The Project Gutenberg EBook of Traditions of the North American Indians,
Vol. 3 (of 3), by James Athearn Jones
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Title: Traditions of the North American Indians, Vol. 3 (of 3)
Author: James Athearn Jones
Release Date: March 15, 2007 [EBook #20828]
Language: English
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_London, Published by Colburn & Bentley--April 1830._]
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. III.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1830.
F. SHOBERL, JUN., LONG ACRE.
CONTENTS
OF
THE THIRD VOLUME.
Page
The Lake of the White Canoe 1
A Legend of the Bomelmeeks 33
The King of the Elks 47
The Daughters of the Sun 77
The Maiden and the Bird 91
The Island of Eagles 117
Legend of Aton-Larre 145
The Fire-Spirit 167
The Origin of Women 175
The Hill of Fecundity. A Tradition of the Minnatarees 183
TALES OF A WHITE MAN'S GHOST.
I. Garanga 191
II. The Warning of Tekarrah 213
III. The Legend of Pomperaug 237
IV. The Son of Annawan 251
V. The Cascade of Melsingah 279
Legend of Coatuit Brook 305
The Spirits of Vapour 313
The Devil of Cape Higgin 321
TALES OF AN INDIAN CAMP.
THE LAKE OF THE WHITE CANOE.
Wo! Wo! Wo
Wo to the sons of the far-off land,
Weak in heart and pale in face,
Deer in battle, moose in a race,
Panthers wanting claw and tooth
Wo to the red man, strong of hand,
Steady of purpose, lithe of limb,
Calm in the toils of the foe,
Knowing nor tears nor ruth
Wo to them and him,
If, cast by hard fate at the midnight damp,
Or an hour of storm in the dismal swamp,
That skirts the Lake of the White Canoe!
Wo to him and them,
If, when the night's dim lamps are veil'd,
And the Hunter's Star is hid,
And the moon has shut her lid,
For their wearied limbs the only birth
Be the cold and frosty earth,
And their flesh be burnt by the gum exhal'd
From the cedar's poisonous stem,
And steep'd in the blistering dew
Of the barren vine in the birchen copse,
Where rear the pines their giant tops
Above the Lake of the White Canoe!
My brother hears--'t is well--
And let him shun the spot,
The damp and dismal brake,
That skirts the shallow lake,
The brown and stagnant pool[A],
The dark and miry fen,
And let him never at nightfall spread
His blanket among the isles that dot
The surface of that lake;
And let my brother tell
The men of his race that the wolf hath fed
Ere now on warriors brave and true,
In the fearful Lake of the White Canoe.
Wo! Wo! Wo!
To him that sleeps in those dark fens!
The she-wolf will stir the brake,
And the copper-snake breathe in his ear,
And the bitterns will start by tens,
And the slender junipers shake
With the weight of the nimble bear,
And the pool resound with the cayman's plash,
And the owl will hoot in the boughs of the ash,
Where he sits so calm and cool;
Above his head, the muckawiss[B]
Will sing his gloomy song;
Frogs will scold in the pool,
To see the musk-rat carry along
The perch to his hairy brood;
And, coil'd at his feet, the horn-snake will hiss,
Nor last nor least of the throng,
The shades of the youth and maid so true,
That haunt the Lake of the White Canoe.
And, if he chance to sleep,
Still will his _okki_ whisper wo,
For hideous forms will rise:
The spirits of the swamp
Will come from their caverns dark and deep,
Where the slimy currents flow,
With the serpent and wolf to romp,
And to whisper in the sleeper's ear
Of wo and danger near;
And mist will hide the pale, cold moon,
And the stars will seem like the sparkling flies
That twinkle in the prairie glades,
In my brother's month of June--
Murky shades, dim, dark shades,
Shades of the cypress, pine, and yew,
In the swamp of the Lake of the White Canoe.
Wo! wo! wo!
He will hear in the dead of the night--
If the bittern will stay his toot,
And the serpent will cease his hiss,
And the wolf forget his howl,
And the owl forbear his hoot,
And the plaintive muckawiss,
And his neighbour the frog, will be mute--
A plash like the dip of a water-fowl,
In the lake with mist so white;
And two forms will float on his troubled view,
O'er the brake, with a meteor light,
And he'll hear the words of a tender song,
Stealing like a spring-wind along
The Lake of the White Canoe.
That song will be a song of wo,
Its burthen will be a gloomy tale;
It will cause the rain to flow;
It will tell of youthful love,
Fond but blighted love;
It will tell of father's cruelty;
It will cause the rain to flow;
It will tell of two lovely flowers
That grew in the wilderness;
And the mildew that touch'd the leaf;
And the canker that struck the bud;
And the lightning that wither'd the stem;
And 't will speak of the Spirit-dove,
That summon'd them away,
Deeming them all too good and true,
For aught save to paddle a White Canoe
[Footnote A: The water of the little lake (Drummond's Pond), to which
this tradition relates, is coloured brown by the roots of the juniper
and cedar.]
[Footnote B: Whip-poor-will.]
With these wild stanzas, preliminary to a tradition current among the
tribes of that region, Walk in the Water, a Roanoke chief of great
celebrity, commenced his tale. Undoubtedly most of the Indians present
were as well acquainted with the story as the narrator, but that
circumstance seemed to abate nothing of the interest with which it was
listened to; it certainly did not diminish the attention of the
audience. In this respect, these wild foresters deserve to become a
pattern for careful imitation. They never interrupt a speaker. However
incongruous or ill put together his tale, or insulting the matter or
manner of his speech, or revolting his opinions to their preconceived
notions and prejudices, he is heard patiently until he has said all
that he has to say. And, after he has seated himself, sufficient time
is given him to recollect whether he has left unsaid any thing in his
opinion of importance to the correct interpretation of his views.
It will be seen from the specimens interspersed through these volumes,
that the poetry of the Indians is in general of the warlike, or of the
tender and pathetic kind. Their only poetry is found in their songs.
They are sung in a kind of measure, always harmonious to an Indian
ear, and frequently to ours. The music is well adapted to the words.
It would be idle to attempt to give an idea of it by means of our
musical notes, as has been done by other writers; I should probably
meet with the fate of those who have tried in the same manner to
describe the melodies of the ancient Greeks. They sing it in short
lines or sentences, not always the whole at once, but most generally
in detached parts, as time permits, and as the occasion or their
feelings prompt them. Their accent is very pathetic and melancholy; a
by-stander unacquainted with their language would suppose that they
were details of some great affliction: both sexes sing in chorus,
first the men and then the women. At times the women join in the
general song, or repeat the strain which the men have just finished.
It seems like two parties singing in questions and answers, and is,
upon the whole, very agreeable and enlivening. After thus singing for
about a quarter of an hour, they conclude each song with a loud yell,
not unlike the cat-bird, which closes its pretty song with mewing like
a cat. The voices of the women are clear and full, and their
intonations generally correct.
The Dismal Swamp, which gave rise to this genuine Indian tradition, is
one of the gloomiest spots on the face of the earth. It is situated in
the state of Virginia, and covers a very large space. On the south
side of this wild and gloomy region the marshy border is thickly
overgrown with immense reeds, and, as far as the eye can take in,
waves slowly and heavily one dark green sea. Then, on all the other
skirts of the forest itself, the lofty trees are covered to their
summits by the yellow jessamine, and other quick-growing creepers,
breathing odour, and alive with the chirping of insects and the melody
of birds. In the open and less marshy skirts of the vast forest,
gigantic tulip-trees shoot up their massy and regular-built trunks,
straight and pillar-like, until they put forth their broad arms
covered with the magnificent foliage of their glossy deep green
leaves, interspersed with superb white and yellow tulip-shaped
flowers. Under their shade are sheltered, like shrubs, trees which
elsewhere would be the pride of the forest, or the park--the stately
gum-tree, and the magnolia, with its broad shining leaves and
beautiful white flowers; whilst at their feet you force your way
through tangles of the honeysuckle, or thickets of the moisture-loving
bay, rich with its large rose-coloured clusters. But, the moment you
penetrate beyond the sun's cheering influence into the deeper recesses
of the swamp itself, how solemn is the change! There, the cypress and
the juniper, rising without a branch to interrupt the regularity of
their tall trunks for a hundred feet, stand thick and close together,
like so many tall columns reared to support the roof of a vast temple.
All is silent as the grave. Not an insect buzzes or chirps about you;
no cry or song of bird or beast is heard. You seem to have penetrated
beyond the bounds not only of human society and existence but of
animal life, and to be passing through the still and dark valley of
the shadow of death.
As the traveller pushes his doubtful way along, he will come upon some
broad, lake-like sheet of water, still, silent, and sluggish, calmly
reflecting the quiet solemnity of the forest. I say still and silent,
but these little lakes are visited at certain seasons of the year by
myriads of wild fowl, the clapping of whose wings, as they rise from
the water, may be heard to a great distance. The water of all those
lakes is of the same colour as the roots and bark of the juniper and
cedar-trees, from which it receives its hue. And, when the sun flashes
on the amber-coloured lake, and the cypress forest throws its gloomy
shade over its face, the traveller becomes thrilled with awe and
astonishment. He fancies that he has never seen any spot so fitted to
be the residence of spirits of a malignant influence, and expects to
see evil eyes cast upon him from every copse. The bird and bat, as
they flit through the shades of night, magnified by the misty
exhalations, seem the envious demons of the spot; and, foolish man! he
more regards the dangers which are unreal than those which are
real--is more afraid of the spirits which cannot harm, than of the
ravenous beasts and poisonous serpents with which he is environed, and
whose fangs are death in its most hideous shape.
Having introduced this not altogether gratuitous description of a spot
celebrated in America for its picturesque situation and horrors, I
resume the rhythmical tale of the chief of the Roanokes.
It was many seasons ago,
How long I cannot tell my brother,
That this sad thing befell;
The tale was old in the time of my father,
To whom it was told by my mother's mother.
My brother hears--'tis well--
Nor may he doubt my speech;
The red man's mind receives a tale
As snow the print of a mocassin;
But, when he hath it once,
It abides like a footstep chisell'd in rock,
The hard and flinty rock.
The pale man writes his tales
Upon a loose and fluttering leaf,
Then gives it to the winds that sweep
Over the ocean of the mind;
The red man his on the evergreen
Of his trusty memory(1).
When he from the far-off land would know
The tales of his father's day,
He unrolls the spirit-skin[A],
And utters what it bids:
The Indian pours from his memory
His song, as a brook its babbling flood
From a lofty rock into a dell,
In the pleasant summer-moon.--
My brother hears.--
He hears my words--'tis well--
And let him write them down
Upon the spirit-skin,
That, when he has cross'd the lake,
The Great Salt Lake,
The lake, where the gentle spring winds dwell,
And the mighty fishes sport,
And has called his babes to his knee,
And his beauteous dove to his arms,
And has smok'd in the calumet
With the friends he left behind,
And his father, and mother, and kin,
Are gather'd around his fire,
To learn what red men say,
He may the skin unroll, and bid
His Okki this tradition read[B]--
The parting words of the Roanoke,
And his tale of a lover and maiden true,
Who paddle the Lake in a White Canoe.
There liv'd upon the Great Arm's brink[C],
In that far day,
The warlike Roanokes,
The masters of the wilds:
They warr'd on distant lands,
This valiant nation, victors every where;
Their shouts rung through the hollow oaks,
That beetle over the Spirit Bay[D],
Where the red elk comes to drink;
The frozen clime of the Hunter's Star
Rang shrill with the shout of their bands,
And the whistle of their cress[E];
And they fought the distant Cherokee,
The Chickasaw, and the Muscogulgee,
And the Sioux of the West.
They liv'd for nought but war,
Though now and then would be caught a view
Of a Roanoke in a White Canoe.
Among this tribe, this valiant tribe,
Of brave and warlike Roanokes,
Were two--a youth and maid,
Who lov'd each other well,
Long and fondly lov'd,
Lov'd from the childish hour,
When, through the bosky dell,
Together they fondly rov'd,
In quest of the little flower,
That likes to bloom in the quiet shade
Of the tall and stately oaks.
The pale face calls it the violet--
'Tis a beautiful child when its leaves are wet
With the morning dew, and spread
To the beam of the sun, and its little head
Sinks low with the weight of the tear
That gems its pale blue eye,
Causing it to lie
Like a maiden whose heart is broke.--
Does my brother hear?
He hears my words--'tis well--
The names of this fond youth and maid
Tell who they were,
For he was Annawan, the Brave,
And she Pequida, the girl of the braid,
The fairest of the fair.
Her foot was the foot of the nimble doe,
That flies from a cruel carcajou,
Deeming speed the means to save;
Her eyes were the eyes of the yellow owl,
That builds his nest by the River of Fish;
Her hair was black as the wings of the fowl[F]
That drew this world from the great abyss.
Small and plump was her hand;
Small and slender her foot;
And, when she opened her lips to sing,
Ripe red lips, soft sweet lips,
Lips like the flower that the honey-bee sips,
The birds in the grove were mute,
The bittern forgot his toot,
And the owl forbore his hoot,
And the king-bird set his wing,
And the woodpecker ceas'd his tap
On the hollow beech,
And the son of the loon on the neighbouring strand
Gave over his idle screech,
And fell to sleep in his mother's lap.
And she was good as fair,
This maid of the Roanokes;
She was mild as a day in spring;
Morning, noon, and night,
Young Pequida smil'd on all,
But most on one.
She smil'd more sweet if he were there,
And her laugh more joyous rung,
And her step had a firmer spring,
And her eye had a keener light,
And her tongue dealt out blither jokes,
And she had more songs to spare,
And she better mock'd the blue jay's cry,
When his dinner of maize was done;
And better far, when he stood in view,
Could she paddle the Lake in her White Canoe.
And who was he she lov'd?
The bravest he of the Roanokes,
A leader, before his years
Were the years of a full-grown man;
A warrior, when his strength
Was less than a warrior's need;
But, when his limbs were grown,
And he stood erect and tall,
Who could bend the sprout of the oak
Of which his bow was made?
Who could poise his choice of spears,
To him but a little reed?
None in all the land.
And who had a soul so warm?
Who was so kind a friend(2)?
And who so free to lend
To the weary stranger bed and bread,
Food for his stomach, rest for his head,
As Annawan, the Roanoke,
The valiant son of the chief Red Oak?
They liv'd from infancy together;
They seem'd two sides of a sparrow's feather;
Together they roam'd o'er the rocky hill,
And through the woody hollow,
And by the river brink,
And o'er the winter snows;
And they sat for hours by the summer rill,
To watch the stag as he came to drink,
And to see the beaver wallow;
And when the waters froze,
They still had a sport to follow
O'er the smooth ice, for, full in view,
Lay the glassy Lake of the White Canoe.
The youth was the son of a chief,
And the maiden a warrior's daughter;
Both were approv'd for deeds of blood;
Both were fearless, strong, and brave:
One was a Roanoke,
The other a captive Maqua boy,
In battle sav'd from slaughter(3)--
A single ear from a blighted sheaf,
Planted in Aragisken land[G];
And these two men were foes.
When they to manhood came,
And each had skill and strength to bend
A bow with a warrior's aim,
And to wield the club of massy oak
That a warrior-man should wield,
And to pride themselves on a blood-red hand,
And to deem its cleanness shame,
Each claim'd to lead the band,
And angry words arose,
But the warriors chose Red Oak,
Because his sire was a Roanoke.
Then fill'd the Maqua's heart with ire,
And out he spoke:
"Have his deeds equall'd mine?
Three are the scalps on his pole[H]--
In my smoke are nine;
I have fought with a Cherokee;
I have stricken a warrior's blow,
Where the waves of Ontario roll;
I have borne my lance where he dare not go;
I have looked on a stunted pine
In the realms of endless frost,
And the path of the Knisteneau
And the Abenaki crost.
While the Red Oak planted the land,
It was mine to lead the band."
Then fiercely answer'd the rival Brave,
And bitter strife arose;
Loud and angry words,
Noisy boasts and taunts,
Menaces and blows,
These foolish men each other gave;
And each like a panther pants
For the blood of his brother chief;
Each himself with his war-club girds,
And forth he madly goes,
His wrath and ire to wreak;
But the warriors interpose.
Thenceforth they met as two eagles meet,
When food but for one lies dead at their feet,
And neither dare be the thief:
Each is prompt to show his ire;
The eye of each is an eye of fire,
And trembles each hand to give
The last and fatal blow;
And thus my brother may see them live
With the feelings that wolf-dogs know.
And when each of these brave men
Had built himself a lodge,
And each had a bird in his nest,
And each had a babe at his knee,
Their hate had no abatement known,
Still each was his brother's enemy.
And thirsted for his blood.
And when those babes had grown,
The one to be a man
In stature, years, and soul,
With a warrior's eye and brow,
And his poll a shaven poll[I],
And his step as a wild colt's free,
And his voice like the winter wind,
Or the roaring of the sea;
The other a maiden ripe,
With a woman's tender heart,
Full of soft and gentle wishes,
Sighs by day and dreams by night,
Their hostile fathers bade them roam
Together no more o'er the rocky dell,
And through the woody hollow,
And by the river brink,
And o'er the winter snows,
Nor sit for hours by the summer rill,
To watch the stag as he came to drink,
And to see the beaver wallow,
Nor when the waters froze,
Have a pleasant sport to follow,
O'er the smooth ice; they bade them shun,
Each other as the stars the sun.
What did they then--this youth and maid?
Did they their fathers mind?--
I will tell my brother.--
They met--in secret met'Twas
not in the rocky dell,
Nor in the woody hollow,
Nor by the river brink,
Nor o'er the winter snows,
Nor by the summer rill,
Watching the stag as he came to drink,
And to see the beaver wallow,
That these two lovers met,
Nor when the waters froze,
Giving good sport to follow:
But, when the sky was mild,
And the moon's pale light was veil'd,
And hushed was every breeze,
In prairie, village, and wild,
And the bittern had stayed his toot,
And the serpent had ceased his hiss,
And the wolf forgot his howl,
And the owl forbore his hoot,
And the plaintive wekolis[J],
And his neighbour, the frog, were mute--
Then would my brother have heard
A plash like the dip of a water-fowl,
In the lake with mist so white,
And the smooth wave roll to the bank,
And have seen the current stirr'd
By something that seemed a White Canoe,
Gliding past his troubled view.
And thus for moons they met
By night on the tranquil lake,
When darkness veils the earth;
Nought care they for the wolf,
That stirs the brake on the bank;
Nought that the junipers shake
With the weight of the nimble bear,
Nor that bitterns start by tens,
Nor to hear the cayman's plash,
Nor the hoot of the owl in the boughs of the ash,
Where he sat so calm and cool:
And thus each night they met,
And thus a summer pass'd.
Autumn came at length,
With all its promised joys,
Its host of glittering stars,
Its fields of yellow corn,
Its shrill and healthful winds,
Its sports of field and flood.
The buck in the grove was sleek and fat,
The corn was ripe and tall;
Grapes clustered thick on the vines;
And the healing winds of the north
Had left their cells to breathe
On the fever'd cheeks of the Roanokes,
And the skies were lit by brighter stars
Than light them in the time of summer.
Then said the father of the maid,
"My daughter, hear--
A bird has whispered in my ear,
That, often in the midnight hour,
They who walk in the shades,
The murky shades, dim, dark shades,
Shades of the cypress, pine, and yew,
That tower above the glassy lake,
Will see glide past their troubled view
Two forms as a meteor light,
And will note a white canoe,
Paddled along by two,
And will bear the words of a tender song,
Stealing like a spring-wind along;
Tell me, my daughter, if either be you?"
Then down the daughter's cheek
Ran drops like the summer rain,
And thus she spoke:
"Father, I love the valiant Annawan;
Too long have we roam'd o'er the rocky dell,
And through the woody hollow,
And by the river brink,
And o'er the winter snows,
To tear him from my heart:
Too long have we sat by the summer rill,
To watch the buck as he came to drink,
And to see the beaver wallow,
To live from him apart--
My father hears."
"Thou lov'st the son of my foe,
And know'st thou not the wrongs
That foe hath heap'd on me?
The nation made him chief--
Why made they him a chief?
Had his deeds equall'd mine?
Three were the scalps on his pole,
In my smoke were nine:
I had fought with a Cherokee;
I had struck a warrior's blow,
Where the waves of Ontario roll;
I had borne my lance where he dare not go;
I had look'd on a stunted pine,
In the realms of endless frost,
And the path of the Knisteneau,
And the Abenaki crost;
While the Red Oak planted his land,
It was mine to lead the band.
Since then we never spoke,
Unless to utter reproach,
And bandy bitter words;
We meet as two hungry eagles meet,
When a badger lies dead at their feet--
Each would use a spear on his foe,
Each an arrow would put to his bow,
And bid its goal be his foeman's breast,
But the warriors interpose,
And delay the vengeance I owe.
Thou hear'st my words--'t is well.
"Then listen to my words--
The soul of a Maqua never cools;
His ire can never be assuag'd,
But with the smell of gore
I thirst for the Red Oak's blood;
I live but for revenge;
Thou shalt not wed his son;
Choose thee a mate elsewhere,
And see that ye roam no more
By night o'er the rocky dell,
And through the woody hollow,
But when the sun its eye-lids closes,
See that thine own the example follow."
And the father of the youth
Spake thus unto his son:
"A bird has whispered in my ear,
That when the stars have gone to rest,
And the moon her eye-lids hath clos'd,
Who walk beside the lake
Will see glide past their troubled view
Two forms as a meteor light,
And will note a white canoe
Paddled along by two,
And will hear the words of a tender song.
Stealing like a spring wind along.
Tell me, my son, if either be you?"
Then answer'd the valiant son,
"Mine is a warrior's soul,
And mine is an arm of strength;
I scorn to tell a lie;
The bird has told thee true.
And, father, hear my words:
I now have come to man's estate;
Who can bend the sprout of the oak,
Of which my bow is made?
Who can poise my choice of spears,
To me but a slender reed?
I fain would build myself a lodge,
And take to that lodge a wife:
And, father, hear thy son--
I love the Red Oak's daughter."
"Thou lov'st the daughter of my foe;
And know'st thou not the taunts
His tongue hath heap'd on me:
The nation made me chief,
And thence his ire arose;
Thence came foul wrongs and blows,
And neither yet aveng'd.
He boasted that his fame exceeded mine:
Three, he said, were the scalps on my pole,
While in his lodge were nine--
He did not tell how many I _struck_,
Nor spoke of my constancy,
When the Nansemonds tore my flesh,
With burning pincers tore;
And he said he had fought with a Cherokee,
And had struck a warrior's blow,
Where the waves of Ontario roll,
And had borne his lance where I dare not go,
And had look'd on a stunted pine,
In the realms of endless frost;
And the path of the Knisteneau
And the Abenaki crost:
While--bitter taunt!--cruel taunt!
And for it I'll drink his blood,
And eat him broil'd in fire--
The Red Oak planted his land,
It was his to lead the band.
"And listen further to my words--
My wrath can never be assuag'd;
Thou shalt not wed his daughter,
Choose thee a wife elsewhere;
Choose thee one any where,
Save in the Maqua's lodge.
The Nansemonds have maidens fair,
With bright black eyes, and long black locks,
And voice like the music of rills;
The Chippewa girls of the frosty north
Have feet like the nimble antelopes'
That bound on their native hills;
And their voice is like the dove's in spring--
Take one of those doves to thy cage;
But see no more, by day or night,
The Maqua warrior's daughter."
And haughtily he turn'd away.
Night was abroad on the earth;
Mists were over the face of the moon,
And the stars were like the sparkling flies
That twinkle in the prairie glades,
In my brother's month of June:
And hideous forms had risen;
The spirits of the swamp
Had come from their caverns dark and deep,
Where the slimy currents flow,
With the serpent and wolf to romp,
And to whisper in the sleeper's ear
Of death and danger near.
Then to the margin of the lake
A beauteous maiden came;
Tall she was as a youthful fir,
Upon the river's bank;
Her step was the step of the antelope;
Her eye was the eye of the doe;
Her hair was black as a coal-black horse;
Her hand was plump and small;
Her foot was slender and small;
And her voice was the voice of a rill in the moon,
Of the rill's most gentle song.
Beautiful lips had she,
Ripe red lips,
Lips like the flower that the honey-bee sips,
When its head is bow'd by dew.
She stood beneath the shade
Of the dark and lofty trees,
That threw their image on the lake,
And waited long in silence there.
"Why comes he not, my Annawan,
My lover, brave and true?
He knows his maiden waits for him
Beneath the shade of the yew,
To paddle the lake in her White Canoe."
But Annawan came not:
"He has miss'd me sure," the maiden said,
"And skims the lake alone;
Dark though it be, and the winds are high,
I'll seek my warrior there."
Then lightly to her white canoe
The fair Pequida sprung,
And is gone from the shore alone.
Loud blew the mighty winds,
The clouds were dense and black,
Thunders rolled among the hills,
Lightnings flash'd through the shades;
The spirits cried aloud
Their melancholy cries,
Cries which assail the listening ear
When danger and death are near:
Who is he that stands on the shore,
Uttering sounds of grief?
'Tis Annawan, the favour'd youth,
Detain'd so long lest envious eyes
Should know wherefore at midnight hour
He seeks the lake alone.
He finds the maiden gone,
And anguish fills his soul,
And yet, perchance in childish sport,
She hides among the groves.
Loudly he calls, "My maiden fair,
Thy Annawan is here!
Where art thou, maid with the coal-black hair?
What does thy bosom fear?
If thou hast hid in playful mood
In the shade of the pine, or the cypress wood,
If the little heart that so gently heaves
Is lightly pressing a bed of leaves;
Tell me, maiden, by thy voice
Bid thy lover's heart rejoice;
Ope on him thy starry eyes;
Let him clasp thee in his arms,
Press thy ripe, red lips to his.
Come, my fair Pequida, come!"
No answer meets the warrior's ears,
But glimmering o'er the lake appears
A solitary, twinkling light--
It seems a fire-fly lamp;
It moves, with motion quick and strange,
Over the broad lake's breast.
The lover sprung to his light canoe,
And swiftly followed the meteor spark,
But the winds were high, and the clouds were dark,
He could not find the maid,
Nor near the glittering lamp.
He went to his father's lodge,
And laid him on the earth,
Calmly laid him down.
Words he spoke to none,
Looks bestow'd on none.
They brought him food--he would not eat--
They brought him drink--he would not drink--
They brought him a spear and a bow,
And a club, and an arrowy sheaf,
And shouted the cry of war,
And prais'd him, and nam'd him a Chief,
And told how the treacherous Nanticokes
Had slain three Braves of the Roanokes;
That a man of the tribe who never ran
Had vow'd to war on the Red Oak's son--
But he show'd no signs of wrath;
His thoughts were abroad in another path.
Sudden he sprung to his feet,
Like an arrow impell'd by a vigorous arm.
"You have dug her grave," said he,
"In a spot too cold and damp,
All too cold and damp,
For a soul so warm and true.
Where, think ye, her soul has gone?
Gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,
Where all night long by a fire-fly lamp
She paddles her White Canoe.
And thither I will go!"
And with that he took his quiver and bow,
And bade them all adieu.
And the youth returned no more;
And the maiden returned no more;
Alive none saw them more;
But oft their spirits are seen
By him who sleeps in that swamp.
When the night's dim lamps are veil'd,
And the Hunter's Star is hid,
And the moon has shut her lid,
And the she-wolf stirs the brake,
And the bitterns start by tens,
And the slender junipers shake
With the weight of the nimble bear,
And the pool resounds with the cayman's plash,
And the owl sings out of the boughs of the ash,
Where he sits so calm and cool,
And above his head the muckawiss
Sings his gloomy song,
And croak the frogs in the pool,
And he hears at his feet the horn-snake's hiss;
Then often flit along
The shades of the youth and maid so true,
That haunt the Lake of the White Canoe.
[Footnote A: The Indians could never be brought to believe that paper
was any other than a tanned skin invested with the powers of a
spirit.]
[Footnote B: See note, vol. i. page 195.]
[Footnote C: Chesapeak bay.]
[Footnote D: Bay of Saganaum, in Lake Huron.]
[Footnote E: Cress or _crease_, a poisoned arrow, seldom used,
however, by the tribes east of the Rocky Mountains.]
[Footnote F: Bird of Ages--See the Tradition vol. ii. page 35.]
[Footnote G: Virginia.]
[Footnote H: Scalps are suspended from a pole in the lodge, and
usually in the smoke.]
[Footnote I: Alluding to the custom of the Indian of shaving off all
the hair except the scalp-lock.]
[Footnote J: _Wekolis_--another name for the whip-poor-will.]
NOTES.
(1) _Trusty memory._--p. 9.
The memory of the Indians is as astonishing as their native sagacity
and penetration. They are entirely destitute of those helps which we
have invented to ease our memory, or supply the want of it; yet they
are never at a loss to recall to their minds any particular
circumstance with which they would impress their hearers. On some
occasions, they do indeed make use of little sticks to remind them of
the different subjects they have to discuss; and with ease they form a
kind of local memory, and that so sure and infallible, that they will
speak for a great length of time--sometimes for three or four hours
together--and display twenty different presents, each of which
requires an entire discourse, without forgetting any thing, and even
without hesitation.
(2) _Kind Friendship._--p. 14.
Every Indian has a friend nearly of the same age as himself, to whom
he attaches himself by the most indissoluble bonds. Two persons, thus
united by one common interest, are capable of undertaking and
hazarding every thing in order to aid and mutually succour each other;
death itself, according to their belief, can only separate them for a
time: they are well assured of meeting again in the other world never
to part, where they are persuaded they shall have occasion for the
same services from one another. Charlevoix tells of an Indian who was
a christian, but who did not live according to the maxims of the
gospel, and who, being threatened with hell by a Jesuit, asked this
missionary whether he thought his friend who was lately departed had
gone into that place of torment; the father answered him that he had
good grounds to think that the Lord had had mercy upon him, and taken
him to heaven. "Then, I won't go to hell, neither?" replied the
Indian, and this motive brought him to do every thing that was desired
of him; that is to say he would have been full as willing to go to
hell as heaven, had he thought to find his companion there.
It is said that these friends, when they happen to be at a distance
from each other, reciprocally invoke one another in all dangers. The
assistance they promise each other may be surely depended upon.
(3) _A Maqua saved from slaughter._--p. 15.
The following is the practice and ceremony of adoption: A herald is
sent round the village or camp, to give notice that such as have lost
any relations in the late expedition are desired to attend the
distribution which is about to take place. Those women, who have lost
their sons or husbands, are generally satisfied in the first place;
afterwards, such as have been deprived of friends of a more remote
degree of consanguinity, or who choose to adopt some of the youth. The
division being made, which is done as in other cases without the least
dispute, those who have received any share lead them to their tents or
huts, and, having unbound them, wash and dress their wounds if they
happen to have received any; they then clothe them, and give them the
most comfortable and refreshing food their store will afford.
Whilst their new domestics are feeding, they endeavour to administer
consolation to them; they tell them they are redeemed from death, they
must now be cheerful and happy; and, if they serve them well without
murmuring or repining, nothing shall be wanting to make them such
atonement for the loss of their country and friends as circumstances
will allow of.
If any men are spared, they are commonly given to the widows that have
lost their husbands by the hands of the enemy, should there be any
such, to whom, if they happen to prove agreeable, they are soon
married. The women are usually distributed to the men, from whom they
do not fail of meeting with a favourable reception. The boys and girls
are taken into the families of such as have need of them. The lot of
their conquerors becomes in all things theirs.
A LEGEND OF THE BOMELMEEKS.
Twenty-four men, and twenty-four women, from the twenty-four tribes of
the wilderness, were met upon the top of the hill Gerundewagh. There
were none upon the earth but those twenty-four tribes, and none upon
the hill but these twice twenty-four people. They were all friends,
and as brothers. There was no strife in the land; no blood deluged the
beautiful vales of the wilderness; no cry of war shook the hills. Bows
and arrows, and spears, were used for the destruction of bears, and
wolves, and panthers; and the ochre, which now stains the brow of the
Indian with the red hue of war, was used for the ornamenting of pipes.
There was but one language upon the earth--all the tribes understood
each other. If a Bomelmeek said to an Algonquin, "Give me meat or
drink," he brought him meat or drink--if he said, "Smoke in my pipe,"
he smoked in the proffered pledge of peace, or he refused. If an
Iroquois youth said to a girl of the Red Hurons, "Give me thy heart,
and become the star of my cabin," she gave him her heart, and became
the star of his cabin, or she bade him think of her no more. It was
not then as it is now, that men fell out, and came to blows, because
they mistook the words that were spoken. "Yes" was "yes," and "no" was
"no," with all the tribes of the land, and interpreters were a thing
unknown. So these twice twenty-four people from the twenty-four tribes
of the earth sat down upon the top of the hill Gerundewagh, and smoked
their pipes.
Whilst they were puffing out clouds of smoke, and enjoying greatly the
pleasure which an Indian so covets, one of them, whose sight was
keener than the rest, casting his eye far over the western wilderness,
cried out, that he saw two somethings whose heads peered far above
the woods. Very soon the rest of the people assembled at the hill
Gerundewagh were able to see the same somethings, which resembled much
the trunks of trees which have been divested of their branches, and
look out in the blush of the morning through the vapours of a damp
valley. What they were no human tongue could tell, but it was seen
that they were approaching the hill Gerundewagh. As the heads came
nearer, people were seen flying before them, and the heads following
in quick pursuit. At length the twice twenty-four on the hill were
able to see that the heads belonged to two enormous snakes, which were
moving in devious paths about the land, devouring the inhabitants as
fast as they were able to discover and swallow them. Seeing this, and
the danger to which they were exposed of becoming also food for the
monsters, they set about fortifying the high hill Gerundewagh, that
their lives might be safe from the appalling danger, and within their
fortification they collected all sorts of defensive materials. Having
made themselves tolerably secure, they had leisure to view the war of
extermination, which the snakes waged with the sons of the land who
were not thus protected.
In the mean time, the snakes, having discovered by their acute power
of smelling distant objects that the hill Gerundewagh contained human
bodies, with whose flesh they were now become much in love, they
immediately bent their course to it. In coming thither, they were
compelled to cross, or rather to come down the river Mohawk, which,
upon their thus getting lengthways of it, diverted from its natural
course, overflowed its banks, sweeping away every impediment, and
forming those beautiful meadows which have remained ever since covered
with a robe of green. Having at length reached the hill, around whose
base they threw themselves in many coils, they commenced the work of
death by poisoning the air with their pernicious breath. Soon the
atmosphere, which before had been pure, was changed in its nature;
appearances resembling the motions of the waves of the great lake
Superior when slightly agitated in the hot mornings of summer were
seen in the horizon, and have never left it. Before, the rains
descended in soft showers in the pauses of gentle winds, now they fell
in torrents, accompanied with howling tempests and cold hurricanes.
Lightnings, which before only played across the horizon, as the red
light of autumn evenings streaks the northern sky, now rent asunder
the flinty rock, and rived the knotty oak. Men, who had before died
only of old age, now poisoned by the breath of the monsters, fell sick
in the morning of life, with the brightness of youthful hope in their
eye, and the down of unripe years on their cheek. The hair now often
grew grey ere the knee became feeble; the teeth rotted out while there
was enough to put between them; the eye often failed to see the
beautiful objects, and the ear to drink in the soft sounds, which the
Great Master of all created for the food of each. The heart now grew
sometimes to be trembling and irresolute, and the soul to have its
visions of infelicity. But I speak of after-time; first let me talk of
that which is first.
The twice twenty-four, who were of a very bold and courageous nature,
and feared nothing more than to be thought cowards, attacked the
serpents with their bows and arrows. It was fruitless, however, to
wage war with creatures covered with an impenetrable coat of scales.
The serpents were not even startled by the arrows, so that no resource
but death remained to the twice twenty-four. Their food being soon
gone, they were compelled to venture out in quest of the means of
sustaining life. As fast as they came out at the gate of the
fortification, the one or other of the monsters snapped them up at a
mouthful, until there remained of all those who occupied it at first
but ten women and eleven men. What was to be done? I could not have
told had I been there, but the eleventh man had the art and cunning to
deliver the land from the assaults of the venomous serpents. He said
to his brothers, "One of the serpents is a woman. I know it by her
eyes, which are very bright, and beguiling, and roving, and
treacherous. I know it by her sputtering, if all does not go right,
and her frequent viewing herself in the waters of Lake Canandaigua,
and the noisy chatter she is continually making about nothing. These
are signs which cannot be misunderstood; she is a woman, I know. Now,
if I can but catch the _old man_, asleep, I will make love to her,
and it shall go hard but I will get her to assist in his destruction."
So the Eleventh Man--who was a curious creature for making love to
women, and knew all the arts necessary to be used, and all the
nonsense proper to be uttered, knew when to look, and when to shut his
eyes, when to be passionate, and when to be cold, and all that sort of
thing--set about winning the love of the frail wife of the Great
Snake. Whenever the old man took a nap, which was very often, then of
a certainty would you see the Bomelmeek on the top of the
fortification, winking and blinking, ogling and sighing, and doing
other fooleries, at the Squaw-Snake. And soon could it be seen that
she had noticed his declarations of love, and was not disposed to be
_very_ cruel or "ridiculous." Oh, it was a curious sight to see the
courtship, though not more curious than I have seen other courtships.
When he winked, she winked; when he ogled her, she ogled him; when he
sighed, she--taking care to turn her head the other way, for her
breath was not the myrtle's or the orange blossom's--sighed also, and
very loud. So foolery was exchanged for foolery, and the thing throve
well. Still the Eleventh Man dared not, for some time, venture out of
the fortification, for he had remarked her taste for human flesh, and
her dexterity in snapping off heads, and did not know but her love
for him might extend to a wish to try the flavour of his meat, and
that she might, in a moment of soft dalliance, practise on him her
skill in unjointing necks. Women have been known to inflict a greater
evil than either on the man they have pretended to love. At least, so
the Eleventh Man said, and, as I have before told my brother, he was a
knowing man in these matters. It soon became plain that something must
be done. There was no food remaining in the fort, and the speedy death
of all must ensue, unless it were procured. The Eleventh Man, who was
as courageous in war as he was in peace, with the high-mindedness
which belongs to an Indian(1), said he would go and submit himself to
the good will of the _pretty_ creature. So, taking his spear, and his
bow and arrow, for he knew that women like to be wooed by warriors,
and delight in the handsome bearing and gay dress of lovers, and often
die and perish of a fever for feathers and gewgaws, he chose the
moment when the old man was wrapped in a deep sleep, and ventured out.
A woman can hear the lightest step of a lover when she is fast asleep,
and when the thunder of the western hills would not awake her. And so
it was with the Squaw-Snake, who, though very drowsy with watching the
stars, and squinting at the moonas folks always do when they are in
love--had no sooner heard the step of her beloved on the green sod
than she advanced to meet him. Now comes the perilous moment!
Bomelmeek, beware! She is raising her tail, at whose end is a horrible
sting to clasp thee as with a pair of arms. And look, see her jaws,
white with foam, and larger than the largest tree of the forest, are
extended to kiss thy cheek, or scarcely worse to snap off thy head.
Brave man! With what undaunted firmness he suffers himself to be taken
to her arms--no, not to her arms, but her tail--and how patiently he
suffers his cheeks that have felt the breath of sweet lips to be
slabbered by a nasty snake! Oh! if he fall a victim to his love for
his nation, he will deserve to live as long in the remembrance of the
Bomelmeeks, as their great founder, the Earwig.
Fond and long continued were the caresses of the Eleventh Man and the
Squaw-Snake, and luckily they were not interrupted by the old man,
who, unlike many husbands I have known, contrived to sleep just as
long as they wished he should. Before he awaked, it had been agreed
between them that the death of the old man should be accomplished. So
she bade him dip in the poison of her sting the points of two arrows,
both intended to be put to a good use. He did so, and then retired
within the fortification. Drawing his bow to his ear, and pointing an
arrow at the head of the aged husband, he let fly with unerring skill.
This done, he levelled the other arrow with the same precision at the
head of the faithless wife. Wounded to death by the poisoned darts,
the horrid monsters rolled down the hill in great agony, sweeping
away, in their descent, all the trees upon the side to its very
bottom, and amidst their contortions disgorging the heads of the
Indians they had swallowed. Those heads rolled into Lake Canandaigua,
where they were converted into stones, and are to be found there to
this day. The Indian, as seated in his canoe he glides over the lake,
frequently sees them lying on its pebbly bottom, and the larger bark
of the white man is often dashed to pieces against them. So the eleven
men and the ten women were freed from the serpents.
But now it was that the strangest circumstance was revealed to the
survivors. The poison which the serpents had poured on the earth with
their pernicious breath had so operated that a confusion of tongues
had taken place, and different nations no longer understood each
other. The Iroquois could no longer speak in the dialect of the
Natchez; the Bomelmeeks of the land of Frost no longer sung their
war-songs in the tongue of the Walkullas of the land of Flowers. The
Senecas attempted in vain to make known their wishes to the Red
Hurons of the Lakes, who were alike puzzled to converse with the
Narragansetts of the Land of Fish. A youth of one nation, if he wished
to take a woman of another nation to wife, had now to talk with his
eyes, whereas before he made use of his tongue to tell his lies with.
So the land was re-peopled from the survivors of the hill Gerundewagh,
and the confusion of tongues went on increasing, and has done so to
this day. The Bomelmeeks have faded from the land; the descendants of
the Eleventh Man, of whom there were very many, alone remaining, one
of whom now tells this story, which is certainly true.
NOTE.
(1) _High-mindedness of the Indian._--p. 39.
The Indians very frequently evince a pride and greatness of mind which
would not have disgraced the heroes of ancient Greece and Rome. "The
greatest part of them," says Charlevoix, "have truly a nobleness and
an equality of soul which we cannot arrive at with all the helps we
can obtain from philosophy and religion." Always master of themselves,
in the most sudden misfortunes, we cannot perceive the least
alteration in their countenances. A prisoner who knows not in what his
captivity will end, or which is perhaps still more surprising, who is
still uncertain of his fate, does not lose on this account a quarter
of an hour's sleep. Even the first emotions do not find them at fault.
The following well attested stories shew their high-mindedness, and
one of them their singular chivalry of character.
A Huron Captain was one day insulted and struck by a young man. Those
who were present would have punished this audaciousness on the spot.
"_Let him alone_," said the Captain, "_Did you feel the earth tremble?
