OTTO SONG OF MARRIAGE.Who is that?Oh, it is the Master's fair-haired son,Come to wed the warrior's beauteous daughter.Tall and manly is his form;Beautiful and fair is she;See his step how light,See his eyes how bright with love and joy;How glad he looks:So turns his eyes the husband-doveUpon its gentle little wife.He came and caught the maiden in his arms,He pressed her to his bosom as a motherPresses her infant.She was pleased, and wept,But her's were tears of joy;Hung her head, and hid her beautuous face,Yet was she not ashamed.Her's was maiden bashfulness.Blushes she to be so caught in love?See her stolen glances! sunlit glances! see!She doth not altogether hate the youth.Why dost thou weep, mother of the bride?Weepst thou to be parted from thy daughter?Weep no more.What is life?A reed beat down by every wind that stirs,A flower nipt by the first autumnal blast,A deer that perishes by prick of thorn,Here at morning,Gone at evening.Weep not, tender mother of the bride;Soon thou'lt meet her in the happy valesBeyond the setting sun:Ask the lover, he will tell thee so.
OTTO SONG OF MARRIAGE.
Who is that?Oh, it is the Master's fair-haired son,Come to wed the warrior's beauteous daughter.Tall and manly is his form;Beautiful and fair is she;See his step how light,See his eyes how bright with love and joy;How glad he looks:So turns his eyes the husband-doveUpon its gentle little wife.
He came and caught the maiden in his arms,He pressed her to his bosom as a motherPresses her infant.She was pleased, and wept,But her's were tears of joy;Hung her head, and hid her beautuous face,Yet was she not ashamed.Her's was maiden bashfulness.Blushes she to be so caught in love?See her stolen glances! sunlit glances! see!She doth not altogether hate the youth.
Why dost thou weep, mother of the bride?Weepst thou to be parted from thy daughter?Weep no more.What is life?A reed beat down by every wind that stirs,A flower nipt by the first autumnal blast,A deer that perishes by prick of thorn,Here at morning,Gone at evening.Weep not, tender mother of the bride;Soon thou'lt meet her in the happy valesBeyond the setting sun:Ask the lover, he will tell thee so.
Designed & Etched by W. M. Brookefield R. H. A.Then mounting the noble Horse they bade farewell.
When the feast was concluded, the songs and dances, and sacrifices, finished, the Wahconda's son prepared to take his departure to the mountains where his father dwelt. The tribe attended him to the edge of the forest, which had been the hunting-grounds of the Ottoes ever since the rivers ran, and there they left him to pursue his journey with his beautiful and happy wife to the abodes of spirits, and great warriors, and just men. But before the chief parted from his daughter, he made her husband a long speech, and prayed that peace might ever be between them and their people. He told him he had given him his all—his dearly beloved daughter, to whom he must be kind and affectionate. He must not put heavy burdens upon her; he must not send her to cut wood, nor bring home the bison's flesh, nor pound the corn, for her hands had never been hardened in tasks like these, nor her shoulders bowed in her father's house to the labours of the field, or forest, or cabin. "She had been," he said, "the darling of her father's household, and knew not labour but by name."
The Wahconda's son smiled at the words of the old chief, and told him "that services, like those he had mentioned, were never required of women in the Wahconda's dwelling. The people of the happy vales and the spirits of the mountains fed not," he said, "upon bison's meat, nor pounded corn; and the sun, which was the same at all seasons, beamed so warm, that they kept no fires. It was a lovely land, far pleasanter than that which the Ottoes abode in, nor was it subject to those dreadful storms and tempests which terrified and annoyed those who dwelt upon the banks of the Great River." And then, mounting his noble horse, and taking his little wife behind him, he again bade them farewell and rode away.
He had been gone two moons—the third was in its wane, and the parents had become consoled for the loss of their daughter. It was upon a clear and beautiful evening in the Moon of Harvest, when the forest was losing its robe of green, and putting on its garment of brown and scarlet, and cool and steady winds were succeeding to the hot and parching breezes of summer, that the Ottoes assembled to dance and feast in the cabin of their chief. It was one of the most beautiful nights ever beheld. Nothing was heard to break the stillness of the hour, save the rustling of the branches of the cedar and pine, the slight music of a little rivulet, and the mournful singing of the wekolis,[34]perched in the low branches of the willow. The feast was prepared, the Master was propitiated, and they were sitting down to partake of the good things of the land and water, when suddenly the earth began to move like the waters of lake Huron, when agitated by winds from the regions of the frozen star. Upon every side of them, above them, and beneath them, the earth thundered, with a rattling sound. In vain did the Ottoes attempt to leave the cabin; they rolled about like a canoe launched upon a stormy river, or a ball tossed upon frozen water. The rocking of the earth continued throughout the hours of darkness. When light came, it was frightful to behold the disfigured face of the earth. In some places lakes were scooped out, and mountains piled up on their brink. Trees were rooted up and broken; little streams had disappeared, even large rivers had ceased to be. The tall magnolia lay broken in many pieces, the larch tree had been snapped like a rotten reed. The flowers of the meadows were scorched and seared, the deer in the thicket lay mangled and bruised, the birds sat timid and shy on the broken bough. The people called their priests together, and demanded why these things were. The priests answered, "Because the Master of Life was angry, but with whom they knew not. Yet soon should they learn, for there was one coming hither who would be able to tell them."
Three suns had passed, and the knowledge of the cause still remained hidden from them. On the morning of the fourth day, when the chief went out of his lodge, he found his beloved daughter weeping by the door of the cabin. Oh! how changed was the beautiful Mekaia—she was no longer a Star-flower. The brightness of her eye had departed, as the beauty of the green fields and leafy forests is driven hence by the chills of winter, her cheek was sunken and hollow, her long black locks lay uncombed upon her shoulders, and the joy and cheerfulness which once warmed her heart, and made her foot lighter than the antelope's, were no more. She, whose feet were fleeter than the deer's, now walked feebly, and rested oft; she, whose tongue outchirped the merriest birds of the grove, and warbled sweeter music than the song-sparrow, now spoke in strains as gloomy and sad as the bittern that cries in the swamps when night is coming on, or the solitary bird of wisdom perched among the leaves of the oak. The father sat down by her, and asked her whence she came.
"From the valley upon this side of the mountains," she answered.
"Where is thy husband?" demanded Wasabajinga.
"Dead," answered the Starflower, and wept afresh.
"Wah!" exclaimed the warrior, and hid his face with his hands. When he had sat thus awhile, he inquired the manner of his death. She told him, that, before they reached the mountains of the Wahconda, they saw a pale man coming towards them, mounted on a low, black horse. When he came up them, he asked her husband if he would buy blankets, and beads, and the fire-eater. That the Wahconda's son answered, "No;" and told him it was very—very bad in him to carry the fire-eater, to destroy the poor misguided Indians. The man upon the black horse answered, "That he was a better man than the Wahconda's son, for he was no heathen, but lived where men worshipped a greater Wahconda than his father in a beautiful house built with hands, and not beneath the shade of the cypress and the oak." Upon this, her husband did but smile, when the pale man elevated the spear he carried in his hand, and, with the bolts which issued from it, struck him to the earth, from which he never rose again. Then there came a cry of mourning from the cabin of the Little Black Bear. The women rushed out, and tore their hair, and cut their flesh with sharp stones, through grief for the death of the husband of their beloved Starflower. And they sung a melancholy lament, for the youth who had perished in the morning of life, while the down was yet upon his cheek, and his heart had never felt the shaft of sorrow. They sung how happy the lovers were, ere the malice and cruelty of white men destroyed their joys; ere their sacrilegious hands had laid one low in the dust, and left the other to pine under the bereavement, till death would be a blessing. They painted the anger and grief of the great Wahconda when he found the darling of his house numbered with the slain. They sung that, exasperated with the children of earth for the murder of his beloved son, he called upon his earthquakes to deface and lay waste their country. They bade the eye note how well these ministers of his wrath had performed his dread commands. So they sung—"For many a weary day's journey upon the banks of the Mighty River, for many a long encamping in the direction of the setting sun, the land lies in ruins. The bough is broken, and the solid trunk is rent. The flower lies bleeding, and the voice of the dove is hushed. But see, he has bidden the marks of havoc be effaced from the country of the Ottoes, because it is the native land of the beautiful woman who had become the wife of his son."
