Once upon a time, many years ago, a war raged between the Chippewas and their enemies, and the lands of the hostile tribes were red with blood. It was then that a small party of the former nation encountered a band of the latter upon an open plain in the country of the Great Lakes. Meteewan, the leader of the Chippewas, was a brave and distinguished warrior; his martial deeds were the theme of every youth who looked to obtain renown in arms, and formed one of the principal subjects of discourse among the different tribes of the land. And never did the chief act with greater bravery, or more distinguish himself for prudence and personal prowess, than on this occasion. After he had, by the valour of his arm, turned the tide of battle against his enemies, and while he was giving the great shout of victory, he received an arrow in his breast, and fell dead upon the plain. No Indian warrior killed thus is ever buried. According to ancient custom, he was placed in a sitting posture upon the field of battle, his back supported by a tree, and his face turned towards the path in which their enemies had fled. His head-dress, with all its feathers and decorations, his martial equipments, his spear, and club, were accurately adjusted, and his bow and quiver leaned against his shoulder. In this posture his companions left him. A fate which appeared so evident to all proved deceptive however in the result. Although deprived of the power of utterance, and the ability to move, he heard distinctly all that had been said by his friends. He heard them lament his death without the power to contradict it; he heard them speak of his great deeds; he heard them depict the grief of his wife when she should be made acquainted with his fate. He felt the touch of their hands as they adjusted his posture, without the power to reciprocate it. His limbs, and all his faculties, except those of thought, were bound in chains of terrible strength, and he could not burst them. His thoughts flowed as freely as ever, but his limbs refused to second their commands. His anguish, when he felt himself thus abandoned, was raised to a dreadful height; but he was compelled to bear it, for no endeavours of his could allay it. His wish to follow his friends, who were about to return to their homes, so completely filled his mind, that, after making a violent exertion, he rose, or seemed to himself to rise and follow them. But he was invisible to them; they neither saw his form, nor heard his voice or steps, and this gave new cause for surprise. Astonishment, disappointment, rage, alternately filled his breast, while he attempted to make himself heard, seen, or felt, and found that he had lost the power to do either. He followed their track, however, with great diligence. Whereever they went, he went; when they walked, he walked; when they ran, he ran; when they encamped, he encamped; when they slept, he slept; when they awoke, he awoke. In short, he mingled in all their labours and toils; but he was excluded from all the sources of refreshment and enjoyment, except that of sleeping, and from participating in their conversation, for nothing, he said, was attended to. He saw them eat the sweet flesh of the deer, and the delicious dish compounded of corn and bison-meat, but no portion came to him; he saw them bend joyfully over the pleasant fire, which administered no reviving warmth to his shuddering limbs. He heard them recount their valiant deeds, but he was unable to tell them how much his own exceeded theirs; he heard them paint the joys which awaited their return to their homes, but wanted the power to say that he too had relatives and kindred not less loving and beloved than theirs.
"Is it possible," he exclaimed, with bitterness, "that you do not hear me—that you do not understand me? Will you suffer me to bleed to death without offering to stanch my wounds?—Will you give me no victuals to eat while your kettles are overflowing with the product of a fortunate hunt, and even the dogs are fed upon the savoury bison hump?—Have those whom I have so often led to war, so often enabled to cry the shrill cry of victory, and display the pole filled with scalps of hostile warriors, have they forgotten me?—Is there no one who recollects me, or who will offer me a morsel of food in my distress?—Am I indeed, as I fear, invisible to all?—Do I cease to wear the human form, and is my voice no longer a thing to be heard?" Thus he continued to upbraid his friends at every stage of the journey, but no one seemed to hear his words, or, if they heard his voice, they mistook its sound for the winds of summer rustling among the green leaves, and shaking the branches of the trees.
At length, the returning war-party reached their village, and their women and children came out, according to custom, to welcome their return, and proclaim their praises.Kumaudjeewug! Kumaudjeewug! Kumaudjeewug!they have met, fought, and conquered, was shouted from every mouth, and resounded through the most distant parts of the village. The aged warrior, whom weakness and decrepitude had compelled to throw down the bow and the spear, and the eagle-eyed boy, who was fast gaining upon the ripened period when he should take them up, did each his part in celebrating the feats which the one had equalled, and the other hoped to outdo. The wife, with a proud mien, came forward to meet the embraces of her renowned husband; the timid maiden, with a downcast eye, to steal a look at her valiant lover. Those who had lost friends came eagerly to enquire their fate, and to know whether they had died like men. The decrepid father consoled himself for the loss of his son with the reflection that he had fallen manfully, and the widow half forgot her sorrow amid the praises that were bestowed on the bravery of her departed husband. The breasts of the youths glowed with martial ardour as they heard these flattering praises, and children joined in the shouts of which they hardly knew the meaning, except that they related to the scalps suspended from the bloody pole. But, amidst all this uproar and bustle, no one seemed conscious of the presence of the wounded chief. He heard many inquiries about his own fate; he heard them say that he had fought, conquered, and fallen, pierced through his breast with an arrow, and that his body had been left among the slain.
"It is not true," replied the indignant chief, with a loud voice, "that I was killed and left upon the field—I am here. I live! I move!—See me! Touch me! I shall again raise my lance, and bend my bow in battle; I shall again sound my drum at the feast. My voice will again be tuned to sing my exploits in the ears of listening youth, and my arm raised to strike the painted post preparatory to the hostile incursion." But nobody seemed conscious of his presence, and they mistook the loudest tones of his voice for the mildest whispering of the winds. He now walked to his own lodge; he saw his wife within, tearing her hair, and raising her lamentations over his fate: he endeavoured to undeceive her, but she also seemed equally insensible to his presence or his voice: she sat in a despairing manner, with her head reclining upon her hands: he asked her to bind up his wounds, but she made no reply: he then placed his mouth close to her ear, and vociferated, "I am hungry, give me some food." The wife thought she heard a buzzing in her ear, and remarked it to one who sat near her. The enraged husband, now summoning all his strength, struck her a blow upon the forehead. She only complained of feeling a shooting pain there, such as is not unfrequent, and, raising her hand to her head, remarked, "I feel a slight head-ache."