He is sufficiently informed of his folly._"--_Charlevoix_, ii. 64.
This passion of the Indians, which I have called _pride_, but which
might perhaps be better denominated _high-mindedness_, is generally
combined with a great sense of honour, and not seldom produces actions
of the most heroic kind. An Indian of the Lenape nation, who was
considered a very dangerous person, and was much dreaded on that
account, had publicly declared that as soon as another Indian, who was
then gone to Sandusky, should return from thence, he would certainly
kill him. This dangerous Indian called in one day at my house on the
Muskingum, to ask me for some tobacco. While this unwelcome guest was
smoking his pipe by my fire, behold! the other Indian whom he had
threatened to kill, and who at that moment had just arrived, also
entered the house. I was much frightened, as I feared the bad Indian
would take that opportunity to carry his threat into execution, and
that my house would be made the scene of a horrid murder. I walked to
the door, in order not to witness a crime that I could not prevent,
when, to my great astonishment, I heard the Indian whom I thought in
danger address the other in these words: "Uncle, you have threatened
to kill me--you have declared that you would do it, the first time we
should meet. Now I am here, and we are together. And I take it for
granted that you are in earnest, and that you are really determined to
take my life as you have declared. Am I now to consider you as my
avowed enemy, and, in order to secure my own life against your
murderous designs, to be the first to strike you, and imbrue my hands
in your blood? I will not, I cannot do it. Your heart is bad, it is
true, but still you appear to be a generous foe, for you gave me
notice of what you intended to do; you have put me on my guard, and
did not attempt to assassinate me by surprise; I therefore will spare
you until you lift up your arm to strike, and then, uncle, it will be
seen which of us shall fall." The murderer was thunderstruck, and,
without replying a word, slunk off, and left the house.--_Heckew._
161, 2.
Mr. Heckewelder relates another instance of Indian heroism and
magnanimity, not below the preceding. In the year 1782, a young white
prisoner had been sent by the war-chief of the Wyandots of Lower
Sandusky as a present to another chief, who was called the _Half-King_
of Upper Sandusky, for the purpose of being adopted into his family in
the place of one of his sons, who had been killed the preceding year,
while at war with the people on the Ohio. The wife of the Half-King
refused to receive the prisoner in lieu of her son, and this amounted
to a sentence of death. The young man was therefore taken away for the
purpose of being tortured and burnt on the pile. While the dreadful
preparations were making near the village, the unhappy victim being
already tied to the stake, and the Indians arriving from all quarters
to join in the cruel act, or to witness it, two English traders,
Messrs. Arundel and Robbins, shocked at the idea of the cruelties
which were about to be perpetrated, and moved by feelings of pity and
humanity, resolved to unite their exertions to endeavour to save the
prisoner's life, by offering a ransom to the war-chief, which he,
however, refused, because he said it was an established rule among
them, that when a prisoner, who had been given as a present, was
refused adoption, he was irrevocably doomed to the stake, and it was
not in the power of any one to save his life. The two generous
Englishmen, however, were not discouraged, and determined to try a
last effort. They well knew what effects the high-minded pride of an
Indian is capable of producing, and, to this strong and noble passion
they directed their attacks. "But," said they in reply to the answer
which the chief had made them, "among all those chiefs whom you have
mentioned, there is none who equals you in greatness; you are
considered not only as the greatest and bravest, but as the best man
in the nation." "Do you really believe as you say?" said the Indian,
looking them full in the face. "Indeed we do." Then, without saying
another word, he blackened himself, and, taking his knife and tomahawk
in his hand, made his way through the crowd to the unhappy victim,
crying out with a loud voice, "What have you to do with my prisoner?"
and at once cutting the cords with which he was tied, took him to his
house.--_Heckew._ 162, 3.
Nutall, in his Travels through the Arkansa territory, says, among the
most extraordinary actions which they (the Arkansas) performed against
the Chickasaws is the story which has been related to me by Major
Lewismore Vaugin, one of the most respectable residents in this
territory. The Chickasaws, instead of standing their ground against
the Quapaws (a band of Arkansaws) were retreating before the Quapaws,
whom they had descried at a distance, in consequence of the want of
ammunition. The latter, understanding the occasion, were determined to
obviate the excuse, whether real or pretended, and desired the
Chickasaws to land on an adjoining sand-beach of the Mississippi,
giving them the unexpected promise of supplying them with powder for
the contest. The chief of the Quapaws then ordered all his men to
empty their powder-horns into a blanket, after which he divided the
whole with a spoon, and gave the half to the Chickasaws. They then
proceeded to the combat, which terminated in the killing of ten
Chickasaws, and the loss of five prisoners, with the death of a single
Quapaw.--_Page 85._
THE KING OF THE ELKS.
When the Great Beaver, the spirit who next to Michabou had the
greatest share in the creation and government of men and things, made
the animals, he endowed certain of them with wisdom, and all with the
powers of speech. The black bear could then converse with the cayman,
and the whispers of the porpoise in the ears of the walruss and the
flounder expressed the thoughts which were passing in his mind. The
wants which the heron and the goosander now express by nods and winks,
were then conveyed by plain, straightforward words; and the grunts and
squeaks of the hog, and the bleating of the kid, and the neighing of
the horse, and the howl of the dog, and the crowing of the cock, and
the cackling of the hen, and the other means by which beasts, and
birds, and other creatures, at this day make known their wants and
wishes, were then unknown. If the ox was hungry, or the dog wished to
visit a cousin, he said so, and if the hog wanted his belly scratched,
he spoke out like a man. If the cock felt proud, instead of jumping
upon a pole, and flapping his wings, and uttering a senseless
cock-a-doodle-doo, as the vain thing does now, he asked the pullet "if
she did not think he was a handsome fellow," and she replied _ay_ or
_no_, as she thought. The panther told his mother, in plain
intelligible words, if he wanted a wife; and when the hen had excluded
her egg, instead of cackling, she said, "There!" There was then no
difficulty in understanding the beasts, for they told their wants and
wishes in good plain Indian, which was far better than it is now, when
you are obliged to guess at half they say. And not only could they
convey their meaning better, but their meaning was worth more when you
knew it. In truth the beasts at that time were much wiser and more
cunning than men, and where the Indian caught one beaver in his trap,
the beaver caught ten Indians in his. In war and peace their schemes
and stratagems were better devised, and more successfully executed,
and their talks[A] were as full of sweet and wise words as the sky is
of wild pigeons in the season of their flight from the rigours of
approaching winter. What a pity that the folly of the Great Chief of
the Elks should have lost the beasts the most important faculties
conferred upon them by the Great Hare, and led to the withdrawing of
the all-glorious gift of speech.
[Footnote A: _Talk_--oration, also synonimous with "cabinet council,
or general meeting, with a view to matters of high importance."]
There was among the Ottawas, that lived on the banks of the Lake of
the Great Beaver(1), a young man whose origin none knew with
certainty, but who was supposed by all to be a son of the god. Sixteen
snows before the time of which I am speaking, there was found in the
great village of our people, upon the morning of a warm day in the
Frog-Moon, a little boy who might have seen the flowers bloom
twice--older he could not have been. None knew whence he came, nor
could he tell them, or give any information whereby it could be
ascertained who were his parents, or what the place of his birth, or
why he was abandoned. He did not belong to the tribe--of that they
were certain; nor did the features of his face resemble those of any
of the surrounding nations, nor were his words, or the tones of his
voice, such as ever had been listened to by Ottawa ears. Indeed there
were evidences that he owed his being to the love of the god of the
lake for one wearing the human form. He was shaped like a man--that
is, he stood upright, and his feet and hands, and legs and arms, were
fashioned like those of an Ottawa, save that the former were flat, and
webbed and clawed like the paws of a white beaver(2). The head, which
was placed upon a pair of shoulders similar to those of a man,
resembled more nearly those heads which the hunter sees looking out of
the cabins of the cunning little people[A] than the heads of men. It
was shaped very nearly like the head of a mountain-rat; the nose was
long, the eyes little and red, the ears short and round, hairy on the
outside, and smooth within. Then to the form the boy added the habits
of the beaver. Every day he would repair to the lake, and sport for
half a sun in its clear, cool bosom. The food he preferred further
indicated from whom he sprung. He would undertake a journey of half a
sun to find a crawfish; he would climb with great labour, and at the
risk of his neck, the tallest poplar of the forest for its juicy buds,
and the slender tree for its frightened and bashful leaves, that
wither and die if one do but so much as touch them. He had much
cunning and subtlety, as well he might have, if the blood of the god
whom Indians adore ran in his veins.
[Footnote A: _Cunning little people_, the common Indian appellation
for those sagacious animals, the beavers.]
This boy, if boy it was, or young beaver, if my brothers think it was
a beaver--let them settle the matter for themselves--grew up with the
form of a man, tall as a man, and with the speech of a man, but
endowed with many of the attributes of a beaver--indeed he bore in
his faculties a greater resemblance to that animal than to man, and
his actions were more nearly patterned after the four-legged animal
than the two-legged. His temper was very mild and good, and his
industry equalled that of the cunning little people from whom he
derived his origin. He was always doing something; night, noon,
morning, wet or dry, he was at work for himself or others. While the
lazy Ottawas were sleeping on the sunny side of their cabins, he was
fetching home wood for the fire, or mending the nets, or weeding the
corn. And then he was so peaceable that, for the eighteen snows that
he lived in the great village of the Ottawas, none had ever beheld him
angry, or seen disquietude in his eye, or heard repining from his
lips. He coveted not distinction in war, he never spoke of the field
of strife, nor sang a war-song, nor fasted to procure bloody dreams,
nor shaved his crown to the gallant scalp-lock, nor painted his cheeks
and brow with the ochre of wrath, nor taught himself to dance the
war-dance--his actions and pursuits were those of a woman, and his
thoughts and wishes all for peace. Among a people so valiant, and so
fond of eating their foes[A], as the Ottawas, a disposition so feeble
and woman-like as that possessed by the Child of the Hare would have
drawn down great anger and contempt upon its possessor. But, believing
that the youth had their favourite god for his father, they never
reproached him for his cowardice and preference of peace to war, but
contented themselves with saying that "he was a very, very good boy,
but he would never become a chief of a people more warlike than the
wren or the prairie dog." The laugh that would follow these speeches
had nothing of ill-nature in it, for all loved the boy, cowardly and
ugly as he was, and each would have shielded him from harm at the risk
of his own life. And thus lived the Child of the Hare till the snows
of the seventeenth winter had melted and gone to the embrace of the
Great Lake.
[Footnote A: As I have remarked in a note (vol. i, page 305.) this is
a metaphorical expression, signifying nothing more than that they will
wage a bloody and destructive war.]
It was then that the boy, who had become a man in stature, was seen to
absent himself from the village, and to shun the toils which had once
been pleasures to him. No one knew whither he went, or for what
purpose. Usually, at the going down of the sun, he would repair to
the forest, and be absent for the greater portion of the period of
darkness. Sometimes his journeys were undertaken by daylight. The aged
men asked him whither he went--he made no answer; the young maidens,
always famous for coming at the bottom of secrets, and tracking
mysteries as one tracks a badger, sought to win the secret, but with
no greater success. At last, a cunning old woman found out--what will
not a cunning old woman find out--the secret.
Upon a large plain, which stretched from very near the great village
of the Ottawas, a full day's journey towards the land of the rising
sun, there dwelt a people, with whom the Ottawas had always been at
peace. They were a set of very awkwardly-shaped beings, of a stature
not exceeding the stubborn little beast's which our white brother rode
hither, with four legs, and a beard upon the neck as long as that worn
by the people one sees at the City of the Rock. Their heads were very
long, their muzzles very thick, their nostrils very wide, and each
wore upon his head, even before he was married, a pair of long and
wide-spreading horns. They were covered with long hair, the colour of
which was a mixture of light gray, and dark red. Though they were
apparently a very heavy, clumsy, unwieldy people, the Ottawas, when
they joined them on hunting expeditions, or assisted them in their
wars against their enemies, found it no small labour to keep at their
side, so long and steady was their trot. It was only when there had
been a deep snow, which, melting somewhat, and being afterwards
frozen, would not bear their weight, that our people proved a match
for them in speed of travelling. For the foot of the strange people,
being forked, broke through the crust which the frost had formed on
the surface of the snow, and they went plunging and plunging with
little progress till their strength was exhausted.
The Elks--for this was the name of these odd neighbours of the
Ottawas--were upon the whole a very good-tempered, friendly people.
But, when they were once angered, it was a great deal best to keep out
of their way till they had cooled--a course one should pursue at all
times with passionate folks. Whenever an Elk was enraged with an
Ottawa, the latter hid himself till he had become pleased again. So
upon the whole the two nations rubbed their noses together with more
sincerity than any two nations of the wilds. It was not for the
interest of either people to throw down the hatchet; they were of
great and frequent service to each other. Whenever an Ottawa woman was
hard to do with the pains of travail[A], she sent for a wise Old Elk,
who speedily delivered her; and, when the Carcajous picked quarrels,
as they were always doing with their pacific neighbours, the Ottawas
became either mediators, or the allies of the Elks. There could be no
doubt that but for our Braves, the Carcajous and the Foxes, who always
make war in company(3), would have destroyed the Elks from the face of
the Great Island. But the Ottawas joined the weaker party, which made
them more than a match(4) for any thing breathing, as doubtless our
brother knows. And it is because our people rescued the good Elks from
the fangs of their cruel and merciless ancestors that the Carcajous
have been, and to this day are, such bitter enemies to our people, and
open their jugulars, and take their scalps whenever they can.
[Footnote A: The Indians affirm that the Elk has a bone in his heart,
which, being reduced to powder, and taken in broth, facilitates
delivery, and softens the pains of child-bearing.--_Charlevoix._]
I am not able to tell my brother in what moon it was that a woman of
our nation, determined to learn why the Child of the Hare absented
himself so frequently from the village, followed him at early
nightfall into the thick and gloomy forest which adjoined the lands of
the Ottawas. It was a dark, and wild, and thickly wooded, dell, into
which this fearless woman precipitated herself at early nightfall, but
she had a powerful motive to encounter danger--there was a secret to
be caught, a mystery to be unravelled, and she went with alacrity and
pleasure. It is much that a woman will do to come at the bottom of a
mystery, which has for some time baffled her and put her nose at
fault; and many dangers and inconveniences, and much toil and trouble,
must that journey promise, whose danger and inconvenience, and toil
and trouble, shall deter her from attempting it when its object is the
learning what, in spite of her, has long remained hidden. So the
curious woman followed the Child of the Hare into the deep dell at
early nightfall.
They travelled onward, he ahead, and she behind, keeping him
constantly in view for a long time, until they came, all at once, just
as the sun was rising, to a deep valley surrounded by high hills,
through which there was but one path--a beaten and travelled
path--that in which they came. But what most surprised this
adventurous woman was, that though this valley lay but a little boy's
journey of half a sun from the Ottawa village, and though she had, as
she supposed, visited every part of the contiguous wilderness, she had
never beheld it till now, nor heard it spoken of by her people. But
that circumstance did not prevent her from admiring the beautiful
spot--it was indeed the most lovely ever beheld by mortal eyes, and
well did it deserve the many fond epithets she heaped upon it.
Stretched out as far as the eye could reach, this valley lay green and
glossy as a grove of oaks in the Buck-Moon, when their leaves are
fully expanded to meet the warm and cheering rays of the great star
of day. In the centre of this valley was a small lake fringed with
willows, alders, pemines, and grape-vines. It was not altogether bare
of trees, though they were few and scattered as a party of shamefaced
warriors straggling home from a beaten field. Here perhaps stood a
lofty pine with several little ones around it, resembling a happy
father with his children at his knee partaking of the fruits of his
hunt--yonder, a cedar, lone and solitary as a man whose friends have
all been killed by an unskilful _autmoin_(5) in the Fever-Moon. Well
did the woman deem that the cold breath of the boisterous and stormy
Matcomek[A] had never reached the spot--it seemed as if it had never
been visited by anything more rough than the south wind in the time of
spring.
[Footnote A: The God of the winter.]
As this woman, who had followed the child of the Hare into the woods
at early nightfall, stood chewing a piece of the hot root which takes
away the crying sin of barrenness, and renders women fruitful and
beloved[A], there came to her ears a sound as of many angry voices
mingling their accents together. Filled with a womanly curiosity to
know what it was, and anxious to behold the combat which it promised,
she stepped quickly over the small hillock which intercepted her view
of a part of the valley. What a scene burst upon her eyes! Upon a
grassy knoll, shaded from the beams of the rising sun by the range of
hills I have spoken of, were assembled a greater number of Elks than
even my brother could count by the aid of his great medicine[B]. In
the centre of the assembled nation, stood an Elk of wondrous stature,
the great chief, or as my brother would call it, the King of the
Valley. He was so large, that the biggest of his people seemed but
musquitoes by the side of a buffalo. His legs were so long, that the
deepest snow-drift was no impediment to his running his blithest race;
and his skin, which was covered with red and grey hair, was proof
against the utmost fury of the Ottawa bender of the bow. From each of
his shoulders proceeded an arm, which well supplied the place, and
performed the uses, of the same limb among our people. His eyes were
of the size of the largest bison-hide, and the antlers, which towered
above his head, resembled an oak which decay has stricken to the
disrobing of its leaves, and the dismantling of its smaller, but not
its larger limbs. Not the mighty animal which strode down from the
mountains of thunder to slaughter the buffaloes of the prairies[C],
was at all to be compared with him for size. At least, so said the
woman, who followed the Child of the Hare into the deep dell at early
nightfall.
[Footnote A: Ginseng, called by the Potowatomies _Abesoatchenza_,
which signifies a child. I presume it has acquired its name rather
from the figure of its root than from the tradition. They make great
use of it in medicine.]
[Footnote B: The implements of writing, especially paper, are esteemed
by the Indians as medicines, or spirits, of great power. Books are
viewed in the same light. Singing hymns from a book delights them
much, as they conceive, that the book is a spirit, which teaches the
singer to sing for their diversion.]
[Footnote C: The Mammoth. See note, vol. ii, p. 111.]
"What brought you here?" demanded one of the Elks, a very elderly one,
who was named the Broadhorns, of the woman, as she approached the
outside of the circle. "Do you not know that it is death for any one
to come into the camp of the Great Chief of the Elks, unless he is
sent for? What brought you here?"
"I followed the Child of the Beaver."
"Oho, and so you have come to the marriage, but you are too late."
"What marriage?" demanded the woman, straining her eyes still wider
than my pale-faced brother does at this moment. "Who? How? What! Who's
to be married?"
"Oh, you know nothing of the matter I see," answered the Elk
Broadhorns. "Why, the youth, whom the Ottawas call the Child of the
Hare, but whom the Elks call the Pig-faced Boy of the Ottawas, has
married the daughter of a wise old man, who is akin to the Great Elk."
"Oho, and is that the cause of the hubbub?" demanded the woman.
"Not altogether," answered the Broadhorns; "you see gathered together
but the usual number that attend the steps of our great chief, running
of his errands, and doing him homage. But, come along, you must go and
spread the blanket of friendship before the great man, whom all the
Elks, no matter where found, as well as the inhabitants of the valley,
worship and obey."
With that, the old Elk, who appeared to be an Elk of authority, spoke
to the crowd, commanding them to make way for the woman who had come
from the camp of their friends, the Ottawas, to visit the Great Chief.
Immediately an opening was made in the crowd, through which the woman
and her conductor reached the presence of the mighty king of the
valley. Behold her, then, before the being of whom she had heard her
people talk morning, noon, and night, but whom no Ottawa had ever
beheld till now. She was beginning to deprecate his anger at her
intrusion on his dominions, when, in a tone intended to be very kind,
but which, nevertheless, was louder than the loudest tones of the
_manza ouackanche_[A], he spoke, and bade her say, "why she had come
uninvited to the marriage-feast of the Pig-faced boy of the Ottawas."
[Footnote A: "Iron possessed by an evil spirit;" their name for a gun
or rifle.]
The woman, gathering boldness from the mild and gentle behaviour of
the questioner, answered, that, for a long time, the young man, whom
the Ottawas called the Child of the Hare, but whom the Elks, it
appeared, knew by another name, had wandered at the beginning of
night, often continuing absent for days together, without their being
able to discover what became of him; and that curiosity had induced
her to follow his footsteps, with the idea of finding out the cause of
his absence. This was all, and here she was.
The reason she gave seemed to content the Great Chief, who merely
laughed a little, and said something about "curiosity"--"a woman
napping"--"a weazel asleep." Then, calling to him the old man, who had
assisted her through the crowd, he bade him bring the Pig-face and the
Little Maiden before him. The old man, making a very low bow after the
fashion of the white people, which is also the fashion of the bear, and
the "child of the Evil Spirit," who are both very mannerly--especially
the last, unless you provoke him, when he is a very naughty
fellow--departed immediately on the mission, leaving the adventurous
Ottawa woman surrounded by the whole nation of the Elks. Does not my
brother suspect that she began to regret that she followed the
Pig-face into the glen at early nightfall?
While he was absent, which was not long, the Great Chief amused
himself with talking to the woman. He asked her a great many questions
about her people, and praised them much for their singular courage and
valour, and their great sagacity, and their coolness and resolution in
bearing the torments inflicted by their enemies. He talked of the
wisdom of his own nation, and told her all about the fits they were so
subject to, and how they cured themselves by rubbing their ears with
their hind feet, till the blood came, and how their hoofs were a
medicine to drive away all kinds of falling sickness, except that
occasioned by drinking the strong water that is made of women's
tongues and warriors' hearts[A]. He was going on to relate long
stories of the wars of the Elks with their inveterate enemies, the
Carcajous, when there arose, upon the outside of the camp, a great
noise, which prevented his proceeding. The sound was like that of a
dozen old women, engaged in scolding their husbands for their lack of
good fortune in the hunt. Soon a space was cleared, and that which
made the noise appeared in the midst, in the shape of a mighty hare,
whose tongue went faster than the wings of a wild duck escaping from a
fowler. Awe, and fear, and trembling, seized on the Ottawa woman, for
she knew that she stood in the presence of the god of her people, the
Great Michabou. Nor was that awe and fear diminished, when the angry
god spoke in a voice of thunder to the Great Elk, demanding why he had
enticed the son whom he loved into a marriage with the daughter of a
paltry Elk.
[Footnote A: An Ottawa, who was a great drunkard, on being asked by
one of the French governors of Canada what he thought the brandy of
which he was so fond was made of, replied: "Of women's tongues and
warriors' hearts; for," said he, "after I have drunk of it, I can talk
for ever, and fight the devil."]
The Great Chief, notwithstanding his seeming courage, trembled like a
leaf, while he answered, that it was not a match of his making.
"Now you lie," answered the god. "You know that you have dared to do
it, because it was told you by a wise Ottawa priest--no thanks to
him--that from the marriage of the Pig-face with a maiden Elk a being
should spring, who should destroy his father's father, and make the
Great Chief of the Elks a spirit to rule in his place."
The Great Elk, caught with a lie in his mouth, continued silent, as a
warrior who is stealing on his sleeping foe, while the Great Hare
continued:
"I cannot prevent the marriage, for that is accomplished, and what is
done cannot be undone, even by a god. But I can prevent the
consequences which you hoped would ensue. I can take away from the
beasts, particularly the Elks, the wisdom to devise stratagems to
effect their purpose of usurping my power; and I can take away their
speech, which will further spoil their sport."
Turning to the Ottawa woman, he bade her draw a thread from her robe
of woven mulberry-bark, which she did, and gave it to him. Then, going
up to the Great Elk, he bade him, in a very angry voice, hold out his
tongue. The trembling monster obeyed, displaying a tongue which would
have furnished the whole tribe of Ottawas with food for a season. The
god then made, with the sharp point of a thorn, a hole in the under
part of his tongue, half way between the root and the end, and another
in the skin upon the inner side of his jaw, and passing through these
holes the thread obtained from the Ottawa woman, he tied down the
tongue effectually. When he had done this, patting the Ottawa woman on
the shoulder, he bade her run, like a good woman, as she was, to the
nearest grove, and fetch him some black mushrooms, some pemine
berries, a handful of leaves from the squaw maple[A], and a small
quantity of the flowers of the dog-wood. She did as she was directed,
and brought them and laid them at his feet. These he caused to be
pounded, beaten together, moistened with the spittle of the Great Elk,
and fashioned into many little balls about the bigness of the
eye-balls of a humming-bird[B]. When the mass had been all made into
balls, he commanded all to be silent. When the camp had become so
hushed, that the chirp of a grasshopper or the hum of a bee might have
been heard from limit to limit, he cried with a loud voice:--
[Footnote A: The female maple, distinguished from the male by having
its wood paler and more streaked.]
[Footnote B: Called by the French Canadians, _l'Oiseau Mouche_, or the
fly-bird. The name has two derivations; the first, from the smallness
of the animal; the second, from the humming noise it makes with its
wings. Its body is not larger than an ordinary May-bug.]
"Ruling spirits of the beasts, and birds, and fishes, come hither!
Presiding Manitous of all, save man, that inhabit the earth, the air,
the water, hear and obey the voice of Michabou."
He had scarcely done speaking, when the air was darkened with wings of
Manitous hastening to the spot, and, but that the footsteps of spirits
are lighter than the shade which falls upon the earth at sunset, the
valley had shaken with the weight of the hoofs and feet which pressed
it. There were the spirits of all the fish in the waters, and fowls
and birds in the air, and beasts and four-legged or more-legged
creatures on or in the earth, and some very strange-looking creatures
there were(6). To each of these spirits, as he presented himself, the
Great Hare gave one of the little round balls, commanding him to
swallow it. All obeyed readily, except the Manitou of the
Mocking-Birds and the Manitou of the strange bird with a hooked nose,
which Ononthio's[A] people have taught to cry, "Damn the Indians." The
last bit off only a small piece of this ball, and the first, after
chewing his, spat it all out with great disdain. That is the reason
that these two still retain a portion of their speech--all the other
creatures swallowed their balls, and thenceforth never spoke with the
tongues of men.
[Footnote A: _Great Mountain_, a name given to one of the early French
governors, and continued to be used generally for the French as long
as they held Canada. The story means a parrot probably.]
The Great Hare, having deprived the beasts of the faculty of speech,
and taken from them a principal portion of the wit and wisdom which
they were about to make such bad use of, turned to the Ottawa woman,
and kindly offered her all the little balls that were left. She took
them, and carefully wrapped them up in a corner of her robe. Before
she died, which was not till her years were more than the years of a
tortoise, she called her eldest daughter to the side of her couch and
gave her the balls, telling her to bestow them upon her eldest
daughter, with such directions as would ensure their remaining among
the Ottawas as long as grass shall grow and water run. They have been
handed down from daughter to daughter, and son to son, till the
present time. And that my brother may not think that I have a forked
tongue, but speak the words of truth, I will show him the little
balls. There they are, wrapped up in a piece of the robe which was
worn at the time by the Ottawa woman, to whom they were given by the
Great Hare.
So saying, the Ottawa story-teller unrolled a piece of dressed deer
skin, and took from thence a number of small balls, about the size of
pills sold by apothecaries, which he gave to M. Verdier.
NOTES.
(1) _Lake of the Great Beaver._--p. 49.
Among the Ottawas, the Great Beaver is, next to Michabou, the chief
deity. He it was who formed lake Nipissing; and all the rapids or
currents, which are found in the river Ottawa, are the remains of the
causeway which he built in order to complete his design. They also
add, that he died in the same place, and that he is buried under a
mountain which you perceive on the northern shore of lake Nipissing.
It has been observed that this mountain, viewed from one side,
naturally enough represents the figure of a beaver, which circumstance
has, no doubt, occasioned all these tales. The Indians, however,
stoutly maintain that it was the Great Beaver who gave this form to
the mountain after he had made choice of it for his burial-place, and
they never pass by it without rendering him their homage by offering
him the smoke of their tobacco.
(2) _White Beaver._--p. 49.
It has been asserted by travellers, that there is a species of the
beaver perfectly white. I doubt the story much. If there were white
beavers they would be found in the polar regions, yet it is a fact
that there they are quite black. Their colour, in temperate
countries, is brown, and it becomes lighter and lighter in proportion
as they approach toward the south, yet no where becomes white.
(3) _Carcajous and Foxes make war in company._--p. 55.
The carcajou, or wild cat, is the natural enemy of the elk, which, by
the by, has become almost as rare an animal on the western continent
as the mastodon or mammoth. As soon as he comes up with the elk, he
leaps upon him, and fastens upon his neck, about which he twists his
long tail, and then cuts his jugular. The elk has no means of shunning
this disaster, but by flying to the water the moment he is seized by
this dangerous enemy. The carcajou, who cannot endure the water, quits
his hold immediately; but, if the water happen to be at too great a
distance, he will destroy the elk before he reaches it. As this hunter
does not possess the faculty of smelling with the greatest acuteness,
he carries with him three foxes, which he sends on the discovery. The
moment they have got scent of an elk, two of them place themselves by
his side, and the third takes post behind him. They manage the matter
with so much adroitness, that they compel him to go to the place where
they have left the carcajou, with whom they afterwards settle about
dividing the prey. At least so say the Indians.
(4) _Made them more than a match._--p. 55.
The North American Indians are the vainest people living. "As ignorant
as a white man," "as foolish as a white man," are common expressions
with them. As they only value physical greatness, their low opinion of
us proceeds from their observing how very deficient we are in the
qualities which confer that species of superiority. They value,
beyond every other acquirement, that of apparent insensibility to
pain--we start, perhaps cry out, at the twinge of a tooth; in war we
become the dupes of the commonest stratagem, while they can never be
surprised. They see that they excel us in hunting--in endurance of
pain--in the power of encountering the fatigues and perils of savage
life--indeed, in every kind of knowledge which is deemed by them of
value--by their standard they are our superiors. "You are almost as
clever as an Indian," "You are as stupid as a white man," are common
expressions with them. They consider themselves as created for the
noblest of purposes. The Great Spirit made them, that they should
live, hunt, and prepare medicines and charms, in which they fancy they
excel. White men, on the other hand, were doomed to the drudgeries of
manufacturing cloths, guns, &c., for the use of the Indians.
The Five Nations called themselves _Ougwe-hohougwe_, that is, men
surpassing all others. This opinion, which they took care to instil
into their children, gave them that courage which made them so
terrible to their neighbours, and, indeed, to distant nations, for
their hostile incursions extended as far as Florida.
(5) _Unskilful Autmoin._--p. 57.
The Indian physicians possessed great skill as far as simples were
concerned. But it was their practice to profess to cure diseases,
rather by jugglery and witchcraft, than by those means which were
simple and near at hand. Could they be brought to look upon a disease
as purely natural, which they cannot, and treat it accordingly, their
materia medica would possess wonderful efficacy in their hands. The
great use which they make of their simples is for the cure of wounds,
fractures, dislocations, luxations, and ruptures. It is certain that
they are in possession of secrets and remedies which are admirable. A
broken bone is immediately set, and is perfectly solid in eight days'
time. It is related by a traveller, that a French soldier, who was in
garrison in a fort in Acadia, was seized with the epilepsy, and the
fits were become almost daily, and extremely violent; an Indian woman
that happened to be present at one of his fits, made him two boluses
of a pulverised root, the name of which she did not disclose, and
desired that one might be given him at his next fit, predicting
certain consequences and his complete cure by the second bolus, which
actually took place, and he ever after enjoyed a perfect state of
health.
In Acadia, the quacks or physicians were called by the name in the
text, _Autmoin_; it was commonly the chief of the village who was
invested with this dignity. The ceremonies and practices observed by
the Acadian jugglers being common to the "profession" throughout the
Indian nations, I shall insert an account of them from Charlevoix.
When they visited a patient, they first inspected him for a
considerable time, after which they breathed upon him. If this
produced nothing, "of certainty," said they, "the devil is in him; he
must, however, very soon go out of him; but let every one be upon his
guard, as this wicked spirit will, if he can, out of spite, attack
some here present." They then fell into a kind of rage, were shaken
with agony, shouted aloud, and threatened the pretended demon; they
spoke to him, as if they had seen him with their eyes, made several
passes at him, as if they would stab him, the whole being only
intended to conceal their imposture.
On entering the cabin, they take care to fix into the ground a bit of
wood, to which a cord is made fast. They afterwards present the end of
the cord to the spectators, inviting them at the same time to draw out
the bit of wood, and as scarce any one ever succeeds in it, they are
sure to tell him it is the devil who holds it; afterwards making as if
they would stab this pretended devil, they loosen, by little and
little, the piece of wood, by raking up the earth round it, after
which they easily draw it up, the crowd shouting the while. To the
under part of this piece of wood was fastened a little bone, or some
such thing, which was not at first perceived, and the quacks, shewing
it to the company, "Behold," cried they, "the cause of the disease; it
was necessary to kill the devil to get at it."
This farce lasted three or four hours, after which the physician stood
in need of rest and refreshment. He went away, assuring them that the
sick person would infallibly be cured, provided the disease had not
already got the better, that is to say, provided the devil, before his
retreat, had not given him his death-wound. The business was to know,
whether he had or not. This the autmoin pretended to discover by his
dreams, but he took care never to speak clearly, till he saw what turn
the disease took. On perceiving it incurable, he went away; every one
likewise, after his example, abandoned the patient. If, after three
days were expired, he were still alive, "The devil," said he, "will
neither allow him to be cured, nor suffer him to die; you must, out of
charity, put an end to his days." Immediately the greatest friend of
the patient brought cold water, and poured it on his face till he
expired.
In a note, vol. i., pages 141, 142, there is an account of the
ceremonies practised by the Delaware jugglers.
(6) _Spirits of beasts._--p. 66.
Every species has its presiding genius, and to these the Indians
frequently address their prayers. Some of them are held in great
estimation, some are little valued. The genius of the beavers is much
respected. They were formerly of opinion that beavers were endued with
reason, and had a government, laws, and language, of their own; that
they had officers who assigned to each his task, and placed sentries
to give the alarm at the approach of an enemy, and to punish the lazy.
A volume would scarcely afford sufficient space to relate their
traditions about this animal.
The bear is also a venerated animal--it is not, however, deemed so
auspicious to dream of the bear as of the beaver. Before setting out
upon an expedition in search of him, a fast is necessary in order to
induce his guardian genius to discover where the greatest number can
be found. They also, at these fasts, invoke the spirits of the bears
they have killed in their former huntings. The skins of bears are
commonly worn by the jugglers while performing their feats of
pretended witchcraft, and their teeth, &c., are held to be powerful
amulets or charms.
They endeavour, on all occasions, to propitiate the spirits of the
beasts, being persuaded that every species of animals has a genius
that watches for their preservation. A Frenchman having one day thrown
away a mouse he had just taken, a little girl took it up to eat it;
the father of the child, who perceived it, snatched it from her, and
fell to caressing the dead animal. The Frenchman asked him the reason
of it. "It is," answered he, "in order to appease the guardian spirit
of the mice, that they may not torment my child after she has eaten
it." After which he restored the animal to the girl, who ate it.
An Indian came to Mackenzie, requesting him to furnish him with a
remedy that might be applied to the joints of his legs and thighs, of
which he had, in a great measure, lost the use for five winters. This
affliction he attributed to his cruelty about that time, when having
found a wolf with two whelps, in an old beaver lodge, he set fire to
it and consumed them.--_Mackenzie's Journal of a Voyage, &c._ 4to.
London, 1801.
THE DAUGHTERS OF THE SUN.
In the southern part of the lands which were once occupied by the
Creeks, the Walkullas, and other tribes of Indians, lies the marsh
Ouaquaphenogan. On one side of it is the river Flint; on the other,
the Oakmulgee. This marsh is of very great extent, so great that it
takes several moons to travel around it. In the wet season, and when
the great rains of the southern sky are falling upon the earth, the
whole surface of this marsh appears a vast lake. It is interspersed
here and there with large islands and knolls of rich land, one of
which, the largest island, situated in the centre of the lake, the
present generation of Creeks represent to be a most blissful spot of
earth. They term this little island, also, Ouaquaphenogan, and relate
the following tradition of its discovery, which I will repeat to my
brother.
Once upon a time, many ages ago, there were four young hunters in the
nation of the Creeks, and these four young hunters upon the morning of
a beautiful day in summer took their hunting spears, and their bows
and arrows, and repaired to the forest. The hunting-ground to which
they directed their steps lay upon the skirt of this marsh. It was the
dry season of the year, and the surface of the lake was again a bog or
morass. The four hunters, finding a narrow and crooked path, leading
over the waste from the high grounds above the morass, determined,
with a view to ascertain if no kind of game dwelt upon it, to thread
this path for a short distance, but by no means to venture so far as
to lose sight of the beacons which should guide their feet back to
their village. They knew that very many hunters had been lost on this
marsh, that there were many who had lived to tell the story of their
bewilderment, and many who, never having returned from the chace,
could only be supposed to have been tempted to the fatal morass, and
perished in its mazes. Thus, armed with the knowledge of what had
happened to many, and was supposed to have happened to more, the
hunters ventured into the narrow and crooked path, which led to the
island Ouaquaphenogan, in the lake of the same name.
The four hunters had not walked far, when one of them said to another,
"Where are the hills which glitter in the morning sun, behind the
cabins of our fathers?" The other answered, "I see them not, nor do I
know which way they should be sought for. Deep fogs obscure the
earth, and hide the sun from our eyes; the signs are wanting which
should direct our feet in the path of our return; for the moss grows
equally on every side of the tree; the waters lie dead, and sleeping,
and stagnant, so that no one may gather from their flow a knowledge of
his path; it is not the hour of the day for the Hunter's Star to shine
upon the eyes of our judgment; no wind stirs to inform us whether it
comes from the flowery land of the South, or the cold hills of the
North--how then can I assist my bewildered brothers, who am myself
bewildered? I see not whence we came, I know not where we are; I only
know this--that we have ventured into a narrow and crooked path in the
Lake Ouaquaphenogan, and are lost, as many of our nation have been
before, in the intricate mazes into which it is death to venture." So
concluded the young hunter.
The four bewildered hunters still continued their endeavours to
retrace their path, but without success. Still more dark and dismal
grew those mazes--more wet and miry the morass. Night came, but it
brought no stars to enable them to find their road back to their
dwellings, nor south nor north winds were abroad to direct their
steps--the waters were still stagnant, and still did moss grow upon
every side of the tree. No bird flew by, to direct by the course of
his flight to his roosting-place, or to the nest of his beloved, on
the dry hills beyond the waste--no plaint of animals, which love not
the water or damp grounds, was heard in the distance. They knew no
better than a child of the last moon the path which should lead them
back to safety.
While they were wandering about in the mazes of the swamp, one said to
another, "I hear the sound of voices." Listening, they were soon able
to distinguish the sounds of music and merriment proceeding from a
glade at a short distance, in the direction of the little path upon
which they were entering. Pursuing that path, they soon came to a
little knoll of high and rich land. Nothing could be more beautiful
than the appearance of this little spot. Here and there were clumps of
trees, covered with fruit in every stage of its growth, and blossoms
scenting the air with their fragrance. The earth was covered with a
robe of flowers; birds were singing on the boughs, and hopping about
on the twigs, filling the air with sweet melody, and little rills were
rattling away over the gentle slopes. Upon one side of the knoll lay a
clear lake, in which swans, white as the lily, were disporting
themselves, and the red-headed, and the green-winged duck, and many
other beautiful feathered creatures. But the most beautiful objects
remain to be painted. These were four tall and slender maidens,
beautiful as the flower-clad trees and blossom-crowned hills of their
own island, and sweet as the breath of a lemon-tree. Their eyes shone
as bright as the beams of the morning sun; bright locks of surpassing
beauty clustered around their lovely brows; and their garments were
woven of many colours as brilliant as the rainbow. Their bosoms
swelled like the heavings of the billows on a little lake, when it is
but slightly stirred by the breezes of spring. Their step--what can be
compared to it? A bird skimming the fields; a wind slightly stirring
the bushes; an antelope bounding over a mountain crag; a deer a little
alarmed at the whoop of the hunter. Beautiful creatures! The Great
Spirit never formed any thing, not even the trees, nor the flowers of
spring, nor the field of ripe grain, nor the sun of whom those four
maidens were sisters, so beautiful as they were.
They came--these four beautiful maidens--to the four bewildered
travellers, whom they addressed thus, and their voice was sweeter than
the music of the song-sparrow--"Who are ye?" The hunters replied that
they were men of the Creek-nation who had ventured into the marsh
Ouaquaphenogan, and were bewildered in its inextricable mazes. Two
days, they said, they had been without food; they were faint and
weary, and demanded refreshments, such as they would have given, had a
hungry traveller come to their door, and said, "Food I have none, give
me or I faint." The beautiful maidens replied, that the men of their
nation, having long ages ago been driven with much bloodshed into the
inaccessible fastnesses of the island Ouaquaphenogan, in the lake of
the same name, by the ancestors of the present generation of Creeks,
had retained so deeply in their bosoms the memory of their wrongs,
that they were sure to inflict upon them most excruciating tortures,
and to make them die a death of fire. Such, they said, would be the
fate of the four bewildered hunters, should their fathers or brothers
discover them now. They earnestly besought them to fly; but first,
with that tender and compassionate nature which belongs to women when
they see the other sex in distress, they brought from a little cabin
which stood near, covered with beautiful vines in blossom, abundance
of provisions, besides oranges, dates, and other fruit, sweet, ripe,
and tempting, as their own beautiful selves. These they spread out on
the flowery earth, and invited the four hunters to partake. Placed
each by the maiden of his choice, they fed upon the repast prepared by
the fair hands of the daughters of the sun, the while drinking in the
passion of love from their large and lustrous eyes. Nor was the soft
language of looks alone the medium of thought; words of the tongue
were interchanged as sweet as those of the eyes. Wrought up at length
to a phrenzy of passion, and emboldened by the melting glances of the
dove-eyed girls, the youthful hunters besought them to bless them with
their love--to become the wives of their heart. Faint was the shake of
the head, and scarcely heard the breathing of the "No," and cast
meekly down upon the blue flowers at their feet the soft and tender
eyes, which could not have looked up and kept their secret. At length,
one of the maidens, the eldest sister--for they were sisters--began
thus:
"Young and amiable strangers, it is proper that we tell you who we
are, that you may think whether you will dare the danger, that will
attend the union of one of our race with one of yours. We are born of
mothers, and are the children of fathers, who are governed by the
influences of the sun, even as tides obey the commands of their
mistress the moon, and stars perform their round of service in the
sky, at the command of the Master of all. Our disposition--the
disposition of our race--is as variable as that of the winds upon
which our great father acts. Ye behold him fiery at times--even so are
we--a change comes over him, his beams grow mild and soft, dispensing
genial warmth and gladness; ours, like his, also soften, and, though
they cannot possess his power, yet they are fashioned on his pattern,
and we in our kind moments bestow all the happiness we can upon those
we love. At those moments, were it possible to fill all the earth with
love, to make bush, tree, flower, man, beast, bird, utter the language
of the soft passion, and hill, dale, mountain, and valley, echo it, we
would do it. Again do we change; and he that hath noted the quick
obscuring of the sun in the Month of Buds, may estimate the
variableness of our temper. Then tears fall from our eyes in torrents,
as showers fall from a cloud, and as hastily as a mist is dissipated
by a bright morning beam do smiles re-illumine our countenances, and
our faces and hearts become filled with gladness. Tempest and fair
weather, darkness and sunshine, are in us strangely blended. There is
in our nature a strange jarring of the elements of being. Can ye take
to your bosoms wives, who will afflict you with mutabilities as great,
sudden, various, as those of the elements which surround you? Ye are
pleased to think us beautiful, and it may be that we are; but remember
that ye see us in one of our pleased, pleasant, and happy, moments.
