(7) Indian farm of marriage.—p. 156.

The Indian nations differ but little from each other in their marriage ceremonies. The tribes that inhabit the borders of Canada have the following custom:—When every preliminary is agreed on, and the day appointed, the friends and acquaintance of both parties assemble at the house or tent of the oldest relation of the bridegroom, where a feast is prepared on the occasion. The company who meet to assist at the festival are sometimes very numerous; they dance, they sing, and enter into every other diversion usual at any of their public rejoicings. When these are finished, all those who attended merely out of ceremony depart, and the bridegroom and the bride are left alone with three or four of the nearest and oldest relations on either side; those of the bridegroom being men, and those of the bride women.

Presently the bride, attended by these few friends, having withdrawn herself for the purpose, appears at one of the doors of the house, and is led to the bridegroom, who stands ready to receive her. Having now taken their station on a mat, placed in the centre of the room, they lay hold of the extremities of a wand about four feet long, by which they continue separated, whilst the old men pronounce some short harangues suitable to the occasion. The married couple after this make a public declaration of the love and regard they entertain for each other, and still holding the rod between them they dance and sing. When they have finished this part of the ceremony, they break the rod into as many pieces as there are witnesses present, who each take a piece, and preserve it with great care. The bride is then re-conducted out of the door as she entered, where her young companions wait to attend her to her father's house; there the bridegroom is obliged to seek her.

Another manner of performing the ceremony is said to be peculiar to the Naudowessies. When one of their young men has fixed on a young woman he approves of, he discovers his passion to her parents, who give him an invitation to come and live with them in their tents. He accordingly accepts their offer, and by so doing engages to reside in it for a whole year in the character of a menial servant. During this time he hunts, and brings all the game he kills to the family; by which means the father has an opportunity of seeing whether he can provide for the support of his daughter and the children that might be the consequence of their union. When this period is expired, the marriage is solemnized after the custom of the country, in the following manner:—Three or four of the oldest male relations of the bridegroom, and as many of the bride's, accompany the young couple from their respective tents to an open part in the centre of the camp. The chiefs and warriors being here assembled to receive them, a party of the latter are drawn up into two ranks on each side of the bride and bridegroom, immediately on their arrival. The principal chief then acquaints the whole assembly with the design of their meeting, and tells them that the couple before them, mentioning at the same time their names, are come to avow publicly their intention of living together as man and wife. He then asks the young people alternately whether they desire that the union may take place. Having declared, with an audible voice, that they do so, the warriors fix their arrows, and discharge them over the needs of the married pair; this done, the chief pronounces them man and wife. The bridegroom then turns around, and, bending his body, takes his wife upon his back, in which manner he carries her, amidst the acclamations of the spectators, to his tent. The ceremony is concluded by the most plentiful feast the new-married man can afford, and songs and dances, according to the usual custom, conclude the festival.

Among the Quapaws, as I have been informed, the husband, on the consummation of his marriage, presents his wife with a leg of deer, and she in return offers him an ear of maize.



THE IDOLS.

A TRADITION OF THE RICARAS.

"Whither goest thou, valiant warrior? Whither goest thou, Son of the Beaver? Man whom the Mahas fear; Man whom the Pawnees shun; Man of the red and painted cheek; Man of the fierce and fearful shout; Whither goest thou?" "I go to make an offering, I go to give to the Idols a bow, An arrow, and a spear, The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone, That stand on the willow bank, On the willow bank, that o'erlooks the stream, The shallow and turbid stream; I go to ask that my heart may be made, Like the heart of the panther, fierce and stout, And my soul as clean as the soul of a child, And my foot as swift as the foot of a buck, That victory may be mine, That the pole of my lodge may bend with scalps, And the song of my lips Be the song of a Brave, Who sings of bright deeds in the ears of his tribe." "Go! Warrior, go!"

"Whither goest thou, Hunter? Whither goest thou, keen eyed-man? Man whom the Beaver fears; Man whom the Panther shuns; Man of the fleet and ardent foot, And the firm and patient heart, And the never blanching-cheek, Whither goest thou?" "I go to make an offering, I go to give to the Idols flesh, The juicy flesh of the elk, The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone, That stand on the willow bank, On the willow bank that o'erlooks the stream, The shallow and turbid stream; I go to ask that my eye maybe true To follow the trail of the deer, And to lead in the fox's track, And strong my arm to send the dart To the life of the bison-ox, And stout my heart, when I list to the growl Of the cubs in the panther's den." "Go! Hunter, go!"

"Whither goest thou, Priest? Man of wisdom, whither goest thou? Man that commun'st with the Voice[A], And notest the lightning's words; Man that hast knowledge of things unseen By the eye of thy brothers, Whither goest thou?"

"I go to make an offering: I go to lay my magic robe, My shaggy hide of the old black bear, Before the Idols, The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone, That stand on the willow bank, On the willow bank that o'erlooks the stream, The shallow and turbid stream; I go to ask my Okkis[B] to give To the sleep of my nights the dream that shows The image of things to come, That I may behold the fate of my tribe, And the fate of the Indian race; And count the scalps from Mahas torn, And the prisoners brought from Pawnee lands, And the beads from the town of the Rock[C]; And number the coal-black horses, The Ricara Braves shall steal From the men who wear the cross, That shines like the cold, pale moon"[D]. "Go! Priest, go!"

"And whither goest thou, Maiden? Dove of the forest, whither goest thou? Maiden, as bright as the Hunter's Star, Maiden, whose hair is the grape-clustered vine, Whose neck is the neck of the swan, Whose eyes are the eyes of the dove, Whose hand is as small as the red-oak's leaf, Whose foot is the length of the lark's spread wing, Whose step is the step of the antelope's child, Whose voice is the voice of a rill in the moon, Of the rill's most gentle song; Whither goest thou?"

"I go to make an offering. I go to lay the gifts of my Brave, The crest of the Song Sparrow[E], that which sang From her bower in the bush, on the beautiful night, When he called me "dearest," And the rainbow-tail of the Spirit Bird, And the shells that were dyed in the sunset's blush, And the beads that he brought from a far-off land, And the skin of the striped lynx that he slew Ere the mocassins deck'd his feet, Before the Idols, The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone, That stand on the willow-bank, On the willow-bank that o'erlooks the stream, The shallow and turbid stream. I make them my Okkis to guard my Brave; I go to ask them to shield his breast Against the Maha's darts; To give to his arm the strength of two; To give to his foot the fleetness of two; To wring from his heart the drop of blood, If he hath such drop, that causes fear To make his cry like the Serpent's hiss[F], Among the hills of the setting sun, And when there is Maha blood on his hand, And a bunch of Maha scalps at his back. To send him back to these longing arms, That I may wipe from his weary brow The drops that spring from his toil." "Go! Maiden, go!"

[Footnote A: Thunder, sometimes called by the Indians, par excellence, "the Voice."]

[Footnote B: "Okkis"—protecting spirit. See note 1, page 195.]

[Footnote C: Quebec—Heights of Abraham.]

[Footnote D: The Spaniards, from whom the Indians first procured the horse. This great acquisition is referred to in many of their traditions. See "The Wahconda's Son," &c.]

[Footnote E: Song Sparrow—Fringilla melodica.]

[Footnote F: Serpent's hiss, the thunder. See note 5, p. 167.]

With the above characteristic and wild song, chanted with the action and in the tones peculiar to the Indian story-teller, and which, in truth, is always the manner in which their traditions are related, the Little Snake, the principal chief of the Ricaras, and who was as celebrated throughout the wilds of the west for his skill in song as Carolan in the palace of his mountain lord, or Blondel at the court of Coeur de Lion, commenced his tale. As far as the visual organ was concerned, Mr. Verdier was before acquainted with the curious images to which it referred. He had seen, a few miles back, from the Mississippi, a small "willow-bank," rising in the words of the song above a "shallow and turbid stream," upon which were two stones bearing a great resemblance to the human form, and a third having a still greater resemblance to a dog. He knew that they were objects of exceeding veneration with all the tribes of the west, especially with the Ricaras, and that whenever they passed them, and they often deviated many miles from their path for that purpose, they never failed to make an offering, generally of some ornament, or valued part of their dress, or martial equipment, to propitiate the intelligences supposed to inhabit the statues, and render them favourable to their wants and wishes, and to their success in war, or the chace He saw that the continued observance of this rite for a long period, probably for ages, had collected around the "Idols" a large heap of stones, sticks, blankets, deer-skins, eagle's' feathers, &c., but he had remained till now in ignorance of the tradition, which assigned to them a past existence as human beings. He knew that every thing which is not in the common order of things, even a tree singularly shaped, or presenting an unusual excrescence, a blade of grass twisted into an uncommon form, a berry or a stalk of maize growing to an unusual size, become, in the eyes of these wild and superstitious children of the forest, invested with supernatural interest; but he had supposed that it was the mere resemblance which these statues bore to human beings that had caused the Indians to regard them as objects worthy of the most hallowed form of their rude worship.

It may be as well to say in this place, what I had contemplated making the subject of a note. It is this—that Indian poetry always wants the correspondence of the last sound of one verse with the last sound or syllable of another. There cannot, I imagine, be found a single instance of their having attempted to produce the "harmonical succession of sounds," which has imparted so much richness and beauty to the cultivated languages. It is necessary to state this, that my readers may not suppose that the omission to make the lines rhyme grew out of an attempt to give to the poetry an appearance of greater originality, and of greater singularity and wildness, the supposed first step to success. I could not, consistently with my determination to represent truly the manners and customs of that interesting and hard-used race in their own style and method, attempt to introduce rhyme into their rude lyrics. The poetry I have given, though it may want the inspiration of Indian poetry, will be found to possess its method. Another trait of Indian poetry to be noticed is the frequent repetition of favourite passages and incidents.

