"Karkapaha is the husband of Tatoka," said Mahtoree, springing to his feet, and he gave the beautiful maiden to her lover. The traditionary lore of the Mahas is full of the exploits, both in war and the chase, of Karkapaha, who was made a man by the Spirits of the Mountain.



THE VALLEY OF THE BRIGHT OLD INHABITANTS.

On the northern branch of the river of the Cherokees, the most numerous and powerful tribe of the south, there are two high mountains nearly covered with mossy rocks, and lofty cedars, and pines. These mountains, rugged and terrible to behold, are made yet more fearful to the mind of the red man of the forest, who sees the Great Being in the clouds, and hears him in the winds, and fancies a spirit in every thing that moves, by the horrid sights and awful sounds which proceed from them. Often, as the sun sinks behind those mountains, persons who have their eyes intently fixed upon them will see lofty forms whose heads stretch far into the sky, standing upon their summits, or oftener leaping from one mountain to the other clean across the wide valley which separates them. Those shapes we can see wear the shape of man, yet their actions do not seem to belong to a race of mortals, and we deem them spirits—giant spirits, which never had the sinews, and bones, and muscle, and flesh, of men. And often, in the midnight hour, the listener hears sounds proceeding from those mountains—the whispers of love, the loud tones of strife, or the merry ones of joy—laughing and weeping—wooing and strife—expressing all the various passions and emotions which find a place in the bosoms of mortals. With these mighty spirits no mortal hath had communication, for they never leave the mountain—and who shall dare approach their villages? No one has heard their story, no one knows their creator, nor when they were born, nor when they shall die, if death be appointed to them. They have lived in mystery: showing their forms as the trunk of a decayed, and branch-less tree shows itself from out a morning mist, and raising their voices but as a thunder-cloud in summer, they will depart as a spirit departs, noiselessly, and go no one knows whither.

Between these two lofty and dreaded mountains, there is a deep valley, or rather a succession of deep valleys, for the occurrence at short spaces of low hills breaks the continuousness of that with which the space between those mountains commences. In these valleys the beams of the sun are concentrated and drawn together, creating at times a heat so great, that nothing can live in them but those reptiles, which are ripened and fattened to full growth only by suns which scorch like fire. In these same valleys have dwelt, ever since the earth was first placed on the back of the great tortoise, those Kind Old Kings, the Bright Old Inhabitants(1), which are rattlesnakes of a most prodigious size, possessed of singular properties, and endowed with tremendous and fearful powers. It is death to venture within their limits, and equally fatal to displease them. So well convinced are the people of my nation of their power to inflict an instant and dreadful death on all, that no temptation can induce them to betray their secret recesses to the wanton stranger. They well know that, if they do so, they shall be exposed to the unceasing attacks of all the inferior species of snakes who love their kings, which are these Bright Old Inhabitants, and know by instinct those who injure, or attempt to injure them. They know that, let but those kings issue their commands, there is not a snake that crawls but will open his mouth or use his sting to inflict the greatest possible degree of vengeance in his power on the enemies and oppressors of those whom he loves and obeys. Hence the place of residence of the Kind Old Kings is kept a secret by our people. For a long time they did not know it themselves, and only became acquainted with it when the occurrence took place which I am about to relate to my brother.

Once upon a time, many years ago, there lived among the Cherokees a man who was neither a warrior nor a hunter, yet was the most celebrated man of his nation, and further known than its proudest warrior or most expert hunter. He was a priest, and knew the secret ways, and the will, and the wishes, of his master, the Great Spirit. Not only was he skilled in the wisdom of the land of souls, but he was learned in matters which affect the dwellers in the body. He knew how to cure the ailments of the body, as well as to give answers to the questions which related to the ways and doings of the Being above all. He could tell at what time in the morning men should go to the Hill of Prayer, with clay on their heads, to cry for mercy and aid, and when they should repair to the Cave of Sacrifice, to gather the will of the Great Spirit from the hollow voice[A] within it. He alone, of all the mighty nation of the Cherokees, had seen that Spirit; he alone had heard him speak, and to none other would that Spirit deign to listen, or to give reply. Chepiasquit, for that was the name of this famous priest, was indeed a very wise man, and his sayings were reckoned of scarcely less authority then the words of his master. Whatever he said had a weight which other men's words had not; and all his actions, however trifling in their nature, were magnified into actions of importance, and became invested with a character, which did not belong to those of men in other respects more gifted than he. Yet the unbounded respect in which his nation held him was not undeserved. Wisdom he possessed, and he used it to the furthering of the interests, and the advancing of the happiness, of his people. If they wanted rain, they asked Chepiasquit for it, and he gave it to them. If too much fell, they had only to complain to him, and the clouds witheld their floods, and the waters were locked up in the hollow of the hand of him that created them. If the thunders were heard to roll awfully, and the fearful lightnings were seen to flash along the black sky, they spoke to Chepiasquit, who uttered a short prayer to Him who controuls the elements as well as man, and all became hushed and still; the black clouds passed away, and the bright stars looked out from their places of rest in the clear blue sky. All things seemed obedient to him, when he chose to open his lips in supplication to his master. The fame which he had acquired by this intimacy and friendship with the Great Spirit was the means of giving peace to his nation. His reputation being spread far and near, no tribe durst try their strength in war, or measure their weapons in combat, with a people who were possessed of such a friend, protector, leader, and priest. So the Cherokees rested in peace, and the earth was no more made red with blood, but wore the robe which nature provided for it—the robe of green. They planted their corn in the Budding-Moon, and lived to see it harvested in the Moon of Falling Leaves. They left the doors of their cabins unlatched at night, and the sentinel slept as sound and as long as the new-born babe. Their arrows were eaten up by the rust of sloth and inactivity, and the strings of their bows were rotted by the mildew of carelessness and idleness. The aged met not now in the great council-house, to plan distant expeditions, or frustrate expected invasions; the youth spent their time in courting and marrying. The fame of Chepiasquit changed the character of the nation from warlike to peaceable, and banished from the land the vulture of war and havoc, to give place to the dove of peace and tranquillity.

[Footnote A: Hollow voice—echo.]

Four wives had this wise priest; they bore him many children: but, great as was his power with the Master of the World, it did not enable him to obtain for them a continuance of life beyond the second moon of their birth. All, save one, died while they were yet swinging in their cradles of willow-bark from the bough of the tree—that one, a daughter, was spared to his entreaties and prayers. Winona, or the first-born, for that was the name bestowed on the child, grew up in the cabin of her father, beautiful beyond any maiden that ever graced the nation of Cherokees. How shall I describe to my brother from the far country the matchless charms of Chepiasquit's virgin daughter! Shall I tell him that her eyes were the eyes of the mountain kid, and her hair long and glossier than the plumage of the raven, and her teeth white and even, and her hand delicate and plump, and her foot small and speedy? Shall I say that her voice was joyful as the voice of a mated bird in spring, and her temper cheerful, sweet, mild, kind, and always the same? Shall I increase his admiration for the beautiful creature, by telling him that she best loved to sit by the quiet hearth of her parents, leaving it to lighter and less amiable maidens to rove on idle errands and frivolous pursuits through the village. For, let my brother learn, she was that wonder, a woman, contented and happy in her own house, with none but her own father to listen or reply. During the long evenings of the period when the sun is away from the earth for so great a portion of the day, she would sit on her soft couch of skins and dried moss, listening to the tales he would repeat of the wonderful things he had seen and heard; the dreams of strange and fearful creatures which had troubled his hours of sleep, and the actual appearance to him, when sleep was far from his eyelids, of beings or phantoms not of this world; and the traditions which told of the love, or hatred, or favour, or punishment, of the Great Spirit—of his bounties sent to the Cherokees, when famine reared his gaunt form among them, or of wrath provoked, and punishment inflicted, when pride dwelt in their villages, when their thoughts were far from him, when no clay was put on their heads, when the tender and juicy flesh of the deer smoked not in his sacrifice. Wars he had seen, though he had left victory to be achieved by others, for he had been a man of peace. To the tales of her beloved father would the fair maiden listen with great delight, for they accorded with the belief in wonderful events and supernatural appearances, which is early impressed on the mind of every Indian, and never leaves him but with life. She would sit for hours with her little head rested on her palm, her whole soul absorbed by the wild narratives, which, during the long season of winter, are related to while away the hours spared from war and the chace.

Beloved with a greater degree of affection than is usually felt even among those whose lives are little subject to the incidents which weaken or destroy attachments, the beautiful daughter of the Cherokee priest grew up to womanhood, the cherished idol of all her friends, the boast and pride of the nation. The young and ardent Braves sought her hand in marriage; but she was deaf to all their entreaties and protestations, and refused all their offers. Yet she did it with so much kindness, and said so many sweet words to blunt the severity of the refusal, that all her lovers became her friends, and each, with affectionate kindness, blended with the bold bearing of one who says what he knows he has courage to perform, promised that his love mellowed into friendship should remain firmly fixed in his heart, and that he would defend its object, should danger cross her path, as long as strength was given him to carry a spear. The rejection by the fair Winona of so many youths, most of whom were deemed worthy of her choice, gave the father pain; but he loved his daughter too well to wish to make her unhappy by a marriage with one she did not love. He had seen—and who does not?—that the bird selects for its mate the bird it likes best; that love and affection go to the pairing of all creatures, save man and woman; and that only with them is it a practice to bind together, and fetter for life, those whose hearts are far apart. And he knew, that the Great Spirit disliked that force or constraint should be used in affairs of this kind. So, in obedience to the will of his master, as well as the dictates of his own reason, and the affection he bore her, he permitted his lovely and gentle child to remain unmarried in his house.