Long was the mourning continued, and deep the grief, which for many a moon pervaded the cabins and camp of the Ottoes. The Great Wahconda did not permit the Starflower to remain long upon the earth, but soon called her away to be re-united to his beloved son in the land of spirits. Yet she often returns to look upon the place of her birth, to breathe on the things she loved, and to sit beneath the shade of the trees she planted. In the season of flowers, she is often seen by moonlight, binding together the choicest which grow on the prairie, and her voice is often heard in the sighs of the breeze in spring. The Wahconda's son never comes with her, for he fears the treachery and violence of the pale faces.
(1)Stealing horses—p. 148.
Stealing horses is one of the most meritorious acts an Indian can perform, and is boasted of at his feasts among his other praiseworthy deeds. Next to scalping, it is the greatest feat of the Indian warrior. Before going out to war they pray to the Great Spirit to favour them, among other things, with the ability to steal horses.
(2)Struck dead bodies.—p. 148.
Striking the dead, or the disabled body of a living person, is considered the third in the scale of honours. These things are regulated, among the Indians, with the nicety which attends the distribution of academical prizes at the Universities.
(3)Lived in the same cabin, &c.—p. 149.
All the wives of an Indian reside under the same roof. As an Indian is despotic in his family, there is seldom any domestic disagreement in his cabin; if there be, the whip is called in to arbitrate the difference, and the dispute is soon adjusted. I shall notice this subject in a note in another part of the work.
(4)Lodge of his father.—p. 152.
The dwelling-place of the Supreme Being is variously located by the Indians. I shall not notice their reported belief, which places the Good Spirit "above the blue sky," and gives the Evil Spirit the Antipodes. Such, as it is mentioned by Loskiel and by Purchas, are the opinions of the Eastern Indians. These are obviously derived from the white people. The following may be pronounced the unsophisticated traditions of the different tribes on this point, and they are very curious.
"About thirty miles below the falls of St. Anthony, at which I arrived the tenth day after I left Lape Pepin, is a remarkable cave of an amazing depth. The Indians term it Wakon-teebe, that is, the Dwelling of the Great Spirit. The entrance into it is about four feet wide; the height of it fire feet. The arch within it is near fifteen feet high, and about thirty feet broad. The bottom of it consists of fine, clear sand. About twenty feet from the entrance begins a lake, the water of which is transparent, and extends to an unsearchable distance; for the darkness of the cave prevents all possibility of acquiring a knowledge of it. I threw a small pebble towards the interior parts of it with my utmost strength: I could hear that it fell into the water, and, notwithstanding that it was of so small a size, it caused an astonishing and horrible noise, that reverberated through all those gloomy regions. I found in this cave many Indian hieroglyphics, which appeared very ancient, for time had nearly covered them with moss, so that it was with difficulty I could trace them. They were cut in a rude manner upon the inside of the walls, which were composed of a stone so extremely soft, that it might easily be penetrated with a knife; a stone every where to be found near the Mississippi."Carver's Travels, p. 39, 40.
Very many of the Western Indians believe that the Supreme Being has his residence in the Rocky Mountains; and some of them make him the Sun.—Charlevoix, ii, 180, 117.
The Chippeways suppose the islands in Lake Superior to have been, from their first formation, the residence of the Great Spirit, and relate many stories of enchantment and magical tricks that had been experienced by such as were obliged, through stress of weather, to take shelter there.—See one of them further on.
The Hurons believe that Michabou, the God of the Waters, and sometimes their Great Spirit, formerly dwelt at Michillimackinac where he was born.
(5)The thunder.—p. 153.
The Indians have but one way to account for atmospherical phenomena; it is always by the intervention of a Supreme or Spiritual Being of the earth, the air, or the waters. Thus they ascribe earthquakes to the moving of the Great Tortoise which bears theIsland(continent) on its back. They say he shakes himself or changes his position. The Missouri Indians believe earthquakes to be the effect of supernatural agency, connected like the thunder with the immediate operations of the Master of Life. Thunder and lightning impress them with inconceivable terror. Their opinions of the cause are various. Some take it for a voice of a particular species of men who fly in the air. Others say the noise comes from certain birds that are unknown to them. The Montagnais say it is the effort of a genius to bring up a snake which he hath swallowed; and they found this notion on observing that when the thunder falls upon a tree, it leaves something like, the shape of a snake.
The Konzas believe that, when a man is killed in battle, the thunder takes him up, they do not know whither. In going to battle each man traces an imaginary figure of the thunder on the soil, and he who represents it incorrectly is killed by the thunder.
The Delawares, who knew nothing of the cause of natural phenomena, nor do they desire to be informed of them, conceived thunder to be a spirit dwelling in the mountains, and now and then sallying forth to make himself heard. Some of them imagined it to proceed from the crowing of a monstrous turkey-cock in the heavens; others from enraged evil spirits.
Carver says in hisTravels: "We had just landed, and were preparing to set up our tents for the night, when a heavy cloud overspread the heavens, and the most dreadful thunder, lightning, and rain, issued from it that ever I beheld. The Indians were greatly terrified, and ran to seek such shelter as they could. The Indian chiefs themselves, though their courage in war is usually invincible, could not help trembling at the horrid combustion."—Carver, 56. The southern Indians believe thunder to be the voice of the Almighty.—Adair,86. They believe that Minggo Ishto Eloa, "the great chieftain of thunder" sometimes binds up the clouds and withholds rain.—Ibid., 89.
Eclipses they attribute to the attempts of the Evil Spirits to embarrass the labours of the luminary which is eclipsed. "The first lunar eclipse," says Adair, "I saw, after I lived with the Indians, was among the Cherokees in 1736; and, during the continuance of it, their conduct appeared surprising to one who had not seen the like before; they all ran wild, this way and that way, like lunatics, firing their guns, whooping and hallooing, beating of kettles, ringing horse-bells, and making the most horrid noises that human beings possibly could. This was done to assist the suffering moon."—Adair, 65.
(6)The chief gives her to him.—p. 156.
Marriages among the Indians are proposed and concluded in different ways. Thus, among the Delawares, the parents on both sides, having observed an attachment growing up between two young persons, negotiate for them. This generally commences from the house where the bridegroom lives, whose mother is the negotiatrix for him, and begins her duties by taking a good leg of venison or bear's meat, or something else of the same kind, to the house where the bride dwells, not forgetting to mention that her son has killed it. In return for this, the mother of the bride, if she otherwise approves the match, which she well understands by the presents to be intended, will prepare a good dish of victuals, the produce of the labour of women—such as beans, Indian corn, or the like—and then, taking it to the house where the bridegroom lives, will say, "This is the produce of my daughter's field, and she also prepared it." From this time (if the presents be accepted) not only presents of this kind are continued on both sides, but articles of clothing are presented to the parents of each party by way of return for what they have received, and of these the young people always have a share. The friendship between the two families daily increasing, they do their domestic and field-work jointly, and when the young people have agreed to live together, the parents supply them with necessaries, such as a kettle, dishes, bowls, &c. &c.
The men who have no parents to negotiate for them, or who otherwise choose to manage the matter for themselves, have two simple ways of attaining their object. The first is by stepping up to the woman whom they wish to marry, saying, "If you are willing, I will take you as wife;" when, if she answers in the affirmative, she either goes with him immediately, or meets him at an appointed time or place. The other method is—(I give it in their bad English)—"Indian, when he see industrious squaw, which he like, he go tohim,place his two fore-fingers close aside each other, make two look like one—look squaw in the face—seehimsmile, which is all onehesayyes!So he takehimhome."
