 |
[Footnote A: Button snakeroot.]
[Footnote B: Tobacco.]
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[A], and given to the enemies of the Lenape the heart of the bird that runs low among the grass[B], 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 babes Were at their feet; the aged on their sheds. The dogs were harnessed; The bones of many generations Were taken from the burial places, where They had reposed for countless suns; The food was all prepared, Dried corn and pemmican, And folded tents proclaimed that the Lenapes Had 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 thick With hail and snow, Shall we arise, and take Our father's relics from the burial shed? Shall we depart, and wilt thou guide Our 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 eyes Upon our warriors? Answer us, Spirit of the Mighty Voice!
[Footnote A: The Spaniards.]
[Footnote B: The partridge, a common figure with the Indians to express cowardice.]
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[A], 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[B]. 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.
[Footnote A: Northern lights, aurora borealis.]
[Footnote B: The milky way.]
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[A]; 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.
[Footnote A: The name given by the Indians to the bellows.]
"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[A], 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."
[Footnote A: Put the hatchet under the bedstead, an Indian figure, signifying that peace will not last long.]
"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[A]. 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 the trotters of 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.
[Footnote A: A night's encampment is a halt of one year at a place.]
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[A], 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[B] of Michabou[C]. 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.
[Footnote A: The Shoshonees, a tribe living west of the Rocky Mountains, to indicate the sincerity of their professions, pull off their mocassins before they smoke in the pipe of peace, an action which imprecates on themselves the misery of going barefoot for ever, if they are faithless to their words.]
[Footnote B: "Great council fire" means all the land or territory possessed by the nation.]
[Footnote C: Michabou is generally the Indian Neptune: sometimes, however, they mean by this title the Great Spirit.]
"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[A], 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.
[Footnote A: The mountains.]
NOTES.
(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 the game 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 the game 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 the game 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.
The game described by Mackenzie, and called the game of the platter, is the same game, I think, that Charlevoix calls the "Game of the Bones." Of the passion for gaming of the Beaver Indians, see his Journal, 149. The same author (page 311), describes another game played by the Indians of the Rocky Mountains. It was played by two persons, each of whom had a "bundle of about fifty small sticks, neatly polished, of the size of a quill, and five inches long; a certain number of these sticks had red lines round them; and as many of these as one of the players might find convenient were curiously rolled up in dry grass, and, according to the judgment of his antagonist, respecting their number and marks, he lost or won."
(3) Songs and Dances.—p. 147.
Dancing is the favourite amusement of the savage, and one of his methods of propitiating the Deity. Does he feel cheerful, he dances; has he received benefits from a fellow-creature, he makes a dance to his honour; if from the Supreme Being, he gathers his tribe to his cabin, and gives thanks in a dance. When he has reason to fear his God is offended, or when an occurrence takes place, from which he draws an inference of his displeasure, he begins a solemn dance. Thus we have seen, that when the Dutch first landed on New York Island, the inhabitants, who believed them to be celestial beings, began a dance in order to propitiate them.
The dances of the savages are the common dance, and the dances which are held upon particular occasions, and the manner of dancing, varies somewhat. In dancing the common dance, they form a circle, and always have a leader, whom the whole company attend to. The men go before, and the women close the circle. The latter dance with great decency, as if engaged in the most serious business; they never speak a word to the men, much less joke with them, which would injure their character. They neither jump nor skip, but move lightly forward, and then backward, yet so as to advance gradually, till they reach a certain spot, and then retire in the same manner. They keep their bodies straight, and their arms hanging down close to their bodies. But the men shout, leap, and stamp, with such violence, that the ground trembles under their feet. Their extreme agility and lightness of foot is never displayed to more advantage than in dancing.
Of the dances held on particular occasions, there are many, and, unlike the last, these are frequent. "Of these," says Loskiel, "the chief is the dance of peace, called also the calumet or pipe dance, because the calumet or pipe of peace is handed about during the dance. This is the most pleasing to strangers who attend as spectators. The dancers join hands, and leap in a ring for some time. Suddenly the leader lets go the hand of one of his partners, keeping hold of the other. He then springs forward and turns round several times, by which he draws the whole company around, so as to be enclosed by them, when they stand close together. They disengage themselves as suddenly, yet keeping their hold of each other's hands during all the different revolutions and changes in the dance, which, as they explain it, represents the chain of friendship." This writer, who is in general very indifferent authority for what concerns the Indians, and must have made up his book from the relations of very careless or very stupid observers, never, I think from his own observation, differs very much in his account of this dance from Charlevoix, whose book generally is by far the best which has treated of the North American savages. He says, (vol. ii. p. 68) "They were young people equipped as when they prepare for the march; they had painted their faces with all sorts of colours, their heads were adorned with feathers, and they held some in their hands like fans. The calumet was also adorned with feathers, and was set up in the most conspicuous place. The band of music and the dancers were round about it, the spectators divided here and there in little companies, the women separate from the men. Before the door of the commandant's lodging, they had set up a post, on which, at the end of every dance, a warrior came up, and gave a stroke with his hatchet; at this signal there was a great silence, and this man repeated, with a loud voice, some of his great feats, and then received the applause of the spectators. When the dance of the calumet is intended, as it generally is, to conclude a peace, or a treaty of alliance against a common enemy, they grave a serpent on one side of the tube of the pipe, and set on one side of it a board, on which is represented two men of the two confederate nations, with the enemy under their feet, by the mark of his nation."
Of the two accounts which, it may be seen, differ essentially, I prefer Loskiel's. I think Charlevoix mistook another dance for the calumet dance, especially as he confesses they did him (the commandant) none of the honours which are mentioned. "I did not see the calumet presented to him, and there were no men holding the calumet in their hands."