The Indian story-teller, having paused a moment to recruit his strength and voice, which had suffered by his energy, and to gather the opinion of the audience, which, for the first time in the present assembly, was expressed by audible signs of satisfaction, an unusual occurrence in an Indian audience, resumed his tale as follows:—

And who are they To whom the Brave has given his bow, His arrow, and his spear; To whom the Hunter has given the flesh, The juicy flesh of the elk, At whose feet the Priest has laid his robe, The shaggy skin of the old black bear, Where she, as bright as the Hunter's Star[A], The Maid with hair like the clustering grapes, Whose neck is the neck of the swan, Whose eyes are the eyes of the dove, Whose hand is as small as the red-oak's leaf, Whose foot is the length of the lark's spread wing. Whose step is the step of the antelope's child, Whose voice is the voice of a rill in the moon, Of the rill's most gentle song, Has cast the gifts of her Brave, Cast, without a tear, The tuft of the Song Sparrow, that which sang From its bower in the bush on the beautiful night, That he called his maiden, "dearest," And the rainbow-tail of the Spirit Bird, And the shells that were dyed in the sunset's blush, And the beads that he brought from a far-off land, And the skin of the striped lynx that he slew, Ere the mocassins decked his feet? I will tell you who they are: Listen, brother! Thou from the distant land, Pour oil into thine ears, for I Will fill them with a song.

They both were Ricaras, And the Dog was a Ricara Dog; It was many suns ago, Yet ask me not how long, For the warrior cannot tell, But this do I know the rivers ran Through forest, and prairie, and copse, And the mountains were piled to the base of the clouds, And the waters were deep, And the winter was cold, And the summer was hot; Grass grew on the prairies, Flowers bloomed on the lea, The lark sang in the morning, The owl hooted at night, And the world was such a world As the Ricara world is now:— My brother hears.

One was a Ricara boy, And one was a Ricara girl, And one was a Ricara dog. My brother hears. The boy and the girl were lovers, And the dog loved both, They loved each other more Than the soul of an Indian loves his home; The lodge of his wife and babes, Or the graves, The mossy graves, The green and grass-covered graves, Of his fathers mouldered and gone; They loved each other more Than the warrior loves the shout of his foe, Or the festival of scalps, Or the hunter to see the wing, Of a plover beating the air.

Their fathers were friends; They dwelt together in one cabin; They hunted the woods together; They warred together, Raising the self-same shout of onset, Waking the self-same song of triumph: Their mothers were sisters; They dwelt together in one cabin; Together they wrought in the field of maize; Each bent her back to the bison's flesh, Load and load alike; And they went to the wild wood together, To bring home the food for the fire; Kind were these sisters to each other; There was always a clear sky[B] in their cabins:— My brother hears.

One Ricara father said to his friend, While these babes yet swung In their baskets of bark From the bough of the oak, Listen! I have a young eagle in my eyrie, Thou hast a young dove in thy nest, Let us mate them. Though now they be but squabs, There will be but twice eight chills of the lake; And twice eight fails of the maple leaf; And twice eight bursts of the earth from frosts; The corn will ripen bat twice eight times, Tall, sweet corn; The rose will bloom but twice eight times, Beautiful rose! The vine will give but twice eight times Its rich black clusters, Sweet ripe clusters, Grapes of the land of the Ricaras, Ere thy squab shall be an eagle, Ere my little dove shall wear The feathers and plumes of a full-grown bird. Let us pledge them now To each other, That when thy son has become a man, And painted his face as a brave man paints, Red on the cheek, Red on the brow, And wears but the single lock[C], That is graced with the plumes of the Warrior-bird, And has stolen thy bow for the field of strife, And run away with thy spear, And thou findest thy sheaf of arrows gone, And nearest his shout as he follows the steps Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge, And my little dove, My beautiful dove, Sings in the grove, in the hour of eve, All alone, soft songs. Maiden's songs of the restless hour, When the full heart sings, it knows not why: My son shall build himself a lodge, And thy daughter shall light his fires.

Then said his friend, 'Tis well; Nor hast thou a forked tongue: My son is pledged to thee, And to thy little daughter. When he has become a warrior-man, And painted his face with the ochre of wrath, Red on the cheek, Red on the brow, And wears but a scalp-lock, Decked with the plumes of the warrior-bird, And has stolen my bow for the field of strife, And run away with my spear, And I find my sheaf of arrows gone, And hear his shout as he follows the step Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge, And thy dove Sings in the grove in the hour of eve, All alone, soft songs, Maiden songs, songs of the unquiet hour, Songs that gush out of the swelling soul, As the river breaks over its banks: My son shall build himself a cabin, And thy daughter shall light his fires.

When these two Ricara babes were grown, To know the meaning of words, And to read the language of eyes, And to guess by the throbs of the heart, It was said to them, To the girl, he will build thee a lodge, And bring thee a good fat deer of the glade; To the boy, she will light thy fires, and be The partner of thy lot. And knowing this they loved: No more were they seen apart, They went together to pluck the grape, To look for the berry which grew on the moor, To fright the birds from the maize; They hunted together the lonely copse, To search for the bittern's eggs, And they wandered together to pluck from the waste The first blue flower of the budding moon; And, when the village children were come, Where the rope of grass, Or the twisted thong of bison-hide, Hung from the bough, To swing in childish sport, These two did always swing each other, And if by chance they found themselves apart, Then tears bedew'd their little cheeks, And the gobs of grief came thick and fast, Till they found each other's arms again, And so they grew:— My brother hears.

The maiden grew up beautiful, Tall as the chin of a lofty man, Bright as the star that shines, To guide the Indian hunter through The pathless wilds to his home. Her hair was like the grape-clustered vine; Her neck was the neck of the swan; Her eyes were the eyes of the dove; Her hand was as small as the red oak's leaf; Her foot was the length of the lark's spread wing; Her step was the step of the antelope's child; Her voice was the voice of a rill in the moon, Of the rill's most gentle song: Oh, how beautiful was the Ricara girl! How worthy to be the wife of the man, And to light-the fires of a Brave! How fit-to be the mother Of stout warriors and expert hunters!

And how grew the Ricara boy?— Does my brother listen? He does, it is well.— He grew to be fair to the eye, Like a tree that hath smooth bark, But is rotten or hollow at core; A vine that cumbers the earth With the weight of leaves and flowers, But never brings forth fruit: He did not become a man: He painted not as a warrior paints, Red on the cheek, Red on the brow, Nor wore the gallant scalp-lock, Black with the plumes of the warrior-bird, Nor stole his father's bow, Nor ran away with his spear, Nor took down the barbed sheaf, Nor raised his shout as he followed the step Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge. He better loved to sit by the fire, While the women were spinning the mulberry-bark(2) Or to lie at his length by the stream, To watch the nimble salmon's sport, Or, placed by the leafy perch of the bird, To snare the poor simple thing; He better loved to rove with girls In search of early flowers.

The Ricara father said to the maid, "Listen to me, my dove, When I gave thee away, I deem'd that I gave My child to one who would gain renown, By the deeds which had given his sires renown, To a boy who would snatch, ere his limbs were grown, The heaviest bow of the strongest man, And hie to the strife with a painted face, And a shout that should ring in the lonely glades, Like a spirit's among the hills; I did not deem I had given my dove To a youth with the heart of a doe; A gatherer-in of flowers, A snarer of simple birds, A weeder with women of maize[D], A man with the cheek of a girl— Dost thou listen?

"Now, since thy lover is weak in heart, A woman in mind and soul, Nor boasts, nor wishes to boast, Of deeds in battle done, Nor sings, nor wishes to sing, Of men by his arm laid low, Nor tells how he bore the flames, his foes Did kindle around his fettered limbs; And, since he finds more joy in flowers, And had rather work in the maize-clad field, Than wend to the glorious strife With the warriors of his tribe, I will not keep my faith.— My daughter hears.— I bid thee see the youth once more, And then behold his face no more. Tell him, the child of the Red Wing weds With none but the fierce and bold, Tell him, the man, whose fires she lights, Must be strong of soul, and stout of arm, Able to send a shaft to the heart Of him who would quench that fire, Able to bend a warrior's bow, Able to poise a warrior's spear, Able to bear, without a groan, The torments devised by hungry foes, The pincers rending his flesh, The hot stones searing his eye-balls.— Dost thou hear?"

Then down the daughter's beauteous cheeks Ran drops like the plenteous summer rain. "I hear, my father, Yet, hard thy words weigh on my heart; Thou gav'st me to him, while we lay, Unknowing the pledge, in our willow cage(3), When first we opened our eyes on the world, And saw the bright and twinkling stars, And the dazzling sun, and the moon alive(4), And the fields bespread with blooming flowers, And we breath'd the balmy winds of spring; The old men said, to one another, 'Dost thou know, brother, Thar, when his years are the years of a man, And his deeds are the deeds of the good and true, The son of the Yellow Pine Shall marry the Red Wing's daughter?' And the women took up the tale, And the boys and girls, when met to play, Told in our ears the pleasing words, That I was to be his wife.

"And, knowing this, we loved, And 'tis hard to break the chains of love; Thou may'st sooner rive the flinty oak, With the alder spear of a sickly boy, Than chase him away from my soul. Twice eight bright years have our hearts been wed. And thou hast look'd on and smiled; And now thou com'st, with a frowning brow, And bid'st me chase him from my soul. I know his arm is weak, I know his heart is the heart of a deer, And his soul is the soul of a dove; Yet hath he won my virgin heart, And I cannot drive him hence." But the father would not hear, And he bade his daughter think no more Of the Ricara youth for her mate; And he said, ere the Moon of Harvest passed, She should light the fires of a Brave.

What said the Ricara youth, When he heard the stern command, Which broke his being's strongest bond, As ye break an untwisted rope of grass? Sorrow o'erwhelm'd his soul, And grief gush'd out at his eyes. With an aching heart he left his lodge, When evening gray-mist walk'd out of the earth, And wandered forth with his dog— To the woods he went, To the lonely, dim, and silent woods, To weep and sigh: Whom saw he there?— Does my brother hear?— He saw the maiden, so long beloved, Her with hair like the grape-cluster'd vine, Whose neck was the neck of the swan, Whose eyes were the eyes of the dove, Whose hand was as small as the red-oak's leaf, Whose foot was the length of the lark's spread wwig, Whose step was the step of the antelope's child. Whose voice was the voice of a rill in the moon, Of the rill's most gentle song; But oh, how chang'd! Beaming eye and bounding foot, Laughing lip and placid brow, Hath the beauteous maid no more. Slow is her step as a crippled bird's, And mournful her voice as the dying note Of a thunder-cloud that hath passed; And yet she joys to meet the youth. Into his arms she flies, Like a fawn that escapes from the hunter's shaft, And reaches its dam unhurt. Lock'd in a soft and fond embrace, The lovers recline on the flowery bank, And pledge their faith anew;

And loudly they call on the host of stars, And the cold and dimly shining moon, And the spirits, that watch by night in the air, Or chirp in the hollow oak[E], to see The plighting of their hands: They married themselves, And man and wife Became in the wilderness.

