from his captivity in the
belly of the bison, the boy told us how it happened.

He said that when he left his hunting, companions, he proceeded onward a
considerable distance in search of game, till he found a bison, which he
was so fortunate as to kill. He removed the flesh from one side of the
animal, but had not time to remove that from the other side, when night
came on, and a great rain set in. Finding that he could not reach his
village that night, and it being in the middle of a prairie, where no
bark or branches could be had with which to form a hut, he was for some
time at a loss to know what he should do to avoid the pelting of the
storm which raged in the skies. At last, he bethought himself of a
method, which was, to remove the entrails from the bison, and creep into
the hollow space: he did so. But, during the night, and while he slept,
the flesh of the bison that he had cut off grew over the side again. In
the morning when he awoke he found himself in darkness. For many nights
there was no motion of the animal. At last the various intestines and
viscera began to grow. He felt from time to time with his hands to learn
their increase, rightly judging that, when they had arrived at full
size, the animal would return to life. That period at length arrived.
His residence began to grow warm, at first moderately so, but increasing
in heat till respiration became difficult. At length he began to feel
with his hand a pulsation in the heart of the animal, and to hear the
sound of wind in its veins, its arteries, and its intestines. Soon he
found himself rocking about as a canoe is tossed on the waves of the
great water; and then he knew the animal had returned to the full
enjoyment of life.




THE WAHCONDA'S SON.


Brothers, I am an Otto, and a chief. I am a man of courage and truth. I
have been a warrior, and a hunter of the bear and wolf ever since the
great meeting of aged counsellors and brave-warriors pronounced me a
man. I never fled from a foe; and none ever saw me afraid. Who will say
that the Guard of the Red Arrows was ever other than a man in his heart?
When the Padoucas bound him to the stake, and kindled fires around
him;--when they thrust sharp, heated stones into his flesh, and tore off
his nails with fiery pincers, did they force a cry from him? did they
see his cheek wear the badge of a woman's weakness? No, I am a man.
Brother, I will tell you a tale. While the nation of the Ottoes had
their hunting-grounds in the shade of the Mountains of the Great Being,
they were led in war to battle--in peace were advised in council by a
brave and warlike chief, who was called Wasabajinga, or the Little Black
Bear. He was the head chief of the nation, and its greatest warrior. His
martial exploits and daring deeds were the theme of all the tribes who
roamed through the vast woods between the Mississippi and the Mountains
of the Setting Sun, the Missouri, and the Lake of the Woods. All had
heard of his great deeds; and many had seen and felt his prowess. He was
stronger than the bear, he was swifter than the deer, he was nimbler
than the mountain-cat or the panther. Who was so expert at stealing
horses(1) as Wasabajinga?--by his cabin-door stood the best in all the
land; and they had belonged to the Konzas, the Pawnees, the Omawhaws,
the Puncas, the Sioux, and other tribes whose eyes were sharp and arrows
long, but neither so sharp nor so long as those of the Otto warrior. He
had entered alone the camp of the Missouries, at the time when the stars
are the sole torches of night, and had brought thence many scalps; he
had crept to the lodge of an Arrowauk, and taken the beloved maiden. He
had struck dead bodies(2) of all the nations around--Osages, Padoucas,
Bald-heads, Ietans, Sauxs, Foxes, and Ioways. And who had such eyes for
the trail and the chase as he? He could show you where the snake had
crawled through the hazel leaves; he could trace the buck by his nipping
of the young buds; he could spring to the top of the tallest pine with
the ease of the squirrel, and from thence point out unerringly where
lay the hunting-lodges and grounds of all the tribes of the land; he
could endure as much fasting as the land-tortoise, or the bear of the
frozen north, and march as long as the eagle could fly; never hungry
till food was placed before him; never tired when there was more glory
to be won. Strong, healthy and nimble, Wasabajinga lived to learn that
there was no one in the wilds able to cope with him in battle, and to
have his wisdom as loudly applauded as his valour.

At home it was the good fortune of this famous chief to be equally
prosperous and happy. He had nine wives, all beautiful as the path of
the Master of Life[A]--all good and amiable. Though they all lived in
the same cabin(3), ate out of the same bowl, warmed themselves at the
same fire, and slept' on the same skins, there was a fair sky among
them--it never thundered and lightened in the cabin of the Otto warrior.
One nursed another's child as kindly as if it were her own; one
performed the field-tasks allotted to another, who in return prepared
the bison meat for the fire, and drew home the fuel from the woods.
There was peace, and the calmness of a summer day, in the cabin of
Wasabajinga--he lived the happiest of his nation.

[Footnote A: The Milky Way, the Galaxy.]

His children were many--ten sons were in their father's cabin; each
could bend his father's bow, each poise his father's spear, and each
wield his father's war-club. Daughters he had but one, who grew up the
most beautiful of all the maidens of the land. She had a skin much
whiter than that of Indian maidens generally; her teeth were white and
even; her hair long, black, and glossy, as the feathers of the raven;
her eyes mild as the dove's in the season of its mating; and her step
was that of a deer who is scared a little. And she was good as she was
beautiful. No one ever saw her cross or sulky like other women; nothing
made her angry. Though she was beloved by her parents, and a great
favourite with all the wives of her father, yet she never claimed
exemption from the duties which belong to Indian females. Willingly
would her little hands have laid hold of the faggot, and her small feet
have travelled forth with her mother to the labours of the field of
maize; but the fond affection of all around her, and their belief that
she was something more than mortal, protected her from a call to share
in their labours. She was allowed no part in the cutting-up of the
bison; she was not permitted to pound the corn, or winnow the wild rice,
or bring firing from the woods. It was the pride of the youthful part of
the tribe to prepare ornaments for her person. The young maidens (for
she was envied by none) wove wampum, and made beads for her; the young
men passed half their time in hunting the red and blue heron for the gay
tuft upon his crown, and the Spirit Bird for his train of yellow, green,
and scarlet, that her hair might vie in colours with the beautiful bow
that rests upon the mountains after the rains. They made her bracelets
for her wrists, and anklets for her legs, of the teeth of the fish with
shining scales, and pendants for her ears of the bones of the birds of
night and music. Thus lived Mekaia, or the Star-flower, which was the
name of the beautiful Otto, till she had reached her seventeenth summer.

It was a little before sunset upon a pleasant day in the month of
green-corn, that a young man riding upon a noble white horse was seen
entering the great village of the Ottoes. He appeared to be very young,
but he was tall and straight as the hickory-tree. He was clothed as our
brother is clothed, only his garments were scarlet, and our brother's
are black. His hair, which was not so dark as that of the Indians, was
smooth and sleek as the hair on the head of a child, or the feathers on
the breast of the humming-bird. His head was encircled with a chaplet
made of the feathers of the song-sparrow and the red-headed-woodpecker.
He rode slowly through the village without stopping till he came to the
lodge of Wasabajinga, when he alighted, leaving his good horse to feed
upon the grass which grew around the cabin. He entered the lodge of the
chief. The stern old warrior, without rising from his bed of skins,
asked him who he was, and whence he came. He answered that he was the
son of the great Wahconda, and had come from the lodge of his father(4),
which lay among the high mountains towards the setting-sun.

"Have you killed any buffaloes on your journey?" demanded Wasabajinga.

"No," answered the young god.

"Then you must be very hungry," said the chief.

The young man answered that the son of the Wahconda had his food from
the skies, because the flesh of the animals which lived on the earth was
too gross for him. He lived, he said, upon the flesh of spirit beasts,
and fishes, and birds, roasted in the great fire-place of the
lightnings, and sent him by the hands of the Manitous of the air. His
drink was the rain-drops purified in the clouds.

The chief asked him if he had come on a message from the Wahconda to the
Little Black Bear of the Ottoes.

The young man answered that he had. He said his father had shewn him
from the high mountains of the west the beautiful daughter of the Otto
chief--had told him she was good as she was beautiful, and bidden him
come and ask her for his wife. His father, he said, bade him tell the
Bear of the Ottoes, that, though his daughter must now leave her father,
and mother, and nation, and accompany his son into the regions of
ever-bright suns, and balmy winds, yet, in a few seasons more, when the
knees of the chief had become feeble, and his eyes dim with the mists of
age, and his time had come to die, that he should rejoin his daughter
and tend her little ones, and be as joyful as the bird of morning on the
banks of the rapid river that glided through the valley of departed
souls.

"How shall I know that the Wahconda has said this?" asked the chief.

"I will do these things for a sign," answered the boy-god. "To-morrow,
when the sun first rises from his slumbers behind the hills of the east,
he shall show himself in a cloudless sky. In the space of a breath,
darkness shall cover the face of the heavens, the thunder(5), which is
the voice of my father, shall roll awfully, but the lightnings, which
are the glances of his eye, shall be spared. Before the Indians shall
have time to raise themselves from the earth, upon whose cold bosom, in
their terror, they will prostrate themselves, the darkness shall be
recalled from the earth and shut up in the cave of night. The moment the
thunders cease, the lightnings, which are the glances of his eye, shall
commence their terrific play over the face of the cloudless sky. By
these signs ye shall know that I am the Wahconda's son."

"If these things shall be done," said the chief, "the maiden shall be
yours."

It was soon told in the village, that the Wahconda's son had come from
his father's lodge among the mountains, to ask the beautiful Star-flower
for his wife. And it was also told, that with the rising of the sun on
the next morning, he would convince the Little Black Bear, that he had
not a forked tongue, nor spoke with the lips of a mocking-bird. There
was little sleep that night in the Otto village. Our nation awaited with
great dread and much trembling the coming of the morning, fearing danger
to themselves and the very earth on which they dwelt, from the
threatened waking of the Wahconda's voice, and the glancing of his eye.

The nation had assembled beside the cabin of the warrior, when the sun
came out from behind the mountains. The young man kept his promise. When
the sun first came in view, there was not a cloud on the face of the
sky. In the space of a breath, thick darkness overspread the earth,
rendering it as dark as the darkest night, and the thunders rolled so
awfully, that the very earth seemed to reel like a man who has drunken
twice of the fire-eater, which the brothers of our friend sell us in the
Village of the High Rock.[A] But what astonished our people most was,
that no lightning accompanied the thunder. In a few minutes the darkness
was driven away by the same mighty hand which called it forth; the
thunder became as mute as the sleep of a child which is filled with its
mother's milk, and the sun shone out full and clear as before the
Wahconda had shut his mouth. Then succeeded most terrific lightnings;
lightnings which rent the solid trees, and clove asunder the flinty
rocks. A moment, and they too were called back;--the Great Being had
closed his eyes, and the lightnings were imprisoned between their lids.
The Indians stood for a moment aghast, and then fell on their faces in
worship of the Being who could command all things so promptly to do his
bidding, and who kept his mouth shut, and his eyes closed, in mercy to
the poor creatures of the earth.

[Footnote A: Quebec--Heights of Abraham.]

When they had recovered from their fright, they rose to an upright
posture, and paid their obeisance to the stranger, now proved to be the
Wahconda's son by signs that no one would dare dispute. He showed his
love for them by the kind look he gave them. Turning to the Little Black
Bear, he said, "Has the Wahconda's son proved himself worthy to have the
beautiful daughter of the Otto chief to be his wife?"

Wasabajinga answered, "The Wahconda's son has proved himself worthy to
have for his wife the daughter of the head chief of the Ottoes. The
chief gives her to him (6), in the presence of all his nation."

The chief went into his lodge, and brought out his daughter. The son of
the Wahconda then went up to the beautiful maiden, and fondly pressing
her in his arms, called her his wife, and told her that, moved by her
beauty and goodness, he had left the pleasant skies of his dwelling, to
come into the cold and misty region where the Ottoes had their lodges.
She wept, but the tears came not from her heart, and smiles beamed
through them, as the stars of night shine through mist, or the sun of a
spring morning looks, through a cloud of vapour. Then the beautiful
couple went through the Indian form of marriage(7). When this was ended,
the tribe gathered to the feast in the cabin of the chief. Rich and
juicy was the bear's meat, set out on the buffalo robe, and ripe were
the berries, and sweet was the roasted corn, which the women brought to
feed the guests. They sung, and danced, and recounted their warlike
exploits in the ears of the listening boy. They told of their hostile
visits to the countries of the Padoucas and Bald-heads; they mimicked
the cry of terror which burst from the letans when a painted man of the
Ottoes crept with an uplifted hatchet into their camp by midnight, and
took five scalps as they slept. Then one arose and sung a song of
marriage. Brothers, this was the song he sung:

    OTTO SONG OF MARRIAGE.

    Who is that?
    Oh, it is the Master's fair-haired son,
    Come to wed the warrior's beauteous daughter.
    Tall and manly is his form;
    Beautiful and fair is she;
    See his step how light,
    See his eyes how bright with love and joy;
    How glad he looks:
    So turns his eyes the husband-dove
    Upon its gentle little wife.

    He came and caught the maiden in his arms,
    He pressed her to his bosom as a mother
    Presses her infant.
    She was pleased, and wept,
    But her's were tears of joy;
    Hung her head, and hid her beautuous face,
    Yet was she not ashamed.
    Her's was maiden bashfulness.
    Blushes she to be so caught in love?
    See her stolen glances! sunlit glances! see!
    She doth not altogether hate the youth.

    Why dost thou weep, mother of the bride?
    Weepst thou to be parted from thy daughter?
    Weep no more.
    What is life?
    A reed beat down by every wind that stirs,
    A flower nipt by the first autumnal blast,
    A deer that perishes by prick of thorn,
    Here at morning,
    Gone at evening.
    Weep not, tender mother of the bride;
    Soon thou'lt meet her in the happy vales
    Beyond the setting sun:
    Ask the lover, he will tell thee so.

[Illustration: _Designed & Etched by W. M. Brookefield R. H. A._

Then mounting the noble Horse they bade farewell.]

When the feast was concluded, the songs and dances, and sacrifices,
finished, the Wahconda's son prepared to take his departure to the
mountains where his father dwelt. The tribe attended him to the edge of
the forest, which had been the hunting-grounds of the Ottoes ever since
the rivers ran, and there they left him to pursue his journey with his
beautiful and happy wife to the abodes of spirits, and great warriors,
and just men. But before the chief parted from his daughter, he made her
husband a long speech, and prayed that peace might ever be between them
and their people. He told him he had given him his all--his dearly
beloved daughter, to whom he must be kind and affectionate. He must not
put heavy burdens upon her; he must not send her to cut wood, nor bring
home the bison's flesh, nor pound the corn, for her hands had never been
hardened in tasks like these, nor her shoulders bowed in her father's
house to the labours of the field, or forest, or cabin. "She had been,"
he said, "the darling of her father's household, and knew not labour but
by name."

The Wahconda's son smiled at the words of the old chief, and told him
"that services, like those he had mentioned, were never required of
women in the Wahconda's dwelling. The people of the happy vales and the
spirits of the mountains fed not," he said, "upon bison's meat, nor
pounded corn; and the sun, which was the same at all seasons, beamed so
warm, that they kept no fires. It was a lovely land, far pleasanter than
that which the Ottoes abode in, nor was it subject to those dreadful
storms and tempests which terrified and annoyed those who dwelt upon the
banks of the Great River." And then, mounting his noble horse, and
taking his little wife behind him, he again bade them farewell and rode
away.

He had been gone two moons--the third was in its wane, and the parents
had become consoled for the loss of their daughter. It was upon a clear
and beautiful evening in the Moon of Harvest, when the forest was losing
its robe of green, and putting on its garment of brown and scarlet, and
cool and steady winds were succeeding to the hot and parching breezes of
summer, that the Ottoes assembled to dance and feast in the cabin of
their chief. It was one of the most beautiful nights ever beheld.
Nothing was heard to break the stillness of the hour, save the rustling
of the branches of the cedar and pine, the slight music of a little
rivulet, and the mournful singing of the wekolis,[A] perched in the low
branches of the willow. The feast was prepared, the Master was
propitiated, and they were sitting down to partake of the good things of
the land and water, when suddenly the earth began to move like the
waters of lake Huron, when agitated by winds from the regions of the
frozen star. Upon every side of them, above them, and beneath them, the
earth thundered, with a rattling sound. In vain did the Ottoes attempt
to leave the cabin; they rolled about like a canoe launched upon a
stormy river, or a ball tossed upon frozen water. The rocking of the
earth continued throughout the hours of darkness. When light came, it
was frightful to behold the disfigured face of the earth. In some places
lakes were scooped out, and mountains piled up on their brink. Trees
were rooted up and broken; little streams had disappeared, even large
rivers had ceased to be. The tall magnolia lay broken in many pieces,
the larch tree had been snapped like a rotten reed. The flowers of the
meadows were scorched and seared, the deer in the thicket lay mangled
and bruised, the birds sat timid and shy on the broken bough. The people
called their priests together, and demanded why these things were. The
priests answered, "Because the Master of Life was angry, but with whom
they knew not. Yet soon should they learn, for there was one coming
hither who would be able to tell them."

[Footnote A: Wekolis--the whip-poor-will.]

Three suns had passed, and the knowledge of the cause still remained
hidden from them. On the morning of the fourth day, when the chief went
out of his lodge, he found his beloved daughter weeping by the door of
the cabin. Oh! how changed was the beautiful Mekaia--she was no longer a
Star-flower. The brightness of her eye had departed, as the beauty of
the green fields and leafy forests is driven hence by the chills of
winter, her cheek was sunken and hollow, her long black locks lay
uncombed upon her shoulders, and the joy and cheerfulness which once
warmed her heart, and made her foot lighter than the antelope's, were no
more. She, whose feet were fleeter than the deer's, now walked feebly,
and rested oft; she, whose tongue outchirped the merriest birds of the
grove, and warbled sweeter music than the song-sparrow, now spoke in
strains as gloomy and sad as the bittern that cries in the swamps when
night is coming on, or the solitary bird of wisdom perched among the
leaves of the oak. The father sat down by her, and asked her whence she
came.

"From the valley upon this side of the mountains," she answered.

"Where is thy husband?" demanded Wasabajinga.

"Dead," answered the Starflower, and wept afresh.

"Wah!" exclaimed the warrior, and hid his face with his hands. When he
had sat thus awhile, he inquired the manner of his death. She told him,
that, before they reached the mountains of the Wahconda, they saw a pale
man coming towards them, mounted on a low, black horse. When he came up
them, he asked her husband if he would buy blankets, and beads, and the
fire-eater. That the Wahconda's son answered, "No;" and told him it was
very--very bad in him to carry the fire-eater, to destroy the poor
misguided Indians. The man upon the black horse answered, "That he was a
better man than the Wahconda's son, for he was no heathen, but lived
where men worshipped a greater Wahconda than his father in a beautiful
house built with hands, and not beneath the shade of the cypress and the
oak." Upon this, her husband did but smile, when the pale man elevated
the spear he carried in his hand, and, with the bolts which issued from
it, struck him to the earth, from which he never rose again. Then there
came a cry of mourning from the cabin of the Little Black Bear. The
women rushed out, and tore their hair, and cut their flesh with sharp
stones, through grief for the death of the husband of their beloved
Starflower. And they sung a melancholy lament, for the youth who had
perished in the morning of life, while the down was yet upon his cheek,
and his heart had never felt the shaft of sorrow. They sung how happy
the lovers were, ere the malice and cruelty of white men destroyed their
joys; ere their sacrilegious hands had laid one low in the dust, and
left the other to pine under the bereavement, till death would be a
blessing. They painted the anger and grief of the great Wahconda when he
found the darling of his house numbered with the slain. They sung that,
exasperated with the children of earth for the murder of his beloved
son, he called upon his earthquakes to deface and lay waste their
country. They bade the eye note how well these ministers of his wrath
had performed his dread commands. So they sung--"For many a weary day's
journey upon the banks of the Mighty River, for many a long encamping in
the direction of the setting sun, the land lies in ruins. The bough is
broken, and the solid trunk is rent. The flower lies bleeding, and the
voice of the dove is hushed. But see, he has bidden the marks of havoc
be effaced from the country of the Ottoes, because it is the native land
of the beautiful woman who had become the wife of his son."

Long was the mourning continued, and deep the grief, which for many a
moon pervaded the cabins and camp of the Ottoes. The Great Wahconda did
not permit the Starflower to remain long upon the earth, but soon called
her away to be re-united to his beloved son in the land of spirits. Yet
she often returns to look upon the place of her birth, to breathe on the
things she loved, and to sit beneath the shade of the trees she planted.
In the season of flowers, she is often seen by moonlight, binding
together the choicest which grow on the prairie, and her voice is often
heard in the sighs of the breeze in spring. The Wahconda's son never
comes with her, for he fears the treachery and violence of the pale
faces.


NOTES.

(1) _Stealing horses_--p. 148.

Stealing horses is one of the most meritorious acts an Indian can
perform, and is boasted of at his feasts among his other praiseworthy
deeds. Next to scalping, it is the greatest feat of the Indian warrior.
Before going out to war they pray to the Great Spirit to favour them,
among other things, with the ability to steal horses.


(2) _Struck dead bodies._--p. 148.