Among the Iroquois, Miamis, &c. treaties of marriage are entirely carried on by the parents; the parties interested do not appear at all, but give themselves up entirely to the will of those on whom they depend. The parents, however, do not conclude any thing without their consent, but this is only a formality. The first advances must be made by the matrons. Not but that, if any girl were to continue too long without being sued for, her family would act underhand to procure her a suitor.
In some places the young man is contented to go and sit by the side of the young woman in her cabin; and, if she suffers it and continues in her place, it is taken for her consent, and the marriage is concluded. The customs of the different tribes do not essentially vary. What should you say, my fair readers, at being "wooed and won" in this way?
(7)Indian farm of marriage.—p. 156.
The Indian nations differ but little from each other in their marriage ceremonies. The tribes that inhabit the borders of Canada have the following custom:—When every preliminary is agreed on, and the day appointed, the friends and acquaintance of both parties assemble at the house or tent of the oldest relation of the bridegroom, where a feast is prepared on the occasion. The company who meet to assist at the festival are sometimes very numerous; they dance, they sing, and enter into every other diversion usual at any of their public rejoicings. When these are finished, all those who attended merely out of ceremony depart, and the bridegroom and the bride are left alone with three or four of the nearest and oldest relations on either side; those of the bridegroom being men, and those of the bride women.
Presently the bride, attended by these few friends, having withdrawn herself for the purpose, appears at one of the doors of the house, and is led to the bridegroom, who stands ready to receive her. Having now taken their station on a mat, placed in the centre of the room, they lay hold of the extremities of a wand about four feet long, by which they continue separated, whilst the old men pronounce some short harangues suitable to the occasion. The married couple after this make a public declaration of the love and regard they entertain for each other, and still holding the rod between them they dance and sing. When they have finished this part of the ceremony, they break the rod into as many pieces as there are witnesses present, who each take a piece, and preserve it with great care. The bride is then re-conducted out of the door as she entered, where her young companions wait to attend her to her father's house; there the bridegroom is obliged to seek her.
Another manner of performing the ceremony is said to be peculiar to the Naudowessies. When one of their young men has fixed on a young woman he approves of, he discovers his passion to her parents, who give him an invitation to come and live with them in their tents. He accordingly accepts their offer, and by so doing engages to reside in it for a whole year in the character of a menial servant. During this time he hunts, and brings all the game he kills to the family; by which means the father has an opportunity of seeing whether he can provide for the support of his daughter and the children that might be the consequence of their union. When this period is expired, the marriage is solemnized after the custom of the country, in the following manner:—Three or four of the oldest male relations of the bridegroom, and as many of the bride's, accompany the young couple from their respective tents to an open part in the centre of the camp. The chiefs and warriors being here assembled to receive them, a party of the latter are drawn up into two ranks on each side of the bride and bridegroom, immediately on their arrival. The principal chief then acquaints the whole assembly with the design of their meeting, and tells them that the couple before them, mentioning at the same time their names, are come to avow publicly their intention of living together as man and wife. He then asks the young people alternately whether they desire that the union may take place. Having declared, with an audible voice, that they do so, the warriors fix their arrows, and discharge them over the needs of the married pair; this done, the chief pronounces them man and wife. The bridegroom then turns around, and, bending his body, takes his wife upon his back, in which manner he carries her, amidst the acclamations of the spectators, to his tent. The ceremony is concluded by the most plentiful feast the new-married man can afford, and songs and dances, according to the usual custom, conclude the festival.
Among the Quapaws, as I have been informed, the husband, on the consummation of his marriage, presents his wife with a leg of deer, and she in return offers him an ear of maize.
"Whither goest thou, valiant warrior?Whither goest thou, Son of the Beaver?Man whom the Mahas fear;Man whom the Pawnees shun;Man of the red and painted cheek;Man of the fierce and fearful shout;Whither goest thou?""I go to make an offering,I go to give to the Idols a bow,An arrow, and a spear,The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,That stand on the willow bank,On the willow bank, that o'erlooks the stream,The shallow and turbid stream;I go to ask that my heart may be made,Like the heart of the panther, fierce and stout,And my soul as clean as the soul of a child,And my foot as swift as the foot of a buck,That victory may be mine,That the pole of my lodge may bend with scalps,And the song of my lipsBe the song of a Brave,Who sings of bright deeds in the ears of his tribe.""Go! Warrior, go!""Whither goest thou, Hunter?Whither goest thou, keen eyed-man?Man whom the Beaver fears;Man whom the Panther shuns;Man of the fleet and ardent foot,And the firm and patient heart,And the never blanching-cheek,Whither goest thou?""I go to make an offering,I go to give to the Idols flesh,The juicy flesh of the elk,The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,That stand on the willow bank,On the willow bank that o'erlooks the stream,The shallow and turbid stream;I go to ask that my eye maybe trueTo follow the trail of the deer,And to lead in the fox's track,And strong my arm to send the dartTo the life of the bison-ox,And stout my heart, when I list to the growlOf the cubs in the panther's den.""Go! Hunter, go!""Whither goest thou, Priest?Man of wisdom, whither goest thou?Man that commun'st with the Voice[35],And notest the lightning's words;Man that hast knowledge of things unseenBy the eye of thy brothers,Whither goest thou?""I go to make an offering:I go to lay my magic robe,My shaggy hide of the old black bear,Before the Idols,The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,That stand on the willow bank,On the willow bank that o'erlooks the stream,The shallow and turbid stream;I go to ask my Okkis[36]to giveTo the sleep of my nights the dream that showsThe image of things to come,That I may behold the fate of my tribe,And the fate of the Indian race;And count the scalps from Mahas torn,And the prisoners brought from Pawnee lands,And the beads from the town of the Rock[37];And number the coal-black horses,The Ricara Braves shall stealFrom the men who wear the cross,That shines like the cold, pale moon"[38]."Go! Priest, go!""And whither goest thou, Maiden?Dove of the forest, whither goest thou?Maiden, as bright as the Hunter's Star,Maiden, whose hair is the grape-clustered vine,Whose neck is the neck of the swan,Whose eyes are the eyes of the dove,Whose hand is as small as the red-oak's leaf,Whose foot is the length of the lark's spread wing,Whose step is the step of the antelope's child,Whose voice is the voice of a rill in the moon,Of the rill's most gentle song;Whither goest thou?""I go to make an offering.I go to lay the gifts of my Brave,The crest of the Song Sparrow[39], that which sangFrom her bower in the bush, on the beautiful night,When he called me "dearest,"And the rainbow-tail of the Spirit Bird,And the shells that were dyed in the sunset's blush,And the beads that he brought from a far-off land,And the skin of the striped lynx that he slewEre the mocassins deck'd his feet,Before the Idols,The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,That stand on the willow-bank,On the willow-bank that o'erlooks the stream,The shallow and turbid stream.I make them my Okkis to guard my Brave;I go to ask them to shield his breastAgainst the Maha's darts;To give to his arm the strength of two;To give to his foot the fleetness of two;To wring from his heart the drop of blood,If he hath such drop, that causes fearTo make his cry like the Serpent's hiss[40],Among the hills of the setting sun,And when there is Maha blood on his hand,And a bunch of Maha scalps at his back.To send him back to these longing arms,That I may wipe from his weary browThe drops that spring from his toil.""Go! Maiden, go!"
