There was once upon a time, she began, in the tribe of the Maquas, the foes of my nation, a young warrior whose name was Cayenguirago. He was the bravest and most fearless of men—his deeds were the theme of every tongue, from the stormy shores of the wild Abenakis to the mountain clime of the fierce Naudowessies. While he was yet a boy his deeds were the deeds of a man—ere the suns of fifteen summers had beamed on his head, he had followed in the war-path of the full-grown Braves to the haunts of the Mohicans on the borders of the Great Salt Lake. And, before the snows of the succeeding winter had melted, he had become a Brave and a werowance[A]. But with his great strength and daring valour was mixed a bad and cruel disposition—his heart was very wicked and impious. When the priests spoke to him of the Great Spirit, he told them he should never believe there was such a spirit till he saw him—he omitted no opportunity of making scoff of that good being, and laughing at his thunders. His mocks of those wise and good men, the priests and prophets, whom the Great Spirit loves and honours, by making them acquainted with his wishes and will, were continually poured out. He paid no respect to aged people; he took the bison's meat from his father's famished mouth, and knocked the gourd of water from the lips of his thirsty mother. If he saw a man weaker than himself he took from him whatever he coveted, and made no restitution of the things he found. If he cast his eyes upon a maiden, and she listened to his false tongue, erelong her tears were sure to flow faster than those of a roebuck[B] that is hard pressed by a hunter. The brothers and sisters that were in the cabin of his father, if they crossed him, were beaten like a dog caught in a theft; if he gave a pledge to follow a chief(1) he was sure to forget it; if he made a vow to aid a friend in danger, he was sure to desert him, not from fear, but because it was a pleasure to him to do wrong and inflict injury. And thus lived Cayenguirago, the Great Arrow of the Maquas.

[Footnote A: Werowance, a war-chief.]

[Footnote B: I do not know whether the roebuck actually weeps when he is hard pushed—the Indians believe he does.]

Once upon a time, as this brave but bad chief was hunting alone in the wilderness, in a spot which the Great Spirit had forgotten to level(2), he came to a great cave in the side of a hill. It was in the time of winter, and the hour of a fearful fall of rain and hail. To escape the wrath of the spirits of the air, he entered this deep cave in the side of the hill, carrying with him much wood, and the spoils he had won in the chase. As he entered it he heard many strange and fearful noises, but Cayenguirago was a warrior, though a wicked one, and, little troubled at any time by frightful sounds, he pursued his way into the interior of the cave. It was dark as a cloudy night in the time that follows the death of the moon, but he remarked that the cave was lit up and the darkness partially dispelled by what appeared to be little stars, exceedingly bright substances which resembled the eyes of a wolf, though smaller and far brighter, and which were continually shifting about the cave with a slow and uncertain motion. Then, for sound there was an incessant rattling, and hissing, and slapping, which almost stunned him with noise. As he moved on he found himself impeded by something into which his feet were continually settling, and which he judged to be loose sand. When he had gone far enough from the entrance to be free from the current of air which entered the cavern by it, he laid down the deer's flesh which he had brought upon his back, took out his flint and tinder-box, and struck fire. Having properly disposed of the wood he had brought, and kindled a flame, he raised himself to an upright posture to survey the cavern. Who shall describe the terror which filled the soul of Cayenguirago, stout and fearless as he was, when he found himself in the middle of an immense body of rattlesnakes, and perceived that it was among these deadly animals, of which there was a thick layer upon the floor of the cave, that he had been for some time wallowing? Their eyes it was that lit up the cavern, and theirs were the hissing, and rattling, and slapping, which saluted his ears. Under his feet and upon every side of him, as far as the eye could reach, were heads upreared with little fiery tongues projecting from green jaws, and moving with a motion more rapid than a flash of summer lightning. The heads about the cavern were thicker than the thievish ravens in a field of milky corn. The moment that the light of the fire he had kindled enabled them to see the intruder, all of them rushed towards him, though none attempted to inflict injury. The nearest approached within a step; those behind climbed over the backs of the more advanced, until they lay piled up on every side, as high as the shoulders of a tall man. Surrounded, as Cayenguirago was, by the most venomous and dreadful of all the animals formed by the Great Spirit, he did not forget to keep his fire burning, nor to draw out his pouch filled with good tobacco. Having recovered his coolness and composure, and become a man again, he filled his pipe with the beloved weed, and, lighting it, began to roll out clouds of smoke. Each time he puffed, he observed that the snakes retreated further from him, until at length they were seen gliding into the darkness which enshrouded the further part of the cavern.