Striking the dead, or the disabled body of a living person, is
considered the third in the scale of honours. These things are
regulated, among the Indians, with the nicety which attends the
distribution of academical prizes at the Universities.

(3) _Lived in the same cabin, &c._--p. 149.

All the wives of an Indian reside under the same roof. As an Indian is
despotic in his family, there is seldom any domestic disagreement in his
cabin; if there be, the whip is called in to arbitrate the difference,
and the dispute is soon adjusted. I shall notice this subject in a note
in another part of the work.

(4) _Lodge of his father._--p. 152.

The dwelling-place of the Supreme Being is variously located by the
Indians. I shall not notice their reported belief, which places the Good
Spirit "above the blue sky," and gives the Evil Spirit the Antipodes.
Such, as it is mentioned by Loskiel and by Purchas, are the opinions of
the Eastern Indians. These are obviously derived from the white people.
The following may be pronounced the unsophisticated traditions of the
different tribes on this point, and they are very curious.

"About thirty miles below the falls of St. Anthony, at which I arrived
the tenth day after I left Lape Pepin, is a remarkable cave of an
amazing depth. The Indians term it Wakon-teebe, that is, the Dwelling of
the Great Spirit. The entrance into it is about four feet wide; the
height of it fire feet. The arch within it is near fifteen feet high,
and about thirty feet broad. The bottom of it consists of fine, clear
sand. About twenty feet from the entrance begins a lake, the water of
which is transparent, and extends to an unsearchable distance; for the
darkness of the cave prevents all possibility of acquiring a knowledge
of it. I threw a small pebble towards the interior parts of it with my
utmost strength: I could hear that it fell into the water, and,
notwithstanding that it was of so small a size, it caused an astonishing
and horrible noise, that reverberated through all those gloomy regions.
I found in this cave many Indian hieroglyphics, which appeared very
ancient, for time had nearly covered them with moss, so that it was with
difficulty I could trace them. They were cut in a rude manner upon the
inside of the walls, which were composed of a stone so extremely soft,
that it might easily be penetrated with a knife; a stone every where to
be found near the Mississippi." _Carver's Travels_, p. 39, 40.

Very many of the Western Indians believe that the Supreme Being has his
residence in the Rocky Mountains; and some of them make him the
Sun.--_Charlevoix_, ii, 180, 117.

The Chippeways suppose the islands in Lake Superior to have been, from
their first formation, the residence of the Great Spirit, and relate
many stories of enchantment and magical tricks that had been experienced
by such as were obliged, through stress of weather, to take shelter
there.--See one of them further on.

The Hurons believe that Michabou, the God of the Waters, and sometimes
their Great Spirit, formerly dwelt at Michillimackinac where he was
born.

(5) _The thunder_.--p. 153.

The Indians have but one way to account for atmospherical phenomena; it
is always by the intervention of a Supreme or Spiritual Being of the
earth, the air, or the waters. Thus they ascribe earthquakes to the
moving of the Great Tortoise which bears the _Island_ (continent) on its
back. They say he shakes himself or changes his position. The Missouri
Indians believe earthquakes to be the effect of supernatural agency,
connected like the thunder with the immediate operations of the Master
of Life. Thunder and lightning impress them with inconceivable terror.
Their opinions of the cause are various. Some take it for a voice of a
particular species of men who fly in the air. Others say the noise comes
from certain birds that are unknown to them. The Montagnais say it is
the effort of a genius to bring up a snake which he hath swallowed; and
they found this notion on observing that when the thunder falls upon a
tree, it leaves something like, the shape of a snake.

The Konzas believe that, when a man is killed in battle, the thunder
takes him up, they do not know whither. In going to battle each man
traces an imaginary figure of the thunder on the soil, and he who
represents it incorrectly is killed by the thunder.

The Delawares, who knew nothing of the cause of natural phenomena, nor
do they desire to be informed of them, conceived thunder to be a spirit
dwelling in the mountains, and now and then sallying forth to make
himself heard. Some of them imagined it to proceed from the crowing of a
monstrous turkey-cock in the heavens; others from enraged evil spirits.

Carver says in his _Travels_: "We had just landed, and were preparing to
set up our tents for the night, when a heavy cloud overspread the
heavens, and the most dreadful thunder, lightning, and rain, issued from
it that ever I beheld. The Indians were greatly terrified, and ran to
seek such shelter as they could. The Indian chiefs themselves, though
their courage in war is usually invincible, could not help trembling at
the horrid combustion."--_Carver_, 56. The southern Indians believe
thunder to be the voice of the Almighty.--_Adair,_ 86. They believe that
Minggo Ishto Eloa, "the great chieftain of thunder" sometimes binds up
the clouds and withholds rain.--_Ibid_., 89.

Eclipses they attribute to the attempts of the Evil Spirits to embarrass
the labours of the luminary which is eclipsed. "The first lunar
eclipse," says Adair, "I saw, after I lived with the Indians, was among
the Cherokees in 1736; and, during the continuance of it, their conduct
appeared surprising to one who had not seen the like before; they all
ran wild, this way and that way, like lunatics, firing their guns,
whooping and hallooing, beating of kettles, ringing horse-bells, and
making the most horrid noises that human beings possibly could. This was
done to assist the suffering moon."--_Adair_, 65.

(6) _The chief gives her to him_.--p. 156.

Marriages among the Indians are proposed and concluded in different
ways. Thus, among the Delawares, the parents on both sides, having
observed an attachment growing up between two young persons, negotiate
for them. This generally commences from the house where the bridegroom
lives, whose mother is the negotiatrix for him, and begins her duties by
taking a good leg of venison or bear's meat, or something else of the
same kind, to the house where the bride dwells, not forgetting to
mention that her son has killed it. In return for this, the mother of
the bride, if she otherwise approves the match, which she well
understands by the presents to be intended, will prepare a good dish of
victuals, the produce of the labour of women--such as beans, Indian
corn, or the like--and then, taking it to the house where the bridegroom
lives, will say, "This is the produce of my daughter's field, and she
also prepared it." From this time (if the presents be accepted) not only
presents of this kind are continued on both sides, but articles of
clothing are presented to the parents of each party by way of return for
what they have received, and of these the young people always have a
share. The friendship between the two families daily increasing, they do
their domestic and field-work jointly, and when the young people have
agreed to live together, the parents supply them with necessaries, such
as a kettle, dishes, bowls, &c. &c.

The men who have no parents to negotiate for them, or who otherwise
choose to manage the matter for themselves, have two simple ways of
attaining their object. The first is by stepping up to the woman whom
they wish to marry, saying, "If you are willing, I will take you as
wife;" when, if she answers in the affirmative, she either goes with him
immediately, or meets him at an appointed time or place. The other
method is--(I give it in their bad English)--"Indian, when he see
industrious squaw, which he like, he go to _him,_ place his two
fore-fingers close aside each other, make two look like one--look squaw
in the face--see _him_ smile, which is all one _he_ say _yes!_ So he
take _him_ home."

Among the Iroquois, Miamis, &c. treaties of marriage are entirely
carried on by the parents; the parties interested do not appear at all,
but give themselves up entirely to the will of those on whom they
depend. The parents, however, do not conclude any thing without their
consent, but this is only a formality. The first advances must be made
by the matrons. Not but that, if any girl were to continue too long
without being sued for, her family would act underhand to procure her a
suitor.

In some places the young man is contented to go and sit by the side of
the young woman in her cabin; and, if she suffers it and continues in
her place, it is taken for her consent, and the marriage is concluded.
The customs of the different tribes do not essentially vary. What should
you say, my fair readers, at being "wooed and won" in this way?

(7) _Indian farm of marriage_.--p. 156.

The Indian nations differ but little from each other in their marriage
ceremonies. The tribes that inhabit the borders of Canada have the
following custom:--When every preliminary is agreed on, and the day
appointed, the friends and acquaintance of both parties assemble at the
house or tent of the oldest relation of the bridegroom, where a feast is
prepared on the occasion. The company who meet to assist at the festival
are sometimes very numerous; they dance, they sing, and enter into every
other diversion usual at any of their public rejoicings. When these are
finished, all those who attended merely out of ceremony depart, and the
bridegroom and the bride are left alone with three or four of the
nearest and oldest relations on either side; those of the bridegroom
being men, and those of the bride women.

Presently the bride, attended by these few friends, having withdrawn
herself for the purpose, appears at one of the doors of the house, and
is led to the bridegroom, who stands ready to receive her. Having now
taken their station on a mat, placed in the centre of the room, they lay
hold of the extremities of a wand about four feet long, by which they
continue separated, whilst the old men pronounce some short harangues
suitable to the occasion. The married couple after this make a public
declaration of the love and regard they entertain for each other, and
still holding the rod between them they dance and sing. When they have
finished this part of the ceremony, they break the rod into as many
pieces as there are witnesses present, who each take a piece, and
preserve it with great care. The bride is then re-conducted out of the
door as she entered, where her young companions wait to attend her to
her father's house; there the bridegroom is obliged to seek her.

Another manner of performing the ceremony is said to be peculiar to the
Naudowessies. When one of their young men has fixed on a young woman he
approves of, he discovers his passion to her parents, who give him an
invitation to come and live with them in their tents. He accordingly
accepts their offer, and by so doing engages to reside in it for a whole
year in the character of a menial servant. During this time he hunts,
and brings all the game he kills to the family; by which means the
father has an opportunity of seeing whether he can provide for the
support of his daughter and the children that might be the consequence
of their union. When this period is expired, the marriage is solemnized
after the custom of the country, in the following manner:--Three or four
of the oldest male relations of the bridegroom, and as many of the
bride's, accompany the young couple from their respective tents to an
open part in the centre of the camp. The chiefs and warriors being here
assembled to receive them, a party of the latter are drawn up into two
ranks on each side of the bride and bridegroom, immediately on their
arrival. The principal chief then acquaints the whole assembly with the
design of their meeting, and tells them that the couple before them,
mentioning at the same time their names, are come to avow publicly their
intention of living together as man and wife. He then asks the young
people alternately whether they desire that the union may take place.
Having declared, with an audible voice, that they do so, the warriors
fix their arrows, and discharge them over the needs of the married pair;
this done, the chief pronounces them man and wife. The bridegroom then
turns around, and, bending his body, takes his wife upon his back, in
which manner he carries her, amidst the acclamations of the spectators,
to his tent. The ceremony is concluded by the most plentiful feast the
new-married man can afford, and songs and dances, according to the usual
custom, conclude the festival.

Among the Quapaws, as I have been informed, the husband, on the
consummation of his marriage, presents his wife with a leg of deer, and
she in return offers him an ear of maize.




THE IDOLS.

A TRADITION OF THE RICARAS.


    "Whither goest thou, valiant warrior?
    Whither goest thou, Son of the Beaver?
    Man whom the Mahas fear;
    Man whom the Pawnees shun;
    Man of the red and painted cheek;
    Man of the fierce and fearful shout;
    Whither goest thou?"
    "I go to make an offering,
    I go to give to the Idols a bow,
    An arrow, and a spear,
    The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,
    That stand on the willow bank,
    On the willow bank, that o'erlooks the stream,
    The shallow and turbid stream;
    I go to ask that my heart may be made,
    Like the heart of the panther, fierce and stout,
    And my soul as clean as the soul of a child,
    And my foot as swift as the foot of a buck,
    That victory may be mine,
    That the pole of my lodge may bend with scalps,
    And the song of my lips
    Be the song of a Brave,
    Who sings of bright deeds in the ears of his tribe."
    "Go! Warrior, go!"

    "Whither goest thou, Hunter?
    Whither goest thou, keen eyed-man?
    Man whom the Beaver fears;
    Man whom the Panther shuns;
    Man of the fleet and ardent foot,
    And the firm and patient heart,
    And the never blanching-cheek,
    Whither goest thou?"
    "I go to make an offering,
    I go to give to the Idols flesh,
    The juicy flesh of the elk,
    The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,
    That stand on the willow bank,
    On the willow bank that o'erlooks the stream,
    The shallow and turbid stream;
    I go to ask that my eye maybe true
    To follow the trail of the deer,
    And to lead in the fox's track,
    And strong my arm to send the dart
    To the life of the bison-ox,
    And stout my heart, when I list to the growl
    Of the cubs in the panther's den."
    "Go! Hunter, go!"

    "Whither goest thou, Priest?
    Man of wisdom, whither goest thou?
    Man that commun'st with the Voice[A],
    And notest the lightning's words;
    Man that hast knowledge of things unseen
    By the eye of thy brothers,
    Whither goest thou?"

    "I go to make an offering:
    I go to lay my magic robe,
    My shaggy hide of the old black bear,
    Before the Idols,
    The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,
    That stand on the willow bank,
    On the willow bank that o'erlooks the stream,
    The shallow and turbid stream;
    I go to ask my Okkis[B] to give
    To the sleep of my nights the dream that shows
    The image of things to come,
    That I may behold the fate of my tribe,
    And the fate of the Indian race;
    And count the scalps from Mahas torn,
    And the prisoners brought from Pawnee lands,
    And the beads from the town of the Rock[C];
    And number the coal-black horses,
    The Ricara Braves shall steal
    From the men who wear the cross,
    That shines like the cold, pale moon"[D].
    "Go! Priest, go!"

    "And whither goest thou, Maiden?
    Dove of the forest, whither goest thou?
    Maiden, as bright as the Hunter's Star,
    Maiden, whose hair is the grape-clustered vine,
    Whose neck is the neck of the swan,
    Whose eyes are the eyes of the dove,
    Whose hand is as small as the red-oak's leaf,
    Whose foot is the length of the lark's spread wing,
    Whose step is the step of the antelope's child,
    Whose voice is the voice of a rill in the moon,
    Of the rill's most gentle song;
    Whither goest thou?"

 "I go to make an offering.
    I go to lay the gifts of my Brave,
    The crest of the Song Sparrow[E], that which sang
    From her bower in the bush, on the beautiful night,
    When he called me "dearest,"
    And the rainbow-tail of the Spirit Bird,
    And the shells that were dyed in the sunset's blush,
    And the beads that he brought from a far-off land,
    And the skin of the striped lynx that he slew
    Ere the mocassins deck'd his feet,
    Before the Idols,
    The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,
    That stand on the willow-bank,
    On the willow-bank that o'erlooks the stream,
    The shallow and turbid stream.
    I make them my Okkis to guard my Brave;
    I go to ask them to shield his breast
    Against the Maha's darts;
    To give to his arm the strength of two;
    To give to his foot the fleetness of two;
    To wring from his heart the drop of blood,
    If he hath such drop, that causes fear
    To make his cry like the Serpent's hiss[F],
    Among the hills of the setting sun,
    And when there is Maha blood on his hand,
    And a bunch of Maha scalps at his back.
    To send him back to these longing arms,
    That I may wipe from his weary brow
    The drops that spring from his toil."
    "Go! Maiden, go!"

[Footnote A: Thunder, sometimes called by the Indians, _par excellence_,
"the Voice."]

[Footnote B: "Okkis"--_protecting spirit_. See note 1, page 195.]

[Footnote C: Quebec--Heights of Abraham.]

[Footnote D: The Spaniards, from whom the Indians first procured the
horse. This great acquisition is referred to in many of their
traditions. See "The Wahconda's Son," &c.]

[Footnote E: Song Sparrow--_Fringilla melodica_.]

[Footnote F: Serpent's hiss, the thunder. See note 5, p. 167.]

With the above characteristic and wild song, chanted with the action and
in the tones peculiar to the Indian story-teller, and which, in truth,
is always the manner in which their traditions are related, the Little
Snake, the principal chief of the Ricaras, and who was as celebrated
throughout the wilds of the west for his skill in song as Carolan in the
palace of his mountain lord, or Blondel at the court of Coeur de Lion,
commenced his tale. As far as the visual organ was concerned, Mr.
Verdier was before acquainted with the curious images to which it
referred. He had seen, a few miles back, from the Mississippi, a small
"willow-bank," rising in the words of the song above a "shallow and
turbid stream," upon which were two stones bearing a great resemblance
to the human form, and a third having a still greater resemblance to a
dog. He knew that they were objects of exceeding veneration with all
the tribes of the west, especially with the Ricaras, and that whenever
they passed them, and they often deviated many miles from their path for
that purpose, they never failed to make an offering, generally of some
ornament, or valued part of their dress, or martial equipment, to
propitiate the intelligences supposed to inhabit the statues, and render
them favourable to their wants and wishes, and to their success in war,
or the chace He saw that the continued observance of this rite for a
long period, probably for ages, had collected around the "Idols" a large
heap of stones, sticks, blankets, deer-skins, eagle's' feathers, &c.,
but he had remained till now in ignorance of the tradition, which
assigned to them a past existence as human beings. He knew that every
thing which is not in the common order of things, even a tree singularly
shaped, or presenting an unusual excrescence, a blade of grass twisted
into an uncommon form, a berry or a stalk of maize growing to an unusual
size, become, in the eyes of these wild and superstitious children of
the forest, invested with supernatural interest; but he had supposed
that it was the mere resemblance which these statues bore to human
beings that had caused the Indians to regard them as objects worthy of
the most hallowed form of their rude worship.

It may be as well to say in this place, what I had contemplated making
the subject of a note. It is this--that Indian poetry always wants the
correspondence of the last sound of one verse with the last sound or
syllable of another. There cannot, I imagine, be found a single instance
of their having attempted to produce the "harmonical succession of
sounds," which has imparted so much richness and beauty to the
cultivated languages. It is necessary to state this, that my readers may
not suppose that the omission to make the lines rhyme grew out of an
attempt to give to the poetry an appearance of greater originality, and
of greater singularity and wildness, the supposed first step to success.
I could not, consistently with my determination to represent truly the
manners and customs of that interesting and hard-used race in their own
style and method, attempt to introduce rhyme into their rude lyrics. The
poetry I have given, though it may want the inspiration of Indian
poetry, will be found to possess its method. Another trait of Indian
poetry to be noticed is the frequent repetition of favourite passages
and incidents.

The Indian story-teller, having paused a moment to recruit his strength
and voice, which had suffered by his energy, and to gather the opinion
of the audience, which, for the first time in the present assembly, was
expressed by audible signs of satisfaction, an unusual occurrence in an
Indian audience, resumed his tale as follows:--

    And who are they
    To whom the Brave has given his bow,
    His arrow, and his spear;
    To whom the Hunter has given the flesh,
    The juicy flesh of the elk,
    At whose feet the Priest has laid his robe,
    The shaggy skin of the old black bear,
    Where she, as bright as the Hunter's Star[A],
    The Maid with hair like the clustering grapes,
    Whose neck is the neck of the swan,
    Whose eyes are the eyes of the dove,
    Whose hand is as small as the red-oak's leaf,
    Whose foot is the length of the lark's spread wing.
    Whose step is the step of the antelope's child,
    Whose voice is the voice of a rill in the moon,
    Of the rill's most gentle song,
    Has cast the gifts of her Brave,
    Cast, without a tear,
    The tuft of the Song Sparrow, that which sang
    From its bower in the bush on the beautiful night,
    That he called his maiden, "dearest,"
    And the rainbow-tail of the Spirit Bird,
    And the shells that were dyed in the sunset's blush,
    And the beads that he brought from a far-off land,
    And the skin of the striped lynx that he slew,
    Ere the mocassins decked his feet?
    I will tell you who they are:
    Listen, brother!
    Thou from the distant land,
    Pour oil into thine ears, for I
    Will fill them with a song.

    They both were Ricaras,
    And the Dog was a Ricara Dog;
    It was many suns ago,
    Yet ask me not how long,
    For the warrior cannot tell,
    But this do I know the rivers ran
    Through forest, and prairie, and copse,
    And the mountains were piled to the base of the clouds,
    And the waters were deep,
    And the winter was cold,
    And the summer was hot;
    Grass grew on the prairies,
    Flowers bloomed on the lea,
    The lark sang in the morning,
    The owl hooted at night,
    And the world was such a world
    As the Ricara world is now:--
    My brother hears.

    One was a Ricara boy,
    And one was a Ricara girl,
    And one was a Ricara dog.
    My brother hears.
    The boy and the girl were lovers,
    And the dog loved both,
    They loved each other more
    Than the soul of an Indian loves his home;
    The lodge of his wife and babes,
    Or the graves,
    The mossy graves,
    The green and grass-covered graves,
    Of his fathers mouldered and gone;
    They loved each other more
    Than the warrior loves the shout of his foe,
    Or the festival of scalps,
    Or the hunter to see the wing,
    Of a plover beating the air.

    Their fathers were friends;
    They dwelt together in one cabin;
    They hunted the woods together;
    They warred together,
    Raising the self-same shout of onset,
    Waking the self-same song of triumph:
    Their mothers were sisters;
    They dwelt together in one cabin;
    Together they wrought in the field of maize;
    Each bent her back to the bison's flesh,
    Load and load alike;
    And they went to the wild wood together,
    To bring home the food for the fire;
    Kind were these sisters to each other;
    There was always a clear sky[B] in their cabins:--
    My brother hears.