Foiled thus in every attempt to make himself known, the warrior chief began to reflect upon what he had heard the priests and wise men say, that the spirit was sometimes permitted to leave the body, and wander about. He reflected that possibly his body had remained upon the field of battle, while his spirit only accompanied his returning companions. The part he had presented before the eyes of his apparently neglectful friends might have been that which mere human eyes see not. He determined to return upon their track, although it was four days' journey to the place. He accordingly began his immediately. For three days he pursued his way without meeting with any thing uncommon, but, on the fourth, towards evening, as he came to the skirts of the battle-field, he saw a fire in the path before him. He walked to one side of the path to avoid stepping into it, but the fire also changed its position, and was still before him. He then went in another direction, but the mysterious fire still crossed his path, and seemed to bar his entrance to the scene of conflict. In short, whichever way he took, the fire was still before him: no expedient seemed capable of eluding it. "Thou demon," he exclaimed at length, "why dost thou bar my approach to the field of battle, to the spot which contains my own inanimate body? Knowest thou not that I am a spirit also, and that I seek again to enter that body from which I have so lately been driven?—Or dost thou presume that I shall return without effecting my object because of thy opposition?—Know that I am a chief and a warrior, tried in many a hard battle, and never known to flinch. I have never been defeated by the enemies of my nation, and I will not be defeated by thee." So saying, he made a vigorous effort, and succeeded in forcing a passage through the flame. In this exertion he awoke from his trance, having lain eight days on the field of battle. He found himself sitting on the ground, with his back supported by a tree, and his bow leaning against his shoulder, having all his warlike dress and implements upon his body, the same as they had been left by his friends on the day of battle. Looking up, he beheld a largecanieu, or war-eagle, sitting upon the tree above his head. He immediately recognised this bird to be the same he had dreamt of in his youth, and whom he had selected as his guardian spirit or personal Manitou. While his body had lain in its breathless and soulless state, this friendly bird had watched it, and prevented other ravenous birds from devouring it. He got up, and stood some time upon his feet, but he was weak and exhausted, and it was a long time before respiration became full and perfect, and the blood coursed in his veins as it was wont to do before its transient suspension. The blood upon his wound had stanched itself, and he now bound it up. Possessing, as every Indian does, the knowledge of such roots as were efficacious for its cure, he sought diligently in the woods for them, and obtained sufficient for his purpose. Some of them he pounded between stones and applied externally; others he chewed and swallowed. In a short time he found himself so much recovered as to be able to commence his journey, but he suffered greatly from hunger, not being able to see any large animals. With his bow and arrows, however, he killed small birds during the day, which he roasted before the fire at night. In this way he sustained himself, until he came to a water that separated his wife and friends from him. He then gave that peculiar whoop which indicates the safe return of an absent friend. The signal was instantly known, and a canoe dispatched to bring him across. But, while this canoe was absent, conjecture was exhausting itself in designating the unknown person who had given this friendly intimation of his approach. All who had been of the war-party had returned, except those who were killed on the field. There was no hunter absent. It might be a hunter of some neighbouring nation. It might be some deep deception or stratagem of their enemies. It was rash to send a canoe without knowing whether it was a friend or foe. In the height of these conjectures, the warrior chief was landed amidst the shouts of his friends and relations, who thronged from every lodge to welcome their faithful leader. When the first wild burst of joy and wonder had subsided, and some degree of quiet was restored in the village, he related to his people the account of his adventures which has been given. He then concluded his narration by telling them that it is pleasing to the spirit of a deceased person to have a fire built upon his grave for four nights after his interment; that it is four days' journey to the land appointed for the residence of the spirit; that, in its journey thither, the spirit stood in need of a fire every night at the place of its encampment; that, if the friends kindled this funeral fire upon the place where the body was deposited, the spirit had the benefit of its light and warmth in its sojourning; but, if they neglected this rite, the spirit would itself be subjected to the irksome task of building its own fire at night.
The Great Being, who governs the world, having finished his work, and cheated every thing which is found upon the land, in the air, or in the water, called to him the red man, and his younger brother, the white man, and said to them, "Children, come hither." So saying, he carried them to a great pen or fold, upon one side of which stood a large coop, and on the other a big pond of water. In the pen or fold were a vast many animals, all four-legged, the deer, the bison, the horse, the cow, the panther, the musk-ox, the antelope, the goat, and the dog, with many more, such as the beaver, the otter, the mink, and the musk-rat, which lay with their tails in the pond and their heads in the pen; and others, such as the tortoise and the alligator, whose snouts preferred water, while their tails stuck to the land. In the coop were a vast many birds and fowls, some of beautiful and varied plumage, while others were robed in dirty and dingy feathers; some were very tender, and good to eat, and some were tough, and but so-so. I need not particularise the fishes, for my brother knows well enough what they are. When the young men had spent a long time in examining the animals, and birds, and fishes, admiring and praising them, as who would not that has never before seen them, the Great Creator addressed them thus:
"My sons, I have created many creatures, and breathed into them the breath of life; I have made the forests resound with the cry of bears, and panthers, and bisons; I have caused the air to be so thickly inhabited, that you can scarcely move without having your cheeks fanned by the breath of the wings of my birds; I have made the rivers populous with finny people. These—all things—I have created, are for your use, and to you two I give them, equally and alike." So saying, he began to divide the animals, and birds, and beasts, between them. To the red son, whom he loved best, because he was strong and feared nothing, he gave the beasts which partook of his own cunning and courage—the bear, the dog, the panther, the fox, and the beaver, to which he added for food, the deer, the elk, and the bison; to the pale-faced son he gave the horse to carry him, because his legs were weak, the cow, the hog, the sheep, and the cat. The white son took, of the feathered tribes, the fowl which crows at the glimmering of light, the duck and the goose, which love to dabble in mud, and the turkey, which sings a song that is none of the best; and the red man took the eagle, the owl, and all the rest of the birds. The fishes were not divided, because they could not be kept apart, but the sons agreed that the better marksman, the Indian, should prey upon those which called for a true aim with the spear, while the pale face should angle for those which required less skill, and were caught with less trouble.
When the division had taken place, as far as it was ever to take place, the white son took his gifts, and carried them carefully to a pleasant and clean field, where there was a bright sun, much water close at hand, and plenty of sweet and juicy grass. He then commenced the task of making his animals tame and tractable. He put pieces of trees across their necks, fastening them together by two and two, the cow and the horse, the hog and the sheep, the cat and the dog; but the hog pulled back so hard, and was so contrary, and the cat and the dog quarrelled so much and fought so furiously, that he unyoked the two last pair, and never attempted to make them work together again. With the horse and cow, however, which he found exceeding tractable, he succeeded in turning up the earth, for the planting of his corn, and his beans, and his pumpkins. He also made the cow serviceable, by obtaining a delicious drink from her udder, and he made the horse further valuable and useful by fixing a string to his mouth, and by throwing a bear-skin over his back, when, mounting him, he made him carry him whithersoever he would. The sheep gave him a soft down whereof he made his robes, and the blankets he sells to the Indians; the hog furnished him with meat; the dog helped him in many ways; but I know not to what use he put the cat. So the white son of the Great Spirit brought all his animals to be tame and useful, either making them afford him milk and meat, or help him to prepare the ground for the seeds he was commanded to plant therein.
My brother demands what did the red man with the gifts which were appointed to him. I will tell him. He looked on them very curiously for a minute, then wrapped them up loosely in his blanket, and laid them aside, intending to do with them the next day as his white brother had done with his. Just then the remembrance of something came across his mind, which led him astray from his purpose, and he thought no more of the blanket or the creatures which it contained, until many moons had passed away. When the remembrance of the imprisoned animals returned to his mind, he repaired to the spot where he had deposited them—nothing remained but the blanket. He immediately commenced a search for them, and found the pleasure and excitement so great and exhilarating, that ever since he has adopted this mode of obtaining his meat, instead of the method of raising tame animals followed by the foolish white men. It is still his favourite pursuit, and he no longer regrets his want of care, or wishes to repair his error. While the white man is doomed to hear the cackling of geese and the grunting of hogs, the lowing of kine and the bleating of sheep, and to watch over all and to tend all with the care and nursing which a mother bestows upon her helpless child, the red man with his arrows slung to his shoulder, and his mocassins tight-laced to his legs, escapes to the howl of the panther, and finds joy in the cry of the wolf. Over mountain, and through forest, goes the happy Indian, free as the air, while the white man is chained to his dull and spiritless pursuits, and fettered by his endless cares. The Great Being, doubtless, intended the Indian good when he made the apportionment of the creatures, but the Indian has never found fault with the incident which released him from the care of them, and gave him the pleasant occupation of hunting in lieu thereof.