While he lay thus warming himself at the fire, and emitting clouds of fragrant smoke, some one near him exclaimed, in a very sharp and shrill voice, "Booh!" Looking up, Cayenguirago beheld standing behind him a very ugly creature, but whether man or beast, he found it at first difficult to determine. His skin was black as soot, and his hair white as snow. His eyes, which were very large, were of the colour of the green far-eyes[A] with which the pale faces survey distant objects, and stood out so far from the head that, had one of them been placed in the middle of the forehead, a tear dropping from it would have hit the tip of the nose. His teeth, which were very large, were white as snow; his ears, which were yellow, were smaller than the leaf of the black walnut, and shaped exactly like it. His legs were not shaped like those of a human being, but were two straight bones without flesh or joint, and both black and glossy as charred birch. But what rendered him yet more horrible to look at was that snakes, poisonous rattlesnakes, were wreathing themselves around his legs, and body, and arms—leaping from him, and upon him, tying themselves in knots around his neck, and doing other feats of horrid agility. After surveying this uncouth being and his fearful companions for a few moments in deep silence, Cayenguirago addressed him thus:—

[Footnote A: Far-eyes, the name the Indians gave to spectacles.]

"Who art thou?"

"Thy master."

"The Maqua is a man," replied the warrior fiercely; "his knee was never bowed—he acknowledges no master."

"Thou hast served me long and well, Cayenguirago—I am Abamocho, the Spirit of Evil, and this is my dwelling-place."

"Thou hast chosen a dark abode, and strange companions," replied the warrior.

"They are not my companions, but my warriors, my braves, my tormentors," answered the Spirit of Evil. "It is with these that I torment bad people, as the Maquas use old women to torment the prisoners they take in battle. But fear not, Cayenguirago, thou hast been a faithful servant to me—I will not suffer my people to harm thee. Dost thou know that I design to bestow my daughter upon thee for a wife?"

"I did not know it?" answered the Maqua.

"She shall be thine," said the Evil Spirit. "But I warn thee that there have been very many pleasanter companions than she will make thee, for she is excessively irritable and passionate. Withal she is so fond of admiration, that I have no doubt she would give chace to the ugliest toad that ever devoured a worm, so she could captivate him. She is a true woman."

"What will the father give the Maqua that marries her?"

"Wampum, much wampum—"

"I will take her."

"Many beaver-skins, and much bear's meat—"

"Cayenguirago will make her his wife."

"Revenge against the Hurons who slew so many of his warriors in the last Beaver-Moon. He shall drink their blood in plentiful draughts, he shall eat their children roasted in the fire, and feed his men upon broth made of the flesh of their Braves[A]."

[Footnote A: These, as I before observed, are mere metaphors, signifying a deep revenge.]

"She is mine!"

"Dost thou know that she is a rattlesnake?"

"I care not, so she bring me as her portion the rich presents and the sweet revenge thou hast spoken of. Shall the Maqua behold the maiden?"

"He shall, but the father bids him remember one thing. When the marriage has taken place, let not the husband forget to cut off his wife's tail. Upon his remembering this injunction his life depends. If he forget it the bride will be a widow ere she is a wife."

With this the Spirit departed into the inner part of the cavern. He soon returned, bringing with him a huge unwieldy rattlesnake. "This," said he, as he came up to the Maqua, "is the maiden I spoke of, and the wife I have long destined for thee. She is rather fatter than need be—she will eat the less, however. Take her, thou hast been a good servant, and I owe thee a reward. Cayenguirago!"

The warrior answered, "I hear."

"I warn thee once more that my daughter is very irritable and passionate, and withal so fond of admiration, that nothing in the shape of a leer comes amiss to her. She likes a good squeeze above all things. Evil, and the Father of Evil though I be, I am not so very wicked as to wish thee to marry a woman of that description without thy knowing what kind of treasure thou wilt possess."

"But thou hast promised me revenge against the Hurons, who slew so many of my warriors in the last Beaver-Moon: remember that." And the chief commenced his song, which ran thus:—

I shall taste revenge; I shall dip my hands in purple gore; I shall wet my lips with the blood of the men, Who overcame my Braves; I shall tinge the lake so blue With the hue which it wore, When I stood, like a mouse in a wild cat's den, And saw the Hurons dig the graves Of my Maquas good and true!

I shall build a fire Of hickory branches dry, And knots of the gum-exuding pine, And cedar leaves and cones, Dry stubble shall kindle the pyre. And there shall the Huron die— Flesh, and blood, and bones! But first shall he know the pain Of a red-hot stone on the ball of his eye, And a red-hot spear in the spine. And, if he murmur a grain, What shouts shall rend the sky, To see the coward Huron flinch, As the Maquas rend him inch by inch?