Wait till an accident or misfortune happens, till want or calamity
come, or contradiction ensue, or some of the crosses which belong to
human life, as clouds and tempests to the constitution of nature,
assail us. But, if you think your love could survive the hurricanes
which will visit your dwellings when we are stormy; if you can bear to
see the lightnings of our eyes flashing wrath upon you, and our voices
speaking thunder in your ears--I speak for myself and sisters--take
us, and we will assure you of many moments of bright sunshine, many
days of peace and happiness--uninterrupted sun, and cloudless skies."
The beautiful daughter of the sun, who spoke for herself and her
sisters, concluded thus, and the eldest of the four hunters rose, and
replied in these words:
"Beautiful maiden, that speakest for thyself and sisters, do not think
that what thou hast said will affright us. I speak for myself and
brothers--we will take you with all your faults, with the chance of
the hurricanes and stormy weather, linked with the hope of the moments
of bright sunshine and days of peace and happiness. Believe me,
dove-eyed maidens, that the women of the lake Ouaquaphenogan, in the
island of the same name, are not alone in their disposition to be
stormy at times. It need not be told the men of the Creek nation,
that a woman's face, of whatever country, may justly be likened to an
April day, alternately shining and showering, and that her soul is
like a morning in the Variable Moon, which one moment may be dressed
in a thick mantle of clouds, and the next in a glittering robe of
solar glory. It need not be told the son of my mother, that a woman's
voice is sometimes the voice of a gentle rill, and at others, that of
a cloud charged with the poison of the heated and rarefied air. Are
not the Creeks men, and shall they be frightened by what is a mere
momentary delirium? No. Having looked upon a wintry storm and a summer
tempest, and seen the bright stars succeeding one, and the warm and
cheering sun the other, we can listen with calmness--even with
pleasure--to the tempest of a woman's anger, and survey, without
trembling, or hiding, or running away, the lightnings of her wrath,
because we know that after a storm comes a calm. We know that the sun
shines most gloriously when his beams are first unveiled by the
passing away of the clouds which have obscured him; we know that a
woman's face is most beautiful, when she has wiped the tears of anger
from her cheek, and dressed it in smiles to win back the love which
her folly has endangered. We will take you, beautiful creatures,
subject to the becoming passions of which you speak, filled with all
the beautiful frenzies of woman's temper. We know that all women,
whether they dwell among the Creeks, or in the island Ouaquaphenogan,
in the lake of the same name, are alike in their dispositions. It hath
long been taught, beautiful creatures, in our nation, and among all
nations of which we have heard our fathers speak, that men should take
them wives, but it is only now that we have recalled the maxim to our
minds, it is only now that we acknowledge the wisdom of our teachers.
Now, if men chose those only whose tempers never varied, one, two, may
be three, among all the sons of men would take wives; if one sought
for a maiden with a never clouded brow and soul, it might become the
labour of a whole nation to furnish mocassins for the feet of one
travelling in quest of the bride. Therefore we take you with all your
faults, believing that you have them but in common with all your sex,
and with no greater portion than belongs to others. And we bind on
your fair brows the flowers which betoken affection and constancy, and
we place in your soft and beautiful hands the emblems of the charge we
confide to them when we make you the wives of our bosoms."
So these four beautiful daughters of the sun became the affianced
brides of the four bewildered Creek hunters.
"But," said the beautiful maidens to their lovers, "we have told you
of the ferocity of our fathers and brothers, and of the hatred of our
nation towards the descendants of the men who overthrew and massacred
our ancestors. We cannot expose you to the danger of their wrath; you
must fly, but whithersoever that be, we will fly with you." So the
four beautiful daughters of the sun left for ever the island
Ouaquaphenogan, and the lake of the same name, and became the wives
and mothers of hunters and warriors. They were at times very stormy in
their tempers, but upon the whole not worse than other women. Their
faces were at times those of April days, alternately shining and
showery, but there were women in our nation, who were not at all akin
to the sun, nor ever saw Ouaquaphenogan, that were as like them as if
they had been sisters. Their eyes did, indeed, sometimes send out
volleys of lightnings, and their tongues give forth heavy thunders,
but neither were louder nor sharper than those of the women, who had
for ages given the beam of the one and the music of the other to the
men of the Creeks. And, if they did at times term their husbands
"brutes," it was no more than other husbands had been called before.
And if they did, in the moment of a hurricane, drive their husbands
from their fire-sides, they were by no means the first who had done
so. Upon the whole, the four hunters had no particular reason to
regret their bewilderment in the marsh Ouaquaphenogan.
THE MAIDEN AND THE BIRD.
It cannot be new to my pale-faced brother, for he has been told it
often enough, that, besides the Great Master of Life, the red men of
the forest worship a great multitude of spirits with whom they believe
every part of the world to be peopled. According to our belief, a
Manitou dwells upon every hill, and in every valley; in every open
glade and dark morass; in the chambers of every cavern, and the heart
of every rock; in every fountain, and watery depth, and running
stream. These spirits dislike white men very much, because they are
always intruding upon their quiet, robbing both hill and valley of
their stately trees, breaking up the bosom of the earth, penetrating
into every dark morass and cavern, and polluting, by some means or
other, every fountain, and watery depth, and running stream. Indians
do not wish to provoke them, and so try to propitiate them by innocent
and unbloody offerings. We spread on the mountain tops, or hang on the
cliffs, or lay on the shelves of the caves, or drop into the waters,
wreaths of flowers, belts of wampum, clusters of the wild grape,
shining ears of maize, and other gifts which attach them to us. When
an Indian child is born, whether it is a man-child or woman-child, a
spirit is immediately chosen to protect it, and its future life is
expected to be prosperous or not as the guardian spirit is powerful
and well-disposed to his charge, or weak, and undertakes his task of
protection with reluctance.
The Little White Bear of the Iroquois was reposing by night in his
cabin, on the banks of his own pleasant river, in the month of ripe
berries, when he beheld, by the light of the moon, a forest-chief in
all his pride enter the lodge. The step of the stranger was noiseless
as the fall of snow, and of word or sound uttered he none. The chief
of the Tuscaroras arose, and took down his sinewy bow, and drew from
his quiver a sharp and barbed arrow--the figure faded away like a
morning mist before the beams of the sun, and was gone from his eyes.
Tetontuaga woke his comrades, who lay scattered about in careless
slumber--nothing had they seen, heard, or dreamed of. He lay down
again, and, drawing his buffalo cloak closely around him, tried to
close his eyes and ears, in oblivion of things, and to rein his fancy
to look upon other shapes than those of air.
No sooner had he composed his limbs, and invoked the beneficent spirit
who presides over sleep to grant him a slumber unvisited by hideous
or frowning forms, than the shadowy warrior again arose and stood at
his side. The Iroquois had now full opportunity to scan his form and
features. Of gigantic frame he seemed, and his dress was of a texture
and fashion such as the chief had never seen before--of an age and a
nation none might guess. He was a half taller than the tallest man of
the Five Nations, who are reputed the tallest of all the red men of
the land, and his limbs, arms, legs, hands, feet, were of twice the
ordinary size of an Iroquois warrior. His coal-black eyes were larger
than the buffalo's, but they were lustreless as those of the dead; his
teeth, large and of the colour of bones bleached by the sun and rain,
chattered like the teeth of a man overpowered by the cold of the
Bear-Moon. He wore over his shoulders a long robe of curiously dyed,
or painted cloth, fastened at the throat by a piece of shining metal,
and a fur cap made of the skin of an animal never seen by the
Iroquois, above which rose a high plume of feathers of a bird unknown
in Indian lands. The mocassins were of one piece, reaching with no
visible seam to the knees, and he wore upon his sinewy thighs garments
shaped like those worn by the white stranger. His language, when he
spoke, was a strange and uncouth language, yet it was understood by
the Iroquois warrior, who felt, as he heard the strange sound, its
meaning seize his brain as a strong man seizes and binds him who is
weak and powerless. Wondrous were the things which the fierce phantom
related to the startled warrior of the Iroquois. He spoke of the wars
of the Allegewi, and of the torrents of blood that ran into the
Michigan, and the Erie, and the Huron, and the River of the
Mountains[A], and the Næmesi Sipu, discolouring their once clear, and
cresting with red foam, their once calm and peaceful waters. He told
how the men of the Allegewi were beaten and driven no one but the
Great Being, and the Manitous, and the spirits in the Blessed Shades,
knew whither, by the ancestors of the Iroquois, who came from the far
north, across an arm of the Frozen Sea, encountered the Allegewi, the
primitive inhabitants of the soil, who were entrenched behind the
stupendous mounds which still remain, and drove them into perpetual
banishment. He described the pigmy people, and the giant tribes whose
graves and mounds might yet be seen, exciting the wonder of the
curious, and bringing men even from the City of the Rock[B] to view
them, to open them, and to put down their thoughts about them upon
the fair white skin[C]. A wild and unnatural song of triumph, in a
tone as hoarse as the croakings of the raven or the bittern, burst
from his lips, of the valiant exploits of his tribe, his own among the
number, in times long since--when the oak tree now dying with age was
a little child, and the huge rocks were within the strength of a full
grown warrior to poise. He spoke of nations whose names till then had
never reached the ears of the wondering Iroquois, and told of their
loves, and their hatreds, and their forest warfare.
[Footnote A: The Hudson.]
[Footnote B: Quebec.]
[Footnote C: The Indians could not be persuaded at first that paper
was any thing else than tanned leather.]
Then he changed the theme, and spoke of the land of souls, the bright
region to which the spirits of the good retire when the body is to be
changed to dust. He painted the pleasures which are the portion of its
inhabitants, and told in the ears of the warrior what description of
men were permitted to be received into it; what were the deeds which
pleased and conciliated the Great Being, and what the crimes which
shut the gates of the Bridge of Souls against the wanderer thither. He
painted minutely the happy land appointed for the residence of the
souls of the Iroquois--where the brave man's shade still pursues the
forest herd, or clasps to his bosom the forms of the sunny-eyed
maidens of his own clime; and the green and happy isles where the
Huron lovers reside, and the frozen and verdureless heath appointed to
the cowards of all the earth. When he had exhausted these subjects, he
related to the warrior many traditions of the old time, tales of
forest love, and of the valour of the men of ancient days. He
continued to visit the lodge of the chief every night for the space of
a moon, entertaining him, with the same fixed and lustreless eye, and
in the same hoarse tone, with these old tales. The Little White Bear
of the Iroquois locked up those things in the great store-house of his
memory, and each day, when the sun returned to the earth, and with it
the ghost of the ancient man had departed, he related to his wondering
tribe the traditions poured into his ear by the phantom warrior. And
this was the first.
* * * * *
The moon was shining brightly on tree and flower, on glade and river,
on land and water; stars were twinkling, and the winds slept in the
caverns of the earth, when a youth and a maiden--he, tall and straight
as a forest tree; fierce as a panther to his enemies, but gentle as a
kid to those he loved; she, little in stature as a sprout of a single
season, but the mildest and most beautiful of all mortal things--came
out of the forest. The horse upon whose back they had escaped from
their enemies lay exhausted at the verge of the wood, and now they
stood alone by the river of silver.
"Here rest thee, my beloved," said the youth, "we are safe. Our good
steed has sped like an arrow through the thicket; our pursuers, my
rival, thy father, thy brother, and all thy tribe, lie foiled and
fainting far behind us. There is no longer footfall or shout in the
wind; the voices of angry men, calling the Algonquin by names he never
owned and whose ignominy he may not avenge, have long since expired on
our ears like the voice of a dying cloud in the Moon of Thunder. Rest
thee, my beloved!--as a young bird that is weary of flying reposes on
the bough of a tree till its faintness has passed away, so must thou
lie down on the green and verdant bank till thy strength returns. I go
to yonder river, to seek a bark to bear us away to the lands of my
nation, and to my pleasant cabin by the stream where I first drew
breath." And he rose to go.
"Oh leave me not!" cried the maiden, her soft cheek bedewed with
tears, and deep sighs proceeding from her oppressed heart. "When thou
art away, I tremble with terror. When I see not the light of thine
eyes, I am filled with dismay. My mother comes, in her anger, to chide
me, and she does not spare; my stern brother storms like the winter's
tempest; my sire rages and threatens; and then, like the panther that
springs across the path of the lone hunter, comes thy hated rival, to
oppress me with the tale of his love and the boast of his success."
"Nay, thou art dreaming, my beloved," said the young warrior. "If
fancy must sway thee, let thy visions be tinted with the cheerful ray
of hope. There is no peril near thee, and soon will I bear my
beautiful bride to the lands of my nation, and to my pleasant cabin
beside the beautiful river where I first drew my breath."
So saying, he sprung lightly to the shore, and was lost to her sight.
At the moment of his disappearance, a cloud passed over the face of
the bright moon, obscuring her blessed light. The maiden, deeming it
an inauspicious omen, sat down upon the green bank, and, leaning her
head upon her hand, suffered the tears to stream through her slender
fingers. But vain was the presage--idle were her fears. The cloud has
passed away from the face of the pale orb, and lo! there is her lover.
He comes with a joyous step and a laughing eye, as though he had been
successful in his search for the further means of flight. Cheer up,
Mekaia[A]; it is indeed thy Moscharr[B].
[Footnote A: The star flower.]
[Footnote B: The mountain plant.]
"Now haste, my beloved one," said the Mountain Plant. "I have found
the object of my search. Here is a canoe, and soon shall it convey my
Star-flower over the rapid tide. Soon will my little bark shoot over
the noisy current, and I and my beloved be altogether beyond the power
of our pursuers."
So saying, he drew the unreluctant maiden swiftly forward. They gained
the shore, placed themselves in the canoe, and committed it to the
current. With her hand clasped in his, her head resting softly upon
his shoulder, while his arm fondly encircled her slender waist, they
glided down the rapid River of the Mountains. No sail was raised to
catch the breeze; no oar was used to impel them through the water;
yet, ere the maiden had time to breathe, the light canoe was gliding,
rapid as thought, down the mid-waves of the current. Then the maiden
spoke.
"Now say, O Moscharr, whither is it you are guiding the bark? Mark you
not, love, how we are gliding down the stream towards the dreadful
Oniagarah?"
"Be calm, my Mekaia," answered the lover, "I am but guiding you to
yonder strand, upon which the current sets full and strong. Be calm,
my Mekaia, we are safe."
The maiden held her tongue, for was she not with him she loved? Away
then, away they went, and still onward, while faster, and fleeter, and
more boisterous, the foaming waters flowed around them, and less
distant every moment seemed the dreadful cataract. Its roar was like
that of an approaching cloud from which thunders are issuing. Again
the timid maiden addressed her lover:
"Now tell me, O Moscharr, whither is it you are guiding the bark? See,
the shore is more distant, and hark! what awful noise is that which
strikes mine ear from out of the black curtain ahead of us? It cannot
be the thunders, for there is no cloud; it cannot be the voice of the
Great Spirit, for he is the friend of the Ottawa girl."
"Be calm, my Mekaia," answered the lover, "there is no danger; it is
thy lover that guides the bark, and he will be careful of the flower
of the forest maidens. I see the shore--I see the rock--and whenever I
will I can guide to either."
Away then, away goes their light bark, and still they speed onward
with the swiftness of an arrow from a well drawn bow. The tall dark
forests that rose above their starting-place are fast receding from
view, and hark! pealing like the thunders of heaven, the roar of the
mighty cataract, to come within whose influence is instant
destruction.
"Now tell me, O Moscharr, what dreadful sound is that which breaks in
so loud and angry a tone upon my ear from out of the black curtain?"
demanded the maiden.
"It is the surge breaking on the sandy shore, or the night winds
rushing through the forest," answered he.
"And tell me what are those lifting their white heads before us, as
the snow, which has fallen in a calm, is swept about by the whirlwind
which follows it?"
"Billows breaking on the shoals that surround yon little island."
Away then, away goes their little bark, dashing among the wild waves,
like a leaf caught up into air by the summer whirlwind, till all at
once burst upon the horror-stricken maiden, in their most tremendous
and appalling aspect, the waters of the far-famed, the wondrous
Oniagarah. See the white sheet of foam which rises in spray, mocking
the soaring of the bird of morning. "It is only the Great Spirit that
can save us now!" exclaimed the frantic maiden. "Lo, my Moscharr, we
hasten to the land of souls!"
"Not the Great Spirit himself, did he will it, could save us,"
answered the lover in a tone which seemed to be that of impiety.
"Were he here himself, with all the Manitous of the earth, and the
air, and the flood, and the fire, gathered together from mountain, and
valley, and wood, and prairie, he could not save us. Together, Mekaia,
we shall sleep in the stormy cataract."
The maiden heard the dreadful words in silence. But even then she
showed the depth of her affection. The love of a woman endures through
all changes; she shrinks not at death, so the beloved one be at her
side. When the beauteous flower of the forest saw her fate
approaching, and so near, she sank into the arms of her Moscharr, as
though it were pleasanter to die there than elsewhere; and a soft
smile, for she smiled even in that dread moment, told that she was
most happy to die, if she could die on the breast of him she loved.
But hark, what voice is that calling upon thee, wretched maiden! Did
not he who won thy youthful heart, while yet it was little and
fluttering, so pronounce the loved word "Mekaia?" Was not _that_ the
tone and accent which oft rang through the hollow beech woods, when
together ye went to gather the ripened mast, and chanced to separate
till the cry recalled? And look--see, one stands upon the beetling
rock above thee, amidst the crash and thunder of the eddy into which
thou art cast, his arms stretched towards thee, beautiful flower of
the wilderness, and his look one of unutterable agony and despair. It
is Moscharr, beautiful Mekaia, it is he who sat by thy side in the
playful hours of infancy, and won thy little heart ere it knew
wherefore it was beating. With the speed of the blast he has followed
thy course down the shore of the cataract, and now he stands upon the
edge of the terrible gulf, horror depicted in his countenance, his
eyes cast upward in supplication to the Great Spirit, that thou mayst
yet be preserved, and agony and doubt written on his face, lest the
prayer he breathes may not be heard. And if that be thy lover who
calls franticly upon thee from the beetling rock, who is he that sits
at thy side, wearing the form and semblance of that lover, and
speaking with the soft and kind tones which were ever his when
addressing the flower of the forest maids? Alas! rose of the
wilderness, it is the ruling spirit of the angry flood, the dreadful
MANITOU OF THE CATARACT!
One tearful look the maiden bestows upon her agonised lover, ere the
canoe glides over the precipice, and, swift as rocks hurled by spring
rains down the side of the mountains, disappears in the horrid chasm
below. One tearful look, one heart-rending shriek, which rises even
above the roar of the cataract, as the canoe plunges through the
foam, and she is gone from his eyes, like a feather caught up on the
wings of a great wind.
What beautiful little bird is that which descends from yon
silver-edged cloud, which is floating so high in the heavens that only
the vulture may venture a flight thither, or the gray eagle sweep to
it in his pride? Beautiful creature! beautiful bird(1)! not so large
as the swallow, its neck a bright green, its wings scarlet, mottled
with white, and having a train thrice as long as its body, in which
are blended all the colours that adorn the rainbow. It came to the
spot where the lover, unmanned by the dreadful catastrophe, stood
mourning like a mother bereaved of her children, and, thrice circling
his head, invited his attention by all the means which could be used
by mortals, except that of speech. The lover sees at length the
beautiful creature, and knows _whose_ messenger it is. But why comes
the herald of hope to him in his hour of despair? Can the Great
Spirit, all-powerful as he is, succour him? Can joy be yet in store
for him? It must be so, else why has he sent down his own messenger
from the sky? That Being is too kind and too good to hold out false
hopes; it is not in his nature to intimate an intention of succouring
unless he actually entertains such intention. Be comforted, Mountain
Plant, thou hast a friend!
And now commenced their toilsome journey down the side of the
cataract. The spirit-bird led, and the bereaved lover followed. Poised
on joyful wing, the little messenger fluttered before him, singing
sweet songs of promise, until they had descended into the frightful
abyss, and its secrets stood revealed before them. Terrific sight!
tremendous sound! Their eyes were appalled by the view of billows
which mount to the very skies--of huge volumes of water, dashing down
the dreadful precipice into a vast basin, which seemed large enough to
be the tomb of the giant Chappewee; and their ears were saluted with
sounds, whose loudness and violence were a thousand times beyond those
of the tempest, or the thunder, or the earthquake. Onward they groped
their desperate way beyond the fiercest fall, until all at once they
came to a dreadful cavern shrouded in the deepest night and gloom.
Notwithstanding the whirl of waters, and the impetuous rush of the
blast, and, though the earth rocked around them like a canoe on the
stormy waves of the Spirits' Bay of Lake Huron(2), yet the brave and
patient Moscharr, unwearied and fearless, followed through pass and
pitfall, by stream and steep, the flight of his little conductor.
Keeping the lamp carried by the spirit-bird in view, he regarded not
the huge rocks toppling above his head, and each moment threatening
him with instant destruction, but fought on his perilous course, till
they had threaded the labyrinth, and found themselves in a cavern, as
unlike the first, as the tranquil summer sky is unlike the blustering
of the sky in the Moon of Storms.
The cavern, into which they now found entrance, was lit up by a blaze
of effulgence, which seemed as great as would be that of a hundred
suns shining at one time. So astonishing was the brightness, so
surpassing the beauty of those things which served for the lamps of
this vast hall, that the Iroquois warrior for a moment forgot the
cause which brought him thither, and stopped to admire the glories
which were scattered around him. It was, indeed, filled with all that
might dazzle and ravish the sight. Above them glittered a firmament
studded, it seemed, with stars, yet flashing a light far more
brilliant than the stars of night ever gave. And the sides of the
cavern glittered with the gorgeous hues reflected from the shining
stones of many colours wherewith it was set.
But why halts the spirit-bird guide, and why does he veil his lamp?
Why looks he with anxious eyes to yonder bright chambers in the
cavern? What beings are those which appear in that chamber, and whose
are those accents that fall on the eager ears of the lovers? I behold
a couch formed of spar that glitters like icicles in the beams of the
sun. It is covered with the softest grass that grows at the bottom of
the torrent, and upon it is laid, panting with weariness and fright, a
beautiful woman--it is the flower of the forest maidens, the lost
Mekaia! At her side, no longer counterfeiting the Iroquois warrior,
but showing himself in all his native ugliness, his body crooked and
disproportioned, his hair coarse as the weeds that grow on the rocks
of the great salt sea, his eyes green as a meadow in spring, his mouth
of enormous size, and his ears like those of a buffalo, stands her
persecutor and ravisher, the Fiend of the Cataract. And thus he wooed
the fair helpless being that lay upon the couch of dazzling stone:
"Mekaia, beauteous Mekaia, the mighty Manitou of Oniagarah asks thy
love. If thou wilt give it me, I will give thee in return all the
treasures of earth and flood, the diamonds which lie in the depths of
the cataract, and the bright ore, which, in other lands, buys both the
bodies and souls of men. The thing that thou wishest shall be within
the reach of thy hand as soon as wished; and, to please thee, my form
shall again take the shape and appearance of him thou lovest. I go
now, fair maiden, but soon will I return to thee and love. But, if
thou again refusest me, the Manitou shall come to woo thee like
himself, and, in his own proper form, of more hideous seeming than
that which he now wears, and invested with thrice his present terrors,
enforce his claim. His wishes gratified, he will spurn thee from him,
and cast forth thy corse to the torrent."
With this heavy threat the Manitou vanished. And now seize, seize, ye
lovers, the happy minute! 'Tis a moment of fate. Fly, fly! and look,
the aërial messenger of Him who governs all things beckons them on.
They obey the mute appeal, and with the fleetness of the mountain goat
rush from the cavern. Their way is dark and dreadful, but fear lends
them wings. They know from the lips of their beautiful guide, the
Spirit-bird, which at length has opened its mouth to impart to them
words of kind encouragement, that with the dawning of day the fiend of
the flood is but mortal--that with the crowing of the cock his power
is at an end; and they are urging their limbs to their utmost speed,
for see, the gleam of red tells that day is nigh. The little messenger
from the Great Spirit still points the pathway, and under his care and
guidance they speedily gain the mid-height. Alas for the lovers!
Heaven preserve them in this their hour of extreme peril, for see, the
horrible fiend is on their track, straining every nerve in pursuit;
and so rapidly does he gain upon them, that, unless aid be sent from
some superior power, they will be soon in his grasp.
But the brave Moscharr still clung to hopes of escape, and still
exerted himself with almost superhuman power to accomplish it. With
one arm encircling the lifeless form of the maiden, he employed the
other to draw himself, by means of the protruding shrubs, over the
steep precipices. A sudden thought enabled him to baffle for a while
the grim pursuer. His foot, applied to a loose rock, launched it in a
tone of thunder upon the fiend, who was borne backward half the
distance of an arrow's flight by the ponderous mass. During the time
he was struggling to disengage himself from the weight that pinned him
to the earth, the lover had nearly won the farthest bound of the
Manitou's kingdom. And see, the purple and grey breaks out from the
east. It is day, and the power of the Manitou, as far as regards his
spiritual nature, is ended. Summon, O Moscharr, all your strength and
fleetness, and by one desperate effort escape his personal strength,
as the fortunate coming of the daylight's beam has placed you beyond
the reach of his supernatural power! Hurry on! hurry on! The kingdom
of the Manitou extends but to the lowest bubble of foam--it ends with
the last billow of the rapids--the goal is before you; it is scarce
half a bowshot from you--haste, and it is won. Hurry on! hurry on! the
moment you have reached the boundary of the fiend-kingdom, multitudes
of good spirits--friends to you, but deadly and implacable foes to
your enemy--will start up to assist you.
With the maiden on his arm, all wounded and bleeding, his own body
lacerated and torn, yet unyielding as ever, does the brave Moscharr
pursue his flight. But he feels as if the moment of death was near at
hand. Exhausted by his almost superhuman efforts to escape, he finds a
weakness and trembling stealing over his limbs, and he faints, and
falls with his lovely burthen to the earth, at the very moment of
victory and safety. The Manitou has reached him, and, with a
fiend-like laugh on his horrid face, bends exultingly forward to seize
his helpless victims. One hand he lays upon the tender arm of the
forest-flower, the other is in the hair of the lover. But, as he bends
forward, a sudden jerk of the Iroquois, occasioned by returning life,
draws him unwittingly over the line which marks the boundaries of his
kingdom and sway. In a moment--in a breath--ere the eye could have
winked, or the spirit thought--multitudes of bright beings start up
from each nook, and dell, and dingle--from field and flood. The deep
space, the rocks above them, below them, at their side, the air above
and around them, as far as the eye can reach, is filled with
beneficent spirits. "He is ours!" they shout; "he is ours! He has
passed from the region over which he had sway; he has left the
dominions and powers over which he held rule. He is ours! he is ours!
Not in vain did we leave our verdant bowers in the distant Lake of the
Thousand Islands, to hasten to the succour of the maiden flower of the
forest and her brave and faithful lover. It was the Great Spirit that
inspired us to come hither, that we might save from death, and what
were far worse, the beautiful betrothed of the valiant Moscharr. He is
ours! he is ours! the Manitou is ours! Now launch your light barks,
brothers--launch your light barks! The skiffs that brought us hither
must be moored in the calm bays of our dear island before the broad
sun looks over the tops of the eastern hills. But first we must punish
our ruthless foe. Let us inflict on him the fate he threatened to
inflict on the beauteous maiden--let us bind him and throw him down
these rugged rocks into the wave that rolls furiously below! He is
ours! he is ours!"
At once--at the conclusion of their song of triumph--a thousand bright
forms sprung upon the prostrate and powerless Manitou, and bound and
dragged him to the steep. And while again arose their wild but
melodious cry, "He is ours! he is ours!" they launched him into the
thundering torrent below, which swept his mangled and lifeless body
into utter oblivion.
When the destruction of the fiend was accomplished, the beautiful
spirit-bird, which, while the deed of his death was doing, sat eyeing
them intently from a broken crag above their heads, rose from its
perch, and, after dropping upon the pair, from his radiant wings,
showers of light as the tokens of the love of its Master for them,
soared back to the skies whence it came. The happy Moscharr and his
loved Mekaia then accompanied the friendly spirits, who had assisted
in the overthrow of the bad Manitou, to their home in the beautiful
Lake of the Thousand Islands. The pair were welcomed with songs and
rejoicings to the spirit shores, and loud were the revels, and
boisterous the mirth, of its little inhabitants. Triumphs were made
for them, mingled with rejoicings, at the downfall of their
long-feared and much hated foe. And when they had displayed their love
for the pair, by all the means within their power--dancing, feasting,
and kind speech--they dismissed them to their homes, with many
blessings upon their heads, and invocations of the Good Spirit to
protect and prosper them. The brave Moscharr and his beautiful bride
soon reached the home of his people, and lived to see their children's
children listen with mute astonishment to the tale of the escape of
their father's parents from the Manitou of the Cataract.
NOTES.
(1) _Beautiful bird._--p. 104.
The Spirit-Bird or the Wakon Bird is the Indian bird of paradise. It
is held in the utmost veneration by the Indians as the peculiar bird
of the Great Spirit. The name they have given it is expressive of its
superior excellence, and the veneration they have for it; the Wakon
Bird being, in their language, the bird of the Great Spirit. It is
nearly the size of a swallow, of a brown colour, shaded about the neck
with a bright green; the wings are of a darker brown than the body;
its tail is composed of four or five feathers, which are three times
as long as its body, and which are beautifully shaded with green and
purple. It carries this fine length of plumage in the same manner as a
peacock does, but it is not known whether it ever raises it into the
erect position which that bird sometimes does. The Naudowessies
consider it of superior rank to any other of the feathered creation.
(2) _Louder than the thunder of the Spirits Bay of Lake
Huron._--p. 105.
Nearly half-way between Saganaum Bay and the north-west corner of Lake
Huron, lies a Bay, which is called Thunder Bay. The Indians, who have
frequented these parts from time immemorial, and every European
traveller that has passed through it, have unanimously agreed to call
it by this name, on account of the continual thunder they have always
observed here. Whilst Carver was making over it a passage which lasted
near twenty-four hours--it thundered and lightened during the greatest
part of the time to an excessive degree. It is difficult to account
for the phenomenon--perhaps the organic structure of the neighbouring
cliffs invites the concentration of the electric fluid at this spot.
THE ISLAND OF EAGLES.
At a short distance below the Falls of St. Anthony, there is a small
rocky island, covered with huge trees, oak, pine, and cypress, its
water-fretted shores and steep cliffs formed of ragged rocks, against
which the waves of the cataract dash and foam in vain endeavours to
overwhelm it. This little island, so annoyed by the mighty and
wrathful fiends who sit in that surge, is famous throughout the Indian
nations for being the abode of the spirits of the warriors of the
Andirondacks--a tribe which no longer exist--who, once upon a time,
many ages ago, warring against the spirits of the cataract, were
completely overthrown, and by the power of their enemies transformed
into eagles. As a punishment, they were bidden to dwell for ever on
that misty, foggy, and noisy island; doomed to a nicer perception of
hearing than belongs to mortals, that their fate might be the more
awful. If my brother wishes to hear the tradition, let him open wide
the doors of his understanding, and be silent.
The tribe of the Andirondacks were the mightiest tribe of the
land--neither in numbers nor in valour had they their equal--their
rule stretched from the broad Lake Huron to the river of the Osages,
from the Alleghany to the Mississippi. All the tribes which dwelt in
their neighbourhood were compelled to bow down their heads and pay
them tribute. The Hurons sent them beaver-skins; the Eries wove them
wampum(1); even the Iroquois, that haughty and warlike nation, who
lorded it over their eastern neighbours with the ferocity of wolves,
bowed to those mighty warriors, the Andirondacks, whose number was
greater than that of the flights of pigeons in the month before the
snows, and who wielded spears, and bent bows, and shouted their
war-cry with more power than any other tribe or people in the land.
Some of the more distant tribes, to secure themselves against
invasion, sent ambassadors with the pipe of peace wrapped in soft furs
as a present; others offered their most beautiful women for wives to
the "lords of the land"--all, by various means, and in various ways,
testified their inability to cope with them in war, and their anxiety
to become friends and neighbours. If the proud Andirondacks granted
the boon of peace, it was always with some hard condition annexed to
it; not always did a favour granted by them prove a favour in the end.
So long and uninterrupted a course of prosperity begot pride and
arrogance in the bosom of the Andirondacks, and they forgot the Being
who had bestowed so many blessings upon them, making their wives
fertile as a vine in a rich soil, giving them victory over all their
enemies, and health, and bounteous harvests, and successful hunts.
They paid no more worship to that Great Being; no more offered him the
juicy fruits of their hunt; no more ascended the high hills at the
rising or setting of the sun, with their heads anointed with clay, to
pour out their souls in the song of gratitude for past, or in a prayer
of supplication for future, favours; they no more scarified their
bodies in deprecation of his anger, but, believing themselves--vain
fools!--able to do without his aid, they shook off their duty and
allegiance to him, and bade him, if not in words at least in their
deeds, defiance. Pride now possessed their souls, and hardness their
hearts.
It need not be told my brother that the Great Spirit is slow to anger.
Knowing his power to crush with a wink of his eye every living
creature; to rend asunder the mightiest hills, yea, shake to its
centre the very earth with a puff of his breath; he is loth to put
forth his powers or to call into action the whirlwinds of his wrath.
He suffers men to revile him long before he attempts to punish them;
he permits them to raise the finger of defiance many times before he
strikes it down, and the tongue to utter many a scornful word before
he dooms it to the silence of death. It is so with the creatures of
this world, as my brother must know. The strongest man--he who feels
most confident of his power to repel aggression, and to command
respect and obedience, is slowest to provocation, and, when excited to
anger, the easiest to be soothed and calmed. The prairie-dog oftener
shows his teeth than the wolf; the imbecile adder than the
death-dealing rattlesnake. And my pale-faced brother has told us the
wondrous tale, that, in his own land beyond the Great Waters, the
mighty animal which is called the King of Beasts is, save only when he
lacks food, as mild as the dove or the song-sparrow. And thus it was
with the Great Spirit, as regarded the scoffing and wickedness of the
Andirondacks. Long he resisted the importunities of the subordinate
Manitous, that the haughty tribe might be punished for their
insolence; long he waited with the hope that their eyes might be
opened, and repentance seize their hearts, and amendment ensue. He
waited in vain, each day they grew worse, until at length they brought
down upon their heads the vengeance which could be no longer delayed.
There was among the Andirondacks a youth who, from the moment of his
birth, was the favourite of the being who rules the world. While yet
an unfledged bird, his words were the words of grey-headed wisdom;
while yet a boy his arm was the arm of a strong man, his eye the eye
of a cool man, and his heart like the heart of a brave man. He was as
cool as a warrior who has lived to be aged in scenes of war. While he
sat in his cradle of woven willow, his father chanced to speak in his
hearing of an expedition which the Braves were about to undertake
against the distant Coppermines, who had their lodges on the skirts of
the sea of eternal ice. The wise child bade the father call the chiefs
and counsellors of the nation around him, and to them he said, "You
will not succeed in this war. The Coppermines dwell in the regions of
great cold; before they can be met, icy hills and frozen lakes, and
stormy winds and bleak tempests, must be encountered. If you meet
them, success would be doubtful, for they are on their own hills, with
nerves fitted to endure the searching cold, and possessed of that
which the Andirondacks want--a thorough knowledge of every path that
crosses their snow-clad vales and ice-bound waters. Stay at home,
Braves, help your women to plant corn, and cut up the buffalo-meat,
rather than go upon an expedition from which you will never return. Do
I not see the torturing fires lighted, and Braves wearing the
Andirondack mocassins bound to the stake of death? Do not mine ears
hear a death-song in the Andirondack tongue? And are not these
fearless sounds which come to mine ears the cries of the vulture and
the wolf, fighting for the remains of a human carcase, which hath the
Andirondack tuft of hair? Stay at home, Andirondacks, help your women
to plant corn, and cut up the buffalo-meat, rather than go upon an
expedition from which you will never return."
But the young and ardent warriors said this was the speech of a boy,
and they would not listen to them. They said that, were the words of
Piskaret the words of a man, they might hearken to them, but was he,
who sat in his willow cradle, a fit counsellor to gray-headed sages,
or even to young Braves, who had eaten the bitter root, and put on new
war-shoes, and fasted for six suns, and been made men. In vain did the
boy assure them that his _medicine_, the Great White Owl, had revealed
to him many strange things, and among others this--that if the
Andirondacks engaged in a war against the Coppermines, the wrath of
the Great Spirit, whose worship they had forsaken, would be upon
them, and of those who went not one should ever return. They laughed
at his words, treating them as they would the song of a bird that has
flown over. They bound on their mocassins, and, taking their spears,
and bows and arrows, bade adieu to the land of their fathers' bones.
Did these valiant youths return, and did the words of the prophet-boy
fall to the ground? Let the wolf, and the vulture, and the
mountain-cat, answer the question. They will tell my brother that
their voracious tribes held a feast in the far country of the
Coppermines, and that the remains of that feast were a huge heap of
human bones. Were they the bones of Andirondacks? They were, and thus
were the prophetic words of the wise boy rendered true, and his
reputation was established throughout the land.
And when years came over him, and the fire of early manhood beamed in
his eye, the same signs of his being favoured of Heaven were
displayed. He needed no practice to enable him to conquer in all the
sports and exercises which are indulged in by the boys of his nation.
He went beyond them in all which bespoke possession of the skill and
courage necessary to make a patient and expert hunter, or a brave and
successful warrior. In the game of archery, his arrow was ever
nearest the clout, and in hurling the spear, his oftenest clove
asunder the reed which was fixed as the mark. Ere he had seen fifteen
harvestings of the maize, he could throw the stoutest man of the tribe
in the wrestle, and his feet in the race were swifter than the deer in
its flight from the steps of the red hunter. When grey-headed men
assembled in the council to deliberate upon the affairs of the tribe,
their invasions, or their projected removals to other hunting-grounds,
they asked "Where is the wise boy?" If he were not present, he was
sent for, and no determination was made till he came, and had
delivered his thoughts. And thus grew up the young Piskaret, till he
had reached his twentieth spring.
There was in the neighbouring nation of Ottawas a maiden who was as
much celebrated for her beauty, and her charms, and her wit, as the
Andirondack youth was for strength, and wisdom, and prudence. Her
Indian name was Menana, which means the Daughter of the Flood. She had
reached the sixteenth summer of her residence among the Ottawas, the
gentlest and lightest hearted, the mildest and sweetest maiden, that
ever gazed on the pale full moon, or the glittering stars, or listened
to the song of the sparrow, or the waterfall. She knew how to do every
thing that was beautiful, or useful. If you saw a piece of gorgeously
dyed wampum, or a robe curiously plaited of the bark of the mulberry,
or the feathers of the canieu or war-eagle, you needed not ask who did
it--you might be sure it was Menana. Her voice was the sweetest thing
ever heard, her face the most beautiful ever seen--the first had in it
the melody of birds, with the expression they can never have till they
are gifted with the reason given to man--the last--but what is so
beautiful as the face of a beautiful woman! And then her laugh was as
joyous as a dance of warriors after a great victory, and her foot was
the speediest foot that ever brushed the dew from the grass. Every
body loved her, and she loved every body. So kind, and so good, and so
sweet-tempered, and so beautiful a maiden, was never known among the
Ottawas, famed as they are throughout the land for kind, and good, and
sweet-tempered, and beautiful maidens.
She was not the daughter of an Ottawa woman, or any other woman, nor
was her father an Ottawa man, or any other man. She was the daughter
of the mighty cataract. The moon in which she came to the land of the
Ottawas was the moon in which the forest trees put forth their
earliest buds, and the blooming takes place of the little blue flower,
which our forest maidens love to twine with their hair, and our forest
boys to gather as the harbinger of returning warmth, and joy, and
gladness. She came not at first to the village of the Ottawas in the
perfect shape of a human being. It was many years before that, one
morning, as the head warrior of the nation went out, as was his wont,
to look abroad on the early sky, he found sitting at his door a little
creature of a form such as he had never beheld, nor ever dreamed of.
Woman she seemed from her waist upward, but fish or rather two fishes
below. Her face was that of a most beautiful maiden in the charming
hours when she begins to dream of tall youths; her eyes were blue as
the deepest tinge of the water, and mild as a summer morning, her
teeth white as the teeth of a salmon, and her locks fell sweeping the
very earth. Her hands and arms were perfectly shaped, but they were
covered with scales, and here and there tinted with red, which
glittered like the evening sun on the folds of a cloud. Her height was
about that of a small child who is just beginning to use its feet. The
strange little creature did not stir as the warrior approached it, but
suffered him to survey it unmoved, and, when he kindly wiped the dew
from its waving locks, bent its eyes upon him with the deepest
gratitude depicted in its countenance. As an Indian believes that
every thing, even trees, and rivers, and mountains, have souls, or
spirits, and are all worthy to be adopted as his protecting _okkis_,
the warrior addressed the strange creature, and besought it to become
his intercessor with the Great Spirit, his _okki_ in peace and war.