But it was not decreed by him who governs all things that the beautiful maiden should always remain a stranger to the delightful pains and agonising pleasures of love. It was in the second month of spring, when all nature feels the influence of the returning sun, when birds are carolling on every spray, and the grass and flowers are waking up from their long and chilled, sleep, and the joyous deer is out to nip the young buds, that a company of young hunters from the distant but far-famed nation of the Muscogulgees, passing through the lands of the Cherokees, stopped for rest and refreshment, and to try the strength of our young men in the exercises which youth love, at the village in which the father of the beautiful maiden abode. These young hunters were the flower of that valiant nation, bred up to pursue with equal courage and ardour the savage bear into his fearful retreats, and the foe, notwithstanding his treacherous ambuscades, through the dark and almost impervious forest. War was their natural and most beloved pursuit; but now they had doffed their martial habiliments, wiped off their war-paint, and taken up the bow and spear to pursue the peaceful occupation of hunting. The leader of this youthful band of Muscogulgees, was a tall and stately youth, formed in the noblest and most animated mould of the human form, straight as a young cedar, with eyes that indicated the fire of his soul, and brow, and cheek, and lip, that showed the mildness of his heart. With a small eagle feather, the badge of his chieftainship in his hair, his robe of dressed deer-skin thrown lightly over his shoulder, at which hung his bow and well filled quiver, he walked among the admiring youths and maidens of our nation, a thing to be feared, dreaded, and loved. He and his company of chosen young Braves now received the welcome, and experienced, the hospitality, which, in every situation, and at every season, the red man of the forest offers to those who visit him. They were feasted and caressed by each and all. The painted pole was erected and the feast prepared, that an opportunity might be afforded them of recounting their exploits in the ears of the listening Braves of our nation; the wrestling ring was formed, that their skill and strength, if they possessed such, in that exercise, might be shown; games of chance were appointed, that the favour of the Great Spirit, and the strength of the protecting okkis of each nation and individual, might be demonstrated. In every undertaking, was the superior skill and strength of the youthful leader of the Muscogulgee band made apparent. In the wrestling ring, the strongest man of the Cherokees was but a child in his hands; his voice, in the song of his own exploits, and the recital of the glories of his nation, was sweeter than the sighing of the gentlest spring wind, and clearer than the prattling music of the waterfall. In the games which were played he was equally successful, and he rose from the match of straws winner of half the valued treasures and trophies of the opposing Braves. Was it strange, that one so bold and brave should ingratiate himself with the beautiful maidens of our tribe? Was it strange, that bright eyes should glisten with tears, and soft bosoms be filled with throbs, and red lips be fraught with sighs, when the Guard of the Red Arrows passed before the eyes of beauty? Was it any thing to excite especial wonder, that the beautiful daughter of the priest should suffer the fires of love to be lit in her tender bosom? or that the valiant and handsome Muscogulgee should think her the fairest creature he had ever seen, should reciprocate the soft passion which glowed in her bosom, and wish to transfer the lovely flower of the Cherokees from the cabin of her father to his distant home?

The Guard of the Red Arrows said to the father of the maiden, "I love your daughter. Her bright black eyes, and long black locks, her melodious voice, and her gentleness, and her sweet temper, and her winning air, have caught my heart, as a bird is entangled in the snare of the fowler, or a deer entrapped in the toils of the hunter. She has become the light of my soul—when I see her not, all is darkness. I have no eyes but for her; my ears drink in no other accents than hers; my last thought when I sink to rest is of the beautiful Fawn, my first when I awake of the bright-eyed little maiden who gits by the cabin-fire of the wise priest of her nation. I hare opened my heart to this charming maiden, and have heard from her lips a soft confession of her love for the Muscogulgee. She consents to leave the house of her father, and the home of her childhood, to go, with the Guard of the Red Arrows, to the cabin he has built himself beside the beautiful and rapid river of his nation."

The father answered, "I cannot spare my daughter to go to the far home of him who asks her hand. She is the light of my eyes, and the joy of my heart. What would her mother say, and how should I answer the fond questions which, with eyes streaming with tears, she would ask, if I permitted the little fawn she has nursed with so much care to go forth to a distant land—to be in the morning of her youth separated from all her friends and companions, and taken to a new and unknown abode? Gloom would be in my cabin, and tears would rush from the eyes, that for seventeen harvests have been accustomed to see the gentle maiden performing her acts of dutiful kindness, and gliding with a foot noiseless as snow around the couches of her beloved parents. We should listen in the morning for the carol of the sweetest of all birds, and miss in the evening the tread of the lightest mortal foot that ever brushed the dew from the flowers of the prairie. There would be one missing from the repast of meat; one from the dance of maidens beneath the shady oak; one from the couch of moss where we sleep. No, Muscogulgee! I cannot spare the fawn. How should I answer the fond questions of her mother, when, with eyes streaming with tears, she should ask me for her daughter? When I told her the truth, she would cry, 'Hard and cruel man! thou hast torn from me the darling of my heart, the idol of my soul.—What shall become of me—of thee, thus deprived of our sweet child?' No, Muscogulgee! I must refuse thee my daughter. And yet, if thou wilt renounce thine own nation, and come and take up thy residence in the native land of her thou lovest, or pretendest to love, the maiden shall be thine. Thou shalt have a cabin built beside my own, and, as is our Indian wont, the friends of thy bride shall place within it all the household implements needed in our simple life. Her friends shall be thy friends, and her father thy father, and her mother thy mother. When there is thunder and darkness in the sky of the Cherokees, it shall thunder and be dark in the sky of the Muscogulgee sojourner among them, and with whomsoever the Cherokees have buried the hatchet of war, and made a league of amity, with that tribe or people shall the Muscogulgee keep terms of peace."

The Muscogulgee answered, as became him, that "his father, and his mother, and his brothers, and his sisters, and all the friends of his youth, were dwelling in the land of his birth—the land of his father's bones—how could he quit it? Why should he fly his father-land, a land pleasant to look upon, and healthful to live in, abounding in quiet glades where the deer loved to browze, in pleasant streams filled with fish, in smooth and tranquil lakes, fanned by the wings of the innumerable fowls which went thither for food. Much as he loved the beautiful flower of the Cherokees, and much as he wished to make her his bride, he could not become an exile to obtain her. Why should her father object to her following the steps of him she loved, and who would be unto her father, mother, sister, brother, friend, in that one word husband?"

And thus pleaded the lover, but he pleaded in vain, for the father remained deaf to his entreaties and prayers. Not so the daughter. She had drunk the sweet poison of his words, and, when he clasped her to his breast, felt that there was more bliss in that clasp than could be communicated by the kindest words, and fondest looks, and richest gifts, of those who were the authors of her being. She heard his fond words, and believed them true; she saw his face, and knew it fair, and she trusted him. It was agreed between them, that when the moon had hid herself behind the lofty woods which skirted the village of her birth, she should fly from the house of her father, with the Guard of the Red Arrows, to the cabin he had built him beside the beautiful river of his nation. But they forgot—these fond and foolish lovers!—that the Great Spirit was the friend of Chepiasquit, and made him acquainted with all the secret doings of those who would harm him, or interfere with his family concerns. They forgot,—simple children!—that the wise powwow had but to feel the stirring of the ant under the skin of the left hand, when, binding over his eyes the hide of a young badger, and laying his head upon a pillow composed of the leaves of the black hornbeam, the Manitou of Dreams would make known to him every machination of his enemies. The plans of the youthful pair for flight were soon revealed to the cunning powwow by his faithful spirit, and he arose in the morning, knowing what the night would bring forth, and fully prepared to punish the attempts which were to be made against the peace of his family. He made all those careful preparations for impending danger which a wise and prudent chief should make. He shut up his daughter in his lodge, and, calling around him the Braves of his nation, he made them acquainted with the designs of the Muscogulgee, and bade them keep guard around the endangered cabin and its coveted treasure, but on no account—if it could be dispensed with—to do harm to the strangers. Having prepared to oppose violence by violence, if need should be, he, wishing to prevent bloodshed, for he was a man of peace, called to him the lover of his daughter, and addressed him thus:

"I did say thou couldst not have my daughter, but upon one condition—I recall my word, and add thereto a second. She shall be, with the consent of her father, the companies of thy homeward journey, if thy heart be strong enough to undertake one quest, and it be the will of the Great Spirit that thou be spared to accomplish it. Let the valiant Muscogulgee, who has man written on his brow and eye, though the down on his cheek proclaims him boy, listen to the words of the father of Winona, and remember that the manifestation of a strong heart, at this time, may avail much to gain him the object he so ardently covets.

"Between the two mountains which rear their lofty heads on the northern branch of the river of the Cherokees, there is a deep valley, in which the beams of the sun, being concentrated and drawn together, create a heat so insupportable that nothing can live there but those reptiles, which are ripened and fattened to full growth only by fervid and burning suns. In these deep valleys have dwelt, ever since the beginning of the world, those Bright Old Inhabitants, the chiefs and fathers of the rattlesnakes, who are called by our nation the "Kind Old Kings," being, indeed, the sovereigns of all the tribes or species of snakes to be found on the earth. It has been death to venture within their limits, and almost as fatal to displease them by speaking ill of them, or by harming any of their subjects. Hence we know nothing of their villages, or their numbers, or their policy—whether they die like ourselves, or if the copy of nature be eternal in them. These things would I know; but above all would I know if the lights which shine so transcendently in those valleys be, as many say, the eyes of those Kind Old Kings, or be substances not connected with them—precious stones lit up by the beams of the sun, or dazzling meteors shining by their own light. Go, brave young man, visit this valley; confer with the wise old reptiles that inhabit it: above all see if the lights which illumine it be the eyes of those snakes, or dazzling meteors shining by their own light, or precious stones lit up by the beams of the sun. And thou must bring me a tooth from the jaw of a living king, and a rattle from his tail, and an eye from his skull. When thou shalt bring us an account of these things, the hand of my daughter shall accompany her heart, and the one shall become, as the other hath been, the property of the valiant Muscogulgee. But, until thou hast performed the required task, my daughter remains guarded in my cabin."

