'Come to me, lover, come!I'll wait thy death,In the evening's breath,On the brow of the mountain,That shadows the fountain,Come, my lover, come!'Come to me, lover, come!Again will I wearBright gold in my hair,And my eyes shall be brightAs the beam of light.Come, my lover, come!'Come quick, my lover, come!And thou shall be prestTo a faithful breast,And thou shalt be ledTo a bridal bed.Mishikinakwa, come!'
'Come to me, lover, come!I'll wait thy death,In the evening's breath,On the brow of the mountain,That shadows the fountain,Come, my lover, come!
'Come to me, lover, come!Again will I wearBright gold in my hair,And my eyes shall be brightAs the beam of light.Come, my lover, come!
'Come quick, my lover, come!And thou shall be prestTo a faithful breast,And thou shalt be ledTo a bridal bed.Mishikinakwa, come!'
"Thus called to the shades of happiness by so bright, and beautiful, and beloved, a being, how can I remain on the earth? Since that moment I have wished much to die; every day have I asked the Master of Life to take from me the breath he has given, and permit me to go to the land that holds the spirit of my affianced wife. I loathe the vile chain which binds me from her; I hate all the things I see, for they are all less beautiful than she; and all sounds pain mine ear, for is it not filled with her voice, a hundred times sweeter than aught ever heard on earth? Ha! her voice again! She calls me to her arms! She bids me come and drink of the crystal streams in the land of souls; she bids me come and chase with her the fawn and the kid, to bring her berries from the hills, and flowers from the vales, and to brush with our mingled footsteps, in early morning, the dew from the glades, and to blend in early evening the music of our lips, and the breath of our sighs, by the sides of the grass-wrapt fountain. She bids me come, and be clasped to a faithful breast, and called to a bridal bed. I come, beautiful spirit, to the appointed spot,
To the brow of the mountain,That shadows the fountain.
To the brow of the mountain,That shadows the fountain.
Put then the bright gold in thy rolling locks, and let thine eyes shine as when I first saw thee. Be again as straight as the young fir, and array thyself in the garment which glittered like the sands of the Spirits' Island."
With a convulsive start, the warrior raised himself upon his couch to an upright posture. Gazing wildly around for a moment, he threw his arms forward, shouting "I come, beloved, I come!" and then falling back he lay a lifeless corpse. And so died Mishikinakwa, the Little Turtle of the Winnebagoes, of love for a phantom woman.
Note.
(1)The Hottuk Ishtohoollo, or Holy People.—p. 273.
Almost every hill and cavern has, in the eye of the Indian, its tutelary deity. The tradition entitled "The Mountain of Little Spirits" is one which paints a genuine belief.
Adair, in his History of the North American Indians, says, "They (viz. the Cherokees, Creeks, Choctaws, &c.) believe the higher regions to be inhabited by good spirits, whom they callHottuk Ishtohoollo, andNana Ishtohoollo, 'Holy People,' and relations to the 'Great Holy One?' TheHottuk Ookproose, orNana Ookproose, 'accursed people,' or 'accursed beings,' they say possess the dark regions of the West; the former attend and favour the virtuous; and the latter in like manner accompany and have power over the vicious. Several warriors have told me," he says, "that theirNana Ishtohoollo, 'concomitant Holy Spirits,' or angels, have forewarned them, as by intuition, of a dangerous ambuscade, which must have been attended with certain death, when they were alone and seemingly out of danger; and, by virtue of the impulse, they immediately darted off, and with extreme difficulty escaped the crafty, pursuing enemy."
All the Northern Indians are very superstitious with respect to the existence of fairies. One of their tribes, the Chepewyans, speak of a race whom they callNant-e-na, whom they say they frequently see, and who are supposed by them to inhabit the different elements of earth, sea, and air, according to their several qualities. To one or the other of these fairies they usually attribute any change in their circumstances either for better or worse; and, as they are led into this way of thinking entirely by the art of the conjurors, there is no such thing as any general mode of belief; for those jugglers differ so much from each other in their accounts of these beings, that those who believe any thing they say have little to do but change their opinions according to the will and caprice of the conjuror, who is almost daily relating some new whim or extraordinary event.
Every thing which is not easily understood is a spirit. Among the Creek Indians the Whip-poor-will is a spirit; the Jack o' Lantern is the same: and, with regard to the latter, they agree with the remnant of the Massachusett Indians, who believe it is the shape which the Evil Spirit takes in his visits to the sons of men. An old Indian woman, who lived some time as a domestic in my father's family, and was possessed of all the genuine traits of Indian character, was nearly thrown into convulsions by being caught a few rods from the house when one of these meteors made its appearance.
Tonti, in his account of De la Salle's Expedition, says: "They are so extravagant as to believe that every thing in the world has a spirit. It is upon this principle that are grounded all the foolish superstitions of their jugglers or Manitous, who are their priests or magicians."
Once upon a time, many ages ago, there lived, near the shores of Lake Superior, a hunter, who was considered the most intrepid and expert in his vocation of all the hunters of the wilderness. His lodge, which was built with the steady reference to the wants of nature, which are always seen in the location of an Indian village or habitation, was situated in a remote part of the forest, at the distance of many days' journey from any other dwelling. Here, alone, and free from the bloody spirit of warfare which distinguished the men of his tribe, his days glided on like the quiet flow of a river that has no fall. He spent the period of light in the noble amusement of hunting, and his evenings in relating to his beautiful and bright-eyed wife the incidents which had befallen him that day in the chace; or he detailed those which had happened to him before she became the star of his lodge; or he spoke of their long-tried, and mutual love; or he fondly sketched scenes of future bliss; or he held on his knee, and pressed to his heart, the little pledge of their love, which now, for the first time, began to venture across the floor of his cabin without a hand to sustain it. As game was then very abundant, he seldom failed to bring home in the evening a store of meats sufficient to last them until the succeeding evening; and, while they were seated beside the pleasant fire of their lodge, partaking of the fruits of his labour, he would relate those tales, and enforce those precepts, which every good Indian thinks necessary for the instruction of his wife and children. This was his occupation, these were his pleasures. Who could ask a better or nobler than the first? who desire more intense, or purer, than the last? Far removed from all sources of disquiet, surrounded with all that they deemed necessary to their comfort, tenderly loving, and thence completely happy, their lives passed away with scarcely less bliss than that of the disembodied spirits of the good in the Happy Shades. The breast of the hunter had never felt the pangs of remorse, for he had been a just man in all his dealings. He had never violated the laws of his tribe, by encroaching upon the hunting-grounds of his neighbours, or by taking that which did not of right belong to him. No offended hunter waylaid his steps to revenge an interference with his rights, no haughty chief came to the door of his lodge, to say, "Chippewa, give back that which you have stolen." No dream of the fame to be acquired by war—by the frequent slaughter of unoffending women and children, or even of hardy warriors, his equals in strength and valour—danced before his eyes, filling his sleep with bloody images and sights of horror. The white man had not yet come to fill the mind of the poor Indian with cravings for things which were not needed till they were known; as yet, he had not been taught that clothes and blankets were necessary to his comfort, or that game could not be killed without guns. The skin of the buffalo, the moose, the bear, and the deer, answered the purpose of protecting him from the heat and the cold; and the bow and arrow well supplied the place of the gun, especially when pointed by the steady hand and unerring eye of an Indian hunter. Having then, no more than now, occasion to fell large trees, the axes of stone in use among us when white men landed on our shores answered all the simple purposes of Indian life. Iron and powder, which, withoneother fatal gift, have already led to the almost total, and will soon effect the total, extinction of the race by furnishing us with a surer mode of destruction, had not yet found their way into those remote and peaceful forests, nor had the white man poured that one other fatal gift, his wrathful phial of liquid fire[35]upon our devoted Indian race. Our wants were then few, easily supplied, and totally independent of white men.