    One Ricara father said to his friend,
    While these babes yet swung
    In their baskets of bark
    From the bough of the oak,
    Listen!
    I have a young eagle in my eyrie,
    Thou hast a young dove in thy nest,
    Let us mate them.
    Though now they be but squabs,
    There will be but twice eight chills of the lake;
    And twice eight fails of the maple leaf;
    And twice eight bursts of the earth from frosts;
    The corn will ripen bat twice eight times,
    Tall, sweet corn;
    The rose will bloom but twice eight times,
    Beautiful rose!
    The vine will give but twice eight times
    Its rich black clusters,
    Sweet ripe clusters,
    Grapes of the land of the Ricaras,
    Ere thy squab shall be an eagle,
    Ere my little dove shall wear
    The feathers and plumes of a full-grown bird.
    Let us pledge them now
    To each other,
    That when thy son has become a man,
    And painted his face as a brave man paints,
    Red on the cheek,
    Red on the brow,
    And wears but the single lock[C],
    That is graced with the plumes of the Warrior-bird,
    And has stolen thy bow for the field of strife,
    And run away with thy spear,
    And thou findest thy sheaf of arrows gone,
    And nearest his shout as he follows the steps
    Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge,
    And my little dove,
    My beautiful dove,
    Sings in the grove, in the hour of eve,
    All alone, soft songs.
    Maiden's songs of the restless hour,
    When the full heart sings, it knows not why:
    My son shall build himself a lodge,
    And thy daughter shall light his fires.

    Then said his friend,
    'Tis well;
    Nor hast thou a forked tongue:
    My son is pledged to thee,
    And to thy little daughter.
    When he has become a warrior-man,
    And painted his face with the ochre of wrath,
    Red on the cheek,
    Red on the brow,
    And wears but a scalp-lock,
    Decked with the plumes of the warrior-bird,
    And has stolen my bow for the field of strife,
    And run away with my spear,
    And I find my sheaf of arrows gone,
    And hear his shout as he follows the step
    Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge,
    And thy dove
    Sings in the grove in the hour of eve,
    All alone, soft songs,
    Maiden songs, songs of the unquiet hour,
    Songs that gush out of the swelling soul,
    As the river breaks over its banks:
    My son shall build himself a cabin,
    And thy daughter shall light his fires.

    When these two Ricara babes were grown,
    To know the meaning of words,
    And to read the language of eyes,
    And to guess by the throbs of the heart,
    It was said to them,
    To the girl, he will build thee a lodge,
    And bring thee a good fat deer of the glade;
    To the boy, she will light thy fires, and be
    The partner of thy lot.
    And knowing this they loved:
    No more were they seen apart,
    They went together to pluck the grape,
    To look for the berry which grew on the moor,
    To fright the birds from the maize;
    They hunted together the lonely copse,
    To search for the bittern's eggs,
    And they wandered together to pluck from the waste
    The first blue flower of the budding moon;
    And, when the village children were come,
    Where the rope of grass,
    Or the twisted thong of bison-hide,
    Hung from the bough,
    To swing in childish sport,
    These two did always swing each other,
    And if by chance they found themselves apart,
    Then tears bedew'd their little cheeks,
    And the gobs of grief came thick and fast,
    Till they found each other's arms again,
    And so they grew:--
    My brother hears.

    The maiden grew up beautiful,
    Tall as the chin of a lofty man,
    Bright as the star that shines,
    To guide the Indian hunter through
    The pathless wilds to his home.
    Her hair was like the grape-clustered vine;
    Her neck was the neck of the swan;
    Her eyes were the eyes of the dove;
    Her hand was as small as the red oak's leaf;
    Her foot was the length of the lark's spread wing;
    Her step was the step of the antelope's child;
    Her voice was the voice of a rill in the moon,
    Of the rill's most gentle song:
    Oh, how beautiful was the Ricara girl!
    How worthy to be the wife of the man,
    And to light-the fires of a _Brave_!
    How fit-to be the mother
    Of stout warriors and expert hunters!

    And how grew the Ricara boy?--
    Does my brother listen?
    He does, it is well.--
    He grew to be fair to the eye,
    Like a tree that hath smooth bark,
    But is rotten or hollow at core;
    A vine that cumbers the earth
    With the weight of leaves and flowers,
    But never brings forth fruit:
    He did not become a man:
    He painted not as a warrior paints,
    Red on the cheek,
    Red on the brow,
    Nor wore the gallant scalp-lock,
    Black with the plumes of the warrior-bird,
    Nor stole his father's bow,
    Nor ran away with his spear,
    Nor took down the barbed sheaf,
    Nor raised his shout as he followed the step
    Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge.
    He better loved to sit by the fire,
    While the women were spinning the mulberry-bark(2)
    Or to lie at his length by the stream,
    To watch the nimble salmon's sport,
    Or, placed by the leafy perch of the bird,
    To snare the poor simple thing;
    He better loved to rove with girls
    In search of early flowers.

    The Ricara father said to the maid,
    "Listen to me, my dove,
    When I gave thee away,
    I deem'd that I gave
    My child to one who would gain renown,
    By the deeds which had given his sires renown,
    To a boy who would snatch, ere his limbs were grown,
    The heaviest bow of the strongest man,
    And hie to the strife with a painted face,
    And a shout that should ring in the lonely glades,
    Like a spirit's among the hills;
    I did not deem I had given my dove
    To a youth with the heart of a doe;
    A gatherer-in of flowers,
    A snarer of simple birds,
    A weeder with women of maize[D],
    A man with the cheek of a girl--
    Dost thou listen?

    "Now, since thy lover is weak in heart,
    A woman in mind and soul,
    Nor boasts, nor wishes to boast,
    Of deeds in battle done,
    Nor sings, nor wishes to sing,
    Of men by his arm laid low,
    Nor tells how he bore the flames, his foes
    Did kindle around his fettered limbs;
    And, since he finds more joy in flowers,
    And had rather work in the maize-clad field,
    Than wend to the glorious strife
    With the warriors of his tribe,
    I will not keep my faith.--
    My daughter hears.--
    I bid thee see the youth once more,
    And then behold his face no more.
    Tell him, the child of the Red Wing weds
    With none but the fierce and bold,
    Tell him, the man, whose fires she lights,
    Must be strong of soul, and stout of arm,
    Able to send a shaft to the heart
    Of him who would quench that fire,
    Able to bend a warrior's bow,
    Able to poise a warrior's spear,
    Able to bear, without a groan,
    The torments devised by hungry foes,
    The pincers rending his flesh,
    The hot stones searing his eye-balls.--
    Dost thou hear?"

    Then down the daughter's beauteous cheeks
    Ran drops like the plenteous summer rain.
    "I hear, my father,
    Yet, hard thy words weigh on my heart;
    Thou gav'st me to him, while we lay,
    Unknowing the pledge, in our willow cage(3),
    When first we opened our eyes on the world,
    And saw the bright and twinkling stars,
    And the dazzling sun, and the moon alive(4),
    And the fields bespread with blooming flowers,
    And we breath'd the balmy winds of spring;
    The old men said, to one another,
    'Dost thou know, brother,
    Thar, when his years are the years of a man,
    And his deeds are the deeds of the good and true,
    The son of the Yellow Pine
    Shall marry the Red Wing's daughter?'
    And the women took up the tale,
    And the boys and girls, when met to play,
    Told in our ears the pleasing words,
    That I was to be his wife.

    "And, knowing this, we loved,
    And 'tis hard to break the chains of love;
    Thou may'st sooner rive the flinty oak,
    With the alder spear of a sickly boy,
    Than chase him away from my soul.
    Twice eight bright years have our hearts been wed.
    And thou hast look'd on and smiled;
    And now thou com'st, with a frowning brow,
    And bid'st me chase him from my soul.
    I know his arm is weak,
    I know his heart is the heart of a deer,
    And his soul is the soul of a dove;
    Yet hath he won my virgin heart,
    And I cannot drive him hence."
    But the father would not hear,
    And he bade his daughter think no more
    Of the Ricara youth for her mate;
    And he said, ere the Moon of Harvest passed,
    She should light the fires of a Brave.

    What said the Ricara youth,
    When he heard the stern command,
    Which broke his being's strongest bond,
    As ye break an untwisted rope of grass?
    Sorrow o'erwhelm'd his soul,
    And grief gush'd out at his eyes.
    With an aching heart he left his lodge,
    When evening gray-mist walk'd out of the earth,
    And wandered forth with his dog--
    To the woods he went,
    To the lonely, dim, and silent woods,
    To weep and sigh:
    Whom saw he there?--
    Does my brother hear?--
    He saw the maiden, so long beloved,
    Her with hair like the grape-cluster'd vine,
    Whose neck was the neck of the swan,
    Whose eyes were the eyes of the dove,
    Whose hand was as small as the red-oak's leaf,
    Whose foot was the length of the lark's spread wwig,
    Whose step was the step of the antelope's child.
    Whose voice was the voice of a rill in the moon,
    Of the rill's most gentle song;
    But oh, how chang'd!
    Beaming eye and bounding foot,
    Laughing lip and placid brow,
    Hath the beauteous maid no more.
    Slow is her step as a crippled bird's,
    And mournful her voice as the dying note
    Of a thunder-cloud that hath passed;
    And yet she joys to meet the youth.
    Into his arms she flies,
    Like a fawn that escapes from the hunter's shaft,
    And reaches its dam unhurt.
    Lock'd in a soft and fond embrace,
    The lovers recline on the flowery bank,
    And pledge their faith anew;

    And loudly they call on the host of stars,
    And the cold and dimly shining moon,
    And the spirits, that watch by night in the air,
    Or chirp in the hollow oak[E], to see
    The plighting of their hands:
    They married themselves,
    And man and wife
    Became in the wilderness.

    But love alone could not keep alive
    The Ricara boy and girl;
    The woods were scarce of game,
    No berries were on the heath,
    The winds had shaken the grapes from the vine,
    And hunger assail'd the pair.
    What did they then?
    They knelt and pray'd to the Master of Life--
    Him of the terrible voice in the cloud--
    To send them food, or call
    Their spirits away to the happy lands
    Beyond the vale of death.
    Did the Master hear?
    Brother he always hears
    When mortals go in clay(5)

    The Master sat on the crest of the world[F],
    Sat at the door of his mighty lodge,
    Tossing bright stars at the waning moon[G],
    When there came on the winds the woes of the pair,
    And pity filled his soul,
    And grief weighed down his heart.
    He called to his side the spirit that guards
    The warlike Indian race,
    The spirit of courage, and wisdom, and strength,
    And the fearless spirit came.
    "Dost thou see," said he, "the Ricara pair,
    Caltacotah and Miskwa, the Red,
    They have married themselves in the wilderness,
    And now they die for food.
    Look at the husband, note him well?
    He hath never dared to look on a foe,
    Nor paints his face as a warrior paints,
    Nor wears the gallant scalp-lock,
    Nor hath he a hunter's eye;
    Unable is he to strike a deer:
    The white and fringed skin of the goat,
    Which covers the breast of the maiden, conceals
    A manlier heart than his.
    Go, and end their woes."
    The spirit answered, "I hear."

    The shadows of evening fell on the earth,
    And the mists were out,
    And the bat was abroad.
    The Ricara pair were joyful now,
    For they had found a vine of grapes.
    On the willow bank that o'erlooks the stream,
    The shallow and turbid stream,
    And, though the grapes were shrivell'd and sour,
    These two were joyful now,
    When all at once, ere their lips had touch'd,
    The Manitou stood at their side,
    And trembling shook their limbs.
    He saw the woes of the pair,
    And he bade them cease to be;
    He bade them become a thing to show
    The mercy and goodness of Him that rules--
    The flintiness of her father's heart--
    Their own tried constancy;
    And he bade them remain in the wilderness,
    Till the rivers should cease to flow,
    And the stars should cease to shine.

    And they became the Idols,
    The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,
    That stood on the willow bank.
    'Tis thither the tribes of the land resort,
    To make their offerings;
    Thither the warrior carries his bow,
    His arrow, and his spear,
    And the hunter, the juicy flesh of the elk;
    The priest, the shaggy skins of the bear,
    And she of the fair and youthful form,
    The gifts of the favour'd Brave.
    All bear thither a valued gift,
    And lay it at their feet;
    No Ricara takes his bow, till he
    Has oft besought their aid,
    No Ricara paints as a warrior paints,
    Red on the cheek,
    Red on the brow,
    Till he has thrice before them bow'd,
    And said to them, "Make me strong!"
    And the maiden and the priest
    Petition there for aid.

[Footnote A: The North Star.]

[Footnote B: Clear sky, domestic peace, absence of family brawls.]

[Footnote C: The Indian warriors shave off all their hair, except a
single lock on the top, of the head, which is left for the enemy to take
the scalp, in case he overcomes.]

[Footnote D: Maize, Indian corn--"Cobbett's corn."]

[Footnote E: The tree-toad is an object that impresses the Indians with
great fear.]

[Footnote F: Rocky Mountains.]

[Footnote G: The Indians suppose the shooting of stars to be occasioned
by spirits who are at war with the moon, and assail her in this way.]


NOTES.

(1) _Okkis._--p. 175.

The particular object of the devotion of an Indian is termed his
"Okkis," or "Medicine," or "Manitou," all meaning the same thing, which
is neither more nor less than a "household God." The latter, however,
may mean a spirit of the air; the former is tied to one predicament. It
is selected by himself, sometimes at a very early age, but generally at
the period when he enters the duties of life, and is some invisible
being, or, more commonly, some animal, which thenceforward becomes his
protector or intercessor with the Great Spirit. The Indians place
unbounded confidence in these Okkis, and always carry them wherever they
go, being persuaded that they take upon them the office of sentinels.
Hence, they sleep in perfect security, convinced of the entire good
faith of the guardian. There is no possible form which they have not
permitted these "medicines" to take. Birds, beasts, and especially of
the carnivorous species, are most frequently the adopted sentinels; but
sticks, trees, stones, &c., have been known to be selected for that
responsible office. If they prove treacherous, and permit any disaster
to happen to their charge, they are frequently soundly whipped, and
sometimes committed to the flames.

Not only are inanimate objects elected to take the guardianship of
individuals--they sometimes become protectors of the national interests.
There is a large, fiat rock, about ten miles from Plymouth,
Massachusetts, which continues to receive tribute from the Indians,
probably from having, at a former period, been their tutelary genius. It
is called, if I mistake not, by the white people resident in the
neighbourhood, "The Sacrifice Rock," and is still deeply venerated by
the few Indians spared by the cupidity of the Pilgrims and their
descendants.

Lewis and Clarke, in the account of their Travels across the Rocky
Mountains, (vol. i. p. 163) speaking of the national great Memahopa, or
"Medicine Stone," of the Mandans, remarks: "This Medicine Stone is the
great oracle of the Mandans, and, whatever it announces, is received
with the most implicit confidence. Every spring, and on some occasions
during the summer, a deputation visits the sacred spot, where there is a
thick porous stone, twenty feet in circumference, with a smooth surface.
Having reached the place, the ceremony of smoking to it is performed by
the deputies, who alternately take a, whiff themselves, and then present
the pipe to the stone; after this, they retire to the adjoining wood for
the night, during which it may be safely presumed, that all the embassy
do not sleep. In the morning, they read the destinies of the nation in
the white marks on the stone."

(2) _The mulberry bark._--p. 187.

The Dress of the Indian women.--The dress of the Indian females is
regulated, of course, by the nature of the climate. The Southern
Indians, by which I mean those occupying the tract of country which is
now parcelled out into the States of Louisiana, Florida, Missouri,
Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia, at the period of its first settlement
by the whites, wore cloaks of the bark of the mulberry tree, or of the
feathers of swans, turkeys, &c. The bark they procured from the young
mulberry shoots that came up from the roots of the trees which had been
cut down. After it was dried in the sun, they beat it to make all the
woody part fall off; and then gave the threads that remained a handsome
beating; after which, they bleached them by exposing them to the dew.
When they were well whitened, they spun them about the coarseness of
pack-thread, and wove them in the following manner: two stakes were set
in the ground about a yard and a half asunder; having stretched a cord
from one to the other, they fastened their threads of bark, double, to
this cord, and then interlaced them in a curious manner into a cloak of
about a yard square, with a wrought border round the edges. Such is
nearly the description given by Du Pratz in his history of Louisiana.

(3) _Willow cage_.--p. 189.

Indian children, instead of being placed in cradles, are suspended from
the boughs of trees beyond the reach of wild animals, in baskets woven
of twigs of the willow, when they can be easily procured: the motion,
which is a kind of circular swing, is far more pleasant than that of the
cradle in use among civilized nations.

(4) _Moon alive_.--p. 189.

The astronomical knowledge of the Indians is very small, and they
entertain singular ideas respecting the heavenly, bodies. When the sun
sets they imagine it goes under water. When the moon does not shine,
they suppose she it dead; and some call the three last days before the
new moon, the _naked days_. Her first appearance after her last quarter
is hailed with great joy. If either sun or moon is eclipsed, they say
the sun or moon is in a swoon. I have mentioned before their opinion of
the cause of shooting-stars. Adair, who was acquainted only with the
Florida Indians, says that when it thundered and blew sharp for a
considerable time, they believed that the beloved or holy people were at
war above the clouds; and they believed that the war was hot or
moderate, in proportion to the noise or violence of the storm. Of all
the writers who have ever written on the Indians, Adair, with the usual
exception of La Hontan, is the worst. He wrote with a preconceived
determination to make them a portion, or "the remnant," of the ten
tribes of Israel, to whom they bear about the same resemblance that an
Englishman bears to an Otaheitean.

(5) _Mortals go in clay._--p. 192.

The Indian mode of worship is wild and singular in the extreme. Nutall,
a judicious and scientific traveller, thus describes the solemnity:

"This morning, about day-break, the Indians, who had encamped around us,
broke out into their usual lamentations and complaints to the Great
Spirit. Their mourning was truly pathetic, and uttered in a peculiar
tone. The commencing tone was exceeding loud, and gradually fell off
into a low, long continued, and almost monotonous bass; to this tone of
lamentation was modulated the subject of their distress or petition.
Those who had experienced any recent distress, or misfortune previously
blackened their faces with coal, or besmeared them with
ashes."--_Nutall_, p. 190.

I will quote one more extract from a favourite author for the benefit
of those who may wish to view the Indian as a worshipper of the Eternal
Being whom they are early taught to worship. "From the age of about five
years," says Long, "to that of ten or twelve, custom obliges the boy to
ascend to a hill-top, or other elevated position, fasting, that he may
cry aloud to the Wahconda. At the proper season his mother reminds him
that 'the ice is breaking up in the river, the ducks and geese are
migrating, and it is time for you to prepare to go in clay.' He then
rubs his person over with a whitish clay, and is sent off to the
hill-top at sunrise, previously instructed by a warrior what to say, and
how to demean himself in the presence of the Master of Life. From this
elevation he cries out to the great Wahconda, humming a melancholy tune,
and calling on him to have pity on him, and make him a great hunter,
horse-stealer, and warrior. This is repeated once or twice a week,
during the months of March and April."--_Long's First Expedition, vol._.
i. p. 240.




DISCOVERY OF THE UPPER WORLD.

A TRADITION OF THE MINNATAREES.


The Minnatarees, and all the other Indians who are of the stock of the
grandfather of nations, were once not of this upper air, but dwelt in
the bowels of the earth. The Good Spirit, when he made them, no doubt
meant, at a proper time, to put them in the enjoyment of all the good
things which he had prepared for them upon the earth, but he ordered
that their first stage of existence should be within it, as the infant
is formed, and takes its first growth in the womb of its natural mother.
They all dwelt under ground, like moles, in one great cavern, which
covered the whole island; when they emerged, it was in different places,
but generally near where they now inhabit. At that time, few of the
Indian tribes wore the human form; some had the figures or semblances of
beasts. The Paukunnawkuts were rabbits, some of the Delawares were
ground-hogs, others tortoises, and the Tuscaroras and a great many
others, were rattlesnakes. The Sioux were the hissing-snake(1); but the
Minatarees were always men. Their part of the great cavern was situated
far towards the Mountains of Snow.

The great cavern in which the Indians dwelt was indeed a dark and dismal
region. In the country of the Minnatarees it was lighted up only by the
rays of the sun which strayed through the fissures of the rock, and the
crevices in the roof of the cavern, while in that of the Mengwe it was
dark and sunless. The life of the Indians was a life of misery compared
with that they now enjoy, and it was endured only because they were
ignorant of a fairer or richer world, or a better or happier state of
being. Clothes they had none; they lived and died naked as they came
into the world. Their food was mice, and snakes, and worms, and moles,
with now and then a bat, and the roots of trees, which crept downward
from the regions of the upper air till they reached the subterranean
abodes of the poor benighted Indian. They ate sand, it is true, and fed
upon a dirt which glittered like the sun, but which was tasteless, and
contained no nutriment, and they grew poor upon it, and early sickened
and died. A miserably poor and weak race they were, and the Great Spirit
was kindest, when he took them from their dismal dwellings to the happy
mansions in the green vales and quiet lakes which lie hid in the
mountains. And, so well convinced were the Indians that the exchange
would be for the better, that they celebrated the death of a man with
great rejoicing, but wept and howled loud and long when a child was
born. And thus they dwelt, in the caverns which lie beneath the surface
of the earth, unknowing of the beautiful and glorious world over their
heads, till the Good Spirit sent agents for their deliverance.