But love alone could not keep alive The Ricara boy and girl; The woods were scarce of game, No berries were on the heath, The winds had shaken the grapes from the vine, And hunger assail'd the pair. What did they then? They knelt and pray'd to the Master of Life— Him of the terrible voice in the cloud— To send them food, or call Their spirits away to the happy lands Beyond the vale of death. Did the Master hear? Brother he always hears When mortals go in clay(5)

The Master sat on the crest of the world[F], Sat at the door of his mighty lodge, Tossing bright stars at the waning moon[G], When there came on the winds the woes of the pair, And pity filled his soul, And grief weighed down his heart. He called to his side the spirit that guards The warlike Indian race, The spirit of courage, and wisdom, and strength, And the fearless spirit came. "Dost thou see," said he, "the Ricara pair, Caltacotah and Miskwa, the Red, They have married themselves in the wilderness, And now they die for food. Look at the husband, note him well? He hath never dared to look on a foe, Nor paints his face as a warrior paints, Nor wears the gallant scalp-lock, Nor hath he a hunter's eye; Unable is he to strike a deer: The white and fringed skin of the goat, Which covers the breast of the maiden, conceals A manlier heart than his. Go, and end their woes." The spirit answered, "I hear."

The shadows of evening fell on the earth, And the mists were out, And the bat was abroad. The Ricara pair were joyful now, For they had found a vine of grapes. On the willow bank that o'erlooks the stream, The shallow and turbid stream, And, though the grapes were shrivell'd and sour, These two were joyful now, When all at once, ere their lips had touch'd, The Manitou stood at their side, And trembling shook their limbs. He saw the woes of the pair, And he bade them cease to be; He bade them become a thing to show The mercy and goodness of Him that rules— The flintiness of her father's heart— Their own tried constancy; And he bade them remain in the wilderness, Till the rivers should cease to flow, And the stars should cease to shine.

And they became the Idols, The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone, That stood on the willow bank. 'Tis thither the tribes of the land resort, To make their offerings; Thither the warrior carries his bow, His arrow, and his spear, And the hunter, the juicy flesh of the elk; The priest, the shaggy skins of the bear, And she of the fair and youthful form, The gifts of the favour'd Brave. All bear thither a valued gift, And lay it at their feet; No Ricara takes his bow, till he Has oft besought their aid, No Ricara paints as a warrior paints, Red on the cheek, Red on the brow, Till he has thrice before them bow'd, And said to them, "Make me strong!" And the maiden and the priest Petition there for aid.

[Footnote A: The North Star.]

[Footnote B: Clear sky, domestic peace, absence of family brawls.]

[Footnote C: The Indian warriors shave off all their hair, except a single lock on the top, of the head, which is left for the enemy to take the scalp, in case he overcomes.]

[Footnote D: Maize, Indian corn—"Cobbett's corn."]

[Footnote E: The tree-toad is an object that impresses the Indians with great fear.]

[Footnote F: Rocky Mountains.]

[Footnote G: The Indians suppose the shooting of stars to be occasioned by spirits who are at war with the moon, and assail her in this way.]

NOTES.

(1) Okkis.—p. 175.

The particular object of the devotion of an Indian is termed his "Okkis," or "Medicine," or "Manitou," all meaning the same thing, which is neither more nor less than a "household God." The latter, however, may mean a spirit of the air; the former is tied to one predicament. It is selected by himself, sometimes at a very early age, but generally at the period when he enters the duties of life, and is some invisible being, or, more commonly, some animal, which thenceforward becomes his protector or intercessor with the Great Spirit. The Indians place unbounded confidence in these Okkis, and always carry them wherever they go, being persuaded that they take upon them the office of sentinels. Hence, they sleep in perfect security, convinced of the entire good faith of the guardian. There is no possible form which they have not permitted these "medicines" to take. Birds, beasts, and especially of the carnivorous species, are most frequently the adopted sentinels; but sticks, trees, stones, &c., have been known to be selected for that responsible office. If they prove treacherous, and permit any disaster to happen to their charge, they are frequently soundly whipped, and sometimes committed to the flames.

Not only are inanimate objects elected to take the guardianship of individuals—they sometimes become protectors of the national interests. There is a large, fiat rock, about ten miles from Plymouth, Massachusetts, which continues to receive tribute from the Indians, probably from having, at a former period, been their tutelary genius. It is called, if I mistake not, by the white people resident in the neighbourhood, "The Sacrifice Rock," and is still deeply venerated by the few Indians spared by the cupidity of the Pilgrims and their descendants.

Lewis and Clarke, in the account of their Travels across the Rocky Mountains, (vol. i. p. 163) speaking of the national great Memahopa, or "Medicine Stone," of the Mandans, remarks: "This Medicine Stone is the great oracle of the Mandans, and, whatever it announces, is received with the most implicit confidence. Every spring, and on some occasions during the summer, a deputation visits the sacred spot, where there is a thick porous stone, twenty feet in circumference, with a smooth surface. Having reached the place, the ceremony of smoking to it is performed by the deputies, who alternately take a, whiff themselves, and then present the pipe to the stone; after this, they retire to the adjoining wood for the night, during which it may be safely presumed, that all the embassy do not sleep. In the morning, they read the destinies of the nation in the white marks on the stone."

(2) The mulberry bark.—p. 187.

The Dress of the Indian women.—The dress of the Indian females is regulated, of course, by the nature of the climate. The Southern Indians, by which I mean those occupying the tract of country which is now parcelled out into the States of Louisiana, Florida, Missouri, Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia, at the period of its first settlement by the whites, wore cloaks of the bark of the mulberry tree, or of the feathers of swans, turkeys, &c. The bark they procured from the young mulberry shoots that came up from the roots of the trees which had been cut down. After it was dried in the sun, they beat it to make all the woody part fall off; and then gave the threads that remained a handsome beating; after which, they bleached them by exposing them to the dew. When they were well whitened, they spun them about the coarseness of pack-thread, and wove them in the following manner: two stakes were set in the ground about a yard and a half asunder; having stretched a cord from one to the other, they fastened their threads of bark, double, to this cord, and then interlaced them in a curious manner into a cloak of about a yard square, with a wrought border round the edges. Such is nearly the description given by Du Pratz in his history of Louisiana.

(3) Willow cage.—p. 189.

Indian children, instead of being placed in cradles, are suspended from the boughs of trees beyond the reach of wild animals, in baskets woven of twigs of the willow, when they can be easily procured: the motion, which is a kind of circular swing, is far more pleasant than that of the cradle in use among civilized nations.

(4) Moon alive.—p. 189.

The astronomical knowledge of the Indians is very small, and they entertain singular ideas respecting the heavenly, bodies. When the sun sets they imagine it goes under water. When the moon does not shine, they suppose she it dead; and some call the three last days before the new moon, the naked days. Her first appearance after her last quarter is hailed with great joy. If either sun or moon is eclipsed, they say the sun or moon is in a swoon. I have mentioned before their opinion of the cause of shooting-stars. Adair, who was acquainted only with the Florida Indians, says that when it thundered and blew sharp for a considerable time, they believed that the beloved or holy people were at war above the clouds; and they believed that the war was hot or moderate, in proportion to the noise or violence of the storm. Of all the writers who have ever written on the Indians, Adair, with the usual exception of La Hontan, is the worst. He wrote with a preconceived determination to make them a portion, or "the remnant," of the ten tribes of Israel, to whom they bear about the same resemblance that an Englishman bears to an Otaheitean.

(5) Mortals go in clay.—p. 192.

The Indian mode of worship is wild and singular in the extreme. Nutall, a judicious and scientific traveller, thus describes the solemnity:

"This morning, about day-break, the Indians, who had encamped around us, broke out into their usual lamentations and complaints to the Great Spirit. Their mourning was truly pathetic, and uttered in a peculiar tone. The commencing tone was exceeding loud, and gradually fell off into a low, long continued, and almost monotonous bass; to this tone of lamentation was modulated the subject of their distress or petition. Those who had experienced any recent distress, or misfortune previously blackened their faces with coal, or besmeared them with ashes."—Nutall, p. 190.

I will quote one more extract from a favourite author for the benefit of those who may wish to view the Indian as a worshipper of the Eternal Being whom they are early taught to worship. "From the age of about five years," says Long, "to that of ten or twelve, custom obliges the boy to ascend to a hill-top, or other elevated position, fasting, that he may cry aloud to the Wahconda. At the proper season his mother reminds him that 'the ice is breaking up in the river, the ducks and geese are migrating, and it is time for you to prepare to go in clay.' He then rubs his person over with a whitish clay, and is sent off to the hill-top at sunrise, previously instructed by a warrior what to say, and how to demean himself in the presence of the Master of Life. From this elevation he cries out to the great Wahconda, humming a melancholy tune, and calling on him to have pity on him, and make him a great hunter, horse-stealer, and warrior. This is repeated once or twice a week, during the months of March and April."—Long's First Expedition, vol.. i. p. 240.



DISCOVERY OF THE UPPER WORLD.

A TRADITION OF THE MINNATAREES.

