Traditions of the North American Indians, Vol. 2 (of 3)
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James Athearn Jones >> Traditions of the North American Indians, Vol. 2 (of 3)
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Thus nearly the whole winter passed away, every day leading to some
new development of character or office of friendship, which served to
endear the parties to each other. Their faces daily lost something of
that deathlike hue which had at first marked them, and they visibly
improved in strength. They began to throw off some of that cold
reserve and forbidding austerity, which had kept the hunter so long in
ignorance of their true character. Every day, their appearance and
behaviour approximated more nearly to that of the beings of ordinary
life. One evening the hunter returned very late, after having spent
the day in toilsome exertion. Again he deposited the product of his
hunt at the feet of his wife, and again the silent females began to
tear off the flesh as before, though with still greater rudeness and
ill-breeding. The patience of the wife was completely lost, she could
no longer controul her feelings, and suffered the thought to pass her
mind, "Their conduct is certainly very strange! how can I bear with it
any longer!" She did not, however, give utterance to her feelings in
words. But an immediate change was seen in the females. They became
unusually reserved, and gave evident signs of being uneasy in their
situation. The good hunter immediately perceived this change, and,
fearful that they had taken offence, so soon as they had retired to
rest, he enquired of his wife whether any harsh expression had escaped
her lips during the day. She replied that she had uttered nothing to
give the least offence. He now tried to compose himself to sleep, but
he felt restless and uneasy, for he could plainly hear the sighs and
half-smothered lamentations of the two females. Every moment added to
his conviction that his guests had taken deep offence, and, as he
could not banish this idea from his mind, he raised himself on his
couch, and addressed the sobbing inmates thus:
"Tell me, ye women that have so long been the inmates of my lodge,
what is it that causes you pain of mind, and makes you unceasingly
utter these sighs? Has the wife of my bosom given you any cause of
offence while I was absent in the chase? My fears persuade me that, in
some unguarded moment, she has forgotten what is due to the rights of
hospitality, and used expressions ill befitting the mysterious
character which you seem to sustain. Tell me, ye strangers from a
strange country--ye women who appear to be not of this world--what is
it that causes you pain of mind, and makes you utter these unceasing
sighs?"
"It is not for this that we weep; it is not for this that we sigh,"
replied the mysterious women. "No unkind expressions have been used
towards us since our residence in your hospitable lodge. We have
received from you all the affectionate attentions which we could
expect, far more than could reasonably be asked of one who procures
his food and supports his family by a life of incessant toil and
labour. We thank you for all your kindness. No, it is not for this: it
is not for ourselves that we weep. We are weeping for the fate of
mankind. We are weeping for the fate of mortals whom death awaits at
every stage of their existence--weak mortals! whom death cuts down
equally while the bloom of youth is on their cheek, and when their
hair is whitened by the frosts of time--proud, vain men! whom hunger
pinches, cold benumbs, and poverty emaciates--frail beings! who are
born in tears, who are nurtured in tears, who die in tears, and whose
whole course is marked upon the thirsty sands of life in a broad line
of tears. It is for these that we weep.
"You have spoken truly, brother; we are not of this world. We are
Spirits from the land of the dead, sent upon the earth to try the
sincerity of the living. It is not for the dead but the living that we
mourn. It is not for the dead, whose flesh quietly reposes in the
dust, and whose souls repair to the mansions of happiness, that we
mourn, but for the living who are subjected to many, many pains, and
beset with innumerable troubles and anxieties. It was by no means
necessary that your wife should express her thoughts by words; we knew
them ere they were spoken. We saw that for once displeasure towards us
had arisen in her heart. It is enough--our mission is ended. We came
hither but to try you. We knew before we came that you were a kind
husband, an affectionate father, a temperate and honest man. We saw,
from the mansions of the blest, the patience with which you bore your
disappointments in the chace; the gratitude to the Great Spirit which
you always evinced; the tribute to his goodness which you always paid
when your hunts were successful, and you were enabled to return to
your cabin with the wealth of the forest. Still we find that you have
some of the weaknesses of a mortal, and your wife is found still more
wanting in our eyes. But it is not for you alone that we weep; it is
for the fate of mankind.