The war dance, held either before or after a campaign, is their greatest dance. It is a dreadful spectacle, the object being to inspire terror in the spectators. No one takes a share in it, except the warriors themselves. They appear armed, as if going to battle. One carries his gun or hatchet, another a large knife, the third a tomahawk, the fourth a large club, or they all appear armed with tomahawks. These they brandish in the air, to signify how they intend to treat, or have treated, their enemies. They affect such an anger or fury on the occasion, that it makes a spectator shudder to behold them. A chief leads the dance, and sings the warlike deeds of himself or his ancestors. At the end of every celebrated feat of valour, he strikes his tomahawk with all his might against a post fixed in the ground. He is then followed by the rest, each finishing his round by a blow against the post. Then they dance all together, and this is the most frightful scene. They affect the most horrible and dreadful gestures, threatening to beat, cut, and stab each other. To complete the horror of the scene, they howl as dreadfully as in actual fight, so that they appear as raving madmen. Heckewelder's description agrees herewith. He remarks, that "Previous to going out on a warlike campaign, the war dance is always performed around the painted post. It is the Indian mode of recruiting. Whoever joins in the dance is considered as having enlisted for the campaign, and is obliged to go with the party."—Heck. Hist. Acc. p. 202. The description which Charlevoix gives of what he calls the "dance of discovery" among the Iroquois, agrees so fully with the above account of the war dance, that we may presume it is the same, and that his is a new name for an old thing.
Charlevoix describes another dance, which he calls the dance of fire.
This last author describes another dance which is not mentioned by any other traveller; it is called, he says, the dance of the bull, and is thus described by him: "The dancers form several circles or rings, and the music, which is always the drum and the chickicoue, is in the midst of the place. They never separate those of the same family. They do not join hands, and every one carries on his head his arms and his buckler. All the circles do not turn the same way, and though they caper much, and very high, they always keep time and measure. From time to time, a chief of the family presents his shield: they all strike upon it, and at every stroke he repeats some of his exploits. Then he goes, and cuts a piece of tobacco at a post, where they have fastened a certain quantity, and gives it to one of his friends," &c.—Charlevoix, ii. 72.
The dance of the green corn, referred to in the text, or, more properly speaking, "the ceremony of thanksgiving for the first fruits of the earth," is described by Col. Johnston in vol. i. p. 286, of the Archaelogia Americana. It does not differ materially from their common feasts. The principal ceremonies are described in the text.
The following is a description of the Powwah or black dance, by which the devil was supposed to be raised. "Lord's Day, September 1st.—I spent the day with the Indians on the island. As soon as they were up in the morning, I attempted to instruct them, and laboured to get them together, but quickly found they had something else to do; for they gathered together all their powwows, and set about a dozen of them to playing their tricks, and acting their frantic postures, in order to find out why they were so sickly, numbers of them being at that time disordered with a fever and bloody flux. In this they were engaged for several hours, making all the wild, distracted motions imaginable, sometimes singing, sometimes howling, sometimes extending their hands to the utmost stretch, spreading all their fingers, and seemed to push with them, as if they designed to fright something away, or at least keep it at arm's end; sometimes sitting flat on the earth, then bowing down their faces to the ground, wringing their sides, as if in pain and anguish, twisting their faces, turning up their eyes, grunting or puffing. These monstrous actions seemed to have something in them peculiarly fitted to raise the devil, if he could be raised by any thing odd and frightful. Some of them were much more fervent in the business than the others, and seemed to chant, peep, and mutter, with a great degree of warmth and vigour."—Brainerd's Diary, E.
GITTSHEE GAUZINEE.
Before the Bigknives or their fathers came to the land of the red men, the Indians generally, and the Chippewas in particular, were in the habit of burying many articles with the dead—if a warrior died, his weapons of war, his spear, his war-club, and his most valued trophies; if a hunter, his instruments of hunting were committed to the earth with him. His beaver-trap, his clothes, even a piece of roasted meat, and a piece of bread, were deposited with him in his grave. The scalps he had taken from the heads of his enemies, the skins of the bears slain by him in encounter foot to foot, were laid by his side, and, when the earth was thrown upon his breast, the utensils of less moment were laid upon his grave. If it was a woman who demanded the rites of burial, various articles which had been most useful to her in life were destined to the same service. As it was supposed that it would be her lot in the other world to perform, for the shades of her husband and family, the duties which she had performed for them while they were living in this, the various domestic implements used in the cabin were buried with her. This practice, once so universal, has been limited, since the coming of the white men among us, to comparatively a very few articles, such as the deceased was particularly fond of, or expressed a desire to have deposited with his or her body. The change I speak of was made in consequence of the following incident, which occurred in the life of a celebrated chief of former days, who had often led the Chippewas to victory and glory.
Gittshee Gauzinee, after an illness of only a few days, expired suddenly in the presence of his numerous friends, by whom he was greatly beloved, and deeply lamented. He had been an expert hunter, and had traversed the wild forests, and threaded the mazes of the wilderness, with a success rarely equalled. As a warrior there was none to surpass him: he could transfix two enemies with the same spear; his arm could bend a bow of twice the size of that bent by an ordinary arm; and his war-whoop sounded loud as the thunder of the moon of early corn. He was in the habit of cherishing, with deep and studious care, the weapons of war which had given him his glory, and among these he particularly attached great value to a fine gun which he had purchased of the first white man that had come to the city of the High Rock. It was with this gun that he had acquired his principal trophies, in remembrance of which he requested that it might be buried with him. But the importance attached to this article, which then was rarely met with among our people, and of great value, induced his friends to pause as to this injunction.
In the meantime, there were some who supposed that his death was not real, but that the functions of life were merely suspended, and would again be restored. On this account the body was not interred, but laid aside in a separate lodge, where it was carefully watched by his afflicted and weeping widow. It came to her mind that his spirit might not have left the tenement of clay; and she was inspired with fresh hopes of his restoration to life, when, upon laying her hand upon his breast above his heart, she could perceive a feeble pulsation. After the lapse of four days, their sanguine hopes were realised; he awoke, as if from a deep sleep, and complained of great thirst. By the kind attentions of his friends, and the use of certain drugs, with which every Indian is familiar, his health began to mend rapidly, and he was soon able to return to the hunt. When he was completely restored, he related the following account of his death, and recovery to life.