If my brother has seen the River of Fish, he will know that, at the distance of a few moons' journey, below the rush of waters which the white man calls the Falls of St. Anthony, but which the Indians call the Island of Eagles[5], there is a beautiful lake, which the same people have named Lake Pepin. It is a place so beautiful to behold, that distant Indian nations have journeyed thither, and white people come from the city of Strong Walls, to look at it and admire. On one side lies the rapid Mississippi, now in foam, and now in eddies, sweeping every thing thrown upon its current with the rapidity that a man walks, and winding, in devious courses, among many islands, some of which are covered with lofty trees, and some are but banks of sand. On the other side lies the lake, which presents to the eye but a smooth sheet of water, on which there is neither wave nor ripple, and unchequered by a single island. As the eye passes along its sluggish surface, it rests at length upon the lofty bluffs which enclose it. One of these, a high projecting point, a precipitous crag resting upon a steep bank, whose base is washed away by the never-ceasing action of the waters, is calledThe Maiden's Rock. It is known to every Indian in those regions, by a gloomy story of unfortunate love. It was the scene of one of the most melancholy transactions that has ever occurred among our people.
There was once upon a time in the village of Keoxa, in the tribe of Wapasha, a young Indian woman, whose name was Winona, which means "the first-born." She was good and beautiful, and much beloved by all. She had conceived a strong attachment to a young hunter of her nation, who loved her as much as she loved him. They had frequently met, sometimes in the shady coverts of the wood, at others beneath the river's banks, but, according to the forms of Indian courtship, more frequently at the side of her couch, when all the village were at rest. They had confessed their love, and agreed to be united as soon as the consent of her family could be obtained. But, when he asked her of her parents, he was denied, and told that she was to become the wife of a warrior of distinction, who had sued for her. The warrior was a great favourite with the nation; he had acquired a distinguished name by the services he had rendered the village when it was attacked by the Chippewas; yet, notwithstanding all this, and the support which he received from her parents and brothers, Winona persisted in preferring the hunter. To all their loud commendations of the warrior, she replied that she loved another better; that she had made choice of a man, who, being a professed hunter, would spend his life with her, and secure to her comfort and subsistence, plenty of food, and abundant happiness: while the warrior would be constantly intent upon martial exploits, exposing her, if she staid at home, to the evils of want and hunger; if she accompanied him, to the dangers of defeat and death. Winona's expostulations were, however, of no avail; and her parents, having succeeded in driving away him she preferred to all the world, began to use harsh measures in order to compel her to marry the man of their choice. To all her entreaties that she might not be forced into a union with a man she did not love, they turned a deaf ear—to all her tears they were blind. She begged to be allowed to live a single life, and to spend her days watching the sleep, and preventing the cares, of her father and mother: they answered, No. Winona had at all times enjoyed a greater share in the affections of her family, and had been indulged more than is usual among Indian females. She had not been obliged to join in the labours of the field, nor in the more arduous of those within doors. She planted no corn, and the fire-wood and the buffalo's meat were brought home on other shoulders than hers. Being a favourite with her brothers, they expressed a wish that her consent to this union should be obtained by persuasive means, rather than that she should be compelled to it against her inclination. With a view to remove some of her objections, they took means to provide for her future maintenance, and presented to the warrior all that in their simple mode of life an Indian might covet. They furnished his cabin with the various implements used in Indian housewifery—the skins to form the bed, the boiling pot, and the roasting spit. About that time, a party was formed to ascend from the village to Lake Pepin, in order to lay in a store of the blue clay which is found upon its banks, and which is used by the Indians to adorn their persons. It was on the very day that they visited the lake that her brothers made their presents to the warrior. Encouraged by these fresh signs of their approbation, and inflamed by the beauties of the charming Indian girl, he again solicited her in the most passionate language to become his wife, but with the same ill success. Vexed at what they deemed an unjustifiable obstinacy on her part—for seldom does love among Indians urge to lengthened opposition on the part of the female—her parents remonstrated in strong language, and even used threats to compel her to obedience. They spoke, as parents always do, who have in view a husband to their liking, and care little for the peace and happiness of a daughter, so they see her possessed of what they covet. "Well," said Winona, "you will drive me to despair. I said I loved not the man of your choice, the warrior covered with the blood of peaceable women, and helpless children, and painted to resemble only those hideous things we see in sleep. I said I could not live with him and be his wife. I wished to remain a maiden—my father's daughter, and my brothers' sister—but you will not let me; you wish me to become a wife. You say you love me; that you are my father, my brothers, my relations, yet you have driven from my arms, and would now drive from my heart, the only man with whom I wish to be united—the only man I ever loved. You have persecuted him with wrongs; you have reviled and taunted him; you have compelled him to withdraw from the village. Alone, he now ranges through the gloomy and lonely forests, with no one to assist him, none to comfort him, none to spread his blanket, none to build his lodge, none to pound his corn. Yet, he was the man of my choice, the only beloved of my heart. Often have you taken me on your knee, and smoothed down my hair, and kissed my cheek, and said you loved me. Is this your love? But it appears that even this is not enough; you would have me do more—you would have me rejoice in the absence of my beautiful hunter. While yet his parting words are in my ear, the light of his eyes in remembrance beaming on me, and his tender promises all unforgotten, you wish me to unite with another man, with one whom I do not love, whose image comes before me but to make me weep and shudder. Since this is your love, let it be so; but soon you will have no daughter, sister, or relation, to torment with your false professions of friendship. I will go to the happy land of souls, where I shall be free from your threats and reproaches."
As she uttered these words, the canoe touched the shore in the immediate vicinity of the high precipitous crag of which a description has been before given. Heedless of her complaints, and wearied out with what they regarded as a most unreasonable repugnance, her parents at the moment decreed that Winona should that very day be united to the warrior. Her resolution was at once taken; it was such a one as could have been adopted only in a moment of deep love and deep despair. While all were engaged in busy preparations for the festival, she wound her way slowly to the top of the hill which overlooked the scene of their gay and mirthful doings. When she had reached the summit, boldly approaching the edge of the precipice, she called out with a loud voice to her friends below, upbraiding them with their cruelty to herself and her lover, and thanking the Good Spirit that had put it in her power to baffle their designs, and laugh at their tyranny. "You," said she, "were not satisfied with opposing my union with the man whom I had chosen; you endeavoured, by deceitful words, to make me faithless to him; but when you found me resolved to remain single, you dared to threaten me: you knew me not, if you thought that I could be terrified into obedience. Now, you are preparing the bridal feast, but you shall see how well I can defeat your designs." She then commenced a plaintive song of death, which ran thus:
Winona's Dirge.Adieu to these green vales,And to the pleasant shades,Where oft I sate and listened to the songOf birds at morn, and, in the evening hour,To that which gives the alarm, and bids the bandOf Indian warriors grasp their spears.No more my ears shall hear those sounds,In this my father's land;The notes of singing-birds shall pass me by,And the soft sighing of the month of buds;But I shall hear no howl of wolves,Nor cry of famished bears,Nor hissing of envenomed snakes,Nor what more chills the heart,The tyranny of father, brothers, friends.Nor shall I be compelledFor ever to behold a hated face,And shudder at the voice of him who sleepsBeneath my blanket;Nor, when within my cabin,Young faces smile on old ones, shall I wishAnother eye looked on their beaming cheeks;When the storms howl, I shall not think of one,Alone in the far forest,With none to spread his blanket,With none to build his lodge—Cold, hungry, lonely, in the desert glen.But I shall cross the sharp and fearful rock,And reach the dwelling-place of happy souls.No deeds shall bar me out.I never told a lie;Kind have I been to father and to mother.Returning from the hunt or field of war,His daughter handed him a lighted pipe;And she who gave her birth sat in the sunUpon her bench, beside the lodge's door,While young Winona baked the buffalo,And drew the crystal water from the stream.And I shall go where there is peace,And where joy wakes for ever:There I shall meet my hunter;He shall build our lodge beside the murmuring stream,And thatch it with the vine, whose ripe, black grapesShall hang adown in clusters;Our little babes shall pluck them.Warrior, I shall not be your wife—Father, you have no daughter—Brothers, your sister lies upon the earth,Cold, bleeding, lifeless, and too late you mourn!