"Often, very often, has the widowed husband exclaimed, 'Oh death, how
cruel, how relentless thou art, to take from me my best friend, my
beloved wife, in the spring of her youth, in the prime of her
strength, in the morning of her usefulness, in the bloom of her
beauty! Just when I had come to know her best, and to love her most,
thou didst take her from my arms, leaving me to pine in unavailing
regrets. If thou wilt permit her, just Judge! to return once more to
my arms, and again be the star of my humble abode, my gratitude shall
never cease; my thankfulness shall be daily manifested in songs and
sacrifices to thy name. The high hill shall hear the cry of a man with
clay in his hair, and the valley shall be filled with the smoke of a
sacrificial flame. I will raise my voice continually to thank the
Master of Life for the return to my arms of his excellent gift. And to
her shall the return be productive of unbounded felicity. I will
devote my time to study how I can best promote her happiness, while
she is permitted to remain, and our lives shall roll away, like a
pleasant stream through a vale of flowers.' If a parent has been
bereaved of a child rendered dear by its innocence and sportive
fondness, he has said, while tears were furrowing his cheek, 'Great
Manitou, wilt thou return this beloved child for a few more years to
my bosom? It was but young and little. Its voice, softer than the
breath of spring, had not fashioned its tones of tenderness into
words. I had not heard it thank me for the gift of life; it was a
flower blasted in the bud. If thou wilt permit its return, it shall be
taught to sing thy praises; it shall be made to walk in the straight
path; it shall be a just hunter and a true warrior.' The bereft lover
has besought the Great Spirit for the return of his deceased mistress:
his petition has painted the charms of her voice sweet as the south
wind; her step light and graceful as the fawn's; her locks clustering
like grapes. And, 'Oh!' he has said, 'will it disarrange the harmony
of thy system, if she may but for a little while return to my arms; if
but for a few, a very few years, she may illumine the darkness of my
lodge by the splendour of her eyes, and send joy to my soul by the
soft tones of her voice, and the sound of her steps?' Thus, also, has
the mother prayed for her daughter; the wife for her husband; the
sister for her brother; the friend for his bosom-companion, until the
sounds of mourning, and the cries of the living, have pierced the very
recesses of the dead. Among those who have wished their departed
friends to return, were many who were cruel and unkind to them while
living. These have not failed to promise the most endearing conduct,
should their relatives be allowed to return.
"The Great Spirit has, at length, consented to make a trial of their
sincerity, by sending us upon the earth at a very severe season of the
year, and in a time of general scarcity. He did this to see how we
should be received, coming as strangers, no one knowing whence. It was
necessary that this severity of proof should be exacted. Three months
were allowed us to make the trial; and if, during that time, no
irksomeness of feeling had been evinced, no angry passions excited, at
the place where we should have taken up our abode, all those in the
land of spirits, whom their relations had desired to return, would
have been restored to them. We had already passed more than half the
time assigned to us, and had already dared to hope for a successful
termination of our mission. Had your wife maintained those feelings of
unmixed generosity and kindness which have heretofore marked her
conduct, the ransom would have been complete. When the leaves began to
bud, and the birds to sing their sweet songs of love, and to warble
their gentle burdens of gratitude for the return of their beloved
spring, our mission would have been successfully terminated. The
deceased husband and wife would then have been each returned to the
arms of his or her rejoicing partner, the maiden to the arms of her
tender lover, the infant to the bosom of its adoring mother. But it is
now too late. Our trial is finished, and we are called to the pleasant
fields, and beautiful shades, whence we came. It is not for those who
remain in those shades; it is not for the souls we left in the abode
of happy spirits, that we grieve, but for you that are left on earth.
"Brothers, it is necessary and proper, that one man should die to make
room for another who is born in his place; otherwise the world would
be filled to overflowing. It is just, that the goods gathered by one
should be left to be divided by others, for in the land of spirits
there is no want. There is neither sorrow nor hunger, death nor pain,
in that land. Pleasant fields filled with game lie spread before the
eye, and birds of most beautiful plumage and shapes are singing on
every bush. Every stream is filled with fat fish, and every hill is
crowned with groves of trees, whose fruit is sweet and pleasant to the
taste and beautiful to the eye. No piercing winds rack the bones, no
storms, no whirlwinds, assail the ear. All kinds of games have been
invented to amuse, and many, very many, instruments to play upon. It
is not here, brother, but _there_, that men begin truly to live. It is
not for those that rejoice through those pleasant groves, but for you
that are left behind, that we weep.