He felt, he said, cold chills creeping over him; his respiration became impeded; the dim and shapeless forms of things floated before his eyes, and sounds such as he had never heard before were ringing in his ears. He felt his breath come and go like the flashes of heat which dance before the wind on a summer's day. At length it went out to return no more, and he died.
After death he travelled on in the path of the dead for three days, without meeting with any thing extraordinary. He kept the road in which souls go to the Cheke Checkecame, and over mountains, and through valleys, pursued his way steadily. Hunger at length visited him, and he began to suffer much from want of food. When he came in sight of the village of the dead, he saw immense droves of stately deer, mooses, and other large and fat animals, browzing tamely near his path. This only served to aggravate his craving appetite, and excite more eagerly the feeling of hunger, because he had brought nothing with him wherewith to kill them. The animals themselves seemed sensible of his inability to do them harm, frolicking fearlessly around him, now bounding away over the plain in mimic terror, now advancing in gambols to his very feet. The deer skipped lightly along, while the moose followed with a more clumsy step; the wild cat suspended himself by his tail from the trees, while the bear rolled and tumbled on the green sod. Gittshee Gauzinee now bethought himself of the fine gun which he had left at home, and at once resolved to return and obtain it. On his way back, he met a great concourse of people, men, women, and children, travelling onward to the residence of the dead. But he observed that they were all very heavily laden with axes, kettles, guns, meat, and other things, and that each one as they passed uttered loud complaints of the grievous burdens with which the officious and mistaken kindness of their friends had loaded them. Among others, he met a man bowed down by age and infirmity, wearily journeying to the land of the dead, who stopped him to complain of the burthen his friends had imposed upon him, and this aged man concluded his address by offering him his gun, begging him to do so much towards relieving him of his load. Shortly after, he met a very old woman who offered him a kettle, and, a little further on, a young man who offered him an axe. He saw a beautiful and slender young maiden so heavily laden that she was compelled to rest her load against a tree, and a warrior bending under a weight twice as great as any that had ever yet been put on his shoulders. Gittshee Gauzinee accepted the various presents made him, out of courtesy and good nature, for he had determined to go back for his own gun, and other implements, and therefore stood little in need of these: so he journeyed back.
When he came near his own lodge, he could discover nothing but a long line of waving fire, which seemed completely to encircle it. How to get across he could not devise, for, whenever he attempted to advance towards those places where the blaze seemed to be expiring, it would suddenly shoot up into brilliant cones, and pyramids of flame, and this was repeated as often as he approached it. At last he drew back a little, and made a desperate leap into the flames. The united effects of the heat, the violent exertion, and the fear of being burned in the desperate attempt, resulted in his restoration of life. He awoke from his trance, and, though weak and exhausted, he soon recovered his health and strength, and again made the valleys echo with his shouts of war and the hunt.
"I will tell you," said he to his friends, one night after his recovery, "of one practice in which our fathers have been wrong, very wrong. It has been their custom to bury too many things with the dead. Such burthens have been imposed upon them that their journey to the land of the dead has been made one of extreme labour and tediousness. They have complained to me of this, and I would now warn my brethren against a continuance of the practice. Not only is it painful to them, but it retards their progress in their journey. Therefore only put such things in the grave as will not be irksome to carry. The dress which the deceased was most fond of while living he should be clothed in when dead. His feathers, his head dress, and his other ornaments, are but light, and will be very agreeable to his spirit. His pipe also will afford him amusement on the road. If he has any thing more, let it be divided among his nearest relatives and friends, but on no account incumber his spirit with heavy and useless articles."
AMPATO SAPA.
Nothing, M. Verdier says, can be more picturesque and beautiful than the cascade of St. Anthony, so renowned in the topography of the western world. The irregular outline of the Fall, by dividing its breadth, gives it a more impressive character, and enables the eye more easily to take in its beauties. An island, stretching in the river both above and below the Fall, separates it into two unequal parts. From the nature of the rock which breaks into angular, and apparently rhomboidal fragments of a huge size, this fall is subdivided into small cascades, which adhere to each other, so as to form a sheet of water, unrent, but composed of an alternation of retiring and salient angles, and presenting a great variety of shapes and shades. Each of these forms is in itself a perfect cascade. When taken in one comprehensive view they assume a beauty of which we could scarcely have deemed them susceptible. Few falls assume a wilder and more picturesque aspect than these. The thick growth of oaks, hickory, walnut, &c. upon the island, imparts to it a gloomy and sombre aspect, contrasting pleasingly with the bright surface of the watery sheet which reflects the sun in many differently coloured hues. All travellers have spoken of it as possessing wonderful beauties, and the poor unenlightened Indian, who ascribes every thing of an imposing, a sublime, and a magnificent character, every thing which has phenomena he cannot comprehend to a superior being, and who fancies a governing spirit in every deep glen in the wilderness, has associated many of his wild and fanciful traditions with this singular spot. The following favourite tale of, the Dahcotah is not the only tradition connected with this romantic spot.