The Muscogulgee heard the words of the father, and grief filled his soul. He had heard—for who in those wilds was ignorant of the tradition?—of the "bright old inhabitants," and he knew how deadly the enmity which they bear to those who trespass upon their sacred and secluded retreats. He knew that, in undertaking this invasion of their solitudes, small chance remained to him of escaping death from their dreadful fangs. Though they were called the Kind Old Kings, they were known not to deserve that appellation when just cause was given for anger. These considerations presented themselves to the young Muscogulgee, but they did not appal him. He loved the beautiful daughter of the priest, and, deeming that life passed without her would not be worth possessing, he determined to attempt the task which would end it, or give to his arms the object of his love, the bright and blooming Cherokee maiden. So he made answer to Chepiasquit, that he would do, or attempt to do, the thing required of him, and received from the wise old powwow a renewal of his promise, that the maiden should be his when his task should be accomplished. Then, turning to his companions, who had gathered around him, he bade them return immediately to the land of the Muscogulgees, and impart to his friends a knowledge of the hazardous expedition which he had undertaken. And then, in the presence of her father and mother, he bade adieu to the blushing maiden, who received, with many tears, the kiss of affection upon her soft cheek, and raised her wet eyes in speechless prayer to the Great Spirit that he might be returned to her arms.

The powwow said to the Muscogulgee, "Thou hast undertaken a fearful thing, and one which I warn thee will require much and deep thought and caution, and great valour and wisdom. Thou shalt have my aid and counsel, but they may not avail so much as thine own steadiness of soul, and strength of arm. Nevertheless, I will give thee a charm, a potent charm, and see thou rememberest my directions for its use."

So saying, he drew forth from his basket of amulets the skin of a mountain cat, in which was a medicine, compounded of those powerful substances which nature furnishes, to enable men to acquire command over their own and the inferior species. There were the vine which never bore fruit, the dry cones of the pine, steeped in the dew that drops from the leaves of the mountain-laurel, the claws of the tiger, the teeth of the alligator, the thighbone of the tortoise, and the ribs of the snail, reduced to a powder, and mixed up with water dropped from the shell of the butternut, through the ochre of war. The wise master of the spell had drawn from field, and forest, earth, air, and water, from beast and bird, and fish and reptile, and insect and tree, and flower and fruit, all the various properties which have an agency in subduing things to the will of him, to whom those properties have been taught. From these he had compounded a medicine, the mighty power of which was unknown even to himself. Placing this amulet in the hands of the wondering youth, he bade him remember to repeat aloud the following words, and in the following manner, should he deem there was occasion for its use. "I am lost! I am lost! save me! save me! In the name of the seven men that were bewildered in a foggy morning, and cooked for the breakfast of the Kind Old Kings, I call upon thee, Maiden in Green, to protect me from the like fate." The youthful lover received the sacred amulet, with all the reverence which it ought to inspire, and, before the great star of day had sunk to sleep behind the hills of the west, he had slung his bow and quiver to his shoulder, and taken up the line of his march to the fated valley.

Travelling onward with great expedition, he came near the close of the next day to the entrance of the eventful spot. He saw the high mountains covered with mossy rocks, and tall cedars, and pines, and beheld the "lofty forms, whose heads stretched far into the sky," and heard the sounds which proceeded from their lips, the soft whispers of love, the loud tones of strife, or the merry ones of joy, laughing and weeping, wooing and strife, signs that they were possessed of the various passions and emotions which find a place in the breasts of mortals. Between these mountains lay the deep valley spoken of, but what it was which glittered and glistened in it, he knew not. Whatever it was, it shone with a splendour which eclipsed the meridian beams of the sun. The whole space between the two mountains seemed a glare of light, which dazzled even more than the fiercest glare of noon in the Month of Thunder. What still more astonished and perplexed the youth was, that the light seemed of various colours, ever changing, never for a moment wearing the same appearance. Now it wore the hue of the maple leaf in autumn, now of the tuft of the blue heron—now it was purple, now green, now yellow, and then it seemed a mixture of them all, a blending of all the colours ever beheld into one. Astonished and dismayed, but still determined to win the hand of the beautiful Winona or perish, the Guard of the Red Arrows undauntedly entered the valley, and approached the scene of wondrous splendour. Moving with great difficulty, for the entrance was overrun with briars and many other vicious impediments, he came all at once to a clear field, and beheld what had so enchanted and spell-bound at a distance—what so filled with horror now it was nearer beheld. He saw the earth covered with rattlesnakes of a more enormous size than any ever beheld by man, ay, beyond what even his imagination had pictured in his most restless and diseased hours of sleep. The bodies of many of them were larger than the trunks of the largest forest trees, and so unwieldy that, when they would turn round, they were compelled to take a circle almost as wide as their length. But bountiful nature, which always compensates for a defect or disadvantage by adding an excellence, made up for the heavy motion of their bodies by bestowing upon them the power of irresistible fascination. She gave to them an eye—to each a single eye—placing it in the centre of their foreheads, possessing the power to draw to them every living creature. It was this eye which emitted the wonderful light which had so dazzled the Muscogulgee at a distance, and still more dazzled now that he was within reach of the horrid fascination. These eyes were of every possible colour, and the light they sent forth was as various as the colour of the eyes. Nor could the colour of any one of those eyes be set down as positively this or that, for each moment was it changing. Now the green eye became blue as the midnight sky—look again, it was yellow as the fallen leaf; a fourth time, the scarlet hue was entering upon one side, while the yellow was retreating from the other, leaving the middle a strange combination of both. Long might the Muscogulgee have gazed on the brilliant, but terrible scene—a field, stretching farther than the eye could reach, and all covered with immense snakes, hissing with a sound loud as the roar of the tempest, shaking their rattles with a noise like thunder, the while their eyes emitted the light which he shuddered to look at, and yet, such was their power of fascination, he was unable to turn from—long, I repeat, might he have gazed on the scene, but he found himself irresistibly impelled to enter the field of light. His feet were irresistibly drawn forward, his mouth was opened to deprecate the anger of the Great Being, his hands were upraised at what he knew must be instant destruction, for already were their dreadful jaws expanded, and their hideous tongues, red as burning coals, twinkling with a motion so quick that it seemed but the soul of a vapour, when he bethought himself of the charm given to him by the wise priest, and drew it forth. Bowing, as he was bidden, to the spirit of storms, who rules the east, to the kind genius of the south, to the master of the west wind, and to the North Star, which is the best friend of hunters and bewildered men, he thrice called upon the Great Spirit, crying in a loud voice, "I am lost! I am lost! save me! save me! In the name of the seven men who were bewildered in a foggy morning, and cooked for the breakfast of the Kind Old Kings, I call upon thee, Maiden in Green, to protect me from a like fate." Is my brother prepared to hear what was the effect produced by these words? Does he wish to know if that shrill cry called up a being unable to protect him, or if the rattles were stilled, and the jaws were closed, and if darkness was imparted to those glittering eyes, and silence to those wicked tongues? Listen.

There came to the ears of the Muscogulgee youth, from the summit of the Northern mountains, a sound of distant thunder, which in a moment was succeeded by the sweetest song that ever was breathed upon mortal ears. He could not distinguish all the words, but he heard enough to teach him that it was a song of supplication to the Great Spirit for a "brave and good Muscogulgee hunter, about to be caught in the fangs of the Kind Old Kings." The moment the thunder and the song were heard, the rattles were still, the bright eyes sent forth no more light, and the fiery tongues retreated within the closed and recumbent jaws. Of all that body of hideous reptiles not one seemed to be imbued with breath. Nearer and nearer came the song, and as it came the hunter fancied that it was the music of a being moving level with the earth, if not beneath its surface. He was right. Soon, in the grass at his feet, appeared a little snake scarcely thicker than his little finger, and not longer than the space between his hand and his shoulder. The colours of this little reptile were as various and beautiful as those of the eyes of the Kind Old Kings, but these were fixed and permanent, those as I have said changeable and changing as a woman's mind. The head was green, the sides were yellow, the belly white, down its back ran two red stripes, and there were rings of bright crimson around its tail. Elevating its head as it drew near, it remained stationary and silent for a moment, and then addressed the Muscogulgee in these words:—

"I am the spirit raised by the potent medicine of the Cherokee priest; and, invoked by thy call, I have hastened hither at thy cry of distress, to tell thee thou art not lost. Though thou didst a foolish thing to come to this valley of death, and he, at whose bidding the thing was undertaken, a wicked one in sending thee, yet thou shalt not die this time. I am the Maiden in Green, the ruling Spirit of both mountain and valley, having power over even the Bright Old Inhabitants, and they shall not harm thee. Thou art, if I remember right, commanded, as the price of the beautiful daughter of the Cherokee powwow, to carry to him a tooth from the jaw of a living King and a rattle from his tail, and an eye from his skull; and to report of sundry things not necessary to be named. Thou shalt have my aid to accomplish these things."