Winona's Dirge.
Adieu to these green vales,And to the pleasant shades,Where oft I sate and listened to the songOf birds at morn, and, in the evening hour,To that which gives the alarm, and bids the bandOf Indian warriors grasp their spears.No more my ears shall hear those sounds,In this my father's land;The notes of singing-birds shall pass me by,And the soft sighing of the month of buds;But I shall hear no howl of wolves,Nor cry of famished bears,Nor hissing of envenomed snakes,Nor what more chills the heart,The tyranny of father, brothers, friends.
Nor shall I be compelledFor ever to behold a hated face,And shudder at the voice of him who sleepsBeneath my blanket;Nor, when within my cabin,Young faces smile on old ones, shall I wishAnother eye looked on their beaming cheeks;When the storms howl, I shall not think of one,Alone in the far forest,With none to spread his blanket,With none to build his lodge—Cold, hungry, lonely, in the desert glen.
But I shall cross the sharp and fearful rock,And reach the dwelling-place of happy souls.No deeds shall bar me out.I never told a lie;Kind have I been to father and to mother.Returning from the hunt or field of war,His daughter handed him a lighted pipe;And she who gave her birth sat in the sunUpon her bench, beside the lodge's door,While young Winona baked the buffalo,And drew the crystal water from the stream.
And I shall go where there is peace,And where joy wakes for ever:There I shall meet my hunter;He shall build our lodge beside the murmuring stream,And thatch it with the vine, whose ripe, black grapesShall hang adown in clusters;Our little babes shall pluck them.Warrior, I shall not be your wife—Father, you have no daughter—Brothers, your sister lies upon the earth,Cold, bleeding, lifeless, and too late you mourn!
The light wind which blew at the time wafted the bitter words of her mournful dirge to the spot where her friends were. They immediately rushed, some towards the summit of the hill to stop her, others to the foot of the precipice to receive her in their arms, while all with tears in their eyes entreated her to desist from her fatal purpose. Her father promised her that no compulsive measures should be resorted to, that she should marry or not as, she chose. Her brothers, who loved her with great affection, urged every thing that they thought likely to be of avail, but in vain. She was resolved, and, as she concluded the words of her song, she threw herself from the precipice, and fell at their feet, a corpse.
The Lenni Lenapes, who are the grandfather of nations[6], were quietly reposing in their lodges on the banks of a shallow and noisy river, that finds an outlet in the mighty waters beyond the great mountains, and far, very far, towards the setting sun. If my brother would see this river; if he would behold the cataract that impedes the progress of the Indian canoe; if he would witness the strife that takes place when the waters that are fresh first mingle with those that are salt, let him call together his youngest and stoutest warriors, the nimble of foot, and strong of heart—the faint and failing, the old and trembling, the weak and cowardly, will not do, for the path is beset with savage beasts and strong warriors, and hostile spirits. Let him load his women with much provision, and make his mocassins of tanned bear-skin, for many are the suns it will take to journey thither, and rocky is the path that leads to that far abode. Mountains must be crossed, which are covered with snow, and upon whose summits the clouds break as the mist rises from the Oniagarah[7]. The warriors, who shall be seen in its path, will not bow down their heads to the axe of the stranger, till their spears are broken, and their quivers are bare of arrows. Nor then will they die like women, but with songs of past glory and present defiance in their mouths. And the spirits will not be appeased unless they have many offerings, and there will be in their paths the Dread Destroyer of Deer[8], he who laughed at the avenging arrow of the Master of Life, and is gone to prey upon the moose of the Lake of the Woods.
The Lenapes were living in their lodges, warring upon the Flatheads, feasting upon the salmon, and drinking the juice of the sacred bean[9], when it happened to one of their young warriors, that he dreamed a dream. Wangewaha, or the Hard Heart, though his years were but few, was one of the most celebrated chiefs of the nation. His days were but those of a young eagle; yet the bravest, even those who had watched the nut-tree from its sprout to its bloom, ranged themselves in battle under his faultless command, in the chase followed the ken of his eagle eye. He had struck more dead bodies, he had stolen more horses, he had taken more scalps, than any man of his nation. He could follow the trail of a glass snake from sun to sun, he could see the wake of a fish a fathom below the surface of the water. When he cast his eye upon a young maiden, she became his without a wrestle(1); when he told the revelations of the spirit of sleep, the aged men and wise councillors never called their truth in question, but acted upon them without reflection, believing them to be the voice of the Great Spirit, speaking through his favourite son. If he excelled in war and perilous pursuits, he excelled as much in those pastimes and games, wherewith the warrior in times of peace and rest beguiles the tedious hours. When Wangewaha struck the ball, its flight was above the soaring of the bird of morning, and he never rose from the game of bones(2) without giving proof that he was the favourite of heaven.
It was a beautiful night in the month in which the Indians gather their first green corn, when, as the chief lay sleeping on his bed of skins, with the mother of his youngest child on his arm, he saw strange things in his slumbers. He dreamed that the bands of the Lenni Lenapes had taken the bones of their fathers from the burying places of the nation, loaded their women with pemmican and dried corn, folded up their tents, and departed towards the regions of their great father, the sun. He saw mountains, whose summits breathed fire, and others, which were the abode of the snow spirit—now noisy with the war of the Holy People above the clouds, and now with the hissing of the Great Serpent in the deep, awful, and inaccessible valleys of the bright old inhabitants.[10]They overcame, he thought, the impediments of fire and storm; they charmed away the wrath of the evil spirits, and looked at length from the eastern ridge of those mighty hills upon the interminable glades and prairies spread out in their shade. Onward they went, he thought, till at length they saw rolling before them a mighty river, upon whose banks abode a nation of warriors, whose size was much greater than that of the Lenape, and who dwelt behind hills of their own making, whence they would make incursions into the territories of the neighbouring tribes. Before him stood one of the maidens of the land. She was beautiful as a straight tree, as a meadow of flowers, as a tree covered with blossoms, as a clear sky lit up with stars. Her voice was sweeter than the notes of the Mocking-Bird[11], and her eye brighter and softer than the eye of the mountain-goat. She wore a cloak made of the tender bark of the mulberry-tree, interlaced with the white feathers of the swan, and the gay plumage of the snake-bird, and the painted vulture. Strings of shells depended from her ancles, and flowers were braided into her hair. When she spoke to the young Lenape, it was with a soft voice, as if it would assure him, that the heart which dwelt within was as gentle as that voice, and as mild as that eye. He thought he wooed that maiden to be his wife, but, when she would have become such, and he would have pressed to his bosom the lovely flower of the giant people, there only appeared a little white dove which flew away, and nestled in the branches of the great medicine trees[12].