An Indian of the Dahcotah nation had united himself early in life to a youthful female, whose name was Ampato Sapa, which signifies, in the Dahcotah language, the Dark-day. With her he lived for many years very happily; their days glided on like a clear stream in the summer noon. There were few husbands and wives who enjoyed as much nuptial happiness as fell to the lot of this Indian couple. Among that people the duties allotted to the female sex are both laborious and incessant; with Ampato Sapa, they were ameliorated by the kindness of her husband, who, in defiance of the customs of our people, performed the greater part of her tasks herself. Their union had been blessed with two children, upon whom both parents doated with a depth of feeling unknown to those who have other treasures besides those which spring from nature. The man had acquired a reputation as a hunter, which drew around him many families who were happy to place themselves under his protection, and avail themselves of such part of his chace, as he needed not for the support of his family. Desirous of strengthening their interest with him, some of them invited him to form a connexion with their family, observing, at the same time, that a man of his talents, and present and increasing importance, required more than one woman, to wait upon the numerous guests whom his reputation would induce to visit his lodge. They assured him that he would soon be acknowledged as a chief, and that in this case a second wife was indispensable. Their pleadings and flattery infused new ideas into his mind, and ambition soon succeeded in dispelling love, and the remembrance of years of conjugal endearment. Fired with the thought of obtaining high honours, he resolved to increase his importance by a union with the daughter of an influential man of his tribe. He had accordingly taken a second wife, without having ever mentioned the subject to his former companion, being desirous to introduce his bride into his lodge, in the manner which should be least offensive to the mother of his children, for whom he yet retained much regard, though bad ambition "had induced him to countenance a divided bed and affections." It became necessary, however, that he should break the matter to her, which he did as follows: "You know," said he, "that I can love no woman so fondly as I doat upon you. You were the first woman I loved, and you are the only one. With regret have I seen you of late subjected to toils which must be oppressive to you, and from which I would gladly relieve you, yet I know of no other way of doing so, than by associating to you, in the household duties, one who shall relieve you from the trouble of entertaining the numerous guests whom my growing importance in the nation collects around me. I have, therefore, resolved to take another wife, but she shall always be subject to your controul, as she will always rank in my affections second to you."
With the utmost anxiety and deepest concern did his companion listen to this unexpected proposal. She expostulated in the kindest terms; entreated him with all the arguments which undisguised love and the purest conjugal affection could suggest. She replied to all the objections he had raised, and endeavoured to dispel all the clouds his seemingly disinterested kindness had thrown over her present situation. Desirous of winning her from her opposition, he concealed the secret of his union with another, while she redoubled her care and exertion, to convince him that she was equal to all the tasks imposed upon her by his increasing reputation and notoriety. When he again spoke on the subject, she pleaded all the endearments of their past life; she spoke of his former kindness for her, of his regard for her happiness, and that of their mutual offspring; she bade him beware of the fatal consequences of this purpose of his. Finding her bent upon withholding her consent to his plan, he informed her that all opposition on her part was unavailing, as he had already selected another partner; and that, if she could not see his new wife as a friend, she must receive her as a necessary incumbrance, for he was resolved that she should be an inmate in his house. The poor Dark-Day heard these words in silent consternation. Watching her opportunity, she stole away from the cabin with her infants, and fled to her father, who lived at a considerable distance from the place of her husband's residence. With him she remained until a party of Dahcotahs went up the Mississippi, on a winter's hunt. Not caring whither she went, so it was not to the lodge of her faithless husband, she accompanied them. All hope had left her bosom, and even her interest in her children had faded with the decay of the impassioned love she had felt for their father. The world, the simple pleasures of Indian life, had no farther charm for Ampato Sapa. She would wander for hours, listless and tearful, by the shaded river bank, or gaze in the night with a distracted look upon the silver moon and star-lit sky. At times, as if fearful of impending pursuit, she would snatch up her children, and rush out into the woods. The Red Man of the forest has a kind of instinctive veneration for madness(1) in every form; the mere supposition of such a misfortune has procured the liberation of a victim bound to the stake, whom no arts or persuasion could operate to save. The people of her tribe saw, with deep commiseration, the seeming aberration of intellect of the poor Indian woman, but, knowing little of the feeling which possessed her bosom, could apply no healing medicine.
In the spring, as they were returning with their canoes loaded with furs, they encamped near the falls which our white brother has seen, and which have became so celebrated in Indian story for the many tragical scenes connected with them. In the morning, as they left their encamping ground on the border of the river, she for a while lingered near the spot, as if working up her mind to some terrible feat of despair. Then, launching her light canoe, she entered it with her children, and paddled down the stream, singing her death-song. The air was one of those melancholy airs which are sung by our people when in deep distress, or about to end the journey of life.
DEATH-SONG OF AMPATO SAPA.
I loved him long and well. And he to me Was the soft sun, which makes the young trees bud. In gentle spring, And bids the glad birds sing, From out the boughs, their song of love and joy. And he would sit beside me on the grass, And plait my hair with beads, And tell the trees, and flowers, and birds, That Dark-Day was more beautiful than they.
I lov'd him long and well. And he to me Was as the tree which props the tender vine, Or clustering ivy, letting them embrace His strength and pride. When he withdraws from them, They fall, and I must die.
He lov'd me once, And lov'd his little babes; And he would go with morning to the hills, And chase the buffalo.
But he would come And press me in his arms, when darkness hid Both beast and bird from the clear hunter's eye. Then he would creep to where our children slept, And smile—but sweeter smile upon their mother.
He loves another now. A younger bird is in his nest, And sings sweet songs from Dark-Days once fair bower, And I am lov'd no more. He will be no more to me as the sun, Which gives the young trees life in gentle spring. Nor as the tree which props the tender vine. He loves another better than Dark-Day— He cares not for her, Nor for his children: No, he cares not for them.
I will die; I will go to the happy lands, Beyond the mighty river. There I shall see again my tender mother, There I shall meet the warriors of my tribe, And they shall make my sons good men. There I shall meet, ere many moons be past, My husband reconcil'd to me, and he Again shall sit beside me on the grass, And plait my hair with beads, And tell the trees, and birds, and flowers, That Dark-Day is more beautiful than they.