So saying, the Maiden in Green re-commenced her song, the while making a circuit around the prisoner at a small distance from him. When she had finished the circuit, she changed her song to one which seemed a song of reproach and threatening. Whatever was the subject, it had the effect of rekindling the Bright Old Inhabitants to their former state of wrath. Their eyes were relit with the glittering beams, and the hissing and the rattling re-commenced. Seemingly determined to take instant vengeance upon the intruder, they were now seen making such haste as their natural tardiness admitted of, towards the Muscogulgee. From every part of the valley heads could be seen displaying forked tongues, and all pressing towards the alarmed warrior. But he stood invulnerable to them, though he knew it not, within the charmed circle made by his protecting spirit. Their powers of fascination had been taken away by the Maiden in Green, or rather the counter-fascination, which kept him within the charmed space, was more powerful than the influence of their eyes.

Calling to one of the largest of the Kind Old Kings to come near, the Maiden in Green spoke to him thus:—"This youth is a brave youth, and he is a Muscogulgee. He loves the beautiful daughter of the powwow Chepiasquit, and has asked her of her father to wife. The father has imposed on him the task to visit your valley, and make report whether your eyes are dazzling meteors, or precious stones. And he has bidden him bring a tooth from the jaw of a living King, and a rattle from his tail, and an eye from his skull, the which, being faithfully and fully accomplished, entitles him to claim, as a pledged boon, the hand of the lovely Winona. What say you, chief of the kings, shall he return and be made happy?"

The chief of the kings answered that he knew of no one who would willingly spare an eye, or a tooth, or a rattle. For himself, he had found them all of use, and could spare neither eye, tooth, nor rattle. And he bade the Spirit remember, that though queen of both valley and mountain, her sway extended but to protect, and not to injure. She had no right to demand from the Kind Old Kings a thing which should inflict pain or death upon them. And did she not know that, whenever one of those eyes of light should be carried beyond the limits of the valley, the transcendent power and brightness which their owners now possessed should be enjoyed by them no more. Such was the will of the Great Being; strange that the Maiden in Green should be ignorant of it.

The Spirit answered that she knew not this, yet she was prepared to say that the decree should be revoked, if they would, without any further molestation, impart to the Muscogulgee the required information, and bestow upon him the gift which would make him happy and prosperous in his suit to the Cherokee maiden. Should they favour his request, brilliancy should be added to, rather than taken from, their eyes, and their rattles should grow in size, and increase in number and speed of motion. But, if they refused to grant him the boon, the eye, and the tooth, and the rattle, should be taken from them by force, whereby they would lose the benefit of having done something to be thanked for.

Upon hearing this, the chief of the Wise Old Kings called a council of his nation. I know not what was said in this council, but I can tell my brother what was done. They drew lots among them, and he upon whom the lot fell submitted to lose an eye, and a tooth, and a rattle. Having given these to the Muscogulgee, the eldest of the Kings instructed him in their history, their laws, and their policy, replying particularly to the questions suggested by the Cherokee powwow.

"We were created," said he, "after all the other beings were created, and were formed from the variegated sand which is found on the shores of the distant Lake of the Woods. It was in a pleasant and sunny morning in the Buck-Moon, that the Great Spirit, having nothing else to do, amused himself, as he sat in the warm sun on the bank of this lake, with twisting ropes of those particoloured sands. Having twisted, in mere sport, a considerable number, and laid them aside, it came to his mind that amidst all the variety of creatures he had formed, whose means of locomotion were walking, flying, swimming, hopping, trotting, running, there were none ordained to move altogether by crawling. 'Now,' said he to himself, 'if I were breathe into these ropes the breath of life, and to invest them with the power to run about, would it not be a sight worth seeing?—would it not create a deal of sport among the other animals? But I will make them more wonderful yet.'

"So saying, he selected a number of small round stones, of which he thrust several into one end of the ropes. Before him, upon the shore, were scattered many stones of different hues, but all of surpassing brilliancy, and each outshining the beams of the meridian sun. He placed one of these shining gems in the other end of each rope, and then blew upon them until they exhibited signs of life. When the ropes began to move, their strange and zigzag motions, and the rattling of their tails, excited the mirth of the Great Being, who laughed loud and long at the oddity he had formed. That portion of them to which he had given rattles and the shining eye were appointed rulers over all the other and inferior species of snakes. And he bade them remember that he had formed them to crawl in the dust all the days of their lives, and on no account to attempt an upright posture. 'But,' said he, as he concluded the word which bade them be ever of the dust, 'this is no place for your tribes. Ye are a thin-skinned, or rather a skinless race, and should have a habitation and a name only where fervid suns beam, and the frosts and snows of winter are little known. Ye could never reach that land if left to your own exertions—I must assist you.' So saying, he gathered all the new-born reptiles into his hand, and, hiding them in the folds of his robe, took his departure towards the warm regions of the South. A few hours sufficed to bring him to the valley which we now occupy, and here he committed us, and all the tribes over which we are appointed rulers, to the fostering care of the bright and glorious star of day. Having created us, and breathed into us the breath of life, he bade us, as he had done all the other creatures, each, for the future, to provide for his own wants. We who carried the rattles were to live for ever; all the others were to die at an appointed time. We were commanded never to leave the valley, and, as a compensation for being restricted in our walks, we were to exercise for ever dominion over all the other species of snakes. And, as a protection from those who might wage a war of invasion against us, our eyes were gifted with the power to fascinate, and attract to us, every living creature that came within the scope of their vision, save those who were specially favoured by the Spirit of the Mountain. And thus it is. We, the Kind Old Kings, are the identical ropes of sand which were twisted in the beginning of the world by the Maker of all; those of small stature, which ye see around us, are our children, and the children of our children. They die, but to us who carry the dazzling eyes, death is not appointed. Yet we increase in stature, and shall continue increasing in stature, till the Great Tortoise upon which the earth reposes shall sink into the endless abyss of waters, carrying with him that earth and all its numerous creatures.

"You may thank the Spirit of the Mountain, Muscogulgee, for your life. It was forfeited, and would have been taken, but for the intervention of the Maiden in Green. You may now return—the bearer of what never before left the valley of the Bright Old Inhabitants—an eye, and a tooth, and a rattle—wisdom gathered from my words, and instruction from my lips. They shall not avail him for whom they are intended, since their possession would convey to him a power which the Great Spirit would not—could not, without danger to himself—permit a mortal to exercise. I hand you a tooth: already does the great powwow of the Cherokees feel, with the increase of the strength of his mind, the decrease of the strength of his body: here is the rattle, his strength is ebbing away; the eye, I behold him helpless on the bed of death. His face is bright with the wisdom and knowledge imparted by the gifts he hath obtained from us, but, alas! his tongue is nerveless, he may not communicate the knowledge he hath gained. Hasten back in peace, Muscogulgee, deliver to him the gifts which seal his fate and thine—his, to die ere the moon be two days older—thine, to gain the maiden thou so ardently longest for, and with her to descend the stream of time, loving and beloved—the happiest of the happy. But, remember, let none of thy race or name presume again to visit this valley, lest the most dreadful fate be theirs."

So spoke the eldest of the Wise Old Kings, and his words were repeated by all his brothers. They permitted the Muscogulgee to depart in peace, and he returned to the village of the Cherokee priest. He delivered the gifts as he had been directed, and witnessed the end he had been taught to expect. He saw the countenance of the powwow lighted up with intelligence more than mortal, but, at the delivery of each gift, he beheld a third part of the vigour of animal life fade away, as the eye, the bright, the unfading, but fatal eye, was placed in his trembling hand, he saw the spark of life quivering like a lamp in the socket. The priest had just time to beckon to him his lovely daughter, when, placing her hand in that of the Muscogulgee youth, he expired.

Brother, I am a Muscogulgee, and my mother was the beautiful daughter of the Cherokee priest, and my father the brave youth who adventured into the valley of the Bright Old Inhabitants. I have done.

NOTE.

(1) Valley of the Bright Old Inhabitants.—p. 225.

Several of the Indian nations believe themselves descended from rattlesnakes, and all, more or less, profess relationship with that reptile. A Seneca chief told me that his maternal ancestor was a maiden rattlesnake, but he destroyed the sublimity of the fiction by asserting that on their nuptial night she bit off her husband's nose.

Heckewelder, after remarking that some of the Tuscaroras claim affinity with the rabbit and the ground hog, says: "I found also that the Indians, for a similar reason, paid great respect to the rattlesnake, whom they called their grandfather, and would on no account destroy him. One day, as I was walking with an elderly Indian on the banks of the Muskingum, I saw a large rattlesnake lying across the path, which I was going to kill. The Indian immediately forbade my doing so, 'for,' said he, 'the rattlesnake is grandfather to the Indians, and is placed here on purpose to guard us, and to give us warning of impending danger by his rattles, which is the same as if he were to tell us 'Look about!' 'Now, added he,' if we were to kill one of those, the others would soon know it, and the whole race would rise upon us, and bite us.' I observed to him that the white people were not afraid of this, for they killed all the rattlesnakes they met with. On this he enquired whether any white man had been bitten by those animals, and of course I answered in the affirmative. 'No wonder, then,' he replied, 'you have to blame yourselves for that. Take care you do not irritate them in our country, they and their grandchildren are on good terms, and neither will hurt the other.'"

Adair, after killing one which infested the camp of the Seminoles, found himself in serious danger, whereupon he remarks in a note page 263, that the Seminoles "never kill the rattlesnake."



THE LEGEND OF MOSHUP.