There were among the Minnatarees two boys, who, from the hour of their
birth, showed superior wisdom, sagacity, and cunning. Even while they
were children, they were wiser than their fathers and mothers. They
asked their parents whence the light which streamed through the fissures
of the rock and played along the sides of the cavern came, and whence
and from what descended the roots of the great vine. Their father said
he could not tell; and their mother only laughed at the question, which
appeared to her very foolish. They asked the priest; neither could he
tell, but said he supposed the light came from the eyes of some great
wolf. The boys told him he was a fool. They asked the king tortoise, who
sulkily drew his head into his shell, and made no answer. But, when they
asked the chief rattlesnake, he answered that he knew, and would tell
them all about it if they would promise to make peace with his tribe,
and on no account ever to kill one of his descendants. The boys
promised, and the chief rattlesnake then told them that there was a
world above them, composed of ore more shining than that they had tossed
in boyish play in each other's eyes--a beautiful world, peopled by
creatures in the shape of beasts, having a pure atmosphere and a soft
sky, sweet fruits and mellow water, well-stocked hunting-grounds and
well-filled ponds. He told them to ascend by the roots, which were those
of a great grape-vine. A while after the boys were missing. Another
while they had not returned; nor did they come back until the
Minnatarees had celebrated the feast of rejoicing for their death(2),
and the lying priest had, as he falsely said, in a vision seen them
inhabitants of the Land of Spirits.

One day, the Indians were surprised by the return of the boys. They came
back singing and dancing, and were grown so much, and looked so
different from what they did when they left the cavern, that their
father and mother scarcely knew them. They were sleek and fat; and when
they walked it was with so strong a step that the hollow space rung with
the sound of their feet. Their bodies were covered with something which
the Minnatarees had never seen before, but which they since know was
feathers and the skins of animals. They had blankets wrapt around them
of the skins of racoons and beavers. Each of them had at his back a
bundle of beautiful ripe grapes, and of the flesh of a great animal,
which they had been taught to kill by people looking much like the
Minnatarees, only handsomer and stronger--people who lived by hunting,
and delighted in shedding the blood of each other, who painted their
bodies with strange figures, and loved to drink a water which made them
crazy and boisterous.

On first emerging from the caverns, they came, they said, into a world
where all was light and beauty. It was directly over that part of the
cavern where our tribe dwelt. They saw a great round ball of fire, which
gave light and heat to the earth, and whose beams it was which had shot
down through the fissures of the rock, partially illumining the cavern.
The earth above them they had found covered with green, and scented with
sweet-smelling flowers. Here and there were beautiful groves of trees,
in whose shady branches birds of soft notes and varied and lovely
plumage were singing all the day long. Its waters, which flowed cool and
clear, were peopled by sportive fishes, and by many kinds of fowls,
whose motions in their element were beautiful to the eye; and whose
meat, when cooked, was exceedingly sweet to the taste. They saw a
beautiful river, gliding rapidly through banks, shaded by lofty trees;
its smooth current wafting the Indian brave to distant expeditions of
war and the chase. Here were vast herds of wild animals, called by the
inhabitants bisons, whose flesh they had found very good and juicy, and
which animals were killed with arrows and sharp spears. The eyes of the
boys glistened like coals of fire, and became of double size, while they
described the beauties and wonders of the upper earth.

The Indians were very much delighted with the boys' story. They tasted
of the meat, and the grapes, and liked them so well, that they resolved
to leave their dull residence under ground, for the charms of the upper
air. All the inhabitants of the cavern agreed to leave it for the
newly-discovered hunting-grounds, except the ground-hog, the badger, and
the mole, who said as their maker had placed them there, there they
would live, and there they would die. The rabbit said he would live
sometimes below and sometimes above, and the rattlesnake, and the
tortoise, promised to spend the winter in the caverns, which they always
do.

When the Indians had determined to leave their habitations under ground,
they agreed to do it at different points, that they might sooner be on
the surface. The Minnatarees began, men, women, and children, to clamber
up the vine. One half of them had already reached the surface of the
earth, when a dire mishap involved the remainder in a still more
desolate captivity within its bowels. There was among the Minnatarees a
very big and fat old woman, who was heavier than any six of her nation.
Nothing would do but she must go up before certain of her neighbours.
Away she clambered, but her weight was so great, that the vine broke
with it; and the opening, to which it afforded the sole means of
ascending, closed upon her and the rest of the nation. Other tribes
fared better: in particular the beasts. The tortoise, who always took
the lead, because he was descended from the Great Tortoise who bears the
world on his back, and can live both on the land and in the water, very
easily crept out, but the Monseys or Wolves, who dwelt under Lake
Onondaga, did not emerge so easily. After trying to reach the upper air
for a long time in vain, one of their number, a cunning old wolf,
discovered a hole through which he crept out. He soon caught a deer,
which he carried down to his tribe, who found it so sweet that they
redoubled their exertions to reach a spot where such good things were to
be had, and fortunately soon reached it in company with the Turkeys,
whom they overtook on the way. The Mengwe crept out of the same hole,
but it was a long while afterwards. The Tortoise, the Wolves, and the
Turkeys, all confederated to declare war against the Bears, who were a
very numerous and savage tribe; and the hatchet has not been buried yet.
But they made a firm peace with the Rattlesnakes, which lasted till the
coming of the Big-knives, when the latter broke the calumet of peace by
biting an Indian, whom they mistook for a white man. Since then these
two people have also been at war.

When the Minnatarees arrived in the upper air, they established
themselves on the spot where they now reside. Very soon after, a party
of strange men appeared among them, mounted on animals, or rather they
seemed a part of strange animals, with four legs, possessed of great
fleetness, and whose long and beautiful tails swept the earth where they
trod. They attacked the wonderful creatures with their bows and arrows,
and succeeded in killing one of them, upon which the others ran away.
Not at first perceiving that the man and horse were two distinct
animals, how much were they surprised to see the former fall to the
earth, as if one part of the compound of the animal was dead, and the
other still active, having received no injury. They at length succeeding
in capturing the horse, and, after admiring the beauty of his form, and
becoming familiar with him, they proceeded to tie one of their young men
upon his back with cords that he might not fall off. The horse was then
led cautiously by the halter until he became sufficiently tame to ride
alone, and without a leader. It was in this manner that our nation
procured the horse, and from this one sprung the breed we now have.

Brothers, this is what our fathers told us of the manner in which the
Minnatarees and other Indian tribes became possessed of their present
hunting-grounds, and of the way in which our nation procured the
horse.--I have done.


NOTES.

(1) _The Hissing-Snake_.--p. 201.

This snake is the most remarkable of the different species of snake that
infest the western wilds. It is of the small speckled kind, and about
eight inches long. When any thing approaches, it flattens itself in a
moment, and its spots, which are of various dyes, become visibly
brighter through rage; at the same time it blows from its mouth, with
great force, a subtle wind, that is reported to be of a nauseous smell,
and, if drawn in with the breath of the unwary traveller, it is said,
will infallibly bring on a decline, that in a few months must prove
mortal. So says Carver.

(2) _Feast of rejoicing for their death_.--p. 204.

The early travellers report, that some of the tribes on the banks of the
Mississippi, in the words of the text, "celebrated the death of a man
with great rejoicing."




LOVE AND WAR.


Many a winter has passed away, and many a season's snow mixed with the
deep current of the great lake Superior, since the fame of Wanawosh was
sounded along its shores. He was the son of an ancient line, who had
preserved the chieftainship in their family from the remotest times. His
fathers had all been renowned warriors and hunters, and hence he
cherished a lofty pride of ancestry, and the belief that he himself, as
well as they, were better than those by whom he was surrounded. To the
reputation of his descent from eminent ancestors he added the advantages
of a tall and commanding person, and the dazzling qualities of great
personal strength and activity--qualities ever appreciated most highly
by those who are deficient in mental power. His bow was renowned
throughout the surrounding tribes, for its weight and extraordinary
dimensions; and there were few that could raise his ponderous war-club,
or poise his mighty spear. He was often known to have shot one of his
flint-headed arrows through the body of a deer, and to have beat in the
skull of a male buffalo with a single blow of his club. His counsel was
as much sought as his prowess was feared, so that he came in tune to be
equally famed as a hunter, a warrior, and a sage. But he had now passed
the meridian of his days, and the term Akkeewaisee, "one who had been
long above the earth," was familiarly applied to him. Such was Wanawosh,
to whom the united voice of the nation awarded the first place in their
esteem and the highest seat in authority. Even had he wanted the
hereditary power and dignity, the esteem, and affection, and veneration,
of his people, would have conferred upon him rule, quite as potential in
its nature as that which he enjoyed by his birthright. But pride was the
ruling passion of this great chieftain, and to that he sacrificed every
other passion.

Wanawosh had an only daughter, who had now lived to witness the budding
of the leaves for the eighteenth spring. Her father was not more
celebrated for his deeds of strength and valour, than his gentle
daughter for her goodness, her slender and graceful form, her dark and
beaming eyes, and her black and flowing hair. There had never been seen,
among the Indian nations, so lovely and perfect a maiden as the daughter
of Wanawosh. Warriors came from distant tribes to court the fair
daughter of the chieftain but they departed, some with bitter reproofs
for their presumption, and none with encouragement or permission to
hope.

Among others, her hand was sought by a youth of humble parentage, one
who had no other merits to recommend him, but such as might arise from a
graceful person, a manly step, and an eye beaming with the fires of
youth and love. These were sufficient to attract the favourable notice
of the daughter; but they were by no means satisfactory to the father,
who sought an alliance more suitable to his rank and the high
pretensions of his family. Little thought he of the happiness of his
daughter, so that he secured for his son-in-law a warrior of celebrity.

"Listen to me, young man," he replied to the trembling hunter, who had
sought the interview, "and be attentive to what you hear. You ask me to
bestow upon you my daughter, the chief solace of my age, and my choicest
gift from the Master of Life. Others have asked of me this boon, who
were as young, as active, and as ardent, as yourself. Some of these
persons had better claims to become my son-in-law than you. Some of them
had _struck_ the enemies of their country in distant forests, others had
been leaders of successful expeditions. Young man, have you considered
well who it is that you would choose for a father-in-law? Have you
reflected upon the deeds which have raised me in authority, and made my
name known to every one who has ever heard of the Chippewas, and dreaded
as the bolt of death by all the enemies of my nation? Where is a chief
who is not proud to be considered the friend of Wanawosh? Where is a
hunter who can bend the bow of Wanawosh? or a warrior who can wield his
club, or poise his weighty lance? And who is he, whose proudest wish is
not, that he may some day be equal in bravery to Wanawosh? Have you not
also heard, that my fathers came, ages ago, from the land of the rising
sun, decked with plumes, and clothed with authority? Have you not heard,
that my family have been chiefs of the Chippewas ever since the
moss-covered oaks on the hills were little sprouts?

"And what, young man, have you to boast that you should claim an
alliance with my warlike line? Have you ever met your enemies on the
field of battle? Have you ever brought home a trophy of victory? Where
are the prisoners your arm has made; where have you hung your scalps?
Have you ever proved your fortitude, by suffering protracted pain,
enduring continued hunger, or sustaining great fatigue? Is your name
known beyond the humble limits of your native village? Do the warriors
of distant tribes relate your splendid deeds, and, when they speak of a
war with the Chippewas, take into account the lance of the son of
Kayneewee? Go then, young man, and earn a name for yourself. It is none
but the brave that can ever hope to claim an alliance with the house of
Wanawosh. Think not my ancient and honoured blood shall mingle with the
humble mark of the Awausees, fit _totem_ for fishermen."

The intimidated lover departed, but he resolved to do a deed that should
render him worthy of the daughter of Wanawosh, or perish in the attempt.
He called together several of his young companions and equals in years,
imparted to them his design of conducting an expedition against the
enemy, and requested their assistance. Several embraced the proposal
immediately; others were soon brought to acquiesce, and, before ten suns
had set, he saw himself at the head of a formidable party of young
warriors, all eager, like himself, to distinguish themselves in battle.
Each warrior was armed, according to the custom of the period, with a
bow and quiver of arrows, tipped with flint or jasper, and each carried
a _mushkeemoot_ upon his back, provided with a small quantity of parched
and pounded corn, mixed with a little pemmican or pounded meat. Each was
furnished with a kind of stone knife, and a war-club of hard wood,
fastened to a girth of deer-skin. In addition to this, some carried the
ancient sheemaugun or Indian lance, consisting of a smooth pole above
one fathom in length, with a spear of flint firmly tied on with splints
of hard wood, bound down with deer's sinews. Thus equipped, and each
warrior painted in a manner to suit his fancy, and ornamented with
appropriate feathers, they repaired to the spot appointed for the
war-dance.[A]

[Footnote A: See the description of this dance in a note to The
Expedition of the Lenni Lenape in vol. ii.]

A level grassy plain extended for some distance from the lodge of
Wanawosh, towards a point of land jutting into the lake. Lodges of green
bark were promiscuously interspersed over this spot, with here and there
a cluster of trees, or a solitary pine, which had escaped the fury of
tempests for a thousand years. A belt of yellow sand skirted the lake
shore in front, and a tall forest of oaks, pines, and poplars, formed
the back-ground. In the centre of this green, stood a large pine,
shattered and branchless from the conflicts of the elements, with a
clear space around, famous as the scene of the war-dance, time out of
mind. Here the youths assembled with their tall and graceful leader,
distinguished, not only by his bearing, but by the feathers of the white
eagle, which he wore on his head. A bright fire of pine-wood blazed
upon the green, throwing its gleams upon the surrounding darkness. The
young warrior led his men twice or thrice in a circular manner around
this fire, with a measured step and solemn chant. Then, suddenly
halting, the war-whoop was raised, and the dance immediately begun. An
old man, sitting at the head of the ring, beat time upon the drum, while
the grim array of warriors made the woods re-echo with their yells. Each
warrior chanted alternately the verse of a song, all the rest joining in
chorus:--

    The eagles scream on high;
      They whet their forked beaks;
    Raise--raise the battle-cry,
      'Tis fame our leader seeks.

Thus they continued the dance for two days and nights, with short
intermissions; when, dropping off, one by one, from the fire, each
sought his several way to the place appointed for the rendezvous, on the
confines of the enemy's country. A braver or more determined war-party
never left the village of the Chippewas. Their leader was not among the
last to depart; but he did not quit the village without bidding a tender
adieu to the daughter of Wanawosh. He imparted to her his firm
determination, to perform an act that should establish his name as a
warrior, or die in the attempt. He told her of the hitter pangs he had
felt at her father's taunts--that his soul spurned the imputations of
effeminacy and cowardice, implied by his language. He declared, that he
never could be happy, either with or without her, until he had proved to
the whole tribe the strength of his heart, which is the Indian term for
courage. He said, that his dreams had not been so propitious as he could
wish; but that he should not cease to invoke the favour of the Great
Spirit in his behalf. He repeated his protestations of inviolable
attachment, which she returned, and, pledging vows of mutual fidelity,
they separated.

They never met again. The war-party, which he led, were conducted by him
to victory. After having distinguished himself by most heroic bravery,
he received an arrow in his breast, just as the enemy had fled, with the
loss of many of their best warriors. On examining his wound, it was
perceived to be beyond the power of cure. He languished a short time,
and expired in the arms of his friends.

From the hour that she received the intelligence of his death, from the
moment that the ominous death-howl met her ear, no smile was ever seen
in the once happy lodge of Wanawosh. His daughter pined away by day and
by night. Tears and sighs sorrow and lamentations, were heard
continually. No efforts to amuse were capable of restoring her lost
serenity of mind. Persuasives and reproofs were alternately employed,
but employed in vain. It became her favourite custom to fly to a
sequestered spot in the woods, and there sit under a shady tree, and
sing her mournful laments. She would do so for days together. The
following fragment of one of these songs is yet repeated:--

    Oh! how can I sing the praise of my love!
    His spirit still lingers around me.
    The grass which grows upon his bed of earth
    Is yet too low;
    Its sighs cannot be heard upon the wind.
    Oh, he was beautiful!
    And he was brave!

    I must not break the silence,
    The quiet of his still retreat,
    Nor waste the time in song,
    When his spirit still whispers to mine.
    I hear his gentle voice
    In the sounds of the newly-budded leaves;
    It tells me that he yet lingers near me;
    It says he loves in death
    Her whom he loved in life,
    Though deeply buried in the cold, cold earth.
    Whisper, spirit, to me, whisper.

    And I shall sing; my song,
    When the green grass answers to my plaint,
    When in sighs respond to my moan,
    Then my voice shall be heard in his praise:
    Linger, lover, linger!
    Stay, spirit, stay!

    The spirit of my love will soon leave me.
    He goes to the land of joyful repose;
    He gees to prepare my bridal bower.
    Sorrowing, I must wait,
    Until he comes, to call my soul away.
    Hasten, lover, hasten!
    Come, spirit, come!

Thus she daily repeated her plaintive song. It was not long before a
small bird of beautiful plumage flew upon the tree, beneath which she
usually sat, and, with its sweet and artless notes, seemed to respond to
her voice. It was a bird of strange character, such as she had never
seen before. It came every day and sang to her, remaining until it
became dark. Her fond imagination soon led her to suppose that it was
the spirit of her lover, and her visits to the favourite spot were
repeated with greater frequency. She now gave herself up to singing and
fasting. Thus she pined away, until that death which she had so
fervently desired came to her relief. After her decease, the bird was
never more seen. It became a popular opinion with her nation, that this
mysterious bird had flown away with her soul to the land of bliss. But
the bitter tears of remorse fell in the tent of Wanawosh, and he lived
many years to regret his false pride and his harsh treatment of the
unfortunate youth.




LEGENDS OF THE HAPPY HUNTING-GROUNDS.


I.--AKKEEWAISEE, THE AGED.

Let my brother listen to my words, and ponder deeply. Let him remain
mute, and his question shall be answered. He has asked the opinion
which the red men of the wilderness entertain of the Country of
Souls;--he has asked us whither the spirits of good men repair when
the sleep which knows no waking has come over them. Again, I say, let
my brother listen deeply, for the words he will hear are concerning
the question he has asked. We shall sing in his ears no tale of bloody
deeds--of scalps taken from stricken warriors, or of victims bound to
a naming stake. Our songs shall be songs of a state far happier than
that enjoyed by mortals; we shall tell of worlds, the air of which is
purer, the sun brighter, the moon milder, and the stars far more
glorious--of the Land of the Happy Hunting-Grounds. As my brother will
see, each nation has its own beloved place of rest for the soul. It is
well. Could the Chippewas dwell with the Hurons, whose blood they
have so frequently shed? Could a man of the Pawnee Loups embrace an
Omawhaw, who carried at his back the scalps of his wife and his
children? No; and, therefore, as they could not on earth dwell in
peace together, so each has in the world of souls his separate
hunting-grounds, his own rivers, lakes, valleys, mountains, forests,
where no envious hunter may intrude, which no bloody-minded warrior
may invade. An insurmountable and eternal barrier is placed between
tribes who had formerly been at war, lest they disturb the peace of
the blessed shades by a renewal of the quarrel, and shake the glorious
mansions with the violence of wars, like those they wage on earth. My
brother asks how, the Dahcotahs know these things. I answer, it was
seen by one of them in his sleep; it came in the shape of a dream to a
very wise man of our nation.

There was among us, in the days that are gone, a priest who was much
beloved by his Master, and was taught by him to know the future as he
knew the present, and to see and speak truly of things unseen by other
eyes. He had been many years on the earth, and was now called
"Akkeewaisee," a name signifying his great age. That he might better
converse with, and worship his master he had taken up his abode in a
hollow hill, near the great village of the Dahcotahs. Thither the tribe
resorted, to be taught those things which were necessary to be known in
respect to the proper ordering of the hunt or the war expedition, to the
season at which the corn should be planted, or the gathering of the
tribe at the chosen waters of the salmon should take place. Having never
known any thing predicted by him prove false; having ordered, under his
guidance, all their hunting and war expeditions right, and never failed,
when relying on his presentiments, to go to the haunts of the salmon, at
the proper season, and to return from thence with full bellies and glad
hearts, they listened to the words of Akkeewaisee, the Aged, and
believed the tale which he told them of the Land of Spirits.