Peacefully glided away the life of the Chippewa hunter, happy in his ignorance, but still happier in his simplicity. Relying fully upon the superintending care of an overruling Great Spirit, whom he had always served, no anxious dread of present want, no fears for the future filled his bosom. His life was as unruffled as the surface of a lake in the calm of the summer.
One evening, during the winter season, when snow covered the earth, and ice locked up the waters of the Great Lake, it chanced that this happy Chippewa hunter remained out much later than usual. His wife sate lonesome in her tent, and began to be agitated with fears that some fatal accident had befallen him. Darkness had already veiled the face of nature, and gathering gloom rested upon the brow of night. She listened attentively, to catch the sounds of coming footsteps, but nothing could be heard but the wind whistling around the sides of their slender lodge, and through the creaking branches of the surrounding forest of oaks and pines. Time passed away in this state of suspense; he came not, and every moment augmented her fears, and added to the loneliness of her heart. With the little pledge of their mutual love clasped to her bosom, she sat counting every moment as it flew, with difficulty commanding her tears, and singing them down with fragments of some of the simple songs which all the sons of the earth are in the habit of using, to while away hours rendered weary by any passing occurrence. At length her heart gave way, and she burst into a deep and fervent passion of tears. Suddenly she heard the sound of approaching footsteps upon the frozen surface of snow. Not doubting that it must be her beloved husband, she quickly undid the loop, which held, by an inner fastening, the door of the lodge, and, throwing it open, beheld two strange females standing in front of it. She could not hesitate what course to pursue. She bade them enter and warm themselves, knowing, from the distance to the nearest cabin, that they must have walked a long way. When they had entered she invited them to remain. She soon observed that they were total strangers in that part of the country, and the more closely she scrutinized their manners, their dress, and their dignified deportment, the stronger grew her conviction that they were persons of no ordinary character. No efforts, no persuasions, could induce them to come near the fire; they took their seats in a remote part of the lodge, and drew their garments about their persons in such a manner as almost completely to hide their faces. They seemed shy and taciturn, spoke not, and remained as motionless as stones fixed in the earth. Occasionally, though but seldom, glimpses could be caught of their faces, which were pale and ghastly, even to the hue of death. Their eyes she saw were vivid but sunken, their cheek-bones as prominent as if all flesh had left them, and their whole persons, as far as could be judged, emaciated and fleshless. Seeing that her strange guests, of whom she now began to feel much fear, avoided all conversation, and appeared anxious to escape observation, she forbore to question them, and sat in silence until her husband entered. He had been led farther than usual in pursuit of game, but returned with the carcase of a large and very fat deer. No sooner had he laid his spoil on the floor of his cabin, than the mysterious females, exclaiming, "Behold! what a fine, fat animal!" immediately ran up, and pulled off pieces of the whitest fat, which they ate with great avidity. As this is esteemed the choicest part of the animal, and is generally, by Indian courtesy, left to the share of the master of the lodge, such conduct appeared very strange to the hunter. Supposing, however, that they had been a long time without food, for he attributed their extreme leanness and ghastliness to hunger and privation, he forbore to accuse them of rudeness, and his wife, following her husband's example, was equally guarded in her language. On the following evening, the same scene was repeated. He brought home the best portions of the deer he had killed, and, while in the act of laying it down before his wife, according to custom, the two females again ran up, and tore off, as on the first night, the choicest and most delicate portions, which they ate with the same eagerness and unappeasable avidity as before. Such unhandsome behaviour, such repeated abuses of his hospitality, were calculated to raise displeasure on the brow of the hunter, but still the deference due to strange guests induced him to pass it over in silence. Observing their partiality for this part of the animal, he resolved the next day to anticipate their wants, by cutting off and tying up a portion of the fat for each. These parcels he placed upon the top of his burthen, and, as soon as he entered the lodge, he gave to each her portion. Still the guests appeared dissatisfied, and took more from the carcass lying before the wife. Many persons would have repressed this forwardness, by some look, word, or action, but this man, being a just and prudent man, slow to provocation, and patient under afflictions of every kind, abstained from any of them. He was, perhaps, the more disposed to this quiet spirit of forbearance, from a suspicion that his guests were persons of distinguished rank, who chose thus to visit him in disguise, and also from reflecting, that the best luck had attended him in hunting, since the residence of the mysterious strangers beneath his roof.
In other respects, the deportment of the females was unexceptionable, though marked with some peculiarities. They were quiet, modest, and discreet. They maintained a cautious silence through the day, neither uttering a word nor moving, but folded up in their skin mantles they remained in the corner of their lodge. When it became dark, they would get up, and, taking those instruments which were then used in breaking up and preparing fuel, would repair to the forest. There they would busy themselves in seeking dry limbs and fragments of trees, blown down by tempests. When a sufficient quantity had been gathered to last till the succeeding night, they carried it home upon their shoulders; then, carefully putting every thing in its proper place within the lodge, they resumed their seats and their studied silence. They were ever careful to return from their nocturnal labours before the dawning of day, and were never known to go out before the hour of dusk. In this manner they repaid, in some measure, the kindness of the hunter, and relieved his wife from her most laborious duties.
Thus nearly the whole winter passed away, every day leading to some new development of character or office of friendship, which served to endear the parties to each other. Their faces daily lost something of that deathlike hue which had at first marked them, and they visibly improved in strength. They began to throw off some of that cold reserve and forbidding austerity, which had kept the hunter so long in ignorance of their true character. Every day, their appearance and behaviour approximated more nearly to that of the beings of ordinary life. One evening the hunter returned very late, after having spent the day in toilsome exertion. Again he deposited the product of his hunt at the feet of his wife, and again the silent females began to tear off the flesh as before, though with still greater rudeness and ill-breeding. The patience of the wife was completely lost, she could no longer controul her feelings, and suffered the thought to pass her mind, "Their conduct is certainly very strange! how can I bear with it any longer!" She did not, however, give utterance to her feelings in words. But an immediate change was seen in the females. They became unusually reserved, and gave evident signs of being uneasy in their situation. The good hunter immediately perceived this change, and, fearful that they had taken offence, so soon as they had retired to rest, he enquired of his wife whether any harsh expression had escaped her lips during the day. She replied that she had uttered nothing to give the least offence. He now tried to compose himself to sleep, but he felt restless and uneasy, for he could plainly hear the sighs and half-smothered lamentations of the two females. Every moment added to his conviction that his guests had taken deep offence, and, as he could not banish this idea from his mind, he raised himself on his couch, and addressed the sobbing inmates thus:
"Tell me, ye women that have so long been the inmates of my lodge, what is it that causes you pain of mind, and makes you unceasingly utter these sighs? Has the wife of my bosom given you any cause of offence while I was absent in the chase? My fears persuade me that, in some unguarded moment, she has forgotten what is due to the rights of hospitality, and used expressions ill befitting the mysterious character which you seem to sustain. Tell me, ye strangers from a strange country—ye women who appear to be not of this world—what is it that causes you pain of mind, and makes you utter these unceasing sighs?"