"Whither goest thou, valiant warrior?Whither goest thou, Son of the Beaver?Man whom the Mahas fear;Man whom the Pawnees shun;Man of the red and painted cheek;Man of the fierce and fearful shout;Whither goest thou?""I go to make an offering,I go to give to the Idols a bow,An arrow, and a spear,The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,That stand on the willow bank,On the willow bank, that o'erlooks the stream,The shallow and turbid stream;I go to ask that my heart may be made,Like the heart of the panther, fierce and stout,And my soul as clean as the soul of a child,And my foot as swift as the foot of a buck,That victory may be mine,That the pole of my lodge may bend with scalps,And the song of my lipsBe the song of a Brave,Who sings of bright deeds in the ears of his tribe.""Go! Warrior, go!"
"Whither goest thou, Hunter?Whither goest thou, keen eyed-man?Man whom the Beaver fears;Man whom the Panther shuns;Man of the fleet and ardent foot,And the firm and patient heart,And the never blanching-cheek,Whither goest thou?""I go to make an offering,I go to give to the Idols flesh,The juicy flesh of the elk,The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,That stand on the willow bank,On the willow bank that o'erlooks the stream,The shallow and turbid stream;I go to ask that my eye maybe trueTo follow the trail of the deer,And to lead in the fox's track,And strong my arm to send the dartTo the life of the bison-ox,And stout my heart, when I list to the growlOf the cubs in the panther's den.""Go! Hunter, go!"
"Whither goest thou, Priest?Man of wisdom, whither goest thou?Man that commun'st with the Voice[35],And notest the lightning's words;Man that hast knowledge of things unseenBy the eye of thy brothers,Whither goest thou?"
"I go to make an offering:I go to lay my magic robe,My shaggy hide of the old black bear,Before the Idols,The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,That stand on the willow bank,On the willow bank that o'erlooks the stream,The shallow and turbid stream;I go to ask my Okkis[36]to giveTo the sleep of my nights the dream that showsThe image of things to come,That I may behold the fate of my tribe,And the fate of the Indian race;And count the scalps from Mahas torn,And the prisoners brought from Pawnee lands,And the beads from the town of the Rock[37];And number the coal-black horses,The Ricara Braves shall stealFrom the men who wear the cross,That shines like the cold, pale moon"[38]."Go! Priest, go!"
"And whither goest thou, Maiden?Dove of the forest, whither goest thou?Maiden, as bright as the Hunter's Star,Maiden, whose hair is the grape-clustered vine,Whose neck is the neck of the swan,Whose eyes are the eyes of the dove,Whose hand is as small as the red-oak's leaf,Whose foot is the length of the lark's spread wing,Whose step is the step of the antelope's child,Whose voice is the voice of a rill in the moon,Of the rill's most gentle song;Whither goest thou?"
"I go to make an offering.I go to lay the gifts of my Brave,The crest of the Song Sparrow[39], that which sangFrom her bower in the bush, on the beautiful night,When he called me "dearest,"And the rainbow-tail of the Spirit Bird,And the shells that were dyed in the sunset's blush,And the beads that he brought from a far-off land,And the skin of the striped lynx that he slewEre the mocassins deck'd his feet,Before the Idols,The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,That stand on the willow-bank,On the willow-bank that o'erlooks the stream,The shallow and turbid stream.I make them my Okkis to guard my Brave;I go to ask them to shield his breastAgainst the Maha's darts;To give to his arm the strength of two;To give to his foot the fleetness of two;To wring from his heart the drop of blood,If he hath such drop, that causes fearTo make his cry like the Serpent's hiss[40],Among the hills of the setting sun,And when there is Maha blood on his hand,And a bunch of Maha scalps at his back.To send him back to these longing arms,That I may wipe from his weary browThe drops that spring from his toil.""Go! Maiden, go!"
With the above characteristic and wild song, chanted with the action and in the tones peculiar to the Indian story-teller, and which, in truth, is always the manner in which their traditions are related, the Little Snake, the principal chief of the Ricaras, and who was as celebrated throughout the wilds of the west for his skill in song as Carolan in the palace of his mountain lord, or Blondel at the court of Coeur de Lion, commenced his tale. As far as the visual organ was concerned, Mr. Verdier was before acquainted with the curious images to which it referred. He had seen, a few miles back, from the Mississippi, a small "willow-bank," rising in the words of the song above a "shallow and turbid stream," upon which were two stones bearing a great resemblance to the human form, and a third having a still greater resemblance to a dog. He knew that they were objects of exceeding veneration with all the tribes of the west, especially with the Ricaras, and that whenever they passed them, and they often deviated many miles from their path for that purpose, they never failed to make an offering, generally of some ornament, or valued part of their dress, or martial equipment, to propitiate the intelligences supposed to inhabit the statues, and render them favourable to their wants and wishes, and to their success in war, or the chace He saw that the continued observance of this rite for a long period, probably for ages, had collected around the "Idols" a large heap of stones, sticks, blankets, deer-skins, eagle's' feathers, &c., but he had remained till now in ignorance of the tradition, which assigned to them a past existence as human beings. He knew that every thing which is not in the common order of things, even a tree singularly shaped, or presenting an unusual excrescence, a blade of grass twisted into an uncommon form, a berry or a stalk of maize growing to an unusual size, become, in the eyes of these wild and superstitious children of the forest, invested with supernatural interest; but he had supposed that it was the mere resemblance which these statues bore to human beings that had caused the Indians to regard them as objects worthy of the most hallowed form of their rude worship.
It may be as well to say in this place, what I had contemplated making the subject of a note. It is this—that Indian poetry always wants the correspondence of the last sound of one verse with the last sound or syllable of another. There cannot, I imagine, be found a single instance of their having attempted to produce the "harmonical succession of sounds," which has imparted so much richness and beauty to the cultivated languages. It is necessary to state this, that my readers may not suppose that the omission to make the lines rhyme grew out of an attempt to give to the poetry an appearance of greater originality, and of greater singularity and wildness, the supposed first step to success. I could not, consistently with my determination to represent truly the manners and customs of that interesting and hard-used race in their own style and method, attempt to introduce rhyme into their rude lyrics. The poetry I have given, though it may want the inspiration of Indian poetry, will be found to possess its method. Another trait of Indian poetry to be noticed is the frequent repetition of favourite passages and incidents.