"Brother, take our thanks for your hospitality. Regret not our
departure. We go not in anger with thee, nor with thy wife. Fear not
evil. Thy luck shall still be good in the chace, and a bright sky
prevail over thy lodge. Mourn not for us, for no corn will spring up
from tears; but join us in lamentations for the fate of mankind. Mourn
for mortals whom death awaits at every stage of their existence; whom
death cuts down equally while the bloom of youth is on their cheek,
and when their hair is whitened by the frosts of time--proud, vain
men, whom hunger pinches, cold benumbs, and poverty emaciates--frail
beings, who are born in tears, nurtured in tears, die in tears, and
whose whole course is marked upon the thirsty sands of life by a broad
line of tears. It is for those that we weep."
The spirits ceased; but the hunter had no power over his voice to
reply. As they continued their address, he saw a light beaming from
their faces, and gradually a blue vapour filling the whole lodge with
an unnatural light. As soon as the females ceased speaking, a deep and
dense darkness prevailed. He listened, but the sobs of the spirits
had ceased. He heard the door of his tent open and shut, but he never
saw more of his mysterious visitors. Their promise was not forgotten;
he found the success which they spoke of. He became a most celebrated
hunter, and never wanted for any thing necessary to his ease. He
became the father of many children, all of whom grew up to manhood:
and health, peace, and long life, were the rewards of his
hospitality.
THE VISION OF THE ABNAKIS CHIEF.
Wangewaha, the great chief of the Abnakis, in one of his hunting
excursions, lay down beneath the shade of a stately fir, on the shore
of the stormy lake, beside which he was born, and the spirit of sleep
came over him. He dreamed a dream, the like of which was never dreamed
before among the red men of the forest. That dream hath come to pass;
each jot and tittle of it has been performed; the things were done
before mine own eyes, and the words spoken into mine own ears. Listen
to the dream of Wangewaha, the great war chief of the Abnakis.
He saw, far in the east, upon the face of the waters, a white cloud
which seemed to be impelled by a strong wind, and it was approaching
the shores of the same land in which the Abnakis dwelt. Along its
lower extremity appeared a narrow outline of exceeding blackness, and
ever and anon the cloud became larger or grew less, now increased and
now diminished, as the wind, or other causes, spread it out, or
contracted it. At length, the wind, which before blew towards the
land, veered and blew from it, but, strange to tell, the cloud was not
carried back, but kept its course onward in defiance of the wind, and
thus fared the cloud.
Upon the shore, watching with extreme and undivided interest the
progress of the cloud, stood many of the sons of the forest. Wonder
and astonishment had seized their souls, at the strange and hitherto
unheard-of sight of a low, compact, dark cloud, moving rapidly against
a strong wind. They saw that it was of unusual shape, and that there
were other circumstances connected with it, such as are not usual with
the spirit-mists of the air. Rightly deeming it a cloud from some very
far region, perhaps some aerial messenger sent by the Great Spirit to
communicate an important errand, they awaited in silent awe the
progress of that to which they could not give a name. Yet, deeming it
possible that grim war might in some one of his thousand forms be
hidden under the semblance of a cloud--that hostile beings might
inhabit what appeared but thin air--they prepared to oppose violence
with violence, and to meet battle with manful battle. Some went and
cut new lance poles, others tough and elastic bows. The priests
prepared sacrifices to appease the spirit, if spirit it were, and
sang propitiatory songs, in which they first called it a good Spirit,
and thanked it as such for the fat deer and mooses it had sent to
their hunting-grounds, and the juicy fish which filled their waters,
and the tender fowls which stocked their lakes. Then they addressed it
as the Spirit of Evil, deprecating its wrath, and imploring its mercy,
beseeching it, if it came in anger, to go away and discharge its venom
elsewhere; if it came to bring them rich gifts, to be speedy about it,
for such never came too soon.