What was his surprise when it made reply to him, in a tone very nearly
like the tone of a human being, and in a dialect of the Ottawas, as
follows!
"I cannot be thy guardian spirit, for I am about to throw off my
spiritual nature, and to become as thou art, a mortal, or rather I am
to assume my former nature and state. Though I wear a form which is
neither fish nor flesh, yet have I not always been thus. Once, many
years ago, I was a human being. Gazing one evening on the blue sky,
filled with shining lights, a passion came over my soul to behold them
nearer. I besought the Master of Life to suffer me to ascend to the
land of those bright things, and to visit the beautiful rainbows which
had been equally the objects of my fond contemplation. My prayer was
heard; I fell asleep, and, when I awoke, found myself where I wished
to be. I was among the stars, sailing with them as an eagle or a cloud
is wafted along on the winds which sweep the lower world. I beheld
them glorious as you behold them from the earth, bright, round, and
twinkling balls of every size, all endued with life, and all busily
engaged in dancing their intricate dances, to music which came from
unseen hands. My words cannot describe the splendour of the scene. Yet
shall I tell the Ottawa warrior that the scene and the dances soon
ceased to give pleasure. Who would wish to gaze for ever on the sun,
bright and dazzling though he be? What one of all the fair things of
the earth may be looked on for ever with delight? Its lakes, its
rivers, its mountains, its bold youths, and lovely maidens, and many
other things, are very fair, but each would tire were the eye to be
chained to that alone. I was soon tired of the splendour of the starry
world, and wished myself again upon the earth. I asked the Master of
all for permission to return. He said, 'Thou hast been disembodied,
thy flesh is decayed--thou art but a spirit, it may not be.' 'May I
not', said I, 're-animate some form from which the breath has just
departed? may I not enter the corse of some child, and live out the
remainder of the days of a favoured mortal?'
"The Great Spirit answered, 'It cannot be. But if thou art content to
return to the earth and assume a form which shall be neither mortal
nor immortal, neither man nor beast, be it so. Remember thou shalt not
be endowed with the shape of a human being till thou shalt hear in the
cataract, where I doom thee to dwell, the voice of one crying, 'Now is
the time.' Then shalt thou leave the flood, repair to the land of my
beloved people, the Ottawas, and there gradually return to the shape
which once was thine. But, an immortal soul shalt thou not possess
till thy bosom shall be lit up by the flame of love.'
"Thus spake the Great Being, and in a breath I found myself descending
from the land of the stars upon the glorious rainbow. Speedy and
uninterrupted was my descent, till I came to the mighty cataract; its
capacious and stormy bosom received me, and there have I dwelt with
the Spirits of the Flood, the adopted daughter of their chief, till
now. Lo, Ottawa! I am at thy door, a strange creature, but demanding
hospitality and protection from thee. Wilt thou give it me till I am
permitted to take that form which shall give me the powers of a human
being, and feel my bosom lit up by that flame which may give me one
bound to feed and protect me?"
The Ottawa answered, that "his cabin had a quiet corner, and there
should the strange maiden--if, indeed, she were a woman--rest; his
house was always the abode of plenty, and of that should the stranger
partake." So the creature, who was neither fish nor flesh, continued
to reside in the cabin of the Ottawa warrior.
But each day was she observed to be assuming more and more the
appearance of a mortal maiden. The scales fell from her arms and
hands, which lost their red tints, and became soft and fair as the
flesh of a new-born child. The two fishes gradually became two well
proportioned legs. But though she had now become identified in form
with the human race, she retained many of the propensities of that
with which she had formerly dwelt. She loved to sport in the cataract,
and lave herself in the lakes and rivers. Often would she fly from the
company of the Ottawas to that of her old friends, the Spirits of the
Flood. How her eyes would glow with childish delight, when the rain
dashed from the clouds in torrents, and how mirthful she would be when
the spring thaws swelled the noise and the volume of the cataract! And
she better loved to feed on the ooze and the seeds of the grass, which
were found in the torrent, and on those species of fish which are made
the prey of the larger, than on the food prepared on the hearth of the
Ottawa. Gradually, however, and at length fully, did her tastes
conform to the tastes of those with whom she dwelt.
Yet she had no soul--the spirit of a fish was in her, but not the
spirit of a mortal. She could not weep with the afflicted, nor laugh
with the joyful. She knew indeed her Creator, for all things, whether
animate or inanimate, know Him; but the worship paid by her was not
the worship of one who has reason for what he does, but of one who
follows the prompting of instinct. She still retained her passion for
the evening, and the bright balls which light it, but better loved to
see their reflection in the water, than to behold them dancing about
in the blue sky.
At length, there arose a black cloud in the atmosphere--the
Andirondacks and the Ottawas were no longer friends. A little thing
breeds a quarrel among the sons of the wilderness. A word lightly
spoken, a deer stricken an arrow's flight over a certain limit, an
insult of old date, but unavenged, a woman borne away from an approved
lover, are each deemed of sufficient importance to enlist all the
energies of a nation in the purpose of revenge. A deputation of
Andirondacks came to the chief village of the Ottawas, demanding
satisfaction for a trespass on their hunting-ground, and for doing the
foolish thing, so much reprobated by the red men of the forest as to
occasion frequent wars--the slaying of beasts of venery out of season.
Among the chiefs was the youth Piskaret, who, although he had but just
reached his twentieth summer, was, as I have before said, counted the
strongest, the wisest, and, by anticipation, the bravest, man of the
nation. And with him came his aged father, the great chief of the
Andirondacks.
The feast was made and eaten, the dance was concluded, and the chiefs,
and counsellors, and warriors, were smoking in the great pipe of
peace, when the beautiful maiden, who bore the name of Menana, entered
the council cabin. She had now lost all traces of her origin from the
waters, and to all appearance was a mortal woman. She entered without
that timid step which mortal maidens have when they find themselves
suddenly cast into a crowd of the other sex, with none of their own to
give them countenance. But Menana was not versed in the ways of
mortals, and had none of the feelings which send the blush to the
cheek and trembling to the heart of the maidens of the world. After
surveying the stern array of warriors for a moment, with a curious and
enquiring look, she walked up to the youthful Piskaret, and said to
him in a sweet and soft tone, "Thou art very beautiful. Tell me if I
may not win thy love?"
The Brave, who was smitten with the charms of the fair creature,
pressing to her side, whispered that he loved her better than all the
world, and wished her to become the wife of his bosom. Then he
painted, to her willing ear, the charms of his native land, and spoke
of the tall old oaks which threw their giant shade over the banks of
the gentle and placid river, and the many thick glades filled with
lusty deer, and lakes stocked with delicious wild fowl, which were to
be found within the hunting-grounds of his nation. He told her of the
plenty that reigned in the cabins of the Andirondacks, and how much
better their women fared than those of the surrounding tribes. The
Daughter of the Flood smiled sweetly on the youth, and tears, the
first she had ever shed--and sighs, the first she had ever
breathed--proofs of her having acquired a human soul--stole to her
heart and her eyes.
And now she had received a soul, and become possessed of those
faculties which confer pleasure and pain, and create for their
possessor happiness and misery, and joy and sorrow. She was now alive
to the hopes and fears which exalt or depress existence--had tears for
those that wept, and a laugh for those that laughed. She, who entered
that assembly of warriors, fearless as an eagle seated on the top of a
lofty pine, now at once, in the twinkling of an eye, became filled
with trembling, and alarm, and apprehension, and strove to hide her
blushes by half hiding her face in the bosom of him she loved.
But pride, which has often interrupted the course of love, as well as
led to the downfall of nations, crept into the councils of the
Andirondacks, and they refused to permit the young warrior to take to
wife the maiden who was not of mortal parentage. They said that she
was of the blood of the spirits of the cataract, of a race who had
delighted to shed a cold and pestilential vapour over the villages of
their nation, and had destroyed several Andirondacks, whose blood
remained unrevenged. In vain did the youth plead his love; in vain did
he show, that if the spirits of the flood warred on their neighbours,
who were unable to inflict a wound on their adversaries, it furnished
no reason why the beautiful maiden, so lovely and so inoffensive,
should be banned. She had not injured, then why should she be spurned?
But his argument availed not to influence the warriors, or to bend
their stern hearts to pity. They drove the fair Menana from the arms
of him she loved best, and, exerting the authority, so potent among
the red men of the wilderness, of a father, and of chiefs, and of
elders, they carried away the lover from the village of the Ottawas,
thus dividing those whom the Great Being had so clearly created for
each other.
But my brother asks what became of the beautiful maiden. Let him
listen, and I will tell him. She pined away with grief at being
separated from the man she loved. She sang not the sweet song which
young maidens sing, who know neither love nor care--but her song was
lonely and sad, as that of the bird of night. She wandered by herself
in the dark and gloomy woods, as the bird flits when deprived of its
mate, or the deer which carries its death-wound from the shaft of the
hunter. Each day her eye lost a portion of its light, and her step of
its buoyancy. She laughed no more, nor joined the dance of maidens,
nor went with them to gather wild flowers; but her amusements, if
amusements they could be called, were to weep and sigh, to wander
alone with listless step, and to sit by the edge of the cataract,
telling her sad story to the spirits of the flood. The Great Spirit,
seeing her grief, and knowing that a heart that is broken hath no more
business among the things of this world, bade her rejoin her friends
in the surge of the cataract. She heard the well-known and
well-remembered voice, and prepared to obey. Calling around her the
friends whom her sweetness and good-humour had won her, she bade them
a tearful adieu, and received the like tribute of kindness. The young
Braves, who had before attempted to win her love, crowded around her
to catch her last farewell, anxious yet fearing to attempt to change a
resolution which had been dictated by the Great Spirit. They had tough
spears in their hands, and well filled quivers at their shoulders, and
their cheeks and brows were stained with the hue of wrath, for they
were prepared to avenge on the haughty Andirondacks the slight and
injury done the beauteous Menana. The maidens came to witness her
departure, with tears bedewing their cheeks. All accompanied her to
the brink of the cataract, and beheld her throw herself into its
fearful bosom.
No sooner had she reached the waters of that boiling torrent, than
uprose from its bosom the grisly heads of the fell spirits, who were
its inhabitants. Rage filled their countenances, and horrid
imprecations burst from their lips, as they vowed to be avenged on
that arrogant and wicked people, the Andirondacks, who had inflicted
misery upon an adopted and cherished daughter of the flood. The last
the Ottawas saw of them, they were soothing and comforting the
beautiful Menana, whom, after sustaining for a few moments upon the
surface of the water, they bore to their crystal dwelling beneath the
foaming torrent. They first, however, employed an Ottawa messenger to
bear their defiance to their enemies, and to assure them of their
eternal hatred.
It was not long after that a large war-party of the Andirondacks,
composed of the flower of that nation, and headed by Piskaret,
ascended the Mississippi, to make an incursion into the territories of
a nation who dwelt upon its borders above the Falls. It is the custom
of the tribes, when travelling upon the river, to approach to the
verge of the cataract, and then transport their canoes around it. The
Andirondacks were within a bowshot of the cataract, when all at once
the surface of the water became covered with grisly heads, which
grinned hatred and defiance upon the Andirondacks, who, though filled
with courage to dare encounter with men of their own form and nature,
shook with a new sense of fear, as they beheld the hideous
countenances and uplifted arms of the spirits of the flood. In the
centre of the array of water spirits, they beheld the face of the
beautiful Menana, still shining in all its former beauty, her eyes lit
up by the fires of an unquenched and unquenchable love. Raising their
dreadful shout of vengeance, the spirits now gathered about the canoes
of the paralysed Andirondacks, and commenced their work of
destruction. But _one_ was protected by a being of their own
order--the brave and youthful Piskaret found himself, ere an arrow had
been impelled, or a thrust given by a spear, caught and shielded by
the arms of his faithful Menana. While the water-spirits were employed
in dealing death among their enemies, whose resistance availed not,
the beautiful maiden drew her lover from his seat in his canoe, and
disappeared with him beneath the waters. The moment the lovers had
sunk into the flood, the spirits, with a dreadful shout, sunk also,
leaving but few of the Andirondacks survivors of their attack. Nearly
the whole had perished from the assaults of beings against whom human
weapons were useless--who laughed at the puny resistance of mortals,
and feared their battle less than the carcajou fears the mouse, or the
canieu the humming-bird.
The Great Being, at the prayer of the water-spirits, bade the souls of
the slaughtered Andirondacks assume the shape of eagles, commanding
them to dwell for ever on the little island which stands just below
the cataract, and within the full hearing of its incessant and
tremendous roar. That they might receive the full reward of their
arrogance, and pride, and cruelty, he so refined their sense of
hearing, that the shaking of the wings of the bat was to them as loud
as the thunder of the hills to a man having but the usual ear. What
then must be the noise of the mighty cataract, which, leaping over a
precipice of rocks, upon a stony bed, flies back again in foam and
spray, higher than an arrow impelled by the toughest bow, bent by the
strongest arm!
If my brother believes my story the song of a bird, let him visit the
cataract, and use his own eyes and ears. If he do not behold that
little island covered with eagles, whose wings never cleave any other
air than its own; if he do not hear the angry voice of the spirits in
the boiling waters, ay, and if he do not see them after nightfall;
then let him call me a liar.
I have no more to say.
NOTE.
(1) _Wampum._--p. 118.
Wampum is an Indian word signifying a muscle. A number of these
muscles strung together is called a string of wampum, which when a
fathom long is termed a belt of wampum, but the word string is
commonly used whether it be long or short. Before the English came to
North America, the Indians used to make their strings of wampum
chiefly of small pieces of wood of equal size, stained either black or
white. Few were made of muscles, which were esteemed valuable and
difficult to make. But the Europeans soon contrived to make strings of
wampum, both neat and elegant, and in great abundance. The Indians
immediately gave up the use of the old wooden substitutes for wampum,
and procured those made of muscles, which, though fallen in price,
were always accounted valuable.
These muscles are chiefly found on the coast of Virginia and Maryland,
and are valued according to their colour--which is brown, violet, and
white. The former are sometimes of so dark a shade that they pass for
black, and are double the price of the white. Having first sawed them
into square pieces, about a quarter of an inch in length, and an
eighth in thickness, they grind them round or oval upon a common
grind-stone. Then, a hole being bored lengthways through each, large
enough to admit a wire, whipcord or large thong, they are strung like
beads, and the string of wampum is completed. Four or six strings
joined in one breadth, and fastened to each other with a fine thread,
make a belt of wampum, being about three or four inches wide, and
three feet long, containing, perhaps, four, eight, and twelve fathoms
of wampum, in proportion to its required length and breadth. This is
determined by the importance of the subject which these belts are
intended to explain or confirm, or by the dignity of the persons to
whom they are to be delivered. Every thing of moment, transacted at
solemn councils, either between the Indians themselves or with the
Europeans, is ratified and made valid by strings and belts of wampum.
Formerly they used to give sanction to their treaties by delivering a
wing of some large bird, and this custom still prevails among the more
western nations, in transacting business with the Delawares. Upon the
delivery of a string, a long speech may be made, and much said upon
the subject under consideration: but when a belt is given few words
are spoken, but they must be words of great importance, frequently
requiring an explanation. Whenever the speaker has pronounced some
important sentence, he delivers a string of wampum, adding, "I give
this string of wampum as a confirmation of what I have spoken." But
the chief subject of his discourse he confirms with a belt. The
answers given to a speech thus delivered must also be confirmed by
strings and belts of wampum, of the same size and number as those
received. Neither the colour nor the quality of the wampum is matter
of indifference, but both have an immediate reference to those things
which they are meant to confirm. The brown or deep violet, called
black by the Indians, always means something of a severe or doubtful
import, but white is the colour of peace. Thus, if a string or belt of
wampum is intended to confirm a warning against evil, or an earnest
reproof, it is delivered in black. When a nation is called upon to go
to war, or war is declared against it, the belt is black, or marked
with red, called by them the _colour of blood_, having in the middle
the figure of a hatchet in white wampum.
The Indian women are very dexterous in weaving the strings of wampum
into belts, and marking them with different figures, perfectly
agreeing with the different subjects contained in the speech. These
figures are marked with white wampum on the black, and with black upon
the white belts. For example, upon a belt of peace, they very
dexterously represent in black wampum two hands joined. The belt of
peace is a fathom long, and of the breadth of a hand. To distinguish
one belt from the other, each has its peculiar mark. No belt, except
the war-belt, must show any red colour. If they are obliged to use
black wampum instead of white, they daub it over with white clay, and,
though the black may shine through, yet in value and import it is
considered as equal to white. These strings and belts of wampum are
also documents by which the Indians remember the chief articles of the
treaties made between themselves, or with the white people. They refer
to them as to public records, carefully preserving them in a chest
made for that purpose. At certain seasons they meet to study their
meaning, and to renew the ideas of which they were an emblem and a
confirmation. On such occasions they sit down around the chest, take
out one string or belt after the other, handing it about to every
person present; and, that they may all comprehend its meaning, they
repeat the words pronounced on its delivery in their whole connexion.
By these means they are enabled to remember the promises reciprocally
made by the different parties. And, as it is their custom to admit
even young boys, who are related to the chiefs, to these assemblies,
they become early acquainted with all the affairs of state; and thus
the contents of their documents are transmitted to posterity, and
cannot be easily forgotten.
LEGEND OF ATON-LARRE[A].
[Footnote A: The burnt weed.]
When the Nansemonds occupied for their hunting-grounds the vast
forests which lie between the Mountains and the Great Arm of the
Sea[B], they were the lords and masters of the wilds, and ruled them
according to their pleasure. Throughout the land there was none equal
to them for swiftness and dexterity in the chase, and they were
foremost amongst the nations for their prowess in war. When their
shout was heard among the distant hills of the Lenapes, the craven cry
of that timid people was, "A Nansemond! a Nansemond!"--when they launched
their canoes upon the distant Mississippi, the men of that region fled,
like a startled deer or elk from the growl of the carcajou.
[Footnote B: Chesapeak Bay.]
Their numbers have now become thinned; many populous villages have
disappeared--brother, the Nansemonds are not what they were, at least
in numbers. But they have not lost their courage and valour, nor
degenerated from the ancient renown of their fathers, nor has the
thinning of their nation in the least tarnished the reputation of the
few who yet live, or caused their enemies to deem them less than men.
None can say that they ever turned their backs upon a foe, or shunned
encountering one who wished for combat. Even the Iroquois, whose arms
have always wielded a tomahawk against them, and who, in their turn,
have encountered their deadly vengeance, confess them very brave, and,
whenever they make them captives, honour them with the prolonged
torture, which it is the right of the brave and valiant only to suffer.
There was once upon a time, in this tribe, formerly so potent and
renowned, but now so few and feeble, a maiden, whose name was
Aton-Larre, one of whose souls--that which speaks of things understood
by all, and discourses in a language intelligible to all--had left its
house of flesh to go to the Cheke Checkecame, or land of departed
spirits. The other soul yet abode in the body, but it was the soul
which takes care that the mouth has meat and drink, administering to
the wants of the flesh which enshrouds it by supplying it with food
and clothing, and protecting it from fire and frost. Yet, though the
sensible soul had wandered out, it had not taken away her memory, nor
her faculty of seeing things unseen by other mortals, or of relating
entertaining stories.
She was very beautiful, but her beauty was of a strange character. Her
form was very tall and commanding, and she was straight as a reed. Her
dark eyes had, from the disordered state of her mind, received a very
wild expression, but none that knew her feared her, for she was
innocent and harmless as a child. Her long black hair, which swept the
earth at her feet, was interlaced with gay beads and shells, and gayer
wild flowers, and around her wrists and ancles were fastened strings
of the teeth of the alligator. It was her greatest pleasure to enter
her canoe, and commit it to the current of the river. Then, while
drifting about, she would sing wild and melancholy songs, striking the
water at irregular intervals with a long paddle which she held in the
middle, and which formed a kind of concert with the song, as though
two persons were singing.
It was strange, but her people declared that the sensible soul left
her while she was worshipping the Great Spirit in the _Quiccosan_[A].
There, while performing the sacred dance around the carved posts[B],
her soul was called away to the happy regions, and her mind became
like a cloud in the time of a strong blast, or a dry leaf carried into
the sky by a whirlwind. Others asserted that she had dared to spit
upon a _pawcorance_[C], and for that had been punished by the Great
Being with the loss of her senses. It matters little which was true,
since one of them must have been; for it is only the Great Spirit who
can take away the gift of reason which he bestows, and he only takes
it away from those with whom he is angry. And thus lived the crazed
Aton-Larre--strange that her bosom should have felt the pangs of love,
and that for a being so ugly and misshapen as the little Ohguesse.
[Footnote A: Place of worship--church.]
[Footnote B: The Indians, occupying what is now called Virginia, had
posts fixed around the interior of their Quiccosan, or place of
worship, with men's faces carved upon them. These tribes have long
been extinct.]
[Footnote C: Altar-stone. From this proceeds the great reverence these
tribes had for a small bird, peculiar to that region, and which
continually called out that name. They believed it was the soul of one
of their princes, and thence permitted no one to harm it. But there
was once, they said, a wicked Indian, who, after abundance of fears
and scruples, was, at last, bribed to kill one of them. But he paid
dear for his presumption, for a few days after he was taken away, and
never more heard of.]
This Ohguesse was a youth, whose feet wanted the fleetness, and whose
arm lacked the strength, of a man's, but he was nevertheless the
favourite of the Great Spirit. He was less in stature than a man, and
crooked withal, his height being little more than that of the tall
bird[A] which loves to strut along the sandy shore, picking up the
fish as they flutter joyously along in the beams of the warm and
cheering sun. But if he was diminutive in body he was great in his
soul--what others lacked in wisdom he supplied. His name was Ohguesse,
which signifies a Partridge. His brothers gave him this name because
of his preferring peace to war--of his liking better to hunt the less
dangerous animals, the _makon_ than the _mackwah_[B], and to spear the
fish that gave little trouble, and to snare peaceful birds--all sports
unworthy of a man. But this tame and pacific spirit was forgiven in
Ohguesse, because he was little and misshapen, and, withal, the
favourite of the Great Spirit. None could call down rain from the
clouds, or conjure them into a clear sky, or foretell the coming of
storms, like him. If he bade the women plant the maize, they might be
sure that a shower was at hand; if he bade the warriors depart on a
distant expedition, they knew it would be successful. His blessing
spoken over the seine was as good as its marriage[C]; his prayer to
the Great Spirit in the cave, or on the hill-top, procured health and
plentiful harvests for his people. And such was Ohguesse.
[Footnote A: The crane or pelican.]
[Footnote B: _Mackwah_, an old bear; _makon_, a bear's cub.]
[Footnote C: It is what they call the bosom-net, with which the
Indians perform this singular ceremony. Before they use it they marry
it to two virgins, and, during the marriage-feast, place it between
the brides; they afterwards exhort it to catch plenty of fish, and
believe they do a great deal to obtain this favour by making large
presents to the sham fathers-in-law.]
Singular were the means by which Aton-Larre testified the affection
she bore the little man. She would wander for hours in search of sweet
berries, because he loved them; and, when in the house of her father,
they were cooking the juicy buffalo's hump, she always begged the most
savoury parts to carry to him she loved. When the winter brought its
snows and storms, she went morning and evening to the cabin in which
he dwelt, to see that there was fire to keep him warm, and, if illness
assailed him, and pain stretched him out on a bed of sickness, for his
strength was little and his body feeble, who but the crazed Aton-Larre
gave him the drink which took the cramp from his limbs, and restored
him to health?
Nor was the little Ohguesse unmindful of her kindness--he met her love
with equal return. If she procured for him ripe berries, he testified
his gratitude in a way which repaid her fondness--and the meat she
gave him, though it was ever so old and tough, was to him the juiciest
that ever touched the lips of man. He would sit on the bank of the
river for half a sun, watching her canoe, as she swept it over the
current, and listening to her charming songs in which his own name was
mentioned with so much love. And, when fatigued by her labour she
guided her bark to the shore, Ohguesse was sure to meet her with
outstretched arms, and assist her in the labour of carrying the canoe
to its shed of pine branches. In the long evenings of the moons of
snow and frost she would sit and relate to him--for her memory had not
left her--tales of the goodness of the Great Spirit and the wickedness
of the Evil Spirit; of the wars of the tribe, and of the journeys she
had made to the land of souls, and of the dreams she dreamed, and of
strange fishes she had seen in the depths of the sea, and strange
fowls in the upper regions of the air, and strange beasts in the wild
forests. Many indeed were the wonderful things she had beheld, if you
believed what she said--and who could do otherwise, since her soul had
travelled to the Happy Hunting-Grounds, and her eyes beheld with a
double nature--the nature of a spirit and the nature of a mortal? It
was in one of these long and stormy winter nights that she related to
the tribe the story of the _Maqua that married a Rattlesnake_.
There was once upon a time, she began, in the tribe of the Maquas, the
foes of my nation, a young warrior whose name was Cayenguirago. He was
the bravest and most fearless of men--his deeds were the theme of
every tongue, from the stormy shores of the wild Abenakis to the
mountain clime of the fierce Naudowessies. While he was yet a boy his
deeds were the deeds of a man--ere the suns of fifteen summers had
beamed on his head, he had followed in the war-path of the full-grown
Braves to the haunts of the Mohicans on the borders of the Great Salt
Lake. And, before the snows of the succeeding winter had melted, he
had become a Brave and a werowance[A]. But with his great strength and
daring valour was mixed a bad and cruel disposition--his heart was
very wicked and impious. When the priests spoke to him of the Great
Spirit, he told them he should never believe there was such a spirit
till he saw him--he omitted no opportunity of making scoff of that
good being, and laughing at his thunders. His mocks of those wise and
good men, the priests and prophets, whom the Great Spirit loves and
honours, by making them acquainted with his wishes and will, were
continually poured out. He paid no respect to aged people; he took
the bison's meat from his father's famished mouth, and knocked the
gourd of water from the lips of his thirsty mother. If he saw a man
weaker than himself he took from him whatever he coveted, and made no
restitution of the things he found. If he cast his eyes upon a maiden,
and she listened to his false tongue, erelong her tears were sure to
flow faster than those of a roebuck[B] that is hard pressed by a
hunter. The brothers and sisters that were in the cabin of his father,
if they crossed him, were beaten like a dog caught in a theft; if he
gave a pledge to follow a chief(1) he was sure to forget it; if he
made a vow to aid a friend in danger, he was sure to desert him, not
from fear, but because it was a pleasure to him to do wrong and
inflict injury. And thus lived Cayenguirago, the Great Arrow of the
Maquas.
[Footnote A: _Werowance_, a war-chief.]
[Footnote B: I do not know whether the roebuck actually weeps when he
is hard pushed--the Indians believe he does.]
Once upon a time, as this brave but bad chief was hunting alone in the
wilderness, in a spot which the Great Spirit had forgotten to
level(2), he came to a great cave in the side of a hill. It was in the
time of winter, and the hour of a fearful fall of rain and hail. To
escape the wrath of the spirits of the air, he entered this deep cave
in the side of the hill, carrying with him much wood, and the spoils
he had won in the chase. As he entered it he heard many strange and
fearful noises, but Cayenguirago was a warrior, though a wicked one,
and, little troubled at any time by frightful sounds, he pursued his
way into the interior of the cave. It was dark as a cloudy night in
the time that follows the death of the moon, but he remarked that the
cave was lit up and the darkness partially dispelled by what appeared
to be little stars, exceedingly bright substances which resembled the
eyes of a wolf, though smaller and far brighter, and which were
continually shifting about the cave with a slow and uncertain motion.
Then, for sound there was an incessant rattling, and hissing, and
slapping, which almost stunned him with noise. As he moved on he found
himself impeded by something into which his feet were continually
settling, and which he judged to be loose sand. When he had gone far
enough from the entrance to be free from the current of air which
entered the cavern by it, he laid down the deer's flesh which he had
brought upon his back, took out his flint and tinder-box, and struck
fire. Having properly disposed of the wood he had brought, and kindled
a flame, he raised himself to an upright posture to survey the cavern.
Who shall describe the terror which filled the soul of Cayenguirago,
stout and fearless as he was, when he found himself in the middle of
an immense body of rattlesnakes, and perceived that it was among these
deadly animals, of which there was a thick layer upon the floor of the
cave, that he had been for some time wallowing? Their eyes it was that
lit up the cavern, and theirs were the hissing, and rattling, and
slapping, which saluted his ears. Under his feet and upon every side
of him, as far as the eye could reach, were heads upreared with little
fiery tongues projecting from green jaws, and moving with a motion
more rapid than a flash of summer lightning. The heads about the
cavern were thicker than the thievish ravens in a field of milky corn.
The moment that the light of the fire he had kindled enabled them to
see the intruder, all of them rushed towards him, though none
attempted to inflict injury. The nearest approached within a step;
those behind climbed over the backs of the more advanced, until they
lay piled up on every side, as high as the shoulders of a tall man.
Surrounded, as Cayenguirago was, by the most venomous and dreadful of
all the animals formed by the Great Spirit, he did not forget to keep
his fire burning, nor to draw out his pouch filled with good tobacco.
Having recovered his coolness and composure, and become a man again,
he filled his pipe with the beloved weed, and, lighting it, began to
roll out clouds of smoke. Each time he puffed, he observed that the
snakes retreated further from him, until at length they were seen
gliding into the darkness which enshrouded the further part of the
cavern.
While he lay thus warming himself at the fire, and emitting clouds of
fragrant smoke, some one near him exclaimed, in a very sharp and
shrill voice, "Booh!" Looking up, Cayenguirago beheld standing behind
him a very ugly creature, but whether man or beast, he found it at
first difficult to determine. His skin was black as soot, and his hair
white as snow. His eyes, which were very large, were of the colour of
the green far-eyes[A] with which the pale faces survey distant
objects, and stood out so far from the head that, had one of them been
placed in the middle of the forehead, a tear dropping from it would
have hit the tip of the nose. His teeth, which were very large, were
white as snow; his ears, which were yellow, were smaller than the leaf
of the black walnut, and shaped exactly like it. His legs were not
shaped like those of a human being, but were two straight bones
without flesh or joint, and both black and glossy as charred birch.
But what rendered him yet more horrible to look at was that snakes,
poisonous rattlesnakes, were wreathing themselves around his legs,
and body, and arms--leaping from him, and upon him, tying themselves
in knots around his neck, and doing other feats of horrid agility.
After surveying this uncouth being and his fearful companions for a
few moments in deep silence, Cayenguirago addressed him thus:--
[Footnote A: _Far-eyes_, the name the Indians gave to spectacles.]
"Who art thou?"
"Thy master."
"The Maqua is a man," replied the warrior fiercely; "his knee was
never bowed--he acknowledges no master."
"Thou hast served me long and well, Cayenguirago--I am Abamocho, the
Spirit of Evil, and this is my dwelling-place."
"Thou hast chosen a dark abode, and strange companions," replied the
warrior.
"They are not my companions, but my warriors, my braves, my
tormentors," answered the Spirit of Evil. "It is with these that I
torment bad people, as the Maquas use old women to torment the
prisoners they take in battle. But fear not, Cayenguirago, thou hast
been a faithful servant to me--I will not suffer my people to harm
thee. Dost thou know that I design to bestow my daughter upon thee for
a wife?"
"I did not know it?" answered the Maqua.
"She shall be thine," said the Evil Spirit. "But I warn thee that
there have been very many pleasanter companions than she will make
thee, for she is excessively irritable and passionate. Withal she is
so fond of admiration, that I have no doubt she would give chace to
the ugliest toad that ever devoured a worm, so she could captivate
him. She is a true woman."
"What will the father give the Maqua that marries her?"
"Wampum, much wampum--"
"I will take her."
"Many beaver-skins, and much bear's meat--"
"Cayenguirago will make her his wife."
"Revenge against the Hurons who slew so many of his warriors in the
last Beaver-Moon. He shall drink their blood in plentiful draughts, he
shall eat their children roasted in the fire, and feed his men upon
broth made of the flesh of their Braves[A]."
[Footnote A: These, as I before observed, are mere metaphors,
signifying a deep revenge.]
"She is mine!"
"Dost thou know that she is a rattlesnake?"
"I care not, so she bring me as her portion the rich presents and the
sweet revenge thou hast spoken of. Shall the Maqua behold the maiden?"
"He shall, but the father bids him remember one thing. When the
marriage has taken place, let not the husband forget to cut off his
wife's tail. Upon his remembering this injunction his life depends. If
he forget it the bride will be a widow ere she is a wife."
With this the Spirit departed into the inner part of the cavern. He
soon returned, bringing with him a huge unwieldy rattlesnake. "This,"
said he, as he came up to the Maqua, "is the maiden I spoke of, and
the wife I have long destined for thee. She is rather fatter than need
be--she will eat the less, however. Take her, thou hast been a good
servant, and I owe thee a reward. Cayenguirago!"
The warrior answered, "I hear."
"I warn thee once more that my daughter is very irritable and
passionate, and withal so fond of admiration, that nothing in the
shape of a leer comes amiss to her. She likes a good squeeze above all
things. Evil, and the Father of Evil though I be, I am not so very
wicked as to wish thee to marry a woman of that description without
thy knowing what kind of treasure thou wilt possess."
"But thou hast promised me revenge against the Hurons, who slew so
many of my warriors in the last Beaver-Moon: remember that." And the
chief commenced his song, which ran thus:--
I shall taste revenge;
I shall dip my hands in purple gore;
I shall wet my lips with the blood of the men,
Who overcame my Braves;
I shall tinge the lake so blue
With the hue which it wore,
When I stood, like a mouse in a wild cat's den,
And saw the Hurons dig the graves
Of my Maquas good and true!
I shall build a fire
Of hickory branches dry,
And knots of the gum-exuding pine,
And cedar leaves and cones,
Dry stubble shall kindle the pyre.
And there shall the Huron die--
Flesh, and blood, and bones!
But first shall he know the pain
Of a red-hot stone on the ball of his eye,
And a red-hot spear in the spine.
And, if he murmur a grain,
What shouts shall rend the sky,
To see the coward Huron flinch,
As the Maquas rend him inch by inch?
The Maqua, having finished his song of blood, turned around to his
bride, and spoke to her kindly, telling her how happy they should
live, and many other things usually said in such cases, and proving
true as often as larks fall from the skies. The Evil Spirit now spoke
to Cayenguirago, bidding him follow him to an inner room in the
cavern, and finish the marriage at once. He obeyed, leading his pursy
bride by a string which he tied around her neck. The whole body of
rattlesnakes followed the couple--hissing, and slapping, and rattling
their tails, and running out their forked tongues; but, whether for
joy or sorrow, Cayenguirago either cared nothing, or did not think it
worth his while to enquire. At last they came to a small room, which
was lighted up by a great blue fire burning in the centre. This, the
Evil Spirit said, was his daughter's chamber, and there they would
pass the night, upon which the maiden pretended to be much ashamed.
The couple now went through the Indian form of marriage, and the Maqua
became the husband of the rattlesnake--daughter of the Evil Spirit,
Abamocho.
They spent the evening very pleasantly together, and so well was
Cayenguirago entertained with the pleasant stories she told him, and
her wit, and good humour, and the kisses she gave him, that he
entirely forgot the advice of her father. So, after they had spent
some time in talk and fondling, the bride crept to her bed of leaves,
and the husband followed.
By and by the Maqua said to his wife, "Thy flesh is very cold--lie a
little further off."
"My flesh is warm," answered the other; "but thou hast drawn to thy
side all the covering, and the spirit of cold is breathing harshly
upon me from the distant cavern."
Upon that they fell to disputing fiercely about love, and hatred, and
cold, and many other things, which need not be mentioned here. Louder
and louder rose their voices, and more violent grew the dispute, until
the wife, losing the very little patience she possessed, applied the
deadly sting, which dooms to instant death, to bring her husband to
her side of the argument. A horrid shout told the creeping of the
subtle poison through his veins. Few were the moments that elapsed
before he lay a stiffened, and swollen, and blackened, corpse.
And thus perished the wicked Maqua, that married a rattlesnake and
forgot to cut off her tail.
* * * * *
The rattlesnake figures very frequently in the Indian traditions. They
suppose it to be endued with more sagacity than any other animal,
except the owl, and to be peculiarly their intercessor with the Evil
Spirit. Their _Okki_, or "Medicine-spirit," is more frequently the
rattlesnake than any other animal--his teeth and rattles are
invariably ingredients of their medicine-bags. They have a tradition
that there was once a great _talk_, or council, held between the
Mohawks and the Rattlesnakes, and a "firm peace established between
the two nations," which lasted till the coming of the Whites.
NOTES.
(1) _Pledge to follow a chief._--p. 153.
All those who enlist themselves on a war expedition give the chief a
bit of bark with their mark upon it, and he who after that draws back
is scarcely safe while he lives; at least he would be dishonoured for
ever.
Once enlisted, to turn back is, in their opinion, a disgrace of so
deep die that they encounter death rather than submit to it. They
carry this chivalrous principle to an extent which finds no parallel
in modern, and scarcely in ancient, history. Lewis and Clarke, in
their Expedition up the Missouri, (vol. 1. p. 60, Philadelphia, 1814),
speak of an association among the Yanktons, "of the most brave and
active young men, who are bound to each other by attachment, secured
by a vow _never to retreat before any danger, or give way to their
enemies_. When the Yanktons were crossing the Missouri on the ice, a
hole lay immediately in their course, which might easily have been
avoided by going round. This, the foremost of the band disdained to
do, but went straight forward, and was lost. The others would have
followed his example, but were forcibly prevented by the rest of the
tribe. There were twenty-two of these warriors at one time, but in a
battle with the Kite Indians of the Black Mountains eighteen of them
were killed; the remaining four were dragged from the field of battle
by their companions."
(2) _Spot which the Great Spirit had forgotten to level._--p. 153.
The Indians believe that the earth was at first very loosely thrown
together, and not intended as a place of permanent occupation for any
one. Their opinions respecting the roughness of the surface are
various and amusing. I asked a Cherokee what occasioned the surface of
the earth to be so very uneven. After a momentary hesitation he
replied, "It was done in a wrestling and boxing-match between the
Great Spirit and the Evil Spirit. While they were scuffling, the
latter, finding himself moved about easily, occasionally worked his
feet into the earth to enable him to stand longer. The valleys were
the holes his feet occupied, and the hills and mountains the sand
thrown out."
THE FIRE SPIRIT.
My brothers know, said a Nansemond warrior, that our tribe have a
custom of burning over, every season, the great glade, or prairie,
which lies beyond the hill, which the Great Spirit struck with his
lightnings in the Hot-Moon. Yearly they see the flames devouring the
dry and ripe grass, but they do not know what led to this custom;
probably they have never heard that it is done in consequence of a
solemn promise made by their fathers to the Spirit of Fire. Let them
listen, and I will tell them the story.
Once upon a time, as the Nansemonds were warring against the Eries,
who have their residence upon the shores of the lake of that name,
they were caught in a narrow valley, or ravine, which lay between two
high hills. One of the outlets to this valley opened into the lake;
the other, that by which they had entered, had been occupied soon
after their entrance into it, and, for a while, without their
knowledge, by a strong party of their enemies. It may well be asked,
why a band of warriors, cunning, sagacious, and experienced, as the
Nansemonds were, should thus be caught like a foolish beaver in a
trap. I will tell the warriors--they were decoyed into this dangerous
valley by the roguish and wanton tricks of the Spirit of Fire.
This hasty and hot-tempered spirit, who is very good and kind when his
master keeps him in due subjection, but who, when he escapes from his
control, never fails to do a great deal of mischief, to burn up the
maize, and frighten away the beasts which the Great Spirit has given
to the Indians--or to destroy their food--sent Chepiasquit[A] to lead
the Nansemonds--foolish men! they supposed it was to a camping-ground,
where cool shade and sweet water should be found--and decoy them into
a spot where they should fall an easy prey to their enemies. No
thought had they of entering this dangerous valley. It was soon after
the coming of the darkness that they saw this treacherous ball in the
open space before them, and, believing it to be a lamp held out by a
friendly spirit to conduct them, as I said before, to a place of rest
and safety, they followed it without hesitation, and were thus placed
completely in the power of their enemies. But they were good
warriors--men tried and approved in many deadly conflicts, and such
never feel the touch of fear, or show concern, even when they see the
fire lighted and the tortures prepared for them. So, when they found
themselves in the toils of their enemies, like a herd of buffaloes
surrounded by a band of mounted hunters, they coolly sat down to think
of the means and reckon the chances of escape.
[Footnote A: Jack-with-the-Lantern.--This is an appearance which
impresses the Indians with inconceivable terror. They generally
retreat to a place of safety, if such can be had, on its first
appearance.]
While they sat talking, suddenly there appeared under the shade of a
tree near them a man of singular shape and proportions. He was squat,
and so very fat, that he looked like a skinned pig which has been
reared in a plentiful season of nuts and mast. His face was far wider
than it was long, and the flesh and fat fell in great folds, upon his
body, legs, and arms, which were entirely naked, and of the colour of
a bright fire; his hair stood out every way, like flames kindled in a
brisk wind; and, when he opened his mouth, the breath which issued
from it was felt scorching and searing at the distance of half a
bowshot. His eyes, which were two coals of fire, emitted sparks like a
piece of birch wood which has been steeped in bitter water[A]. The
Nansemonds were stricken with great terror at the sight of this
hideous Spirit, and it was a long time before they ventured to address
him. When they had called up a sufficient stock of courage, they went
towards him, and the leader of the band spoke to him thus:
[Footnote A: Salt water.]
"Who art thou?"
"The Spirit of Fire," he answered.
"Where is thy dwelling place?"
"I have my dwelling place in many and various places--in the caverns
of the earth, and where-ever mortals dwell, there am I found."
"Why hast thou, Spirit, beguiled us into the toils of our enemies, the
Eries? Behold us entrapped, as a wolf is entrapped by a cunning
hunter."
"Then shall I taste revenge!" answered the Spirit, and broke into a
hissing laugh. "Does not the chief of the Nansemonds remember that,
when I had with my breath kindled a fire in the time of a high wind,
and was enjoying the glorious prospect of giving the dry prairie to
the devouring flame, the men of his nation assembled, and first
repelled, and finally extinguished, that flame. From that moment I
have sought revenge--I have found it--the bravest of the Nansemonds
are enclosed like a partridge in a net, soon like that partridge to be
food for the spoiler."