The Minnatarees, and all the other Indians who are of the stock of the grandfather of nations, were once not of this upper air, but dwelt in the bowels of the earth. The Good Spirit, when he made them, no doubt meant, at a proper time, to put them in the enjoyment of all the good things which he had prepared for them upon the earth, but he ordered that their first stage of existence should be within it, as the infant is formed, and takes its first growth in the womb of its natural mother. They all dwelt under ground, like moles, in one great cavern, which covered the whole island; when they emerged, it was in different places, but generally near where they now inhabit. At that time, few of the Indian tribes wore the human form; some had the figures or semblances of beasts. The Paukunnawkuts were rabbits, some of the Delawares were ground-hogs, others tortoises, and the Tuscaroras and a great many others, were rattlesnakes. The Sioux were the hissing-snake(1); but the Minatarees were always men. Their part of the great cavern was situated far towards the Mountains of Snow.

The great cavern in which the Indians dwelt was indeed a dark and dismal region. In the country of the Minnatarees it was lighted up only by the rays of the sun which strayed through the fissures of the rock, and the crevices in the roof of the cavern, while in that of the Mengwe it was dark and sunless. The life of the Indians was a life of misery compared with that they now enjoy, and it was endured only because they were ignorant of a fairer or richer world, or a better or happier state of being. Clothes they had none; they lived and died naked as they came into the world. Their food was mice, and snakes, and worms, and moles, with now and then a bat, and the roots of trees, which crept downward from the regions of the upper air till they reached the subterranean abodes of the poor benighted Indian. They ate sand, it is true, and fed upon a dirt which glittered like the sun, but which was tasteless, and contained no nutriment, and they grew poor upon it, and early sickened and died. A miserably poor and weak race they were, and the Great Spirit was kindest, when he took them from their dismal dwellings to the happy mansions in the green vales and quiet lakes which lie hid in the mountains. And, so well convinced were the Indians that the exchange would be for the better, that they celebrated the death of a man with great rejoicing, but wept and howled loud and long when a child was born. And thus they dwelt, in the caverns which lie beneath the surface of the earth, unknowing of the beautiful and glorious world over their heads, till the Good Spirit sent agents for their deliverance.

There were among the Minnatarees two boys, who, from the hour of their birth, showed superior wisdom, sagacity, and cunning. Even while they were children, they were wiser than their fathers and mothers. They asked their parents whence the light which streamed through the fissures of the rock and played along the sides of the cavern came, and whence and from what descended the roots of the great vine. Their father said he could not tell; and their mother only laughed at the question, which appeared to her very foolish. They asked the priest; neither could he tell, but said he supposed the light came from the eyes of some great wolf. The boys told him he was a fool. They asked the king tortoise, who sulkily drew his head into his shell, and made no answer. But, when they asked the chief rattlesnake, he answered that he knew, and would tell them all about it if they would promise to make peace with his tribe, and on no account ever to kill one of his descendants. The boys promised, and the chief rattlesnake then told them that there was a world above them, composed of ore more shining than that they had tossed in boyish play in each other's eyes—a beautiful world, peopled by creatures in the shape of beasts, having a pure atmosphere and a soft sky, sweet fruits and mellow water, well-stocked hunting-grounds and well-filled ponds. He told them to ascend by the roots, which were those of a great grape-vine. A while after the boys were missing. Another while they had not returned; nor did they come back until the Minnatarees had celebrated the feast of rejoicing for their death(2), and the lying priest had, as he falsely said, in a vision seen them inhabitants of the Land of Spirits.

One day, the Indians were surprised by the return of the boys. They came back singing and dancing, and were grown so much, and looked so different from what they did when they left the cavern, that their father and mother scarcely knew them. They were sleek and fat; and when they walked it was with so strong a step that the hollow space rung with the sound of their feet. Their bodies were covered with something which the Minnatarees had never seen before, but which they since know was feathers and the skins of animals. They had blankets wrapt around them of the skins of racoons and beavers. Each of them had at his back a bundle of beautiful ripe grapes, and of the flesh of a great animal, which they had been taught to kill by people looking much like the Minnatarees, only handsomer and stronger—people who lived by hunting, and delighted in shedding the blood of each other, who painted their bodies with strange figures, and loved to drink a water which made them crazy and boisterous.

On first emerging from the caverns, they came, they said, into a world where all was light and beauty. It was directly over that part of the cavern where our tribe dwelt. They saw a great round ball of fire, which gave light and heat to the earth, and whose beams it was which had shot down through the fissures of the rock, partially illumining the cavern. The earth above them they had found covered with green, and scented with sweet-smelling flowers. Here and there were beautiful groves of trees, in whose shady branches birds of soft notes and varied and lovely plumage were singing all the day long. Its waters, which flowed cool and clear, were peopled by sportive fishes, and by many kinds of fowls, whose motions in their element were beautiful to the eye; and whose meat, when cooked, was exceedingly sweet to the taste. They saw a beautiful river, gliding rapidly through banks, shaded by lofty trees; its smooth current wafting the Indian brave to distant expeditions of war and the chase. Here were vast herds of wild animals, called by the inhabitants bisons, whose flesh they had found very good and juicy, and which animals were killed with arrows and sharp spears. The eyes of the boys glistened like coals of fire, and became of double size, while they described the beauties and wonders of the upper earth.

The Indians were very much delighted with the boys' story. They tasted of the meat, and the grapes, and liked them so well, that they resolved to leave their dull residence under ground, for the charms of the upper air. All the inhabitants of the cavern agreed to leave it for the newly-discovered hunting-grounds, except the ground-hog, the badger, and the mole, who said as their maker had placed them there, there they would live, and there they would die. The rabbit said he would live sometimes below and sometimes above, and the rattlesnake, and the tortoise, promised to spend the winter in the caverns, which they always do.

When the Indians had determined to leave their habitations under ground, they agreed to do it at different points, that they might sooner be on the surface. The Minnatarees began, men, women, and children, to clamber up the vine. One half of them had already reached the surface of the earth, when a dire mishap involved the remainder in a still more desolate captivity within its bowels. There was among the Minnatarees a very big and fat old woman, who was heavier than any six of her nation. Nothing would do but she must go up before certain of her neighbours. Away she clambered, but her weight was so great, that the vine broke with it; and the opening, to which it afforded the sole means of ascending, closed upon her and the rest of the nation. Other tribes fared better: in particular the beasts. The tortoise, who always took the lead, because he was descended from the Great Tortoise who bears the world on his back, and can live both on the land and in the water, very easily crept out, but the Monseys or Wolves, who dwelt under Lake Onondaga, did not emerge so easily. After trying to reach the upper air for a long time in vain, one of their number, a cunning old wolf, discovered a hole through which he crept out. He soon caught a deer, which he carried down to his tribe, who found it so sweet that they redoubled their exertions to reach a spot where such good things were to be had, and fortunately soon reached it in company with the Turkeys, whom they overtook on the way. The Mengwe crept out of the same hole, but it was a long while afterwards. The Tortoise, the Wolves, and the Turkeys, all confederated to declare war against the Bears, who were a very numerous and savage tribe; and the hatchet has not been buried yet. But they made a firm peace with the Rattlesnakes, which lasted till the coming of the Big-knives, when the latter broke the calumet of peace by biting an Indian, whom they mistook for a white man. Since then these two people have also been at war.

When the Minnatarees arrived in the upper air, they established themselves on the spot where they now reside. Very soon after, a party of strange men appeared among them, mounted on animals, or rather they seemed a part of strange animals, with four legs, possessed of great fleetness, and whose long and beautiful tails swept the earth where they trod. They attacked the wonderful creatures with their bows and arrows, and succeeded in killing one of them, upon which the others ran away. Not at first perceiving that the man and horse were two distinct animals, how much were they surprised to see the former fall to the earth, as if one part of the compound of the animal was dead, and the other still active, having received no injury. They at length succeeding in capturing the horse, and, after admiring the beauty of his form, and becoming familiar with him, they proceeded to tie one of their young men upon his back with cords that he might not fall off. The horse was then led cautiously by the halter until he became sufficiently tame to ride alone, and without a leader. It was in this manner that our nation procured the horse, and from this one sprung the breed we now have.

Brothers, this is what our fathers told us of the manner in which the Minnatarees and other Indian tribes became possessed of their present hunting-grounds, and of the way in which our nation procured the horse.—I have done.

NOTES.

(1) The Hissing-Snake.—p. 201.

This snake is the most remarkable of the different species of snake that infest the western wilds. It is of the small speckled kind, and about eight inches long. When any thing approaches, it flattens itself in a moment, and its spots, which are of various dyes, become visibly brighter through rage; at the same time it blows from its mouth, with great force, a subtle wind, that is reported to be of a nauseous smell, and, if drawn in with the breath of the unwary traveller, it is said, will infallibly bring on a decline, that in a few months must prove mortal. So says Carver.

(2) Feast of rejoicing for their death.—p. 204.

The early travellers report, that some of the tribes on the banks of the Mississippi, in the words of the text, "celebrated the death of a man with great rejoicing."



LOVE AND WAR.

Many a winter has passed away, and many a season's snow mixed with the deep current of the great lake Superior, since the fame of Wanawosh was sounded along its shores. He was the son of an ancient line, who had preserved the chieftainship in their family from the remotest times. His fathers had all been renowned warriors and hunters, and hence he cherished a lofty pride of ancestry, and the belief that he himself, as well as they, were better than those by whom he was surrounded. To the reputation of his descent from eminent ancestors he added the advantages of a tall and commanding person, and the dazzling qualities of great personal strength and activity—qualities ever appreciated most highly by those who are deficient in mental power. His bow was renowned throughout the surrounding tribes, for its weight and extraordinary dimensions; and there were few that could raise his ponderous war-club, or poise his mighty spear. He was often known to have shot one of his flint-headed arrows through the body of a deer, and to have beat in the skull of a male buffalo with a single blow of his club. His counsel was as much sought as his prowess was feared, so that he came in tune to be equally famed as a hunter, a warrior, and a sage. But he had now passed the meridian of his days, and the term Akkeewaisee, "one who had been long above the earth," was familiarly applied to him. Such was Wanawosh, to whom the united voice of the nation awarded the first place in their esteem and the highest seat in authority. Even had he wanted the hereditary power and dignity, the esteem, and affection, and veneration, of his people, would have conferred upon him rule, quite as potential in its nature as that which he enjoyed by his birthright. But pride was the ruling passion of this great chieftain, and to that he sacrificed every other passion.