The Maqua, having finished his song of blood, turned around to his bride, and spoke to her kindly, telling her how happy they should live, and many other things usually said in such cases, and proving true as often as larks fall from the skies. The Evil Spirit now spoke to Cayenguirago, bidding him follow him to an inner room in the cavern, and finish the marriage at once. He obeyed, leading his pursy bride by a string which he tied around her neck. The whole body of rattlesnakes followed the couple—hissing, and slapping, and rattling their tails, and running out their forked tongues; but, whether for joy or sorrow, Cayenguirago either cared nothing, or did not think it worth his while to enquire. At last they came to a small room, which was lighted up by a great blue fire burning in the centre. This, the Evil Spirit said, was his daughter's chamber, and there they would pass the night, upon which the maiden pretended to be much ashamed. The couple now went through the Indian form of marriage, and the Maqua became the husband of the rattlesnake—daughter of the Evil Spirit, Abamocho.

They spent the evening very pleasantly together, and so well was Cayenguirago entertained with the pleasant stories she told him, and her wit, and good humour, and the kisses she gave him, that he entirely forgot the advice of her father. So, after they had spent some time in talk and fondling, the bride crept to her bed of leaves, and the husband followed.

By and by the Maqua said to his wife, "Thy flesh is very cold—lie a little further off."

"My flesh is warm," answered the other; "but thou hast drawn to thy side all the covering, and the spirit of cold is breathing harshly upon me from the distant cavern."

Upon that they fell to disputing fiercely about love, and hatred, and cold, and many other things, which need not be mentioned here. Louder and louder rose their voices, and more violent grew the dispute, until the wife, losing the very little patience she possessed, applied the deadly sting, which dooms to instant death, to bring her husband to her side of the argument. A horrid shout told the creeping of the subtle poison through his veins. Few were the moments that elapsed before he lay a stiffened, and swollen, and blackened, corpse.

And thus perished the wicked Maqua, that married a rattlesnake and forgot to cut off her tail.

* * * * *

The rattlesnake figures very frequently in the Indian traditions. They suppose it to be endued with more sagacity than any other animal, except the owl, and to be peculiarly their intercessor with the Evil Spirit. Their Okki, or "Medicine-spirit," is more frequently the rattlesnake than any other animal—his teeth and rattles are invariably ingredients of their medicine-bags. They have a tradition that there was once a great talk, or council, held between the Mohawks and the Rattlesnakes, and a "firm peace established between the two nations," which lasted till the coming of the Whites.

NOTES.

(1) Pledge to follow a chief.—p. 153.

All those who enlist themselves on a war expedition give the chief a bit of bark with their mark upon it, and he who after that draws back is scarcely safe while he lives; at least he would be dishonoured for ever.

Once enlisted, to turn back is, in their opinion, a disgrace of so deep die that they encounter death rather than submit to it. They carry this chivalrous principle to an extent which finds no parallel in modern, and scarcely in ancient, history. Lewis and Clarke, in their Expedition up the Missouri, (vol. 1. p. 60, Philadelphia, 1814), speak of an association among the Yanktons, "of the most brave and active young men, who are bound to each other by attachment, secured by a vow never to retreat before any danger, or give way to their enemies. When the Yanktons were crossing the Missouri on the ice, a hole lay immediately in their course, which might easily have been avoided by going round. This, the foremost of the band disdained to do, but went straight forward, and was lost. The others would have followed his example, but were forcibly prevented by the rest of the tribe. There were twenty-two of these warriors at one time, but in a battle with the Kite Indians of the Black Mountains eighteen of them were killed; the remaining four were dragged from the field of battle by their companions."

(2) Spot which the Great Spirit had forgotten to level.—p. 153.

The Indians believe that the earth was at first very loosely thrown together, and not intended as a place of permanent occupation for any one. Their opinions respecting the roughness of the surface are various and amusing. I asked a Cherokee what occasioned the surface of the earth to be so very uneven. After a momentary hesitation he replied, "It was done in a wrestling and boxing-match between the Great Spirit and the Evil Spirit. While they were scuffling, the latter, finding himself moved about easily, occasionally worked his feet into the earth to enable him to stand longer. The valleys were the holes his feet occupied, and the hills and mountains the sand thrown out."



THE FIRE SPIRIT.

My brothers know, said a Nansemond warrior, that our tribe have a custom of burning over, every season, the great glade, or prairie, which lies beyond the hill, which the Great Spirit struck with his lightnings in the Hot-Moon. Yearly they see the flames devouring the dry and ripe grass, but they do not know what led to this custom; probably they have never heard that it is done in consequence of a solemn promise made by their fathers to the Spirit of Fire. Let them listen, and I will tell them the story.