"It is not for this that we weep; it is not for this that we sigh," replied the mysterious women. "No unkind expressions have been used towards us since our residence in your hospitable lodge. We have received from you all the affectionate attentions which we could expect, far more than could reasonably be asked of one who procures his food and supports his family by a life of incessant toil and labour. We thank you for all your kindness. No, it is not for this: it is not for ourselves that we weep. We are weeping for the fate of mankind. We are weeping for the fate of mortals whom death awaits at every stage of their existence—weak mortals! whom death cuts down equally while the bloom of youth is on their cheek, and when their hair is whitened by the frosts of time—proud, vain men! whom hunger pinches, cold benumbs, and poverty emaciates—frail beings! who are born in tears, who are nurtured in tears, who die in tears, and whose whole course is marked upon the thirsty sands of life in a broad line of tears. It is for these that we weep.
"You have spoken truly, brother; we are not of this world. We are Spirits from the land of the dead, sent upon the earth to try the sincerity of the living. It is not for the dead but the living that we mourn. It is not for the dead, whose flesh quietly reposes in the dust, and whose souls repair to the mansions of happiness, that we mourn, but for the living who are subjected to many, many pains, and beset with innumerable troubles and anxieties. It was by no means necessary that your wife should express her thoughts by words; we knew them ere they were spoken. We saw that for once displeasure towards us had arisen in her heart. It is enough—our mission is ended. We came hither but to try you. We knew before we came that you were a kind husband, an affectionate father, a temperate and honest man. We saw, from the mansions of the blest, the patience with which you bore your disappointments in the chace; the gratitude to the Great Spirit which you always evinced; the tribute to his goodness which you always paid when your hunts were successful, and you were enabled to return to your cabin with the wealth of the forest. Still we find that you have some of the weaknesses of a mortal, and your wife is found still more wanting in our eyes. But it is not for you alone that we weep; it is for the fate of mankind.
"Often, very often, has the widowed husband exclaimed, 'Oh death, how cruel, how relentless thou art, to take from me my best friend, my beloved wife, in the spring of her youth, in the prime of her strength, in the morning of her usefulness, in the bloom of her beauty! Just when I had come to know her best, and to love her most, thou didst take her from my arms, leaving me to pine in unavailing regrets. If thou wilt permit her, just Judge! to return once more to my arms, and again be the star of my humble abode, my gratitude shall never cease; my thankfulness shall be daily manifested in songs and sacrifices to thy name. The high hill shall hear the cry of a man with clay in his hair, and the valley shall be filled with the smoke of a sacrificial flame. I will raise my voice continually to thank the Master of Life for the return to my arms of his excellent gift. And to her shall the return be productive of unbounded felicity. I will devote my time to study how I can best promote her happiness, while she is permitted to remain, and our lives shall roll away, like a pleasant stream through a vale of flowers.' If a parent has been bereaved of a child rendered dear by its innocence and sportive fondness, he has said, while tears were furrowing his cheek, 'Great Manitou, wilt thou return this beloved child for a few more years to my bosom? It was but young and little. Its voice, softer than the breath of spring, had not fashioned its tones of tenderness into words. I had not heard it thank me for the gift of life; it was a flower blasted in the bud. If thou wilt permit its return, it shall be taught to sing thy praises; it shall be made to walk in the straight path; it shall be a just hunter and a true warrior.' The bereft lover has besought the Great Spirit for the return of his deceased mistress: his petition has painted the charms of her voice sweet as the south wind; her step light and graceful as the fawn's; her locks clustering like grapes. And, 'Oh!' he has said, 'will it disarrange the harmony of thy system, if she may but for a little while return to my arms; if but for a few, a very few years, she may illumine the darkness of my lodge by the splendour of her eyes, and send joy to my soul by the soft tones of her voice, and the sound of her steps?' Thus, also, has the mother prayed for her daughter; the wife for her husband; the sister for her brother; the friend for his bosom-companion, until the sounds of mourning, and the cries of the living, have pierced the very recesses of the dead. Among those who have wished their departed friends to return, were many who were cruel and unkind to them while living. These have not failed to promise the most endearing conduct, should their relatives be allowed to return.
"The Great Spirit has, at length, consented to make a trial of their sincerity, by sending us upon the earth at a very severe season of the year, and in a time of general scarcity. He did this to see how we should be received, coming as strangers, no one knowing whence. It was necessary that this severity of proof should be exacted. Three months were allowed us to make the trial; and if, during that time, no irksomeness of feeling had been evinced, no angry passions excited, at the place where we should have taken up our abode, all those in the land of spirits, whom their relations had desired to return, would have been restored to them. We had already passed more than half the time assigned to us, and had already dared to hope for a successful termination of our mission. Had your wife maintained those feelings of unmixed generosity and kindness which have heretofore marked her conduct, the ransom would have been complete. When the leaves began to bud, and the birds to sing their sweet songs of love, and to warble their gentle burdens of gratitude for the return of their beloved spring, our mission would have been successfully terminated. The deceased husband and wife would then have been each returned to the arms of his or her rejoicing partner, the maiden to the arms of her tender lover, the infant to the bosom of its adoring mother. But it is now too late. Our trial is finished, and we are called to the pleasant fields, and beautiful shades, whence we came. It is not for those who remain in those shades; it is not for the souls we left in the abode of happy spirits, that we grieve, but for you that are left on earth.
"Brothers, it is necessary and proper, that one man should die to make room for another who is born in his place; otherwise the world would be filled to overflowing. It is just, that the goods gathered by one should be left to be divided by others, for in the land of spirits there is no want. There is neither sorrow nor hunger, death nor pain, in that land. Pleasant fields filled with game lie spread before the eye, and birds of most beautiful plumage and shapes are singing on every bush. Every stream is filled with fat fish, and every hill is crowned with groves of trees, whose fruit is sweet and pleasant to the taste and beautiful to the eye. No piercing winds rack the bones, no storms, no whirlwinds, assail the ear. All kinds of games have been invented to amuse, and many, very many, instruments to play upon. It is not here, brother, butthere, that men begin truly to live. It is not for those that rejoice through those pleasant groves, but for you that are left behind, that we weep.
"Brother, take our thanks for your hospitality. Regret not our departure. We go not in anger with thee, nor with thy wife. Fear not evil. Thy luck shall still be good in the chace, and a bright sky prevail over thy lodge. Mourn not for us, for no corn will spring up from tears; but join us in lamentations for the fate of mankind. Mourn for mortals whom death awaits at every stage of their existence; whom death cuts down equally while the bloom of youth is on their cheek, and when their hair is whitened by the frosts of time—proud, vain men, whom hunger pinches, cold benumbs, and poverty emaciates—frail beings, who are born in tears, nurtured in tears, die in tears, and whose whole course is marked upon the thirsty sands of life by a broad line of tears. It is for those that we weep."