The Indian story-teller, having paused a moment to recruit his strength and voice, which had suffered by his energy, and to gather the opinion of the audience, which, for the first time in the present assembly, was expressed by audible signs of satisfaction, an unusual occurrence in an Indian audience, resumed his tale as follows:—
And who are theyTo whom the Brave has given his bow,His arrow, and his spear;To whom the Hunter has given the flesh,The juicy flesh of the elk,At whose feet the Priest has laid his robe,The shaggy skin of the old black bear,Where she, as bright as the Hunter's Star[41],The Maid with hair like the clustering grapes,Whose neck is the neck of the swan,Whose eyes are the eyes of the dove,Whose hand is as small as the red-oak's leaf,Whose foot is the length of the lark's spread wing.Whose step is the step of the antelope's child,Whose voice is the voice of a rill in the moon,Of the rill's most gentle song,Has cast the gifts of her Brave,Cast, without a tear,The tuft of the Song Sparrow, that which sangFrom its bower in the bush on the beautiful night,That he called his maiden, "dearest,"And the rainbow-tail of the Spirit Bird,And the shells that were dyed in the sunset's blush,And the beads that he brought from a far-off land,And the skin of the striped lynx that he slew,Ere the mocassins decked his feet?I will tell you who they are:Listen, brother!Thou from the distant land,Pour oil into thine ears, for IWill fill them with a song.They both were Ricaras,And the Dog was a Ricara Dog;It was many suns ago,Yet ask me not how long,For the warrior cannot tell,But this do I know the rivers ranThrough forest, and prairie, and copse,And the mountains were piled to the base of the clouds,And the waters were deep,And the winter was cold,And the summer was hot;Grass grew on the prairies,Flowers bloomed on the lea,The lark sang in the morning,The owl hooted at night,And the world was such a worldAs the Ricara world is now:—My brother hears.One was a Ricara boy,And one was a Ricara girl,And one was a Ricara dog.My brother hears.The boy and the girl were lovers,And the dog loved both,They loved each other moreThan the soul of an Indian loves his home;The lodge of his wife and babes,Or the graves,The mossy graves,The green and grass-covered graves,Of his fathers mouldered and gone;They loved each other moreThan the warrior loves the shout of his foe,Or the festival of scalps,Or the hunter to see the wing,Of a plover beating the air.Their fathers were friends;They dwelt together in one cabin;They hunted the woods together;They warred together,Raising the self-same shout of onset,Waking the self-same song of triumph:Their mothers were sisters;They dwelt together in one cabin;Together they wrought in the field of maize;Each bent her back to the bison's flesh,Load and load alike;And they went to the wild wood together,To bring home the food for the fire;Kind were these sisters to each other;There was always a clear sky[42]in their cabins:—My brother hears.One Ricara father said to his friend,While these babes yet swungIn their baskets of barkFrom the bough of the oak,Listen!I have a young eagle in my eyrie,Thou hast a young dove in thy nest,Let us mate them.Though now they be but squabs,There will be but twice eight chills of the lake;And twice eight fails of the maple leaf;And twice eight bursts of the earth from frosts;The corn will ripen bat twice eight times,Tall, sweet corn;The rose will bloom but twice eight times,Beautiful rose!The vine will give but twice eight timesIts rich black clusters,Sweet ripe clusters,Grapes of the land of the Ricaras,Ere thy squab shall be an eagle,Ere my little dove shall wearThe feathers and plumes of a full-grown bird.Let us pledge them nowTo each other,That when thy son has become a man,And painted his face as a brave man paints,Red on the cheek,Red on the brow,And wears but the single lock[43],That is graced with the plumes of the Warrior-bird,And has stolen thy bow for the field of strife,And run away with thy spear,And thou findest thy sheaf of arrows gone,And nearest his shout as he follows the stepsOf his chief to the Pawnee lodge,And my little dove,My beautiful dove,Sings in the grove, in the hour of eve,All alone, soft songs.Maiden's songs of the restless hour,When the full heart sings, it knows not why:My son shall build himself a lodge,And thy daughter shall light his fires.Then said his friend,'Tis well;Nor hast thou a forked tongue:My son is pledged to thee,And to thy little daughter.When he has become a warrior-man,And painted his face with the ochre of wrath,Red on the cheek,Red on the brow,And wears but a scalp-lock,Decked with the plumes of the warrior-bird,And has stolen my bow for the field of strife,And run away with my spear,And I find my sheaf of arrows gone,And hear his shout as he follows the stepOf his chief to the Pawnee lodge,And thy doveSings in the grove in the hour of eve,All alone, soft songs,Maiden songs, songs of the unquiet hour,Songs that gush out of the swelling soul,As the river breaks over its banks:My son shall build himself a cabin,And thy daughter shall light his fires.When these two Ricara babes were grown,To know the meaning of words,And to read the language of eyes,And to guess by the throbs of the heart,It was said to them,To the girl, he will build thee a lodge,And bring thee a good fat deer of the glade;To the boy, she will light thy fires, and beThe partner of thy lot.And knowing this they loved:No more were they seen apart,They went together to pluck the grape,To look for the berry which grew on the moor,To fright the birds from the maize;They hunted together the lonely copse,To search for the bittern's eggs,And they wandered together to pluck from the wasteThe first blue flower of the budding moon;And, when the village children were come,Where the rope of grass,Or the twisted thong of bison-hide,Hung from the bough,To swing in childish sport,These two did always swing each other,And if by chance they found themselves apart,Then tears bedew'd their little cheeks,And the gobs of grief came thick and fast,Till they found each other's arms again,And so they grew:—My brother hears.The maiden grew up beautiful,Tall as the chin of a lofty man,Bright as the star that shines,To guide the Indian hunter throughThe pathless wilds to his home.Her hair was like the grape-clustered vine;Her neck was the neck of the swan;Her eyes were the eyes of the dove;Her hand was as small as the red oak's leaf;Her foot was the length of the lark's spread wing;Her step was the step of the antelope's child;Her voice was the voice of a rill in the moon,Of the rill's most gentle song:Oh, how beautiful was the Ricara girl!How worthy to be the wife of the man,And to light-the fires of aBrave!How fit-to be the motherOf stout warriors and expert hunters!And how grew the Ricara boy?—Does my brother listen?He does, it is well.—He grew to be fair to the eye,Like a tree that hath smooth bark,But is rotten or hollow at core;A vine that cumbers the earthWith the weight of leaves and flowers,But never brings forth fruit:He did not become a man:He painted not as a warrior paints,Red on the cheek,Red on the brow,Nor wore the gallant scalp-lock,Black with the plumes of the warrior-bird,Nor stole his father's bow,Nor ran away with his spear,Nor took down the barbed sheaf,Nor raised his shout as he followed the stepOf his chief to the Pawnee lodge.He better loved to sit by the fire,While the women were spinning the mulberry-bark(2)Or to lie at his length by the stream,To watch the nimble salmon's sport,Or, placed by the leafy perch of the bird,To snare the poor simple thing;He better loved to rove with girlsIn search of early flowers.The Ricara father said to the maid,"Listen to me, my dove,When I gave thee away,I deem'd that I gaveMy child to one who would gain renown,By the deeds which had given his sires renown,To a boy who would snatch, ere his limbs were grown,The heaviest bow of the strongest man,And hie to the strife with a painted face,And a shout that should ring in the lonely glades,Like a spirit's among the hills;I did not deem I had given my doveTo a youth with the heart of a doe;A gatherer-in of flowers,A snarer of simple birds,A weeder with women of maize[44],A man with the cheek of a girl—Dost thou listen?"Now, since thy lover is weak in heart,A woman in mind and soul,Nor boasts, nor wishes to boast,Of deeds in battle done,Nor sings, nor wishes to sing,Of men by his arm laid low,Nor tells how he bore the flames, his foesDid kindle around his fettered limbs;And, since he finds more joy in flowers,And had rather work in the maize-clad field,Than wend to the glorious strifeWith the warriors of his tribe,I will not keep my faith.—My daughter hears.—I bid thee see the youth once more,And then behold his face no more.Tell him, the child of the Red Wing wedsWith none but the fierce and bold,Tell him, the man, whose fires she lights,Must be strong of soul, and stout of arm,Able to send a shaft to the heartOf him who would quench that fire,Able to bend a warrior's bow,Able to poise a warrior's spear,Able to bear, without a groan,The torments devised by hungry foes,The pincers rending his flesh,The hot stones searing his eye-balls.