Wanawosh had an only daughter, who had now lived to witness the budding of the leaves for the eighteenth spring. Her father was not more celebrated for his deeds of strength and valour, than his gentle daughter for her goodness, her slender and graceful form, her dark and beaming eyes, and her black and flowing hair. There had never been seen, among the Indian nations, so lovely and perfect a maiden as the daughter of Wanawosh. Warriors came from distant tribes to court the fair daughter of the chieftain but they departed, some with bitter reproofs for their presumption, and none with encouragement or permission to hope.

Among others, her hand was sought by a youth of humble parentage, one who had no other merits to recommend him, but such as might arise from a graceful person, a manly step, and an eye beaming with the fires of youth and love. These were sufficient to attract the favourable notice of the daughter; but they were by no means satisfactory to the father, who sought an alliance more suitable to his rank and the high pretensions of his family. Little thought he of the happiness of his daughter, so that he secured for his son-in-law a warrior of celebrity.

"Listen to me, young man," he replied to the trembling hunter, who had sought the interview, "and be attentive to what you hear. You ask me to bestow upon you my daughter, the chief solace of my age, and my choicest gift from the Master of Life. Others have asked of me this boon, who were as young, as active, and as ardent, as yourself. Some of these persons had better claims to become my son-in-law than you. Some of them had struck the enemies of their country in distant forests, others had been leaders of successful expeditions. Young man, have you considered well who it is that you would choose for a father-in-law? Have you reflected upon the deeds which have raised me in authority, and made my name known to every one who has ever heard of the Chippewas, and dreaded as the bolt of death by all the enemies of my nation? Where is a chief who is not proud to be considered the friend of Wanawosh? Where is a hunter who can bend the bow of Wanawosh? or a warrior who can wield his club, or poise his weighty lance? And who is he, whose proudest wish is not, that he may some day be equal in bravery to Wanawosh? Have you not also heard, that my fathers came, ages ago, from the land of the rising sun, decked with plumes, and clothed with authority? Have you not heard, that my family have been chiefs of the Chippewas ever since the moss-covered oaks on the hills were little sprouts?

"And what, young man, have you to boast that you should claim an alliance with my warlike line? Have you ever met your enemies on the field of battle? Have you ever brought home a trophy of victory? Where are the prisoners your arm has made; where have you hung your scalps? Have you ever proved your fortitude, by suffering protracted pain, enduring continued hunger, or sustaining great fatigue? Is your name known beyond the humble limits of your native village? Do the warriors of distant tribes relate your splendid deeds, and, when they speak of a war with the Chippewas, take into account the lance of the son of Kayneewee? Go then, young man, and earn a name for yourself. It is none but the brave that can ever hope to claim an alliance with the house of Wanawosh. Think not my ancient and honoured blood shall mingle with the humble mark of the Awausees, fit totem for fishermen."

The intimidated lover departed, but he resolved to do a deed that should render him worthy of the daughter of Wanawosh, or perish in the attempt. He called together several of his young companions and equals in years, imparted to them his design of conducting an expedition against the enemy, and requested their assistance. Several embraced the proposal immediately; others were soon brought to acquiesce, and, before ten suns had set, he saw himself at the head of a formidable party of young warriors, all eager, like himself, to distinguish themselves in battle. Each warrior was armed, according to the custom of the period, with a bow and quiver of arrows, tipped with flint or jasper, and each carried a mushkeemoot upon his back, provided with a small quantity of parched and pounded corn, mixed with a little pemmican or pounded meat. Each was furnished with a kind of stone knife, and a war-club of hard wood, fastened to a girth of deer-skin. In addition to this, some carried the ancient sheemaugun or Indian lance, consisting of a smooth pole above one fathom in length, with a spear of flint firmly tied on with splints of hard wood, bound down with deer's sinews. Thus equipped, and each warrior painted in a manner to suit his fancy, and ornamented with appropriate feathers, they repaired to the spot appointed for the war-dance.[A]

[Footnote A: See the description of this dance in a note to The Expedition of the Lenni Lenape in vol. ii.]

A level grassy plain extended for some distance from the lodge of Wanawosh, towards a point of land jutting into the lake. Lodges of green bark were promiscuously interspersed over this spot, with here and there a cluster of trees, or a solitary pine, which had escaped the fury of tempests for a thousand years. A belt of yellow sand skirted the lake shore in front, and a tall forest of oaks, pines, and poplars, formed the back-ground. In the centre of this green, stood a large pine, shattered and branchless from the conflicts of the elements, with a clear space around, famous as the scene of the war-dance, time out of mind. Here the youths assembled with their tall and graceful leader, distinguished, not only by his bearing, but by the feathers of the white eagle, which he wore on his head. A bright fire of pine-wood blazed upon the green, throwing its gleams upon the surrounding darkness. The young warrior led his men twice or thrice in a circular manner around this fire, with a measured step and solemn chant. Then, suddenly halting, the war-whoop was raised, and the dance immediately begun. An old man, sitting at the head of the ring, beat time upon the drum, while the grim array of warriors made the woods re-echo with their yells. Each warrior chanted alternately the verse of a song, all the rest joining in chorus:—

The eagles scream on high; They whet their forked beaks; Raise—raise the battle-cry, 'Tis fame our leader seeks.

Thus they continued the dance for two days and nights, with short intermissions; when, dropping off, one by one, from the fire, each sought his several way to the place appointed for the rendezvous, on the confines of the enemy's country. A braver or more determined war-party never left the village of the Chippewas. Their leader was not among the last to depart; but he did not quit the village without bidding a tender adieu to the daughter of Wanawosh. He imparted to her his firm determination, to perform an act that should establish his name as a warrior, or die in the attempt. He told her of the hitter pangs he had felt at her father's taunts—that his soul spurned the imputations of effeminacy and cowardice, implied by his language. He declared, that he never could be happy, either with or without her, until he had proved to the whole tribe the strength of his heart, which is the Indian term for courage. He said, that his dreams had not been so propitious as he could wish; but that he should not cease to invoke the favour of the Great Spirit in his behalf. He repeated his protestations of inviolable attachment, which she returned, and, pledging vows of mutual fidelity, they separated.

They never met again. The war-party, which he led, were conducted by him to victory. After having distinguished himself by most heroic bravery, he received an arrow in his breast, just as the enemy had fled, with the loss of many of their best warriors. On examining his wound, it was perceived to be beyond the power of cure. He languished a short time, and expired in the arms of his friends.

From the hour that she received the intelligence of his death, from the moment that the ominous death-howl met her ear, no smile was ever seen in the once happy lodge of Wanawosh. His daughter pined away by day and by night. Tears and sighs sorrow and lamentations, were heard continually. No efforts to amuse were capable of restoring her lost serenity of mind. Persuasives and reproofs were alternately employed, but employed in vain. It became her favourite custom to fly to a sequestered spot in the woods, and there sit under a shady tree, and sing her mournful laments. She would do so for days together. The following fragment of one of these songs is yet repeated:—

Oh! how can I sing the praise of my love! His spirit still lingers around me. The grass which grows upon his bed of earth Is yet too low; Its sighs cannot be heard upon the wind. Oh, he was beautiful! And he was brave!

I must not break the silence, The quiet of his still retreat, Nor waste the time in song, When his spirit still whispers to mine. I hear his gentle voice In the sounds of the newly-budded leaves; It tells me that he yet lingers near me; It says he loves in death Her whom he loved in life, Though deeply buried in the cold, cold earth. Whisper, spirit, to me, whisper.

And I shall sing; my song, When the green grass answers to my plaint, When in sighs respond to my moan, Then my voice shall be heard in his praise: Linger, lover, linger! Stay, spirit, stay!

The spirit of my love will soon leave me. He goes to the land of joyful repose; He gees to prepare my bridal bower. Sorrowing, I must wait, Until he comes, to call my soul away. Hasten, lover, hasten! Come, spirit, come!

Thus she daily repeated her plaintive song. It was not long before a small bird of beautiful plumage flew upon the tree, beneath which she usually sat, and, with its sweet and artless notes, seemed to respond to her voice. It was a bird of strange character, such as she had never seen before. It came every day and sang to her, remaining until it became dark. Her fond imagination soon led her to suppose that it was the spirit of her lover, and her visits to the favourite spot were repeated with greater frequency. She now gave herself up to singing and fasting. Thus she pined away, until that death which she had so fervently desired came to her relief. After her decease, the bird was never more seen. It became a popular opinion with her nation, that this mysterious bird had flown away with her soul to the land of bliss. But the bitter tears of remorse fell in the tent of Wanawosh, and he lived many years to regret his false pride and his harsh treatment of the unfortunate youth.



LEGENDS OF THE HAPPY HUNTING-GROUNDS.

I.—AKKEEWAISEE, THE AGED.

Let my brother listen to my words, and ponder deeply. Let him remain mute, and his question shall be answered. He has asked the opinion which the red men of the wilderness entertain of the Country of Souls;—he has asked us whither the spirits of good men repair when the sleep which knows no waking has come over them. Again, I say, let my brother listen deeply, for the words he will hear are concerning the question he has asked. We shall sing in his ears no tale of bloody deeds—of scalps taken from stricken warriors, or of victims bound to a naming stake. Our songs shall be songs of a state far happier than that enjoyed by mortals; we shall tell of worlds, the air of which is purer, the sun brighter, the moon milder, and the stars far more glorious—of the Land of the Happy Hunting-Grounds. As my brother will see, each nation has its own beloved place of rest for the soul. It is well. Could the Chippewas dwell with the Hurons, whose blood they have so frequently shed? Could a man of the Pawnee Loups embrace an Omawhaw, who carried at his back the scalps of his wife and his children? No; and, therefore, as they could not on earth dwell in peace together, so each has in the world of souls his separate hunting-grounds, his own rivers, lakes, valleys, mountains, forests, where no envious hunter may intrude, which no bloody-minded warrior may invade. An insurmountable and eternal barrier is placed between tribes who had formerly been at war, lest they disturb the peace of the blessed shades by a renewal of the quarrel, and shake the glorious mansions with the violence of wars, like those they wage on earth. My brother asks how, the Dahcotahs know these things. I answer, it was seen by one of them in his sleep; it came in the shape of a dream to a very wise man of our nation.