In the mean time, the cloud came every moment nearer, till, at last,
it was scarcely the flight of an arrow distant from the shore. Then
gradually it disappeared, and, in its stead, appeared a large animal,
with innumerable arms and legs of all sizes and shapes, and of all
lengths, and of several colours. Perched on various parts of the legs
and arms of this strange animal were other animals, whose appearance
was unlike any other being ever beheld by the Indians. They wore in
some respects the character of man--were gifted with his strength and
wisdom, his power and capacities--were by turns a prey to lust,
ambition, hate, despair, revenge--commencing life with tears, and
dying with a sigh. Their fangs were for venom the fangs of a snake;
their cunning, the cunning of a fox; and their fierceness, the
fierceness of a mountain cat, or a panther. Very nimble they seemed,
and sprang about the legs and arms of the bigger animal, like a
squirrel leaping from one branch of a tree to another branch. One ran
up a rope till it had reached one of the arms; another slid down in
like manner; a third was perched half-way up; a fourth was running to
and fro on the back of the animal. At length, one of the little
animals dropped a great rope, to which was appended an enormous forked
tree, and this operated to tie up the bigger animal, which rolled
about very much, as if in vain attempts to liberate itself from the
thraldom to which they had subjected it.
After a while, there was a smaller animal seen leaving the side of the
bigger, as a kid leaves the side of its mother, similar in shape to
the bigger, but having neither arms nor legs; and, upon the back of
this animal, many of the smaller animals sought the shore. When they
had arrived, they presented themselves to the eyes of the astonished
Abnakis, in a shape which seemed to the sleeper to be that of a
panther, wearing the shape of man, yet fierce and cruel as any ever
found in the wilds of the river of the Abnakis. With this fierce and
cruel disposition was coupled a cunning beyond that of the fox, and a
malignity greater than the rattlesnake's. Their fierceness and
cruelty, and the malignity and savage ferocity of their natures, were
hidden, however, under a show of peace. They laughed, and grinned, and
did the other things, which mortals do when they are, or pretend to
be, pleased, making the unsuspecting Abnakis think that they were
their very good friends, when they were only waiting for a chance to
rend them limb from limb. Nor was their disposition wholly hidden by
the mask, which these worthless and wicked beasts had only assumed for
the purpose of beguiling the poor red man. Occasionally the panther
would show his teeth, and the rattlesnake his malignity, though the
cunning of the fox would soon throw a veil over the one, and hush the
noise of the other.
Strange, indeed were the bodies, tempers, and dispositions of the
beasts, which thus passed in sleep before the eyes of the dreaming
chief. He saw them invested with the habits and feelings of men, as
they appeared to be gifted with their capacities and acquirements.
They had courage, not indeed as the Abnakis have it, not the courage
which delights in the post of danger, and encounters difficulties for
the mere honour of overcoming them, but in another, and less active
form, that of endurance. And their wisdom and power were greater than
the wisdom and power of the Abnakis priests, who could draw water
from the clouds, and foretell the coming of tempests and storms(1).
The wisdom and power of the strange beasts was very great--they were
subtler than the fox or the beaver, and stronger than the bear.
Among these beasts, there was one of most transcendent beauty, who
appeared to be their queen. She bore the form of a stately woman. She
was clothed, not as beasts generally are, in fur, but in a robe of an
unknown material, that reached to her feet, which were shrouded in a
veil of so thin a texture, that the pure flesh was transparent through
them, and not shod with mocassins, but with something of a different
form. Around her head was bound a grape-vine, from which hung
beautiful clusters of rich, ripe grapes, intermingled with locks of
hair, of a hue resembling the yellow leaf. Her round and plump arms
were bound with bracelets of a very bright material; and, upon her
long and slender fingers, were rings set with sparkling stones, of
various and exceedingly radiant hues--green, blue, purple, white. In
one of her delicate hands, she carried a small bunch of grain, of a
kind which was never seen before by the Abnakis, but the ears of which
bent over like the wings of a hawk hovering over his prey, or or a
bird settling upon its perch. The same fair hand carried the
instrument wherewith it was reaped. The other hand bore a huge shell
and a three-forked sceptre, emblems of her dominion upon the element,
which supported the cloud upon which she came. Upon her breast she
wore a shield, on which was painted the likeness of two animals, one
of them wearing a shaggy mane, and both looking exceedingly fierce and
warlike. There were upon this shield other paintings and devices,
which even the ingenuity of the priests could not explain. Altogether,
the appearance of the being, animal, or whatever it was, which the
Abnakis dreamer saw, was exceedingly noble and beautiful. They who
came with her said she was the genius of the land beyond the Great
Water, the guardian spirit of an island more powerful than all the
world besides. And surely great power was written in her countenance,
and authoritative command engraved on the lines of her face.