Once upon a time, as the Nansemonds were warring against the Eries, who have their residence upon the shores of the lake of that name, they were caught in a narrow valley, or ravine, which lay between two high hills. One of the outlets to this valley opened into the lake; the other, that by which they had entered, had been occupied soon after their entrance into it, and, for a while, without their knowledge, by a strong party of their enemies. It may well be asked, why a band of warriors, cunning, sagacious, and experienced, as the Nansemonds were, should thus be caught like a foolish beaver in a trap. I will tell the warriors—they were decoyed into this dangerous valley by the roguish and wanton tricks of the Spirit of Fire.

This hasty and hot-tempered spirit, who is very good and kind when his master keeps him in due subjection, but who, when he escapes from his control, never fails to do a great deal of mischief, to burn up the maize, and frighten away the beasts which the Great Spirit has given to the Indians—or to destroy their food—sent Chepiasquit[A] to lead the Nansemonds—foolish men! they supposed it was to a camping-ground, where cool shade and sweet water should be found—and decoy them into a spot where they should fall an easy prey to their enemies. No thought had they of entering this dangerous valley. It was soon after the coming of the darkness that they saw this treacherous ball in the open space before them, and, believing it to be a lamp held out by a friendly spirit to conduct them, as I said before, to a place of rest and safety, they followed it without hesitation, and were thus placed completely in the power of their enemies. But they were good warriors—men tried and approved in many deadly conflicts, and such never feel the touch of fear, or show concern, even when they see the fire lighted and the tortures prepared for them. So, when they found themselves in the toils of their enemies, like a herd of buffaloes surrounded by a band of mounted hunters, they coolly sat down to think of the means and reckon the chances of escape.

[Footnote A: Jack-with-the-Lantern.—This is an appearance which impresses the Indians with inconceivable terror. They generally retreat to a place of safety, if such can be had, on its first appearance.]

While they sat talking, suddenly there appeared under the shade of a tree near them a man of singular shape and proportions. He was squat, and so very fat, that he looked like a skinned pig which has been reared in a plentiful season of nuts and mast. His face was far wider than it was long, and the flesh and fat fell in great folds, upon his body, legs, and arms, which were entirely naked, and of the colour of a bright fire; his hair stood out every way, like flames kindled in a brisk wind; and, when he opened his mouth, the breath which issued from it was felt scorching and searing at the distance of half a bowshot. His eyes, which were two coals of fire, emitted sparks like a piece of birch wood which has been steeped in bitter water[A]. The Nansemonds were stricken with great terror at the sight of this hideous Spirit, and it was a long time before they ventured to address him. When they had called up a sufficient stock of courage, they went towards him, and the leader of the band spoke to him thus:

[Footnote A: Salt water.]

"Who art thou?"

"The Spirit of Fire," he answered.

"Where is thy dwelling place?"

"I have my dwelling place in many and various places—in the caverns of the earth, and where-ever mortals dwell, there am I found."

"Why hast thou, Spirit, beguiled us into the toils of our enemies, the Eries? Behold us entrapped, as a wolf is entrapped by a cunning hunter."

"Then shall I taste revenge!" answered the Spirit, and broke into a hissing laugh. "Does not the chief of the Nansemonds remember that, when I had with my breath kindled a fire in the time of a high wind, and was enjoying the glorious prospect of giving the dry prairie to the devouring flame, the men of his nation assembled, and first repelled, and finally extinguished, that flame. From that moment I have sought revenge—I have found it—the bravest of the Nansemonds are enclosed like a partridge in a net, soon like that partridge to be food for the spoiler."

"Though we then sinned against thee," answered the chief, "yet have we not at all other times been thy true worshippers? When thy fiery meteors have been seen traversing the valleys, and shooting like stars over the prairies, we have bowed down our heads or retreated to our cabins till they had passed, and in both cases failed not to deprecate the anger of Him whom we deemed their master. And yet, Spirit, thou hast delivered us into the toils of our fierce enemies, the Eries!"

With the singular laugh, which was between a hiss and a roar, the Spirit replied by asking: "How know ye that I have delivered you into the toils of your fierce enemies, the Eries?"

"What is the width of the valley into which thy treacherous eye hath decoyed us?" demanded the haughty Chief.

"Scarcely two bowshots," replied the Spirit.

"At its entrance, planted on both sides of the narrow pass, are Eries, well provided with bows and arrows and spears, waiting as a cunning cayman waits in the sedge for the unsuspecting water-duck."

"There are indeed Eries waiting on both sides of the narrow pass, as a cayman waits for a water-duck."