Akkeewaisee, the Aged, was sleeping on his bed of skins and soft grass,
when the Manitou of Dreams came to him, and led him out of the hollow
cave towards the Wanare-tebe, or dwelling-place of the souls of the
Dahcotahs, and their kindred tribes. Onward they travelled for many
suns, over lofty mountains, up whose rocky sides they were obliged to
scramble as a wild goat scrambles; now swimming deep rivers, now
threading mazy forests, now frozen in the regions of intense cold, and
now burnt in those of great heat, till at length they came to a very
high rock, the edge of which was as sharp as the sharpest knife.
Waiting, at its hither end, their turn to essay the dangerous test of
their good or bad deeds, the unerring trial of their guilt or purity,
stood many souls of Dahcotahs, and others whom Akkeewaisee had known on
the earth. He stood and beheld the punishment of the bad, and the
blessed escape of the good from the dreadful ordeal to which all alike
were subjected. He saw a Dahcotah attempt the dangerous passage who had
been too lazy to hunt, who had lain whole days stretched out upon his
mat, while his wife begged food of the husbands of other women, and his
children were clothed with skins, the produce of the labours of other
men. He saw him precipitated from the dizzy height into the depths
below, where the Evil Spirit received him into ids arms, and condemned
him to that--to the criminal--hardest of punishments, a life of labour
and fatigue. The great stick of wood was placed upon his shoulders, and
a great pail of water in each hand, while the evil creature appointed to
be his task-master flogged him incessantly to incite to a quicker walk.
Again was the passage attempted by another. A Dahcotah came forward, who
had dared to paint his cheeks as a warrior paints, and to shave his
crown to the scalp-lock, and to prepare a sheaf of arrows, and to strike
the painted pole, that stood by the council fire, and to dance the
war-dance, and to utter the whoop of a warrior. Yet, when he came to the
field where the hostile Tetons were assembled to do battle with his
tribe--when his brothers had rushed like men upon their foes--he wiped
the paint from his cheeks, he cut off the scalp-lock, he threw away his
sheaf of arrows, he forgot that he had struck the war-pole, or danced,
or whooped, and fled from the field as a deer flies from the bark of a
dog. Him the master of the fetes of the bad ordained to a ceaseless
warfare with the shades of the Tetons, from whom he had fled. He saw a
liar attempt the dreadful passage--he fared no better than those who had
preceded him; a reviler of the priests, and disbeliever in their power,
met with the same fate. He saw the son of the aged Tadeus-kund, who had
beaten his mother and spat in the face of his father, double chained to
a wheel which moved over the floor of the abyss, at the top of the speed
of the unnatural son.

Then came the turn of the good to make the trial of the rock. He saw
pass safely over all who had been good to their parents, who had hunted
well, fought bravely, told no lies, nor ridiculed, nor doubted, the
priests. Having seen them all arrive in safety at the other end of the
rode, the spirit conducted Akkeewaisee over also. They had yet a long
way to travel, but they were guided by their observation of the
encamping places of the souls who had preceded them. At each of these
places tents were pitched, and fires always lighted where they could
warm themselves, and rest until they had driven away the pains of
fatigue, and recovered strength to pursue their journey. After many
moons of weary travel, they arrived at the habitation of the Waktan
Tanka, or Great Spirit. It was situated in the middle of a flowery vale,
watered by cool and refreshing streams, and shaded by groves of larch
and cypress. Many villages of the dead were scattered over it; here one,
and there one, like single buffaloes feeding on a prairie. Akkeewaisee
asked if the souls of his father and mother had reached the happy vale,
and was directed to the village in which they dwelt. He found, gathered
in this village, the souls of all his race who had passed the rock; the
joyful reunion had there taken place for a long succession of ages--of
fathers and mothers, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters: they now
composed one great family. Their life--the life of all assembled in the
valley of the Waktan Tanka--was blissful and happy beyond measure. They
planted corn, which never failed to grow tall; they hunted the buffalo
through flowery vales, till they pierced his side with a never-varying
arrow, Akkeewaisee asked the spirits if it was permitted to them to
revisit the land of the living. They answered never, except when
children were about to die, and then their departed relatives recrossed
the rock of judgment to guide their tender feet to their latest home.

Having lain three moons in the trance, the soul of the Aged Man
re-animated his body, and he awoke. He related to the people of the tribe
his dream of the Land of departed Spirits, and it has travelled down to
my time as I have told it to my brother.


II.--THE DELAWARE HEAVEN.

The stranger has been shown the Dahcotah land of souls--let him behold
that of the Delawares. The Delawares, who are the grandfather of
nations, believe that the habitation of good spirits is beyond the
beautiful sky, which forms the partition between them and those who are
doomed yet longer to inhabit the frail, and sickly, and feverish,
tenement of flesh. The road to this bright land of spirits leads over a
mighty and fearful rock, upon which the sky rolls to and fro with a
stupendous sound. I am asked, "How do the Delawares know this?" I will
tell you.

There were, once upon a time, in the tribe of the Unamis or Turtles, the
most potent and warlike tribe of the Delawares, two valiant warriors,
who feared nothing greatly but shame and disgrace. One of them loved and
was beloved by a beautiful girl of the same nation, who, in a
thoughtless moment, for at no other would she have made her lover incur
so great a danger, expressed a wish to know if the soul of her deceased
sister remembered the promise she had made her, of feeding with sweet
berries, and nursing in her bosom, the spirit of the little bird which
dropped dead from the bough of the locust-tree on the evening of her own
death. The other warrior had lost his mother, whom he tenderly loved,
and he wished to go and see, with his own eyes, if they used her well in
the land of spirits, nor bowed her back to heavier burdens than accorded
with the faintness of advanced years. They concluded, one to gain a
smile from his beloved maiden, and the other to gratify his affectionate
regards for his mother, to obtain a view of the Land of departed Souls;
but it was not till they had been frequently reminded of their
undertaking, and their courage had been repeatedly taxed(1), that, brave
as they were, they could make their hearts strong enough to face the
spirits of the winds that rove about the sky, or the thunders that leap
from the black cloud. They left the village of the Unamis, and travelled
for many moons in a path very crooked and difficult to be travelled,
till at length they came to a mighty and fearful rock, upon which the
sky was rolling to and fro with a tremendous sound, and a motion
resembling that of the waves of the Great Lake Superior, when tossed
about by a tempest. The winds were gambolling about the pathway, not as
upon the earth, invisible to the eye, but in shapes, some of which were
the most beautiful ever beheld, and some more frightful than ever
entered into the conception of a son of the earth. The stars, which the
inhabitants of the world are accustomed to see chained to their allotted
bounds, were there floating and dashing about in the thin air, like a
boat moving on troubled waters. After travelling with extreme pain and
suffering for a long time upon this road, now buffetted by the terrific
and angry forms of the north and east winds, and now soothed and
comforted by the ministering shapes of the breezes of the west and
south--now assisted by the strength of their own hearts, and by turns
assailed or protected by the stars, they reached the Land of Souls. It
was a beautiful country, they said, and the employments to which souls
were there subjected, produced to them all the pleasant consequences
they produced on earth to those who followed them, while they were
unattended by the labour and difficulties attached to them in the
earthly stage of existence. The sky was always cloudless, and a
perpetual spring reigned throughout those happy regions. The forests
were always full of game, and the lakes of fish, which were taken
without the laborious pursuit and painful exertion of skill, which were
necessary to secure them in the earthly habitation. The embodied forms
of their friends retained the same wishes, inclinations, and habits,
which had belonged to them while occupying the terrestrial house. So say
the Unamis.

Another tribe of Delawares do not believe as the Unamis do--they think
that the land of departed souls lies in another part of the sky, and
that the path to it is not over mighty and fearful rocks, through the
hideous army of embattled winds, and among the bounds and rebounds of
unchained stars. There were once, but the time was many ages ago, in the
tribe of the Unalachtas, two fearless and prudent hunters, who had one
father, but not one mother, who had never offended the Great Spirit, or
the inferior spirits, but duly observed in all their actions a full and
unceasing remembrance of the Giver of all good gifts, as well as those
who take a lesser part in the government of the world; and, whether in
their cabins or in the wild forests, had never failed to offer
sacrifices to him of the most valued part of all their acquisitions.
When they came to the river or the lake, they threw in a large piece of
their tobacco, and cast in birds, whose throats had been cut, and
feathers plucked from the tip of the wings, to propitiate and render
favourable to their prayers the haughty Michabou, the God of the Waters.
When the kind and beneficent sun rose, they were careful to throw into
the fire, to which he imparts the heat, a portion of every thing they
intended to use that day; and when the mistress of bad spirits, the
Moon, came out of the far woods, they took great care to propitiate the
evil intelligences which sit upon her horns, plotting mischief to
mortals, by liberal gifts of _petun_, or collars of beads, or ears of
maize, or skins of animals. When their feet stood upon the edge of the
mighty cataract, then was the most valued dog precipitated, then was the
most valued drink poured into the overwhelming torrent, to appease the
angry spirit of the abyss. And thus, performing their duties to the
Great Master and their fellow-creatures, lived the two good Unalachta
hunters.

But death at length at their request came to them. They wished to see
the Country of Souls, and to judge with their own eyes if its situation
and its delights had been truly told to them. Much had it been talked
of, but who were they that talked? They were mortals--men, who had never
quitted the corporeal state, nor stood forth disembodied spirits; things
with the feelings which attend human nature. They wished to see if
thorns and arrows would not wound the flesh of those who had departed
hence; nor fire burn, nor cold freeze, nor hunger pinch, nor repletion
distress, nor grief draw tears, nor joy produce excitement. Bending low
before the Master of Life, with clay upon their heads, one of them, the
elder, thus addressed him:

"Spirit of the Happy Lands! Tamenund, and the son of his father's wife,
are on their knees before thee, with clay spread on their hair. It is
not required that we name our wishes to thee; if thou art, as we think,
the all-pervading and all-knowing spirit, thou knowest what they are
before we have uttered them; if thou art not gifted with these
attributes, why should we pour our words into the ears of one unable to
grant us the boon we ask? We wish to die for a time; we wish that our
eyes may be enabled to see the Happy Hunting-Grounds, if there be such
grounds, and our ears to drink in the music of the streams which our
fathers told us welled softly along beside the village of the dead.
Master of Life, hear us, and grant our request."

Tamenund, and the son of his father's wife, lay down upon their couch of
skins and soft grass, when the dews first began to descend upon the
earth, and the deep sleep of death came over them. They found that their
prayers had been heard, and themselves released from the thraldom of
life and the load of the flesh. The spirit, unchained from the matter
that shrivels and becomes dust, danced about like the winds of spring
over the bosom of a prairie. It could stand upon the slenderest stalk
of grass without bending it, and ascend and descend upon the sunbeams,
as a healthy boy rung up and down a slight hill. Soon they found
themselves irresistibly impelled by a wish to rise, and travel towards
the bright track in the skies, where the light of innumerable stars is
mingled in such confusion. They rose, and as a canoe, moving in the
vicinity of the dwelling of Michabou[A], is drawn rapidly towards it by
the hands of unseen spirits, so were they hurried towards the road of
souls, which our white brother calls the Milky Way. They came to it, and
found it thronged by innumerable hosts of spirits of all colours, all
bound in the same bright path to the same glorious home. After
travelling in this path for two suns, they came to a great city
surrounded by the shade of a high wall. Within this wall, which was of
immense extent, enclosing rivers and lakes, and forests and prairies,
and all the things which are found on earth, dwelt the souls of good
men; without, hovering around, as a hawk hovers around a dove's nest,
into which he dares not pounce, because he sees near it a bent bow in
the hands of a practised archer, were the souls of the bad, debarred
entrance, and, as often as they approached very near, driven away by the
ministering spirits of the Great Master of ail. Within the wall were
all the things which give pleasure to the red man; the river filled with
fishes disporting in their loved element, the lakes thronged with glad
fowls, wheeling in their devious paths, and the woods with beautiful
birds, singing their soft songs of love and joy from the flowery boughs
of the tulip-tree and the Osage apple. They saw in the open space a
panther, fangless and powerless, and heard in the thicket the growl of a
fat bear, that could neither bite nor scratch. The speed of the bison
was outstripped by that of the spirits; the wings of the wild turkey and
soland-goose could not convey them out of the reach of the sprightly
inhabitants of the City of Souls. Their corn grew up like trees, with
two ears upon every stalk, and the produce of their bean-garden was a
thousand for one. But while the souls of the good were so happy, and
their joys so many, miserable, miserable was the state of the bad who
were excluded from the city. They saw the happiness of the good souls,
many of whom had been known to them on the earth, and they gnashed their
teeth with impotent rage, and uttered a war-whoop, as a leg-broken bear
growls or a chained man threatens, at the sight of the bliss of which
they were not permitted to partake.

[Footnote A: Many of the Indians suppose that the God of the Waters
(Michabou) resides in the Cataract of St. Anthony.]

When they had remained three suns in the Joyful Abodes, the Great
Spirit bade them prepare for their return to the earth. He told them
there were human duties for them to perform before they could be
permitted to take up their residence for ever in the Happy City. He bade
Tamenund remember, that he had not taught his little son how to toughen
a young ash bow, nor how to splint a shaken arrow. And he told the son
of his father's wife that he had suffered the bird of his cabin to sow
more corn than she could gather in, and that he must return to the
earth, and see that her shoulders were not bowed by the heavy task of
the harvest. "There were other duties for them to perform," he said,
"and many must yet be their years on the earth."

In obedience to the orders of the Great Master of all, they returned to
the Unalachta village, and again re-animated the bodies they had left.
Tamenund taught his son how to toughen a young ash bow, and splint a
shaken arrow; and the son of his father's wife forgot the dignity of an
approved hunter, to assist his beloved woman in harvesting the corn.
They lived long, and acted well, and when their years were many, when
their limbs had grown feeble and their eyes dark with the mists of age,
when they could no longer bend the bow of their youth, nor run the race
of vigorous manhood, they were called from the earth, to enjoy that
happiness which they had been permitted to behold with the eyes of
humanity.


NOTE.

       *       *       *       *       *

(1) _Courage had been repeatedly taxed_.--p. 234.

There is nothing which an Indian will not attempt to perform when his
courage is taxed, or the honour of his nation called in question. "An
Omawhaw," says Long, "being on a visit to the Pawnees, was present at a
kind of grand incantation, during which many extraordinary feats were
performed. He there saw, for the first time, the mountebank trick of
appearing to cut off the tongue, and afterwards replacing the severed
portions without a wound. 'There,' said Katterfelto, 'your medicine is
not strong enough to enable you to perform this operation. The stranger,
jealous of his national honour, and unwilling to be exceeded,
unhesitatingly drew forth his knife, and actually cut off nearly the
whole of his tongue, and bled to death before their eyes."


III.--THE HUNTING-GROUNDS OF THE BLACKFOOTS.

The Blackfoot believes that his fathers have told him truly, when they
told him that the people of his tribe, when released from the load of
flesh, come to a steep mountain, up whose huge projecting sides they
have to scramble. After many moons of unwearied labour, tired and
exhausted, they reach the top, from which they behold the land of the
dead. They see stretched out before them an extensive plain,
interspersed with new tents, pitched by the sides of beautiful streams,
the banks of which resound with the humming of bees and the music of
birds, and are shaded from the summer sun by the ever-blooming tree with
great white flowers. Some of the tents are pitched upon hills, some in
valleys, some to meet the whispering breezes of the Month of Buds, and
some the strengthening winds of the Harvest-Moon. While, from the top of
the mountain they are absorbed in contemplation of this delightful
scene, the inhabitants of the happy land discover them, and come singing
and dancing along, clothed in new skins, to meet them, with the blanket
of friendship widely spread to the winds (1). Those Indians who have led
good lives approach with that fearless step and eye which the
recollection of good deeds always inspires, and are received with every
demonstration of joy common among Indians; but those who have embrued
their hands in the blood of their countrymen, and betray, by their pale
cheeks and trembling steps, that they expect and deserve punishment, and
those whose foreheads have been in any way blackened by the smoke of the
breath of the Spirit of Evil, are told to return whence they came, and
without more words are pitched down the sides of the mountain. Women,
whose hard hearts have made their feeble hands take the life to which
they had given birth, quenching the little spark struck out from the
half-burnt brand, never reach the mountain at all, but are compelled by
the Master of all to hover around the seats of their crimes, with
branches of the mountain pine tied to their legs. The melancholy sounds
heard in the still summer evenings, and which ignorant white men think
the screams of the goat-sucker, or the groans of the owl, are the
moanings of these wicked and unhappy mothers, lamenting the unnatural
murder of their helpless little ones. They are trying to recall them to
life, that their doom may be revoked, and that they may be permitted to
approach the mountain.

In the Blackfoot land of souls, all are treated according as the deeds
they have done have been good or evil in their intent or their
consequences. If they have truly and faithfully performed those things
for which they were sent upon the earth, if they have been good sons,
good husbands, good fathers, good friends; if they have fought bravely,
hunted well, told no lies, nor spoken evil of the Great Spirit, nor made
laugh at his priests, they know neither pain nor sorrow, their time is
spent in singing and dancing, and they feed upon mushrooms, which are
very abundant and grow without cultivation. They are attended to the
Happy Regions by the shades of their dogs and guns, and the shades of
their huts and every thing they contained are ready for them the moment
they arrive in these happy regions. The souls of bad men, which are not
separated from the good save by the different feelings and pursuits
which belonged to them in life, wander about, haunted by the phantoms of
the persons or things they have injured. If a man has destroyed his
neighbour's canoe, or his gun, or his bow and arrows, the phantoms of
the wrecks of this property obstruct his passage wherever he goes. He
sees every where the bow, self-drawn, ready to impel an arrow pointed
at his breast, the gun ready poised, the canoe threatening to sink him.
If he has been cruel to his dogs and horses, they also are permitted to
torment him, and to hunt him down, as he in his life-time hunted the
wolf and the deer. The ghosts of the men whom he injured in life are now
permitted to avenge their wrongs, and to inflict on his shade pains
commensurate with those he made them suffer. The spirit of the man, from
whom he stole the ear of soft maize, now snatches from his hungry lips
the red-gilled mushroom, and he, into whose crystal stream he threw
impure substances, in revenge, strikes from his lip the gourd of crystal
water. The good hunter, whose bowstring he enviously cut, fillips him on
the forehead; the warrior whose spear he broke when no human eye beheld
him, now, informed of the unmanly deed by the Spirit who sees all, spits
in his face, as a coward should be spat upon. The soul of the horse
which he overrode, or otherwise maltreated, runs backwards upon him,
with elevated heels and a loud neigh; the dog he whipped too much or too
often rushes upon him with open mouth, and the growl of bitter and
inextinguishable hatred. He steps into the canoe, it sinks beneath him,
and, when his chin is level with the water, it rises beyond his reach.
Lo, there is a gun before him, and the shade of a stately stag nipping
the phantom of a youthful hazel. He makes the attempt to point the gun
towards it, and just as he supposes he has attained the object, and puts
forth his hand to give vent to the winged weapon of death, he finds the
gun has changed its position--the muzzle is pointed towards his own
breast. Thus opposed, thwarted, baffled, by every thing around him,
despised by all things, whether gifted with life or not, he passes an
existence, the horrors of which may be felt but not described.

The soul of the Blackfoot never returns to earth, except to forewarn his
friends of their approaching dissolution. When the Great Spirit says to
him, "Spirit of a Blackfoot, the son or the daughter of your father is
about to leave the green vales of the earth,"--"the foot of your father
is shaking off the drowsiness of age, that he may prepare for the long
journey of spirits,"--"the babe that was born yesterday will be
journeying hither to-day,"--"the heart of your kind mother wants courage
to die,"--"the soul of your beloved maiden, much as it longs for the
arms of its tender lover, faints at the near prospect of the pang that
rends asunder the flesh and the spirit--go, and comfort them,"--then,
and then only--always at the bidding of the Great Master, never of its
own accord--does the soul revisit the gross and unhappy world it has
left. Then does it knock at the ear of the sleeper, whispering, "Take
courage, for the Master despises cowards--meet the pang as a brave
warrior--as a good hunter--as a wise priest--as a beauteous maiden
should meet it, and rejoin the happy souls of thy race, in the valley of
the kind and good Waktan Tanka." The sleeper, thus admonished, wakes
with the words of the spirit deeply engraved on the green leaf of his
memory--that leaf never becomes dry. Is he a warrior, and has he the
fate to be taken in the toils of the enemy?--when bound to the stake,
and the fire scorches his limbs, and the pincers rend his flesh, and the
hot stone sears his eye-balls, and the other torments are inflicted,
that serve to feed the revenge of the conqueror, and test the resolution
of the captive, no groan can be forced from him, in the utmost extremity
of his anguish; he never stains his death-song with grief, but dies as
he lived, a man, because he knows that the Great Spirit despises
cowards. Is he a hunter?--he enters boldly the den of the black bear,
though surrounded by her cubs, and he laughs at the cry of the
catamount, though he crouches for his bound. Is he a priest?--he calls
louder and more frequently and joyfully than before upon his familiar
spirit; he thanks the Master that his prayers are heard; and he is to be
permitted to visit the happy lands. And what if the tears of the
bright-eyed maiden do drop on the bosom of those who pillow her head in
the Hour of Dread, they are not tears of sorrow, but flow from an eye,
by the command of Him who made it the window of the soul, fated to the
weakness of tears, and a heart prone to irresolution and trembling. The
Great Waktan Tanka knows that he made her with the heart of a dove, that
shakes at the fall of a leaf, and the soul of a song-sparrow, that
utters its cry of fear at the fall of a flake of snow. He will not
number tears and sighs, and tremblings and faintings, among the
transgressions of a woman.