The spirits ceased; but the hunter had no power over his voice to reply. As they continued their address, he saw a light beaming from their faces, and gradually a blue vapour filling the whole lodge with an unnatural light. As soon as the females ceased speaking, a deep and dense darkness prevailed. He listened, but the sobs of the spirits had ceased. He heard the door of his tent open and shut, but he never saw more of his mysterious visitors. Their promise was not forgotten; he found the success which they spoke of. He became a most celebrated hunter, and never wanted for any thing necessary to his ease. He became the father of many children, all of whom grew up to manhood: and health, peace, and long life, were the rewards of his hospitality.
Wangewaha, the great chief of the Abnakis, in one of his hunting excursions, lay down beneath the shade of a stately fir, on the shore of the stormy lake, beside which he was born, and the spirit of sleep came over him. He dreamed a dream, the like of which was never dreamed before among the red men of the forest. That dream hath come to pass; each jot and tittle of it has been performed; the things were done before mine own eyes, and the words spoken into mine own ears. Listen to the dream of Wangewaha, the great war chief of the Abnakis.
He saw, far in the east, upon the face of the waters, a white cloud which seemed to be impelled by a strong wind, and it was approaching the shores of the same land in which the Abnakis dwelt. Along its lower extremity appeared a narrow outline of exceeding blackness, and ever and anon the cloud became larger or grew less, now increased and now diminished, as the wind, or other causes, spread it out, or contracted it. At length, the wind, which before blew towards the land, veered and blew from it, but, strange to tell, the cloud was not carried back, but kept its course onward in defiance of the wind, and thus fared the cloud.
Upon the shore, watching with extreme and undivided interest the progress of the cloud, stood many of the sons of the forest. Wonder and astonishment had seized their souls, at the strange and hitherto unheard-of sight of a low, compact, dark cloud, moving rapidly against a strong wind. They saw that it was of unusual shape, and that there were other circumstances connected with it, such as are not usual with the spirit-mists of the air. Rightly deeming it a cloud from some very far region, perhaps some aërial messenger sent by the Great Spirit to communicate an important errand, they awaited in silent awe the progress of that to which they could not give a name. Yet, deeming it possible that grim war might in some one of his thousand forms be hidden under the semblance of a cloud—that hostile beings might inhabit what appeared but thin air—they prepared to oppose violence with violence, and to meet battle with manful battle. Some went and cut new lance poles, others tough and elastic bows. The priests prepared sacrifices to appease the spirit, if spirit it were, and sang propitiatory songs, in which they first called it a good Spirit, and thanked it as such for the fat deer and mooses it had sent to their hunting-grounds, and the juicy fish which filled their waters, and the tender fowls which stocked their lakes. Then they addressed it as the Spirit of Evil, deprecating its wrath, and imploring its mercy, beseeching it, if it came in anger, to go away and discharge its venom elsewhere; if it came to bring them rich gifts, to be speedy about it, for such never came too soon.
In the mean time, the cloud came every moment nearer, till, at last, it was scarcely the flight of an arrow distant from the shore. Then gradually it disappeared, and, in its stead, appeared a large animal, with innumerable arms and legs of all sizes and shapes, and of all lengths, and of several colours. Perched on various parts of the legs and arms of this strange animal were other animals, whose appearance was unlike any other being ever beheld by the Indians. They wore in some respects the character of man—were gifted with his strength and wisdom, his power and capacities—were by turns a prey to lust, ambition, hate, despair, revenge—commencing life with tears, and dying with a sigh. Their fangs were for venom the fangs of a snake; their cunning, the cunning of a fox; and their fierceness, the fierceness of a mountain cat, or a panther. Very nimble they seemed, and sprang about the legs and arms of the bigger animal, like a squirrel leaping from one branch of a tree to another branch. One ran up a rope till it had reached one of the arms; another slid down in like manner; a third was perched half-way up; a fourth was running to and fro on the back of the animal. At length, one of the little animals dropped a great rope, to which was appended an enormous forked tree, and this operated to tie up the bigger animal, which rolled about very much, as if in vain attempts to liberate itself from the thraldom to which they had subjected it.
After a while, there was a smaller animal seen leaving the side of the bigger, as a kid leaves the side of its mother, similar in shape to the bigger, but having neither arms nor legs; and, upon the back of this animal, many of the smaller animals sought the shore. When they had arrived, they presented themselves to the eyes of the astonished Abnakis, in a shape which seemed to the sleeper to be that of a panther, wearing the shape of man, yet fierce and cruel as any ever found in the wilds of the river of the Abnakis. With this fierce and cruel disposition was coupled a cunning beyond that of the fox, and a malignity greater than the rattlesnake's. Their fierceness and cruelty, and the malignity and savage ferocity of their natures, were hidden, however, under a show of peace. They laughed, and grinned, and did the other things, which mortals do when they are, or pretend to be, pleased, making the unsuspecting Abnakis think that they were their very good friends, when they were only waiting for a chance to rend them limb from limb. Nor was their disposition wholly hidden by the mask, which these worthless and wicked beasts had only assumed for the purpose of beguiling the poor red man. Occasionally the panther would show his teeth, and the rattlesnake his malignity, though the cunning of the fox would soon throw a veil over the one, and hush the noise of the other.
Strange, indeed were the bodies, tempers, and dispositions of the beasts, which thus passed in sleep before the eyes of the dreaming chief. He saw them invested with the habits and feelings of men, as they appeared to be gifted with their capacities and acquirements. They had courage, not indeed as the Abnakis have it, not the courage which delights in the post of danger, and encounters difficulties for the mere honour of overcoming them, but in another, and less active form, that of endurance. And their wisdom and power were greater than the wisdom and power of the Abnakis priests, who could draw water from the clouds, and foretell the coming of tempests and storms(1). The wisdom and power of the strange beasts was very great—they were subtler than the fox or the beaver, and stronger than the bear.
Among these beasts, there was one of most transcendent beauty, who appeared to be their queen. She bore the form of a stately woman. She was clothed, not as beasts generally are, in fur, but in a robe of an unknown material, that reached to her feet, which were shrouded in a veil of so thin a texture, that the pure flesh was transparent through them, and not shod with mocassins, but with something of a different form. Around her head was bound a grape-vine, from which hung beautiful clusters of rich, ripe grapes, intermingled with locks of hair, of a hue resembling the yellow leaf. Her round and plump arms were bound with bracelets of a very bright material; and, upon her long and slender fingers, were rings set with sparkling stones, of various and exceedingly radiant hues—green, blue, purple, white. In one of her delicate hands, she carried a small bunch of grain, of a kind which was never seen before by the Abnakis, but the ears of which bent over like the wings of a hawk hovering over his prey, or or a bird settling upon its perch. The same fair hand carried the instrument wherewith it was reaped. The other hand bore a huge shell and a three-forked sceptre, emblems of her dominion upon the element, which supported the cloud upon which she came. Upon her breast she wore a shield, on which was painted the likeness of two animals, one of them wearing a shaggy mane, and both looking exceedingly fierce and warlike. There were upon this shield other paintings and devices, which even the ingenuity of the priests could not explain. Altogether, the appearance of the being, animal, or whatever it was, which the Abnakis dreamer saw, was exceedingly noble and beautiful. They who came with her said she was the genius of the land beyond the Great Water, the guardian spirit of an island more powerful than all the world besides. And surely great power was written in her countenance, and authoritative command engraved on the lines of her face.