As she paddled her canoe down the stream, her friends perceived her intent, but too late; their persuasions and attempts to prevent her from proceeding were of no avail. She continued to sing, in a mournful voice, the past pleasures which she had enjoyed while she was the undivided object of her husband's affections: at length, her voice was drowned in the sound of the cataract; the current carried down her frail bark with inconceivable rapidity; it came to the edge of the precipice, was seen for a moment enveloped with spray, but never after was a trace of the canoe or its passengers discovered. Yet the Indians imagine that often in the morning a voice is heard singing a mournful song along the edge of the fall, and that it dwells on the inconstancy of a husband. They assert that sometimes a white dove is seen hovering over the neighbouring sprays; at other times, Ampato Sapa wanders in her proper person near the spot, with her children wrapped in skins, and pressed to her bosom.
NOTE.
(1) Instinctive veneration for madness.—p. 194.
Insanity is not common among the Indians. Men in this unhappy situation are always considered as objects of pity. Every one, young and old, feels compassion for their misfortune; to laugh or scoff at them would be considered as a crime, much more so to insult or molest them. Heckewelder tells the following story concerning their treatment of one suspected of insanity, which proves their peculiar feeling with regard to this unfortunate class of men:—
"About the commencement of the Indian war of 1763, a trading Jew, who was going up the Detroit river with a bateau load of goods which he had brought from Albany, was taken by some Indians of the Chippewas nation, and destined to be put to death. A Frenchman, impelled by motives of friendship and humanity, found means to steal the prisoner, and kept him so concealed for some time, that, although the most diligent search was made, the place of his confinement could not discovered. At last, however, the unfortunate man was betrayed by some false friend, and again fell into the power of the Indians, who took him across the river to be burned and tortured. Tied to the stake, and the fire burning by his side, his thirst from the great heat became intolerable, and he begged that some drink might be given him. It is a custom with the Indians, previous, to a prisoner being put to death, to give him what they call his last meal; a bowl of pottage or broth was therefore brought to him for that purpose. Eager to quench his thirst, he put the bowl immediately to his lips, and, the liquor being very hot, he was dreadfully scalded. Being a man of a very quick temper, the moment he felt his mouth burned, he threw the bowl with its contents full into the face of the man who had handed it to him. 'He is mad! he is mad!' resounded from all quarters. The by-standers considered his conduct as an act of insanity, and immediately untied the cords with which he was bound, and let him go where he pleased."
THE CAVERNS OF THE KICKAPOO.
The scenery of the Prairie des Chiens is among the most beautiful of the western wilderness—nothing presents finer views than may be had from the lofty hills, which lie east of the Wisconsan. The prairie extends about ten miles along the eastern bank of the river, and is limited on that side by the before-mentioned hills, which rise to the height of about four hundred feet, and run parallel with the course of the river, at a distance of about a mile and a half from it. On the western bank, the bluffs which rise to the same elevation are washed at their base by the river. From the top of this majestic hill, which is called Pike's Mountain, there is a beautiful and magnificent view of the two rivers, Wisconsan and Mississippi, which mingle their waters at its foot. The prairie has retained its old French appellation, derived from an Indian who formerly resided there, and was called the Dog. The hill, or Pike's Mountain, has no particular limits in regard to extension, being merely a part of the river bluffs, which stretch along the margin of the river on the west for several miles, and retain nearly the same elevation above the water. The side fronting upon the river is so abrupt as to render the summit completely inaccessible even to a pedestrian, except in a very few places, where he may ascend by taking hold of the bushes and rocks that cover the slope. In general the acclivity is made up of precipices arranged one above another, some of which are a hundred and fifty feet high.
In one of the niches or recesses formed by one of these precipices, in the cavern of Kickapoo creek, which is a tributary of the Wisconsan, there is a gigantic mass of stone presenting the appearance of a human figure. It is so sheltered by the overhanging rocks, and by the sides of the recess in which it stands, as to assume a dark and gloomy character.
Has my brother—said the Indian chief to the traveller—ever heard how a beautiful woman of my nation became an image of stone? If he has, let him say so; if he has not, the Guard of the Red Arrows will tell him the story.
Once upon a time, many, very many ages ago, there lived in my nation a woman who was called Shenanska, or the White Buffalo Robe. She was an inhabitant of the prairie, a dweller in the cabins which stand upon the verge of the hills. She was the pride of our nation, not so much for her beauty, though she was exceedingly beautiful, as for her goodness, which made her beloved of all. The breath of the summer wind was not milder than the temper of Shenanska, the face of the sun was not fairer than her face. There was never a gust in the one, never a cloud passed over the other. Who but Shenanska dressed the wounds of the Brave when he returned from battle? who but she interceded for the warrior who came back from the fight without a blow? yet who was it encouraged him to wipe the black paint from the memory of his tribe by brave deeds? It was she who dreamed the dreams that led to the slaughter of the Sauks and the Foxes; it was she who pointed out the favourite haunts of the deer and the bison. When the warriors returned victorious from the field of blood, it was she who came out with songs sweeter than the music of the dove; and, when they brought no scalps, it was she who comforted them with stories of past victories, and dreams of those which were yet to be. Before she had seen the flowers bloom twice ten times, she had been by turns the wife of many warriors, for all loved her.
At length, it became the fortune of our tribe to be surprised in our encampment on the banks of the Kickapoo, by a numerous band of the bloody and warlike Mengwe. Many of our nation fell fighting bravely, the greater part of the women and children were scalped, and the remainder were compelled to fly to the wilds for safety. It was the fortune of Shenanska to escape from death, and perhaps worse evils. When the alarm of the war-whoop reached her ear, as she was sleeping in her lodge in the arms of her husband; she arose, and seizing her lance, and bow and arrows, she rushed with the Braves to battle. When she saw half of the men of her nation lying dead around, then she fled, and not till then. Though badly wounded, she succeeded in effecting her escape to the hills. Weakened by loss of blood, she had not strength enough left to hunt for a supply of food; she was near perishing with hunger.