This is all I have to say.


NOTE.

       *       *       *       *       *

(1) _To meet them with the blanket of friendship widely spread to the
winds_.--p. 246.

The Indian manner of displaying friendship is very singular; in that
mentioned in the second extract, the reader will perceive a strong
resemblance to the Oriental practice of saluting a new acquaintance, as
depicted in that admirable tale, The Crusaders.

"When they were within a mile of us, the Indian suddenly stopt. Captain
Lewis immediately followed his example, took the blanket from his
knapsack, and, holding it with both hands at each corner, threw it above
his head, and unfolded it as he brought it to the ground, as if in the
act of spreading it. This signal, which originates in the practice of
spreading a robe or a skin as a seat for guests to whom they wish to
show a distinguished kindness, is the universal sign of friendship among
the Indians of the Missouri and the Rocky Mountains. It is repeated
three times."--_Lewis and Clarke,_ i. 355.

"As our canoes approached the shore, and had reached about three score
rods of it, the Indians began a _feu-de-joie,_ in which they fired their
pieces loaded with balls, but at the same time they took care to
discharge them in such a manner as to cause the balls to fly a few yards
above our heads; during this, they ran from one tree or stump to
another, shouting and behaving as if they were in the heat of battle. At
first I was greatly surprised, and was on the point of ordering my
attendants to return their fire, concluding that their intentions were
hostile; but, being undeceived by some of the traders, who informed me
that this was the usual mode of receiving friends, I happily
desisted."--_Carver_, 15.

"Among the Shoshonees of the Rocky Mountains, they put their left arms
over the right shoulder of the person they welcome, clapping his back,
and applying their left cheek to his, shouting, 'Ah, hi e! Ah, hie e!' I
am much rejoiced, I am much pleased to see you."--_Lewis and Clarke_, i.
363.

"When two parties of those Indians meet," (the Northern Indians,) says
Hearne, "the ceremonies which pass between them are quite different from
those made use of in Europe on similar occasions; for, when they advance
within twenty or thirty yards of each other, they make a full halt, and
in general sit or lie down on the ground, and do not speak for some
minutes. At length one of them, generally an elderly man, if any such be
in the company, breaks silence, by acquainting the other party with
every misfortune that had befallen him, &c. When he has finished his
oration, another orator of the other party relates, in like manner, all
the bad news."--p. 332.


IV.--THE STONE CANOE.

Where is the land of the Chepewyans? Where have that tribe of valiant
warriors and expert hunters built their lodges? I will tell you. It is
in the regions of almost perpetual snows; regions whose suns are never
warm enough to pierce the frozen earth, which, therefore, produces
nothing but moss. No sweet ears of corn grow to reward the toils of the
woman; no wild flowers spring up for the youthful maiden to pluck. The
child wanders forth to gather no berries; no bird of sweet music sings
on the branch; no butterfly flits in the valley. Chill and dreary are
the autumns, cold and bitter the winters; men drink melted ice, when in
other lands buds are bursting open, and wear for a summer garment the
skins of the otter and the beaver. Instead of the mild and whispering
breezes of southern skies, we have the wild winds rushing impetuously
forth from their caves in the icy north, and the sun of the land of the
Chepewyans, knowing his uselessness, and the inability of his beams to
rend the fetters which ice has thrown around our bleak hills and
verdureless plains, stays with us but for a little season, leaving us
for many weary days to be lighted only by the glare of the moon and
stars, on the field of ice and snow. Yet the Chepewyan is not without
his pleasures, as those who live in the land of the sun have their
pains. He may drive from their frozen dens the beasts that make their
beds in the bank of snow, and he may pursue the bear on the iceberg, and
the musk-ox in the glade. In summer he may strike the salmon as he
glides through the waters of the Bear Lake, and send his darts through
the brown eagle, and make captive the white owl, hidden in the foliage
of the dwarf-pine. In the winter, when the storm of hail rattles around
his lodge of ice, stretched out on his bed of moss, he may recount the
glories of his nation, and the great deeds of his fathers; And he may
solace himself for the privations he endures, in his present state of
being, by fancying those he will enjoy in that land of rest upon which
he will enter when his spirit goes hence, and returns to the body no
more.

A Chepewyan chief sat by the fire of his cabin in the time of winter,
and the hour of a fall of snow, and told, in the ears of the listening
tribe, a legend of the land of souls, the Chepewyan tradition of the
Happy Hunting-Grounds. Let the assembled nations listen, and hear it
repeated by the tongue of his son, who sat with open ears at his
father's knee, drinking in the beloved words of beloved lips, and
engraving them deeply on the core of his heart.

"Once upon a time," my father began, "there lived in our nation a most
beautiful maiden, the flower of the wilderness--the delight and wonder
of all who saw her. She was called the Rock-rose, and was beloved by a
youthful hunter, whose advances she met with an equal ardour. No one but
the brave Outalissa was permitted to whisper tales of love by the side
of her nocturnal couch in the hour of darkness(1). The rock-moss he
gathered was always the sweetest; and the produce of his hunt, however
old and tough, was, in her opinion, the youngest and tenderest. They had
loved from childhood, and with the deepest affection. But it was not
permitted them to become inhabitants of one lodge, the occupants of one
conch. Death came to the flower of the Chepewyans, in the morning of her
days, and the body of the tender maiden was laid in the dust with the
customary rites of burial. First, dressed in the richest garb she
possessed, the gay-tinted robe of curiously woven feathers, and decked
out with the ornaments bestowed upon her by the youth she loved, they
placed her in the grave, lined with pine branches, amidst the groans
and lamentations of the whole nation. The men howled loud and long, and
the women cut off their hair, and scarred their flesh, and pierced their
arms with sharp knives, and blackened their faces with charred wood.
When the earth covered her from human sight, then woke their loudest
burst of sorrow--all wept, save him who had most cause to weep; he stood
motionless as a tree in the hour of calm, as the wave that is frozen up
by the breath of the cold wind.

"Joy came no more to the bereaved lover. The chase afforded him no
pleasure, for who was to share his spoils? He found no joy in pursuing
the salmon, for no one lived to reward his successful quest with the
smile of approbation. He told his discontent in the ears of his people,
and spoke of his determination, at all events, to rejoin his beloved
maiden. She had but removed, he said, to some happier region, as the
Arctic birds fly south at the approach of winter; and it required but
due diligence on his part to find her. Having prepared himself, as a
hunter prepares himself, with a store of pemmican, or dried beef, and
armed himself with his war-spear and bow and arrow, he set out upon his
journey to the Land of Souls. Directed by the old tradition of his
fathers, he travelled south to reach that region, leaving behind him the
great star, and the fields of eternal ice. As he moved onwards he found
a more pleasant region succeeding to that in which he had lived. Daily,
hourly, he remarked the change. The ice grew thinner, the air warmer,
the trees taller. Birds, such as he had never seen before, sang in the
bushes, and fowls of many kinds, before unknown, were pluming themselves
in the warm sun on the shores of the lake. The gay woodpecker was
tapping the hollow beech; the swallow and the martin were skimming along
the level of the green vales. He heard no more the cracking of branches
of trees beneath the weight of icicles and snow;--he saw no more the
spirits of departed men dancing wild dances on the skirts of the
Northern clouds(2); and the farther he travelled the milder grew the
skies, the longer was the period of the sun's stay upon the earth, and
the softer, though less brilliant, the light of the moon. Noting these
changes as he went with a joyful heart--for they were indications of his
near approach to the land of joy and delight--he came at length to a
cabin, situated on the brow of a steep hill, in the middle of a narrow
road. At the door of this cabin stood a man of a most ancient and
venerable appearance. He was bent nearly double with age; his locks were
white as snow; his eyes were sunk very far into his head, and the flesh
was wasted from his bones till they were like trees from which the bark
had been peeled. He was clothed in a robe of white goat-skin, and a long
staff supported his tottering limbs whithersoever he walked. The
Chepewyan began to tell him who he was, and why he had come thither, but
the aged man prevented him, by saying that he knew all. "There had
passed," he said, "to the beautiful island, a little while before, the
soul of a tender and lovely maiden, well known to the son of the Red
Elk. Being fatigued with her long journey, he had rested awhile in his
cabin, and had then told him the story of their long and affectionate
attachment, and her persuasion that her lover would attempt to follow
her to the Lake of Spirits. She had but just passed, and a little more
speed on his part would enable him to overtake her. But he could not be
permitted to carry his body, nor the body of his dog, nor his bow, nor
his war-spear, beyond the door of the cabin, which was the gate of the
land. He must leave them in his charge till his return, but he need not
fear that harm would happen to them. So saying, he opened the gate, and
gave him a glimpse of the wide and spacious road beyond.""

The Chepewyan was not long in disincumbering himself of the deadening
clog of mortality. Leaving his body, and the bodies of his dog, and
spear, and bow, in the hands of the gatekeeper, with a charge to have
them delivered to his friends if he should not return, he entered upon
the road to the Blissful Island. He had travelled but a couple of
bowshots, when it met his view still more beautiful than his fathers had
painted it. He stood upon the brow of a hill, sloping gently away to a
smooth lake, which stretched as far as the eye could see. Upon its banks
were groves of beautiful trees of all kinds, and many, very many canoes
were seen gliding over its waters. A light breeze ruffled its waves--so
light that they only reminded him of the opposition which a weak man
makes to the will of the strong. Afar, in the centre of the lake, lay
the beautiful island appointed for the residence of the good Chepewyan.
And scarcely three bowshots from him, leaning upon a bank of flowers, in
contemplation of the glorious scene, was the soul of her so fondly
loved. Beautiful vision! The sight lends to his steps the fleetness of
an antelope; he bounds forward, and is soon at her side. Into his arms
she flies, and though they clasp but thin air, embrace but her
resemblance, yet the doing so gives a hundred times the joy it could
have done, when his spirit was clogged with the grossness of mortality,
and he folded to his breast a corporeal form.

At length they reached the lake. They found upon its bank, chained by a
rope of sand to the shade of a willow, two canoes made of a white stone
that glittered in the sun like a field of ice. There were paddles in
each canoe of the same material. The lovers were prepared for this by
the tradition of their fathers, which informed them that a canoe of
stone was the conveyance by which they were to reach the happy mansions.
They also knew that each soul must have its separate conveyance, because
the passage was to give rise to the judgment which permitted them to sit
down in the happy dwellings, or doomed them to the punishment prepared
for the wicked. Casting off the rope of sand, each stepped into a canoe,
and committed it to the Water of Judgment. Who can describe their joy
and satisfaction, when they found that, though the actions of their
life-time had not been entirely pure; though the man had sometimes
slaughtered more musk-oxen than he could eat, speared salmon to be
devoured by the brown eagle, and gathered rock-moss to rot in the rain;
though he had once made mock of a priest, and once trembled at the
war-cry of the Knisteneaux, and once forgotten to throw into the fire
the tongue of a beaver as an offering to the Being who bade it cross his
hunting-path in a season of scarcity; and though the maiden had suffered
her father to wear tattered mocassins, and her brothers broken
snow-shoes, and thought of her lover when she should have been thinking
of the Master of Life--still the canoes did not sink, but floated slowly
on, level with the water, towards the Happy Island. They found that the
paddles were not needed--once passed the Judgment test, once pronounced
fit for the happy lands, the canoe moved, self-impelled, to the
appointed harbour. As they floated onwards, their eyes and ears were
pained by a thousand sights and sounds of horror. Now they saw a canoe
sink from under the person it was appointed to judge--a father, perhaps,
with his children in view; a husband, or wife, or friend, with the
object dearest to their hearts, to listen to the bubling cry of their
agony, as they sank to their chins in the water, there to remain for
ever, beholding and regretting the rewards enjoyed by the good, and
doomed to struggle, till the stars shall cease to shine, in unavailing
endeavours to reach the blissful island. They beheld the lake thick and
black with the heads of the unhappy swimmers, as the surface of the
Great Bear Lake is dotted in summer with the wild fowl that seek
subsistence in its bosom.

At length the happy pair reached the island. It is impossible to tell
the delights with which they found it filled. Mild and soft winds, clear
and sweet waters, cool and refreshing shades, perpetual verdure,
inexhaustible fertility, adorned the retreats of the Island of Souls.
There were no tempests of wind laden with snows to smother the unhappy
Chepewyan caught at a distance from his cabin; no rains to sweep the
hills of ice into the vales where he gathered his rock-moss, or tear his
fishing-nets and weirs from their place in the river. Gladly would the
son of the Red Elk have remained for ever with his beloved Rock-rose in
the happy island, but the words of the Master were heard in the pauses
of the breeze, discoursing to him thus:--

"Return to thy father-land, hunter, and tell in the ears of thy nation
the things thou hast seen. Paint to them the joys of the Happy Island,
but be careful to say that they can be enjoyed by the spirits of those
only whose good actions predominate over their evil ones. Say that the
Master does not expect perfection in man, but he expects that man will
do all he can to deserve his love; he expects that sooner than suffer
the wife of his bosom, or the children of his love, to be hungry, he
will journey even to the far Coppermine for salmon, and hunt the white
bear on the distant shores of the Frozen Sea. He expects from him good
temper in his cabin; fearlessness and daring in war; patience and
assiduity in the chase, and great and unceasing kindness to the father
that begot, and the mother that bore him. What, though he have several
times slaughtered more musk-beef than he can eat, speared salmon to be
devoured by the brown eagle, and gathered rock-moss to rot in the
rain?--what, though he have once made game of a priest, and once
trembled at the war-cry of the Knistenaux, and once forgotten to throw
into the fire the tongue of the beaver, as an offering to the Being who
bade it cross his path in a season of scarcity?--and what though _she_
have suffered her father to wear tattered mocassins, and her brothers
broken snow-shoes, and thought of her lover when she should have been
thinking of me, yet will I forgive them, and endow them with felicity,
if their good deeds outweigh the bad. The Master does not expect that
man will never commit folly or error. The clearest stream will sometimes
become turbid; the sky cannot always be cloudless; the stars will
sometimes become erratic--even snow will fall tinged with a colouring
which was not in its nature when I ordered it to be. Man of the
Chepewyans, write down these words on the green leaf of thy memory, nor
suffer them to fade as the leaf grows dry. Be good, and thy spirit in a
few more moons shall rejoin that of thy beloved rock-rose in the
blissful island. Depart, son of the Red Elk; the canoe which brought
thee hither will waft thee hence. Thou lingerest!--it is well! I know
thy thoughts and wishes--clasp her to thy heart then. It is well! The
recollection of the embrace will do more to keep thy spirit purified
than all the sayings of thy fathers, and the traditional learning of thy
priests. Away!"


NOTES.

       *       *       *       *       *

(1) _Nocturnal couch_.--p. 257.

One, and the most frequently adopted method of Indian courtship, is that
of approaching the couch of the beloved maiden, and whispering tales of
love while she is reposing. When an Indian imagines, from the behaviour
of the person he has chosen for his mistress, that his suit will be
agreeable to her, he pursues the following plan.

As the Indians are under no apprehensions of robbers or secret enemies,
they leave the doors of their tents or huts unfastened during the night
as well as the day. Two or three hours after sunset, the slaves or old
people cover over the fire, that is generally burning in the midst of
their apartment, with ashes, and retire to their repose. Whilst darkness
thus prevails, and all is quiet, wrapped closely up in a blanket, to
prevent his being known, the lover will enter the apartment of his
intended mistress. Having first lighted at the smothered fire a small
splinter of wood, which answers the purpose of a match, he approaches
the place where she reposes, and, gently pulling away the covering from
the head, jogs her till she awakes. If she then rises up, and blows out
the light, he needs no farther confirmation that his company is not
disagreeable; but, if she hides her head, and takes no notice of him,
be may rest assured that any farther solicitation will prove vain, and
that it is necessary immediately for him to retire.

(2)_The skirts the Northern clouds_.--p. 250.

"The idea which the Southern Indians have of the Aurora Borealis is very
pleasing and romantic. They believe it to be the spirit of their
departed friends dancing in the clouds, and when the Aurora Borealis is
remarkably bright, at which time it varies most in colour, form, and
situation, they say their friends are very merry."--_Hearne,346._ And
see the tradition _post_.

"The Northern Indians call this meteor by a less romantic
name--_Ed-thin,_ that is, "deer;" and, when that meteor is very bright,
they say, that deer is plentiful in that part of the atmosphere. Their
ideas, in this respect, are founded on a principle one would not imagine
them to possess a knowledge of. Experience has shown them, that, when a
hairy deer-skin is briskly stroked with a hand in a dark night, it will
emit many sparks of electric fire, as the back of a cat will."--_Ibid_.




V. THE LITTLE WHITE DOVE.


I have heard the words of the son of the Chepewyan, and the tale he has
told of the Happy Island, and the Stone Canoe. It is the belief of his
fathers, and he does well to treasure it up in his soul. The Knisteneaux
have too their land of delight. It is in a different clime from that of
the Chepewyan--how could it be, and continue a land of delight? Wars
would arise between these ancient and implacable enemies, and the peace
and quiet of the blessed regions be destroyed by their cries of hatred
and revenge. Ask a Knisteneau to throw away his war-spear with a
Chepewyan in his hunting-grounds? Ask a Chepewyan to wipe off his
war-paint while there was the print of a Knisteneau mocassin in his
war-path? The Great Spirit, knowing the impossibility of reconciling the
jarring tribes of the Wilderness, appointed to each tribe or nation its
place of happiness, and placed, between each, impassable barriers, that
wars enkindled on earth might not be transferred to the Land of Souls.

The "Foot of the Fawn," the most beautiful woman of the nation, and the
beloved wife of the great chief, died suddenly of the labour of nature
in the Moon of Buds. The body of the deceased mother, dressed in the
best garments she possessed, the robe of white fox-skin with the
embroidered sandals of dressed deer-skin, the feathers with which she
used to deck her long black hair, and the bracelets of pierced bones
which encircled her slender wrists, were placed in the grave lined with
pine branches. They buried with her all the domestic utensils she had
used, and all the articles she was known to have prized. While they were
filling in the earth into her grave, and erecting over it the canopy to
protect it from the rains and the winds, loud were the lamentations
which filled the air. They spoke of her patience, her industry, her care
of her family, her love of her husband, her kindness and pity to the
sick and afflicted, her benevolence to the stranger. The child, in
giving birth to which she had died, was buried, according to the custom
of our nation, by the side of the public footpath, or highway, that,
having enjoyed but little life, merely seen the light of the sun to have
its eye pained by its beams, some woman as she passed by might receive
its little soul, and thus it might be born again, and still enjoy its
share of existence. With these rites were the wife and child of the
great chief of the Knisteneaux laid in the earth from whence they
sprung.

It was many suns after the decease of the beloved Fawn's Foot, that two
doves, one of which was of the size of a full grown dove, and the other
a very little one, were seen sitting upon a spray by the side of the
warrior's lodge. Our people, who recollected the tradition of our
fathers, that the souls of the good, after their entrance upon the land
of never-ceasing happiness, were transformed into doves, and that not
always were little children appointed to be received into the bosom of a
second mother[A], and to re-enter into another stage of existence,
immediately conjectured that they were the spirits of the mother and the
child returned to the land of their bodies, on some errand yet to be
learned. They knew by the tradition of their fathers, that they had
entered on the Land of Souls, for the Festival of the Dead[B] had been
celebrated, and all the rites duly observed which release the soul from
its compelled attendance on the body, until the baked meats have been
eaten, and the howling and the piercing of flesh, and the tearing of
hair, and the weeping in secret, have taken place. "They have come! they
have come! The Fawn's Foot and her child have returned from the Land of
Souls," was shouted through the village. "The beautiful Fawn's Foot and
her child, that disdained to be born again, but clung to its first
mother, have returned to visit us, and tell us the secrets of the land
of departed souls. Now we shall hear from our fathers, mothers,
children, sisters, brothers, lovers, and friends. We shall be told the
length of the journey to the _Cheke Checkecame_, and whether the
traveller thither must take him stores of provisions, and go armed. We
shall know if the soul of the Little Serpent, who was taken prisoner by
the Coppermines, and burnt at the stake, is yet subjected to the pinches
and goadings of the bad spirits in the place of torment prepared for
those who die the death of fire; we shall hear about the Great Dog which
stands on the hither bank of the river, over which all must pass who
would enter on the land of spirits, to guard it against the approach of
those who break from their chains in the place of torment before the
expiation is duly made, and attempt, with impure hands, to lay hold of
the pleasures of the happy regions." Thus they ran about the village,
shouting and singing, until all the people were collected together, and
then they moved in a procession towards the tree upon which the doves
were perched. They found them--beautiful birds! but they were not
birds, but souls changed into the form which betokens innocence and
purity; they found them, and long and earnestly did they gaze upon the
tenderly beloved beings they had formerly been, the pure souls they now
were. The happiness they enjoyed in their present state was seen in
their eyes, which were mild and beautiful beyond my power to tell. And
great appeared the love subsisting between them. The little dovelet
hopped on the back of its parent, who playfully pecked it in return, and
often were the eyes of the child turned fondly on its mother, as if
thanking her for the existence she had bestowed upon it, at the expense
of her own life. Glorious birds with soft eyes, and skyey plumage! never
hath aught so beautiful been seen in the land of the Knisteneaux.