—Dost thou hear?"Then down the daughter's beauteous cheeksRan drops like the plenteous summer rain."I hear, my father,Yet, hard thy words weigh on my heart;Thou gav'st me to him, while we lay,Unknowing the pledge, in our willow cage(3),When first we opened our eyes on the world,And saw the bright and twinkling stars,And the dazzling sun, and the moon alive(4),And the fields bespread with blooming flowers,And we breath'd the balmy winds of spring;The old men said, to one another,'Dost thou know, brother,Thar, when his years are the years of a man,And his deeds are the deeds of the good and true,The son of the Yellow PineShall marry the Red Wing's daughter?'And the women took up the tale,And the boys and girls, when met to play,Told in our ears the pleasing words,That I was to be his wife."And, knowing this, we loved,And 'tis hard to break the chains of love;Thou may'st sooner rive the flinty oak,With the alder spear of a sickly boy,Than chase him away from my soul.Twice eight bright years have our hearts been wed.And thou hast look'd on and smiled;And now thou com'st, with a frowning brow,And bid'st me chase him from my soul.I know his arm is weak,I know his heart is the heart of a deer,And his soul is the soul of a dove;Yet hath he won my virgin heart,And I cannot drive him hence."But the father would not hear,And he bade his daughter think no moreOf the Ricara youth for her mate;And he said, ere the Moon of Harvest passed,She should light the fires of a Brave.What said the Ricara youth,When he heard the stern command,Which broke his being's strongest bond,As ye break an untwisted rope of grass?Sorrow o'erwhelm'd his soul,And grief gush'd out at his eyes.With an aching heart he left his lodge,When evening gray-mist walk'd out of the earth,And wandered forth with his dog—To the woods he went,To the lonely, dim, and silent woods,To weep and sigh:Whom saw he there?—Does my brother hear?—He saw the maiden, so long beloved,Her with hair like the grape-cluster'd vine,Whose neck was the neck of the swan,Whose eyes were the eyes of the dove,Whose hand was as small as the red-oak's leaf,Whose foot was the length of the lark's spread wwig,Whose step was the step of the antelope's child.Whose voice was the voice of a rill in the moon,Of the rill's most gentle song;But oh, how chang'd!Beaming eye and bounding foot,Laughing lip and placid brow,Hath the beauteous maid no more.Slow is her step as a crippled bird's,And mournful her voice as the dying noteOf a thunder-cloud that hath passed;And yet she joys to meet the youth.Into his arms she flies,Like a fawn that escapes from the hunter's shaft,And reaches its dam unhurt.Lock'd in a soft and fond embrace,The lovers recline on the flowery bank,And pledge their faith anew;And loudly they call on the host of stars,And the cold and dimly shining moon,And the spirits, that watch by night in the air,Or chirp in the hollow oak[45], to seeThe plighting of their hands:They married themselves,And man and wifeBecame in the wilderness.But love alone could not keep aliveThe Ricara boy and girl;The woods were scarce of game,No berries were on the heath,The winds had shaken the grapes from the vine,And hunger assail'd the pair.What did they then?They knelt and pray'd to the Master of Life—Him of the terrible voice in the cloud—To send them food, or callTheir spirits away to the happy landsBeyond the vale of death.Did the Master hear?Brother he always hearsWhen mortals go in clay(5)The Master sat on the crest of the world[46],Sat at the door of his mighty lodge,Tossing bright stars at the waning moon[47],When there came on the winds the woes of the pair,And pity filled his soul,And grief weighed down his heart.He called to his side the spirit that guardsThe warlike Indian race,The spirit of courage, and wisdom, and strength,And the fearless spirit came."Dost thou see," said he, "the Ricara pair,Caltacotah and Miskwa, the Red,They have married themselves in the wilderness,And now they die for food.Look at the husband, note him well?He hath never dared to look on a foe,Nor paints his face as a warrior paints,Nor wears the gallant scalp-lock,Nor hath he a hunter's eye;Unable is he to strike a deer:The white and fringed skin of the goat,Which covers the breast of the maiden, concealsA manlier heart than his.Go, and end their woes."The spirit answered, "I hear."The shadows of evening fell on the earth,And the mists were out,And the bat was abroad.The Ricara pair were joyful now,For they had found a vine of grapes.On the willow bank that o'erlooks the stream,The shallow and turbid stream,And, though the grapes were shrivell'd and sour,These two were joyful now,When all at once, ere their lips had touch'd,The Manitou stood at their side,And trembling shook their limbs.He saw the woes of the pair,And he bade them cease to be;He bade them become a thing to showThe mercy and goodness of Him that rules—The flintiness of her father's heart—Their own tried constancy;And he bade them remain in the wilderness,Till the rivers should cease to flow,And the stars should cease to shine.And they became the Idols,The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,That stood on the willow bank.'Tis thither the tribes of the land resort,To make their offerings;Thither the warrior carries his bow,His arrow, and his spear,And the hunter, the juicy flesh of the elk;The priest, the shaggy skins of the bear,And she of the fair and youthful form,The gifts of the favour'd Brave.All bear thither a valued gift,And lay it at their feet;No Ricara takes his bow, till heHas oft besought their aid,No Ricara paints as a warrior paints,Red on the cheek,Red on the brow,Till he has thrice before them bow'd,And said to them, "Make me strong!"And the maiden and the priestPetition there for aid.
And who are theyTo whom the Brave has given his bow,His arrow, and his spear;To whom the Hunter has given the flesh,The juicy flesh of the elk,At whose feet the Priest has laid his robe,The shaggy skin of the old black bear,Where she, as bright as the Hunter's Star[41],The Maid with hair like the clustering grapes,Whose neck is the neck of the swan,Whose eyes are the eyes of the dove,Whose hand is as small as the red-oak's leaf,Whose foot is the length of the lark's spread wing.Whose step is the step of the antelope's child,Whose voice is the voice of a rill in the moon,Of the rill's most gentle song,Has cast the gifts of her Brave,Cast, without a tear,The tuft of the Song Sparrow, that which sangFrom its bower in the bush on the beautiful night,That he called his maiden, "dearest,"And the rainbow-tail of the Spirit Bird,And the shells that were dyed in the sunset's blush,And the beads that he brought from a far-off land,And the skin of the striped lynx that he slew,Ere the mocassins decked his feet?I will tell you who they are:Listen, brother!Thou from the distant land,Pour oil into thine ears, for IWill fill them with a song.
They both were Ricaras,And the Dog was a Ricara Dog;It was many suns ago,Yet ask me not how long,For the warrior cannot tell,But this do I know the rivers ranThrough forest, and prairie, and copse,And the mountains were piled to the base of the clouds,And the waters were deep,And the winter was cold,And the summer was hot;Grass grew on the prairies,Flowers bloomed on the lea,The lark sang in the morning,The owl hooted at night,And the world was such a worldAs the Ricara world is now:—My brother hears.
One was a Ricara boy,And one was a Ricara girl,And one was a Ricara dog.My brother hears.The boy and the girl were lovers,And the dog loved both,They loved each other moreThan the soul of an Indian loves his home;The lodge of his wife and babes,Or the graves,The mossy graves,The green and grass-covered graves,Of his fathers mouldered and gone;They loved each other moreThan the warrior loves the shout of his foe,Or the festival of scalps,Or the hunter to see the wing,Of a plover beating the air.
Their fathers were friends;They dwelt together in one cabin;They hunted the woods together;They warred together,Raising the self-same shout of onset,Waking the self-same song of triumph:Their mothers were sisters;They dwelt together in one cabin;Together they wrought in the field of maize;Each bent her back to the bison's flesh,Load and load alike;And they went to the wild wood together,To bring home the food for the fire;Kind were these sisters to each other;There was always a clear sky[42]in their cabins:—My brother hears.
One Ricara father said to his friend,While these babes yet swungIn their baskets of barkFrom the bough of the oak,Listen!I have a young eagle in my eyrie,Thou hast a young dove in thy nest,Let us mate them.Though now they be but squabs,There will be but twice eight chills of the lake;And twice eight fails of the maple leaf;And twice eight bursts of the earth from frosts;The corn will ripen bat twice eight times,Tall, sweet corn;The rose will bloom but twice eight times,Beautiful rose!The vine will give but twice eight timesIts rich black clusters,Sweet ripe clusters,Grapes of the land of the Ricaras,Ere thy squab shall be an eagle,Ere my little dove shall wearThe feathers and plumes of a full-grown bird.Let us pledge them nowTo each other,That when thy son has become a man,And painted his face as a brave man paints,Red on the cheek,Red on the brow,And wears but the single lock[43],That is graced with the plumes of the Warrior-bird,And has stolen thy bow for the field of strife,And run away with thy spear,And thou findest thy sheaf of arrows gone,And nearest his shout as he follows the stepsOf his chief to the Pawnee lodge,And my little dove,My beautiful dove,Sings in the grove, in the hour of eve,All alone, soft songs.Maiden's songs of the restless hour,When the full heart sings, it knows not why:My son shall build himself a lodge,And thy daughter shall light his fires.