Then the dream of the warrior took another direction, and he had visions, and saw sights, and the phantoms of things more congenial to his disposition than even the smiles of beautiful maidens. He heard, in his sleep, the shrill war-cry of his nation, among whose foremost warriors he stood; and his ears were open to a loud shout of defiance from the enemy. He saw himself and his nation victorious, the Great River crossed, and the last canoe of his enemies committed in flight to its rapid bosom. The beautiful maiden became his wife. Again his course was onward like a torrent unchecked, and again other mountains opposed his course; but nothing offers insurmountable obstacles to the ardent spirit of an Indian warrior. He stands on the sunny brink of that mountain, and sees the beautiful lands spread out before his eye. A voice speaks to him from the hollow wind, "Warrior of the Lenni Lenape, how likest thou the land which I place before thee? The rivers are beautiful—are they not? and yet thou canst not see, as I see, their better part—the sleek and juicy fish which glide through them, or the fowls which feed on their margin. The forests are tall—are they not? but thine eyes do not pierce their glades as mine do, to behold the stately bucks which browze in their flowery copses, or the gay birds which sing their soft songs of love and joy, perched on the lofty branches of the chesnut and the hickory. I have given these lands to thy tribe, and thou shalt continue to occupy them till the coming of Miquon."
Wangewaha, or the Hard Heart, awoke from his dream, and calling together the priests and conjurors of the nation, related to them the strange things he had seen and heard in his sleep. The expounders of dreams gave it as their opinion, that the Great Spirit had bidden the familiar genius of the warrior to reveal to him the work to which he had ordained the Lenapes. They were unanimous in this opinion. Yet they advised, that the Master of Life should be consulted by sacrifices, after the due fasts should have been kept, and that his assistance should be supplicated by songs and dances(3), as they were ever wont to be. The advice of the expounders of dreams was followed, and the priests prepared for the fast. First they feasted themselves, and the chiefs, and warriors. The remains of the feast were then removed to the outside of the camp, and the crumbs carefully swept out, till the cabin, in which the fast was to be held, was as clean as the brow of a grassy hill after a summer rain. Then it was proclaimed aloud by the head priest, that the warriors and chiefs of the Lenape nation should enter the cabin, and observe the fast, and that the women and children, and all who are uninitiated in war, who had never hung up a scalp-lock in the temple of the Wahconda, nor offered a victim to the Great Star, should keep apart from those who had done both. When those who had bound themselves to observe the sacred ceremonial had entered the holy square appointed for the fast, a man armed with the weapons of war was stationed at each of the corners, to keep out every thing except the initiated. If a dog had but dared to breathe upon the sacred spot, he had met the fate of a thievish Flathead.
Then the Lenapes drank, as is their wont, of the root[13], which purges away their evil and cowardly inclinations and propensities, making them tellers of nothing but truth, bold and strong in war, cunning and dexterous in the theft of horses, patient in scarcity, and beneath the torments of the victor. The while they filled the air with loud invocations to the great Wahconda, and with petitions to him, that, in the succeeding sacrifice, he would reveal the meaning of the dream which had so filled their minds. Lest the unexpiated sins of the uninitiated, the women and the children, should stifle their own purer voices, the priest sent by the hands of the oldest of the women a portion of the small green leaves of the beloved weed[14]to the sinners. And thus, for three suns, the priests and warriors of the Lenapes ate no food, but mortified their sinful appetites to please the Master of Life.
The fast being over, and the expiation made, according to the customs of the nation, the multitude assembled to the feast and sacrifice. Proclamation was made, that, the holy rites being performed, it was lawful for the hungry to taste food. But first came the sacrifice. The deer's flesh was laid on the burning coals, and the warriors who had fasted danced their most solemn dance around the hearth of sacrifice. The priest most reputed for intimacy with the Great Spirit, he who had oftenest, by his incantations, procured plentiful crops of maize, who had oftenest charmed the bisons to the unsheltered prairies, called the deer from the tangled coverts, and the horses from the hills of the Men of Black Garments[15], and given to the enemies of the Lenape the heart of the bird that runs low among the grass[16], arose, and began his hymn of supplication:
Song of the Lenape Priest.Wangewaha dreamed a dream,The Hard Heart slept,When to him came the Manitou of Night,And visions danced before his eyes.What did Wangewaha see?This he saw.He saw the valiant warriors of his land,Assembled as for warfare; wives and babesWere at their feet; the aged on their sheds.The dogs were harnessed;The bones of many generationsWere taken from the burial places, whereThey had reposed for countless suns;The food was all prepared,Dried corn and pemmican,And folded tents proclaimed that the LenapesHad shod their mocassins for lengthened travel.Dread Master of the earth,Wahconda of the thunder, and the winds,Who bid'st the earth shake, and the hills be thickWith hail and snow,Shall we arise, and takeOur father's relics from the burial shed?Shall we depart, and wilt thou guideOur feet to fairer lands?Does success await us,In this, our distant pilgrimage?Will these, our young men, strike and overcome?Shall we possess the lands the dreamer saw?And will their maidens look with favouring eyesUpon our warriors?Answer us, Spirit of the Mighty Voice!
Song of the Lenape Priest.
Wangewaha dreamed a dream,The Hard Heart slept,When to him came the Manitou of Night,And visions danced before his eyes.What did Wangewaha see?This he saw.
He saw the valiant warriors of his land,Assembled as for warfare; wives and babesWere at their feet; the aged on their sheds.The dogs were harnessed;The bones of many generationsWere taken from the burial places, whereThey had reposed for countless suns;The food was all prepared,Dried corn and pemmican,And folded tents proclaimed that the LenapesHad shod their mocassins for lengthened travel.
Dread Master of the earth,Wahconda of the thunder, and the winds,Who bid'st the earth shake, and the hills be thickWith hail and snow,Shall we arise, and takeOur father's relics from the burial shed?Shall we depart, and wilt thou guideOur feet to fairer lands?Does success await us,In this, our distant pilgrimage?Will these, our young men, strike and overcome?Shall we possess the lands the dreamer saw?And will their maidens look with favouring eyesUpon our warriors?Answer us, Spirit of the Mighty Voice!
Scarcely had the song of the priest ceased, when the voice of the Wahconda was heard sounding as sweetly as the notes of the mocking-bird rejoicing for the return of her mate, whom she chides for his long absence. The chiefs and warriors understood not the words he spoke, but they were heard by the priest, who repeated them to the awe-struck crowd. The Wahconda bade them gather up the bones of their fathers, burn them, and take the ashes, with which, and their women and children, and every thing they held valuable, they were to depart. They were to repair to the great Memahoppa, or Medicine Stone, which stood in the midst of a prairie, many suns beyond their hunting-grounds; and to this stone they were to be directed by a mighty wise man, of very low stature and of cross and passionate disposition, wearing a particoloured robe, and carrying a bag of rattles. Upon this memahoppa they would find further directions for their march engraved. Having pointed out their path, he gave them his blessing for brave men and expert horse-stealers, and his parting voice was as sweet as the voice of a maiden, who has died from ill-requited affection, and revisits the shades of earth in the form of a little white dove.
The Lenapes, having obeyed the orders of the Wahconda, set out on their march. The moment that their knapsacks were slung to their shoulders, and their journey made certain, the spirits of their departed friends struck up their glorious dance[17], far away over the great lakes, the favourite regions of the spirits of winds and tempests. The northern sky became lit all over with an effulgence brighter than that which glimmers in the Path of the Master of Life[18]. It was our departed friends who were showing their joy at the contemplated removal of our nation to the pleasant shades of the Lenape wihittuck, and the rich and beautiful lands which fringe its border.