While she lay in this languishing state beneath the shade of a tree, there came to her a Being, who was not of this world. He said to her, in a gentle and soothing voice, "Shenanska! thou art wounded and hungry, shall I heal thee and feed thee? Wilt thou return to the lands of thy tribe, and live to be old, a widow and alone, or go now to the land of departed spirits, and join the shade of thy husband? The choice is thine. If thou wilt live crippled, and bowed down by wounds and disease, thou mayest; if thou better likest to rejoin thy friends in the country beyond the Great River, say so." Shenanska replied, that she wished to die. The Spirit then took her in his arms, and placed her in one of the recesses of the cavern, overshadowed by hanging rocks. He then spoke some low words, and, breathing on her, she became stone. Determined that a woman so good and so beautiful should not be forgotten by the world, nor be deprived of the ability of protecting herself from mutilation, he imparted to her statue the power of killing suddenly any Indian that approached near it. For a long time the statue relentlessly exercised this power. Many an unconscious Indian, venturing too near, fell dead without wound or bruise. At length, tired of the havoc it had made, the guardian Spirit took away the power he had given. At this day the statue may be approached with safety. Yet the Indian people hold it in fear and veneration, and none passes it without paying it the homage of a sacrifice. This is my story.
THE MOUNTAIN OF LITTLE SPIRITS.
At the distance of a woman's walk of a day from the mouth of the river called by the pale-faces the Whitestone, in the country of the Sioux, in the middle of a large plain, stands a lofty hill or mound. Its wonderful roundness, together with the circumstance of its standing apart from all other hills, like a fir-tree in the midst of a wide prairie, or a man whose friends and kindred have all descended to the dust, has made it known to all the tribes of the West. Whether it was created by the Great Spirit, or piled up by the sons of men, whether it was done in the morning of the world, or when it had grown fat and stately, ask not me, for I cannot tell you. Those things are known to one, and to one only. I know it is called by all the tribes of the land the Hill of Little People, or the Mountain of Little Spirits. And the tradition is yet freshly traced out on the green leaf of my memory, which has made it the terror of all the surrounding nations, and which fills the Sioux, the Mahas, the Ottoes, and all the neighbouring tribes, with great fear and trembling, whenever their incautious feet have approached the sacred spot, or their avocation compels them to look at the work of spirits. No gift can induce an Indian to visit it, for why should he incur the anger of the Little People who dwell within it, and, sacrificed upon the fire of their wrath, behold his wife and children no more? In all the marches and countermarches of the Indians; in all their goings and returnings; in all their wanderings, by day and by night, to and from lands which lie beyond it; their paths are so ordered that none approach near enough to disturb the tiny inhabitants of the hill. The memory of the red man of the forest has preserved but one instance where their privacy was violated, since it was known through the tribes that they wished for no intercourse with mortals. Before that time many Indians were missing every year. No one knew what became of them, but they were gone, and left no trace nor story behind. Valiant warriors filled their baskets with dried corn, and their quivers with tough arrow shafts and sharp points; put new strings to their bows; new shod their mocassins, and sallied out to acquire glory in combat: but there was no wailing in the camp of our foes; their arrows were not felt, their shouts were not heard. Yet they fell not by the hands of their foes; but perished, we know not where or how. At length, the sun shone on the mystery, and the parted clouds displayed a clear spot. Listen!
Many seasons ago, there lived within the limits of the great council-fire of the Mahas, a chief who was renowned for his valour and victories in the field, his wisdom in the council, his dexterity and success in the chase. His name was Mahtoree, or the White Crane. He was celebrated throughout the vast regions of the west, from the Mississippi to the Hills of the Serpent[A], from the Missouri to the Plains of Bitter Frost, for all those qualities which render an Indian warrior famous and feared. He was the terror of his enemies, whom in the conflict he never spared; the delight as well as refuge of his friends, whom he never deserted. Yet, brave as he was, and fierce and reckless when met in the strife of warriors, never did his valour, or his fierceness, or his recklessness of danger, betray him into those excesses of wrath and cruelty, which, after great victories purchased by much blood and loss of dear and valued friends, will often be seen in the camp of the red man of the forest. Never by his counsels was the captive tortured—never by his command were weak and defenceless women and children delivered over to slaughter. He had frequently been known, at the voice of pity crying at the door of the heart, and at the suggestions of a great and proud mind, to cut the bonds which bound the victim to the stake, thereby exposing himself to the wrath and anger of his stern warriors, and to rage which, but for the unequalled valour and daring boldness and wisdom of his career, both as a warrior and a man, would have been attended with death to himself, and the entailment of infamy upon his name. It has already been told our brother, that none but a noted and approved warrior dare take upon himself the liberation of a prisoner, devoted by the spirit of Indian warfare to tortures and death.
[Footnote A: Hills of the Serpent, the Rocky Mountains. I have before mentioned the Indian superstition that thunder is the hissing of a great serpent, which has his residence among those mountains.]
In one of the war expeditions of the Pawnee Mahas against the Burntwood Tetons, it was the good fortune of the former to overcome, and to take many prisoners—men, women, and children. One of the captives, Sakeajah, or the Bird-Girl, a beautiful creature in the morning of life, after being adopted into one of the Mahas families, became the favourite wife of the chief warrior of the nation. Great was the love and affection which the White Crane bore his beautiful wife, and it grew yet stronger in his soul, when she had brought him four sons—a gift the more highly prized by the wise and sagacious chief, because, as my brother can see, for he is not a fool, it was the pledge of continued power and importance in the tribe, when his own strength and vigour should have passed away, when the hand of age should no more find joy in bending the bow, and the trembling knee be best pleased to rest upon soft skins by the warm fire of the cabin. Among the children of the forest he is most valued who has provided most plentifully the means to maintain the honour, and secure the safety, of his people; and hence he who can reckon the most brave and warlike sons is esteemed the greatest of benefactors. Among all the red men of the land, that wife acquires the strongest hold on the affections of her husband who has given him the largest family, as that husband acquires the greatest consequence in the eyes of his nation, who sees the most birds in his nest, and is able to carry most vultures to prey upon the corpses of his enemies. Is the barren woman beloved by her husband? Ask me if the male bird watches by the nest of her who sits on addled eggs. I shall tell you "No," nor does the husband love or value the wife who lives alone in his cabin with none to call her mother.