There was among us, in the days that are gone, a priest who was much beloved by his Master, and was taught by him to know the future as he knew the present, and to see and speak truly of things unseen by other eyes. He had been many years on the earth, and was now called "Akkeewaisee," a name signifying his great age. That he might better converse with, and worship his master he had taken up his abode in a hollow hill, near the great village of the Dahcotahs. Thither the tribe resorted, to be taught those things which were necessary to be known in respect to the proper ordering of the hunt or the war expedition, to the season at which the corn should be planted, or the gathering of the tribe at the chosen waters of the salmon should take place. Having never known any thing predicted by him prove false; having ordered, under his guidance, all their hunting and war expeditions right, and never failed, when relying on his presentiments, to go to the haunts of the salmon, at the proper season, and to return from thence with full bellies and glad hearts, they listened to the words of Akkeewaisee, the Aged, and believed the tale which he told them of the Land of Spirits.

Akkeewaisee, the Aged, was sleeping on his bed of skins and soft grass, when the Manitou of Dreams came to him, and led him out of the hollow cave towards the Wanare-tebe, or dwelling-place of the souls of the Dahcotahs, and their kindred tribes. Onward they travelled for many suns, over lofty mountains, up whose rocky sides they were obliged to scramble as a wild goat scrambles; now swimming deep rivers, now threading mazy forests, now frozen in the regions of intense cold, and now burnt in those of great heat, till at length they came to a very high rock, the edge of which was as sharp as the sharpest knife. Waiting, at its hither end, their turn to essay the dangerous test of their good or bad deeds, the unerring trial of their guilt or purity, stood many souls of Dahcotahs, and others whom Akkeewaisee had known on the earth. He stood and beheld the punishment of the bad, and the blessed escape of the good from the dreadful ordeal to which all alike were subjected. He saw a Dahcotah attempt the dangerous passage who had been too lazy to hunt, who had lain whole days stretched out upon his mat, while his wife begged food of the husbands of other women, and his children were clothed with skins, the produce of the labours of other men. He saw him precipitated from the dizzy height into the depths below, where the Evil Spirit received him into ids arms, and condemned him to that—to the criminal—hardest of punishments, a life of labour and fatigue. The great stick of wood was placed upon his shoulders, and a great pail of water in each hand, while the evil creature appointed to be his task-master flogged him incessantly to incite to a quicker walk. Again was the passage attempted by another. A Dahcotah came forward, who had dared to paint his cheeks as a warrior paints, and to shave his crown to the scalp-lock, and to prepare a sheaf of arrows, and to strike the painted pole, that stood by the council fire, and to dance the war-dance, and to utter the whoop of a warrior. Yet, when he came to the field where the hostile Tetons were assembled to do battle with his tribe—when his brothers had rushed like men upon their foes—he wiped the paint from his cheeks, he cut off the scalp-lock, he threw away his sheaf of arrows, he forgot that he had struck the war-pole, or danced, or whooped, and fled from the field as a deer flies from the bark of a dog. Him the master of the fetes of the bad ordained to a ceaseless warfare with the shades of the Tetons, from whom he had fled. He saw a liar attempt the dreadful passage—he fared no better than those who had preceded him; a reviler of the priests, and disbeliever in their power, met with the same fate. He saw the son of the aged Tadeus-kund, who had beaten his mother and spat in the face of his father, double chained to a wheel which moved over the floor of the abyss, at the top of the speed of the unnatural son.

Then came the turn of the good to make the trial of the rock. He saw pass safely over all who had been good to their parents, who had hunted well, fought bravely, told no lies, nor ridiculed, nor doubted, the priests. Having seen them all arrive in safety at the other end of the rode, the spirit conducted Akkeewaisee over also. They had yet a long way to travel, but they were guided by their observation of the encamping places of the souls who had preceded them. At each of these places tents were pitched, and fires always lighted where they could warm themselves, and rest until they had driven away the pains of fatigue, and recovered strength to pursue their journey. After many moons of weary travel, they arrived at the habitation of the Waktan Tanka, or Great Spirit. It was situated in the middle of a flowery vale, watered by cool and refreshing streams, and shaded by groves of larch and cypress. Many villages of the dead were scattered over it; here one, and there one, like single buffaloes feeding on a prairie. Akkeewaisee asked if the souls of his father and mother had reached the happy vale, and was directed to the village in which they dwelt. He found, gathered in this village, the souls of all his race who had passed the rock; the joyful reunion had there taken place for a long succession of ages—of fathers and mothers, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters: they now composed one great family. Their life—the life of all assembled in the valley of the Waktan Tanka—was blissful and happy beyond measure. They planted corn, which never failed to grow tall; they hunted the buffalo through flowery vales, till they pierced his side with a never-varying arrow, Akkeewaisee asked the spirits if it was permitted to them to revisit the land of the living. They answered never, except when children were about to die, and then their departed relatives recrossed the rock of judgment to guide their tender feet to their latest home.

Having lain three moons in the trance, the soul of the Aged Man re-animated his body, and he awoke. He related to the people of the tribe his dream of the Land of departed Spirits, and it has travelled down to my time as I have told it to my brother.

II.—THE DELAWARE HEAVEN.

The stranger has been shown the Dahcotah land of souls—let him behold that of the Delawares. The Delawares, who are the grandfather of nations, believe that the habitation of good spirits is beyond the beautiful sky, which forms the partition between them and those who are doomed yet longer to inhabit the frail, and sickly, and feverish, tenement of flesh. The road to this bright land of spirits leads over a mighty and fearful rock, upon which the sky rolls to and fro with a stupendous sound. I am asked, "How do the Delawares know this?" I will tell you.

There were, once upon a time, in the tribe of the Unamis or Turtles, the most potent and warlike tribe of the Delawares, two valiant warriors, who feared nothing greatly but shame and disgrace. One of them loved and was beloved by a beautiful girl of the same nation, who, in a thoughtless moment, for at no other would she have made her lover incur so great a danger, expressed a wish to know if the soul of her deceased sister remembered the promise she had made her, of feeding with sweet berries, and nursing in her bosom, the spirit of the little bird which dropped dead from the bough of the locust-tree on the evening of her own death. The other warrior had lost his mother, whom he tenderly loved, and he wished to go and see, with his own eyes, if they used her well in the land of spirits, nor bowed her back to heavier burdens than accorded with the faintness of advanced years. They concluded, one to gain a smile from his beloved maiden, and the other to gratify his affectionate regards for his mother, to obtain a view of the Land of departed Souls; but it was not till they had been frequently reminded of their undertaking, and their courage had been repeatedly taxed(1), that, brave as they were, they could make their hearts strong enough to face the spirits of the winds that rove about the sky, or the thunders that leap from the black cloud. They left the village of the Unamis, and travelled for many moons in a path very crooked and difficult to be travelled, till at length they came to a mighty and fearful rock, upon which the sky was rolling to and fro with a tremendous sound, and a motion resembling that of the waves of the Great Lake Superior, when tossed about by a tempest. The winds were gambolling about the pathway, not as upon the earth, invisible to the eye, but in shapes, some of which were the most beautiful ever beheld, and some more frightful than ever entered into the conception of a son of the earth. The stars, which the inhabitants of the world are accustomed to see chained to their allotted bounds, were there floating and dashing about in the thin air, like a boat moving on troubled waters. After travelling with extreme pain and suffering for a long time upon this road, now buffetted by the terrific and angry forms of the north and east winds, and now soothed and comforted by the ministering shapes of the breezes of the west and south—now assisted by the strength of their own hearts, and by turns assailed or protected by the stars, they reached the Land of Souls. It was a beautiful country, they said, and the employments to which souls were there subjected, produced to them all the pleasant consequences they produced on earth to those who followed them, while they were unattended by the labour and difficulties attached to them in the earthly stage of existence. The sky was always cloudless, and a perpetual spring reigned throughout those happy regions. The forests were always full of game, and the lakes of fish, which were taken without the laborious pursuit and painful exertion of skill, which were necessary to secure them in the earthly habitation. The embodied forms of their friends retained the same wishes, inclinations, and habits, which had belonged to them while occupying the terrestrial house. So say the Unamis.

Another tribe of Delawares do not believe as the Unamis do—they think that the land of departed souls lies in another part of the sky, and that the path to it is not over mighty and fearful rocks, through the hideous army of embattled winds, and among the bounds and rebounds of unchained stars. There were once, but the time was many ages ago, in the tribe of the Unalachtas, two fearless and prudent hunters, who had one father, but not one mother, who had never offended the Great Spirit, or the inferior spirits, but duly observed in all their actions a full and unceasing remembrance of the Giver of all good gifts, as well as those who take a lesser part in the government of the world; and, whether in their cabins or in the wild forests, had never failed to offer sacrifices to him of the most valued part of all their acquisitions. When they came to the river or the lake, they threw in a large piece of their tobacco, and cast in birds, whose throats had been cut, and feathers plucked from the tip of the wings, to propitiate and render favourable to their prayers the haughty Michabou, the God of the Waters. When the kind and beneficent sun rose, they were careful to throw into the fire, to which he imparts the heat, a portion of every thing they intended to use that day; and when the mistress of bad spirits, the Moon, came out of the far woods, they took great care to propitiate the evil intelligences which sit upon her horns, plotting mischief to mortals, by liberal gifts of petun, or collars of beads, or ears of maize, or skins of animals. When their feet stood upon the edge of the mighty cataract, then was the most valued dog precipitated, then was the most valued drink poured into the overwhelming torrent, to appease the angry spirit of the abyss. And thus, performing their duties to the Great Master and their fellow-creatures, lived the two good Unalachta hunters.