The Lenapes had not travelled very far, when they heard in the grass near them a loud shaking, which sounded like the rattling of nuts in a dry gourd, and soon they saw a little head with open jaws, and a tongue moving quicker than the sparkle of the fire-fly, peering out of the low grass. The Lenapes knew not what it was, but they saw that it assumed a menacing posture: so one went forward with his raised war-club to dispatch it. When he drew near, the unknown creature threw itself into the form which our white brother gives to his whip; the motion of his tail became so rapid, that it seemed but the soul of a vapour; his body swelled through excessive rage, till it became four times its former size, rising and falling like the Longknife's wind medicine[19]; his beautiful skin became speckled and rough, his head and neck flattened, his cheeks swollen with ungovernable anger, his lips drawn up, showing his dreadful fangs, his eyes red as burning coals, and his forked tongue of the colour of the hottest flame.
"Back, back," said he, "I am very passionate; I shall bite you. If you value your safety, go back before I make you very sorry that you have bit your thumb at me. Or, if you are really mad, let me know, that I may pity you, and not harm you."
Shamonekusse drew back with astonishment, and called the priest to come and talk with the strange creature. The priest, having made a short petition to his guardian Okki, which was the stuffed skin of a horned owl, came forward, and demanded of the strange creature, "Who are you?"
"I am," answered he, "the partisan leader of the rattlesnakes. I am the 'mighty wise man of very low stature, and of cross and passionate disposition, wearing a particoloured robe, and carrying a bag of rattles,' spoken of by the Great Wahconda, as he who was ordered to guide the Lenapes to the River of Fish."
"We are the Lenapes," answered the priest.
"Then you are the men I expected and was looking for," answered the chief of the rattlesnakes. "But why were you about to declare war against me—me, who alone possess, under the Wahconda, the means of conducting you in safety to the end of your journey? You are too brave and valiant, too hasty and choleric, Lenapes; it will be good for you to lose some of your blood to make you tamer."
"We are very sorry," answered the priest, perceiving the wisdom of conciliating the old fellow, "that the war-club was raised, and the hatchet raked up. It is our wish that the hatchet shall be buried again, and that there shall be a clear sky between us. Shall it be so, rattlesnake?"
"The hatchet shall be buried again, and there shall be a clear sky between us," answered the snake. "Yet, a little bird tells me that a black cloud shall arise, and that the hatchet may as well be put under the bedstead[20], whence it may be easily drawn forth. The rattlesnakes and the Lenapes, ere many suns shall pass, will be enemies, and each attempt the extermination of the other."
"Oh, we will not talk of that now," answered the priest; "we will put all thoughts of the evil day afar off. We will smoke with you, snake." So the Lenapes smoked with their new acquaintance; a firm league of peace was made between the two nations, and they became very good friends. They chatted for a long time of various matters, of the wars which the rattlesnakes had waged against the black snakes, the copperheads, the hornsnakes, and other warlike tribes of snakes. Again they moved on, the rattlesnake leading the way, till, much fatigued, their mocassins torn, and their wives cross, they spread their tents, and a night's encampment took place[21]. Again their course was onward, and again they encamped for another night. Spies were sent to search out the land, while the Lenapes travelled after at their leisure. At length the cunning old reptile, who still continued to guide them, declared that he saw, in the dry grass, foot-prints of men who were before them. While they halted, one went forward to reconnoitre. Soon he returned, and told our people that there was a band of Indians encamped in the path of the Lenapes, at a little distance from us. Our hot-blooded young warriors were for attacking them, but the wise old snake said, No. After offering many good reasons why peace should, at all times, be preferred to war, he advised, that a belt of wampum should be sent, and a league formed with them. The belt of wampum is delivered to a brave young warrior, Mottschujinga, or the Little Grizzly Bear. This redoubted chief clothes himself in his best robe; he puts on his richest leggings; he fastens to his war-pipe thetrottersof the fawn, and the cock-spurs of the wild turkey; he places in his scalp-lock the wing of the red-bird, the crest of the bittern, and the tail feathers of the pole-pecker. He paints one side of his face, to show that he can smoke in the war-pipe, which hangs in his belt, as gracefully and willingly as in the pipe of peace he carries in his hand, and as a fearless warrior, that his thoughts are quite as much of war as peace.
As he approaches the camp of the strange people, he puts on his most martial airs, and commences his song. He sings the lofty and warlike character of his nation, who never retreated from a foe, nor quailed before the stern glance of warriors; who can fast for seven suns, and, on the eighth, tire out the deer in his flight. He sings, that his fathers have been conquerors of all the tribes who roam between the mountains and the distant sea. He sings, that the maidens of his nation have eyes and feet like the antelope, that their songs are sweeter than the melodies of the song-sparrow, and their motions more graceful than the motions of a young willow, bowed by the wind. He sings, that the men of his tribe will smoke in the pipe of peace with the strange warriors, or they will throw a war-club into the council-house, as best suits them. The Lenapes are neither women nor deer, they are not suing for peace, but they ask themselves why the great storm of war should arise, and the sky be overcast with the blustering clouds of tumult and quarrel. The Lenapes wish to go to the land of the rising sun; why should their path be shut up? their course is over a great river; why should it be made red with the blood of either nation? As he concluded his song, he held up the pipe of peace, the bowl of which was of red marble, the stem of which was of alder curiously carved, painted, and adorned with beautiful feathers. This, my brother must know is the symbol of peace among all the tribes of the wilderness.
A Brave, painted for war, met the messenger from the Lenape camp, and, after he had given his blanket to the winds, conducted him to the cabin of the assembled chiefs of his nation, not, however, before he had received the curses of the old women, and had been called "a wrinkled old man with a hairy chin and a flat nose."
Then meat was placed before the Lenape messenger. When he had satisfied his hunger, he pulled off his mocassins[22], and presented the pipe to the Brave who had been his conductor, who, filling it with tobacco and sweet herbs, handed it to him again. Then the youngest chief present took a coal from the fire, which flamed high in the centre of the council-cabin, and placed it on the beloved herb, which was made to smoke high. Mottschujinga then turned the stem of the pipe towards the field of the stars, to supplicate the aid of the Great Spirit, and then towards the bosom of his great mother, the earth, that the Evil Spirits might be appeased; now holding it horizontally, he moved round till he had made a circle, whereby he intimated that he sought to gain the protection of the spirits who sit on the clouds, and move in the winds of the air, of those who dwell in the deep and fearful glens and caverns, in the hollows of old and decayed oaks, on the summits of inaccessible hills, and within the limits of the great council-fire[23]of Michabou[24]. Having secured the aid of those invisible beings, in whose power it is to blow away the smoke of the pipe of peace, so that men shall speak from their lips only, and not from their hearts, and in consequence their promises shall be but as the song of a bird that has flown over, Mottschujinga presented his pipe to the great chief of the strangers, who, before he would smoke in it, arose and made a speech.
"Our tribe," said the chief, "are called Mengwe. We too have come from a distant country, and we also are bound to the land of the rising sun. We will smoke in the Lenape's pipe, and bury the war-club very deep; we will assist to make the Lenapes very strong, and will never suffer the grass to grow in our war-path when the Lenapes are assailed by enemies. We will draw out the thorns from your feet, oil your stiffened limbs, and wipe your bodies with soft down. We will lift each other up from this place, and the burthen shall be set down at each other's dwelling-place. And the peace we make shall last as long as the sun shall shine, or the rivers flow. And this is all I have to say."
So a league was made, though no war had been, and the two nations freely intermingled. Each man unclosed his hand to his neighbour, the Lenape warrior took the Mengwe maiden to his tent, and her brother had a woman of the former nation to roast his buffalo-hump, and boil his corn.