The beautiful Sakeajah gave her husband but one daughter, and upon her did her parents lavish all those affections which had not their origin in war and bloodshed. The sons were loved for the promise they gave of bending their father's bow, and raising his massy club in battle, and shouting his terrible war-cry with the ability to make good the threats it contained—with the daughter were linked the few pacific remembrances which find entrance into that stony thing—an Indian's heart. And well was Tatoka, or the Antelope, for that was the name of the daughter of Mahtoree and Sakeajah, worthy to be loved. She was beautiful, as young Indian maidens generally are, before the hard duties of the field and the cabin have bowed their limbs, and servitude has chilled the fire of their hearts. Her skin was but little darker than that of the chief from the far land who is listening to my story. Her eyes were large and bright as those of the bison-ox, and her hair black and braided with beads, brushed, as she walked, the dew from the flowers upon the prairies. Her temper was soft and placable, and her voice—what is so sweet as the voice of an Indian maiden when tuned to gladness! what so moves the hearer to grief and melancholy by its tones of sorrow and anguish! Our brother has heard them—let him say if the birds of his own forests, the dove of his nest, have sweeter notes than those he hears warbled in the cabin of the red man. His eyes say no. It is well.
It may not be doubted that the beautiful Tatoka had many lovers; there was not a youth in the nation, whose character authorised the application, that did not become a suitor to the fair daughter of the White Crane. But the heart of the maiden was touched by none of them; she bade them all depart as they came; she rejected them all. The father who loved his daughter too well to sell her as he would a beaver-trap or a moose-skin, or to compel her to become a wife, would have been glad to see her choose a protector from among the many Braves who solicited her affections. But, with the perverseness which is often seen among women, who are but fools at best, though made to be loved, she had placed her affections upon a youth, who had distinguished himself by no valiant deeds in war, nor even by industry or dexterity in the chase. His name had never reached the surrounding nations; his own nation knew him not, unless it was as a weak and imbecile man: he was poor in every thing that constitutes the riches of Indian life, and poorer still in spirit and acquirements. Who had heard the twanging of Karkapaha's bow in the retreats of the bear? or who beheld the war-paint on his cheek or brow?—Where were the scalps or the prisoners that betokened his valour or daring? No song of valiant exploits had been heard from his lips, for he had none to boast of—if he had done aught becoming a man, he had done it when none were by. The beautiful Tatoka, who knew and lamented the deficiencies of her lover, strove long to conquer her passion; but, finding the undertaking beyond her strength, surrendered herself to the sweets of unrepressed affection, and urged her heart no more to the unequal task of subduing her love. Their stolen interviews were managed with much care, and for a long time no one suspected them; but at length the secret of their love and the story of their shame became so apparent as to do away the possibility of further concealment. The lovers were in an agony of fear and terror. Though beloved by her father, she had no reason to hope that he would so far forget his dignity and the honour of his family, and so far sacrifice his views of aggrandizement, as to admit into his family a man who was neither hunter nor warrior, and whose want of qualifications would have ensured his rejection by families of ordinary note—how much more from that of a proud and haughty chief! Love conquers the strongest; and, rather than be separated, those who love each other well will dare every danger. Rather than be torn apart, the fond pair, whose affections were strengthened by the pledge of love which Tatoka bore about her, determined to fly the anger of the father. The preparations for flight were made, the night fixed upon came, and they left the village of the Mahas and the lodge of Mahtoree for the wilderness.
With all their precautions, and supposed exemption from suspicion, their flight was not unmarked: their intimacy had been for some time suspected; but it was only the day preceding their elopement that the mother had discovered undoubted proofs of their guilty intimacy. When the justly indignant father was made acquainted with the disgrace which had befallen his house, he called his young men around him, and bade them pursue the fugitives, promising his daughter to whomsoever should slay the ravisher. Immediate pursuit was made, and soon a hundred eager youths were on the track of the hapless pair. With that unerring skill and sagacity in discovering foot-prints which mark our race, their steps were tracked, and themselves soon discovered retreating. But what was the surprise and consternation of the pursuers, when they found that the path taken by the hapless pair would carry them to the Mountain of Little Spirits, and that they were sufficiently in advance to reach it before the pursuers could come up with them! None durst venture within the supposed limits, and they halted till the White Crane should be informed of their having put themselves under the protection of the spirits.
In the mean time the lovers pursued their journey towards the fearful residence of the little people of the hill. Despair lent them courage to do an act to which the stoutest Indian resolution had hitherto been inadequate. They determined, as a last resource, to tell their story to the spirits, and demand their protection. They were within a few feet of the hill, when, in a breath, its brow, upon which no object till now had been visible, became covered with little people, the tallest of whom was not higher than the knee of the maiden, and many of them, but these children, were of lower stature than the squirrel. Their voice was sharp and quick, like the barking of the prairie dog; a little wing came out at each shoulder; each had a single eye, which eye was a right in the men, and in the women a left; and their feet stood out at each side. They were armed as Indians are armed, with tomahawks, spears, and bows and arrows. He who appeared to be the head chief, for he wore the air of command and the eagle feather of a leader, came up to them, and spoke as follows:—
"Why have you invaded the village of a race whose wrath has been so fatal to your people? How dare you venture within the sacred limits of our residence? Know you not that your lives are forfeited?"