Then Wangewaha saw, and a being also wearing the appearance of a woman
came down from the shades, and confronted the stranger. She was of a
still taller stature than the other, and of the same complexion as the
inhabitants of the land, her skin red, black her hair, her eyes
shining, her step yet more noble and commanding, and her bearing
prouder and more haughty than that of her who appeared to be her
younger sister. Her hair, long, straight, and black, hung over her
shoulders till it reached her feet; her mocassins were of the gaudiest
colours; and beads, and shells, and wampum, were profusely employed in
adorning her person. Above her head towered feathers, the canieu's or
war-eagle's, and the painted vulture's--in her hands she carried a
spear and a sheaf of arrows. A bow hung at one of her shoulders, while
over the other was carelessly thrown the game slain by her archery.
Her robe was made of the furs of the gayest forest animals, and her
emblems were an ear of maize and the antlers of a buck. Stately she
moved, as a wild swan on a calm lake, or a black cloud over the brow
of a mountain; and the boldness of her demeanour, and the fierceness
of her eyes, contrasted strongly with the softness and effeminacy of
her that seemed her younger, and more delicate, sister.
Anon, these two sisters entered into speech with each other, and the
artless and unsuspecting soul of the one was contrasted strongly with
the cunning of the other. Said the stranger to her who was of the
land, "Thou hast a most beautiful land."
"It is indeed a most beautiful land," answered the other.
"It has lofty mountains."
"Its mountains are very lofty."
"It has many beautiful and rapid rivers."
"It has."
"Its suns--"
"Are bright as the eyes of a dove."
"Its winds--"
"Soft as the breath of a young maiden."
"Methinks I should like to live in thy cabin--to rove uncontrolled
through thy green glades, and to listen in dreamy and indolent repose
to the merry music of thy waterfalls."
"Do, and thou shalt be welcome," replied the dark but beautiful, the
stern but guileless, genius of the land.
"Knowest thou not that we are sisters?" asked the bright-eyed,
fair-skinned, stranger.
"Nay, I knew it not," replied she of the wilderness.
"We are, and we have two others--thou, the youngest, and I thy next
elder. I am come hither to direct thy footsteps, and to render thee my
assistance in beautifying the clime so beautiful in itself, and to
give to those over whom thou presidest the light of the knowledge I
have conducted to my own realms. I have brought with me those who are
the pioneers of my footsteps whithersoever I go."
"It is well," answered the genius of the wilderness. "Take as much as
thou wilt of my lands. Choose for thyself the fairest spots--make my
people as thine own--we are sisters, thou sayest, and I believe thee,
for I love thee--sisters should dwell together in peace and love. Yon
river bank is very fertile."
"It is indeed very fertile," answered the strange genius, her
countenance brightening up as she surveyed the beautiful spot to which
her attention was directed.
"Thou shalt have it for thine own," said the elder sister kindly.
"Thou art very good," answered the other. "What use dost thou make of
yonder broad, and beautiful, and rapid river?"
"It furnishes food to my people. In the summer moons, the light canoes
of my beloved red men are seen gliding over it in swift pursuit of the
sturgeon; the fishes which sport in its clear bosom are the sweetest
in all the waters of my wide domain."
"I should like to have that river to be mine own," said the pale
genius.
"I can spare it," answered the other kindly. "It is thine."
"Yon is a beautiful lake," said the younger. "How calm and unruffled
is its surface!"
"It is a very beautiful lake, but thou hast not seen it in its most
beautiful season," answered the elder. "Thou shouldst behold it when
it waves a wide sea of water-lilies, white as the snow of winter, or
when myriads of gay wild-fowl skim its level surface, or settle down
upon its pellucid bosom, to take their repast. Then it is indeed
beautiful--very beautiful."
"A river and a lake should go together," said the younger.
"They should," answered she of the land, "nor will I be the one to
separate them. I give thee the lake."
"How much loftier than all the mountains of my own clime is that which
I see towering in the distance towards the land of the warm breezes!"
"That mountain is indeed very lofty," answered the dark Genius.
"I have a noble river, with a flowery bank rising above it, and I have
a level lake, but thou hast not given me a mountain, to whose cool and
refreshing breezes I may retire, when the fervid and scorching suns of
summer invade the lowlands. I would--thou wilt deem me greedy as the
hawk or the heron--I would have some such spot, whose breezes, when
they kindly dispense health, nerve the soul to great actions, and
within whose wild and inaccessible fastnesses, which, ever since Time
was, have been the keepers of the free, the weak may find a
resting-place, and the wearied by oppression a refuge."
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