Traditions of the North American Indians, Vol. 2 (of 3)

J >> James Athearn Jones >> Traditions of the North American Indians, Vol. 2 (of 3)

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17

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.

[Illustration: _Designed & Etched by W. H. Brooks, A. R. E. A._
The Spirit breathed on her & she became Stone.
_page 104._
_London, Published by Colburn & Bentley, April 1830_]

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.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17