Then Wangewaha saw, and a being also wearing the appearance of a woman came down from the shades, and confronted the stranger. She was of a still taller stature than the other, and of the same complexion as the inhabitants of the land, her skin red, black her hair, her eyes shining, her step yet more noble and commanding, and her bearing prouder and more haughty than that of her who appeared to be her younger sister. Her hair, long, straight, and black, hung over her shoulders till it reached her feet; her mocassins were of the gaudiest colours; and beads, and shells, and wampum, were profusely employed in adorning her person. Above her head towered feathers, the canieu's or war-eagle's, and the painted vulture's—in her hands she carried a spear and a sheaf of arrows. A bow hung at one of her shoulders, while over the other was carelessly thrown the game slain by her archery. Her robe was made of the furs of the gayest forest animals, and her emblems were an ear of maize and the antlers of a buck. Stately she moved, as a wild swan on a calm lake, or a black cloud over the brow of a mountain; and the boldness of her demeanour, and the fierceness of her eyes, contrasted strongly with the softness and effeminacy of her that seemed her younger, and more delicate, sister.
Anon, these two sisters entered into speech with each other, and the artless and unsuspecting soul of the one was contrasted strongly with the cunning of the other. Said the stranger to her who was of the land, "Thou hast a most beautiful land."
"It is indeed a most beautiful land," answered the other.
"It has lofty mountains."
"Its mountains are very lofty."
"It has many beautiful and rapid rivers."
"It has."
"Its suns—"
"Are bright as the eyes of a dove."
"Its winds—"
"Soft as the breath of a young maiden."
"Methinks I should like to live in thy cabin—to rove uncontrolled through thy green glades, and to listen in dreamy and indolent repose to the merry music of thy waterfalls."
"Do, and thou shalt be welcome," replied the dark but beautiful, the stern but guileless, genius of the land.
"Knowest thou not that we are sisters?" asked the bright-eyed, fair-skinned, stranger.
"Nay, I knew it not," replied she of the wilderness.
"We are, and we have two others—thou, the youngest, and I thy next elder. I am come hither to direct thy footsteps, and to render thee my assistance in beautifying the clime so beautiful in itself, and to give to those over whom thou presidest the light of the knowledge I have conducted to my own realms. I have brought with me those who are the pioneers of my footsteps whithersoever I go."
"It is well," answered the genius of the wilderness. "Take as much as thou wilt of my lands. Choose for thyself the fairest spots—make my people as thine own—we are sisters, thou sayest, and I believe thee, for I love thee—sisters should dwell together in peace and love. Yon river bank is very fertile."
"It is indeed very fertile," answered the strange genius, her countenance brightening up as she surveyed the beautiful spot to which her attention was directed.
"Thou shalt have it for thine own," said the elder sister kindly.
"Thou art very good," answered the other. "What use dost thou make of yonder broad, and beautiful, and rapid river?"
"It furnishes food to my people. In the summer moons, the light canoes of my beloved red men are seen gliding over it in swift pursuit of the sturgeon; the fishes which sport in its clear bosom are the sweetest in all the waters of my wide domain."
"I should like to have that river to be mine own," said the pale genius.
"I can spare it," answered the other kindly. "It is thine."
"Yon is a beautiful lake," said the younger. "How calm and unruffled is its surface!"
"It is a very beautiful lake, but thou hast not seen it in its most beautiful season," answered the elder. "Thou shouldst behold it when it waves a wide sea of water-lilies, white as the snow of winter, or when myriads of gay wild-fowl skim its level surface, or settle down upon its pellucid bosom, to take their repast. Then it is indeed beautiful—very beautiful."
"A river and a lake should go together," said the younger.
"They should," answered she of the land, "nor will I be the one to separate them. I give thee the lake."
"How much loftier than all the mountains of my own clime is that which I see towering in the distance towards the land of the warm breezes!"
"That mountain is indeed very lofty," answered the dark Genius.
"I have a noble river, with a flowery bank rising above it, and I have a level lake, but thou hast not given me a mountain, to whose cool and refreshing breezes I may retire, when the fervid and scorching suns of summer invade the lowlands. I would—thou wilt deem me greedy as the hawk or the heron—I would have some such spot, whose breezes, when they kindly dispense health, nerve the soul to great actions, and within whose wild and inaccessible fastnesses, which, ever since Time was, have been the keepers of the free, the weak may find a resting-place, and the wearied by oppression a refuge."
"Take thou the mountain, and name what else thou wilt have."
"Only a few more rivers and a few more vales, which thou canst easily spare, and another mountain for a further refuge, and some more lakes to breed more wild-fowl in, and a forest or two well stocked with deer, and a part of the Great Lake to put my whales in—nothing more, except it be another vale, and another mountain, and another river, and a piece more of the sea."
The dark Genius of the land smiled at thenarrowwishes of her younger sister, and replied, that she could spare them all. So the younger sister appropriated to herself the highest mountains, and the most pleasant vales, and the broadest lakes, and the most rapid rivers, and a large piece of the sea to put whales in, and some forests well stocked with deer, and said, "she had taken so little it was scarcely worth thanking for."
Then the dreamer saw in his sleep that, at her bidding, the strange beasts which came in the cloud issued forth to take possession. How their eyes gloated upon the fair gifts which had been made them by the kind spirit of the land! And how grateful they appeared to be, and how exceedingly kind and affectionate they were to the poor Indians! They stroked their heads gently with one hand, while with the other they released them from their oppressive burdens—their beaver skins and their maize—indeed they were too kind. Then to gratify them still further, they produced a burning water[36], which they distributed among them, assuring them of its power to create pleasing images in the mind, and to make bright visions dance before the eyes of those who drank it. The Indians drank as they were bidden, and realised the predicted effects. What a wonderful medicine was the strong water! Under its potent influence, the mirror of the soul became enlarged, and a thousand images, till then unseen, floated before the mental eye. Then might a man receive certain intimations of the object he should choose as his protecting spirit, and astonish his brothers by a medicine of strange proportions and great power. And secrets of the land of souls—the way to pass the "narrow bridge over the fearful river," and how to stay the anger of the dog that guards it at the point where the Huron passes—how to tread the sharp and steep rock upon which the Chippewa finds entrance to his land of rest—all this, and much more, to be attained by no other means, was learned from the strong waters given to the Abnakis by the strange spirit. And Wangewaha, the dreamer, woke from his sleep, rubbed his eyes, and indulged in deep thought of what the dream might portend.