[Footnote A: They (the Chepewyans) have some faint notion of transmigration
of the soul; so that if a child be born with teeth, they instantly
imagine, from its premature appearance, that it bears a resemblance to
some person who had lived to an advanced age, and that he has assumed
a renovated life, with these extraordinary symptoms.--_Mackenzie_,
cxix.]

[Footnote B: See note 4, p. 306 of this vol.]

At length the bereaved husband and father made his appearance, slowly
and with eyes which would have shed tears, had they been other than
those of a warrior. No sooner was he in view, than the little wings of
the doves were rapidly fanning the air towards him. One, the lesser, and
scarce larger than a fly, lighted on his lip, the larger crept to his
bosom, as it was wont to do in life, and was fondly pressed to his
heart, which loved the form it bore when living, and deeply cherished
its memory, and hailed its return to the earth, in a new shape, with
inconceivable delight. Having nestled awhile in his bosom, the soul of
the good and beautiful Fawn's Foot perched upon his shoulders, and thus
addressed the listening Knisteneaux:

"I am one of the souls of the Fawn's Foot, who died of the labour of
nature, in the Moon of Buds, and the little dove at my side is the
spirit of my child. It is an old tradition of our fathers, and will not
therefore surprise you, that every person is gifted by the Great Master
of Life with two souls. One of these souls, which is the breath, never
leaves the body, but to go into another, which nevertheless seldom
happens, save to that of children, which, having enjoyed but little
life, is allowed to begin a new one, and live out a second and more
protracted term of existence. When the breath departs from the body, the
other soul goes to the region which is appointed to be the everlasting
abode of the Knisteneaux. It is situated very far towards the setting
sun, so far, that even those souls which are pardoned are many moons
reaching it. Many dangers are to be encountered before the souls bound
thither arrive. They first come to the place of torment, appointed for
the souls of those who have been taken prisoners and burnt. They pass a
river where many have been wrecked, and at length come to another, at
the hither edge of which lies a dog of immense proportions, which
attacks indiscriminately every one that attempts to cross. The souls
whose good deeds outweigh the bad are assisted by the Good Spirit to
overcome the dog, while the bad, conquered by him in the conflict, are
incessantly worried by him thereafter. The next place of danger and
dread, is the country where the spirits of the beasts, birds, fishes,
&c.--all animate nature which is not man--is found. Here are the spirits
of bears, and wolves, and snakes, all that is cruel, or bloody, or
hideous. And these are sure to give battle to the shades of the human
beings, as they cross the lands and waters where they dwell. The
punishment they inflict consists alone in the terror they excite, for
the jaws, so thickly studded with teeth, are but a shadow, and the claws
could only retain in their grasp a shade. The dwelling place of the
souls of the brutes has its enjoyments and pleasures suited to their
tastes. The snail, that delights to crawl in slime, will have full
permission to do so; the tortoise, and the prairie dog, and the mole,
may still creep into the earth if they choose, and the squirrel still
suspend himself by his tail from the bough of the tree. If the bear
choose to suck his claws, none shall say him nay, and the neeshaw may
bury himself as deep in the mud as he likes.

"At length the souls arrive at the region where they are destined to
spread their tents for ever. I have heard from the lips of our fathers
of its pleasures and its joys; all are well and truly described in your
old tradition. Happiness and rest are for the good, misery and labour
for the bad. Bright skies, eternal springs, and plenty of all things,
reward him who did his duty well; continual storms, endless winter,
parching thirst, pinching hunger, and crying nakedness, punish him who
performed them ill. Men and women of my nation! forsake evil ways, and
earn, by so doing, unbounded happiness. Hunter, dread not the bear, and
be patient and industrious; warrior, fear not thine enemy, and shouldst
thou unhappily fall into his power, bear his torments as a warrior
should bear them, and sing thy death-song in the ears of his tribe. And
thou, my beloved husband, persevere for a few more moons in the course
which made thee the light of my eyes while living, and renders thee not
less dear now I inhabit the world of spirits. Thou wilt soon rejoin the
souls of thy wife and child in the land of unceasing delights. Till
then, farewell."

Having spoken thus, the little doves flung out their skyey wings to
catch the breath of the Great Spirit sent to waft them home, and were
soon swept away from the sight of the Knisteneaux. Not so their tale,
which has resisted the current of time, and survives in the memories of
all our nation.




VI. THE TETON'S PARADISE.


If my brother will go abroad in a clear evening in the Moon of Falling
Leaves[A], and turn his eyes towards the cold regions of the Hunter's
Star, and the north wind, and the never-melting snows, he will often see
the skies flushed with a hue like that which mounts to the cheeks of a
young maiden, when the name of her lover is whispered in her ear, or
when that same lover presses her to his heart in the presence of curious
eyes and slandering tongues. At first, he will see a faint beam darting
up in the north, like the spray which shoots into the air, when the
waters dash upon a rocky frontlet. Gradually he will behold it arise,
till half the heavens, and sometimes the whole, is lit up with exceeding
brightness. Then will he hear in the skies a noise as of half-suppressed
laughter, and sometimes, though more rarely, he will behold the
light-winged aërial forms of the merry laughers, as they thread the
mazes of their dance among the clustering stars. The sight fills the
soul of an Indian with great joy, for he thinks that it is occasioned by
the spirits of his departed friends, indulging in the sport they loved
so well on earth, and dancing merrily to the music of the stars. The red
blush which tinges the face of night with a hue like that which mounts
to the cheeks of a beautiful maiden, when the name of her beloved youth
is whispered in her ear, is the flame which arises from the fires
kindled by the kind spirits of the north, to thaw the frozen mist which
impedes their light footsteps across the face of the heavens. And the
laugh is the laugh of eager joy, which those spirits utter when,
indulging in their loved pastime, they remember the occurrence which led
to their glorious destiny, and made the bright and starry north their
place of residence after death.

[Footnote A: This month (November) is sometimes called by them the
"Beaver-Moon," being the month in which they commence their hunt of that
animal.]

Once upon a time, the tribe of the Burntwood Tetons had assembled to
hold a merry feast and joyful dance upon the coming-in of the green
corn. It was a season of unusual plenty; the stalks of maize had grown
almost to the height and thickness of the surrounding trees, and the
ears thereon were many, sound, and sweet. Not only was this best beloved
food of the Indian in great plenty, but every thing else which
contributes to the enjoyment of Indian life, and makes the red man
happy, was in equal abundance. Every bush was loaded with rich, ripe
berries; and never, in the memory of the oldest Teton, had the woods
been so stocked with game, or the waters so frequently made to ripple
with the gambols of the nimble fish. The boy of twelve summers could
feed all his father's children with the spoils of his feeble bow and
tiny arrows, and the daughter of six would pluck more berries from the
prairie and hill-side, in the space of half a sun, than could be eaten
in her father's cabin by its hungry inmates for four sleeps. The Moon of
Planting saw the Great Spirit in good humour with his children, the
Tetons, because they had kept his commands, as laid down by his priests
and prophets: the Moon of Green Corn found him equally pleased and
gracious. Thence it was that he had showered prosperity upon all the
undertakings of our nation, and thence that he had given to our corn to
grow up like trees, and made the feet of our young warriors swift in the
chase, and their hearts strong in the combat, and had given to our
maidens the power to win, by their soft smiles and softer words, and
endearing glances, and whispers of affection, the hearts of whomsoever
they would. The Great Spirit loves to bestow gifts upon mortals, and to
see them happy, and never withholds his blessings from them when they
have duly besought his aid, and remembered to walk in the path he has
pointed out to them. When our tribe drove the Mahas from their
hunting-grounds, and came back with many scalps, it was because they
invoked his protection ere they went, and offered him frequent
sacrifices--when they left the bones of half their warriors to whiten on
the prairies which skirt the distant Wisconsan, it was because, in the
pride of their hearts, they remembered him not, and forgot that death
and destruction go before the steps of the hardened and contumacious.

I have said, that the warriors of my nation had assembled to the dance
and the feast. They had, and there were gathered together with them that
part of the tribe which better loved the pursuits of peace than those of
war--were better pleased to gather in the maize and nuts of autumn, and
to spear the gliding tenants of the waters, and to follow the trail of
the deer through the leafy coverts which he makes his hiding-place, than
to join in the tumult, and fatigues, and bloodshed, of the strife of
men. While the blithe young warriors danced their dance, the crowd
around them, from time to time, approved of their performances, by loud
and oft-repeated shouts of joy and delight. They said, that more expert
and graceful dancers had never been seen in the tribe, and predicted,
that limbs so light and agile in the dance, and eyes so true in
directing the spear to the painted post, around which they were dancing,
must needs show their agility and truth in the first expedition they
should undertake against a foe. And the young maidens--those whose
praise is sweetest, at least to the ears of youth--were equally loud in
their commendations of the sprightly Tetons, who were worshipping the
Master of Life in the manner supposed to be the most acceptable to him.

While our people were thus employed in their worship and dance, although
it was the hottest month of summer, and the day was one of singular and
overpowering heat, they were surprised and terrified by a sudden
darkness, accompanied by a great fall of snow and hail. All at once, to
their unspeakable consternation and confusion, there stood, in the
centre of the space around which the dance was danced, a spirit of the
air, wearing the form and proportions of a woman of exceeding beauty.
White and pure was her skin, as the snow ere it touches the earth; her
hair, which flowed to her knees in many folds, was white as the snow
which was falling around her; but her eyes were blue as the sky from
which she had taken her flight, and these alone, of all that appertained
to her, were of a different hue from the snows which had accompanied
her descent to the earth. She was of the usual height of the women of
our nation, and more beautiful than any thing that had ever entered into
the imagination of mortals. In a moment the dance was suspended, and,
throughout the camp of the Tetons, not a voice or sound was heard, save
the hushed respiration of the terrified and astonished crowd, as they
gazed upon the beautiful and majestic spirit. Awhile it stood in earnest
but tranquil look upon the silent warriors, and then spoke in whispers
the words which I shall repeat to my brothers:

"Men of the Burntwood Tetons! I am the chief spirit of the Land of
Snows--the power which, by the decree of the Great Being, presides over
the regions of ice and frost. I have come from my dwelling in the far
north, to look upon the brave and good Tetons, and to behold the dances
which they are so famed for dancing, and to see with my own eyes their
skill in shooting with the bow, and throwing the spear, and their
strength in wielding the war-club, and their patience under afflictions,
and their endurance of fatigue, and hunger, and cold, and want. I had
heard in my dwelling-place in the bright skies that they were the best
and bravest of men; I shall see if the report is true. But not for this
alone have I left the glorious regions of the north; I have suffered
myself to be coaxed to the earth, by a wish to feel in my bosom the
workings of that soft passion, which possesses both mortals and
immortals--things of the earth, and the air--and sometimes blesses with
joy and happiness, but oftener afflicts with pain and misery, and days
of anxiety, and nights of anguish, those whose lot it is to make it the
all-controlling guest of their bosoms; thou knowest that I mean the
almighty passion of love. Although I dwell in the regions of eternal
frost and never-melting snows, yet would I that my bosom should feel the
gentle flame; though my flesh be of the consistence and coldness of ice,
I would feel the raging of a fire like that which exists in the bosoms
of those who love to madness. I, who lived in the skies many, very many,
ages before the Elder Chappewee brought up the earth from the bottom of
the ocean to the present hour, without a touch of human passion--who
never knew or wished to know joy or sorrow, hope or despair, pleasure or
pain, melancholy, regret, anger, disappointment, or aught that elevates
or depresses the souls of mortals--would now partake of all and each in
an equal degree with the children of the earth. I would have my bosom
torn with the conflicting passions of humanity--be chilled with the
horrid doubts of jealousy, and with agonising fears for the duration of
the affection which will become a part of my existence."

Here the Spirit of Snow ceased speaking, while her tears fell thick and
fast in the shape of frozen rain upon the Tetons. Seeing the emotion of
the beautiful Spirit, and fearing that further silence on the part of
the tribe whom she had come to visit might be offensive to her, the aged
Nikanape, who was wisest of all the men of the land, rose and addressed
her thus:

"Beautiful Spirit of the Land of Snows! Thou wouldst feel, thou sayest,
the passion of love, and wouldst admit to thy bosom a soft feeling of
preference for one dearer than all the other beings of earth. Although
thou art a spirit, and shouldst be wise, yet, to judge from thy
speech--be not offended--the words of an aged Teton may better thy
wisdom. They whose bosoms are not afflicted by the passions of humanity,
who know neither love nor hate, nor joy nor sorrow, nor revenge nor
pity, nor anger, nor the other passions and emotions which distract
human life, and reduce it to a few brief and unhappy years, have only to
pray that the Great Spirit would keep them in their happy state of
ignorance. Why wouldst thou love?"

"To know its pleasures."

"They are fewer than the throbs of fear in the breast of a true
warrior, and shorter lived than the flower that blooms to-day, and
to-morrow is blasted by the unwholesome dew."

"I would know its pains."

"They are more numerous than the fire-flies which light up a summer
prairie, and die but with the being who entertains the passion upon
which they attend."

"I have seen otherwise. Once, while keeping my night-watch in my own
clime of snows, I beheld the return of one to the embrace of a maiden
from whom he had long been separated. I saw the eager flush of delight
on her cheek, as she rushed into his outstretched arms, and beheld the
sweet kisses of affection which were interchanged between the enraptured
pair, and heard the thrilling words of heartfelt tenderness which these
two did murmur in each other's ears. Was not this happiness?"

"It was."

"Would he not do well who should exchange a space of time equal to
thrice the years of a brown eagle, of existence so passionless as mine,
for one moon of happiness like that which those lovers enjoyed?"

"The great prophet of the Tetons is a man of few words. He sees the
Spirit of the Land of Snows determined to become a mortal, and why
should he seek to change her mind? May it be the happy lot of a man of
his nation to gain the affections of a being so beautiful as thou art!
Speak, fair Spirit! my people listen in anxious hope that thou wilt call
some Teton youth to thine arms."

Softly, and with a fearful look did the unearthly maiden make reply to
the Teton prophet. "I saw from my place in the land of frost one whom I
deemed worthy to be the husband of her at whose command the snows
descend upon the earth, and the waters are locked up with a chain, the
rivets of which can only be unclasped by the warm sun of summer. I
beheld him, in my eyes, the bravest of all thy warriors. None hath so
fleet a foot, none so sure a hand, none so fair a cheek, none so stately
a form."

"Surely thou hast named the pride of our nation--thou has described the
Swift Foot," replied the prophet. "Call him hither."

They carried the message to the youthful warrior, who came with the
speed of foot for which he was so well known, and stood by the side of
the beautiful maiden from the Land of Snows. Though it was evident that
she liked the young Brave, yet was not her love shown by the signs which
usually give evidence of the existence of that tender passion. No blush
lit up her snowy cheek, or flushed her lily neck, as it does the cheek
and neck of maidens of the earth when pressed to the enraptured bosoms
of those they love. No tear bedewed her eye, no trembling seized her
frame, no throb of rapture lifted the snowy mantle that hid her bosom.
Her body was bent slightly forward, her snowy lips were parted like a
water-lily, about to unfold itself to the face of day, and her arms were
extended as if they would press to her heart, all icy as it was, the
noble warrior who stood at her side.

"Dost thou love me?" she faintly asked.

"Does the dove love his little mate? does the spring bud love the beams
of the sun? does a mother love her first-born? does a warrior love the
shout of a foe? I love thee more than words can express; let my actions
show the deep affection I bear thee. The Swift Foot will make thee the
wife of his bosom."

"Dost thou know who it is that thou wouldst wed?"

"A Spirit."

"Dost thou know that when thou shalt take me to thy bosom thou wilt
embrace a form of ice? Thou art warm and impassioned, I chilled and
chilling as the winds of winter, and frozen as the ice of the bleak
Coppermine."

"Still will I dare the union. My love shall kindle in thy bosom a
warmth equal to that which possesses mine own."

"My breath is the breath of the northern blast."

"And mine hath the warmth of the breeze which blows in summer from the
land of never-failing verdure. Wilt thou, beautiful Spirit! be the wife
of a Teton, who has more scalps in his lodge than fingers on his hands,
who has struck dead bodies of six different nations, and stolen half the
horses upon which his brother warriors ride to the combat?"

"I will--I am thine, brave warrior!"

"Thou art indeed cold, beautiful Spirit!" said the Teton, as he pressed
the consenting maiden to his bosom for a moment, and then, shuddering
with an icy chill, his teeth shaking like the rattles of a snake, put
her from him. "But thou art mine, though it were death to embrace thee."

Again, summoning all his resolution, he held her to his heart. Then
calling the women to him, the warrior bade them prepare a bridal feast.
The youth and the maiden then went through the Indian form of marriage,
and the beautiful spirit of the Laud of Snows became the wife of the
Teton warrior.

With the sun of the next day the whole tribe gathered around the bridal
cabin, eager to learn if the Spirit of the North still remained to
bless the arms of her husband. Soon she appeared with her beloved Teton.
But oh how changed! Her cheek and neck were now suffused with blushes as
deep as those which stain the cheeks of mortal maidens; her hair had
changed from a snowy whiteness to a glossy brown: she had become to all
appearance a beautiful mortal. Ever and anon her eyes were fondly turned
on the Swift Foot, who repaid her fond glances by pressing her _now_
warm and ardent bosom to his own. The aged Nicanape again approached the
pair, and asked the Spirit if she did not regret that she had left the
regions of the skies to assume the attributes of mortality. With a fond
glance at the object of her love, she replied that a single moon of
bliss like that she now enjoyed was worth an eternity of the cold and
passionless existence which was hers before she had quitted the skies.
Again was she enfolded in the arms of the doating warrior, and the crowd
retired to permit the full, and free, and undisturbed, interchange of
those fond attentions, which are wont to occupy the first moon of
married life.

And thus passed away the first year after the marriage of the Teton
Brave with the beautiful Spirit of the frozen North. Ere that year had
passed, there was a stranger in their cabin--a little son, with the
wondrous beauty of its mother and the fearless soul of its father. Never
was there a being so beloved as the Spirit-wife was by the whole nation.
Though she now possessed the soul of a human being, her breast was
visited only by the softer and purer passions of human nature; anger,
revenge, cruelty, jealousy, and the other turbulent passions and
emotions, never came near her gentle bosom. Her love for her husband
grew with the growth of years, and strengthened with the progress of
time; her pity and compassion for the poor, and hungry, and sick, and
fainting, knew no bounds. Ever mild and affectionate, and kind, and
humane, never prone to break the quiet of her cabin by those querulous
complaints and angry invectives wherewith wives destroy the comfort of
their husbands, and bring storms and tempests, hail, rain, thunder, and
lightning, into the sky of domestic peace, the Teton loved her better
than mortal ever before loved another. Her goodness not only brought joy
and happiness to her husband, but benefits to the nation, which made
their lives pass as pleasantly and glide along as smoothly as a canoe
floating down a quiet stream in the time of summer. When the hunters
would go to their forest sports and labours, they asked the wife of the
Swift Foot if their hunt should be successful, and as she told them
_ay_ or _no_ was their expedition undertaken or abandoned. When she bade
the women plant the maize, they might be sure of the fair weather
without which the task could not be well accomplished; when she cast her
bright eyes on the sheaf of arrows rusting on the wall, the warriors
without more ado rose, and prepared the corn and pemmican, and examined
the condition of their bows and casse-têtes[A], and painted themselves
with the ochre of wrath[B], and sang with a hollow and sepulchral voice
their songs of war, and killed the fat dog, sacred to Areskoui[C], for
they knew that the keen look of the Spirit-wife upon the instruments of
death boded victory and glory to those who should employ them in the
strife of warriors. On the contrary, if, tired with a long peace, one
rose with the string of wampum(1) in his hand, and said to his brothers,
"The blood of him whom our foes slew in such or such a moon is not yet
wiped away; his corpse remains above the earth unburied; I go to wash
the clotted gore from his breast, to give him the rites of sepulture,
and to eat up the nation(2) by whom the base wrongs were done him"--if,
having spoken thus, the Spirit-wife but cast her meek blue eye upon him,
and suffered a sigh to pass her beautiful bosom, the speaker rose, and
washed off the black paint, and effaced from his cheeks all traces of
the bloody design by which he had been actuated, and declared that a
kind bird had whispered in his ear that the "enemy were gone to the
mountain streams for sturgeon," or, "to the plains of the Osage to
gather bitter snow[D]," or, "to the prairies of the Wisconsan to hunt
the buffalo," or, "to the stormy lake of Michabou(3) to take the fish
wherewith the god had so plentifully stocked it." The assembled
warriors, knowing that he had a sufficient motive for changing his mind,
would follow his example, and lay by the weapons of war to resume those
of peace, without any inquiry why he had changed his mind. And thus,
more by soft persuasion, and kind entreaties, and wise prophecies, than
by stern commands, and bitter denunciations, the beautiful Spirit-wife
ruled the Burntwood Tetons to their glory and happiness.