"Though we then sinned against thee," answered the chief, "yet have we
not at all other times been thy true worshippers? When thy fiery
meteors have been seen traversing the valleys, and shooting like stars
over the prairies, we have bowed down our heads or retreated to our
cabins till they had passed, and in both cases failed not to deprecate
the anger of Him whom we deemed their master. And yet, Spirit, thou
hast delivered us into the toils of our fierce enemies, the Eries!"
With the singular laugh, which was between a hiss and a roar, the
Spirit replied by asking: "How know ye that I have delivered you into
the toils of your fierce enemies, the Eries?"
"What is the width of the valley into which thy treacherous eye hath
decoyed us?" demanded the haughty Chief.
"Scarcely two bowshots," replied the Spirit.
"At its entrance, planted on both sides of the narrow pass, are Eries,
well provided with bows and arrows and spears, waiting as a cunning
cayman waits in the sedge for the unsuspecting water-duck."
"There are indeed Eries waiting on both sides of the narrow pass, as a
cayman waits for a water-duck."
"Then have you led the Nansemonds into a danger from which there are
no means of escape?"
"Is there not another end to the valley?"
"There is, and what will it avail? As much as a bow and arrow in the
hands of him whose eyes have departed, or a spear in the grasp of a
palsied man. Upon each side of the valley, jut far into the lake hills
whose precipitous sides no one but a spirit can climb; and where are
the canoes which shall transport us to a place of safety?"
"What will the Nansemonds give if the Spirit of Fire will release them
from the dangers which encompass them?"
"They will yearly kindle a fire in the time of a high wind, that their
deliverer may have the glorious prospect of seeing the dry prairie
swept by the devouring flame."
"It is well! upon that condition I will save you."
So saying he arose, and, taking up from the pool in the middle of the
valley a handful of slime, he rounded it into a ball, the while
breathing upon it until it became of the colour of his face; when he
had done this, he placed it upon the great toe of his right foot, and,
giving it a kick into the air, and calling it by the name of
"_Chepiasquit_," commanded it "to lead the good people, the
Nansemonds, to a place of safety." So saying, he turned to the
warriors and bade them follow their guide, who would soon conduct them
out of difficulty; and he bade them not forget their promise to fire a
prairie in the time of a high wind in honour of him who ruled over
that element. Having spoken these words, he began to fade from their
view, as a fire goes out which is left unsupplied with fuel. First,
the sparks from his eyes disappeared--then his breath ceased to be hot
and scorching, and his eyes red and glowing--and soon there was
remaining but the indistinct resemblance of a being with the shape of
a man. A little while, and even that faint glimmering had ceased to
be.
The Nansemonds arose and followed with confidence the fiery ball down
the valley. After travelling in an open path for some time, they came
all at once to the shore of the lake; they saw its little waves
dashing upon the smooth sand, and the stars reflected in the bosom of
the clear waters. The fiery ball now changed its course along the
shore. Following it, they came at the distance of three bowshots to a
little bay, where they found a number of canoes well provided with
paddles, and in each a calebash of good nesh-caminnick, and a piece of
roasted deer's flesh. They entered these canoes, and committed
themselves to the lake. Again the Spirit-ball coaxed them on. Darkness
now hid the moon and stars, but it only rendered their guiding light
more visible. After following it till the dawn of day, they landed
again, and to their great joy found themselves at the foot of the well
known path, which led from the lake to their own country. The
Spirit-ball had disappeared, but it had first placed them beyond the
reach of danger. A few suns, and our fathers once more stood upon the
banks of their own pleasant river, the Nansemond, and listened to the
joyous prattle of their children, and looked into the bright eyes of
their fond wives.
Nor did they forget their promise to the Spirit. Yearly, in the time
of a high wind, they kindled a fire in the dry prairie, that their
deliverer might enjoy the glorious prospect of seeing it swept by the
devouring flame. The warriors know that the custom is still preserved;
they know that every year, in the Corn-Moon, when the grass on the
prairie is ripe and dry, the chief, or the priest, goes to the spot,
and, placing a lighted coal in the grass, makes a bow to it,
pronouncing these words: "Thank you, Spirit!" when the grass
immediately blazes up, and the prairie becomes enveloped in flames.
THE ORIGIN OF WOMEN.
There was a time, when, throughout the Island, neither on land nor in
the water, in field or forest, was there a woman to be found. Vain
things were plenty--there was the turkey, and the swan, and the blue
jay, and the wood-duck, and the wakon bird; and noisy, chattering,
singing creatures, such as the daw, and the thrush, and the rook, and
the prairie-dog, abounded--indeed there were more of each than was
pleasing to the ear--but of women, vain, noisy, laughing, chattering
women, there were none. It was, indeed, quite a still world to what it
is now. Whether it is better and happier, will depend much upon the
opinion men entertain of those, who have changed its character from
calm and peaceable to boisterous and noisy. Some will think it is much
improved by the circumstance which deprived the Kickapoos of their
tails--while others will greatly deplore its occurrence.
At the time of which I am telling my brother, the Kickapoos, and
indeed all red men, wherever found--and at that time there were none
but red men in the world--were furnished with long tails like horses
and buffaloes. It was very handy to have these appendages in a country
where flies were numerous and troublesome, as they were in the land of
the Kickapoos--tails being much more sudden in their movements than
hands, and more conveniently situated, as every body must see, for
whisking off the flies which light upon the back. Then they were very
beautiful things, these long tails, especially when handsomely painted
and ornamented, as their owners used to ornament them, with beads, and
shells, and wampum--and being intended as a natural decoration to the
creature, the depriving him of it may well have produced, as it did, a
great deal of sport and merriment among the other animals, who were
not compelled to submit to the deprivation. The fox, who is rather
impudent, for a long time after they were chopped off, sent to the
Kickapoos every day to enquire "how their tails were;" and the bear
shook his fat sides with laughter at the joke, which he thought a very
good one, of sending one of his cubs with a request for a "dozen spare
tails."
I have said, that throughout the land there were no women. There were
men--a plenty, the land was thronged with them--not born, but created
of clay--and left to bake in the sun till they received life--and
these men were very contented and happy. Wars were very few then, for
no one need be told that half the wars which have arisen have grown
out of quarrels on account of love of women, and the other half on
account of their maintenance. There was universal peace and harmony
throughout the land. The Kickapoos ate their deer's flesh with the
Potowatomies, hunted the otter with the Osages, and the beaver with
the Hurons; and the fierce Iroquois, instead of waking the wild shout
of war, went to the land of the Sauks and Ioways to buy wampum,
wherewith to decorate their tails. Happy would it have been for the
red men if they were still furnished with these appendages, and wanted
those which have been supplied in their place--women!
But the consequence which usually attends prosperity happened to the
Indians. They became very proud and vain, and forgot their creator and
preserver. They no more offered the fattest and choicest of their game
upon the _memahoppa_, or altar-stone, nor evinced any gratitude, nor
sung, nor danced in his praise, when he sent his rains to cleanse the
earth and his lightnings to cool and purify the air. When their corn
grew ripe and tall, they imputed it to their own good conduct and
management; when their hunt was successful, to their own skill and
perseverance. Reckoning not, as in times past, of the superintendence
of the Great Spirit over all things, they banished him altogether from
their proud and haughty hearts, teaching them to forget that there was
aught greater or more powerful than himself.
Though slow to anger, and waiting long before he remembers the
provocations he has received, the Great Spirit, in the end, and when
no atonement is made, always inflicts an adequate punishment for every
offence. Seeing how wicked the Indians had become, he said to his
Manitous: "It is time that the Kickapoos and other red men were
punished. They laugh at my thunders, they make mock of my lightnings
and hurricanes, they use my bounties without thanking me for them.
When their corn grows ripe and tall, instead of imputing its
luxuriance to my warm suns and reviving showers, they say, 'We have
managed it well;' when their hunt is successful, they place it to
account of their own skill and perseverance. Reckoning not, as in
times past, of my superintendence over all things, they have banished
me altogether from their haughty hearts, and taught themselves to
forget that there is aught greater and more powerful than the Indian."
So saying, he bade his chief Manitou repair to the dwelling-places of
the red men, and, to punish them for their wickedness, deprive them of
that which they most valued, and bestow upon them a scourge and
affliction adequate to their offences. The Spirit obeyed his master,
and descended to the earth, lighting down upon the lands occupied by
the Kickapoos. It was not long before he discovered what it was which
that people and the other Indians most valued. He saw, from the pains
they took in decorating their tails with gay paints, and beads, and
shells, and wampum, that they prized them above every other
possession. Calling together all the red men, he acquainted them with
the will of his master, and demanded the instant sacrifice of the
article upon which they set so much value. It is impossible to
describe the sorrow and compunction which filled their bosoms, when
they found that the forfeit for their wickedness was to be that
beautiful and beloved appendage. But their prayers and entreaties, to
be spared the humiliation and sacrifice, were in vain. The Spirit was
inexorable, and they were compelled to place their tails on the block
and to behold them amputated.
The punishment being in part performed, the Spirit next bethought
himself of a gift which should prove to them "a scourge and affliction
adequate to their offences." It was to convert the tails thus lopped
off into vain, noisy, chattering, laughing creatures, whose faces
should he like the sky in the Moon of Plants, and whose hearts should
be treacherous, fickle, and inconstant; yet, strange to relate, who
should be loved above all other things on the earth or in the skies.
For them should life often be hazarded--reputation, fame, and virtue,
often forfeited--pain and ignominy incurred. They were to be as a
burden placed on the shoulders of an already overloaded man; and yet,
a burden he would rather strive to carry than abandon. He further
appointed that they should retain the frisky nature of the material
from which they were made, and they have retained it to this day.
The Great Spirit, deeming that the trouble wherewith he had provided
the red man would not sufficiently vex and punish him, determined to
add another infliction, whose sting, though not so potent and irksome,
should be without any alleviation whatever. He sent great swarms of
musquitoes. Deprived of tails, by which flies could be brushed away at
the pleasure of the wearers, the Indians dragged out for a long time a
miserable existence. The musquitoes stung them, and their tails
teased them. The little insects worried them continually, and their
frisky companions, the women, were any thing but a cup of composing
drink. At length the Great Spirit, seeing how the poor Indians were
afflicted, mercifully withdrew the greater part of the musquitoes,
leaving a few as a memorial of the pest which had formerly annoyed
them. The Kickapoos petitioned that the women should also be taken
away from them, and their old appendages returned--but the Great
Spirit answered, that women were a necessary evil, and must remain.
THE HILL OF FECUNDITY.
A TRADITION OF THE MINNATAREES.
At the distance of a sun's journey from the creek, called in the
tongue of the white people the Knife Creek--which divides the larger
and smaller towns of the Minnatarees from each other by a valley not
much above four bowshots across--there are two little hills, situate
at a small distance from each other. These hills are famous,
throughout all the nations of the west, for the faculty they once
possessed of imparting relief to such women as resorted to them for
the purpose of crying and lamenting for the circumstance of their
having no children. It was there, that, if they were careful to say
proper prayers, and to use the proper lamentations, the reproach of
barrenness was removed; and those, whose arms had never enfolded a
babe of their own, whose ears had never listened to the innocent
prattle of children born of their own bodies, might enjoy that
greatest of human happinesses; might feel the exquisite pleasure
which arises, when the little creatures press to their knees, or draw
the food of life from their bosoms.
Once upon a time, many years ago, there was among the Minnatarees a
woman, whose name was Namata-washta, or the Pretty Tree. It had been
her misfortune to be married, when little more than a child, to a very
proud and bad man; who soon came to use her with great cruelty and
injustice. She was a very strict and devout worshipper of the Great
Spirit, and never failed, whether in the field or in the cabin, by
night or by day, to offer up prayers and a portion of every
acquisition to the Being who bestowed it upon her. The Great Spirit
saw her goodness, and loved her. He made her corn to grow much larger
than that of any other woman in the village; and the produce of her
garden was always much earlier and better. But she was a barren woman,
and thence resulted her misery. For seven weary seasons had she lived
in the lodge of her husband; and while his seven other wives had each
children at her knee, crying, "My mother!" there was none to address
her by that tender name, and to lisp in childish tones its delight,
when she returned from the labours of the field of maize--and to
bestow its innocent caresses upon her after the separations which
unavoidably take place in forest life. Thence arose the extreme
harshness of her husband, and the continued sneers and gibes of the
wives who had been blest with offspring. The good Namata-washta bore
their ill usage for a long time without repining; but, at length, the
oft-repeated cruelties of her husband and the incessant insults of her
companions became so painful, that she was wont to fly from them to
the solitude of the forest.
One evening, she wandered out from the cabin of her husband until she
came to the nearest of the two small hills, of which I have been
telling my brother. Upon this hill she seated herself, and was
occupied in bewailing her fatal misfortune of barrenness, and in
praying the Great Spirit to avert it, when some one whispered at her
shoulder, "Namata-washta!"
Looking up, she beheld a tall woman clothed in a long and flowing robe
of white goat-skin; her mocassins were of a blood-red colour; her eyes
were black as the shell of the butter-nut; her hair, which was also
black, was dressed with gay flowers. After surveying the weeping
Namata-washta for some time in silence, and with an appearance of much
compassion, she said to her in a gentle voice, "Woman, why art thou
weeping?"
"I am weeping," replied the poor Indian woman, "because I have borne
my husband no children!"
"And therefore thou weepest, deluded and infatuated woman! Rather
shouldst thou rejoice that thou hast not contributed to swell the
amount of human suffering. Happier far is she who has added nothing,
in respect of children, to the sum of human misery, than she who has
become a mother, to see her offspring perish in the strife of
warriors, or of hunger, or wretchedness, or wasting disease. That thou
hast given birth to no heirs of misery should afford thee joy, rather
than sorrow, Namata-washta!"
"But therefore I am held of little account, and of no value in the
house of my husband. My place is usurped by those who have children;
the other wives of my husband demand and exercise the right to impose
hard and disgraceful burdens upon me, because I am barren. My husband
beats me with blows, his wives assail me with taunts and
reproaches--even the children of the village, as I pass them at their
sports, cry out, 'A barren woman!' And thus do they incessantly worry
me, till I am compelled to fly to the wilderness for rest and peace!"
"Wouldst thou become the mother of children, Namata-washta?"
"I would."
"Thou shalt have thy wish. Listen to my words. The hill upon which
thou art sitting was once a beautiful woman, as its neighbour, the
other and larger hill, was a man and a warrior. The woman, who is the
hill upon which we now stand, was the first woman that ever lived, and
the first that ever became a mother. I will tell thee, Namata-washta,
who she was. When the Great Spirit determined to people the Island
with human beings, he bade them spring out of the earth, as maize and
vegetables do at this day; and bade each take the quality and nature
of the soil in which he germinated. The red man forced his head out of
a rich and hardy prairie surrounded by lofty trees; the white man took
root in a stony and crabbed hill: and both have retained their first
natures.
"The woman who became this hill sprung up in a deep and very fat soil,
and thence became very fruitful--the most fruitful woman ever known.
She came out of the earth on the first day of the Moon of Buffaloes,
and, ere it hung in the skies like a bended bow, she had a child at
her breast. Every moon, she bestowed upon her husband a son or a
daughter, and these sons and daughters were all equally fertile with
their mother. The Great Spirit, seeing that if mankind continued thus
prolific, the Island would soon be overstocked with inhabitants,
determined to take away from the pair the breath he had given them,
and with it the power of unlimited procreation and fecundity imparted
to their descendants. He changed them into these two hills. But, that
the faculty they possessed in so remarkable a degree might not be lost
to the world, but might continue to be dispensed to those who wanted
it, and should seek it in a proper manner, he said to the hill, which
was the fruitful woman: 'Whenever a barren woman approaches thee,
lamenting in sincerity her hard fate, and duly supplicating mercy,
thou shalt listen to her with pity and compassion. I endow thee with
power to grant her prayers. Thou shalt bid her return to her village
and repair to the couch of her husband. When twelve suns shall have
passed, she shall return to thee soon after the dawning of day. Upon a
near approach to thee, she shall see a child, perhaps two children,
very light of foot, and whose height shall scarce exceed that of a
squirrel. She must approach them, but they will run from her, nor will
her utmost speed enable her to overtake them. They will fly to thy
protection, nor must thou deny it--they must be received into thy
bosom. The chill of their cold hiding place will destroy them, and
their souls will enter into the womb of the suppliant woman, and she
will become a fruitful and honoured mother.'
"These were the words of the Great Spirit; and often has the power he
imparted to that hill been felt to the taking away the reproach from
the barren women. Namata-washta, go thou, and do likewise. Follow the
directions I have given thee, and, if the having children will render
thee happy, thou shalt be happy--if to be the mother of a more
numerous offspring than any wife in thy nation may make thee an
honoured woman, thou shalt be honoured."
With these words, the Spirit departed from before the eyes of
Namata-washta, who never beheld her again. She returned to the cabin
of her husband, obeyed the words of the stranger, and saw the results
take place which had been foretold. She became the mother of a more
numerous progeny than any woman of her nation, took the lead in the
lodge of her husband, and was more beloved by him than any other of
his wives. She became as much honoured by the people as she had been
before despised by them, and died with the reputation of having been
the greatest benefactress of the nation that had lived since the days
of the two wise boys who discovered the upper world[A].
[Footnote A: See the Tradition vol. i., p. 201.]
The faculty which this hill possessed of imparting fruitfulness was
retained till the wickedness of the Minnatarees became so crying,
that the Great Spirit, deeming that there would be full enough of
these bad people, if left to their natural means of increase, withdrew
it, and has never restored it.
TALES OF A WHITE MAN'S GHOST.
I. GARANGA.
If the feet of my brother from the distant land have ever carried him
to the spot where the Oswegatchie joins with the river called by the
people of his nation the St. Lawrence, he must have seen a broken wall
of stone, which that same people built very soon after they had taken
possession of the High Rock, and made it the great village of the pale
faces. At that time the red men of the wilderness were not very well
disposed towards the strangers who had come among them, viewing them
as they do wolves, and panthers, and catamounts, which are very much
in the way of Indians, and therefore they put them out of it as soon
as possible. At length, the great chief or governor at the City of the
High Rock, finding that the men whom he left within the big walls he
had built on the Oswegatchie were every moment in danger of being
massacred by their fierce and warlike neighbours, the Iroquois,
recalled his soldiers to his wing from their perilous flight, and bade
them soar no more in that dangerous direction. So the high walls he
had thrown up to serve as a barrier against the forest warrior fell to
the earth, and were never rebuilt. The grass grew up over them, the
winds whistled among them, and many spirits, white and red, came and
took up their residence in the corners and recesses of the deserted
habitation.
Among the white spirits that sojourned in the ruined fort there was
one who was very kind to the Indians, and often held long talks with
them, though they never saw him. Often, when the sun had retired to
his place of rest beyond the western mountains--for he would only hold
conversation when darkness covered the earth--the Indians would repair
to the outside of the ruins, and, calling upon the "Good Little
Fellow," he would come and entertain them, until the purple and grey
tints of morning shone in the eastern sky, with tales of his own pale
race, and of that other, the red, as connected with them. The eager
listeners would be told of cabins in which the Great Spirit was
worshipped, that were twice the flight of an arrow broad, and three
times its flight in length, and so high as to be beyond the daring of
the bird of morning. And he taught them to wonder much, and laugh a
little, by telling them that when men went to worship the Being in
whose honour and for whose worship the cabin was built, they dressed
themselves in their most gorgeous apparel, and put on long robes,
painted to look like the gay birds of the forest, and emulating in the
brightness of their dyes the bow in the clouds after a shower of rain.
When the Indians laughed at this, he told them that the Great Spirit,
the white people thought, never listened to those who were not well
dressed, and "looked smart." He said the white people were not like
the Indians; they only worshipped the Master of Life on the seventh
day of the week and a few other days, whereas the Indians worshipped
him every day--which was much the best way, he thought. And he told
the Indians many other things, respecting the white people living over
the Great Salt Lake, some of which made them think they were very
wise, and valiant, and prudent, but the most of what he said went to
prove them great fools. And when he told them that the men weeded the
corn, while the women sat doing nothing, or "galloping from cabin to
cabin," the Indians, who had become so well acquainted with him that
they could speak with freedom, bade him return and tell his people how
much better the Indians managed these things.
Once upon a time, as he sat repeating his tales to the wondering
Indian visiters, he said to them: Did you ever hear about Garanga,
the beautiful bird that was taken from her perch in the cabin of the
White Crane, the great warrior of the Iroquois, by a man of my nation?
The Indians all answered, No; and so they would have answered had they
heard it twenty times, for he varied his stories every time he
repeated them, as the pale faces always do; so they were sure to have
a new story though it had an old name. Then I will tell it you, said
he, and he began as follows.
There came to this fort, while it was yet standing in all its pride, a
young chief of my nation to be its governor. He was a mere youth to be
entrusted with so high and responsible an office, but, though young in
years, he was old in understanding. He was also very beautiful to look
upon, and his stature was of the tallest of the sons of the earth. The
Indian maidens that visited the fort with their fathers and brothers
bestowed much praise upon his fine and manly form, and their friends
of the other sex did the same upon his courageous spirit, and his
superiority in those exercises in which one must excel if he would
command the esteem, and excite the awe, of the red men of the forest.
The men likened him for swiftness to the deer, and for agility to the
mountain-cat, and for strength to the bear, and for courage to all
that is courageous; the women compared his skin to the water-lily, and
his eyes to the blue sky when it is bluest, and his hair to the silken
tassels of ripened corn, and his step to the stag's, and his voice to
the song-sparrow's. Whatever is beautiful among the works of nature
was brought in by comparison, to express their admiration of the
graceful and gallant stranger.
Among the bright-eyed maidens who visited the fort, as they said, to
buy beads and gay toys, but in reality to gaze upon the noble chief,
was the beautiful Garanga, the daughter of one of the principal
warriors of the Iroquois. The first time she saw him her little bosom
was filled with the flames of love, but she never spoke of it to any
one. While the other maidens sat repeating the soft words he had
whispered in their ears, for he had the forked tongue which the white
man always possesses, the mild and lovely daughter of the White Crane
said nothing, but sighed. Her heart had been taken captive at first
sight, by the handsome stranger--her little bosom was filled with love
for the noble warrior. Nor were the charms of the maiden unmarked by
him she loved. He had singled her out among all the dusky maidens, in
some degree for her beauty, but more for her softness and her modesty,
and had asked himself what one among the women of his own clime was
superior to her in all that would give delight to him who should make
her his own. His heart answered, None. So, learning from the tell-tale
eyes of the beautiful maiden, that she was entirely willing to become
the bird of his bower, his companion, his wife, he asked her of her
father. The chief, proud to be connected with so distinguished a
warrior, gave her to him, without hesitation, and she became his wife.
They were married in the Harvest-Moon, and a great feast was given,
which made glad the hearts of both white and red. There was a great
firing of cannon, and the fire-eater was given to the Indians, who
became very drunk, and made the woods ring again with their boisterous
mirth. Before the month in which the Indians harvest their maize had
come round again, there was a young bird of the sex of its father, in
the house of the governor. Ere the child had lived a moon, the father
said to the mother, thoughtfully but kindly,
"Dost thou love thy husband?"
"The Great Spirit only knows how much, and how deeply," answered the
fond wife.
"Hast thou joy in the bright eyes, and smiling cheeks, and lovely
laugh, of our little son?"
"I have exceeding joy in our son," answered the mother, pressing her
infant with a warm embrace to her bosom. "When I look upon his young
face, and his little laugh rings in mine ear, and when I mark the
bright light of his eyes shining like stars upon me, my heart leaps
like a deer stricken to death by the shaft of the hunter. And often
while thou art slumbering by my side, do I lie sleepless, my eyes
filled with tears, to think that he may die. And yet I have exceeding
joy in our child."
"Does it not grieve thee to think that thou, and he, and I, may not
meet together in the land of souls?"
"May not meet together in the land of souls? Why? Thou hast sent an
arrow to my heart, my husband. Why are the gates of death to separate
those who loved each other in life?"
"Our gods are not the same, and the abodes of the souls of the white
man and the red man are far apart."
"Why wilt thou not come to the land which holds the spirits of the
departed of _my_ race? Thou art a lover of the chace, and often
preferrest the pastime of hunting the deer, and the bear, and the
panther, through the wild forest, to reposing in the arms of thy
Garanga. In the land--_my_ land of souls--thou wilt enjoy thy
favourite pursuit. There thou canst course the stag through flowery
meads, and over grassy hills, and know nothing of the bitter obstacles
which impede the path of an earth-borne hunter. There will be a
pleasant cabin built for us beside the placid river of that land--and
upon the green banks, beneath the wide-spreading shade of the
evergreen larch and cypress, shall our rest be appointed. Come to _my_
heaven, my beloved husband!"
"Garanga! my beautiful Garanga! mother of my son! it may not be!"
replied the husband. "The Christian's heaven is unlike the heaven of
the infidel, nor does he picture to himself such delights as thou and
thy nation fancy are to be the portion of the brave warrior and
skilful hunter--of all who do their duty faithfully, and according to
the best of their power."
"Then I will go with thee to thy heaven, for I will not be separated
from thee!" replied the fond wife. "Teach me how I shall worship _thy_
Master, for alas, I know not his ways."
So the beautiful Garanga forsook the religion of her own nation; and
hung round her neck the silver cross and rosary, which marked the
belief of her beloved husband. In vain did her father and his people
solicit her to quit her husband, and return to them, and to the belief
in which she had been bred. Her favourite brother, Mecumeh, came, and
besought her, by all the motives of national pride and family vanity,
to return to her people in this world, that she might not be severed
from them in the land of souls. But the young Garanga, whom her
husband called Marguerite, after a woman of his own nation, was bound
by a threefold cord--her love to her husband, to her son, and to her
religion. Finding that he could not succeed by persuasion, the cunning
Mecumeh had recourse to stratagem. The husband was in the habit of
going down the river often, on fishing excursions, and, when he
returned, he would fire his signal gun--and his wife would hasten,
with her little son, to meet him on the shore, and to place the fond
kiss of welcome on his cheek.
On one occasion he had been gone longer than usual, by the space of
near a moon. Garanga was filled with apprehensions, natural enough
to one fondly loving, and at a time when imminent dangers and
hair-breadth escapes were of every-day occurrence--when it was known
that the people of her nation, displeased with her husband for drawing
her away from the faith of her fathers, were studying deep plans of
revenge. She had sat in the lofty tower which overlooked the greater
part of the surrounding country, and watched for the returning canoe
till the last beam of day had faded away from the waters, and that its
great star had ever been, could only be gathered from a bright beam
that lingered about the folds of the western clouds. The deepening
shadows of twilight played tricks with her imagination, and she
frequently saw things, which, to her, appeared the object her heart
sought, but which were mere creations of a fancy moving at the
suggestions of hope. Once she was startled by a water-fowl, which, as
it skimmed along the surface of the water, imaged to her fancy the
light canoe impelled by her husband's vigorous arm. Again she heard
the leap of the heavy Muskalongi, and the splashing waters sounded to
her like the first dash of the oar. That passed away, and
disappointment and tears followed. The little boy was beside her; he
bore the same name as his father, and inherited the warlike
disposition and love of daring which distinguished him among his
companions. Born and bred among men of war, he understood the use of
the bow and the musket; courage and hardihood seemed to be his
instinct, and danger his element, and battles, wounds, and the deeds
of the valiant, were household words with him. He laughed at his
mother's fears, but, in spite of the boy's ridicule, they
strengthened till apprehension seemed reality, and she shed tears of
sorrow for the fancied death of her beloved husband.
Suddenly the sound of the signal gun broke on the stillness of night.
Both mother and son sprang on their feet with a cry of joy, and were
pressing, hand in hand, towards the outer gate, when a sentinel or
soldier, appointed to keep it, stopped them to remind them that it was
her husband's order, that no one should venture without the walls
after sunset. She, however, insisted on passing, and telling the
soldier that she would answer to her husband for his breach of orders,
she passed the outer barrier. Young Louis held up his bow and arrow
before the sentinel, saying gaily, "I am my mother's body guard, you
know." The sentinel saw the tears of the affectionate wife, gave way,
and permitted her to pass.
The distance from the fort to the place where the commander of the
white men usually moored his canoe was trifling and quickly passed.
Garanga and her little son flew along the narrow path, and soon
reached the shore. But, alas! instead of the face she loved, and the
form she fondly expected to press to her throbbing bosom, she beheld
the fierce Mecumeh. At a little distance from him were his companions.
Entreaties and remonstrance were alike in vain. On the part of
Garanga resistance was not attempted, but it was made with all the
spirit of a warrior by young Louis, who snatched a knife from the
girdle of one of the Indians, and attempted to plunge it into the
bosom of Mecumeh, as he was roughly attempting to bind his wampum-belt
over Garanga's mouth to deaden her screams. The uncle wrested the
knife from him, and smiled proudly on him, as if he recognized in the
brave boy a scion from his own noble and warlike stock. "You will be
the eagle of your tribe," said he, "which none will deem strange since
she that gave you birth was a daughter of the most valiant chief that
roams the wilds. The child of the panther will have the spirit of the
panther, nor need the young bear be taught to climb trees, nor the
eaglet to fly."
The Indians had two canoes: Garanga was conveyed to one, Louis to the
other; and both canoes were rowed into the Oswegatchie, and up the
stream as fast as it was possible to impel them against the current of
the river.
Not a word nor a cry escaped the boy: he seemed intent on some
purpose; and, when the canoe approached near the shore, he drew from
his head his fox-skin cap, and threw it so skilfully that it lodged
where he meant it should--on the branch of a tree which projected over
the water. There was a long white feather in the cap. The Indians had
observed the boy's movements; they held up their oars for a moment,
and seemed to consult whether they should return and remove the cap,
but, after a moment, they again dashed their oars in the water, and
proceeded forward. They continued rowing for a few miles, and then
landed, hid their canoes behind some trees on the river bank, and
plunged into the woods with their prisoners. It was the intention of
the Indians to return to their canoes in the morning; and they had not
proceeded far from the shore, when they kindled a fire, and prepared
some food, and offered a share of it to Garanga and Louis. The poor
Garanga had no mind to eat, but Louis ate as heartily as if he had
been within the walls of the fort. When the Indians had fed, they
stretched themselves before the fire, but not till they had taken the
precaution to bind Garanga to a tree, and to compel Louis to lie down
in the arms of the brother of his mother. Neither of the prisoners
closed their eyes that night. Louis kept his fixed on his mother. She
sat upright beside an oak tree; the cord was fastened around her
waist, and bound around the tree, which had been blasted by lightning.
The bright moon poured its beams through the naked branches upon her
face, convulsed with the agony of despair and fear. With one hand she
held to her lips the now loved symbol of the faith of her husband--the
crucifix; the other grasped another symbol--the rosary. The sight of
his beloved mother in such a situation stirred up daring thoughts in
the bosom of the heroic boy, but he lay powerless in the naked and
brawny arms of the brother of his mother. He tried to disengage
himself, but, at the slightest movement, Mecumeh, though still
sleeping, seemed conscious, and strained him closer to him. At last
the strong sleep that, in the depth of the night, steeps the senses in
utter forgetfulness, overpowered him--his arms relaxed their hold, and
dropped lifeless beside him, and left Louis free.
The boy rose cautiously--looked for a moment on the Indians, and
assured himself that they all slept profoundly. He then possessed
himself of Mecumeh's knife, which lay at his feet, and severed the
cord which bound his mother to the tree. Neither of them spoke a
word--but with the least possible sound they resumed the way by which
they had come from the shore--Louis with the confidence, and Garanga
with the faint hope, of reaching it before they were overtaken.
It may easily be imagined by those who hear it how often the poor
mother, timid as a fawn, was startled by the evening breeze stirring
the leaves, or the flight of a bird from among the boughs of the
trees, but the boy bounded forward with all the courage of his
race(1), as if there were neither fear nor danger in the world.
[_Illustration: Designed & Etched by W. H. Brooks, A. R. H. A._
The Boy rose cautiously from the Warrior's grasp.
_page 204_.
_London, Published by Colburn & Bentley, April 1830._]
They had nearly attained the margin of the river where Louis meant to
launch one of the canoes, and drop down the current, when the Indian
yell, resounding through the woods, struck on their ears. They were
missed, pursued, and escape was impossible. Garanga, her bosom filled
with overmastering fear, sunk to the ground. Nothing could check the
career of Louis. "On!--on, mother!" he cried, "to the shore!" She
rose, and instinctively followed her boy. The sound of pursuit came
nearer and nearer. They reached the shore, and there beheld three
canoes coming swiftly up the river. Animated with hope, Louis screamed
the watchword of the garrison, and was answered by his father's voice.
The possibility of escape, and the certain approach of her husband,
infused new life into Garanga. "Your father cannot see us," she said,
"as we stand here in the shade of the trees; hide yourself in that
thicket, I will plunge into the water." Louis crouched under the
bushes, and was completely hidden by an overhanging grape-vine, while
his mother advanced a few steps into the water where she could be
distinctly seen. A shout from the canoes apprised her that she was
recognised, and, at the same moment, the Indians, who had now reached
the shore, rent the air with their cries of rage and defiance. They
stood for a moment as if deliberating what next to do; Mecumeh
maintained an undaunted and resolved air, but, with his followers, who
did not possess the courage of their race, the aspect of armed men,
and a force of thrice their number, had the effect to paralyze their
souls. They fled. He looked after them, cried "Shame!" and then with a
desperate yell leaped into the water, and stood beside Garanga. The
canoes were now within a few yards--he put his knife to her
bosom--"The daughter of the White Crane," he said, "should have died
by the judgment of our warriors, but now by her brother's hand she
must perish:" and he drew back his arm to give vigour to the fatal
stroke, when an arrow from the bow of the brave boy pierced his
breast, and he fell insensible at his sister's side. A moment after
Garanga was in the arms of her husband, and Louis, with his bow
unstrung, bounded from the shore, and was received in his father's
canoe; and the wild shores rung with the acclamations of the soldiers,
while his father's tears were poured like rain upon his cheek.
Nor did the fierce Mecumeh die. He was conveyed to the fort, his wound
was healed, and he lived to be reckoned among the aged men of his
nation. The affectionate Garanga prevailed upon him to embrace the
religion which had become her own, so that they who lived happily
together in this life were not separated by the hand of death, but
repaired to the heaven of white men together.
NOTE.
(1) _Courage of his race._--p. 205.
The North American Indian knows nothing of fear, he is perfectly
insensible to danger. I am not now referring to the wonderful
fortitude he displays while his enemies are exercising their cunning
and dexterity in devising, and carrying into effect, torments which
baffle description, but to the quality which is denominated courage
among civilised nations. Tecumseh was one of the bravest men that ever
lived, so was the celebrated Mackintosh. They must, however, be
allowed to display their valour in their own peculiar manner. I shall
further illustrate their remarkable and peculiar use of this quality
by referring to some well attested instances of almost superhuman
daring. The first is of a young Andirondack or Algonquin chief named
Piskaret. The story will further illustrate the mode of warfare used
in these bloody expeditions.
"Piskaret set out for the country of the Five Nations, about the time
the snow began to melt, with the precaution of putting the hinder part
of his snow-shoes forward, that if any should happen upon his
footsteps, they might think he was gone the contrary way; and, for
further security, went along the ridges and high grounds, where the
snow was melted, that his track might be often lost; when he came near
one of the villages of the Five Nations, he hid himself till night,
and then entered a cabin, while every body was fast asleep, murdered
the whole family, and carried their scalps into his lurking-place. The
next day, the people of the village searched for the murderer in vain.
The following night he murdered all he found in another cabin. The
inhabitants next day searched likewise in vain for the murderer; but
the third night a watch was kept in every house. Piskaret, in the
night, bundled up the scalps he had taken the two former nights, to
carry, as the proof of his victory, and then stole privately from
house to house, till at last he found an Indian nodding, who was upon
the watch in one of the houses; he knocked this man on the head: but,
as this alarmed the rest, he was forced immediately to fly. He was,
however, under no great concern from the pursuit, being more swift of
foot than any Indian then living. He let his pursuers come near him
from time to time, and then would dart from them. This he did with
design to tire them out with the hopes of overtaking him. As it began
to grow dark, he hid himself, and his pursuers stopped to rest. They,
not being apprehensive of any danger from a single man, soon fell
asleep, and the bold Piskaret observing this, knocked them all on the
head, and carried away their scalps with the rest."--_Colden's History
of the Five Nations, Lond._ 1747, p. 26.
Another instance which I shall relate of courage and intrepidity will
at the same time show the abolition of a bloody rite said to have been
peculiar to the Pawnee Loups, of making propitiatory sacrifices to
Venus, or the Great Star.
"An Ietan woman, who was brought captive into the village, was doomed
to the Great Star, by the warrior, whose property she had become by
the fate of war. She underwent the usual preparations, and, on the
appointed day, was led to the cross, amidst a great concourse of
people, as eager, perhaps, as their civilized fellow-men, to witness
the horrors of an execution. The victim was bound to the cross with
thongs of skin, and the usual ceremonies being performed, her dread of
a more terrible death was about to be terminated by the tomahawk and
the arrow. At this critical juncture, Petalesharoo (son of the Knife
Chief), stepped forward into the area, and, in an hurried but firm
manner, declared that it was his father's wish to abolish this
sacrifice; that, for himself, he had presented himself before them,
for the purpose of laying down his life upon the spot, or of releasing
the victim. He then cut the cords which bound her to the cross,
carried her swiftly through the crowd to a horse, which he presented
to her, and having mounted another himself, he conveyed her beyond the
reach of immediate pursuit; when, after having supplied her with food,
and admonishing her to make the best of her way to her own nation,
which was at the distance of at least four hundred miles, he was
constrained to return to his village. The emancipated Ietan had,
however, the good fortune, on her journey of the subsequent day, to
meet with a war-party of her own people, by whom she was conveyed to
her family in safety.
"Another display of the firmness and determination of the young
warrior was required to abolish this sacrifice, it is to be hoped for
ever. The succeeding spring, a warrior, who had captured a fine
Spanish boy, vowed to sacrifice him to the Great Star, and accordingly
placed him under the care of the magi for that purpose.
"The Knife Chief, learning the determination of the warrior, consulted
with his son, respecting the best means of preventing a repetition of
the horrible ceremony. 'I will rescue the boy,' said Petalesharoo, 'as
a warrior should, by force;' but the Knife Chief, unwilling that his
son should again expose himself to a danger so imminent as that which
he had once encountered in this cause, hoped to compel the warrior to
exchange his victim for a large quantity of merchandize, which he
would endeavour to obtain with that view. For this purpose, he
repaired to Mr. Pappan, who happened to be in the village for the
purposes of trade, and communicated to him his intentions. Mr. Pappan
generously contributed a considerable quantity of merchandize, and
much was added by himself, by Petalesharoo, and other Indians.
"All this treasure was laid in a heap together, in the lodge of the
Knife Chief, who thereupon summoned the warrior before him. The chief
armed himself with his war-club, and explained the object of his call,
commanding the warrior to accept the merchandize, and yield up the
boy, or prepare for instant death. The warrior refused, and the chief
waved his club in the air towards the warrior. 'Strike!' said
Petalesharoo, who stood near to support his father; 'I will meet the
vengeance of his friends.' But the more prudent and politic chief
added a few more articles to the mass of merchandize, in order to give
the warrior another opportunity of acquiescing without forfeiting his
word.
"This expedient succeeded; the goods were reluctantly accepted, and
the boy was liberated."--_James's Account of an Expedition to the
Rocky Mountains_, ii, 81.
II. THE WARNING OF TEKARRAH.
It was at early nightfall, on a warm and beautiful day, in the month
which the white man calls June, but which the red man calls the Hot
Moon, that a little fleet, consisting of three small bateaux, fitted
out at Montreal, and conveying a body of pale-faced warriors, under
the command of one whose hair was white and whose face was seamed with
scars, entered the mouth of the Oswego[A]. This petty armament was
joined at the beginning of the following season of sleep by a great
number of canoes that contained the traders, artizans, and labourers,
with their families, together with such tools and utensils as had been
deemed necessary for the commencement of a new settlement, which it
was the design of the chief of the strangers to establish on the south
side of Lake Ontario. They brought with them, besides a great quantity
of provisions, the usual articles wherewith to traffic with the
possessors of the soil. The Oswego--as my red brothers know--is
principally formed by the confluence of the outlets of those numerous
lesser lakes that diversify and adorn the vast space of country that
lies between the Great Ocean and the Lake of Storms[B]. Its course is
northward, and, after whirling and foaming along the narrow and
obstructed channel that nature seems to have grudgingly lent for its
passage, it finds repose in the small harbour bearing its name, which
mingles its contributions with the placid but mighty waters of the
west.
[Footnote A: Rapid river.]
[Footnote B: Lake Superior.]
On the eastern part of this harbour, and on a site sufficiently
elevated to command its entrance, this party of daring adventurers
began to construct a defence against the attacks of your race. Before
the frosts of winter had robbed the surrounding forest of its foliage,
or compelled the wild-duck to seek a retreat in the secluded waters of
the warm south, or the deer had gathered to their couch of leaves in
the thicket, a rude but effectual barrier to hostile attack was raised
and completed. The intervening summer had been passed by the artisans
and labourers, not only in the building of the fortress, but in the
erection of such cabins and lodging-places for warriors within its
enclosure, as were deemed requisite for the protection of its inmates
from the piercing winds, and cold rains, and chilling frosts, of
winter. In the mean time the traders had been diligently and
successfully employed in exchanging their beads and trinkets, their
knives, blankets, and strong waters, with the men of the adjacent
woods, for fish and venison to supply the immediate wants of the
warriors, and furs and skins to send to the land of their birth. The
Indians, with whom this intercourse and barter was carried on, were of
the tribe of the Onandagas. They inhabited a valley as fair as the sun
ever shone upon. From a point in the interior--distant more than a
sun's journey to the south, this capacious valley opens and widens as
it advances northwardly--presenting, in its general outline, an
immense space, with three sides, the base of which, for the distance
of half a sun's travel, is washed by the waters of the beautiful
Ontario. As it recedes from the lake, its surface rises gradually to
the point or tip, whence, did the strength of vision and the shape of
the earth permit, the eye might command a complete survey of the
valley, and of the inland ocean that spreads before it. On either
side, it is bounded by steep and high hills that verge towards each
other as they stretch to the south, and whose elevation increases,
until they are lost among a range of lofty mountains, at the
termination of the valley.