The trembling pair fell on their knees before the little people, and Tatoka, for her lover had less than the heart of a doe, and was speechless, related her story. She told them how long she had loved Karkapaha, and holding down her head confessed her fatal indiscretion. Then she pictured the wrath of her father, the pursuit which was making, doubtless with a view to the punishment by death of her lover, and concluded her tale of sorrow with a burst of tears, which came from her eyes like the rain from a summer cloud, and sighs which might be compared to summer winds breathing from a bed of flowers. The little man who wore the eagle's feather appeared very much moved with the sorrows of the pair, and calling around him a large number of men, who were doubtless the chiefs and counsellors of the nation, a long consultation took place. The result was a determination to favour and protect the lovers. They had but just talked themselves into a resolution to inflict vengeance on all who should approach the hill with the intent to injure the pair who had thrown themselves upon their protection, when Shongotongo, or the Big Horse, one of the Braves whom Mahtoree had dispatched in quest of his daughter, appeared in view in pursuit of the fugitives. It was not till Mahtoree had taxed his courage that the Big Horse had ventured on the perilous and fearful quest. He approached with the strength of heart and singleness of purpose which accompany an Indian warrior who deems the eyes of his nation upon him. When first the Brave was discovered thus wantonly, and with no other purpose but the shedding of blood, intruding on the dominions of the spirits, no words can tell the rage which appeared to possess their bosoms, manifesting itself in a thousand wild and singular freaks of passion and coarseness of language. Secure in the knowledge of their power to repel the attacks of every living thing, the intrepid Maha was permitted to advance within a few steps of Karkapaha. He had just raised his spear to strike the unmanly lover, when, all at once, he found himself riveted to the ground: his feet refused to move; his hands, which he attempted to raise, hung powerless at his side; his tongue, when he attempted to speak, refused to utter a word. The bow and arrow fell from his hand, and his spear lay powerless. A little child, not so high as the fourth leaf of the thistle, came and spat upon him, and a company of young maidens, whose feet were not longer than the blue feather upon the wing of the teal, danced a mirthsome dance around him, singing a taunting song of which he was the burthen. All and each of the tiny spirits did their part towards inflicting pain and ignominy on the hapless Maha. When they had finished their task of punishing by preparatory torture, a thousand little Spirits drew their bows, and a thousand winged arrows pierced his heart. In a moment, a thousand mattocks, of the size of an Indian's thumb-nail, were employed in preparing him a grave. And he was hidden from the eyes of the living, ere Tatoka could have thrice counted over the fingers of her hand.
When this was done, the chief of the Little Spirits called Karkapaha to his seat, and spoke to him thus:—"Maha, you have the heart of a doe; you would fly from a roused wren. Cowards find no favour in the eyes of the spirits of the air, who do not know what fear is, save when they see it painted on the cheeks of a mortal. We have not spared you because you deserved to be spared, but because the maiden loves you, and we would pleasure her. It is for this purpose that we will give you the heart of a man, that you may return to the village of the Mahas, and find favour in the eyes of Mahtoree and the Braves of the nation. We will take away your cowardly spirit, and will give you the spirit of the warrior whom we slew, whose heart was firm as a rock, and whose knees would have trembled when mountains caught the touch of fear, and not before. Sleep, man of little soul, and wake to be better worthy the love of the beauteous Antelope."
Then a deep sleep came over the Maha lover. How long he slept he knew not, but when he woke he felt at once that a change had taken place in his feelings and temper. The first thought that came to his mind was a bow and arrow; the second the beautiful Indian girl who lay sleeping at his side. The Little Spirits had disappeared—not a solitary being, of the many thousands, who, but a few minutes before, peopled the hill and filled the air with their discordant cries, was now to be seen or heard. At the feet of Karkapaha lay a tremendous bow, larger than any bowman ever yet used, and a sheaf of arrows of proportionate size, and a spear of a weight which no Maha could wield. Wonder of wonders! the weak and slender Karkapaha could draw that bow, as an Indian boy bends a willow twig, and the spear seemed in his hand but a reed, or a feather. The shrill war-whoop burst unconsciously from his lips, and his nostrils seemed dilated with the fire and impatience of a newly-awakened courage. The heart of the fond Indian girl dissolved in tears, when she saw these proofs of strength and those evidences of spirit, which, she knew, if they were coupled with valour—and how could she doubt the completeness of the gift to effect the purposes of the giver!—would thaw the iced feelings of her father, and tune his heart to the song of forgiveness. Yet, it was not without many fears, and tears, and misgivings, on the part of the maiden, that they began their march for the Maha village. The lover, now a stranger to fear, used his endeavours to quiet the beautiful Tatoka, and in some measure succeeded.
Upon finding that his daughter and her lover had gone to the Hill of the Spirits, and that Shongotongo did not return from his perilous adventure, the chief of the Mahas had recalled his Braves from the pursuit, and was listening to the history of the pair, as far as the returned warriors were acquainted with it, when his daughter and her lover made their appearance. With a bold and fearless step the once faint-hearted Karkapaha walked up to the offended father, and, folding his arms on his breast, stood erect as a pine, and motionless as that tree when the winds of the earth are chained above the clouds. It was the first time that Karkapaha had ever looked on angry men without trembling, and a demeanour so unusual in him excited universal surprise.
"Karkapaha is a thief," said the White Crane.
"It is the father of my beautiful and beloved Tatoka that says it," answered the lover; "else would Karkapaha say it was the song of a bird that has flown over."
"My warriors say it."
"Your warriors are singing-birds; they are wrens; Karkapaha says they do not speak the truth.—Karkapaha has the heart of a tiger, and the strength of a bear; let the Braves try him. He has thrown away the woman's heart; he has become a man."
"Karkapaha is changed," said the chief thoughtfully, "but when, and how?"
"The Little Spirits of the Mountain have given him a new soul. Bid your Braves draw this bow; bid them poise this spear. Their eyes say they can do neither. Then is Karkapaha the strong man of his tribe;" and as he said this he flourished the ponderous spear over his head as a man would poise a reed, and drew the bow as a child would bend a willow twig. |
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