[Footnote A: The war-clubs.]

[Footnote B: Black paint, as I have before observed, the symbol among
the Indians of belligerent intentions.]

[Footnote C: A fat dog is the chief and sometimes the only dish at the
feast, preparatory to a war expedition. This animal is sacred to
Areskoui, or the God of War.]

[Footnote D: Salt.]

Yet, with all her love for her husband, and her children, of whom in ten
springs ten stood in their father's cabin, she appeared at times to be
far from happy. It was observed that nothing could induce her to go
abroad after darkness had veiled the earth. When the robe of night was
thrown over the face of things, then the Spirit-wife would be found
seated in the darkest corner of her dwelling, nor could entreaties draw
her out. Insensible to fear, while the sun shone, the moment it
disappeared, her cheek became pallid as death; and if, during the period
of darkness, there happened a high wind from the north, and a fall of
hail, her agony knew no bounds, and excessive trembling would for awhile
deprive her of the power to move, and almost to utter intelligible
sounds. Her husband asked her wherefore this trembling, but could gain
no answer. And thus time passed away.

The snows of ten winters had fallen to rush to the embrace of the
rivers, and black clouds, and cold winds, and falling leaves, were
betokening the near approach of the eleventh, when, upon a clear and
starry night, a stranger, wearing a garment which glittered like ice
upon which the sun is shining, and whose hair was a body of icicles,
entered the village of the Tetons. He was of very small stature, being
scarcely taller than the child who has seen twelve harvests: and his
limbs and features were proportionably small. The colour of his skin,
and the robe which he wore, as well as the shape of the latter, so
nearly resembled those of the Spirit-wife on the morning she came to the
Teton village, that all deemed they were of the same nation, perhaps
brother and sister. When they asked the stranger who he was, and why he
had come hither, he made no answer, but to the question said, with a
voice that sounded like the wind of the Cold Moon:

"Have you seen my wife?"

"Wife?--What wife?" demanded the chief.

"She who _yesterday_ fled from my arms--the beautiful Spirit of Snow."

"Ten seasons have passed," said the chief, "and the eleventh is near at
hand, since there came among us a being, exceedingly beautiful, and
habited much like him to whom the great chief of the Tetons is now
speaking. She has become the wife of one of my Braves. Was she thine ere
she was his?"

"Ten of thy seasons are but a day, nay, but an hour, nay, but a minute,
in the eyes of spirits. In my computation, it was yesterday that the
fair Spirit of Snow left my bosom."

"And who art thou?"

"The Spirit of Tempests--the ruler over the realms of the bleak north;
he who harnesses his horses to the east winds, and drives the furious
whirlwind and crashing tempest over the lands of the affrighted Tetons
and their forest brothers."

"Thou seemest too small of stature to undertake wrathful purposes, and
all unfit to represent the mighty winds that rend the stubborn oak, and
the fierce tempests that scatter yet wilder desolation," said the Teton
chief, surveying, almost contemptuously, the diminutive form of the
strange Spirit.

"Tax but my powers--excite but my ire," said the demon, "and the chief
of the Burntwood Tetons may rue the hour that gave birth to his doubts
of the strength of the master of the northern blast. But why do I waste
words upon thee? Bring hither my wicked wife."

Seeing the angry and ireful Spirit determined upon mischief, the chief
departed, his bosom filled with sorrow, to summon the beautiful and
beloved Spirit of Snow to the presence of the being who claimed her as
his wife. He found her not unapprised of the dreadful fate which awaited
her. Bathed in tears, her head reclined on the shoulder of the doting
Teton, sat the lovely Spirit, her eyes now bent on him she loved so
fondly, and now on their beautiful children, who slept all unconscious
of the grief which wrung their fond mother's bosom. At length, with
sudden resolution, she rose from her seat, and, folding the beloved
warrior to her breast in one long and passionate embrace, she left the
cabin.

"I have found thee at last," exclaimed the angry ruler of tempests, as
the beautiful woman approached him. "Thou, who fledst from my arms to
those of an earthly paramour, how dost thou like the exchange?"

"So well," replied the trembling Spirit, "that if thou wilt consent to
let me remain where I am, I will never return to thee or to my clime of
snows."

"Base-minded woman! And wilt thou abandon the glorious destiny of ruling
the elements for the mean one of sharing in the labours of a Teton
cabin?"

"The destiny which thou deemest glorious may be well abandoned for that
which thou holdest mean. However well it may once have suited me to
dwell in the bleak climes of the north, and be the mistress of the flaky
dew, it now more glads my heart to share in the labours of a Teton
cabin. I know, from my own brief experience, that the fevers and agues
of mortality are to be preferred a thousand times to the unvarying,
unchanging, existence of a Spirit without passion, feeling, sympathy,
love, or tenderness. I pray thee let me remain as I am, and where I am."

"And so thou preferrest the earth to the sky; sensibility to
insensibility; a humble Teton warrior to the mighty Spirit of the clime
over which thou wast created to exert thyself a wondrous influence?"

"Let it not displease thee that I do. I have become in love with the
pains of human life, and delighted with the anxieties which cling to it,
as moist snow clings to a pine in the warm spring."

"Becoming a mortal being thou must die."

"I shall first have lived."

"Thy spirit--"

"Disincumbered of its earthly load, will return to its former starry
mansion."

"Once more I ask, dost thou prefer to remain on earth? Rough and noisy
though I be, yet will I not exert force to compel thee back to thine own
region."

"I would remain. In my cabin is a Teton warrior--him I love; there are
ten beautiful children at his side--the Spirit of Snow fed them with her
own milk--the Teton warrior is their father. Thou canst not, passionless
as thou art, know my feelings; but, believe me, that to part me from
them is to banish all peace and joy from my soul, and to drive me into a
depth of affliction, which will last till time shall be no more. Nor
deem that aught save death can weaken the force of those affections
which are now kindled in my bosom."

"I see, I see; and, but that stern pride forbids it, I, too, would,
throw off the state of a ruler of tempests and wintry winds, to become
the master of a cabin in one of the green vales of the earth, to gather
around me children like thine, and to feel the hopes and fears, which
have rendered thee so unlike the being thou wast. But we shall meet
again. When thou wert invested with the attributes of mortality, death
was also appointed to thee--a few years, and thou wilt quit the house of
clay, again to rove free and unconfined among the glittering stars, and
through the endless realms of space."

With these words, the Spirit of Storms took his departure from the land
of the Tetons, and none ever saw him more. Released from his presence,
joy again took possession of the bosom of the beautiful wife of the
Teton, and the traces of tears were soon removed from her fair cheek.
His assurance had quieted her soul, and fear was no longer an inhabitant
of her bosom. She no longer sought the gloomy privacy of the cabin at
the approach of night, but joined the dance of maidens, herself the most
sportive of them all. Every season added a little stranger to the
laughing and merry groupe, till twenty and seven sons and daughters
were in the cabin of the Teton Swift Foot. Old age came over the
husband, but not the wife. When his knees had grown feeble, and his
voice faint, and his eye dim, and his heart craven, her faculties were
in full perfection--her cheek still wore the blush of youth, and her
step was lighter than the fawn of four moons. And, if time had abated
nothing of her wondrous beauty and sprightliness, neither had it of her
goodness, and kind attention to the wants of the poor Indians. Her care
that they should want for nothing was as much exerted as ever--still
their hunting-grounds and their rivers were the best stocked of any in
all the land, and their war expeditions for forty seasons were
invariably blest with success. Let not my brother wonder, then, if the
Tetons almost forgot their duty to the Great Spirit, in their affection
for the good being whom they deemed his fatherly care had sent among
them.

At length, the Teton warrior, overcome by years, lay down and died. Then
it was that deep grief visited the bosom of his still beautiful and
still youthful wife. In vain, did the priest remind her that all must
die--she would not be consoled. They dressed the body of the deceased
warrior in his robe of fur, and then laid it, together with his spear,
and bow, and war-hatchet, and sheaf of arrows, and pipe, and
camp-kettle, in the house of death(4). While they were rendering the
last service to the body of the Swift Foot, the wife sat motionless,
looking on--when they had finished, she rose, and spoke to them thus:--

"We have now dwelt together, Tetons, for forty summers, and, during that
time, there has been a pure, unclouded sky in our village. We have been
friends, and so we will part. I cannot abide longer on the earth; I go
to take the soul of my beloved husband to the mansion prepared for him
in my own bright clime of the north. My children I leave to the care of
the brave warriors and good hunters, bidding one to protect, and the
other to feed them, till the Good Spirit sees fit to deprive them of the
life he has given. Be this your recompense.

"It is known that, among all the red men of the forest, none are so fond
of dancing, and none so excellent therein, as the Tetons. Ask any man,
or any woman, of any nation, who best and most gracefully perform the
War Dance, and the Scalp Dance, and the Calumet Dance, and the Dance of
Green Corn, and he will answer, 'The Burntwood Tetons.' Now, if ye will
continue to watch over my helpless children till their days of
helplessness are past, ye shall continue to dance even after death--the
spirit released from the flesh shall still caper as merrily as ever over
the clear skies of the north. Those skies were once mine--to-morrow I
shall resume dominion over them."

"It is cold, very cold in those regions," said the great chief. "The
dance will not keep us warm, and our way will be impeded by the ice and
snow."

"Neither shall be an impediment," answered the beautiful Spirit. "I will
cause my little people to kindle huge fires, the flames of which,
flashing over the northern skies, shall at once dissipate the flaky
mists, and be a light to the steps of the dancers. And thus shall it be.
When a Teton departs, his spirit shall go to the northern skies, which
henceforth shall be the Teton's Paradise. There shall he enjoy,
uninterrupted, his beloved pastime; and, till time shall be no more,
have full permission to foot it as joyfully as he did on earth."

These were the concluding words of the Spirit-wife. When they looked up
she was gone from their sight, no one knew whither. Presently there was
a slight fall of snow, which soon, however, again gave place to the
beams of the warm and refreshing sun. They never saw her again. They
never saw her again, but they forgot neither her nor her wishes. The
children she left were adopted by the nation, and became in time so many
of them fathers and mothers, that, at this day, half the tribe are
descended from them.

My brother asks, if the good Spirit-wife kept her promise to the Tetons.
She did, as he will see, if he will but look at the northern skies in
the time of summer and autumn. He will then see flashing over the face
of the broad heavens the flames which the good people kindle to thaw the
frosty air, and thus remove the impediments which exist to the merry
dance of the souls of those Tetons, who have repaired to the Happy
Abode. He will hear very plain the laugh[A] of the sprightly dancers;
and frequently, when the air is very clear, he will see their nimble
forms dancing up and down the moonbeams. Who would not wish that his
spirit might be permitted to go to THE TETON'S PARADISE?

[Footnote A: The _aurora borealis_, or "northern light," as my readers
know, is usually attended by a whizzing sound, somewhat resembling
laughter.]

Brother, this is no lie.


NOTES.

(1) _String of Wampum_.--p. 293.

A party of Indians, intending to go to war, first observe a rigorous and
protracted fast. When the fast is ended, he who is to command it
assembles his friends, and, holding in his hand a string of wampum,
makes a speech, in which the causes of war, and the injuries and insults
which justify it, are fully and artfully set forth. When he has
finished, he lays the collar on the ground, and he who takes it up, by
so doing, declares himself embarked in the same expedition.

(2) _Eat up the Nation_.--p. 294.

This is a frequent figure of the Indian orator, when endeavouring to
inflame the passions of his hearers. It signifies that a war is to be
waged against the nation respecting whom the "talk" is held, in the most
outrageous and destructive manner. When they wish to engage in their
quarrel an ally who is not present, they send a belt of wampum, with an
invitation to him to drink the "blood" or "the broth of the flesh of
their enemies." It is not to be inferred from this, that the North
American Indians are _Anthropophagi_. It is undoubtedly an allegorical
manner of speaking, with frequent examples of which the Scriptures
furnish us, _e.g._ Psalms xxvii. 2.

(3) _The stormy Lake of Michabou._--p. 294.

The Indians believe that Michabou, the God of the Waters, formed Lake
Superior to serve as a nursery for beavers. The rocks at the _Sault de
Saint Marie_, or Falls of St. Mary, according to the tradition of the
Indians, are the remains of a causeway made by the God in order to dam
up the waters of the rivers, which supply this great lake. At the time
he did this, he lived, they add, at Michillimackinac, _i.e._ a great
place for turtles, pronounced Mak-i-naw. He it was who taught the
ancestors of the Indians to fish, and invented nets, of which he took
the idea from the spider's web. Very many of the northern tribes
recognise this same divinity, but the Hurons alone assign Lake Superior
as the place of his residence.

(4) _House of Death._--p. 302.

The funeral customs of the Indians are very various, and all are
sufficiently curious to merit a place in this note. I have only space
for a few. The first extract relates rather to the place of deposit for
the dead, than to the dead themselves. It describes the common cemetery
of the tribes living west of the Rocky Mountains.

"Among the Pishquitpaws, who live beyond the Rocky Mountains, the place
in which the dead are deposited is a building about sixty feet long, and
twelve feet wide, and is formed by placing in the ground poles or forks
six feet high, across which a long pole is extended the whole length of
the structure. Against this ridge-pole are placed broad boards and
pieces of canoes in a slanting direction, so as to form a shed. It
stands east and west, and neither of the extremities are closed. On
entering the western end we observed a number of bodies, wrapped
carefully in leather robes, and arranged in rows on boards, which were
then covered with mats. This was the part destined for those who had
recently died: a little further on, bones half decayed were scattered
about, and in the centre of the building was a large pile of them heaped
promiscuously on each other. At the western extremity was a mat on which
twenty-one sculls were placed in a circular form, the mode of interment
being first to wrap the body in robes, and as it decays the bones are
thrown into the heap, and the sculls placed together. From the different
boards and pieces of canoes which form the vault were suspended on the
inside fishing-nets, baskets, wooden bowls, robes, skins, trenchers, and
trinkets of various kinds, obviously intended as offerings of affection
to deceased relatives. On the outside of the vault were the skeletons of
several horses, and great quantities of bones were in the neighbourhood,
which induced us to believe that these animals were most probably
sacrificed at the funeral rites of their masters."--_Lewis and Clarke_,
ii, 24.

It was not worth while for these travellers to imply a doubt that those
animals were sacrificed. The custom obtains among all the tribes of the
Western continent, from Labrador to Cape Horn, of sacrificing the most
valuable animals, on the death of their master. In this they are
actuated by a common belief that the deceased will need their assistance
in the land of spirits. See the various traditions.

The Choctaws, a tribe living near the gulf of Mexico, till very late
years had a practice similar to that of the Pishquitpaws, of exposing
their dead upon scaffolds, till such time as the flesh was decayed; it
was then separated from the bones by a set of old men, who devoted
themselves to this custom, and were called "bone-pickers;" after which,
the bones were interred in some place set apart for the purpose.

With the tribes living far towards the northern lakes, the ceremonies
and superstitions which formerly preceded inhumation, were
these:--Charlevoix, the best writer that ever treated of the Indians, is
my authority. "As soon as the sick person expires, the place is filled
with mournful cries. The dead body, dressed in the finest robe, with the
face painted, the arms, and all that belonged to the deceased, by his
side, is exposed at the door of the cabin, in the posture it is to be
laid in the tomb; and this posture is the same in many places as that of
a child in the mother's womb. The custom of some nations is for the
relations to fast to the end of the funeral; and all this interval is
passed in tears and cries, in treating their visiters, in praising the
dead, and in mutual compliments. In other places, they hire women to
weep, who perform their part punctually: they sing, they dance, they
weep, without ceasing, always keeping time: but these demonstrations of
a borrowed sorrow do not prevent what nature requires from the relations
of the deceased.

"It appears that they carry the body without ceremony to the place of
interment, at least I find no mention made about it in any relation:
but, when it is in the grave, they take care to cover it in such a
manner that the earth does not touch it. It lies as in a little cave
lined with skin, much richer and better adorned than their cabins. Then
they set up a post on the grave, and fix on it every thing that may shew
the esteem they had for the deceased. They sometimes put on it his
portrait, and every thing that may serve to shew to passengers who he
was, and the finest actions of his life. They carry fresh provisions to
the tomb every morning; and, as the dogs and other beasts do not fail to
reap the benefit of it, they are willing to persuade themselves that
these things have been eaten by the souls of the dead.

"When any one dies in the time of hunting, they expose his body on a
very high scaffold, and it remains there till the departure of the
troop, who carry it with them to the village. There are some nations who
practice the same with regard to all their dead. The bodies of those who
die in war are burnt, and their ashes brought back to be laid in the
burying-place of their fathers. Others bury their dead in the woods, at
the foot of a tree; or dry them, and keep them in chests, till the
festival of the dead. In some places they observe an odd ceremony for
those that are drowned or frozen to death. The savages believe, when
these accidents happen, that the spirits are incensed, and that their
anger is not appeased till the body is found. Then the preliminaries of
tears, dances, songs, and feasts, being ended, they carry the body to
the usual burying-place; or, if they are too far off, to the place where
it is to remain till the festival of the dead. They dig a very large
pit, and make a fire in it; then some young persons approach the corpse,
cut out the flesh in the parts which had been marked by the master of
the ceremonies, and throw them into the fire with the bowels. Then they
place the corpse, thus mangled, in the place destined for it. During the
whole operation, the women, especially the relations of the deceased, go
continually around those that are at it, exhorting them to acquit
themselves well of their employment, and put beads in their months, as
we would give sugar-plums to children, to entice them to do what we
desire."

The customs among some of the tribes, especially those who have had
little intercourse with the white people, are substantially the same at
this day. But, it has been the effect of their acquaintance with their
conquerors to make them forget every thing laudable and praiseworthy,
among which was their singular veneration for the dust of their
ancestors. These now bury their dead with as few ceremonies as we
observe in burying a dog.

Mackenzie's description of the funeral solemnities of the Knistenaux,
who live further north than Charlevoix went, is something different from
the above:--The funeral rites begin, like all other solemn solemnities,
with smoking, and are concluded by a feast. The body is dressed in the
best habiliments possessed by the deceased or his relations, and is then
deposited in a grave lined with branches. Some domestic utensils are
placed on it, and a kind of canopy erected over it. During this ceremony
great lamentations are made, and the departed person is very much
regretted; the near relations cut off their hair, pierce the fleshy part
of their thighs with arms, knives, &c. and blacken their faces with
charcoal. If they have distinguished themselves in war, they are
sometimes laid on a kind of scaffolding; and I have been informed that
women, as in the East, have been known to sacrifice themselves to the
manes of their husbands. The whole of the property belonging to the
deceased person is destroyed, and the relations take in exchange for
their wearing apparel any rags that will cover their
nakedness.--_Mackenzie_, p. xcix. _Journal_, 148.

The Delawares, and other Indians on the Atlantic coast, buried their
dead after the following manner. Immediately after death, the corpse
was dressed in a new suit, with the face and shirt painted red, and laid
upon a mat or skin in the middle of the hut or cottage. The arms and
effects of the deceased were then piled up near the body. In the
evening, soon after sunset, and in the morning before day-break, the
female relations and friends assembled round the corpse and mourned over
it. Their lamentations were loud in proportion to the love and esteem
they bore the deceased, or to his rank, or to the _pains he suffered in
dying_. And they were repeated daily till his interment.

The burying-places of the Delawares were at some distance from the
dwellings. The graves were generally dug by the old women, as the young
people abhorred this kind of work. If they had a coffin, it was placed
in the grave empty. Then the corpse was carried out, lying upon a linen
cloth, full in view, that the finery and ornaments, with all the effects
left by the deceased, might appear to advantage. The funeral was
accompanied by as great a number of friends as could be collected. It
was then let down into the coffin covered with the cloth. During the
letting down of the corpse, the women set up a dreadful howl, but it was
deemed a shame to weep. Yet, in silence and unobserved, they could not
refrain from tears. It may be seen that they had partially conformed to
the customs of the white people. The "coffin" and "linen cloth" were not
Indian.

The funeral ceremonies of the tribes inhabiting New England were similar
to the authentic part of those practised by the Delawares. Graves were
dug and the body deposited therein, together with such utensils of
cookery, and weapons of war, as it was deemed would be wanted by the
spirits of the deceased in the world they were about to visit. They had
one custom, however, which I did not observe among the southern
tribes--that of placing weights on the grave to prevent the body from
getting out again, and haunting its friends.

It will be seen from these various customs, that one belief is common to
all the tribes scattered over the western continent--that of the
existence in man of the spiritual essence which we call _soul_; of its
flight after death to another and better world, variously located
however; and of its being there actuated by the same wants and wishes,
engaged in the same occupation and pursuits, and requiring the same
means for the attainment of the same ends, as in this.


END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

LONDON:
F. SHOBERL, JUN., LAZENBY COURT, LONG ACRE.







*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRADITIONS OF THE NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS, VOL. 1 ***


    

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