But death at length at their request came to them. They wished to see the Country of Souls, and to judge with their own eyes if its situation and its delights had been truly told to them. Much had it been talked of, but who were they that talked? They were mortals—men, who had never quitted the corporeal state, nor stood forth disembodied spirits; things with the feelings which attend human nature. They wished to see if thorns and arrows would not wound the flesh of those who had departed hence; nor fire burn, nor cold freeze, nor hunger pinch, nor repletion distress, nor grief draw tears, nor joy produce excitement. Bending low before the Master of Life, with clay upon their heads, one of them, the elder, thus addressed him:

"Spirit of the Happy Lands! Tamenund, and the son of his father's wife, are on their knees before thee, with clay spread on their hair. It is not required that we name our wishes to thee; if thou art, as we think, the all-pervading and all-knowing spirit, thou knowest what they are before we have uttered them; if thou art not gifted with these attributes, why should we pour our words into the ears of one unable to grant us the boon we ask? We wish to die for a time; we wish that our eyes may be enabled to see the Happy Hunting-Grounds, if there be such grounds, and our ears to drink in the music of the streams which our fathers told us welled softly along beside the village of the dead. Master of Life, hear us, and grant our request."

Tamenund, and the son of his father's wife, lay down upon their couch of skins and soft grass, when the dews first began to descend upon the earth, and the deep sleep of death came over them. They found that their prayers had been heard, and themselves released from the thraldom of life and the load of the flesh. The spirit, unchained from the matter that shrivels and becomes dust, danced about like the winds of spring over the bosom of a prairie. It could stand upon the slenderest stalk of grass without bending it, and ascend and descend upon the sunbeams, as a healthy boy rung up and down a slight hill. Soon they found themselves irresistibly impelled by a wish to rise, and travel towards the bright track in the skies, where the light of innumerable stars is mingled in such confusion. They rose, and as a canoe, moving in the vicinity of the dwelling of Michabou[A], is drawn rapidly towards it by the hands of unseen spirits, so were they hurried towards the road of souls, which our white brother calls the Milky Way. They came to it, and found it thronged by innumerable hosts of spirits of all colours, all bound in the same bright path to the same glorious home. After travelling in this path for two suns, they came to a great city surrounded by the shade of a high wall. Within this wall, which was of immense extent, enclosing rivers and lakes, and forests and prairies, and all the things which are found on earth, dwelt the souls of good men; without, hovering around, as a hawk hovers around a dove's nest, into which he dares not pounce, because he sees near it a bent bow in the hands of a practised archer, were the souls of the bad, debarred entrance, and, as often as they approached very near, driven away by the ministering spirits of the Great Master of ail. Within the wall were all the things which give pleasure to the red man; the river filled with fishes disporting in their loved element, the lakes thronged with glad fowls, wheeling in their devious paths, and the woods with beautiful birds, singing their soft songs of love and joy from the flowery boughs of the tulip-tree and the Osage apple. They saw in the open space a panther, fangless and powerless, and heard in the thicket the growl of a fat bear, that could neither bite nor scratch. The speed of the bison was outstripped by that of the spirits; the wings of the wild turkey and soland-goose could not convey them out of the reach of the sprightly inhabitants of the City of Souls. Their corn grew up like trees, with two ears upon every stalk, and the produce of their bean-garden was a thousand for one. But while the souls of the good were so happy, and their joys so many, miserable, miserable was the state of the bad who were excluded from the city. They saw the happiness of the good souls, many of whom had been known to them on the earth, and they gnashed their teeth with impotent rage, and uttered a war-whoop, as a leg-broken bear growls or a chained man threatens, at the sight of the bliss of which they were not permitted to partake.

[Footnote A: Many of the Indians suppose that the God of the Waters (Michabou) resides in the Cataract of St. Anthony.]

When they had remained three suns in the Joyful Abodes, the Great Spirit bade them prepare for their return to the earth. He told them there were human duties for them to perform before they could be permitted to take up their residence for ever in the Happy City. He bade Tamenund remember, that he had not taught his little son how to toughen a young ash bow, nor how to splint a shaken arrow. And he told the son of his father's wife that he had suffered the bird of his cabin to sow more corn than she could gather in, and that he must return to the earth, and see that her shoulders were not bowed by the heavy task of the harvest. "There were other duties for them to perform," he said, "and many must yet be their years on the earth."

In obedience to the orders of the Great Master of all, they returned to the Unalachta village, and again re-animated the bodies they had left. Tamenund taught his son how to toughen a young ash bow, and splint a shaken arrow; and the son of his father's wife forgot the dignity of an approved hunter, to assist his beloved woman in harvesting the corn. They lived long, and acted well, and when their years were many, when their limbs had grown feeble and their eyes dark with the mists of age, when they could no longer bend the bow of their youth, nor run the race of vigorous manhood, they were called from the earth, to enjoy that happiness which they had been permitted to behold with the eyes of humanity.

NOTE.

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(1) Courage had been repeatedly taxed.—p. 234.

There is nothing which an Indian will not attempt to perform when his courage is taxed, or the honour of his nation called in question. "An Omawhaw," says Long, "being on a visit to the Pawnees, was present at a kind of grand incantation, during which many extraordinary feats were performed. He there saw, for the first time, the mountebank trick of appearing to cut off the tongue, and afterwards replacing the severed portions without a wound. 'There,' said Katterfelto, 'your medicine is not strong enough to enable you to perform this operation. The stranger, jealous of his national honour, and unwilling to be exceeded, unhesitatingly drew forth his knife, and actually cut off nearly the whole of his tongue, and bled to death before their eyes."

III.—THE HUNTING-GROUNDS OF THE BLACKFOOTS.

The Blackfoot believes that his fathers have told him truly, when they told him that the people of his tribe, when released from the load of flesh, come to a steep mountain, up whose huge projecting sides they have to scramble. After many moons of unwearied labour, tired and exhausted, they reach the top, from which they behold the land of the dead. They see stretched out before them an extensive plain, interspersed with new tents, pitched by the sides of beautiful streams, the banks of which resound with the humming of bees and the music of birds, and are shaded from the summer sun by the ever-blooming tree with great white flowers. Some of the tents are pitched upon hills, some in valleys, some to meet the whispering breezes of the Month of Buds, and some the strengthening winds of the Harvest-Moon. While, from the top of the mountain they are absorbed in contemplation of this delightful scene, the inhabitants of the happy land discover them, and come singing and dancing along, clothed in new skins, to meet them, with the blanket of friendship widely spread to the winds (1). Those Indians who have led good lives approach with that fearless step and eye which the recollection of good deeds always inspires, and are received with every demonstration of joy common among Indians; but those who have embrued their hands in the blood of their countrymen, and betray, by their pale cheeks and trembling steps, that they expect and deserve punishment, and those whose foreheads have been in any way blackened by the smoke of the breath of the Spirit of Evil, are told to return whence they came, and without more words are pitched down the sides of the mountain. Women, whose hard hearts have made their feeble hands take the life to which they had given birth, quenching the little spark struck out from the half-burnt brand, never reach the mountain at all, but are compelled by the Master of all to hover around the seats of their crimes, with branches of the mountain pine tied to their legs. The melancholy sounds heard in the still summer evenings, and which ignorant white men think the screams of the goat-sucker, or the groans of the owl, are the moanings of these wicked and unhappy mothers, lamenting the unnatural murder of their helpless little ones. They are trying to recall them to life, that their doom may be revoked, and that they may be permitted to approach the mountain.

In the Blackfoot land of souls, all are treated according as the deeds they have done have been good or evil in their intent or their consequences. If they have truly and faithfully performed those things for which they were sent upon the earth, if they have been good sons, good husbands, good fathers, good friends; if they have fought bravely, hunted well, told no lies, nor spoken evil of the Great Spirit, nor made laugh at his priests, they know neither pain nor sorrow, their time is spent in singing and dancing, and they feed upon mushrooms, which are very abundant and grow without cultivation. They are attended to the Happy Regions by the shades of their dogs and guns, and the shades of their huts and every thing they contained are ready for them the moment they arrive in these happy regions. The souls of bad men, which are not separated from the good save by the different feelings and pursuits which belonged to them in life, wander about, haunted by the phantoms of the persons or things they have injured. If a man has destroyed his neighbour's canoe, or his gun, or his bow and arrows, the phantoms of the wrecks of this property obstruct his passage wherever he goes. He sees every where the bow, self-drawn, ready to impel an arrow pointed at his breast, the gun ready poised, the canoe threatening to sink him. If he has been cruel to his dogs and horses, they also are permitted to torment him, and to hunt him down, as he in his life-time hunted the wolf and the deer. The ghosts of the men whom he injured in life are now permitted to avenge their wrongs, and to inflict on his shade pains commensurate with those he made them suffer. The spirit of the man, from whom he stole the ear of soft maize, now snatches from his hungry lips the red-gilled mushroom, and he, into whose crystal stream he threw impure substances, in revenge, strikes from his lip the gourd of crystal water. The good hunter, whose bowstring he enviously cut, fillips him on the forehead; the warrior whose spear he broke when no human eye beheld him, now, informed of the unmanly deed by the Spirit who sees all, spits in his face, as a coward should be spat upon. The soul of the horse which he overrode, or otherwise maltreated, runs backwards upon him, with elevated heels and a loud neigh; the dog he whipped too much or too often rushes upon him with open mouth, and the growl of bitter and inextinguishable hatred. He steps into the canoe, it sinks beneath him, and, when his chin is level with the water, it rises beyond his reach. Lo, there is a gun before him, and the shade of a stately stag nipping the phantom of a youthful hazel. He makes the attempt to point the gun towards it, and just as he supposes he has attained the object, and puts forth his hand to give vent to the winged weapon of death, he finds the gun has changed its position—the muzzle is pointed towards his own breast. Thus opposed, thwarted, baffled, by every thing around him, despised by all things, whether gifted with life or not, he passes an existence, the horrors of which may be felt but not described.