Then said his friend,'Tis well;Nor hast thou a forked tongue:My son is pledged to thee,And to thy little daughter.When he has become a warrior-man,And painted his face with the ochre of wrath,Red on the cheek,Red on the brow,And wears but a scalp-lock,Decked with the plumes of the warrior-bird,And has stolen my bow for the field of strife,And run away with my spear,And I find my sheaf of arrows gone,And hear his shout as he follows the stepOf his chief to the Pawnee lodge,And thy doveSings in the grove in the hour of eve,All alone, soft songs,Maiden songs, songs of the unquiet hour,Songs that gush out of the swelling soul,As the river breaks over its banks:My son shall build himself a cabin,And thy daughter shall light his fires.
When these two Ricara babes were grown,To know the meaning of words,And to read the language of eyes,And to guess by the throbs of the heart,It was said to them,To the girl, he will build thee a lodge,And bring thee a good fat deer of the glade;To the boy, she will light thy fires, and beThe partner of thy lot.And knowing this they loved:No more were they seen apart,They went together to pluck the grape,To look for the berry which grew on the moor,To fright the birds from the maize;They hunted together the lonely copse,To search for the bittern's eggs,And they wandered together to pluck from the wasteThe first blue flower of the budding moon;And, when the village children were come,Where the rope of grass,Or the twisted thong of bison-hide,Hung from the bough,To swing in childish sport,These two did always swing each other,And if by chance they found themselves apart,Then tears bedew'd their little cheeks,And the gobs of grief came thick and fast,Till they found each other's arms again,And so they grew:—My brother hears.
The maiden grew up beautiful,Tall as the chin of a lofty man,Bright as the star that shines,To guide the Indian hunter throughThe pathless wilds to his home.Her hair was like the grape-clustered vine;Her neck was the neck of the swan;Her eyes were the eyes of the dove;Her hand was as small as the red oak's leaf;Her foot was the length of the lark's spread wing;Her step was the step of the antelope's child;Her voice was the voice of a rill in the moon,Of the rill's most gentle song:Oh, how beautiful was the Ricara girl!How worthy to be the wife of the man,And to light-the fires of aBrave!How fit-to be the motherOf stout warriors and expert hunters!
And how grew the Ricara boy?—Does my brother listen?He does, it is well.—He grew to be fair to the eye,Like a tree that hath smooth bark,But is rotten or hollow at core;A vine that cumbers the earthWith the weight of leaves and flowers,But never brings forth fruit:He did not become a man:He painted not as a warrior paints,Red on the cheek,Red on the brow,Nor wore the gallant scalp-lock,Black with the plumes of the warrior-bird,Nor stole his father's bow,Nor ran away with his spear,Nor took down the barbed sheaf,Nor raised his shout as he followed the stepOf his chief to the Pawnee lodge.He better loved to sit by the fire,While the women were spinning the mulberry-bark(2)Or to lie at his length by the stream,To watch the nimble salmon's sport,Or, placed by the leafy perch of the bird,To snare the poor simple thing;He better loved to rove with girlsIn search of early flowers.
The Ricara father said to the maid,"Listen to me, my dove,When I gave thee away,I deem'd that I gaveMy child to one who would gain renown,By the deeds which had given his sires renown,To a boy who would snatch, ere his limbs were grown,The heaviest bow of the strongest man,And hie to the strife with a painted face,And a shout that should ring in the lonely glades,Like a spirit's among the hills;I did not deem I had given my doveTo a youth with the heart of a doe;A gatherer-in of flowers,A snarer of simple birds,A weeder with women of maize[44],A man with the cheek of a girl—Dost thou listen?
"Now, since thy lover is weak in heart,A woman in mind and soul,Nor boasts, nor wishes to boast,Of deeds in battle done,Nor sings, nor wishes to sing,Of men by his arm laid low,Nor tells how he bore the flames, his foesDid kindle around his fettered limbs;And, since he finds more joy in flowers,And had rather work in the maize-clad field,Than wend to the glorious strifeWith the warriors of his tribe,I will not keep my faith.—My daughter hears.—I bid thee see the youth once more,And then behold his face no more.Tell him, the child of the Red Wing wedsWith none but the fierce and bold,Tell him, the man, whose fires she lights,Must be strong of soul, and stout of arm,Able to send a shaft to the heartOf him who would quench that fire,Able to bend a warrior's bow,Able to poise a warrior's spear,Able to bear, without a groan,The torments devised by hungry foes,The pincers rending his flesh,The hot stones searing his eye-balls.—Dost thou hear?"
Then down the daughter's beauteous cheeksRan drops like the plenteous summer rain."I hear, my father,Yet, hard thy words weigh on my heart;Thou gav'st me to him, while we lay,Unknowing the pledge, in our willow cage(3),When first we opened our eyes on the world,And saw the bright and twinkling stars,And the dazzling sun, and the moon alive(4),And the fields bespread with blooming flowers,And we breath'd the balmy winds of spring;The old men said, to one another,'Dost thou know, brother,Thar, when his years are the years of a man,And his deeds are the deeds of the good and true,The son of the Yellow PineShall marry the Red Wing's daughter?'And the women took up the tale,And the boys and girls, when met to play,Told in our ears the pleasing words,That I was to be his wife.
"And, knowing this, we loved,And 'tis hard to break the chains of love;Thou may'st sooner rive the flinty oak,With the alder spear of a sickly boy,Than chase him away from my soul.Twice eight bright years have our hearts been wed.And thou hast look'd on and smiled;And now thou com'st, with a frowning brow,And bid'st me chase him from my soul.I know his arm is weak,I know his heart is the heart of a deer,And his soul is the soul of a dove;Yet hath he won my virgin heart,And I cannot drive him hence."But the father would not hear,And he bade his daughter think no moreOf the Ricara youth for her mate;And he said, ere the Moon of Harvest passed,She should light the fires of a Brave.
What said the Ricara youth,When he heard the stern command,Which broke his being's strongest bond,As ye break an untwisted rope of grass?Sorrow o'erwhelm'd his soul,And grief gush'd out at his eyes.With an aching heart he left his lodge,When evening gray-mist walk'd out of the earth,And wandered forth with his dog—To the woods he went,To the lonely, dim, and silent woods,To weep and sigh:Whom saw he there?—Does my brother hear?—He saw the maiden, so long beloved,Her with hair like the grape-cluster'd vine,Whose neck was the neck of the swan,Whose eyes were the eyes of the dove,Whose hand was as small as the red-oak's leaf,Whose foot was the length of the lark's spread wwig,Whose step was the step of the antelope's child.Whose voice was the voice of a rill in the moon,Of the rill's most gentle song;But oh, how chang'd!Beaming eye and bounding foot,Laughing lip and placid brow,Hath the beauteous maid no more.Slow is her step as a crippled bird's,And mournful her voice as the dying noteOf a thunder-cloud that hath passed;And yet she joys to meet the youth.Into his arms she flies,Like a fawn that escapes from the hunter's shaft,And reaches its dam unhurt.Lock'd in a soft and fond embrace,The lovers recline on the flowery bank,And pledge their faith anew;
And loudly they call on the host of stars,And the cold and dimly shining moon,And the spirits, that watch by night in the air,Or chirp in the hollow oak[45], to seeThe plighting of their hands:They married themselves,And man and wifeBecame in the wilderness.