Again he sunk to sleep, and again he dreamed. Still his dream was of strange creatures, aliens to his land, and usurpers of the rights of its native sons. But they had multiplied till their numbers were as the sands upon the sea shore. He stood in imagination upon a lofty hill, and cast his eyes upon the broad lands beneath him. How changed! The forests had been swept away, the land was cleared of its mossy old oaks, and lofty pines, and cedars, but, where they once raised their leafy heads to the winds of heaven, now rose cabins, white as the folds of a cloud, and glittering in the sun like a sheet of ice in a winter's day. The broad and rapid river, as well as the waters of the Great Lake, was marked in streaks of white foam by the many clouds traversing it, like that he had seen in his first dream. The lofty mountains were seamed like the breast of a tattooed warrior(2), by the roads which the strangers had made over it. The vales waved with the yellow wheat, and, herds of tame bisons lay resting on the grassy knolls, or stood grouped at the outlets of the fields, which the industrious strangers had girded in with fences of rock.
And what had become of the former inhabitants of the soil? where were the dusky men who met the strange creatures upon the shore, and bade them welcome, and gave them the fat things of the sea and the land for their subsistence, and warm furs to protect them from the searching winds of the Snow-Moon, and taught them how to follow the trail of forest animals, and to thread, unerringly, their way for many successive nights through the lonely wilderness, by the flow of streams and the course of fishes, and the light of the Hunter's Star, and the moss upon the oaks, and the flight of birds? Listen, and I will tell you.
He sees upon the edge of a stream, overgrown with a thick grove of alders and luxuriant vines, an Indian man and woman. The woman held in her arms a dying child—at the feet of the man, lay a lean and famished dog. Deep thought was in the eye of the one, and absorbing grief in that of the other. Now the hunter cast his eyes into the depths of the river in anxious search for the signs of the approach of the finny people; now he laid his ear to the earth after the manner of his race, when they would detect the sound of footsteps.
"Didst thou see aught in the current, which thine eye is searching?" asked the wife tremulously, fixing her bright black eye, moistened with a tear, upon her hungry infant.
"I saw nothing in the current," answered the hunter. "The net of the stranger hath swept from the flood that which was in part the food of our tribes, when he first became acquainted with these shores. The barbed spear no more brings up the sleeping conger; the Indian throws his hook into the once populous stream, but it returns with the bait untouched."
"Did thy quick ear catch the sound of aught in the mazes of the wood?" asked the fond mother, and her tears fell thick on the cheeks of her little babe.
"My ear caught no sound in the mazes of the wood," answered the hunter. "How should it? The stranger hath left nothing save the mouse, and the mole, and few of them. He has swept away the beloved retreats of the bounding beauty of the forest, the nimble deer, and none are left in the glades, where once they were thicker than the stars. The bear, and the wolf, and the panther, love not their crafty brother, and have gone yet deeper into the forest. The wild duck feeds now in the deep waters only, the mother teaches her brood that death lurks behind the wood-skirted shore."
"Then must this little child—thine and mine—our first-born, die of hunger. Yet bethink thee. I see among yonder lofty trees a cabin, the whiteness of which tells us that one of the despoilers of our joys hath there taken up his abode."
"Wouldst thou have the son of Alknomook—the son of the rightful lord—himself the rightful lord of these wide regions—beg bread from the stranger?"
"Not to save thy life or mine would I ask it, but what would I not do to save the life of this beautiful babe, which the Great Spirit granted to my prayers, when for sixty moons I had lived in thy cabin a disgraced woman(3)."
"Not therefore should the soul of an Indian warrior bend to a master. I cannot beg."
"What was the dream which thou hadst in the last Worm-Moon?"
"Thou sayest well—it was of vengeance had by means of the boy. The son of Alknomook will humble his pride—he will wipe off the war paint, which he laid as deep on his face as the memory of his wrongs weigh on his heart, and he will supplicate the stranger to give him food for his little one."
Still the sleeping chief continued to take note of the things which occurred. He beheld the enfeebled and emaciated Indians at the dwelling of the proud stranger. The stranger sat at the door of his lofty cabin, and thus he addressed the friendless outcasts:
"Why have you dared to trespass on my soil, to bruise my pretty flowers with your rude feet, and to frighten my flocks and herds with your shrill halloos?"
The son of the forest was about to reply fiercely, when his ear caught the plaintive moan of his famished child, and he controlled the tempest of wrath which was rising in his bosom.
"Thine eyes are the eyes of an owl by daylight," replied he calmly. "They have seen a thing which has not happened. The son of Alknomook did not bruise the flowers of the pale face, nor frighten his flocks and herds by his shrill halloos. Wilt thou give me a morsel of food for my famished child?"
"Begone, thou Indian dog!" said the proud and cruel man. "Thou shalt have no food here."
"But my child will die of hunger."
"If thy child die of hunger, there will be a red skin less. Back to thy woods, and herd with wolves and panthers, thy fit associates."
The soul of the stern but generous warrior filled with ire and the spirit of vengeance, as he poured out his feelings in the emphatic language of his people. "Not so spoke the Abnakis to the weary, naked, and hungry, men who came to their shores, and besought them to grant them shelter," said he. "We gave them the food from our own mouths, and took the skins which fenced our wigwams to protect them from the winds of the cold moon." Nor did he cease speaking till he had denounced upon the pale faces the wrath of the Great Spirit for the injuries they had inflicted upon the Indians.
Ah, what is that which draws tears to the eyes of the dreamer, and brings sighs to his labouring heart? He beholds an Indian mother lying dead in the skirts of the forest. Upon her arm is laid a little child, and beside them, leaning on a bow, is the husband of the one and the father of the other. Sorrow has bowed him down, as far as the soul of an Indian may be bowed—there are no tears in his eyes, yet distress is written on the features of his face, in letters of enduring agony. For a while he surveys the scene of death in stern silence, but soon the memory of his wrongs weighs upon his soul and rouses him to action. He springs upon his feet, and his shrill war-whoop rings through the forest, like the echo of the tap of the woodpecker on the hollow beech. His eye flashes fire as he grasps his war spear, and his laugh, when he examines his good ash bow, is like the cry of a hungry panther. Is not vengeance his? Look at yonder flames! He hath kindled them. Listen to that wail of many over the slaughtered corpses of their friends, who lay down to rest at the beginning of darkness, and woke ere the sun came over the hills in the shades of the valley of death. Bitterly, deeply, deadly, has the son of Alknomook revenged his own, and the wrongs of his race.
Again the dreamer saw, and still his dream was of the land where he dwelt. He saw the two sister Genii sitting in the same spot where he had at first beheld them. She who was of the far clime still retained the beauty and grace which were her's when her little foot first touched the greensward of the hitherto, by her, untrodden island. Still around her head was bound the grape-vine laden with rich, ripe, clusters, amongst which were intermingled locks of hair, of a hue resembling the yellow leaf. Still were her round and plump arms bound with the shining bracelets, and her long and slender fingers adorned with the glittering rings. The sheaf of nodding grain was still an emblem of her power, and the shell and sceptre another. But she wore no more the suppliant air which at first distinguished her. Pride and haughtiness, and command and oppression, were now written on her face, and ruled her gestures.