At this precise point, there gushes forth, from beneath a huge and
precipitous rock, a large spring of pure and clear water, cool and
refreshing as the dark forest through which it glides, and which,
after a sinuous course along the centre of the dell, receiving as it
flows the contributions of numerous lesser springs and streams,
communicates its waters to the foaming current of the Oswego. Whether
this singular but beautiful region now presents the form in which it
was first fashioned by the Master of Life, or has since received the
shape and appearance it bears from the disruption of some mighty mass
of waters, from frightful earthquakes, or some other great convulsion
of nature--neither I nor my red brothers can say. Yet does it appear
plain that no convulsive heavings of an earthquake could have left its
outline or its surface so smooth or regular. No bursting of waters
from the top of a mountain (a mountain too, having no capacious bosom
for its reception) could have borne away such an immense body of earth
as must have been scooped out from between the high and wide-spreading
hills.
But, if this region was singular in its formation, it was not less so
in the character and manners of the tribe by which it was peopled.
They claimed direct descent from the Great Spirit--the Creator of the
world. Regarding themselves as his offspring, they deemed themselves
the especial objects of his fatherly care. Deeply possessed with a
sense of this superhuman relation, it will not be matter of surprise
to my brothers that they should refer to it all the more important
events of their lives, and that it should impart its influence even to
the minuter circumstances of their daily intercourse both with
strangers and with each other. From their belief of their relationship
to the Good Spirit, they were a good people. Hence they were,
according to their crude notions of religion, strictly a religious
people; and, although they worshipped the supposed founder of their
race, rather with the qualified adoration that one pays to a good
father watching over, and guiding from his dwelling among the stars,
the destinies of his earthly children; and, although they were
insensible to the deep and humble devotion, and piety, which belong to
the worshippers of the same Being in the land of the pale-faces; yet
was their superstition free from much of the grossness in which the
idolatry of the people of the wilderness is usually buried. Their
idols and images were indeed numerous and of rude workmanship, but,
like the images before whom kneel no small portion of the people of
the land which was mine, they were professed to be worshipped only as
the visible representations of invisible spirits. Human sacrifices
were not known among them--for they rightly held that the Great Spirit
was a kind and affectionate _Father_, and could not delight in the
shedding of the blood of his children, or seeing them sacrificed on
his peaceful altars. They had numerous fasts and feasts, but they were
accompanied by no cruel rites. Those who presided over the religious
ceremonies and observances of this simple people, united, as is usual
among most, if not all unenlightened nations, the character and office
of priest and prophet--of expounders of visions and dreams--and had
the ordering of fasts in the acceptable manner, and at the proper
time. They were few in number, and universally revered, beloved, and
feared. Their influence and authority were felt in every cabin in the
nation. No restraint being imposed upon them, as it is upon the
priests in the City of the Rock, they had no inclination to impose any
unnatural restraint upon others. Assailed by no external temptations
to indulgence themselves, their prohibitions were limited to the very
few gratifications that are inconsistent with the habits of Indian
life. Avarice was a passion of which neither they nor their tribe had,
as yet, felt the influence. All things were in common; and individual
appropriation of property was unknown. The "strong waters" of the
white man, the fire which hath eaten into the bowels of the race of
the red man, had not yet diffused their poison, and drunkenness was a
vice of which these people did not understand the meaning. A moral
influence over the minds of their tribe was the only distinction to
which the priests of Onondaga had aspired. This influence they sought
to attain, not by inflicting penance upon the people, but by
pretending to immediate intercourse and communication with the Great
Spirit. Reverencing that Spirit, these good sons of the forest could
not forbear to respect the channels through which his wise and
benevolent communications were made.
Not only did these priests of the Manitou direct the devotions of the
people, and convey to them the responses of the same mighty Being in
times of peril, but won their love and confidence by professing to
heal their maladies. Identified with them in their ordinary pursuits,
they were, on common occasions, distinguished from them in exterior
decoration only by a bone which they wore on the left arm, like a
bracelet, just above the wrist, and by the method of arranging their
hair. On their bracelets were carved, in rude outline, the
representations of certain beasts; and on that of the eldest of the
prophets were other cabalistic inscriptions, of which none but the
wearers themselves could penetrate the meaning. Their hair, instead of
hanging loosely over their foreheads and shoulders, as was usual with
their tribe, in common with the other red men of the forest, was
collected into a roll at the top of the head, and tied round with a
string of red wampum, its extremities being suffered to fall on either
side, as nature or accident might dispose it. When they would
intercede with the Great Spirit, or know his will by divination, they
assumed other dresses; the skins of bears or buffaloes, or mantles
curiously woven of feathers. They usually dwelt together on a sort of
consecrated ground, set apart for their special accommodation, and
which was as unlike the rest of the valley, as the valley itself was
unlike the ordinary conformation of the earth. The allotted ground, or
space set apart for their use, was called _The Prophets' Plain_, and
was situated on a projecting declivity of the western side of this
beautiful glen, whose banks, although they presented, as they opened
and widened to the north, a regular outline, were, nevertheless,
varied in their actual surface by occasional deviations and
sinuosities, arising as well from the unexplainable curvatures of its
original structure, as from the narrow, deep ravines, that had been
worn by the autumn floods and perennial streamlets from the adjacent
hills. In like manner the surface of the bed of the valley was subject
to frequent inequalities, produced, perhaps, by the nature of the soil
on which it rested. It was formed of a soft stone and a hard stone.
Where the latter prevailed, the surface was usually more elevated and
undulating than where the former was found; and of that description
was the spot appropriated to the prophets of Onondaga. It was situated
about half a day's journey up the valley from the lake, and was
sufficiently elevated above the circumjacent level to command a view
of the broad bosom of the Ontario over the tops of the forest. Along
its outer extremity glided the beautiful stream of the glen. Upon one
side of the plain, where it was united to the hills, were the cabins
of the prophets.
The whole range of the valley, including its bed, and steep lofty
sides, was overspread with a dark and umbrageous forest. With this
circumstance, the few scattered patches appropriated to the
cultivation of maize, and "the openings," as they are denominated in
the western world, present a problem of no very easy solution. They
are unique in the vegetable kingdom, being midway between the
nakedness of a prairie and the thick gloom of a wilderness. The few
scattered trees that grow upon them are uniformly oak. They are
separated from each other at unequal distances, but are rarely less
than sixty yards apart. They do not shoot up to a lofty height, and
destitute of branches like the tenants of the thick woods, but bow
their heads, and spread their arms, as if conscious of their
dependence upon the precarious charity of a long-cultivated country.
Beneath them grows a coarse thin grass; but they are never encumbered
with the shrubs and underwood that usually form very serious obstacles
in the way of the forest traveller. The Prophets' Plain was the only
exception. Along the junction of the plain with the western hill, its
margin was thickly set with stunted pines, hemlocks, cedars, and,
beneath, tangled briars. No one ventured to penetrate these sacred
recesses, for there were extended, near the inner border, the few
scattered wigwams of the prophets. Such was the character and
description of the plain where the religious ceremonies of the
Onondagas were performed, and where their council fires were lighted.
In the interval of eighteen seasons, that had rolled away since the
erection of the fortress at Oswego, the character of the red men of
the valley had undergone a great and disastrous change.
From the most peaceable, inoffensive, and happy, of all the sons of
the forest, they had become the most dissolute, quarrelsome, and
drunken. They were constantly seen about the villages of the whites
begging, bartering every thing they possessed, and performing every
drudgery, however servile or degrading, for the strong waters of the
pale-face. The free and lofty spirit that once animated the nation was
gone; a spirit which, though it had not been often aroused to action,
was yet susceptible of the highest efforts of Indian heroism. Their
encounters with the neighbouring tribes had not been frequent, yet,
when they did take place, the Onondagas had displayed a spirit of
intrepid daring, of craft, of patience, and of hardihood in suffering,
that had seldom been surpassed among the nations of the forest. But
now the spirit of the tribe was broken, and they were no longer
numbered among the fierce resenters of wrong. The Oneidas trespassed
upon their hunting-grounds and slaughtered their people, yet their
warriors were too debased and abject to avenge the insult, or wipe
away the memory of their wrongs with blood. They were, evidently,
hastening to ruin. Their numbers were rapidly diminishing, as well
from the usual effects of intoxication as from the exposures and
accidents to which they were subjected from its influence; and, more
than all, from the constant quarrels and murders which daily took
place among them. In a few more years, if the course they then pursued
had been continued, the whole tribe must have become utterly extinct;
their name existing but in the recollection of the story-teller, and
the green turf alone marking the lands they once inhabited. It
fortunately happened, however, at the period alluded to, that the
prophets, together with a few of the elder chiefs, who had stood aloof
from the contaminating influence of the white men, were enabled to
arouse the almost extinguished energy of the people, so far as to
assemble them round a council-fire, that was lighted at early dawn one
frosty morning, in the Moon of Falling Leaves, on the Prophets' Plain.
The whole tribe was called together. A solemn gravity, even beyond the
ordinary measure of Indian deliberation, sat upon the countenance of
each chief and prophet, indicating that matters of high importance
were impending. These sat in a circle around the great fire, their
eyes cast upon the earth, and all silent as a grove of oaks in a calm
morning. Without the circle of chiefs and prophets stood promiscuously
grouped the remainder of the tribe--men, women, and children--all
discovering more than common anxiety to learn the reason of the
extraordinary call.
But let me not anticipate the circumstances that attended, nor the
events that followed, the _Warning_ of Tekarrah[A], as recited by
Wonnehush, chief of the Onondagas.
[Footnote A: Tekarrah, i.e. [Greek: angelos], messenger, of the Great
Spirit.]
From a remote corner of the camp, this aged man intimated an intention
to speak. A deep silence pervaded the whole crowd, and every eye was
fixed upon him. After a short pause, he slowly rose, and cast an
anxious eye around the room in which the fire was lighted. But his
eye, although it retained proof of its former power and lustre, had
now become dim with age. His furrowed brow, his whitened locks, and
bended form, once as straight as the arrow that sped from his youthful
bow, evinced the ravages which time had made on his noble form. Yet
his voice was still strong and clear. At length, adjusting the folds
of his blanket, he stretched forth his withered arm, and, with the
dignity of one from the Land of Souls, and with all the eloquence of
his race, thus addressed the wandering inmates of the camp:--
Brothers, shall Wonnehush tell you a lie? No! Let the white man, whose
heart is the heart of a fawn, and whose ways are the ways of the
serpent, let him speak with a forked tongue. It is for him that lives
in great towns, and buys his bread by selling strong waters, to poison
the red men--it is for him to deal in lies. The red man hunts the
buffalo, and traps the beaver in the woods that were given him by the
Great Spirit. He crosses the big mountain, and enters the deep valleys
beyond it, and no man dares to stop his path. He has a great heart,
and scorns to tell a lie. Hear, then, the words of Wonnehush!
Brothers, I am an oak of the forest. The snows of a hundred winters
have fallen on my branches. Once the tree was covered with green
leaves, but they have dropped at my side, and the sap, which once made
the tree strong and flourishing, has left the trunk, and the moisture
has decayed from my roots.
Brothers, I am an aged, a very aged man. I can no longer bend the bow
of my youth, and my tomahawk falls short of its death-mark. But my
ears have been open, and my tongue can repeat to you the traditions of
the valley. Listen to the chief of Onondaga, and believe the words he
will tell you, for he never spoke other than the truth. He never in
youth had a forked tongue, or a faint heart, and why should he bear
them now?
Brothers, the flowers of the prairie have blossomed and faded, and the
leaves of the forest budded and withered, more than fifty times since
the canoes of the white men entered the mouth of the Rapid River. My
tribe was then spread from the lake to the mountain, and the smoke of
their cabins curled over the tops of the hemlocks, from Skeneateles to
Oneida. The Great Spirit was their kind father. He looked into their
wigwams, and saw they were happy. They hunted the fat bear, the
stately moose, and the delicious deer, through wide forests, and
speared the juicy fish of many waters. Their hearts were very stout,
and their arms were very long. In war, who were so brave as the
Onondagas?--The scalps of their enemies were strung as thick upon
their belt-girdles as the stars in the path of the Master of Life.
Their wives were good and affectionate, their sons strong and brave,
and their daughters sweet-tempered and beautiful. They were happy, for
they were virtuous, and favoured by the Great Spirit, for they did all
they could to deserve his love.
Brothers, the white man came over the Great Lake, and settled down
upon all the best spots of the land, as the wild-duck lights upon the
lake which contains his favourite food. Soon his brothers joined him,
and, to protect their coward hearts from the red men, they built a
fort at Oswego. To that vile spot they enticed our young men, and our
women, to bring them the spoils of the water and the land--the fish,
venison, and skins--and gave them wampum and the fire-eater in
exchange. When they had swallowed the strong waters of the pale-faces,
they became as beasts, and fell about the earth like trees shivered by
lightnings, or prostrated by the tempest. When they arose from the
earth, it was to quarrel with each other. The ground was wet, and the
waters red, with the blood of Onandagas slain by the hands of their
brothers. They sought the deer, and the bear, and the moose, and the
wolf, no more, or, if they sought, their hands were so enfeebled by
the strong waters that the quest was fruitless, and the maize which
was planted was suffered to be choked with weeds. Instead of the noble
pastimes of war and the chace, they loitered around the cabins of the
white men; and, instead of the tongue which had been given them by
their father, the Great Spirit, and with which they had spoken for
many, many ages, they learned the tongue of the stranger. The words
and wise sayings of the prophets had no longer a charm for them, and
the traditions which once flowed from their lips to patient, and
pleased, and attentive, hearers, were neglected for the lying tales of
the stranger. The knees of the once swift runner shook like a reed in
the wind. The heart of the once fearless warrior had become softer
than woman's. The blood of his enemies no more reddened his tomahawk;
his shout of onset was heard no more among the hills of the Iroquois.
He became a prey to the cunning hatred of the strangers, whose anger
was kindled against him because he was the son of the Great Spirit.
And they mixed the poisonous juices of herbs with the strong waters
they gave him, that his death might be sure. Is it strange that our
people have disappeared from the plain, as the dew in the morning or
the snows of the Planting-Moon before the beams of the noontide sun?
Brothers, more than thirty years have passed since a council-fire was
kindled on the Prophets' Plain, in the Moon of Early Frost. It was a
great fire, for there were assembled all the people of the valley. In
the middle of the assembly stood the priests, next the chiefs and
warriors of Wonnehush, and without them the aged men and women, and
the children, and the wives of the warriors. Then the priests began
the dance and the howl, wherewith they commence their invocations to
the Great Spirit. Suddenly there appeared in the midst of the people a
stranger who was a head taller than the tallest man of the nation. His
form was noble and majestic beyond any thing ever seen by our people.
His eye had the brightness of the sunbeam, and his manner was
graceful as the waving of a field of corn. Upon the border of his
mantle were strange figures; and his belt of wampum glittered like the
girdle of the heavens. He was one upon whom no Onondaga eye had ever
before looked--a stranger in the valley--perhaps a warrior sent hither
by one of the fierce tribes of the land to insult, by some reproach,
for their effeminacy and weakness, the terror and sin-stricken
Onondagas.
At length he rose to speak, and every sound was hushed, not only in
the Indian camp, but in surrounding nature. Not a bird chirped; not a
leaf was heard to rustle among the trees of the plain; the beasts of
the forests were still; the busy bee desisted from its hum; even the
winds were hushed and silent while the stranger delivered his solemn
warning.
"I am," said he, "Tekarrah, the messenger of the Great Spirit.
Onondagas, listen to my words! I am come from your father, that same
Spirit, to speak the words of truth in your ears, and to tell you that
he is exceedingly angry with you. You have exchanged your broad and
rich lands for useless toys; you have taken the maize and the meat
from the mouths of your starving children, to purchase from the
strangers the strong waters which have made your warriors as timid as
the deer you once hunted through the forests. You have thrown away
the tongue which was given you by your Great Father, and have taken
that of your destroyers. You have forgotten the deeds of your fathers,
which made them feared and honoured from the Falls of the Mohawk to
Lake Huron. The Great Spirit has spoken to you in his thunders, and by
the mouth of his priests, but you have heard neither; and, though his
blessings were showered thick upon you, you have been like adders, and
stung the hand which dispensed them.
"Onondagas! hear the warning words of the Great Spirit. If you will
return to your cabins, and forget the things that were taught you, and
unlearn the tongue of the white man, to use again the language of your
fathers--if, instead of the rifle, you will shoot with the bow, and
cause the arrow to whistle instead of the bullet--if you will cease to
give the spoils of the chace and the produce of your fields for beads
and strong waters--if you will chase the Oneidas from your
hunting-grounds, and again occupy them yourselves--then will the Great
Spirit forgive you, and once more take you to his bosom. But, if you
will not hearken to his voice, nor to the voice of his prophets,
listen to the words of vengeance.
"Before twelve moons shall have faded from the skies, your tribe shall
have passed away. Not an Onondaga shall be left to tell the proud
story of the glory of his nation. The cabin of the pale-face shall be
built on the burial spot of your fathers, and his herds and flocks
shall feed on the consecrated ground of the priests. The white man
shall say to his children--'Here once lived a people called the
Onondagas. They once were the bravest of all the tribes of the land,
but they became the most feeble and cowardly. It was the cunning of
whites which wrought their ruin. We gave them strong waters--they
tasted the poison--they loved it--and lo! we dwell upon their ashes.'"
Brothers, a sudden blast of wind shook the branches of the trees, a
black cloud overspread the plain, and, although every eye seemed fixed
upon the place where Tekarrah had stood, yet he was gone. He had come
and vanished like one of those fiery balls that we see on a summer's
evening, travelling in the misty valleys.
Brothers, we returned to our cabins, and pondered upon his words. They
sunk deep into our hearts, and our tribe profited by the warning. We
forsook all trade with the white men, and forgot their tongue. We
threw away the rifle which was heard no more in our woods, and made
the bow and arrow, and the tomahawk, and the war-club, again our
weapons. Again we were clothed with the skins of the animals we slew
in the chace, and the meat we killed in the woods was applied as it
should be, to feed our young ones. The snows of more than thirty
winters have whitened our valley, since we have abstained from the
strong waters of the pale-faces. Our nation have since grown like the
oak, firm and strong-rooted, and the Oneidas dare no longer kindle
their fires on our border. Our warriors have hearts as stout as our
fathers in the olden time; our runners outstrip the wild cat for
agility, and the roebuck for speed. Our people linger no more round
the settlement at Oswego, but are happy and contented in the deep
shades of the forest, with the coarse but healthy enjoyments of Indian
life. The Great Spirit again smiles upon his children, and they smoke
in the calumet of peace. Our tribe is strong and warlike, in the full
vigour of health, while the red men of other nations are perishing
around us.
Brothers, hear me, for I am old, and your fathers were wont to hear
the council of the elders. Remember the tale of Wonnehush; he tells
you no lie. Carry his words to your tribes, and let the warning of
Tekarrah be heard in every wigwam beyond the mountains.
* * * * *
Much has been said and written of the eloquence of the Indians, but it
all conveys a very imperfect and inadequate idea of the beauty and
excellence of their orations. They are untranslatable by whites, for
we are without the nice perception of natural beauty and sublimity
which the Indian possesses, and therefore cannot convey with accuracy
and fulness his ideas of the external objects from which his figures
and metaphors are drawn. If a bird flits before him, he discerns hues,
and remarks circumstances in its notes and motions, which are
imperceptible to the white man. The same acuteness which enabled an
Indian scout to apprise his commander, and to apprise him correctly,
that an "Indian, tall and very cowardly, with a new blanket, a short
gun, and an old dog," had passed[A] where the utmost industry of his
employer could find no trace or footstep, is carried into every
pursuit, and forms a part of every faculty and quality of the Indian.
But to return to his elocution.
[Footnote A: His stature he determined by the width of his stride, and
his cowardice by his avoidance of remote dangers, and the wide circuit
he took to escape contact with any one, his having a new blanket by
the portion of nap left on the branches of the trees among which he
passed. His having a short gun he discovered by the mark left in the
bark of the tree against which he had leaned the muzzle, and an old
dog by the mumbling of a bone dropped in their path.]
That was a beautiful figure of Tecumseh's to an American, who speaking
of the President of the United States had used the expression "Your
Great Father." "My great father!" exclaimed the indignant chief; "the
_Sun_ is my father, and the earth is my mother, and I repose on her
bosom."
When the Seminoles were defeated by General Jackson, their chief came
into the presence of the victor with all the pride and firmness that
belong to an Indian warrior. The conqueror demanded why he had
surrendered so soon. "I have not surrendered soon," answered the
chief; "I planted and harvested my corn on the right bank of the river
of my people, while I fought the pale-faces on the left." This history
of a warfare protracted to four months--for the period between the
planting and harvesting of maize is of that or greater duration--was
beautiful, though brief, but it was literally true. A gentleman
present assured me that the dignity of his manner, as well as the
matter of his speech, sent a thrill of awe to the bosom of every one
of the assembly.
One of the most beautiful Indian speeches on record is that of Logan,
the Mingo chief. It is one of the most affecting narratives of
individual sorrow that I ever read. It has been frequently
quoted--nevertheless there may be some to whom it may be new, and I
shall transcribe it for their use. It is the language of truth and
nature clothed in its most beautiful form.
"In the year 1774, a robbery having been committed by some
Indians upon the white settlers on the Ohio, the latter
undertook, in a summary way, to punish the outrage. They
surprised, at different times, several of the Indian
hunting parties, with their women and children, and murdered
many of them. Among these was the family of Logan, a
celebrated chief, who had always distinguished himself as
the friend of the whites. This ungrateful return provoked
his vengeance, and in the war which ensued he highly
signalized himself. In the autumn of that year, the Indians
were defeated in a decisive battle, and sued for peace.
Logan, however, disdained to be seen among the suppliants.
But, in order that no distrust might arise in the treaty on
account of the absence of so celebrated a warrior, he sent,
by the hands of General Gibson, the following speech, to be
delivered to Lord Dunmore, the governor of Virginia:--
"I appeal to any white man to say if ever he entered Logan's
cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat: if ever he came cold
and naked, and he clothed him not. During the course of the
last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin,
an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that
my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, 'Logan is
the friend of white men.' I had even thought to have lived
with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Crespal,
the last spring, in cold blood and unprovoked, murdered all
the relations of Logan, not even sparing my women and
children. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of
any living creature. This called on me for revenge; I have
sought it; I have killed many; I have fully glutted my
vengeance. For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace;
but do not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear.
Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to save
his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan?--Not one."
III. THE LEGEND OF POMPERAUG.
Three suns, and no more, would it take the feet of a fleet Mohawk to
journey to the spot which contains the dust of Pomperaug, the last man
of his tribe. The spot where that chief drew his breath was a small
and level valley, surrounded by lofty and thickly wooded hills, with a
cool, clear, bright, little stream, rippling through its green and
flowery meadows. When he first saw the light of the great star, this
spot was not divested of its trees; my countrymen, from the distant
regions over the great waters, came with their sharp axes and lithe
arms, and swept away the loved retreats of the red inhabitants of the
land. The beautiful trees which hung over the quiet little river of
Pomperaug and his people, like a mother bending over her sleeping
infant, fell before them like a field of corn bowed to the earth by a
tempest of wind. And very soon was the tribe itself swept away by the
same resistless torrent which divested their land of its sylvan
adornments. The Great Sachem of the East, who dwelt on the lofty
Haup, having engaged in a war with my brethren, the Pomperaugs took
part with the king of the Pequods, and a large part of them shared in
his destruction. The chief fell, pierced by the arrow of the Great
King. His son, still a boy, with a remnant of his father's people,
when the war was finished by the death of the warlike and cunning
Sachem of Haup, returned to their native valley: and, submitting
themselves to their conquerors, sat down by the beloved river, and,
apparently were content to toil for the white man in the fields which
had once been their own. Yet it was with a deep remembrance of their
wrongs, and a determination, at a convenient opportunity, to take a
deep and bloody revenge. The period had now arrived when the young
chief had reached the age of manhood. He took, as was the custom of
his fathers, the name of his tribe, and was accordingly called
Pomperaug. A nobler youth was never seen, either red or white. He was
tall, and finely formed, with an eye that gleamed like the flashes of
the diamond, and a brow, upon which were stamped the greatness of his
mind, the lofty and honourable feelings which filled his soul. He was
such a one as the Indian contemplates with delight, and gazes upon
with idolatry. His foot was swift as that of the deer; his arrow was
sure as the pursuit of the eagle; his sagacity penetrating as the
light of the sun. The maidens of his own tribe looked upon him with
eyes of love; and there were not a few among the maidens of my own
colour who confessed that he was "beautiful, and noble in form, and
worthy to be loved by red and white."
Such was Pomperaug. But his nation was passing away, and but fifty of
his own tribe now dwelt in the valley in which his fathers, numberless
as the leaves upon the oaks under which they dwelt, had hunted for
many ages. The day of their dominion was past. There was a spell over
the dark warrior. The Great Spirit had sealed his doom. He had sent
strange men to his shores--and a change had come over the face of the
land. The thickly settled town--the lofty spire of the house where men
assembled to worship the Great Being--the fields, green, and glowing
with the deep verdure of spring--the slopes of the hills, made smooth
with cultivation--had taken the place of the lofty forest, from which
arose the cry of the red warrior, as he rushed on his foes, or the
plash of his oar, as he swept his light canoe on his expeditions of
war or love. The stranger had built his house upon the margin of his
favourite streams, whence a portion of his daily food was procured;
and he, whose soil it was, had fled from the profanation of his
father's bones. One by one, like leaves in the Harvest-Moon, had they
dropped from the vision of those around them. To-day, you saw a son of
the forest with an eye like the eagle's, and a foot like the
antelope's; to-morrow, he was gone, and gone without a token. The
waters that lave the thirsty sands of the seashore sink not more
silently in their ebb than the Indians have disappeared from the
vicinity of the abodes of white men. And in this same silent way
floated down the stream of oblivion the Indians of the valley of
Pomperaug. Perceiving that their doom was sealed, they patiently
submitted to a fate which they could not avert.
It was, therefore, without resistance that they received into the
heart of their little territory a company of the people of my nation.
They were in number about thirty. Their governor, who was also their
priest, was a man of great age, though possessed of all the mental and
bodily vigour of youth. His years were more than three score and ten,
and his hair as white as snow, yet his feet were sprightly as those of
a young deer. His tall and broad form was still erect; his eye had
lost none of its fire, nor his temper any of its energy; he was old in
years, but young in the vigour of his soul.
This aged priest had brought to the valley of Pomperaug the remnant of
a family of many souls. It was a maiden--the daughter of his only son
who, with his wife, had slept many years in the house of death. Her
name was Mary, and well might she be the object of all the earthly
affections which still beat in the bosom of one whom death had made
acquainted with sorrow, and who but for her had been alone.
Mary had now seen the harvest gathered in seventeen times. She was the
most beautiful of all the maidens of the land. She was tall and
slender, with a dark expressive eye, whose slow movements seemed full
of soul and sincerity. Her hair was of a glossy black, parted upon a
forehead of dazzling whiteness, and shading a cheek which vied in its
blush with the pale rose of the wilds. And snow was not whiter than
her stately neck, and rounded arm, and little hand.
They had been settled in the valley of Pomperaug but a few moons, when
an application from the aged priest to purchase a portion of the young
chief's lands brought him to the cabin of the former. It was a bright
morning in autumn, and, while he was talking with the priest at the
door, the lovely maiden, who had been gathering flowers, the late
flowers of the season, in the adjacent woods, passed by them, and
entered the hut. The eye of the young chief followed her with the gaze
of entrancement. His face shone as if he had seen a vision of more
than earthly beauty, some bright spirit of the air. But this emotion
was visible only for a moment. With the habitual self-command of those
who are trained in the wilds, he turned again to the aged priest, and
calmly pursued the subject which occasioned their meeting.
Pomperaug went away, but he carried the image of the beautiful maiden
with him. He retired to his wigwam, but it did not please him--a
vacant and dissatisfied feeling filled his bosom. He went to the top
of the high rock, at the foot of which his hut was situated, and,
seating himself upon the broad flat stone, cast his eyes over the
river, upon which the beams of the morning were just beginning to cast
their quivering light. The scene, once so pleasing, afforded him no
joy. He turned away, and sent his long gaze over the checkered leaves
of the forest, which spread like a sea over the beautiful valley. He
was still dissatisfied. With a bound he sprang from the rock into the
valley, and, alighting on his feet, snatched his bow, and took the
path which led into the forest. In a few moments he returned listless
and vacant, and, seating himself upon the rock, brooded for many hours
in silence.
The sun of the next morning had been but a few minutes abroad on the
earth, when Pomperaug repaired to the house of the aged priest to
finish the business of the preceding day. He had before signified his
intention to part with his land on the terms offered him, but he now
declined.
"Why will not the son of the chief, who fell in the Moon of Green
Corn, give to the pale-face for the things he wants the lands he does
not plough, the woods that are bare of game, the waters whose fish
glide unharmed by his spear?" demanded the priest.
"Listen, father--hear a red man speak," answered the young chief.
"Mark yonder eagle--how joyous his flight among the clouds. The sky is
his home, he loves it, and grief seizes his heart when he leaves it.
Will he barter it for the sea? No. Look into the river, and ask the
fish that sports so happy in its clear bosom, if he will sell his
birth-place, and he will, if he speak at all, answer No. Shall the red
man sell for a few strings of beads, and a piece of red cloth, the
spot that contains his father's bones? No. Yet, father, I will part
with my forests, if thou wilt give me the beautiful singing-bird that
is in thy nest."
"Savage," said the priest indignantly and haughtily, "shall the lamb
lie down in the den of the wolf? shall the fawn knock at the lair of
the panther, and enter and take up her abode? Never! Name not the
thing again--I would sooner see her die! Name it not." As he spoke he
struck his cane forcibly on the ground, and his broad figure seemed to
expand and grow taller, while his eye gleamed, and the muscles of his
brow contracted, with a lowering and stern expression. The air and
manner of the Indian were changed. His countenance while pleading his
suit had worn an air of supplication unusual with his race, but his
eye flashed fire at the reproof and the refusal of the priest to
sanction his love, and his manner assumed a proud dignity which it had
not before. As the dull colours of the snake, when he becomes enraged,
are succeeded by the glowing hues of the rainbow, so was the meek look
which Pomperaug had at first worn followed by one better befitting the
untamed and stern lord of the forest.
The priest and the chief parted, and Pomperaug refused to sell his
lands. He was now changed to all around him. With the white people he
held no further communication, and said little to his own people,
unless to cultivate in them a hatred of their neighbours. His whole
soul was filled with love for the beautiful pale-face. His old and
cherished pursuits and pastimes no longer gave him pleasure; the bow
lay unstrung in a corner of his cabin, and his canoe was no longer
seen, impelled by his strong arm, gliding over the river.
As might have been expected from the bitter disappointment of
Pomperaug in not being able to obtain the maiden, and that of the
priest at failing to obtain the coveted lands, difficulties soon grew
up between the Indians and their neighbours, and violent feelings were
shortly excited on both sides. This soon broke out into open quarrels,
and one of the white men was shot by the arrow of an Indian hunter, as
he was returning through the woods to his home. The whites determined
to seek instant revenge, and accordingly, gathering their men
together, they followed the Indians into the broken and rocky regions
which lie east of the valley of Pomperaug, whither, expecting pursuit,
they had retreated.
It was about an hour before sunset, when the Yengeese, consisting of
twenty men well armed after the fashion of the whites, and led by the
aged priest, who, old as he was, still retained the spirit of a
youthful warrior, were marching through a deep ravine, about two miles
east of their village. The rocks on either side were lofty, and so
narrow was the dell, that the shadows of night had already gathered
over it. The pursuers had sought their enemies the whole day in vain,
and, having lost all traces of them, they were now returning to their
homes. Untaught by dear bought experience, they marched along heedless
of the dangers which surrounded them--disregardful of the advantages
offered to their cunning foes by the rocks and thickly wooded
eminences around them. Suddenly the shrill war-whoop burst from the
rocks at their feet, and many armed Indians sprang up before them. An
arrow pierced the breast of the aged priest, and he fell dead in front
of his band. Two Indians met their death at the hands of their foes,
the remainder sought the forest. Several of the Yengeese were wounded,
but none mortally, save the priest.
With mournful silence they bore back the body of their father to the
dwelling his aged feet had left but a few hours before. He was buried
in a lonely and sequestered nook of the valley, and the orphan maiden
turned away with a desolate and breaking heart, to be for the first
time alone in the humble cabin in the wilderness.
* * * * *
A season had passed away, and another harvest had come. The tribe of
Pomperaug had disappeared, and the rock on which the priest met his
death had been consecrated by many prayers of those who loved him. His
blood was still visible upon the spot, and thither his people often
repaired to kneel, and offer up petitions for the repose of his
spirit. They believed that their hearts were softened, and their
spirits visited with the richest gifts of heavenly grace, when they
came to the spot where he had met his death.
It was a mild and beautiful evening in summer, when the maiden for the
last time went to spend an hour at this holy spot. Long had she knelt,
and most fervently had she prayed to her kind creator. The sun went
down, and, as the veil of evening fell, the full moon climbed over the
ridge of rocks which rose on the east side of the valley, pouring its
white light into the lone and quiet recesses and solitudes around her,
and the good and beauteous maiden was still kneeling, still communing
with that Being whom every nation and tongue, civilized and savage,
red and white, delight to honour and worship--at least with their
lips, though their hearts may be far from him.
At length, a slight noise, like the crushing of a leaf, woke her from
her trance, and, springing quickly on her feet, and filled with sudden
and unusual fears, she set out on her return to the village. Alarmed
at her distance from home at such an hour, and by the sounds from time
to time repeated, she proceeded along with great rapidity. She was
obliged to climb up the rocks with great care, as the darkness
rendered it a critical and dangerous task. At length she reached the
top. Standing upon the verge of the cliff, she then turned a moment
to look back upon the valley. The moon was shining full upon the vale,
and she gazed with a mixture of awe and delight upon the sea of green
leaves, which slept in death-like repose beneath her. She then turned
to pursue her path homeward, but what was her amazement to see before
her, in the full moonlight, the tall form of Pomperaug! She shrieked,
and swift as his own arrow, sprang over the dizzy cliff. The young
chief listened--there was a moment of silence--then a heavy sound like
the falling of a body upon the hard earth--and the dell was still as
the tomb.
The fate of the beautiful maiden was known only to Pomperaug. He
buried her with a lover's care, amid the rocks of the glen. Then,
bidding adieu to his native valley, with a bursting heart, he joined
his people, who had retired to the banks of the distant Housatonac.
* * * * *
Many years passed away, and the swift and stealthy hunter had been
succeeded by the patient and industrious white cultivator. Few traces
of the Indian were remaining. The weak and irresolute--they who could
see unmoved the dwelling-places of their fathers usurped by strangers,
had found unhonoured graves in their own woods--the brave and
resolute had gone yet farther into the forest. The rotten bow and
quiver, and the rusted arrow, were frequently turned up by the plough,
and little fields of scarce the breadth of an arrow's flight disclosed
where the red man had once tasted his narrow enjoyments of home and
shelter, and these were all that marked where he had been. The bitter
persecutors of the rightful possessors of these wide-spread lands were
in possession of every fertile spot, while the Indian roved in strange
lands, a wanderer, and an outcast.
It was in the pleasant month when the birds build their nests on the
boughs of trees, that a white man, seated on the margin of the river
which swept along by the grave of the deceased maiden, saw a train of
men slowly approaching, bearing a human corpse. He crept into a
sequestered spot, and watched their progress. Approaching the little
hillock where the dust of the maiden reposed, they deposited their
load on the earth, and commenced digging a fresh grave by its side.
When it was finished, they placed the corpse in it, together with the
implements commonly buried with an Indian warrior, his bow, quiver of
arrows, spear, pipe, &c. The white man, fearing discovery, retreated,
and left them to finish their solemn labours unobserved. In the
morning, the funeral train had departed, but the fresh earth and the
low heap of stones revealed the secret. They remain there to this day,
and the two little mounds are shown by the villagers, as the graves of
the beautiful Mary and the faithful Pomperaug.
IV. THE SON OF ANNAWAN.
The son of the white man sat in his house on the border of the Indian
nations, when there came a red man to his door, leading a beautiful
woman with a little child in her arms, and spoke thus:--
"Dost thou see the sun?"
"I see the sun," answered the white man, haughtily.
"Three times," said the Indian, "has that sun risen, and thrice has he
sunk from my eyes behind the dark hills of the west, since I or mine
have tasted food. For myself, I care little--I am a man of the woods,
a patient warrior; I can fast seven suns; I am not even now faint--but
a tender woman has not the soul of a strong warrior, and when she sees
not meat every day, she leans her head upon her hand, and when her
child droops for food she weeps. Give me food."
"Begone!" said the white man, "I earn my bread and meat by the sweat
of my brow--"
"On the lands of the Indian," interrupted the stern warrior.
"On my own lands--lands reclaimed from wildness--lands suffered to lie
waste for ages, and only made to be of use to human beings when my
race came hither with hard hands and patient souls, and felled the
trees, and rooted out the obstacles which kept out the beams of the
cherishing and invigorating sun. Begone to thy den in the wilderness!"
"Give me but food for the Sparrow and her little one, and the Hawk
will go without. He has yet strength enough left to enable him to
carry his feet to the wilds stocked with deer, and the Great Being
will himself direct the arrow which is to procure the means to sustain
life. But my wife and child, whose lives I value beyond my own, will
faint and die, ere that distant spot be gained."
"You shall have no food here; I will not feed lazy Indians," answered
the white man.
The Indian said nothing, but the pale and fainting mother looked on
her sick infant and burst into tears.
There was sitting on the greensward at the Englishman's door a
beautiful little girl not yet grown to perfect womanhood, but on its
verge--a fawn far in its second season--a tree wanting but a few more
suns to be clothed with the blossoms of maturity. She was the only
child of the white man--the only pledge of love left him by a beloved
wife who slept in the earth. She was most tenderly beloved by her
father, and seldom asked any thing in vain. At her side sat a boy,
perhaps two or three seasons older, playing with her the games of
childhood.
"Father," said she, rising and approaching him in a supplicating
manner, "suppose your daughter was cast friendless and hungry among
the sons of the forest, and they denied her food. Would not the wrath
of the Great Spirit be upon them for their inhumanity?"
The father looked thoughtful, but made no reply.
"Father, do you love your child?--If you do, permit her to feed the
good Indian father who would starve himself so those he loves could be
fed. Permit me to wipe the tears from the dark cheek of the mother,
and to take a crumb of bread from your plenteous store to put in the
mouth of the famished child."
The father could deny nothing to his beloved daughter, and, besides,
the little boy pleaded for the famished Pequods also, and he yielded.
With a light and bounding step the two children pursued the fainting
Indians and brought them back. Food was set before them till their
hunger was appeased; the little girl laid the little Indian babe on
her own knee and fed it with her own hand, nor were they permitted to
depart till refreshed by a rest of two days. They then returned to
their own homes in the wilderness, and their little benefactors
attended them to the skirts of the forest, two miles from the cruel
father's dwelling.
* * * * *
Several seasons had passed away; the little girl, who had so kindly
interposed to feed the miserable Indians, had grown to womanhood, and
had become the wife of that boy and a mother. Her husband was a
cultivator of the soil, and with the disposition to seek new lands,
and try untried regions, which every where belongs to white men, he
had built himself a cabin very far from the spot where he and his wife
drew their breath. On the banks of a distant river, on a pleasantly
situated little hill, which enjoyed the bright morning sun, he erected
his cabin and sowed his wheat. He went not, however, to the wilderness
alone: many other white men went with him, and, for protection against
the red men of the forest, whose wrongs had stirred them to bitter
hatred and revenge, they built a fort, to which they might retreat in
case of danger. The cabin of the benefactors of the starving Indian
family was at a distance of a mile from the fort--the husband being
the first who had ventured to reside at such a distance from a
garrison or fortified house.
"I shall return before dark," said he one day to his affectionate
wife, as he was preparing to go down to the fort on some business.
"There is no danger, my beloved," continued he, as he took up his
little son, and, kissing him, laid him in his fond mother's arms.
"But my dreams, my husband--my frightful dreams of tall savages and
shrill war-whoops!" said she.
"Oh! that should not frighten you," he replied. "Remember, you had
been listening all the evening to dark and terrific stories of what
had been done by the native warrior when he raised his arm in defence
of his birth-place. Dreams are caused by that which most engrosses our
thoughts--particularly just as we are going to sleep. There have not
been any traces of the Indians discovered this season, and I should be
sorry to raise an alarm among our friends merely upon account of a
dream."
"But you know, my husband," said she, "that they are a secret, as well
as a terrible enemy--they are, you know, eagles for daring, panthers
for fierceness, adders for secrecy, and foxes for cunning." And she
raised her mild eyes to her husband's face with that pleading
expression when tears seem ready to start, and are yet checked by the
fear of giving pain to the one beloved. A fond husband finds it
impossible to withstand the tears of his wife, and he said, quickly,
"I will not go to the garrison to-day."
"But you promised your father, and he will expect you," answered she.
"You must go. I know my fears are the fears of a child, but they shall
not make me wicked. I am too apt to think my security depends on your
presence. I forgot that the One mighty to save can defend me, and that
trust in Him is a shield to the believer. You must go."
"But I will not go without you," said her husband, who now began to
feel the fears she was endeavouring to shake off. "Come, prepare the
child, and we will go down together. If there has been any alarm, we
will not return to-night, but pass it under the protection of the
fort."
The wife paused a few moments, as if considering what she should do. I
need not tell you, for you know that nothing is so difficult to
explain--nothing so contradictory as the feelings and wishes of the
human heart. A few moments since she would have thought that if she
could accompany her husband she should be perfectly safe--that his
presence would obviate every danger ere it arose. But now other
considerations presented themselves to her mind. If he went not to the
council, he might incur reproof for listening to a woman's fears and
dreams; and dread of ridicule prevented her from accompanying him.
"I will have more fortitude," said she, smiling. "I will not make a
fool of you, though I appear like one myself--you shall not have
reason to be ashamed of your wife--I will not go." And she sat down
resolutely, determined to conquer her fears. It was in vain that her
husband urged her to accompany him. The more she saw his affectionate
anxiety on her account, the more she laboured to suppress her fears,
till finally she persuaded him, and herself too, that she felt no
uneasiness at all from the prospect of passing a lengthened period
alone, and he departed.