The sound or strait, which divides Nope[A] from the main land and the islands of Nashawn, was not, in the days of our fathers, so wide as it is now. The small bays which now indent the northern shore of Nope, and the slight promontories, which, at intervals of a mile or two, jut out along its coast of a sun's journey, were then wanting; neither the one nor the other obtruded on its round and exact outline. The strong current of waters from the boundless bosom of the Great Lake, sweeping down between this island and the opposite little islands of Nashawn and its sisters, has made great encroachments upon the former, widening to a journey of two hours what was once only the work of one to perform. My brothers, who are with me from the lands of the Pawkunnawkuts, know that my words are true. They know that the air has also changed as much as the shape of the shores of Nope. In the times of our grandfathers, the waves which roll between these islands were always frozen over, from the hunting month to the month of the red singing bird. During the cold months, the canoe of the Indian hunter and fisherman was not permitted to traverse its dark and angry waters in quest of finny spoil, or in chase of the wild fowl. Then, to procure his food he took down his spear, and wandered far out on the frozen water to catch the foolish duck, which had suffered itself to be imbedded in the congealed clement; or, nearer to his cabin, he cut holes in the ice, and, as the stupid and benumbed fish glided across the opening, applied his unerring dart, and threw him to his delighted woman.

[Footnote A: Martha's Vineyard, a little island upon the coast of New England.]

But the face of Nope changed, and with it the winters grew milder and milder. The hunting month was no longer the month of early snow, and when the red singing bird came, he hopped on an opening bud, and listened to the croaking of frogs. The alarm of the great sentinel[A] was heard no longer in the hour of darkness in the depth of the woods. There was too much sun for the hardy old warrior, and he followed his great chief, the brown eagle, to the regions of the north. Meantime the waters, no longer bound up with a chain by the Manitou of Cold, scooped out bays and heaped up headlands, till they made the shores of Nope crooked as the path of a bewildered white man, or the thread of a story which has no truth.

[Footnote A: The owl. See the tradition, vol. 1. p. 61.]

Once upon a time, in the month of bleak winds, a Pawkunnawkut Indian, who lived upon the main land, near the brook which was ploughed out by the great trout[A], was caught with his dog upon one of the pieces of floating ice, and carried in spite of his endeavours to Nope. Hitherto, it had remained unknown, and, as our people supposed, unapproachable. Several times they had attempted to visit it, but their canoes had always been swept away, or pushed back by some invisible hand, some friendly Manitou of the water, who feared danger to them, or some angry spirit of the island, who, by these signs, forbade their approach to his dominions. For many years, and ever since the memory of our fathers, the Indians, supposing it the residence of Hobbamock, the being who rules over evil men, sends disease and death to the Indians, breeds storms in the air, and utters the fearful sound in the black clouds, had carefully abstained from attempting to visit it. Nor was it altogether a mere uncertain dread of evil, which had operated on their minds to people it with living and moving beings. They could see at times men of monstrous stature moving rapidly over the island, and at all seasons in the calm evening, or when the winds blew from it, could hear sounds of anger or wailing, or of music and merriment, proceeding from its gloomy shades. And some pretended to have seen distinctly the form of a tall man wading into the water to grasp whales. The forced visit to its shores of Tackanash, the Pawkunnawkut, made them see it was not the dream of a sleeper who has eaten too much meat, but like that which men see with their eyes when they are awake, and would talk only what the Good Spirit may hear.

[Footnote A: A brook in Barnstable County, respecting which this tradition is current among the Indians.]

When Tackanash and his dog arrived at Nope, he found the man whose existence had been doubted by many of the Indians, and believed to have been only seen by deceived eyes, heard by foolish ears, and talked of by lying tongues, living in a deep cave near the end of the island, nearest the setting sun. And this was the account which Tackanash on his return gave the chiefs of the strange creature. He was taller than the tallest tree upon Nope, and as large around him as the spread of the tops of a vigorous pine, that has seen the years of a full grown warrior. His skin was very black; but his beard, which he had never plucked nor clipped, and the hair of his head, which had never been shaved, were of the colour of the feathers of the grey gull. His eyes were very white, and his teeth, which were only two in number, were green as the ooze raked up by the winds from the bottom of the sea. He was always good-natured and cheerful, save when he could not get plenty of meat, or when he missed his usual supply of the Indian weed, and the strong drink which made him see whales chasing deer in the woods, and frogs digging quawhogs. His principal food was the meat of whales, which he caught by wading after them into the great sea, and tossing them out, as the Indian boys do black bugs from a puddle. He would, however, eat porpoises, when no larger fish were to be had, and even tortoises, and deer, and rabbits, rather than be hungry. The bones of the whales, and the coals of the fire in which he roasted them, are to be seen now at the place where he lived. I have not yet told my brothers the name of this big man of Nope—it was Moshup.

I hear the stranger ask, "Who was he?" I hear my brothers ask, "Was he a spirit from the shades of departed men, or did he come from the hills of the thunder? I answer, he was a Spirit, but whence he came, when first he landed in our Indian country, I know not. It was a long time ago, and the Island[A] was then very young, being just placed on the back of the Great Tortoise which now supports it. As it was very heavy the tortoise tried to roll it off, but the Great Spirit would not let him, and whipped him till he lay still. Moshup told the Pawkunnawkut that he once lived upon the main land. He said that much people grew up around him, men who lived by hunting and fishing, while their women planted the corn, and beans, and pumpkins. They had powwows, he said, who dressed themselves in a strange dress, muttered diabolical words, and frightened the Indians till they gave them half their wampum. Our fathers knew by this, that they were their ancestors, who were always led by the priests—the more fools they! Once upon a time, Moshup said, a great bird whose wings were the flight of an arrow wide, whose body was the length of ten Indian strides, and whose head when he stretched up his neck peered over the tall oak-woods, came to Moshup's neighbourhood. At first, he only carried away deer and mooses; at last, many children were missing. This continued for many moons. Nobody could catch him, nobody could kill him. The Indians feared him, and dared not go near him; he in his turn feared Moshup, and would seek the region of the clouds the moment he saw him coming. When he caught children, he would immediately fly to the island which lay towards the hot winds. Moshup, angry that he could not catch him, and fearing that, if the creature hatched others of equal appetite and ferocity, the race of Indians would become extinct, one day waded into the water after him, and continued in pursuit till he had crossed to the island which sent the hot winds, and which is now called Nope. There, under a great tree, he found the bones of all the children which the great bird had carried away. A little further he found its nest, with seven hatched birds in it, which, together with the mother, he succeeded after a hard battle in killing. Extremely fatigued, he lay down to sleep, and dreamed that he must not quit the island again. When he waked, he wished much to smoke, but, on searching the island for tobacco, and finding none, he filled his pipe with poke, which our people sometimes use in the place of tobacco. Seated upon the high hills of Wabsquoy, he puffed the smoke from his pipe over the surface of the Great Lake, which soon grew dim and misty. This was the beginning of fog, which since, for the long space between the Frog-month and the Hunting-month, has at times obscured Nope and all the shores of the Indian people. This was the story which Moshup told Tackanash and his dog. If it is not true, I am not the liar."

[Footnote A: The Indians, as I have before remarked, believe the world to be an island, and always speak of it as such.]

Moshup, at the time when Nope was visited by Tackanash, had a wife of equal size with himself, and four sons, and a daughter, the former tall, strong, and swift, very expert at catching fish, and nimble in pursuit of deer, the latter beautiful, sweet-voiced, and bounding as the fawn. She would sit in the first of the evening, when the dew began to fall, and the shadows of men lengthened, and sing to her father songs of the land of the shades of evil men, songs which told of the crimes they had committed, and their repentance, and guilt, and compunction, and shame, and death. Though Moshup appeared to care little for any body, he nevertheless loved his little daughter, as he called her, whose head peered over the tallest trees, and whose voice was heard upon the main land. He shewed by many signs how much he loved his daughter. He strung up the teeth of the shark as a necklace for her, gathered the finest shells for her anklets, and always gave her the fattest slice of whale's meat to her portion.

The story of Tackanash, who very soon returned to Waquoit, and his description of the beauties of Nope, carried many of the Pawkunnawkuts thither to live. It was indeed a pleasant place, pleasant to the Indian, for it abounded with all the things he covets. Its ponds were many, and stocked with fine fish and fat wild ducks; its woods were filled with deer, and the fertile banks of its streams overrun with wild vines, on which the grape thickly clustered, and where the walnut and the hazel-nut profusely loaded both bush and tree. Soon, the Pawkunnawkuts, at peace among themselves, and blessed by the Good Spirit with every thing they needed, became very numerous. There was not a pleasant spot on the island, from which did not arise the smoke of a cabin fire; nor a quiet lake, in which, in the months of flowers and fruits, you would not see Indian maidens laving their dusky limbs. The wild duck found no rest in his sunny slumber on the banks of Menemshe, the pokeshawit could no longer hide in the sedge, on the banks of his favourite Quampeche, and the deer, that went to quench his thirst in the Monnemoy, found the unerring arrow of the Indian in his heart.

But to Moshup the increase of the Indians seemed to give pain—none knew why, since the only enjoyments he appeared to covet were still as numerous as before. Whales were still plenty, poke was still plenty, and sleep and sunshine as easily enjoyed as ever. Though he never harmed the Indians, he grew discontented and unhappy, cross and peevish in his family, and sour and unneighbourly to all around him. He would beat his wife, if she did but so much as eat a falling scrap of the whale; toss his sons out of the cave, if, in the indulgence of boyish glee, they made the least noise while he was taking his nap; and box the ears of his little daughter, if she did but so much as look at an Indian youth.