By her side stood the other Genius, the spirit of the land, her elder sister—but oh, how changed! Her once glossy black locks now hung uncombed upon a shoulder once beautifully rounded, but rounded no longer; her mocassins were torn and soiled; and missing from her wrists and ancles the gay ornaments of bead and shell-work which adorned them in the day of her prosperity and pride. The feathers of the canieu or war-eagle, and the painted vulture, towered above her head no more, and gone from her shoulder was the emblem of the race over which she had borne rule, the bow and the arrow.
Anon these two sisters entered into speech with each other. She who was of the land, from the moment that the Bird of Ages planted it in the bosom of the waters, said to the other,
"Thou hast a most beautiful land."
"It is indeed a most beautiful land," answered the other, casting her eye proudly over the space beneath her feet.
"It has lofty mountains."
"Its mountains are very lofty."
"It has many rapid and beautiful rivers."
"It has."
"Its suns—"
"Are bright as the eyes of a dove in the moon of buds."
"Its winds—"
"Soft and balm-scented as the breath of a young maiden."
"I should like to live in thy cabin, to range uncontrolled through thy green glades, and to listen in dreaming repose to the music of thy merry waterfalls."
"Ah, no doubt thou wouldst, but dost thou think I would permit thee?" replied she, who was once a stranger in the land, but was a stranger no longer.
"Knowest thou not that we are sisters?" asked the dark Genius timidly.
"Nay, I knew it not," replied the other.
"We are, and so thou didst say when thou camest in the white cloud, and I gave thee hills, and mountains, and rivers, and lakes, and glades, and a part of the sea."
"The more fool thou, for admitting one to wrest from thee thy fair possessions."
"I deemed thee in want, and then wert thou not my sister?"
"If thou wert I have forgotten it," replied the other haughtily. "If thou didst me favours, thine impertinence in remembering them hath more than cancelled the obligation. Depart from me, and let me behold thy face no more."
The dark Genius withdrew at the bidding of her haughty sister, and the chief of the Abnakis awoke, and related his dream to his tribe. Hath it not come to pass? Look abroad on the land, and make answer. The race of the red man hath disappeared from the earth, as the snows disappear before the beams of a spring sun, or the hues of purple and gold on the western sky, at the approach of darkness. It is only in the regions of the Hunter's Star, where the pale face dare not venture, that the red man may now be found.
(1)Foretell the coming of tempests and storms.—p. 308.
The Indian jugglers—I am not now speaking of those who pretend to cure disease—are sometimes successful in their legerdemain, to a degree, which almost makes a convert of the sceptic. The following story is related by the interesting Carver.
"One day, whilst we were all expressing our wishes for this desirable event, (the arrival of the traders with provisions) and looking from an eminence in hopes of seeing them come over the lake, the chief priest, belonging to the band of the Killistinoes, told us, that he would endeavour to obtain a conference with the Great Spirit, and know from him when the traders would arrive. I paid little attention to this declaration, supposing that it would be productive of some juggling trick, just sufficiently covered to deceive the ignorant Indians. But the king of that tribe telling me that this was chiefly undertaken by the priests, to alleviate my anxiety, and, at the same time, to convince me how much interest he had with the Great Spirit, I thought it necessary to restrain my animadversions on his design.
"The following evening was fixed upon for this spiritual conference. When every thing had been properly prepared, the king came to me and led me to a capacious tent, the covering of which was drawn up, so as to render what was transacting within visible to those who stood without. We found the tent surrounded by a great number of the Indians, but we readily gained admission, and seated ourselves on skins laid on the ground for that purpose. In the centre, I observed that there was a place of an oblong shape, which was composed of stakes stuck in the ground, with intervals between, so as to form a kind of chest or coffin, large enough to contain the body of a man. These were of a middle size, and placed at such a distance from each other, that whatever lay within them was readily to be discerned. The tent was perfectly illuminated by a great number of torches, made of splinters cut from the pine or birch tree, which the Indians held in their hands.
"In a few minutes the priest entered; when an amazing large elk's-skin being spread on the ground, just at my feet, he laid himself down upon it, after having stripped himself of every garment, except that which he wore close about his middle. Being now prostrate on his back, he first laid hold of one side of the skin, and folded it over him, and then the other, leaving only his head uncovered. This was no sooner done, than two of the young men who stood by took about forty yards of strong cord, made also of an elk's hide, and rolled it tight round his body, so that he was completely swathed within the skins. Being thus bound up like an Egyptain Mummy, one took him by the heels and the other by the head, and lifted him over the pales into the enclosure. I could also now discern him as plain as I had hitherto done, and I took care not to turn my eyes a moment from the object before me, that I might the more readily detect the artifice; for such, I doubted not, but that it would turn out to be.
"The priest had not lain in this situation more than a few seconds, when he began to mutter. This he continued to do for some time, and then by degrees grew louder and louder, till at length he spoke articulately; however, what he uttered was in such a mixed jargon of the Chippewas, Ottawas, and Killistinoe languages, that I could understand but very little of it. Having continued in this tone for a considerable while, he at last exerted his voice to its utmost pitch, sometimes raving and sometimes praying, till he had worked himself into such an agitation, that he foamed at his mouth.
"After having remained nearly three quarters of an hour in the place, and continued his vociferation with unabated vigour, he seemed to be quite exhausted, and remained speechless. But in an instant he sprang upon his feet, notwithstanding, at the time he was put in, it appeared impossible for him to move either his legs or arms; and, shaking off his covering as quick as if the bands with which it had been bound were burned asunder, he began to address those who stood around, in a firm and audible voice. 'My brothers,' said he, 'the Great Spirit has deigned to hold a talk with his servant, at my earnest request. He has not, indeed, told me when the persons we expect will be here; but to-morrow, soon after the sun has reached his highest point in the heavens, a canoe will arrive, and the people in that will inform us when the traders will come.'
"Having said this, he stepped out of the enclosure, and, after he had put on his robes, dismissed the assembly.
"I own I was greatly astonished at what I had seen; but as I observed that every eye in the company was fixed on me with a view to discover my sentiments, I carefully concealed every emotion.
"The nest day the sun shone bright, and long before noon all the Indians were gathered together on the eminence that overlooked the lake. The old king came to me and asked me whether I had so much confidence in what the priest had foretold, as to join his people on the hill, and wait for the completion of it? I told him I was at a loss what opinion to form of the prediction, but that I would readily attend him. On this we walked together to the place where the others were assembled. Every eye was again fixed by turns on me and on the lake; when, just as the sun had reached his zenith, agreeable to what the priest had foretold, a canoe came round a point of land about a league distant. The Indians no sooner beheld it, than they set up a universal shout, and by their looks seemed to triumph in the interest their priest thus evidently had with the Great Spirit."