And now the spies, who had been sent forward for the purpose of reconnoitring, returned. They had seen many things so strange, that when they reported them, our people half-believed them to be dreams, and for a while regarded them but as the songs of birds. They told, that they had found the further bank of the River of Fish inhabited by a very powerful people, who dwelt in great villages, surrounded by high walls. They were very tall—so tall that the head of the tallest Lenape could not reach their arms, and their women were of higher stature and heavier limbs than the loftiest and largest man in the confederate nations. They were called the Allegewi, and were men delighting in red and black paint, and the shrill war-whoop, and the strife of the spear. Such was the relation made by the spies to their countrymen.
This report of the spies increased the fears and dissatisfaction of the Lenapes to such a height, that part agreed to remain in the lands in which they then were, and not to attempt to cross the river occupied by so many hostile warriors. But the greater part declared that they were men, and rather than turn back from a foe, however strong, or leave a battle-field without a blow or a war-whoop, they would march to certain death, and leave their bones in a hostile camp. So one band, the strongest of the Lenapes, remained beyond the Mississippi, while the others prepared to encounter the nations who were the present lords of the soil. But, ere they committed their fortunes to battle, they fasted, and mortified their flesh, to gain the favour of the being who presides over war, and their priests were consulted to learn whether he would be propitious to them. "Shall we conquer?" "Shall we overcome?" was eagerly asked. The priests replied, "The Lenapes shall overcome, when they have obtained the great war medicine." They asked what it was; the priests replied, "It shall be made known to you on the morrow." The morrow came, and the priests made known the great war medicine, whose properties brought certain victory to those possessed of it. In old times, the wild cat had devoured their people; they set a trap for him and caught him in it, burned his bones, and preserved the ashes. These ashes had been carefully kept by the priests, and they now brought them forth. The great old snake, the father of strife, was in the water; the old men gathered together and sang, and he shewed himself; they sang again, and he showed himself a little further out of the water; the third time he showed his horns. They were enabled to cut off one of the horns. He showed himself a fourth time, and they cut off the other horn. A piece of these horns, and the ashes of the bones of the wild cat compounded, was the great war medicine of our nation. Prepared with a medicine of such potency, the confederated nations moved towards the land of reported giants. When they had arrived on the banks of the Mississippi, they sent a message to the Allegewi, to request permission to settle themselves in their neighbourhood. That haughty people refused the request, but they gave them leave to pass through their country, and seek a settlement farther towards the land of the rising sun. The Lenapes accordingly began to cross the Mississippi, when the Allegewi, seeing that their bands were very numerous, outnumbering the birds on the trees or the fish in the waters, made a furious attack upon those who had crossed, threatening all with destruction, if they dared to persist in coming to their side of the river. Fired at the treachery of these people, and maddened with the loss of their brothers in arms, the Lenapes retired to the thick covert to consult on what was best to be done. It was deliberated in council, whether it was better to retreat in the best manner they could, or put forth their utmost strength, and let the enemy see they were not cowards, but men—brave men, who would not suffer themselves to be driven into the woods, before they had tested the strength of the enemy, and seen the power of their arms in hurling the spear, and striking with the war-club, and the truth of their eye in levelling the bow. It was determined, that brave men never turned back, that the Lenape were brave men, and must steep their mocassins in the blood of their enemies. The Mengwe, who till now had only looked on while our nation had done the fighting, offered to join our warriors, if, when the country was conquered, they should be allowed to share it with us. The proposal pleased our councillors, and the two nations renewed the faith of the calumet, resolved to conquer or die. The next sun was fixed on to attack the Allegewi in their intrenchments.
It was night; the bands of the confederate nations were sleeping in their cabins, dreaming dreams of victory and glory, when Wangewaha, or the Hard Heart, sleeping in his tent, was aroused by the tread of a light foot on the earth at his side, and the music of a voice sweeter than that of the linnet or the thrush. Looking up he saw, by the beams of the moon, a tall and beautiful woman, straight as a hickory, and graceful as a young antelope. She wore over her shoulders a cloak made of the tender bark of the mulberry, interlaced with the white feathers of the swan, and the gay plumage of the snake bird and the painted vulture. Wangewaha started from his sleep, for he knew her to be the beautiful maiden whom he had seen in his dream, ere he quitted the land of his father's bones—the shape tall and erect, the eye black and sparkling, the foot small and swift, the teeth white and even, the glossy dark hair, and the small plump hand. He spoke to the beautiful stranger in mild accents, and the tones of her reply were as sweet as the breathings of a babe rocked to rest on the bough of a tree. He asked her who she was, and she replied she was a maiden from the camp of the Allegewi. "Why," he demanded, "had she come hither? Why had one so young and fair adventured her person in a hostile camp, in the dark hours of night, among fierce warriors, who had sworn the destruction of her nation?"
"I have come hither," replied the beautiful creature, "because I would escape the persecutions of a young warrior, the favourite of my father, who solicits me to become his wife. I love him not, I have told him so, yet he wishes to have me, while my heart revolts at the thought of becoming the companion of one, who boasts only the merit of being able to slay men weaker than himself; and of showing cheeks painted for war, and hands red with blood."
The Hard Heart, who felt not towards beautiful women the feeling which his name intimates, spoke to her words of consolation, and bade her go sleep with his sister, whom he called to him from another part of the cabin. But the passion of love arose in the warrior's heart, and he determined that, if the Great Spirit should give him victory in the approaching contest, the beautiful maiden should become his wife.
The sun of the next morning shone on fields of slaughter and prodigies of valour. The confederated nations met the giant people; a great battle was fought, and many, very many, warriors fell. With the potent war-medicine of the Lenapes, borne by a priest, the confederates attacked their enemies, and were victors. The beaten and discomfited Allegewi retreated within the high banks which surrounded their villages and great towns, and there awaited the assault of our brave and fearless warriors. They were attacked, and numbers, greater than the forest leaves, fell in the first engagement. None were spared; the man who asked for quarter sooner received the arrow in his bosom—sooner felt the thrust of the spear, than he who was too brave to beg the poor boon of a few days longer stay on a cold and bleak earth, and preferred going hence without dishonour. Again, and again, were the Lenapes victorious. Beaten in many battles, and finding that complete extirpation awaited them, if they longer delayed flight, the Allegewi loaded their canoes with their wives and children, and took their course adown the broad bosom of the Mississippi. Never more were they or their descendants seen upon the lands where the Lenapes found them. Of all the countless throngs of the Allegewi, the beautiful maiden alone remained in our tents, and she was soon after taken to sleep in the bosom of Wangewaha.
"And now," said the chief of the rattlesnakes, "what do you propose to give me for my services? I have been a faithful and true guide, and have brought you safe through many dangers, to a land of plenty and glory. I deserve a recompense, surely."
"You do," answered the Hard Heart; "suppose we give you a pair of mocassins."
"Ha, ha! don't mention the thing again; it will throw me into a rage," answered the old fellow, beginning to flatten and swell at the joke. "But if you come to giving mocassins, they must be very many, for you know I have many legs. Suppose you give me a Lenape maiden to wife."
"Lenape maiden to wife! What will you do with a Lenape wife? Say, snake, what would be the cross between a rattlesnake and a Lenape?"
"Don't name the thing again, for I am very passionate," cried the old snake. "I shall bite. What would be the cross, say you? Why, the cleverest possible cross—the cross between a wise and valiant snake, and a beautiful woman, for a beautiful woman she will be, if I have the choosing of her. But, I demand as a recompense for my services, that I be allowed to unite myself in marriage with a woman of your nation. So set about it at once, for I am very hasty in these matters, and besides, wish to return to my nation, who have been for a long time without a leader."