But love alone could not keep aliveThe Ricara boy and girl;The woods were scarce of game,No berries were on the heath,The winds had shaken the grapes from the vine,And hunger assail'd the pair.What did they then?They knelt and pray'd to the Master of Life—Him of the terrible voice in the cloud—To send them food, or callTheir spirits away to the happy landsBeyond the vale of death.Did the Master hear?Brother he always hearsWhen mortals go in clay(5)
The Master sat on the crest of the world[46],Sat at the door of his mighty lodge,Tossing bright stars at the waning moon[47],When there came on the winds the woes of the pair,And pity filled his soul,And grief weighed down his heart.He called to his side the spirit that guardsThe warlike Indian race,The spirit of courage, and wisdom, and strength,And the fearless spirit came."Dost thou see," said he, "the Ricara pair,Caltacotah and Miskwa, the Red,They have married themselves in the wilderness,And now they die for food.Look at the husband, note him well?He hath never dared to look on a foe,Nor paints his face as a warrior paints,Nor wears the gallant scalp-lock,Nor hath he a hunter's eye;Unable is he to strike a deer:The white and fringed skin of the goat,Which covers the breast of the maiden, concealsA manlier heart than his.Go, and end their woes."The spirit answered, "I hear."
The shadows of evening fell on the earth,And the mists were out,And the bat was abroad.The Ricara pair were joyful now,For they had found a vine of grapes.On the willow bank that o'erlooks the stream,The shallow and turbid stream,And, though the grapes were shrivell'd and sour,These two were joyful now,When all at once, ere their lips had touch'd,The Manitou stood at their side,And trembling shook their limbs.He saw the woes of the pair,And he bade them cease to be;He bade them become a thing to showThe mercy and goodness of Him that rules—The flintiness of her father's heart—Their own tried constancy;And he bade them remain in the wilderness,Till the rivers should cease to flow,And the stars should cease to shine.
And they became the Idols,The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,That stood on the willow bank.'Tis thither the tribes of the land resort,To make their offerings;Thither the warrior carries his bow,His arrow, and his spear,And the hunter, the juicy flesh of the elk;The priest, the shaggy skins of the bear,And she of the fair and youthful form,The gifts of the favour'd Brave.All bear thither a valued gift,And lay it at their feet;No Ricara takes his bow, till heHas oft besought their aid,No Ricara paints as a warrior paints,Red on the cheek,Red on the brow,Till he has thrice before them bow'd,And said to them, "Make me strong!"And the maiden and the priestPetition there for aid.
(1)Okkis.—p. 175.
The particular object of the devotion of an Indian is termed his "Okkis," or "Medicine," or "Manitou," all meaning the same thing, which is neither more nor less than a "household God." The latter, however, may mean a spirit of the air; the former is tied to one predicament. It is selected by himself, sometimes at a very early age, but generally at the period when he enters the duties of life, and is some invisible being, or, more commonly, some animal, which thenceforward becomes his protector or intercessor with the Great Spirit. The Indians place unbounded confidence in these Okkis, and always carry them wherever they go, being persuaded that they take upon them the office of sentinels. Hence, they sleep in perfect security, convinced of the entire good faith of the guardian. There is no possible form which they have not permitted these "medicines" to take. Birds, beasts, and especially of the carnivorous species, are most frequently the adopted sentinels; but sticks, trees, stones, &c., have been known to be selected for that responsible office. If they prove treacherous, and permit any disaster to happen to their charge, they are frequently soundly whipped, and sometimes committed to the flames.
Not only are inanimate objects elected to take the guardianship of individuals—they sometimes become protectors of the national interests. There is a large, fiat rock, about ten miles from Plymouth, Massachusetts, which continues to receive tribute from the Indians, probably from having, at a former period, been their tutelary genius. It is called, if I mistake not, by the white people resident in the neighbourhood, "The Sacrifice Rock," and is still deeply venerated by the few Indians spared by the cupidity of the Pilgrims and their descendants.
Lewis and Clarke, in the account of their Travels across the Rocky Mountains, (vol. i. p. 163) speaking of the national great Memahopa, or "Medicine Stone," of the Mandans, remarks: "This Medicine Stone is the great oracle of the Mandans, and, whatever it announces, is received with the most implicit confidence. Every spring, and on some occasions during the summer, a deputation visits the sacred spot, where there is a thick porous stone, twenty feet in circumference, with a smooth surface. Having reached the place, the ceremony of smoking to it is performed by the deputies, who alternately take a, whiff themselves, and then present the pipe to the stone; after this, they retire to the adjoining wood for the night, during which it may be safely presumed, that all the embassy do not sleep. In the morning, they read the destinies of the nation in the white marks on the stone."
(2)The mulberry bark.—p. 187.
The Dress of the Indian women.—The dress of the Indian females is regulated, of course, by the nature of the climate. The Southern Indians, by which I mean those occupying the tract of country which is now parcelled out into the States of Louisiana, Florida, Missouri, Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia, at the period of its first settlement by the whites, wore cloaks of the bark of the mulberry tree, or of the feathers of swans, turkeys, &c. The bark they procured from the young mulberry shoots that came up from the roots of the trees which had been cut down. After it was dried in the sun, they beat it to make all the woody part fall off; and then gave the threads that remained a handsome beating; after which, they bleached them by exposing them to the dew. When they were well whitened, they spun them about the coarseness of pack-thread, and wove them in the following manner: two stakes were set in the ground about a yard and a half asunder; having stretched a cord from one to the other, they fastened their threads of bark, double, to this cord, and then interlaced them in a curious manner into a cloak of about a yard square, with a wrought border round the edges. Such is nearly the description given by Du Pratz in his history of Louisiana.
(3)Willow cage.—p. 189.
Indian children, instead of being placed in cradles, are suspended from the boughs of trees beyond the reach of wild animals, in baskets woven of twigs of the willow, when they can be easily procured: the motion, which is a kind of circular swing, is far more pleasant than that of the cradle in use among civilized nations.
(4)Moon alive.—p. 189.
The astronomical knowledge of the Indians is very small, and they entertain singular ideas respecting the heavenly, bodies. When the sun sets they imagine it goes under water. When the moon does not shine, they suppose she it dead; and some call the three last days before the new moon, thenaked days. Her first appearance after her last quarter is hailed with great joy. If either sun or moon is eclipsed, they say the sun or moon is in a swoon. I have mentioned before their opinion of the cause of shooting-stars. Adair, who was acquainted only with the Florida Indians, says that when it thundered and blew sharp for a considerable time, they believed that the beloved or holy people were at war above the clouds; and they believed that the war was hot or moderate, in proportion to the noise or violence of the storm. Of all the writers who have ever written on the Indians, Adair, with the usual exception of La Hontan, is the worst. He wrote with a preconceived determination to make them a portion, or "the remnant," of the ten tribes of Israel, to whom they bear about the same resemblance that an Englishman bears to an Otaheitean.
(5)Mortals go in clay.—p. 192.
The Indian mode of worship is wild and singular in the extreme. Nutall, a judicious and scientific traveller, thus describes the solemnity:
"This morning, about day-break, the Indians, who had encamped around us, broke out into their usual lamentations and complaints to the Great Spirit. Their mourning was truly pathetic, and uttered in a peculiar tone. The commencing tone was exceeding loud, and gradually fell off into a low, long continued, and almost monotonous bass; to this tone of lamentation was modulated the subject of their distress or petition. Those who had experienced any recent distress, or misfortune previously blackened their faces with coal, or besmeared them with ashes."—Nutall, p. 190.
I will quote one more extract from a favourite author for the benefit of those who may wish to view the Indian as a worshipper of the Eternal Being whom they are early taught to worship. "From the age of about five years," says Long, "to that of ten or twelve, custom obliges the boy to ascend to a hill-top, or other elevated position, fasting, that he may cry aloud to the Wahconda. At the proper season his mother reminds him that 'the ice is breaking up in the river, the ducks and geese are migrating, and it is time for you to prepare to go in clay.' He then rubs his person over with a whitish clay, and is sent off to the hill-top at sunrise, previously instructed by a warrior what to say, and how to demean himself in the presence of the Master of Life. From this elevation he cries out to the great Wahconda, humming a melancholy tune, and calling on him to have pity on him, and make him a great hunter, horse-stealer, and warrior. This is repeated once or twice a week, during the months of March and April."—Long's First Expedition, vol.. i. p. 240.