But she had affected resolution which she was far from feeling. She
felt a presentiment that danger was nigh, and it weighed heavily on
her heart. But she saw him depart without tears, and, after watching
him from the door till he entered the forest, betook herself to the
usual duties of a woman in the house of her husband. Yet she could not
forbear going frequently to the door, and sometimes she would wander
forth, and gaze all around their little field, and then watch the
progress of the sun, with an expression of countenance, that, to an
observer, would instantly have revealed the agitation and anxiety
which her heart was suffering. But she saw nothing to inspire
fears--indeed there was much to tranquillize them. Every thing abroad
was in perfect quiet. There was scarcely a breath of air perceptible;
and the waters of the beautiful Merrimack flowed without a ripple. The
calm sky of the last month of summer looked of a deeper and more
heavenly blue, seen as it was by her from a spot circumscribed by tall
trees, now clothed with such a fulness of foliage as made the forest
appear dark and almost impenetrable. Close around the house were
planted corn and vegetables; and a field of wheat, in front of the
dwelling, stretched in unbroken green to the river's brink. There was
not a sound to be heard--save the chirping of a robin that had built
her nest on a lofty chesnut which stood close to the south-east corner
of the house--the only tree suffered to grow within the enclosure. The
young birds were fully fledged, and, under the guidance of the
parents, were about quitting their nest. The lovely wife watched their
movements; the old birds now encouraging, now seeming to chide, their
timid offspring, till finally they reached the woods, and all
disappeared. Slight as the circumstance was, it touched her with a
feeling of loneliness. "Even the birds have left me," said she to
herself, and, pressing her boy closer to her bosom, she burst into
tears. She might well be excused these tears and feelings, for, though
a wife and mother, she had seen the leaves fall but seventeen times.
She watched the sun till it sunk behind the western hills, and then
she watched its beams on the clouds till the last faint tints had
departed: and, fixing her eyes stedfastly on that part of the forest,
from which she expected to see her husband emerge, she sat at the
door, with her child in her arms, watching, in vain, for his
appearance. As the evening waxed later, and her fears increased, she
sometimes imagined she saw strange figures and ferocious faces, with
eyes beaming wrath and vengeance, such as she had beheld in her dream,
moving about the dusky apartment. Ashamed of these fears, and knowing
that her husband, when he came home, would chide her for thus exposing
herself and her child to the evening dews, she breathed a short prayer
to Him who stilled the tempest, and entered the house. Her first care,
after placing her infant in his cradle, was, to light a candle, and
then, more reassured, she took the sacred book from which white men
gather their belief of the land of souls and of future happiness. That
book is the "charm," and the protecting "medicine" of the white men.
They believe that it guards them from evil, and guides them to good;
its pages are a direction in every difficulty--its promises a resource
in every trial. She read and prayed alternately, mingling the idea of
her husband, his safety and return, with every thought and wish, but
still he came not. She had no means of ascertaining the lapse of time,
except by the stars, as there was no moon; but she conjectured that it
must be past the hour of midnight. Again and again she went forth, and
examined with a searching glance every thing around, but nothing could
she see, except the dark forest in the distance, and, close around her
dwelling, the black stumps that stood like sentinels on guard--while
nothing was heard, save the soft murmur of the water, and, at times, a
low rustling, as the breeze stirred the leaves of the chesnut-tree, or
swept over the field of ripe wheat.
At length, as she stood at the corner of the cabin, beneath the shade
of the chesnut, of which I have before spoken, looking earnestly
towards the distant woods, she saw, or thought she saw, something
emerge from their shadow. Whatever it was, it vanished instantly. She
kept her eyes fixed on the spot. A bright starlight enabled her to
discern objects distinctly, even at a distance, especially when her
faculties were roused and stimulated, both by hope and fear. After
some time, she again and plainly saw a human figure. It rose from the
ground, looked and pointed towards her house, and then again
disappeared. She recollected her light. It could be seen from the
window, and probably had attracted the notice of the Indians, who, she
could no longer doubt, were approaching. They had, as she fancied,
waylaid and killed her husband--and were now coming to destroy herself
and her child. What should she do? She never thought of attempting to
escape without her babe; but in what direction should she fly, when,
perhaps, the Indians surrounded the cabin? There was one moment of
terrible agony, when the mangled form of her husband seemed before
her, and she heard, in idea, the shrieks of her babe beneath the
tortures of your race, till her breath failed, and reason seemed
deserting her. But she made a strong effort to recall her wandering
senses, and then, with her eyes and clasped hands raised to that place
where the white man believes his God to reside, she took her
resolution. With a noiseless step she entered her dwelling,
extinguished the light, took her infant in her arms, and again stole
softly forth, creeping along in the shadow of the house, till she
reached the spot whence she had first seen the object which alarmed
her. Here she stood perfectly still. Her infant lay on her bosom in
profound sleep--as quiet and seemingly as breathless as though his
spirit had already departed. She did not wait long before the same
dark figure again rose, looked around, and then sank down as before.
The moment it disappeared, she passed swiftly and softly, as a shadow,
over the space that separated the cabin from the chesnut-tree. This
tree was an uncommonly large one, and there was a separation of the
trunk into two branches, about half the height of a tall man from the
ground, where the shuddering wife thought it possible that she might
conceal herself. She gained it, and placed herself in a position which
allowed her to watch the door of her dwelling. All was silent for a
long time--more than that space, which among my people, is called an
hour, and she began to doubt the reality of what she had seen,
imagining she had been deceived, and taken a stump for a human figure;
and she was about to descend from the tree, where her situation had
become uncomfortable, when suddenly a forest warrior stept by her,
between the house and the tree. As another, and another, followed, it
was with difficulty she suppressed her screams. But she did suppress
them, and the only sign she gave of fear, was to press her infant
closer to her bosom. They reached the door, and a sound of surprise at
finding it open was muttered by the first who approached it, and
replied to by the second. After a short consultation they entered, and
she soon saw a light gleam, and supposed they had kindled it to search
for her. Her pulse beat wildly; yet, still she hoped to escape. It was
not probable that they would search a tree so near the cabin; they
would rather suppose she had fled to a distance. Presently a crackling
noise was heard in the cabin, and a bright light, as of flame, flashed
from the door and window. Presently the Indians rushed out, and,
raising their wild yell, danced around the cabin with their usual
demonstrations of joy, when they have accomplished a purpose of
revenge. The cabin was in flames.
Still the only sign she gave of fear was, as she unloosed the
handkerchief from her neck and threw it over her child's face to
screen his eyes from the glare of light that might awaken him, to
press him closer and closer to her heart.
The house was unfinished; there was nothing to delay, for a moment,
the progress of the fire which had been kindled in the centre of the
apartment, and fed by all the combustibles that could be found in the
dwelling. The flame very soon caught the rafters and boards, and it
seemed that she had scarcely time to breathe a dozen times, before the
blaze burst through the roof. The atmosphere, rarified by the heat
around the burning building, suddenly expanded, and the cold and more
dense air rushing in, it seemed as if a sudden wind was blowing
violently. The current drove the thick smoke, and showered the burning
cinders, directly on the chesnut-tree. She felt the scorching heat,
while the suffocating vapour almost deprived her of the power of
respiration. She grew dizzy; yet still the only movement she made was,
to turn her child a little in her arms, that he might be more
effectually shielded from the smoke. At that moment, one of the
warriors approached, in the wild movements of his dance, close to the
tree. An eddy of wind swept away the smoke; the light fell full on the
pale face of the horror-stricken woman; her eyes, as if by the power
of fascination, were rivetted on the tall and dusky form of the son of
the forest; his fiery glance was raised toward her, and their gaze
met. She gave a start; and the note of his wild war-song was shriller
as he intently regarded his victim. Suddenly he turned away. Murmuring
a short prayer to her God, the trembling woman resigned herself to
death, as she heard them all send forth a prolonged whoop.
"My boy! My husband! We shall meet, we shall all meet in Heaven!" she
cried.
But why did not the Indians approach? She listened, looked around, and
soon saw them flying with the speed of frighted deer across the space
of cleared land, illuminated by the bright glare, to the covert of the
wood. She did not pause to consider what had caused their flight; but,
obeying that instinct which bids us shun the present danger, perhaps
to encounter a greater more remote, she sprang from the tree, and
rushed towards the river. She recollected a spot where the bank
projected, beneath which, during the summer months, the bed of the
river was nearly dry; there she should, at least, be secure from the
fire.
And there she sheltered herself. Her feet were immersed in water, and
she stood in a stooping posture to screen herself from observation,
should the Indians return to seek her. In the mean time, her little
boy slumbered peacefully, and regardless of surrounding perils. None
of her fears or dangers disturbed his repose; and, when the morning
light allowed her to gaze on his sweet face, lit up by the smiles of
infantile joy, as he beheld the maternal eyes beaming love upon him,
tears of bliss and thankfulness flowed fast down her cheeks that she
had been enabled thus to shield that dear innocent from death.
Soon after the sun had risen she heard sounds as of people
approaching, and soon recognised the voices of her friends from the
garrison. She was conveyed, with her child, to the fort, which her
husband had left, she learned, about sunset the preceding evening.
Nothing was known, or could be discovered, of his fate; no track nor
trace remained to show whether he was to be reckoned among the dead or
the living.
* * * * *
The husband of her, whose escape from the wrath of red men I have
related to the Iroquois, was returning from the fort to his own
habitation, soon after the damps of evening were abroad on the earth.
He was joyous and merry at the thought of embracing his beloved wife
and child, and whistled and sang, as he went, like a lark in the
morning. Just as he was entering the edge of a deep valley, which lay
between his cabin and the protected dwellings of his friends, four
Pequods rushed from the thick woods upon him. One of them seized his
rifle before he had time to use it; while another struck him a blow on
the head with his tomahawk, which deprived him of recollection, until
near the return of the light.
When he did recover, he found himself lying at the foot of a tree, his
hands bound, and an Indian guarding him. All efforts to escape he
found would be vain, and he silently submitted to his fate. About
mid-day the other three of his captors joined the one who guarded him,
and, after conversing hastily a few moments, they began a hurried
march. The prisoner perceived one of them examining him often and
attentively, viewing him in various situations, apparently
endeavouring to make out a recognition of one formerly known. At
length, on the fourth day, as he was alone with the prisoner, he
seated himself upon the smooth sward, and, bidding the other do the
same, he addressed him in the following language:--
"Listen!"
"I listen," said the prisoner.
"Where hadst thou thy dwelling-place when thine arm was first able to
bend a healthy sprout of a single season, and thy heart first began to
count upon its strength to look upon the glaring eye-ball of a mad
wolf?"
"Far from here," answered the prisoner, his eyes filling with tears,
and sighs bursting from his heart, at the image of youthful love and
bliss recalled to his mind by the allusion to his birth-place. "Upon
the bank of a distant river, more than three suns travel from the spot
where I became the captive of the red man."
"White men have forked tongues," answered the Pequod; "but thou shalt
mark it out on the smooth surface of the white birch, that my memory
may tell me if thou hast spoken true."
The prisoner, with a piece of coal taken from their fire, marked out
the dwelling in which he resided at the period alluded to by the
Indian. He seemed satisfied.
"It is well," said he. "Now show me the cabin to which thou wert
going, when the red man paid a small part of his debt of vengeance on
thy race, by taking thee captive."
The prisoner made a second drawing, representing his little field and
his cabin, including the chesnut-tree.
"Was there another bird in the nest of thy father when thy soul first
began to feel the proud confidence and conciousness of approaching
manhood?" demanded the Pequod, eyeing him intently.
"There was," answered the captive--"a little maiden."
"And where is that bird now?"
"She is the wife of my bosom. _Is_, did I say--Alas! she may not be
living--she has undoubtedly perished by the hands of the accursed
beings who fired my dwelling, and chained the feet that would have
carried me, with the speed of a deer, to her side--and bound the hands
that would have unsheathed the sword of vengeance for her rescue."
The Indian made no answer to this burst of passion, but looked for a
moment kindly and compassionately on the poor captive, and then
relapsed into silence.
Early the next morning, the prisoner was awakened by the same man, who
motioned him to rise and follow him. The rest of the party were not in
sight. He obeyed, and they set out on their return, retracing their
steps with the ease and accuracy, which, in every clime, belong to the
forest hunter. Travelling rapidly, in silence, for two days, they
found themselves on the morning of the third on the banks of his own
river, the dark rolling Merrimack. Before the sun had reached the
highest part of the heavens, they came to a little hill, well and
fondly remembered by the affectionate husband, though now conveying
agonizing hopes and fears. It overlooked the little valley where once
his cabin stood, and where the ripe wheat still bowed itself, in
graceful undulations, before the light breeze of summer; and the
mighty chesnut-tree, blackened by the smoke of his burning dwelling,
still looked with lordly pride on all its less stately neighbours. "My
wife!" he said, in an almost inaudible voice.
"Thy bird will meet thee on another bough," exclaimed the warrior. "A
crust of bread, and a drink of cold water, offered to a famished
Indian--a tear of pity, and a sigh of compassion, saved her and thee."
And his own dusky countenance exhibited a touch of feeling but seldom
suffered to cross the face of him who deems it dishonour to betray an
emotion of pity, or compassion, or gratitude, or love(1).
"I do not understand you," said the white man, prisoner no longer.
"Listen," said the warrior--"The son of Annawan was caught, with the
dove of his nest and her squab, far from his own dwelling, and among
the men of thy colour. Thy race had killed or driven away the beasts
of the chace; and there was nothing upon which the red archer could
show the sleight of his hand and the truth of his eye. White men
would give him no food, but drove him from their cabins, saying, 'You
are an Indian.' At the door of thy father--"
"He was not my father," interrupted the other; "he was the brother of
my mother."
"At the door of the brother of thy mother hard words were showered on
the poor red man, and he was bidden to seek elsewhere the food for
which his soul panted--not that he might eat it himself, but bestow it
upon his famished wife and sick babe. Listen!
"There was a little maiden sitting at the door of the cabin--she was
not grown to womanhood, nor dreamed yet of tender lovers--she was a
fawn in its second season, a tree wanting but a few more suns to be
clothed with the blossoms of maturity. By her side sat a boy, who
might be two or three harvests older. The little maiden rose from the
smooth sward where she sat, and throwing her white arms around the
neck of her father, begged hard for the strangers. The boy came, and
joined her in her prayers. The hardhearted man granted to the
entreaties of his children what compassion would not bestow. The
Indian was fed--his wife was fed--his babe was fed. Dost thou hear?"
"I hear," said the delighted hunter, grasping the hand of the noble
warrior, while tears streamed down his sun-burnt cheek.
"That boy was the prisoner, whom the Pequods, four suns since, carried
away from yonder vale--and the famished hunter was he who unbound thy
limbs, and who saved that compassionate maiden, by the song he poured
into the ears of his brothers, of an angry spirit, seen by the light
of the blazing cabin among the boughs of the chesnut-tree.
"Learn, pale face, that an Indian can be grateful. A crust of bread,
and a draught of water, bestowed upon the red man, or those he loves,
weigh down the memory of a thousand wrongs--a kind look dispels the
frown from his brow--a kind word checks the purpose of vengeance,
which, unchecked, is like a fire carried by a high wind to a field of
dry grass. Thou and thine did me a deed of kindness--preserved the
life of her whose bright eyes are the light of my cabin--and of the
boy who will, one day, bend the bow of a hunter, and be taught to
utter the cry of vengeance on the hills--fear not, thou art safe in
the land whence his fathers were banished. Thou and thine did this for
the Son of Annawan, the Fleet Foot of his tribe, and he will never
forget it--till the stars forget to shine, and the moon to become the
lamp of the dark hours. Say, in the ears of the Fair Hair that I gave
her cabin to the devouring flames, before I knew it was hers. But the
season will soon come when the beaver will be sleek and glossy; and an
otter worth more than an arrow--the spoils of the Fleet Foot's winter
hunt shall rebuild the cabin of the flower of the the pale faces."
So saying, the Son of Annawan, the great chief, who once was the lord
of those boundless regions, disappeared in the forest, and was seen no
more among white men.
NOTE.
_Pity, or compassion, or gratitude, or love._--p. 270.
The Indians are extremely cool and circumspect in every word and
action; there is nothing that hurries them into any intemperate
warmth, but that inveteracy to their enemies, which is rooted in every
Indian heart, and can never be eradicated. In all other instances they
are cool, and remarkably cautious, taking care not to betray on any
account their emotions. If an Indian has discovered that a friend is
in danger of being intercepted and cut off by one to whom he has
rendered himself obnoxious, he does not inform him in plain and
explicit terms of the danger he runs by pursuing the track near which
the enemy lies in wait for him, but he drily asks him which way he is
going that day, and, having received his answer, with the same
indifference tells him that he has been informed that a dog lies near
the spot, which might probably do him a mischief. This hint proves
sufficient.
This apathy often shows itself on occasions that would call forth the
fervour of a susceptible heart. If an Indian has been absent from his
family and friends many months, either on a war or hunting party, when
his wife or children meet him at some distance from his habitation,
instead of the affectionate sensations that would naturally arise in
the breasts of more refined beings, and be productive of mutual
congratulations, he continues his course without paying the least
attention to those who surround him, till he arrives at his home.
He there sits down, and, with the same unconcern as if he had not been
absent a day, smokes his pipe; those of his acquaintance who have
followed him do the same, and perhaps it is several hours before he
relates to them the incidents which have befallen him during his
absence, though perhaps he has left a father, brother, or son, on the
field, whose loss he ought to have lamented.
Has an Indian been engaged for several days in the chace, and by
accident continued long without food, when he arrives at the tent of a
friend, where he knows his wants may be immediately supplied, he takes
care not to show the least symptom of impatience, or to betray the
extreme hunger by which he is tortured; but, on being invited in, sits
contentedly down, and smokes his pipe with as much composure as if
every appetite was allayed, and he was perfectly at ease; he does the
same among strangers.
If you tell an Indian that his children have greatly signalized
themselves against an enemy, have taken many scalps, and brought home
many prisoners, he does not appear to feel any extraordinary pleasure
on the occasion; his answer generally is, "It is well," and he makes
very little further enquiry about it. On the contrary, if you inform
him that his children are slain, or taken prisoners, he makes no
complaints; he only replies, "It does not signify," and probably, for
some time at least, asks not how it happened.
Their constancy in suffering pain exceeds any thing known of any other
people. Nothing is more common than to see persons of all ages, and of
both sexes, suffer for many hours, and sometimes many days, together,
the sharpest effects of fire, and all that the most ingenious cruelty
can invent to make it most painful, without letting a sigh escape.
Accustomed from their youth to innumerable hardships, they soon become
superior to a sense of danger, or the dread of death, and their
fortitude, implanted by nature, and nurtured by example, by precept,
and by accident, never experiences a moment's allay.
V. THE CASCADE OF MELSINGAH.
The next night the ghost related to his eager listener the following
tradition:--
A very long time ago, many ages before the feet of a white man had
left their print on these shores, or the voice of his axe had been
heard singing the song of destruction to the woods of our fathers,
there dwelt in the Cascade of Melsingah, having his residence by
daylight in the wave, and by night on the high rock which stood in its
centre, a Spirit much reverenced by all the Indian nations. He was
often seen by the Indian hunter, who passed that way soon after the
going down of the sun. When seen at that hour, he appeared under the
figure of a tall and mighty warrior, with abundance of the gray plumes
of the eagle on his head, and a gray robe of wolf-skin thrown around
him, standing upright upon his rock in front of the waterfalls. In the
day time his appearance was more equivocal. Those who supposed they
saw him saw something swimming about the cascade, as a frog swims
under the surface. But none were ever permitted to behold him near,
and face to face. As the observer drew nigh, the figure gradually
disappeared, sinking into a kind of fog or mist; and in its place he
found only the white sheet of water that poured over the rock, falling
heavily among the gathering shadows into the pool below. Sometimes,
also, but more rarely, he was seen in the early twilight before
sun-rise, preparing to retreat from the fountain; and fortunate was
the hunter to whom he showed himself at that hour, for it was an omen
of success in the chace. None of the spirits of the surrounding
country were oftener beheld in dreams by the Indians that made their
haunts above the mountains; and, when the forms of the dead from the
land of souls came to their friends in the visions of night, they were
often led by the hand of the gigantic warrior in the wolf-skin and the
eagle-plumes. He was never known to inflict personal injury on any
one, and, therefore, was always considered as a kind and beneficent
genius, who would befriend mortals in all cases of distress, and loved
to behold them peaceful and happy.
Several generations have passed away--trees that were young and
thrifty have become aged and mossy; and men have forgotten the number
of the moons that have passed since there lived among the tribe who
owned the broad lands above the mountains[A], whose banks frown upon
the rapid river, a beautiful maiden, the daughter of a proud chief,
whose name has not reached my time. But this we are told, that he was
the greatest warrior of his day, fierce as the panther, and cunning as
the fox; and she more beautiful than the sky lit up with stars, and
gentler than a summer day, or a young fawn. She had lost her mother in
early childhood; and, ere the suns of ten seasons had beamed on her
head, her father, who loved her tenderly, and had brought her up not
to do the tasks which are generally allotted to Indian women and
girls, fell by the hand of disease, and she was left alone. A
remembrance of his affection, and of the agony she felt, and of the
deep tears she shed, at his loss, infused into her heart a softness
and pity which continued through life, and rendered her ever after an
unwilling witness of the scenes of fire and torture to which the
customs of war among her countrymen gave occasion. When her beloved,
and to her, kind father, left the earth for the land of spirits, she
lived in the lodges of the older warriors who had been his companions
in arms and brother councillors in the cabin where men met to debate
on war and peace. Not in the cabins of the aged alone was she met
with joy. She was welcomed wherever she went with kindness and
affection; endeared to them as she was by the memory of the wise and
brave warrior, her father, and by her own gentle disposition. When
they spoke of her, they likened her, in their language, to whatever
was most beautiful, harmless, and timid, among the animals--the fawn
of the wood, the yellow bird of the glades, a spring wind sweeping
over a field of grass, a dove that had found its long absent mate.
[Footnote A: The passage of the Highlands on the Hudson.]
The beautiful maiden, of whom I am telling my brother, had beheld in
her childhood, when her foot was little, and her heart trembling, the
Cascade of Melsingah, and the form of the Manitou had once been
revealed to her, as the evening was setting in, standing in his
wolf-skin robes before the waterfall. After that she saw him often in
her dreams, and, when she came to that age at which the children of
the forest choose their protecting spirit, she chose for her's the
Spirit of the Cascade of Melsingah. It was not long before a
circumstance took place which strengthened her reverence and that of
her people for the good Spirit, and proved the interest he took in the
welfare of his beautiful charge.
One day she went alone to his abode, to pay him her customary
offerings in behalf of herself, the friends she loved, and her
nation; she carried in her hand a broad belt of wampum, and a white
honeycomb from the hollow oak; and on her way she stopped and plaited
a garland of the gayest flowers of the season. On arriving at the
spot, she went down into the narrow little glen, through which the
brook flowed before it poured itself over the rock, and, standing near
the edge, she dropped her gifts, one by one, into the current which
instantly carried them to the waterfall. The pool, into which the
water descends, was deeper than it is now; the continual crumbling and
falling of the rocks from above, for many an age, having partially
filled up the deep blue basin. The stream, too, at that time, had been
lately swelled by profuse rains, and rushed down the precipice with a
heavier torrent, and a louder noise, than she had ever known it to do
before. In approaching more nearly to the edge, and looking down to
see what had become of her offerings, she incautiously set her foot on
a stone covered with the slimy deposit of the brook; it slipped, and
she was precipitated headlong with the torrent into the pool below.
What followed she did not recollect--darkness, as deep as that of the
grave, came over her, and all was still and hushed to her. When she
came to her senses, she found herself lying on the margin of the
pool, and awaking as if from an unpleasant sleep with a sensation of
faintness at the heart. She thought at first that she must have been
taken from the water by somebody who belonged to her nation, and
looked round to see if any of them were near. But there was no human
trace or sound to be discovered: she heard only the whisper of the
wind, and the rush of the cascade, and beheld only the still trunks,
and waving boughs, the motionless rock, and the gliding water. She
spoke, thanking her deliverer, whoever he might be, in the softest
tones of her soft voice, but there was no reply. On her return to the
village where she lived, she made the most diligent enquiry to learn
if any of her people had assisted her in the hour of danger, or if any
thing was known of her adventure. Nobody had heard of it--none of the
tribe had passed by the cascade that day; and the maiden and all her
people became fully convinced that she had been preserved from a
violent death by her guardian spirit--the Manitou of the waterfall.
Her gratitude was in proportion to the benefit received; and ever
afterwards she paid an annual visit to the cascade at the season when
she was thus miraculously rescued, sometimes alone, and sometimes in
company with the young females of her age. On these occasions, the
dark rocks around were hung with garlands of flowers and belts of
wampum, and bracelets of beads were dropped into the clear water, and
a song was chanted, commemorating the maiden's deliverance by the
benevolent spirit of the place. The woods around reverberated with the
music of those dark-haired maidens who had assembled to warble their
hymns of gratitude to the Manitou of the cascade.
The Indians, who lived above the Mountains, and those who possessed
the country below, although belonging to the same great family of the
Lenni Lenape, were not always on friendly terms. At the time of which
I am telling my brother, there was a great quarrel between them, and
the calumet had been buried in the hole from which the hatchet had
been taken. An Indian of the tribe living above the mountains was
found encroaching on the hunting-grounds below, and was killed in a
fierce dispute which ensued. His people anxiously sought an
opportunity to revenge his death, nor was it long before it was put
into their hands. A young warrior of the lower tribe, burning with the
ardour of youth, and ambitious to signalize himself by some act of
heroic daring, boasted that, notwithstanding what had happened, he
would bring a deer from the hunting-grounds to the north of where the
great river broke through the mountains. Accordingly, he set out
alone in one of the light canoes which are used by Indians, on his
way up the river. He landed on the east bank, at the distance of a
boy's walk of half a sun above the Cascade of Melsingah, and after no
long search had killed a deer, dragged the animal to the canoe, and
put off from the shore. So far he had made good his boast, and was
busily employed in picturing to himself the glory that awaited him on
his return, the loud praises of the men, and the silent, though more
eloquent ones of the maidens, when his dreams were put to flight by
the sudden coming upon him of his fierce and cunning enemies. His
motions had been observed, and he had not yet gained the middle of the
river, when a canoe, in which were five northern Indians, made its
appearance, coming round the extremity of a woody peninsula, that
projected with its steep bold shores far into the water. Immediately
one of them bent his bow, and, raising it to his eye, levelled it in
the direction of the young Mohegan; but another, who seemed to be the
leader of the party, placed his hand deliberately on the arrow, which
was immediately laid down, and an oar taken up in its place. A single
glance served to show the warrior that they were all well armed, and
that his only chance of escape lay in reaching the shore before them,
and trusting to the swiftness of his feet to effect his escape. He
therefore plied his oar with great diligence, and his canoe shot
rapidly over the water, but his enemies were gaining fast upon him,
and it was now evident that they must overtake him before he could
reach the land. In an instant he had leaped into the water, and
disappeared; but his pursuers were too well aware of his object to
slacken their exertions, and held on their way towards the shore. When
he rose again to the surface, their canoe was at no great distance.
Two of the strongest of them plunged into the river; one of them,
swimming with exceeding swiftness, soon overtook him, and seized him
by the hair of the head. A desperate, but brief struggle ensued, in
which both combatants went down. In a moment afterwards, the young
warrior re-appeared without his antagonist, who was seen no more: but
his pursuers had already surrounded him. They secured him without
difficulty, carried him to the shore, and there binding his hands
behind him with a strong grape-vine, led him towards their village.
The young Mohegan, finding all attempt to escape useless, resigned
himself to his fate, with all the indifference which an Indian always
assumes, though he may not feel it. At first he scarcely thought that
he should be put to death, for he knew that the people into whose
hands he had fallen were celebrated throughout the land for the
mildness of their character, and their disposition to mercy; and he
relied still more on their known dread of his own warlike and
formidable tribe, equally famous for their disposition to have blood
for blood, and to suffer no grass to grow in their paths till they had
tasted the sweets of revenge. However, he prepared himself for the
worst, and began to steel his heart against the fear of death. He did
well, for, soon after they began their march, his captors commanded
him to sing his death-song. The youth obeyed, and in a strong deep
chant began the customary boast of endurance and defiance of pain. He
sung of the glories of his nation, and how often they had made the
hearts of their enemies, of his captors, leap with fear, and their
knees shake, by their wild halloo of war. He told them that, though
his years were few, he had seen a Northern die in his grasp; though
his eyes were but young, they had looked on the last struggle of one
of their brothers. He took up the strain at intervals, and in the
pauses his conductors preserved a deep and stern silence.
At length the party came upon a kind of path in the woods, which they
followed for a considerable distance, and then suddenly stopped short.
All at once a long shrill startling cry burst from them. It was the
death-cry for their drowned companion. It rang through the old woods,
and was returned in melancholy echoes from the neighbouring mountains.
At its frightful sound the birds flew up from their nestling-places in
the leafy thicket; the eagle, and the hawk, and the raven, soared
aloft; and the deer was seen scampering away to a safer and more
distant covert. When the last of their cries had died away, the party
put their hands to their mouths, and uttered a second cry, modulated
into wild notes by the motion of their fingers. An interval of silence
ensued, which was at length broken by a confused sound of shrill
voices at a distance, faintly heard at first, but growing every moment
more audible. In a minute two young warriors, who seemed to come by a
shorter way than the usual path, broke through the shrubs, and took
their station, without speaking a word, by the party who were
conducting the prisoner. Presently a crowd of women and children from
the village appeared in the path, shouting and singing songs of
victory; and these were followed by a group of old men, who walked in
grave silence. As soon as they came up, the party resumed their march,
and led their prisoner in triumph to the village.
The village consisted of a cluster of cabins, irregularly scattered,
as Indian villages always are, over a large space. It stood in a
natural opening of the great forest, on the banks of a stream which
brawled over a shallow, stony bottom between rocky banks, on its way
to mingle with the Great River. The Indian name of this wild stream
was Mawenawasigh.
It happened well for the captive youth that the chiefs and principal
warriors of the tribe were absent on a hunting expedition, and it was
necessary, in so grave a matter, to delay the decision of the
prisoner's fate until their return, which was expected in a few suns.
He was therefore taken to an unoccupied cabin and placed on a mat,
bound hand and foot, and fastened with a strong cord made of the
sinews of the deer to a tall post in the centre, supporting the roof.
It was the office of one of his captors to keep watch over him during
the day time, and at night two of them slept in his cabin. For the
first two suns his prison was thronged with the idle, the revengeful,
and the curious. The relatives of the drowned man, and of him who was
slain below the Mountains, came to taunt him on his helplessness, to
assure him of the certainty of death by torture, and to exult in the
prospect of a deadly vengeance. They pointed to him a stake driven in
the earth, to which a young Mohegan should be lashed, and a fire
kindled around him of the driest materials, while hot pincers were
applied to know when his flesh was sufficiently roasted, to form a
suitable dish for the banquet. Others came and gazed at him with
unfeeling curiosity. I should have mentioned to my brother that he was
of Mohawk parents, the son of a warrior adopted into a Mohegan tribe,
and that he possessed the stately and manly form, and the bold look,
and the calm eye, which belongs to the former nation, and may be
traced wherever their blood is found. They spoke to each other,
commending his fine warlike air, his lofty stature, and well-turned
limbs, and said that he would die bravely. One only seemed to regard
him with pity. A beautiful female face looked in several times at the
door, and turned sorrowfully away.
As the time for the return of the warriors drew near, the captive's
contempt for life, and his passion for a glorious death, diminished
much. His sleep was filled with dreams of the clear and pleasant
waters of his tribe, and his mind by day could not forbear busying
itself with the plans of glory and ambition which he had formed. It
was hard, too, to leave a world in which dwelt such lovely beings as
she who had visited him with the tear of pity and sympathy bedewing
her soft eye. It was worth while to live, he thought, if it were only
that he might have the opportunity of convincing her that he was not
ungrateful, and that his heart, though shut to the fear of death, was
open to her beauty and goodness. The artificial fortitude to which he
had wrought himself, in obedience to the principles which had been
taught him, began to waver, and the glory of a death of torture, and
calm endurance of pain, to lose its value in his eyes. "Would it not
be better," said he to himself, "to share a long life with the
beautiful maiden, who has just left me, to drive the deer and the wolf
for her sake, and to come home loaded with game in the evening, to the
hearth that she should keep burning brightly for my return?"
Night came, but it brought no sleep to the young warrior, until its
watches had nearly expired. On awaking, he saw, through the opening
that served as a door to the cabin, that the great star of day was
risen, and the surly Indian who guarded him was standing before it.
The moments passed heavily away; no one came to the cabin save an old
woman, who brought him his morning meal. The curiosity of the tribe
was satisfied, and the relatives of the deceased were weary of
insulting him. At length the shadow of a human figure fell upon the
green before the door, and the next instant, the well remembered form
and face of beauty made its appearance. The maiden laid her hand on
the shoulder of the sentinel, and pointed to the sky where a bold
eagle was sailing away to the east. The majestic bird at length
alighted on the top of a tall tree, at the distance of four or five
bowshots, balanced himself for a moment on his talons, then closed his
wings, and, settling on his perch, looked down into the village, as if
seeking for his prey. "If thy bow be faithful, and thy arrow keen,"
said the maiden, "I will keep watch over the prisoner until thy
return." The Indian threw a glance at the captive, as if to assure
himself that everything was safe, and immediately disappeared in the
forest.
The young maiden then entered the cabin. As she approached the
captive, a blush stole to her dark cheek, her eye was downcast, and
her step trembling, and, when she spoke, her voice was low, but soft
as the whispers of the spring wind in a grove of willows.
"I come to offer thee freedom. There is no time to be lost; to-morrow
the chiefs of my nation return, and then will thy guards for a sun be
doubled; the beams of the next shall light thee to torture and death.
Beneath their vigilance thy escape becomes impossible. Mohegan, I am
here to restore to the young eagle his wings, and to cut the cords
which bind the young panther of his tribe."
"And flies the young eagle forth alone? goes the young panther to the
thicket without a companion?" demanded the warrior.
The maiden hid her eyes beneath their long black lashes, and said
nothing. The Mohegan continued:--
"Thou wilt give me liberty of my limbs, but thou leavest my heart
fettered. Wilt thou not, my beautiful deliverer, be the partner of my
flight? What will liberty be to me if thou art not the light of my
cabin? Almost would thy presence and thy pity compensate for the
tortures which await me if I remain. Is it not better for me to die
with thee beholding my constancy and patience in suffering, and
rendering me the tribute of a tear as my spirit departs for the land
of souls, than to go from thy presence sorrowing for the beautiful
maiden with the bright eyes, and fair hair, and ripe lip, and
fawn-like step, whom I have left in the land of my foes? And what, my
beautiful deliverer, will be said by thy kindred if it be known, as it
must be, that thou hast aided my escape, and thus disappointed the
vengeance of thy tribe? I would rather die, Bird of Beauty! by the
death of fire than expose thee to the slightest peril."
Why should I waste time in telling my brother what has been so often
told? The heart of a young maiden in every nation is soft and
susceptible, and, when besieged by love and compassion, is too
certain to yield. The maiden made the warrior repeat over and over
again his promises of affection and constancy, as if they would be a
security against any unfortunate consequence of the imprudence she was
going to commit. She ended by believing all he said, and by consenting
to become his wife and the companion of his escape. "But I cannot go
to thy tribe," said she, "for then thou wouldst be obliged to raise
the tomahawk against my people, and I may not abide in the habitation
of him who seeks to spill the blood of my friends. If thou wilt take
me for the guide of thy path, I will bring thee to a hiding-place
where the arrows of thy enemies cannot reach thee, and where we may
remain sheltered till this cloud of war be overpast."
The youth hesitated. "Nay then," continued she, "I may not go with
thee. I will cut thy cords, and the Good Spirit will guide thee to the
land of thy friends."
This was enough: love prevailed for once over the desire of warlike
glory, in the bosom of a descendant of the Mohawks, and it was settled
that the flight should take place that night.
They had just arrived at this conclusion when the man who guarded the
prisoner returned. He had been absent the longer because the eagle
had changed his perch, and had alighted on a tree at a still greater
distance than at first. He had succeeded in bringing down the bird,
and was now displaying its huge wings with great satisfaction at the
success of his aim. The maiden pulled from them a handful of the long
gray feathers, as the reward of having shown the prize to the guard,
and departed.
The midnight of that day found the captive awake in the cabin, and his
keepers stretched on a mat asleep at the door. They had begun to
regard him with less vigilance because he had made no attempt, and
shown no disposition, to escape. He thought he heard the light sound
of a footstep approaching; he raised his head, and listened
attentively. Was it the rustling of leaves in the neighbouring wood
that deceived him, or the heavily drawn breath of the sleepers, or the
weltering of the river on whose banks the village stood, or the
crawling of some beast of prey through the thicket, or the moving of a
spirit? These were the only sounds he was now able to distinguish. A
ray of moonlight shone through a crevice in the cabin, and fell across
the body of his sleeping guards. As his eye rested on this, he saw it
gradually widening, and, soon after, the mat that hung over the
opening which served for a door-way was wholly withdrawn, and the
light figure of the maiden appeared. She stepped cautiously and
slowly over the slumbering guards, and, approaching the Mohegan with a
sharp knife, severed, without noise, the cords which confined him,
and, stealing back to the door, beckoned him to follow. He did so,
planting his foot at every step gradually on the floor from the point
to the heel, and pausing between, until he was out of the cabin. His
heart bounded within him when he found himself standing in the free
air and the white moonlight, with his limbs unbound. He beheld his old
acquaintance, the stars, as bright and twinkling as ever, and saw with
rapture the same river which rolled its dark and massy waters beside
the dwelling of his father. They took a path which led westward
through the woods, and, after following it for the distance of a
bowshot, the maiden turned aside, and took, from a thick clump of
cedars, a bow, a spear, and a well-filled quiver of arrows, which she
put into his hands. She next handed him a wolf-skin mantle, which she
motioned him to throw over his shoulder, and placed on his head a kind
of cap on which nodded a tuft of feathers, which it may be remembered
she had plucked from the wings of the eagle his sentinel had so lately
killed. They then proceeded rapidly but in silence. It was not long
before they heard the small waves of the river tapping the shore;
they descended a deep bank, and the broad water lay glittering before
them in the moonlight. A canoe--his own canoe--he knew it at a
glance--lay moored under the bank, and rocking lightly on the tide.
They entered it; the warrior took one oar, the maiden another; they
pushed off from the shore, and were speedily on their way down the
river.
They glided by the shore, past the steep bank covered with tall trees,
and past where the moonlight dimly showed, embosomed among the
mountains, a woody promontory, round which the river turned and
disappeared from view.
They then reached the eastern shore, and passed close to the mouth of
the Mattoavoan, where it quietly and sluggishly mingles with the great
river, so close that they could hear from the depth of the woods the
incessant dashing of the stream, leaping over the last of the
precipices that cross its channel. They continued to pass along under
the shore, until the roar of the Mattoavoan was lost to the ear. They
were not far from the foot of the northernmost of the mountains washed
by the Great River, when a softer and lighter rush of waters was
heard. A rivulet, whose path was fenced on each side with thick trees
and shrubs, bound together by vines of wild grape and ivy, came down
over the loose stones, and fell with a merry gurgle into the waters
below. It was the rivulet of Melsingah. The interlacing boughs and
vines formed a low arch over its mouth, that looked like the entrance
into a dark cavern. The young maiden pointed towards it, and intimated
to the warrior that up that stream lay the path to that asylum whither
she intended to conduct him. At this he took his oar from the water,
and in a low voice began to remonstrate with her on the imprudence of
remaining so near the haunts of his enemies. Long did they debate the
matter, but when she had explained to him what he had heard something
of before, the profound reverence in which the Cascade of Melsingah,
intended by her as the place of their retreat, was held, and related
the interposition of its benevolent spirit in behalf of her own life,
he was satisfied, and turned his canoe to the shore. They landed, and
the warrior taking the light barque on his shoulders, they passed
through the arch of shrubs and vines up the path of the rivulet, and
soon stood by the cascade. The maiden untied from her neck a string of
beads, and copper ornaments, obtained from the Indians of the island
of Manhahadoes, dropped them into the water, and murmured a prayer for
safety and protection to the Manitou of the place. On the western side
of the deep glen in which they found themselves was a shelf of rock
projecting from the steep bank, which has long since crumbled away,
and under this the warrior and his beautiful guide concluded to
shelter themselves till morning.
Scarcely had they seated themselves upon this shelf of rock, when
slowly uprose from the centre of the pool a being of immense
proportions, habited in a wolf-skin robe, and wearing on his head a
high tuft of eagle's feathers. It was the Manitou of the Cascade.
Approaching the trembling pair, who feared his anger for their
intrusion on his retreat, he said in a voice which resembled the
rattling of his own waterfall, "Why are ye here?" The maiden related
her story to him, and claimed his protection for herself and lover. He
appeared to be a spirit of few words, for he only said in reply, "Ye
shall have it. The disguise you have provided, the wolf-skin robe, and
the tuft of eagle feathers, are of the earth--they will not disguise
you--take mine." So saying, he gave the Mohegan his own robe and tuft,
and received in exchange those which the cunning maiden had provided
for her lover. After counselling them in brief words to apply to him
whenever they were in difficulty, he disappeared in the pool.
The return of light showed the inhabitants of the Indian village on
the Mawenawasigh in unwonted bustle and confusion. All the warriors
were out; the track of the fugitives was sought for, discovered, and
followed to the bank of the Great River. The print of their steps on
the sand, the marks of the canoe where it had been fastened to the
bank, and of the oars where they had been planted to shove it away
from the shore, left no doubt that the warrior had carried off the
beautiful maiden to his own tribe, and all pursuit was abandoned.
In the mean time, the warrior was occupied in constructing a
habitation. A row of poles was placed against the projecting shelf of
rock, which thus served for a roof; these were covered with leafy
branches, and over the whole was laid a quantity of dead brushwood, so
irregularly piled, as when seen at a little distance to give no
suspicion of human design. The inmates of this rude dwelling subsisted
on game found in the adjacent forest, on fish from the mouth of the
rivulet, and on the fruits and roots of the soil. Their wants were few
and easily supplied, and they were happy.