It is related by a Madame de Marson, that she was one day very uneasy about her husband, who commanded at that time a post in Acadia; he was still absent, though the time be had fixed for his return was already past. An Indian woman, seeing Madame de Marson uneasy, asked her the reason of it, and, having learned it, told her, after musing some time on it, not to vex herself, that her husband would return such a day at such an hour, naming both, with a grey hat on his head. As she perceived the lady gave no credit to her prediction, she returned to her at the day and hour she had assigned, and asked her whether she would not come to see her husband arrive, and pressed her so strongly to follow her, that at last she led her to the bank of the river. They had scarcely arrived there, when Mons. de Marson appeared in a canoe, with a grey hat on his head, and being told what had passed, assured them that he was utterly at a loss to conceive which way the Indian woman could know the day and hour of his arrival.
Another well attested story of successful jugglery is related in a History of Virginia, the second edition of which appeared in 1722. "Some years ago," says the author, "there happened a very dry time, towards the heads of the rivers, and especially on the upper parts of James River, where Colonel Byrd had several quarters of negroes. This gentleman has been for a long time extremely respected and feared by all the Indians round about, who, without knowing the name of any governor, have ever been kept in order by him. During this drought, an Indian, well known to one of the Colonel's overseers, came to him, and asked if his tobacco was not like to be spoiled. The overseer answered, yes, if they had not rain very suddenly. The Indian, who pretended great kindness for his master, told the overseer, if he would promise to give him two bottles of rum, he would bring him rain enough. The overseer did not believe anything of the matter, not seeing at that time the least appearance of rain, nor so much as a cloud in the sky; however, he promised to give him the rum when his master came thither, if he would be as good as his word; upon this the Indian went immediately apauwawing, as they call it; and in about half an hour there came up a black cloud into the sky, that showered down rain enough upon this gentleman's corn and tobacco, but none at all upon any of the neighbours, except a few drops of the skirts of the shower."
With a belief that these tales of Indiandiableriewill not be uninteresting to the reader, I will relate one more. It is copied from Long's Expedition to the Source of St. Peter's River. "About twenty years ago, a large party of Indians, collected near Lake Travers, were quite destitute of tobacco; not knowing how to procure any, they applied to Tatankanaje (Standing Buffalo), a prophet of some distinction, and the uncle of the present chief of the Kahras. This man usually carried about him a little stone idol, carved into a human shape; this he called his little man, and to it he always applied when consulted in the way of his profession. Tatankanaje, being requested to advise the best means of obtaining tobacco, made answer to them, that if they would go to a certain place which he pointed out to them, they would find his idol, and, by examining it, they would observe in its hand a piece of tobacco. They did as he bade them, and found in the little fellow's hand a piece about four inches long; this was brought to the camp, and was thought to redound much to the credit both of the prophet and the idol; but Tatankanaje then observed that he would consult the little man, and ascertain where he had found the tobacco, and how he came by it. This he did by putting interrogatories to him, to which he pretended that audible answers were returned, though of the many present not one heard them beside himself. The purport of these answers, however, as he subsequently informed them, was, that at a spot on the St. Peter, near to Redwood River, there was a boat loaded with goods; that her commander, a French trader, having been murdered by the Sioux, the crew had been alarmed, and had run away, leaving the boat unguarded, together with her cargo, consisting principally of tobacco; that the little man had seen her, and finding a piece of tobacco on a keg, had brought it up. The prophet having invited them to seek for it, they repaired to the spot, found the boat, took the tobacco, and returned the rest of the goods to the first French traders that passed up the river. This event happened, as we were informed, in the presence of Renville and Freniers, two French traders of reputation, both considered as intelligent and enlightened men; they were the fathers of the two half-breed traders, with whom we were acquainted. The story is given with all the particulars that might be wished for; the name of the owner of the boat was Benjamin La Goterie, a name well known in that country. The story has been current ever since. The traders, who appear to credit it, state that it was impossible for the prophet to have visited the spot and returned without his absence being known, as the distance exceeds one hundred miles; from whom he received his intelligence they never knew. As to the Dahcotahs themselves, they never considered it possible that it might be a knavery of the prophet's, but attributed it altogether to his mystic lore.
"On another occasion, Tatankanaje acquired great reputation in consequence of a prediction that he would lead a war party; that, on the day which he appointed, and at a particular spot which he described, he would fall in with a camp of fifteen Assiniboin lodges; that he would attack and defeat them, kill a certain number of the enemy, and make a stated amount of prisoners: he predicted, in like manner, the loss of lives which would attend this victory. The event justified, as it is said, the prediction; not only as to the general results, but even as to the circumstances of time, place, number of killed and wounded on both sides, and amount of prisoners taken from the enemy. Of course, so valuable a prophet was constantly resorted to for the recovery of stolen property, or of goods that were lost, for a knowledge of the fate of persons that were travelling, for the cure of diseases, and for all such other important points, upon which the credulity both of civilized and savage man induces them to lend a willing ear to the impositions of knaves. Of his talent in recovering property, we regret that we can only mention a circumstance in which the object at stake was very trifling. Some one had ventured to steal away the prophet's bridle; it was concealed in a lodge that formed one in a camp of one hundred lodges. The prophet took a mirror in his hand, and walked round the village, until, as he said, he saw the lost bridle reflected in his mirror: he entered the adjoining lodge, and recovered his property.
"Not only do they prophesy, but they perform tricks of legerdemain, all which they ascribe to the success of their incantations. We are indebted to Mr. Charles Hess, a French trader, with whom Mr. Say had several conferences at Fort St. Anthony, for the account of a trick performed by an Assiniboin. The magician asserted, in Mr. Hess's presence, as well as in that of many Indians, that he could cause water to flow into an empty keg, though he might at that time be upon a dry prairie, and at a distance from any spring or stream. Mr. Hess having told him that he did not believe him, but that, if he succeeded, he would give him a keg of whiskey, the Indian offered to repeat the trick. He exhibited to them his keg, which they examined, and all judged to be empty. The bung was removed, the cask turned over, and no liquid issued from it. The Indian then commenced his incantations, raising his keg towards the heavens, dancing and performing many unmeaning gestures; after which he presented it to the Indian chief that was present, bidding him to drink of the water which it contained; the latter drank of it, found it very good, and passed it to his neighbour; the cask was circulated, to the great satisfaction of all the Indians, who drank of its contents, and even Mr. Hess was convinced that the keg really held pure water."
(2)Tattooed Warrior.—p. 316.
This expression may be hardly used of the tribes to which the tale relates. Tattooing, in the sense in which it is commonly spoken of, was never, as far as I have learnt, in use among the Indians, occupying the tract of country which is now called New England.
Among those tribes with whom the practice is in use, the process of tattooing is performed by persons who make it a business of profit. Their instrument consists of three or four needles, tied to a truncated and flattened end of a stick, in such an arrangement, that the points may form a straight line; the figure desired is traced upon the skin, and some dissolved gunpowder, or pulverised charcoal, is pricked in with the instrument, agreeably to the figure. It is said not to be painful, but it is sometimes accompanied by inflammation and fever, and has been known to terminate fatally.
(3)Disgraced Woman.—p. 319.
Not to have borne children is one of the deepest and most indelible disgraces that can be endured by an Indian wife. She becomes a standing theme of ridicule to those of her own sex who are blest with children. The pride and honour of parents among them depend upon the number of their family. Another reason why barrenness is disgraceful, is, that it is considered to be brought on by incontinence or wilful abortions.