Once upon a time, he bade his children go and play ball upon the beach that joins the hill[A] of White Paint to Nomensland, telling them that he would look on and see the sport. When they had played awhile, he made a mark with his great toe across the beach at each end, and so deep that the water followed the mark, leaving them surrounded with it, and in great danger of being drowned. When the tide at length began to flow across the beach, covering with water the whole space between the two high lands, the brothers took their little sister, and held her up out of the water, while Moshup, seated on the high cliffs, looked on. He told them to act as if they were going to kill whales, which they did, and were all turned into the fish called killers, a fish which has ever since been an enemy to whales, and is its greatest terror; As the sister was always a gay girl, painting her cheeks of many hues, and loving many-coloured ornaments, he commanded her to become, and she became, the striped killer. He bade her brothers be always very kind to her, and they have obeyed him.

[Footnote A: Gayhead, which has a chalk cliff.]

When Moshup's wife learned the transformation of her children, she grieved very much for their loss. Night and day she did nothing hut weep and call for them, till, at length, Moshup grew tired of her noise, and, catching her up in his arms in a paroxysm of passion, he threw her as far as he could towards the country of the Narragansetts. She fell upon the point which juts far into the ocean, and over whose rocks the evil Manitou of the deep throws the great waves. The Indians call it Seconet. There, seated upon the rocks, she began to make all who came that way contribute to her support. She grew to be so cross and cruel, exacting so much from Indians, and making so much noise, that the Great Spirit changed her into a huge rock; the entire shape of which remained many years. But, when the Yengees came, some of them broke off her arms, fearing she would use them to their injury, and her head, lest she should plot mischief; but her body stands there now.

Moshup did not stay long on Nope after he had thrown away his wife, but while he did remain he was very good to the Indians, sending them many whales and other good things. He did very little save watch on the edge of the sea the sport of the killers, and in particular that which was striped, feeding it with certain pieces of fish, talking kindly to it, and always calling it by the name his daughter bore. Sometimes he would remain for many suns perched on the high cliff of White Paint, looking eagerly towards the place where he had thrown his old woman. At last, he went away, no one could say with certainty whither. Some of the Indians supposed they could see him at times walking on the high hills beyond the tides; others thought that he had gone back to his master; the Evil Spirit.



THE PHANTOM WOMAN.

A TRADITION OF THE WINNEBAGOES.

The days of Mishikinakwa, or the Little Turtle, were numbered, and the signs made visible of his approaching dissolution. There had been voices calling from the hills in the hour of the silent night, "Come, Mishikinakwa! she waits for thee." The Nant-e-na, or little spirits, which inhabit the earth, and the air, and the fire, and the water, according to their different natures, had all been busy, proclaiming the approaching translation of the chief from the troubles and hardships of this world to the happiness and quiet of another and a better. There were the rattling of their voices in the brook, and their whisperings in the air, and their hissings in the fire and their groanings in the earth. There were the falling of green leaves in the hour of calm, and the whirl of dry ones in the wind, the hoot of the grey owl on the ridge of his cabin, and the cry of the muckawiss in the hollow woods. The Hottuk Ishtohoollo or Holy People(1), with their relations the Nana Ishtohoollo, proclaimed from the clouds the threatened danger to the life of the warrior; while the Nana Ookproose, or accursed beings, howled out the tidings from their dwellings in the far west.

His years were not the years of an aged man; his hair was yet unstained by the frost of tune, his eye yet flashed with the fire of manhood, his step remained strong and steady. Yet, without hunger, without want, without pain, without disease, without a wound, in the prime of life, in the vigour of manhood, beloved by his friends, and feared by his enemies, the pride of the Winnebagoes was seen fast approaching the house of the dead.

None knew why, yet from one fatal day he was seen to droop, as a lily bends before, a fervid sun. From one fatal day his joy forsook him, and his eye became like a troubled water. His laugh had no more the joyousness of his healthful hour; his step was no more light and buoyant; food no more pleased his palate; sleep refreshed him no more. They came and sang the war-song at the door of his cabin, and he suffered them to depart without the answering shout. It was sung in his ears, "The Potowatomies are in in our war-path," but he raised not his head—"The Hurons have the scalp of thy brother's son," and no cry of vengeance burst from his lips. Slowly and gradually he faded away, and the time soon came that he could move no more from his bed of soft grass, but lay in silent expectation of the sound of the voice that calls the spirit home. It was while he was thus laid on the couch of death that he called the tribe around him, and told them why peace had departed from his soul, and why he waited anxiously the moment of his release from the chains of the flesh.

"I launched my canoe," said he, "upon the lake which has given its name to our nation, when the sun was getting low in the latter part of the month of the blooming lilies. Stilness was abroad upon the face of the waters, and the lake lay as calm as a babe rocked to sleep on the breast of its mother. Not the slightest ripple broke upon its surface, which was smooth as a field of ice frozen in a calm. Nothing marred its beauty, save now and then a sportive fish gliding over its bosom, or the swallow skimming along, catching the flies as they rose from the quenching of their thirst. The brown eagle was wheeling in spiral mazes towards his beloved sun, and I heard the chirping of the grasshopper, and the hum of the bee, each carolling away in his light-hearted labour. Afar lay the headlands, jutting into the lake, and the precipitous cliffs which rise over the deeper portion of its waters. Behind me were the smokes of the cabins of my people, and before me the beautiful expanse of the unruffled lake.

"As I brushed my light bark along, I saw, standing on the water at a distance from me, a very beautiful woman. My tongue has not the power to paint the charms of this stately and bright-eyed creature. She was tall, and as straight as a youthful fir, and her eyes shone with such brilliancy, that you could not endure to look upon them, any more than upon the sun, but turned away to contemplate other objects. She was clothed in a garment which glittered in the sun like the sparkling sand of the Spirits' Island[A], and her locks, which were yellow as the beams of that sun falling upon the folds of a cloud, flowed down her beautiful form till they swept the surface of the waters. Filled with sudden love for this beautiful creature, and anxious to secure her to myself, I spread the blanket of friendship to the wind[B], and paddled my canoe towards her. As I came near her, I could perceive a strange alteration in her appearance. Her shape gradually altered, her arms imperceptibly disappeared, her complexion assumed a different hue, her cheek no more glowed with life, her eyes had lost their brilliancy, her before glittering locks glittered no longer, and, when I came to the spot where she stood, I found only a shapeless monument of stone, having a human face and the fins and tail of a fish. For a long time I sat in amazement and uncertainly of purpose, fearing either to approach nearer, or to speak to the once loved, but now fearful object. At length, having made an offering of tobacco to propitiate the spirit, and deprecated its wrath for having dared to love it, I addressed it in these words:

[Footnote A: See note, vol. i. page 59.]

[Footnote B: See note, vol. i. page 253.]

"'Spirit, that wast beautiful but now, and hast only become divested of thy unequalled brilliancy because a poor mortal approaches thee! guardian spirit of our nation! messenger to myself from the Great Spirit! or whatever other name thou bearest, tell me why thou art changed. Why has thy form, but now straight as the fir and scarcely less tall, become crooked and misshapen, and no higher than the oak of two summers? why has thine eye, but now so bright that my own were pained by its brilliance, faded, and become of the lack-lustre colour of stone? And thy garments, which glittered like the folds of a cloud tinged by the beams of the setting sun—why have they partaken of the change? And thy locks, which were yellow and shining as the sparkling sand of the Spirits' Island, why have they become of the hue of the brown moth? Is it because I dared to think thee beautiful—because my heart dared to feel for thee the flame of sudden love! If thine anger hath been aroused at my presumption, forgive me, so thou wearest again the beautiful form that was thine when I first saw thee.'

"Having addressed the beautiful spirit thus, I paused for her reply. It came in tones soft and sweet as the wind of summer lightly sweeping the bosom of a prairie, and these were the words which belonged to them:

"'Mishikinakwa, it is not hatred of thee that makes me refuse to be seen by thee save at a distance, it is not hatred of thee which makes me refuse to re-animate that mass of stone and re-shape it to the proportions thou didst say were so beautiful. Oh no! I have seen thee before, chief of the Winnebagoes, and spirit as I am, have beheld thee with the eyes of love. But the beings which are not of clay are not allowed to associate with flesh and blood. I permitted thee a distant view of my face and form, that if thou thoughtest them worth the pains of death, thou mightst encounter those pains, and thy spirit, divested of its fleshly form, might fly to the arms of thy Light of the Shades, and rove with her through the valley of endless bliss. Choose, then, between me, and a longer stay upon earth—between the pains of a life which must be assailed by woes and sorrows, by continual storm, angry winter, parching thirst, pinching hunger, and chilling nakedness, and the joys which will attend thee when thou art clasped in the arms of her thou lovest, and who will return thy love with equal ardour. Unlike the maidens of the earth, my charms can never fade; never, like theirs, can my love be turned into hatred, or my heart grow cold, or my eyes cease to regard the beloved object with favour. Loving on through all changes, and loving on for ever, thy mind cannot fancy half the bliss which will be thine—mine—ours—if thou darest to die.'

"She ceased speaking, but my pleased ears remained listening long after her gentle voice had died away. And the delighted breeze softly returned from the calm and transparent waters, and the spirit of the echo gently repeated from the neighbouring hills, 'Unlike the maidens of the earth, my charms can never fade; never like theirs can my love be turned into hatred, or my heart grow cold, or my eyes cease to regard the beloved object with favour. Loving on through all changes, and loving on for ever, thy mind cannot fancy half the bliss which will be thine—mine—ours—if thou darest to die.

'Come to me, lover, come! I'll wait thy death, In the evening's breath, On the brow of the mountain, That shadows the fountain, Come, my lover, come!

'Come to me, lover, come! Again will I wear Bright gold in my hair, And my eyes shall be bright As the beam of light. Come, my lover, come!

'Come quick, my lover, come! And thou shall be prest To a faithful breast, And thou shalt be led To a bridal bed. Mishikinakwa, come!'