One day, as the lover was sitting at the door of his cabin, he heard
the voices of two persons in the wood, who seemed to be approaching
the place. He saw that if he attempted to hide himself by going in,
they might enter the glen, and discover the secret of his retreat. As
he was clothed in the dress of the spirit, he believed that it would
be better to present himself boldly to their view, and trust for
safety to his personation of the good Manitou. He therefore took up
his bow, which was lying beside him, and placed himself in an upright
motionless attitude on the edge of the pool, in front of the water
falling over the rock. In a moment two Indians of the tribe of the
maiden made their appearance coming through the trees. At sight of the
majestic figure in the gray mantle and plumes, and armed with a bow,
magnified by their fears to thrice the real weight and size, they
started, and uttered an exclamation of surprise. He waved his bow,
motioning them away. One of them threw towards him a couple of arrow
heads, which he carried in his hand, and which fell into the water at
the warrior's feet, sprinkling him with the spray they dashed up; and,
making gestures of reverence and supplication, the two Indians
instantly retired.
Thus the time passed--swiftly and pleasantly passed--from the end of
the Planting Moon to the beginning of that of Harvest. As my brother
knows the wants of Indian life are few, and easily supplied; and for
the little inconveniences that might attend their situation, the
tradition says that the inmates of the glen of Melsingah found a
compensation in their mutual affection. Occasionally they saw the
kind Manitou come forth from the Cascade to breathe the evening air,
and when he did so, they invariably retired to their bower. At length,
when the warrior had one day ventured across the ridge that rose south
and east of the cascade, and was hunting in the deep valley beyond, he
came suddenly upon an Indian of his own tribe, who immediately
recognised him. An explanation took place, in the course of which he
learned that a peace had been made between his nation, the Mohegans,
and that which dwelt above the Mountains. The Mohawks, who lorded it
over both nations with a rigid authority, and claimed the right of
making war and peace for them, having heard of their differences, had
despatched one of their chiefs to adjust them, and to command the two
tribes to live in friendship. "My children," said Garangula, the
Mohawk, in a council to which the chiefs of both tribes were called,
"it is not good that ye who are brethren should spill each other's
blood. If one of you have received wrong at the hands of the other,
your fathers of the Five Nations will see that justice is done between
you. Why should ye make each other few? Once ye destroyed yourselves
by your wars, but, now that ye dwell together under the shadow of the
great tree of the Five Nations, it is fitting that ye should be at
rest, and bury the tomahawk for ever at its root. Learn of your own
rivers. The streams of Mattoavoan, and Mawenawasigh, after struggling,
and wasting their strength among the rocks, mingle at length in peace
in the bosom of the father of waters, the Great River of the
Mountains." The council, since they could do no better, approved of
the words of Garangula; it was agreed that the relations of the hunter
slain below the Mountain should be pacified by a present of a belt of
wampum and shells, and the chiefs smoked the pipe of peace together,
and delivered belts of wampum as the memorials of the treaty.
The warrior hastened to the glen of Melsingah to communicate the
intelligence to his beloved maiden. Their retreat was instantly
abandoned, not, however, without some regret at leaving a place where
so many happy days had been passed; the birch canoe was borne to the
mouth of the river, and after taking his bride, at her earnest
entreaty, to visit her own tribe, the warrior descended with her to
his friends below the mountains. Long was the waterfall visited by the
Indians, and it is only since the axe of the white man has been heard
in the adjoining forest that the good Manitou has retreated from the
Cascade of Melsingah.
LEGEND OF COATUIT BROOK[A].
[Footnote A: The genuine tradition imputed but a part of the labour of
ploughing out Coatuit Brook to the lover of Awashanks. It was
commenced, according to the Indians, from a motive of benevolence
rather than love. The Indians were much in want of fresh water--a very
large trout, with the intention of supplying it, forced his way from
the sea into the land. It proved too much for his strength, however,
and he died in the attempt. It was finished by the heroine of this
legend, who ploughed the sward through to Sanctuit Pond.]
There was once amongst the Marshpees--a small tribe who have their
hunting-grounds on the shores of the Great Lake, and near the Cape of
Storms[A]--a woman whose name was Awashanks. She was rather silly and
remarkably idle. For days together she would sit doing nothing, while
the other females of the village were busily employed in weeding the
corn, or bringing home fuel from the distant wood, or drying the fish,
or thatching the cabins, or mending the nets, or their husbands'
apparel, or preparing the weapons of the chace. Then she was so very
ugly and ill-shapen that not one of the youths of the village would
have aught to say to her by way of courtship or marriage. She squinted
very much; her face was very long and thin; her nose excessively large
and humped; her teeth crooked and projecting; her chin almost as sharp
as the bill of a loon, and her ears as large as those of a deer and
similarly shaped. Her arms, which were very long, were nothing but
fleshless bones; and the legs upon which she stood seemed like two
pine poles stript of their bark. Altogether she was a very odd and
strangely formed woman, and wherever she went never failed to excite
much laughter and derision among those who thought that ugliness and
deformity were fit subjects for ridicule.
[Footnote A: Cape Cod.]
Though exceedingly ugly, as I have told my brother, there was one
faculty she possessed in a more remarkable degree than any woman that
had ever lived in the tribe--it was that of singing. Nothing--unless
such could be found in the land of spirits--could equal the sweetness
of her voice, or the beauty of her songs. Her favourite place of
resort was a small hill, a little removed from the river of her
people, and there, seated beneath the shady trees, she would while
away the hours of summer with her charming songs. So soft and
beautiful were the things she uttered, that, by the time she had sung
a single sentence, the branches above her head would be filled with
the birds that came thither to listen, and the thickets around her,
and the waters rolling beside her, would be crowded with beasts and
fishes attracted to the nearest brink or covert by the same sweet
sounds. From the minnow to the porpoise, from the sparrow to the
eagle, from the snail to the lobster, from the mouse to the mole--all
hastened to the spot to listen to the charming songs of the hideous
Marshpee maiden. And various, but sufficiently noisy and dissonant,
were the means by which the creatures testified the delight and
admiration produced by the sounds which had drawn them thither.
Amongst the fishes, who repaired every night to the vicinity of the
Little Hillock, which was the chosen resting-place of the ugly
songstress, was the great war-chief of the Trouts, a tribe of fishes
inhabiting the river near by, and who, as my brother knows, generally
make the cold and pebbly stream their place of residence. It is a
chosen sport of theirs to hide among the roots of trees which stand
near the brink of their favourite streams. They are a very cunning and
shy people, and seldom fail, by their cunning and shyness, to escape
all the snares laid for them by their enemies. The chief of the
tribe, who dwelt in the river of the Marshpees, and who was also their
guardian spirit, was of a far larger size than the people of his
nation usually are, being as long as a man, and quite as thick, which
my brother knows is a size that few of his people attain. But, to
enable my brother to account for his great size, it is only necessary
to tell him that the mother of this great trout was a monstrous
flounder.
Of all the creatures which came to listen to the singing of Awashanks,
none appeared to enjoy it so highly as the Chief of the Trouts. As his
bulk prevented him from approaching as near as he wished, he, from
time to time, in his eagerness to enjoy the music to the best
advantage, ran his nose into the ground, and thus soon worked his way
a considerable distance into the greensward. Nightly he continued his
exertions to approach the source of the delightful sounds he heard;
till at length he had ploughed out a wide and handsome brook, and
effected his passage from the river to the hill whence that music
issued--a distance exceeding an arrow's flight. Thither he repaired
every night at the commencement of darkness, sure to meet the maiden
who had become so necessary to his happiness. Soon he began to speak
of the pleasure he enjoyed, and to fill the ears of Awashanks with
fond protestations of his love and affection. Instead of listening, it
was not long before he was listened to. It was something so new and
strange to the maiden to hear the tones of love and courtship; a thing
so unusual to be told that she was beautiful, and to be pressed to
bestow her heart upon a suitor; that it is not strange that her head,
never very strong, became completely turned by the new incident in her
life, and that she began to think the gurgling speech of the lover the
sweetest she had ever heard. There, upon the little hillock, beneath
the shade of lofty trees, she would sit for a whole sleep, listening
to the sweetest sounds her ears had ever heard; the while testifying
her affection for her ardent lover by feeding him with roots and other
food in which he delighted. But there were obstacles to the
accomplishment of their mutual wishes, which they knew not how to
overcome. He could not live on the land above two minutes at a time,
nor she in the water above thrice that period. This state of things
gave them much vexation, occasioning many tears to be shed by the
maiden, and perplexing much her ardent lover.
They had met at the usual place one evening, discoursing of these
things, and lamenting that two so fond and affectionate should be
doomed to live apart, when a slight noise at the shoulder of the
maiden caused her to turn her head. Terror filled her bosom when she
found that it proceeded from a little striped man, scarcely higher
than a tall boy of ten seasons. He wore around his neck a string of
glittering shells, and his hair, green as ooze, was curiously woven
with the long weeds which are found growing upon the rocks at the
bottom of the Great Lake. His hands and feet were shaped like the fins
of fish, and his head was that of a great haddock. His body was
covered with scales like any other scaly fish; indeed, except that he
walked erect like a human being, and had two legs, and two arms, and
that his eyes were not placed as the eyes of fish are, he might well
have been taken for a fish of a kind not before known. Having surveyed
the lovers for a short time in silence, he demanded "why they were so
gloomy and downcast."
The bashfulness of the maiden prevented her replying, but the Chief of
the Trouts answered that "they loved each other, and wished to live
together, but that the maiden could not exist in his element, nor he
in her's; and hence it appeared they were never to know the joys which
are tasted by those who have their dwelling in one cabin."
"Be not grieved nor hopeless," answered the Spirit; "the impediments
can be removed. I am the genius that presides over the fishes, and was
invested at the beginning with power to procure for them all the
enjoyments they are susceptible of tasting. I cannot transform a trout
into a man--that must be effected by a spirit of the earth--but I can
work the transformation of a man into a trout--under my charm the
Marshpee maiden shall become a beautiful fish of the same species with
the chief."
With that he bade Awashanks follow him into the river. When they had
waded in to a considerable depth, he took up a handful of water and
threw it upon the head of the maiden, pronouncing certain words of
which none but himself knew the meaning. Immediately a change
commenced upon her, attended with such pain and distress that the very
air resounded with her cries. Her body became in a few moments covered
with scales; her ears, and nose, and chin, and arms, disappeared, and
her two legs became joined, forming that part of a fish which is
called the tail--she became a complete trout. Having fully
accomplished the task of transformation, the Genius of the Fishes
delivered her to the Chief of the Trouts. The pair were soon observed
gliding side by side, very lovingly, into the deep and quiet waters.
But, though she had become a trout, she did not forget the land of her
birth. Every season, on the same night as that upon which her
disappearance from the tribe had been wrought, there would be seen two
trouts, of a magnitude surpassing fifty-fold any ever caught by the
Marshpees, busily employed in ploughing out the brook. They continued
the labour or sport, whichever it may be called, till the pale-faces
came to the country, when, deeming themselves in danger from a people
who paid no reverence to the spirits of the land, they bade adieu for
ever to _Coatuit, or the Brook of the Great Trout_.
THE SPIRITS OF VAPOUR.
There was, among the Knisteneaux, in the days that are past, a very
wise chief, who was also the greatest medicine-man that ever dwelt in
the nation. He knew all the herbs, and plants, and roots, and barks,
which were good for the curing of diseases: and, better still, the
words, and charms, and prayers, and ceremonies, without which they
were not effective. He could call down rain from the clouds, and
foretell the approach of storms, and hail, and tempests, beyond any
man that ever lived in the nation. Had not his worship of the Ki-jai
Manitou, or Great Spirit, been sincere, frequent, and fervent, these
things had not been; he would have found his prayers unheard, or
unheeded, or unanswered--he would have seen his skill baffled, and his
charms and medicines impotent and ineffective. But he was beloved by
the Great Spirit, and thence came his wisdom, and power, and strength,
and success; and thence, my brother knows--for he is himself a wise
priest and a cunning man--come the wisdom, and strength, and power,
and success, of all men, whether white like him, or red like myself.
But, if this good and prudent priest of the Knisteneaux was beloved by
the Great Spirit, he was equally hated by the Matchi Manitou, or
Spirit of Evil. This bad being, who is the opposite to him that sends
good gifts to the Knisteneaux, delights in mischief, and is best
pleased when he has wrought injury or distress to mankind, and brought
upon them ruin and dismay, hunger, nakedness, want, sickness, pain,
disgrace, seeing how much Makusue, for that was the name of the
priest, interfered with his schemes of testifying his hatred to men,
was always making him feel the weight of his vengeance, and thwarting
his plans for the benefit of the nation by every means in his power.
If Makusue went to gather _Moscharnewatchar_[A], he was sure to find
the Evil Spirit perched near, trying to frighten him away; if he went
to dig the _Ehawshoga_[B], his enemy had certainly caused the earth to
freeze, that he might be defeated of his object. If Makusue wished to
cross the lake, the wind was sure to blow violently the moment he
entered his canoe, and rain to drench him before he left it. If he
sought an opportunity to surprise the Coppermines, the Evil Spirit
flew with the speed of a loon before a high wind to apprise them of
his intentions. Equally great was the hatred of Makusue for the Evil
Spirit. If he found any one disposed to worship him, he was
indefatigable in his endeavours to detach him from him. He never
failed to make sport and derision of him when he was raging, nor to
shout and halloo after him when he saw him flying over, nor to set the
dogs upon him, when he was prowling about the village at midnight. So
there was a bitter warfare kindled between the Matchi Manitou and the
good priest, and each did the other all the harm he could. Both
grinned at each other whenever they met, like a couple of cross dogs
who have found a bone, or a woman at her husband who brings a younger
wife to supplant her in place and affection.
[Footnote A: Mos-char-ne-wat-char--"It causes heat and cold"--Indian
balsam, said to be one of the most valuable articles belonging to the
Indian class of remedies. They give an infusion of it in colds,
coughs, asthmas, and consumptions.]
[Footnote B: Ehawshoga--"Bite the mouth"--Indian turnip, another of
their remedies.]
But, at length, the success of Makusue in drawing away worshippers
from his enemy became so great, that the latter feared the utter
dis-peopling of his Hunting-Grounds, or Land of Wicked Souls. To him
the greatest enjoyment was that of tormenting the spirits of men, and
this enjoyment, if Makusue continued his course of success, he was
likely to be deprived of. So he went to the Great Spirit and spoke to
him thus:--
"When _we_ made man, did we not agree that I should take the souls of
the wicked, and thou those of the good?"
"We agreed that thou shouldst take the souls of the wicked, and I the
souls of the good," answered the Great Spirit. "And wilt thou say that
the agreement has not been kept?"
"Thou hast not broken it, nor have I, and yet it is broken."
"In what way, and by whom then, is it broken?"
"By Makusue, the priest and chief of the Knisteneaux."
"What has Makusue done?"
"Baffled and thwarted me in every pursuit: if one proposes to offer me
sacrifice, along comes Makusue and extinguishes the fire. There is
death written on the face of another, but Makusue speaks powerful
words over the _mastinjay_[A], the patient drinks it, gets well, and I
am the loser. Thus I am deprived of the pleasing occupation of
tormenting the wicked. There is nobody dies now that belongs to me."
[Footnote A: Dittany, used by the Indians as a remedy for various
diseases.]
"What wouldst thou have me do?" demanded the Great Spirit. "Makusue is
a good servant, and a very honest priest. I cannot allow him to be
harmed. But that thou mayst not altogether want business, I will allow
thee to torment, for three suns and three sleeps, the souls of all the
Knisteneaux that belong to me--the souls of the wicked remain thine.
But thou shalt kindle the flames to burn them in the low and marshy
grounds only."
"It is well," answered the Evil Spirit. "I will see that the fire
shall be kindled in the low and marshy grounds only."
So the Evil Spirit, much pleased with his bargain, returned to the
land of the Knisteneaux to watch for the souls of their dead, and the
Great Spirit winged his way back to the Mountain of Thunder.
When it was told Makusue of the agreement which the Great Spirit had
made with the Spirit of Evil, grief for his people filled the heart of
the good priest. At nightfall he repaired to the hill, with olay upon
his hair, and addressed his master thus:
"I have served thee long, and thou didst say faithfully, yet thou hast
given the souls of my people that I have brought to thee into the
hands of the Evil Spirit, to be tormented for three suns and three
sleeps."
"I know that I have done this," answered the Master. "Is it not well!"
"Thou canst not do otherwise than well," answered the priest; "and yet
why should those be punished, even for so short a period, whom thou
hast deemed worthy to live in the Happy Hunting-Grounds for ever
after?"
"What thou sayest has reason with it, Makusue," answered the Great
Spirit. "It was not well advised in me to grant so great a favour to
the Matchi Manitou. But it is said, and cannot be recalled."
"But it may be evaded," answered the cunning priest.
"How?" demanded the Master.
"Thou hast told the Evil Spirit that he may torment the souls of the
Knisteneaux for three suns and three sleeps, taking care to kindle the
fire in the low and marshy grounds only."
"I have."
"Let the souls of the dead, as thou hast said, repair to those spots,
but let them first take a form which it shall not be in the power of
the Evil Spirit to torture. Let them repair thither in the form of fog
or vapour."
"It is well," answered the Great Spirit. So he bade the spirit of each
Knisteneau, immediately on its leaving the body, to wear for three
suns and three sleeps the form of fog or mist. It was by this trick
of the wise Makusue's, that the souls of our people were reprieved
from the tortures which the Matchi Manitou was preparing for them. And
still does the same thing continue. When the breath of a Knisteneau
leaves the body, it repairs for the allotted period to the low marshy
grounds, where it becomes fog and vapour. If my brother will go to one
of those spots, upon either of the three days next following the death
of a Knisteneau, he will see that my words are not the words of a
mocking-bird, but of a man who knows that the anger of the Great
Spirit will be upon him, if he does not speak the truth.
THE DEVIL OF CAPE HIGGIN.
A long time ago, before the occupation of the Island of Nope by the
white people, there dwelt, upon the north side, and near its western
end, a spirit or goblin--a very good-natured, peaceable, clever, old
fellow, very fond of laughter and a good joke. The Indians called him
_Moshup_, which signifies a very bad Spirit, but, when the white
people came, they named him with reference to the little elbow, or
promontory of land, where he had his usual residence, the Devil of
Cape Higgin. There is another tradition, in which, it is said, that he
once lived upon the main land, opposite Nope, and near the brook which
was ploughed out by the Great Trout[A]. It was said, that Moshup came
to Nope in search of some children, which had been carried away by a
great bird, and finding the spot pleasant, people clever, and food
abundant, concluded to take up his abode there[B].
[Footnote A: See the "Legend of Coatuit Brook," p. 307 of this vol.]
[Footnote B: See "The Legend of Moshup," v. ii, p. 261.]
Moshup, the Devil of Cape Higgin, was by no means so bad as his title
implies. Faults he had, it is true, but no one is without faults. And
then, compared with the vices of men, the vices of the devil sunk into
mere trifles. He was a little loose in his morals, and withal, rather
cross to his wife, but he made up for the latter fault by his
unwearied attentions to the wives of his neighbours. He gave into very
few indulgences, drank nothing stronger than water, and never ate more
than a small whale, or five or six porpoises, at one meal. His
greatest indulgence was in smoking the Indian weed, which he did to
excess. He was moderate in his exactions from the Indians, requiring,
as a tribute, only a tenth part of all the whales, grampusses, and
finbacks, which might be taken by the inhabitants of the Island,
together with all the porpoises caught in the Frog-Month. The evil of
scarcity, so it was not occasioned by indolence, he bore with much
composure. But, if a cheat were attempted to be practised upon him, by
sending him the poorest fish, or if any part of his share was
abstracted, if a porpoise or a halibut was hidden, or the head of a
finback sunk, with a buoy attached to it, or the fin of a whale buried
in the sand, he showed most terrific symptoms of wrath and anger, and
never failed to make the Indians pay dearly for their roguery. But
those who dwelt in his vicinity, indeed all liable to be called upon
for tithes, little disposed at any time to battle with spirits and
demons, paid their dues with great promptitude, and so seldom came in
collision with their grim and powerful neighbour. To tell my brother
the truth, it was not for their interest to quarrel with him. He was
of much importance to them in many of their pursuits, and assisted
them with a great deal of good advice and sound and profitable
counsel. He frequently directed them to a fine school of black-fish,
or bade them see whales, or man their canoes for the chase of the
finback; he told them when to plant and gather in their corn, and
foretold to them the approach of storms with an accuracy productive of
the greatest advantages to them. He also assisted the young people in
their courtships up to the time of joining hands, but this it was
whispered he did from a disposition very proper to a naughty being
like himself, who could not fail to find his account in multiplying
human miseries, and thereby increasing the chances of their going to
the dominions of Hobbamock, his master. Was any little rogue of a
maiden solicited to become the wife of a youth, and her parents stood
out to the time of more usquebagh, who but Moshup was called in to
negociate for a less quantity? If a father said, "It shall not be,"
and Moshup could be prevailed on to say, "It shall be," the father
was sure to find a pretext for changing his mind. If a young woman was
beloved by one, and she pouted and pretended indifference, three words
from Moshup were sure to make her reasonable. And, when women were
much given to scolding, he had, somehow, a singular knack at taming
them. Taking every circumstance into view, it will be readily
concluded that he was a favourite with the Indians; indeed some of our
fathers say, that he was once their grand Sachem; the greater part,
however, think he was the first governor of the whites, and this I
believe.
But spirits and demons, as well as the children of this world, whether
white or red, are subject to changes of opinion and conduct--to many
whims and phantasies. Moshup grew harsh and ill-natured as he grew
older. The change was first felt in his own family, the peace of which
was soon destroyed by continual strife and quarrelling. He would beat
his old woman for nothing, and his children for a great deal less. He
soon began to harass his subjects with new demands and querulous
exactions. He now frequently demanded the half of a whale instead of a
tenth, or took, without asking, the whole of a grampus or finback.
Instead of contributing his aid to promote marriages, he was very
diligent in preventing them; instead of healing love-quarrels, he did
his best to make them irreconcileable. He broke many well-ordered
matches, and soured much matrimonial bliss, set many friendly families
by the ears, and created frequent wars between the different tribes of
the Island. The wild ducks he frightened with terrific shouts, so that
the Indian archer could no longer come near them; he cut the springes
set for grouse and woodcocks--in short, he became a very troublesome
and dangerous spirit. There was, however, no use in fretting; he was
seated firmly on their necks, and there was no shaking him off. So the
Indians bore his freaks with great patience, calmly took up with the
offal of the whale, and only adopted the precaution of removing as far
from him as possible. His harsh behaviour unpeopled his neighbourhood;
and soon the little elbow of land, which the white people call Cape
Higgin, had, for its only occupants, the Spirit Moshup and his family.
Upon the southern shore of the same Island of Nope, at a distance of
ten or twelve miles from the residence of Moshup, lived, at the same
period of time, Hiwassee, the proud and arbitrary Sachem of that
portion of the Island which lies most exposed to the fogs of spring.
He was a very rich and mighty man, had abundance of grape-vines, and a
vast many ponds, well stocked with clams, oysters, perch, crabs, and
wild fowl; many swamps filled with terrapins and cranberries; and much
land, well adapted to the growing of maize and other good things. He
was accounted the most powerful Sachem on the Island. He was, besides,
on excellent terms with Moshup, and so escaped all taxes,
contributions, and tenths, merely now and then making him a present of
a few baskets of grapes, or a few terrapins. This Sachem had a
daughter, young, and more beautiful than any maiden that had ever been
seen in Nope. She was taller than Indian maidens generally are, her
hair was long and glossy as the raven's, and her step very light and
graceful. Then she excelled very far the women of her tribe in the
exercises which belong to the other sex. None drew the bow with equal
strength, or tortured the prisoner with so much ingenuity, or danced
the war-dance with equal agility, or piped the war-song with lungs as
efficient. I must tell my brother that, according to the tradition of
our nation, the Indian females were first taught by her to introduce
the crab's claw into the cartilage of the nose, and to insert the
shell of a clam into the under-lip, as ornaments. She was, indeed, a
beautiful creature, and understood better than any one else the art of
attracting all the brave and best of the land; the love and
admiration of the other sex followed her whithersoever she went. Her
father's wigwam was filled with the suitors who came to solicit her
love. There were the chiefs of the tribes which dwelt at Neshamoyes,
Chabbaquiddic, Popannessit, Suckatasset, and many other places;
warriors, famed and fearless, who asked her of the Grand Sachem in
marriage. But no, she was deaf to their entreaties, laughed at all
their presents of conch-shells, terrapins, and eagle's feathers, and
carefully and scrupulously barred the doors of her father's wigwam
against all the suitors, who, according to the Indian forms of
courtship, came when the lights were extinguished and the parents were
sleeping, to whisper soft tales at the side of her couch. The truth,
which must be told my brother, is, that she had long before placed her
affections upon a young warrior, stern to his enemies, but to her all
gentleness, who dwelt at the western end of the Island, and was
reckoned the favourite, some said he was the son, of the Devil of Cape
Higgin. They had loved each other long, and with the truest
affection(1), and all their hopes centered in a union.
But my brother knows--if he does not I will tell him--that fathers and
mothers will not always permit daughters to have their own way in
marriage. The proud father objected to the lover, because he had
slain but three foes, and was not descended from a line of chiefs,
distinguished by their wisdom or valour. What was to be done? The
lovers talked the matter over and over again, and finally determined
to apply to Moshup, for his aid and advice. They forthwith repaired to
the usual residence of the goblin. It was a most auspicious moment;
they found him in a delirium of joy. A school of whales, in a recent
dark night, becoming bewildered, had foundered upon a neighbouring
ledge of rocks, and a great many fine calves had been deposited at the
mouth of his cave as his share. Withal a brother goblin, residing
somewhere upon the main land, had sent him some excellent old tobacco;
and these, with the occurrence at the happy moment of other enlivening
circumstances, had wrought him up to such unusual good temper that he
quite forgot his very recent determination to annoy all lovers, and
promised to befriend the hapless pair. He rose from his seat, put a
few hundred pounds of tobacco in his pouch, took a half-roasted
grampus from the coals to pick by the way, and set off for
Sanchequintacket, the place of Hiwassee's residence: the young warrior
perched upon his shoulder, and the maiden, reposing on a litter formed
by his arm, lay horizontally on his breast.
Moshup was no devil with wings, but he had two legs, and could use
them to much advantage. So he set off at a pretty smart trot, and was
very soon at the end of his journey. He found the Grand Sachem busy at
a feast, but this did not prevent him from telling his errand at once.
With great calmness and in perfect silence, for he was not in one of
his talkative fits, he heard the maiden's father give his reasons for
refusing his daughter to the lover. They were those which have been a
thousand times urged before--"Poverty--poverty--low parentage--low
parentage; not sufficiently known--not sufficiently celebrated."
"Is this all you have to say against the young man, you old fool?"
asked Moshup. "What do you want? What must the young man have?"
"He must have a great deal of land--he must have an island," answered
Hiwassee.
"Good," said Moshup, drawing a huge quantity of smoke into his mouth,
and blowing it out through his nose: "follow me!"
At the time whereof I speak, the island of Nope extended to and
comprehended the little island of Tuckanuck. The little island was
then a part of the larger island; but once upon a time there came a
great storm, the winds raged and the thunders rolled, and the storms
beat upon the island, and it was disjointed and became two islands. To
a high cliff, upon the eastern side of this same Tuckanuck, Moshup
conducted Hiwassee, his daughter, her lover, and a great crowd of
other Indians, who followed to see what wonderful feat he would
perform. Being arrived, he sat down upon the ground, and commenced his
charm. First he dug a great hole in the earth, into which he threw
many heated stones, the while muttering many words, which no one but
himself understood. Then he filled his pipe with tobacco, kindling it
with the rays from a flash of lightning. When this was done, he bowed
once to the rising sun, twice to the North Star, blew thrice in a
conch-shell, muttered more unintelligible words, and commenced smoking
at a great rate. In a few minutes it was as dark as the darkest night,
and a terrible tempest arose. The thunders rolled awfully, the
lightnings flashed, the rains poured down, and abundance of voices
were heard in the east, puffing and blowing as of men in great labour.
Presently there was a hissing sound, like that of live embers dropped
into water--Moshup had emptied his pipe. There now came up a strong
wind from the west, which, gradually dispersing the smoke he had
created, displayed to their view a low dark something in the east. It
was the promised island--the ashes from Moshup's pipe. The couple upon
whom Moshup bestowed this island gave it the name of Nantucket, and
such it bears at this day.
I have no more to say.
NOTE.
(1) _Loved each other with the truest affection._--p. 327.
It has been the practice to accuse American Indians of great coldness
of temper, and to represent them as incapable of sincere and permanent
attachment. It is a mistake. It is true that on the part of the males
all expressions of affection are repressed, from the belief that the
display of any passion or emotion inflicts deep and indelible disgrace
upon a man, especially if he is a warrior. This is the mere result of
education, and proves nothing. It is certain that the females, whom
the tyranny of opinion does not bind in this respect, are full of
tenderness and assiduity. The story of Pocahontas is too well known to
be repeated. When Mr. Nutall was with the Osages, he was near
witnessing a tragical termination to a trifling dispute, from the
belief of an Indian wife that harm was intended to her husband. She
had been several years married to a French hunter, living with that
tribe. Soon after the arrival of a trader at the Indian camp,
intoxication had taken place, and a quarrel ensued between the husband
of this woman and another of the French hunters. Their altercation
filled her with terror, and she gave way to tears and lamentations,
not doubting but that the antagonist, who was the aggressor, intended
the death of her husband, as threats among Indians are the invariable
preludes to fatal actions. When, at length, they began to struggle
with each other, without any more ado she seized a hatchet, and would
instantly have dispatched the man who fought with her husband, if she
had not been prevented by the bystanders. In another instance an
Omawhaw and his wife, on a solitary hunting expedition, were
discovered at a distance from their temporary lodge, by a Sioux
war-party. They endeavoured to escape from the enemy, but the wife was
soon overtaken, struck to the ground, and subjected to the terrible
operation of scalping. The husband, although at this time beyond the
reach of the arrows of the Sioux, seeing his wife in their hands,
immediately turned upon them, and drawing his knife, the only weapon
he had, furiously rushed among them, in order to revenge her death,
even with the inevitable sacrifice of his own life, but he was almost
immediately dispatched, without having accomplished his heroic
purpose.
When their affections have become deeply engaged, they will frequently
affect insanity with a view to melt the heart of the obdurate beloved.
"A Chippewa, named Ogemans, who resided near the Dog Lake, was married
to a woman called Demoya, but had conceived an affection for her
sister, named Okoj, who lived in the same cabin; the latter having
refused his offer to take her as a second wife, he affected insanity.
His ravings were terrible; nothing could appease him but her presence;
the moment he touched her hand or came near her, he was as gentle as
they could wish. At one time, in the middle of a winter's night, he
sprang from his couch, broke through the frail bark which formed his
cabin, and escaped into the woods, howling and screaming in the
wildest manner; his wife and her sister followed him, endeavouring to
calm him and bring him home, but he seemed to have set all their
powers at defiance. At last Okoj came near him, and the moment she
laid her hand upon him, he became quite tractable. In this manner he
continued for a long while, convincing all the Indians who saw him
that he was possessed by a spirit, which nothing but the approach of
Okoj could reduce. So deep was their conviction and her's, that she at
last consented to become his wife, and never after was he troubled by
a return of madness."
Another instance of a somewhat similar nature happened in the presence
of the same interpreter, (Bruce). "A young Canadian had secured the
affections of an Indian girl called Nisette, whose mother was a Squaw
that had been converted by the missionaries; being very pious, the
mother insisted that the young folks should be united by a clergyman.
None being in the country at the time, they travelled to an Algonquin
village, situated on the Lake of the Two Mountains, where there was a
missionary. Meanwhile the Canadian's love cooled away, and by the time
they reached the village he cared no more for the poor girl.
Disappointed in her affections, she was observed to sicken; she became
subject to fits, her intellect appeared disordered, and she was
finally considered as quite insane. The only lucid intervals which she
had were in the presence of her inconstant lover. Whenever he came
near her, her reason would return, and she would appear the same as
before. Flattered by what he deemed so strong an evidence of his
influence over her, the Canadian felt a return of kindness towards
her, and was finally induced to renew his attentions, which being well
received, they were soon united by the clergyman. Her reason appeared
to be restored, and her improving health showed that her happiness was
complete. Although she never was charged with having resorted to a
stratagem, our guide, who had been with her a long while, and who
represented her as a modest, virtuous, and interesting girl, had
always considered her insanity as assumed, with a view to work upon
the feelings of her inconstant friend."
Their other affections, especially the maternal, are equally exquisite
with those of civilised nations. I will relate one instance of
maternal fondness, from _James's Account of an Expedition to the Rocky
Mountains_, vol. i. p 223:--
"In the year 1814, a trader married a beautiful squaw of one of the
most distinguished families in the Omawhaw nation. This match, on the
part of the husband, was induced by the following circumstances. Being
an active, intelligent, and enterprising man, he had introduced the
American trade to the Missouri Indians, and had gained great influence
amongst them by his bravery and ingenuous deportment. But he at length
perceived that his influence was gradually declining, in consequence
of the presence and wiles of many rival traders, to whom his
enterprise had opened the way, and that his customers were gradually
forsaking him.
"Thus circumstanced, in order to regain the ground he had lost, he
determined to seek a matrimonial alliance with one of the most
powerful families of the Omawhaws. In pursuance of this resolution, he
selected a squaw whose family and friends were such as he desired. He
addressed himself to her parents agreeably to the Indian custom, and
informed them that he loved their daughter, that he was sorry to see
her in the state of poverty common to her nation, and although he
possessed a wife among the white people, yet he wished to have one
also of the Omawhaw nation. If they would transfer their daughter to
him in marriage, he would obligate himself to treat her kindly; and,
as he had commenced a permanent trading establishment in their
country, he would dwell during a portion of the year with her, and the
remainder with the white people, as the nature of his occupation
required. His establishment should be her home, and that of her people
during his life, as he never intended to abandon the trade. In return,
he expressed his expectation, that, for this act, the nation would
give him the refusal of their peltries, in order that he might be
enabled to comply with his engagement to them. He further promised,
that if the match proved fruitful, the children should be made known
to the white people, and would probably be qualified to continue the
trade after his death.
"The parents replied with thanks for his liberal offers, and for his
disposition to have pity on them; they would not object to the
connection, and hoped that their daughter would accept of him as her
husband.
"The parents then retired, and opened the subject to the daughter.
They assured her that her proposed husband was a great man, greater
than any of the Omawhaws; that he would do much for her and for them,
and concluded by requesting her to acquiesce in the wishes of the
white man. She replied, that all they said was, without doubt, true,
and that, agreeably to his request, she was willing to become his
wife.
"The agreement being thus concluded, the trader made presents,
agreeably to the custom of the nation, and conducted his interesting
prize to his house.
"The succeeding spring the trader departed for the settlements,
leaving her of course at his trading house.
"The ensuing autumn she had the pleasure to see him return, having now
conceived for him the most tender attachment. Upon his visit the
following season, she presented him with a fine daughter, born during
his absence, and whom she had nursed with the fondest attention. With
the infant in her arms, she had daily seated herself on the bank of
the river, and followed the downward course of the stream, with her
eye, to gain the earliest notice of his approach. Thus time passed on.
The second year the father greeted a son, and obtained his squaw's
reluctant consent to take their daughter with him on his return voyage
to the country of the white people. But, no sooner had he commenced
his voyage, and although she had another charge upon which to lavish
her caresses, than her maternal fondness overpowered her, and she ran
crying and screaming along the river side in pursuit of the boat,
tearing out her long flowing hair, and appearing to be almost bereft
of reason. On her return home she gave away every thing she possessed,
cut off her hair, went into deep mourning, and remained inconsolable.
She would often say that she well knew that her daughter would be
better treated than she could be at home, but she could not avoid
regarding her own situation to be the same as if the Wahconda had
taken away her offspring for ever.
"One day, in company with six other squaws, she was engaged in her
agricultural labours, her infant boy being secured to his cradle-like
board, which she had carefully reclined against a tree at a short
distance. They were discovered by a war-party of Sioux, who rushed
towards them, with the expectation of gratifying their vengeance by
securing all their scalps. An exclamation from her companions directed
her attention to the common enemy, and in her fright she fled
precipitately, but, suddenly recollecting her child, she swiftly
returned full in the face of the Sioux, snatched her child from the
tree, and turned to save its life, more precious than her own. She was
closely pursued by one of the enemy, when she arrived at a fence which
separated her from the field of the trading-house. A moment's
hesitation here would have been fatal; and, exerting all her strength,
she threw the child, with its board, as far as she could on the
opposite side.
"Four of the squaws were tomahawked, and the others escaped, of which
number the mother was one, having succeeded in bearing off her child
uninjured.
"The trader, on his arrival at the settlements, learned that his white
or civilized wife had died during his absence, and after a short
interval devoted to the usual formalities of mourning, he united his
destinies with another and highly amiable lady. The second season his
wife accompanied him on his annual voyage up the Missouri, to his
trading-house, the abode of his squaw.
"Previously to his arrival, however, he dispatched a messenger to his
dependents at the trading-house, directing them to prevent his squaw
from appearing in the presence of his wife. She was accordingly sent
off to the village of her nation, a distance of sixty or seventy
miles. But she could not long remain there, and soon returned with her
little boy on her back, and, accompanied by some of her friends, she
encamped near her husband's residence. She sent her son to the trader,
who treated him affectionately. On the succeeding day the trader sent
for his squaw, and, after making her some presents, he directed her to
accompany her friends, who were then on their way to their
hunting-grounds.
"She departed without a murmur, as it is not unusual with the Omawhaws
to send off one of their wives, on some occasions, while they remain
with the favourite one.
"About two months afterwards the trader recalled her. Overjoyed with
what she supposed to be her good fortune, she lost no time in
presenting herself before the husband whom she tenderly loved. But
great was her disappointment, when the husband demanded the surrender
of the child, and renounced for the future any association with
herself, directing her to return to her people, and to provide for her
future well-being in any way she might choose.
"Overpowered by her feelings, on this demand and repudiation, she ran
from the house, and finding a pirogue on the river shore, she paddled
over to the opposite side and made her escape into the forest with her
child. The night was cold, and attended with a fall of snow and hail.
Reflecting upon her disconsolate condition, she resolved to return
again in the morning, and with the feelings of a wife and a mother to
plead her cause before the arbiter of her fate, and endeavour to
mitigate the cruel sentence.
"Agreeably to this determination, she once more approached him upon
whom she believed she had claims paramount to those of any other
individual. 'Here is our child,' said she: 'I do not question your
fondness for him, but he is still more dear to me. You say that you
will keep him for yourself, and drive me far from you. But no, I will
remain with him; I can find some hole or corner in which I may creep,
in order to be near him, and sometimes to see him. If you will not
give me food, I will, nevertheless, remain until I starve before your
eyes.'
"The trader then offered her a considerable present, desiring her at
the same time to go, and leave the child. But she said, 'Is my child a
dog, that I should sell him for merchandize? You cannot drive me away;
you may beat me, it is true, and otherwise abuse me, but I will still
remain. When you married me, you promised to use me kindly as long as
I should be faithful to you; that I have been so, no one can deny.
Ours was not a marriage contracted for a season--it was to terminate
only with our lives. I was then a young girl, and might have been
united to an Omawhaw chief; but I am now an old woman, having had two
children, and what Omawhaw will regard me? Is not my right paramount
to that of your other wife; she had heard of me before you possessed
her. It is true her skin is whiter than mine, but her heart cannot be
more pure towards you, nor her fidelity more rigid. Do not take the
child from my breast, I cannot bear to hear it cry, and not be present
to relieve it[A]; permit me to retain it until the spring, when it
will be able to eat, and then, if it must be so, take it from my
sight, that I may part with it but once.'
[Footnote A: A mode of expression common to the Indians who are in the
habit of communicating their ideas by allusions to the senses.]
"Seeing her thus inflexible, the trader informed her that she might
remain there if she pleased, but that the child should be immediately
sent down to the settlements.
"The affectionate mother had thus far sustained herself during the
interview with the firmness of conscious virtue, and successfully
resisted the impulse of her feelings; but nature now yielded, the
tears coursed rapidly over her cheeks, and clasping her hands, and
bowing her head, she burst into an agony of grief, exclaiming, 'Why
did the Wahconda hate me so much, as to induce me to put my child
again into your power?'
"The feelings of the unhappy mother were, however, soon relieved. Mr.
Dougherty (an Indian trader), communicated the circumstance of the
case to Major O'Fallon, (the agent), who immediately and peremptorily
ordered the restoration of the child to its mother, and informed the
trader that any future attempt to wrest it from her should be at his
peril."
I will give an example of the generous self-devotion of an Omawhaw, to
procure the escape of a brother, and with it end the volume.
"Two Omawhaw brothers had stolen a squaw from an individual of their
nation, and were on their journey to seek a refuge in the Puncaw
village. But they had the misfortune in a large prairie to meet with a
war-party of Sioux, their implacable enemies. They immediately
concealed themselves in a deep ravine, which at the bottom was covered
with dry reed grass. The Sioux surrounded this spot, and set fire to
it on the windward side of the reeds, in order to drive them out. When
the conflagration had nearly reached the fugitives, one of the
brothers remarked, that the Wahconda had certainly not created him to
be smoked out like a racoon; the Indians smoke this animal out of
hollow trees, by kindling a fire at the root: he urged his brother to
attempt to escape in one direction, whilst he would attract the
attention of the enemy, by sallying out upon them alone, and by
endeavouring to destroy as many of them as possible, in anticipated
revenge for that death which he considered as inevitable. 'One or both
of us,' said he, 'must certainly be sacrificed; save yourself if you
can; I will be the victim, and may fortunately receive a death-blow in
the conflict, and thus escape the disgrace of captivity.' He then
rushed forth amongst the Sioux, shot one, and with his knife wounded
several before he was dispatched. His brother, availing himself of the
diverted attention of the enemy, effected his escape, but the squaw
was burned to death."
THE END.
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