The soul of the Blackfoot never returns to earth, except to forewarn his friends of their approaching dissolution. When the Great Spirit says to him, "Spirit of a Blackfoot, the son or the daughter of your father is about to leave the green vales of the earth,"—"the foot of your father is shaking off the drowsiness of age, that he may prepare for the long journey of spirits,"—"the babe that was born yesterday will be journeying hither to-day,"—"the heart of your kind mother wants courage to die,"—"the soul of your beloved maiden, much as it longs for the arms of its tender lover, faints at the near prospect of the pang that rends asunder the flesh and the spirit—go, and comfort them,"—then, and then only—always at the bidding of the Great Master, never of its own accord—does the soul revisit the gross and unhappy world it has left. Then does it knock at the ear of the sleeper, whispering, "Take courage, for the Master despises cowards—meet the pang as a brave warrior—as a good hunter—as a wise priest—as a beauteous maiden should meet it, and rejoin the happy souls of thy race, in the valley of the kind and good Waktan Tanka." The sleeper, thus admonished, wakes with the words of the spirit deeply engraved on the green leaf of his memory—that leaf never becomes dry. Is he a warrior, and has he the fate to be taken in the toils of the enemy?—when bound to the stake, and the fire scorches his limbs, and the pincers rend his flesh, and the hot stone sears his eye-balls, and the other torments are inflicted, that serve to feed the revenge of the conqueror, and test the resolution of the captive, no groan can be forced from him, in the utmost extremity of his anguish; he never stains his death-song with grief, but dies as he lived, a man, because he knows that the Great Spirit despises cowards. Is he a hunter?—he enters boldly the den of the black bear, though surrounded by her cubs, and he laughs at the cry of the catamount, though he crouches for his bound. Is he a priest?—he calls louder and more frequently and joyfully than before upon his familiar spirit; he thanks the Master that his prayers are heard; and he is to be permitted to visit the happy lands. And what if the tears of the bright-eyed maiden do drop on the bosom of those who pillow her head in the Hour of Dread, they are not tears of sorrow, but flow from an eye, by the command of Him who made it the window of the soul, fated to the weakness of tears, and a heart prone to irresolution and trembling. The Great Waktan Tanka knows that he made her with the heart of a dove, that shakes at the fall of a leaf, and the soul of a song-sparrow, that utters its cry of fear at the fall of a flake of snow. He will not number tears and sighs, and tremblings and faintings, among the transgressions of a woman.

This is all I have to say.

NOTE.

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(1) To meet them with the blanket of friendship widely spread to the winds.—p. 246.

The Indian manner of displaying friendship is very singular; in that mentioned in the second extract, the reader will perceive a strong resemblance to the Oriental practice of saluting a new acquaintance, as depicted in that admirable tale, The Crusaders.

"When they were within a mile of us, the Indian suddenly stopt. Captain Lewis immediately followed his example, took the blanket from his knapsack, and, holding it with both hands at each corner, threw it above his head, and unfolded it as he brought it to the ground, as if in the act of spreading it. This signal, which originates in the practice of spreading a robe or a skin as a seat for guests to whom they wish to show a distinguished kindness, is the universal sign of friendship among the Indians of the Missouri and the Rocky Mountains. It is repeated three times."—Lewis and Clarke, i. 355.

"As our canoes approached the shore, and had reached about three score rods of it, the Indians began a feu-de-joie, in which they fired their pieces loaded with balls, but at the same time they took care to discharge them in such a manner as to cause the balls to fly a few yards above our heads; during this, they ran from one tree or stump to another, shouting and behaving as if they were in the heat of battle. At first I was greatly surprised, and was on the point of ordering my attendants to return their fire, concluding that their intentions were hostile; but, being undeceived by some of the traders, who informed me that this was the usual mode of receiving friends, I happily desisted."—Carver, 15.

"Among the Shoshonees of the Rocky Mountains, they put their left arms over the right shoulder of the person they welcome, clapping his back, and applying their left cheek to his, shouting, 'Ah, hi e! Ah, hie e!' I am much rejoiced, I am much pleased to see you."—Lewis and Clarke, i. 363.

"When two parties of those Indians meet," (the Northern Indians,) says Hearne, "the ceremonies which pass between them are quite different from those made use of in Europe on similar occasions; for, when they advance within twenty or thirty yards of each other, they make a full halt, and in general sit or lie down on the ground, and do not speak for some minutes. At length one of them, generally an elderly man, if any such be in the company, breaks silence, by acquainting the other party with every misfortune that had befallen him, &c. When he has finished his oration, another orator of the other party relates, in like manner, all the bad news."—p. 332.

IV.—THE STONE CANOE.

Where is the land of the Chepewyans? Where have that tribe of valiant warriors and expert hunters built their lodges? I will tell you. It is in the regions of almost perpetual snows; regions whose suns are never warm enough to pierce the frozen earth, which, therefore, produces nothing but moss. No sweet ears of corn grow to reward the toils of the woman; no wild flowers spring up for the youthful maiden to pluck. The child wanders forth to gather no berries; no bird of sweet music sings on the branch; no butterfly flits in the valley. Chill and dreary are the autumns, cold and bitter the winters; men drink melted ice, when in other lands buds are bursting open, and wear for a summer garment the skins of the otter and the beaver. Instead of the mild and whispering breezes of southern skies, we have the wild winds rushing impetuously forth from their caves in the icy north, and the sun of the land of the Chepewyans, knowing his uselessness, and the inability of his beams to rend the fetters which ice has thrown around our bleak hills and verdureless plains, stays with us but for a little season, leaving us for many weary days to be lighted only by the glare of the moon and stars, on the field of ice and snow. Yet the Chepewyan is not without his pleasures, as those who live in the land of the sun have their pains. He may drive from their frozen dens the beasts that make their beds in the bank of snow, and he may pursue the bear on the iceberg, and the musk-ox in the glade. In summer he may strike the salmon as he glides through the waters of the Bear Lake, and send his darts through the brown eagle, and make captive the white owl, hidden in the foliage of the dwarf-pine. In the winter, when the storm of hail rattles around his lodge of ice, stretched out on his bed of moss, he may recount the glories of his nation, and the great deeds of his fathers; And he may solace himself for the privations he endures, in his present state of being, by fancying those he will enjoy in that land of rest upon which he will enter when his spirit goes hence, and returns to the body no more.

A Chepewyan chief sat by the fire of his cabin in the time of winter, and the hour of a fall of snow, and told, in the ears of the listening tribe, a legend of the land of souls, the Chepewyan tradition of the Happy Hunting-Grounds. Let the assembled nations listen, and hear it repeated by the tongue of his son, who sat with open ears at his father's knee, drinking in the beloved words of beloved lips, and engraving them deeply on the core of his heart.

"Once upon a time," my father began, "there lived in our nation a most beautiful maiden, the flower of the wilderness—the delight and wonder of all who saw her. She was called the Rock-rose, and was beloved by a youthful hunter, whose advances she met with an equal ardour. No one but the brave Outalissa was permitted to whisper tales of love by the side of her nocturnal couch in the hour of darkness(1). The rock-moss he gathered was always the sweetest; and the produce of his hunt, however old and tough, was, in her opinion, the youngest and tenderest. They had loved from childhood, and with the deepest affection. But it was not permitted them to become inhabitants of one lodge, the occupants of one conch. Death came to the flower of the Chepewyans, in the morning of her days, and the body of the tender maiden was laid in the dust with the customary rites of burial. First, dressed in the richest garb she possessed, the gay-tinted robe of curiously woven feathers, and decked out with the ornaments bestowed upon her by the youth she loved, they placed her in the grave, lined with pine branches, amidst the groans and lamentations of the whole nation. The men howled loud and long, and the women cut off their hair, and scarred their flesh, and pierced their arms with sharp knives, and blackened their faces with charred wood. When the earth covered her from human sight, then woke their loudest burst of sorrow—all wept, save him who had most cause to weep; he stood motionless as a tree in the hour of calm, as the wave that is frozen up by the breath of the cold wind.

"Joy came no more to the bereaved lover. The chase afforded him no pleasure, for who was to share his spoils? He found no joy in pursuing the salmon, for no one lived to reward his successful quest with the smile of approbation. He told his discontent in the ears of his people, and spoke of his determination, at all events, to rejoin his beloved maiden. She had but removed, he said, to some happier region, as the Arctic birds fly south at the approach of winter; and it required but due diligence on his part to find her. Having prepared himself, as a hunter prepares himself, with a store of pemmican, or dried beef, and armed himself with his war-spear and bow and arrow, he set out upon his journey to the Land of Souls. Directed by the old tradition of his fathers, he travelled south to reach that region, leaving behind him the great star, and the fields of eternal ice. As he moved onwards he found a more pleasant region succeeding to that in which he had lived. Daily, hourly, he remarked the change. The ice grew thinner, the air warmer, the trees taller. Birds, such as he had never seen before, sang in the bushes, and fowls of many kinds, before unknown, were pluming themselves in the warm sun on the shores of the lake. The gay woodpecker was tapping the hollow beech; the swallow and the martin were skimming along the level of the green vales. He heard no more the cracking of branches of trees beneath the weight of icicles and snow;—he saw no more the spirits of departed men dancing wild dances on the skirts of the Northern clouds(2); and the farther he travelled the milder grew the skies, the longer was the period of the sun's stay upon the earth, and the softer, though less brilliant, the light of the moon. Noting these changes as he went with a joyful heart—for they were indications of his near approach to the land of joy and delight—he came at length to a cabin, situated on the brow of a steep hill, in the middle of a narrow road. At the door of this cabin stood a man of a most ancient and venerable appearance. He was bent nearly double with age; his locks were white as snow; his eyes were sunk very far into his head, and the flesh was wasted from his bones till they were like trees from which the bark had been peeled. He was clothed in a robe of white goat-skin, and a long staff supported his tottering limbs whithersoever he walked. The Chepewyan began to tell him who he was, and why he had come thither, but the aged man prevented him, by saying that he knew all. "There had passed," he said, "to the beautiful island, a little while before, the soul of a tender and lovely maiden, well known to the son of the Red Elk. Being fatigued with her long journey, he had rested awhile in his cabin, and had then told him the story of their long and affectionate attachment, and her persuasion that her lover would attempt to follow her to the Lake of Spirits. She had but just passed, and a little more speed on his part would enable him to overtake her. But he could not be permitted to carry his body, nor the body of his dog, nor his bow, nor his war-spear, beyond the door of the cabin, which was the gate of the land. He must leave them in his charge till his return, but he need not fear that harm would happen to them. So saying, he opened the gate, and gave him a glimpse of the wide and spacious road beyond.""