"Thus called to the shades of happiness by so bright, and beautiful, and beloved, a being, how can I remain on the earth? Since that moment I have wished much to die; every day have I asked the Master of Life to take from me the breath he has given, and permit me to go to the land that holds the spirit of my affianced wife. I loathe the vile chain which binds me from her; I hate all the things I see, for they are all less beautiful than she; and all sounds pain mine ear, for is it not filled with her voice, a hundred times sweeter than aught ever heard on earth? Ha! her voice again! She calls me to her arms! She bids me come and drink of the crystal streams in the land of souls; she bids me come and chase with her the fawn and the kid, to bring her berries from the hills, and flowers from the vales, and to brush with our mingled footsteps, in early morning, the dew from the glades, and to blend in early evening the music of our lips, and the breath of our sighs, by the sides of the grass-wrapt fountain. She bids me come, and be clasped to a faithful breast, and called to a bridal bed. I come, beautiful spirit, to the appointed spot,

To the brow of the mountain, That shadows the fountain.

Put then the bright gold in thy rolling locks, and let thine eyes shine as when I first saw thee. Be again as straight as the young fir, and array thyself in the garment which glittered like the sands of the Spirits' Island."

With a convulsive start, the warrior raised himself upon his couch to an upright posture. Gazing wildly around for a moment, he threw his arms forward, shouting "I come, beloved, I come!" and then falling back he lay a lifeless corpse. And so died Mishikinakwa, the Little Turtle of the Winnebagoes, of love for a phantom woman.

Note.

(1) The Hottuk Ishtohoollo, or Holy People.—p. 273.

Almost every hill and cavern has, in the eye of the Indian, its tutelary deity. The tradition entitled "The Mountain of Little Spirits" is one which paints a genuine belief.

Adair, in his History of the North American Indians, says, "They (viz. the Cherokees, Creeks, Choctaws, &c.) believe the higher regions to be inhabited by good spirits, whom they call Hottuk Ishtohoollo, and Nana Ishtohoollo, 'Holy People,' and relations to the 'Great Holy One?' The Hottuk Ookproose, or Nana Ookproose, 'accursed people,' or 'accursed beings,' they say possess the dark regions of the West; the former attend and favour the virtuous; and the latter in like manner accompany and have power over the vicious. Several warriors have told me," he says, "that their Nana Ishtohoollo, 'concomitant Holy Spirits,' or angels, have forewarned them, as by intuition, of a dangerous ambuscade, which must have been attended with certain death, when they were alone and seemingly out of danger; and, by virtue of the impulse, they immediately darted off, and with extreme difficulty escaped the crafty, pursuing enemy."

All the Northern Indians are very superstitious with respect to the existence of fairies. One of their tribes, the Chepewyans, speak of a race whom they call Nant-e-na, whom they say they frequently see, and who are supposed by them to inhabit the different elements of earth, sea, and air, according to their several qualities. To one or the other of these fairies they usually attribute any change in their circumstances either for better or worse; and, as they are led into this way of thinking entirely by the art of the conjurors, there is no such thing as any general mode of belief; for those jugglers differ so much from each other in their accounts of these beings, that those who believe any thing they say have little to do but change their opinions according to the will and caprice of the conjuror, who is almost daily relating some new whim or extraordinary event.

Every thing which is not easily understood is a spirit. Among the Creek Indians the Whip-poor-will is a spirit; the Jack o' Lantern is the same: and, with regard to the latter, they agree with the remnant of the Massachusett Indians, who believe it is the shape which the Evil Spirit takes in his visits to the sons of men. An old Indian woman, who lived some time as a domestic in my father's family, and was possessed of all the genuine traits of Indian character, was nearly thrown into convulsions by being caught a few rods from the house when one of these meteors made its appearance.

Tonti, in his account of De la Salle's Expedition, says: "They are so extravagant as to believe that every thing in the world has a spirit. It is upon this principle that are grounded all the foolish superstitions of their jugglers or Manitous, who are their priests or magicians."



THE TWO GHOSTS.

Once upon a time, many ages ago, there lived, near the shores of Lake Superior, a hunter, who was considered the most intrepid and expert in his vocation of all the hunters of the wilderness. His lodge, which was built with the steady reference to the wants of nature, which are always seen in the location of an Indian village or habitation, was situated in a remote part of the forest, at the distance of many days' journey from any other dwelling. Here, alone, and free from the bloody spirit of warfare which distinguished the men of his tribe, his days glided on like the quiet flow of a river that has no fall. He spent the period of light in the noble amusement of hunting, and his evenings in relating to his beautiful and bright-eyed wife the incidents which had befallen him that day in the chace; or he detailed those which had happened to him before she became the star of his lodge; or he spoke of their long-tried, and mutual love; or he fondly sketched scenes of future bliss; or he held on his knee, and pressed to his heart, the little pledge of their love, which now, for the first time, began to venture across the floor of his cabin without a hand to sustain it. As game was then very abundant, he seldom failed to bring home in the evening a store of meats sufficient to last them until the succeeding evening; and, while they were seated beside the pleasant fire of their lodge, partaking of the fruits of his labour, he would relate those tales, and enforce those precepts, which every good Indian thinks necessary for the instruction of his wife and children. This was his occupation, these were his pleasures. Who could ask a better or nobler than the first? who desire more intense, or purer, than the last? Far removed from all sources of disquiet, surrounded with all that they deemed necessary to their comfort, tenderly loving, and thence completely happy, their lives passed away with scarcely less bliss than that of the disembodied spirits of the good in the Happy Shades. The breast of the hunter had never felt the pangs of remorse, for he had been a just man in all his dealings. He had never violated the laws of his tribe, by encroaching upon the hunting-grounds of his neighbours, or by taking that which did not of right belong to him. No offended hunter waylaid his steps to revenge an interference with his rights, no haughty chief came to the door of his lodge, to say, "Chippewa, give back that which you have stolen." No dream of the fame to be acquired by war—by the frequent slaughter of unoffending women and children, or even of hardy warriors, his equals in strength and valour—danced before his eyes, filling his sleep with bloody images and sights of horror. The white man had not yet come to fill the mind of the poor Indian with cravings for things which were not needed till they were known; as yet, he had not been taught that clothes and blankets were necessary to his comfort, or that game could not be killed without guns. The skin of the buffalo, the moose, the bear, and the deer, answered the purpose of protecting him from the heat and the cold; and the bow and arrow well supplied the place of the gun, especially when pointed by the steady hand and unerring eye of an Indian hunter. Having then, no more than now, occasion to fell large trees, the axes of stone in use among us when white men landed on our shores answered all the simple purposes of Indian life. Iron and powder, which, with one other fatal gift, have already led to the almost total, and will soon effect the total, extinction of the race by furnishing us with a surer mode of destruction, had not yet found their way into those remote and peaceful forests, nor had the white man poured that one other fatal gift, his wrathful phial of liquid fire[A] upon our devoted Indian race. Our wants were then few, easily supplied, and totally independent of white men.

[Footnote A: "Wrathful phial of liquid fire" is a literal translation of the Chippewa word for ardent spirit.]

Peacefully glided away the life of the Chippewa hunter, happy in his ignorance, but still happier in his simplicity. Relying fully upon the superintending care of an overruling Great Spirit, whom he had always served, no anxious dread of present want, no fears for the future filled his bosom. His life was as unruffled as the surface of a lake in the calm of the summer.

One evening, during the winter season, when snow covered the earth, and ice locked up the waters of the Great Lake, it chanced that this happy Chippewa hunter remained out much later than usual. His wife sate lonesome in her tent, and began to be agitated with fears that some fatal accident had befallen him. Darkness had already veiled the face of nature, and gathering gloom rested upon the brow of night. She listened attentively, to catch the sounds of coming footsteps, but nothing could be heard but the wind whistling around the sides of their slender lodge, and through the creaking branches of the surrounding forest of oaks and pines. Time passed away in this state of suspense; he came not, and every moment augmented her fears, and added to the loneliness of her heart. With the little pledge of their mutual love clasped to her bosom, she sat counting every moment as it flew, with difficulty commanding her tears, and singing them down with fragments of some of the simple songs which all the sons of the earth are in the habit of using, to while away hours rendered weary by any passing occurrence. At length her heart gave way, and she burst into a deep and fervent passion of tears. Suddenly she heard the sound of approaching footsteps upon the frozen surface of snow. Not doubting that it must be her beloved husband, she quickly undid the loop, which held, by an inner fastening, the door of the lodge, and, throwing it open, beheld two strange females standing in front of it. She could not hesitate what course to pursue. She bade them enter and warm themselves, knowing, from the distance to the nearest cabin, that they must have walked a long way. When they had entered she invited them to remain. She soon observed that they were total strangers in that part of the country, and the more closely she scrutinized their manners, their dress, and their dignified deportment, the stronger grew her conviction that they were persons of no ordinary character. No efforts, no persuasions, could induce them to come near the fire; they took their seats in a remote part of the lodge, and drew their garments about their persons in such a manner as almost completely to hide their faces. They seemed shy and taciturn, spoke not, and remained as motionless as stones fixed in the earth. Occasionally, though but seldom, glimpses could be caught of their faces, which were pale and ghastly, even to the hue of death. Their eyes she saw were vivid but sunken, their cheek-bones as prominent as if all flesh had left them, and their whole persons, as far as could be judged, emaciated and fleshless. Seeing that her strange guests, of whom she now began to feel much fear, avoided all conversation, and appeared anxious to escape observation, she forbore to question them, and sat in silence until her husband entered. He had been led farther than usual in pursuit of game, but returned with the carcase of a large and very fat deer. No sooner had he laid his spoil on the floor of his cabin, than the mysterious females, exclaiming, "Behold! what a fine, fat animal!" immediately ran up, and pulled off pieces of the whitest fat, which they ate with great avidity. As this is esteemed the choicest part of the animal, and is generally, by Indian courtesy, left to the share of the master of the lodge, such conduct appeared very strange to the hunter. Supposing, however, that they had been a long time without food, for he attributed their extreme leanness and ghastliness to hunger and privation, he forbore to accuse them of rudeness, and his wife, following her husband's example, was equally guarded in her language. On the following evening, the same scene was repeated. He brought home the best portions of the deer he had killed, and, while in the act of laying it down before his wife, according to custom, the two females again ran up, and tore off, as on the first night, the choicest and most delicate portions, which they ate with the same eagerness and unappeasable avidity as before. Such unhandsome behaviour, such repeated abuses of his hospitality, were calculated to raise displeasure on the brow of the hunter, but still the deference due to strange guests induced him to pass it over in silence. Observing their partiality for this part of the animal, he resolved the next day to anticipate their wants, by cutting off and tying up a portion of the fat for each. These parcels he placed upon the top of his burthen, and, as soon as he entered the lodge, he gave to each her portion. Still the guests appeared dissatisfied, and took more from the carcass lying before the wife. Many persons would have repressed this forwardness, by some look, word, or action, but this man, being a just and prudent man, slow to provocation, and patient under afflictions of every kind, abstained from any of them. He was, perhaps, the more disposed to this quiet spirit of forbearance, from a suspicion that his guests were persons of distinguished rank, who chose thus to visit him in disguise, and also from reflecting, that the best luck had attended him in hunting, since the residence of the mysterious strangers beneath his roof.