Upon receiving this strange proposition, the Lenape chief to whom it was addressed called together the counsellors of the nation, and debated with them whether the request should be acceded to. Many were the arguments which were used for and against, but, at length, they came to the determination, that the wise old rattlesnake should have his choice of the Lenape maidens for a wife. The old fellow heard the acceptance of his proposal with much joy, for, as he said, he was of a very impatient temper, and in proportion as he bore crosses with a total want of patience, was his excessive joy, when he succeeded in his views and wishes. So the maidens were brought out, and he made choice of a beautiful girl, who had not seen the flowers bloom more than fifteen times. A tear trembled in the dark eye of this lovely maiden for a moment, at the thought of the strange and unequal match she was about to contract. But she was dazzled, as all women are, by the promised glory of becoming the bride of the great chief of a nation, and she wiped away the tears of regret, as women have often done before, with a leaf from the tree of consolation, and became joyous and light-hearted. They set off the next morning for the Valley of the Bright Old Inhabitants, and for greater speed she bore him on her shoulders, being the first bride that ever, as far as my knowledge goes, carried home her husband in a basket.
The confederates divided the lands they had conquered. The Mengwe took the lands which lay on the shores of the lakes of the north; the Lenapes chose those which received the beams of the warm suns of the south. Many, many ages passed away, the two nations continued at peace, the war-whoop was banished from the shades of either, and their numbers waxed very great. At length, some of our young hunters and warriors crossed the great glades[25], and travelled onward till they came to the beautiful Lenape wihittuck, where they have remained ever since. And this is the story which is told throughout the tribes of the wilderness, of the emigration of our people, and their victory over the original proprietors of the soil. I have done.
(1)She became his without a wrestle.—p. 143.
Hearne, in his Journey to the Frozen Ocean, says:—"It has ever been the custom, among those people, for the men to wrestle for any woman to whom they are attached; and, of course, the strongest party always carries off the prize. A weak man, unless he be a good hunter, and well beloved, is seldom permitted to keep a wife that a stronger man thinks worth his notice; for at any time when the wives of those strong wrestlers are heavily laden either with furs or provisions, they make no scruple of tearing any other man's wife from his bosom, and making her bear a part of his luggage. This custom prevails throughout all their tribes, and causes a great spirit of emulation among their youth, who are, upon all occasions, from their childhood, trying their strength and skill in wrestling ... The way in which they tear their women and children from one another, though it has the appearance of the greatest brutality, can scarcely be called fighting ... On these wrestling occasions the by-standers never attempt to interfere in the contest. It sometimes happens that one of the wrestlers is superior in strength to the other, and, if a woman be the cause of the contest, the weaker is frequently unwilling to yield, notwithstanding he is greatly overpowered. I observed that very few of those people were dissatisfied with the wives which had fallen to their lot, for, whenever any considerable number of them were in company, scarcely a day passed without some overtures being made for contests of this kind, and it was often very unpleasant to me to see the object of the contest sitting in pensive silence watching her fate, while her husband and his rival were contending for his prize. I have, indeed, not only felt pity for those poor wretched victims, but the utmost indignation, when I have seen them won, perhaps by a man whom they mortally hated. On these occasions, their grief and reluctance to follow their new lord has been so great, that the business has often ended in the greatest brutality; for, in the struggle, I have seen the poor girls stripped quite naked, and carried by main force to their new lodgings. At other times it was pleasant enough to see a fine girl led off the field from the husband she disliked, with a tear in one eye, and a finger in the other; for custom, or delicacy, if you please, has taught them to think it necessary to whimper a little, let the change be ever so much to their inclination."
(2)Game of bones—gambling—games of chance.—p. 143.
Gaming seems to be a natural passion of man, and is carried to a great excess among the American Indians. The games they play are various, but all are for the acquisition of coveted wealth; they never play without a stake, and that, considering the amount of their possessions, a very heavy one. They are emphatically gamblers. I have supposed that a description of their principal games may not be uninteresting to the reader, and have therefore subjoined the following:—
The game of the dish, which they call thegame of the little bones, is only played by two persons. Each has six or eight little bones, which at first sight may be taken for apricot stones; they are of that shape and bigness. They make them jump up by striking the ground or the table with a round and hollow dish, which contains them, and which they twirl round first. When they have no dish, they throw the bones up in the air with their hands. If in falling they come all of one colour, he who plays wins five. The game is forty up, and they subtract the numbers gained by the adverse party. Five bones of the same colour win but one for the first time, but the second time they win the game. A less number wins nothing.
He that wins the game continues playing. The loser gives his place to another, who is named by the markers of his side; for they make parties at first, and often the whole village is concerned in the game. Oftentimes also, one village plays against another. Each party choses a marker, but he withdraws when he pleases, which never happens but when he loses. At every throw, especially if it happens to be decisive, they make great shouts. The players appear like people possessed, and the spectators are not more calm. They make a thousand contortions, talk to the bones, load the spirits of the adverse party with curses, and the whole village echoes with imprecations. If all this does not recover their luck, the losers may put off their party till next day. It costs them only a small treat from the company.
Then they prepare to return to the engagement. Each invokes his genius, and throws some tobacco in the fire to his honour. They ask him above all things for lucky dreams. As soon as day appears, they go again to play; but, if the losers fancy that the goods in their cabins made them unlucky, the first thing they do is to change them all. The great parties commonly last five or six days, and often continue all night. In the meantime, as all the persons present are in an agitation that deprives them of reason, they quarrel and fight, which never happens among the savages but on these occasions, and when they are drunk. One may judge, if, when they have done playing, they do not want rest.
It sometimes happens that these parties of play are made by order of the physician, or at the request of the sick. There needs no more for this purpose than a dream of one, or the other. This dream is always taken for the order of some spirit, and then they prepare themselves for play with a great deal of care. They assemble for several nights to try and to see who has the luckiest hand. They consult their genii, they fast, the married persons observe continence; and all to obtain a favourable dream. Every morning they relate what dreams they have had, and all things they have dreamt of, which they think lucky; and they make a collection of all, and put them into little bags, which they carry about with them; and, if any one has the reputation of being lucky,that is, in the opinion of these people, of having a familiar spirit more powerful, or more inclined to do good, they never fail to make him keep near him who holds the dish, they even go a great way to fetch him; and, if through age or any infirmity he cannot walk, they will carry him on their shoulders.
There is a game played by the Miamis, which is called thegame of straws. These straws are small reeds, about the size of wheat straws, and about six inches long. They take a parcel, which are commonly two hundred and one, and always an odd number. After having shuffled them in well together, making a thousand contortions, and invoking the genii, they separate them with a kind of awl, or a pointed bone, into parcels of ten each: every one takes his own at a venture, and he that happens to get the parcel with eleven, gains a certain number of points that are agreed on. The whole game is sixty or eighty **** They have two games more, the first of which is called thegame of the bat. They play at it with a ball, and sticks bent, and ending with a kind of racket. They set up two posts, which serve for bounds, and which are distant from each other according to the number of players. For instance, if they are eighty, there is half a league distance between the two posts. The players are divided into two bands, which have each their post. Their business is to strike the ball to the post of the adverse party without letting it fall to the ground, and without touching it with the hand; for, in either of these cases, they lose the game, unless he who makes the fault repairs it by striking the ball at one blow to the post, which is often impossible. These savages are so dexterous at catching the ball with their bats, that sometimes one game will last many days together.