In other respects, the deportment of the females was unexceptionable, though marked with some peculiarities. They were quiet, modest, and discreet. They maintained a cautious silence through the day, neither uttering a word nor moving, but folded up in their skin mantles they remained in the corner of their lodge. When it became dark, they would get up, and, taking those instruments which were then used in breaking up and preparing fuel, would repair to the forest. There they would busy themselves in seeking dry limbs and fragments of trees, blown down by tempests. When a sufficient quantity had been gathered to last till the succeeding night, they carried it home upon their shoulders; then, carefully putting every thing in its proper place within the lodge, they resumed their seats and their studied silence. They were ever careful to return from their nocturnal labours before the dawning of day, and were never known to go out before the hour of dusk. In this manner they repaid, in some measure, the kindness of the hunter, and relieved his wife from her most laborious duties.

Thus nearly the whole winter passed away, every day leading to some new development of character or office of friendship, which served to endear the parties to each other. Their faces daily lost something of that deathlike hue which had at first marked them, and they visibly improved in strength. They began to throw off some of that cold reserve and forbidding austerity, which had kept the hunter so long in ignorance of their true character. Every day, their appearance and behaviour approximated more nearly to that of the beings of ordinary life. One evening the hunter returned very late, after having spent the day in toilsome exertion. Again he deposited the product of his hunt at the feet of his wife, and again the silent females began to tear off the flesh as before, though with still greater rudeness and ill-breeding. The patience of the wife was completely lost, she could no longer controul her feelings, and suffered the thought to pass her mind, "Their conduct is certainly very strange! how can I bear with it any longer!" She did not, however, give utterance to her feelings in words. But an immediate change was seen in the females. They became unusually reserved, and gave evident signs of being uneasy in their situation. The good hunter immediately perceived this change, and, fearful that they had taken offence, so soon as they had retired to rest, he enquired of his wife whether any harsh expression had escaped her lips during the day. She replied that she had uttered nothing to give the least offence. He now tried to compose himself to sleep, but he felt restless and uneasy, for he could plainly hear the sighs and half-smothered lamentations of the two females. Every moment added to his conviction that his guests had taken deep offence, and, as he could not banish this idea from his mind, he raised himself on his couch, and addressed the sobbing inmates thus:

"Tell me, ye women that have so long been the inmates of my lodge, what is it that causes you pain of mind, and makes you unceasingly utter these sighs? Has the wife of my bosom given you any cause of offence while I was absent in the chase? My fears persuade me that, in some unguarded moment, she has forgotten what is due to the rights of hospitality, and used expressions ill befitting the mysterious character which you seem to sustain. Tell me, ye strangers from a strange country—ye women who appear to be not of this world—what is it that causes you pain of mind, and makes you utter these unceasing sighs?"

"It is not for this that we weep; it is not for this that we sigh," replied the mysterious women. "No unkind expressions have been used towards us since our residence in your hospitable lodge. We have received from you all the affectionate attentions which we could expect, far more than could reasonably be asked of one who procures his food and supports his family by a life of incessant toil and labour. We thank you for all your kindness. No, it is not for this: it is not for ourselves that we weep. We are weeping for the fate of mankind. We are weeping for the fate of mortals whom death awaits at every stage of their existence—weak mortals! whom death cuts down equally while the bloom of youth is on their cheek, and when their hair is whitened by the frosts of time—proud, vain men! whom hunger pinches, cold benumbs, and poverty emaciates—frail beings! who are born in tears, who are nurtured in tears, who die in tears, and whose whole course is marked upon the thirsty sands of life in a broad line of tears. It is for these that we weep.

"You have spoken truly, brother; we are not of this world. We are Spirits from the land of the dead, sent upon the earth to try the sincerity of the living. It is not for the dead but the living that we mourn. It is not for the dead, whose flesh quietly reposes in the dust, and whose souls repair to the mansions of happiness, that we mourn, but for the living who are subjected to many, many pains, and beset with innumerable troubles and anxieties. It was by no means necessary that your wife should express her thoughts by words; we knew them ere they were spoken. We saw that for once displeasure towards us had arisen in her heart. It is enough—our mission is ended. We came hither but to try you. We knew before we came that you were a kind husband, an affectionate father, a temperate and honest man. We saw, from the mansions of the blest, the patience with which you bore your disappointments in the chace; the gratitude to the Great Spirit which you always evinced; the tribute to his goodness which you always paid when your hunts were successful, and you were enabled to return to your cabin with the wealth of the forest. Still we find that you have some of the weaknesses of a mortal, and your wife is found still more wanting in our eyes. But it is not for you alone that we weep; it is for the fate of mankind.

"Often, very often, has the widowed husband exclaimed, 'Oh death, how cruel, how relentless thou art, to take from me my best friend, my beloved wife, in the spring of her youth, in the prime of her strength, in the morning of her usefulness, in the bloom of her beauty! Just when I had come to know her best, and to love her most, thou didst take her from my arms, leaving me to pine in unavailing regrets. If thou wilt permit her, just Judge! to return once more to my arms, and again be the star of my humble abode, my gratitude shall never cease; my thankfulness shall be daily manifested in songs and sacrifices to thy name. The high hill shall hear the cry of a man with clay in his hair, and the valley shall be filled with the smoke of a sacrificial flame. I will raise my voice continually to thank the Master of Life for the return to my arms of his excellent gift. And to her shall the return be productive of unbounded felicity. I will devote my time to study how I can best promote her happiness, while she is permitted to remain, and our lives shall roll away, like a pleasant stream through a vale of flowers.' If a parent has been bereaved of a child rendered dear by its innocence and sportive fondness, he has said, while tears were furrowing his cheek, 'Great Manitou, wilt thou return this beloved child for a few more years to my bosom? It was but young and little. Its voice, softer than the breath of spring, had not fashioned its tones of tenderness into words. I had not heard it thank me for the gift of life; it was a flower blasted in the bud. If thou wilt permit its return, it shall be taught to sing thy praises; it shall be made to walk in the straight path; it shall be a just hunter and a true warrior.' The bereft lover has besought the Great Spirit for the return of his deceased mistress: his petition has painted the charms of her voice sweet as the south wind; her step light and graceful as the fawn's; her locks clustering like grapes. And, 'Oh!' he has said, 'will it disarrange the harmony of thy system, if she may but for a little while return to my arms; if but for a few, a very few years, she may illumine the darkness of my lodge by the splendour of her eyes, and send joy to my soul by the soft tones of her voice, and the sound of her steps?' Thus, also, has the mother prayed for her daughter; the wife for her husband; the sister for her brother; the friend for his bosom-companion, until the sounds of mourning, and the cries of the living, have pierced the very recesses of the dead. Among those who have wished their departed friends to return, were many who were cruel and unkind to them while living. These have not failed to promise the most endearing conduct, should their relatives be allowed to return.

"The Great Spirit has, at length, consented to make a trial of their sincerity, by sending us upon the earth at a very severe season of the year, and in a time of general scarcity. He did this to see how we should be received, coming as strangers, no one knowing whence. It was necessary that this severity of proof should be exacted. Three months were allowed us to make the trial; and if, during that time, no irksomeness of feeling had been evinced, no angry passions excited, at the place where we should have taken up our abode, all those in the land of spirits, whom their relations had desired to return, would have been restored to them. We had already passed more than half the time assigned to us, and had already dared to hope for a successful termination of our mission. Had your wife maintained those feelings of unmixed generosity and kindness which have heretofore marked her conduct, the ransom would have been complete. When the leaves began to bud, and the birds to sing their sweet songs of love, and to warble their gentle burdens of gratitude for the return of their beloved spring, our mission would have been successfully terminated. The deceased husband and wife would then have been each returned to the arms of his or her rejoicing partner, the maiden to the arms of her tender lover, the infant to the bosom of its adoring mother. But it is now too late. Our trial is finished, and we are called to the pleasant fields, and beautiful shades, whence we came. It is not for those who remain in those shades; it is not for the souls we left in the abode of happy spirits, that we grieve, but for you that are left on earth.