"Then have you led the Nansemonds into a danger from which there are no means of escape?"

"Is there not another end to the valley?"

"There is, and what will it avail? As much as a bow and arrow in the hands of him whose eyes have departed, or a spear in the grasp of a palsied man. Upon each side of the valley, jut far into the lake hills whose precipitous sides no one but a spirit can climb; and where are the canoes which shall transport us to a place of safety?"

"What will the Nansemonds give if the Spirit of Fire will release them from the dangers which encompass them?"

"They will yearly kindle a fire in the time of a high wind, that their deliverer may have the glorious prospect of seeing the dry prairie swept by the devouring flame."

"It is well! upon that condition I will save you."

So saying he arose, and, taking up from the pool in the middle of the valley a handful of slime, he rounded it into a ball, the while breathing upon it until it became of the colour of his face; when he had done this, he placed it upon the great toe of his right foot, and, giving it a kick into the air, and calling it by the name of "Chepiasquit," commanded it "to lead the good people, the Nansemonds, to a place of safety." So saying, he turned to the warriors and bade them follow their guide, who would soon conduct them out of difficulty; and he bade them not forget their promise to fire a prairie in the time of a high wind in honour of him who ruled over that element. Having spoken these words, he began to fade from their view, as a fire goes out which is left unsupplied with fuel. First, the sparks from his eyes disappeared—then his breath ceased to be hot and scorching, and his eyes red and glowing—and soon there was remaining but the indistinct resemblance of a being with the shape of a man. A little while, and even that faint glimmering had ceased to be.

The Nansemonds arose and followed with confidence the fiery ball down the valley. After travelling in an open path for some time, they came all at once to the shore of the lake; they saw its little waves dashing upon the smooth sand, and the stars reflected in the bosom of the clear waters. The fiery ball now changed its course along the shore. Following it, they came at the distance of three bowshots to a little bay, where they found a number of canoes well provided with paddles, and in each a calebash of good nesh-caminnick, and a piece of roasted deer's flesh. They entered these canoes, and committed themselves to the lake. Again the Spirit-ball coaxed them on. Darkness now hid the moon and stars, but it only rendered their guiding light more visible. After following it till the dawn of day, they landed again, and to their great joy found themselves at the foot of the well known path, which led from the lake to their own country. The Spirit-ball had disappeared, but it had first placed them beyond the reach of danger. A few suns, and our fathers once more stood upon the banks of their own pleasant river, the Nansemond, and listened to the joyous prattle of their children, and looked into the bright eyes of their fond wives.

Nor did they forget their promise to the Spirit. Yearly, in the time of a high wind, they kindled a fire in the dry prairie, that their deliverer might enjoy the glorious prospect of seeing it swept by the devouring flame. The warriors know that the custom is still preserved; they know that every year, in the Corn-Moon, when the grass on the prairie is ripe and dry, the chief, or the priest, goes to the spot, and, placing a lighted coal in the grass, makes a bow to it, pronouncing these words: "Thank you, Spirit!" when the grass immediately blazes up, and the prairie becomes enveloped in flames.



THE ORIGIN OF WOMEN.

There was a time, when, throughout the Island, neither on land nor in the water, in field or forest, was there a woman to be found. Vain things were plenty—there was the turkey, and the swan, and the blue jay, and the wood-duck, and the wakon bird; and noisy, chattering, singing creatures, such as the daw, and the thrush, and the rook, and the prairie-dog, abounded—indeed there were more of each than was pleasing to the ear—but of women, vain, noisy, laughing, chattering women, there were none. It was, indeed, quite a still world to what it is now. Whether it is better and happier, will depend much upon the opinion men entertain of those, who have changed its character from calm and peaceable to boisterous and noisy. Some will think it is much improved by the circumstance which deprived the Kickapoos of their tails—while others will greatly deplore its occurrence.

At the time of which I am telling my brother, the Kickapoos, and indeed all red men, wherever found—and at that time there were none but red men in the world—were furnished with long tails like horses and buffaloes. It was very handy to have these appendages in a country where flies were numerous and troublesome, as they were in the land of the Kickapoos—tails being much more sudden in their movements than hands, and more conveniently situated, as every body must see, for whisking off the flies which light upon the back. Then they were very beautiful things, these long tails, especially when handsomely painted and ornamented, as their owners used to ornament them, with beads, and shells, and wampum—and being intended as a natural decoration to the creature, the depriving him of it may well have produced, as it did, a great deal of sport and merriment among the other animals, who were not compelled to submit to the deprivation. The fox, who is rather impudent, for a long time after they were chopped off, sent to the Kickapoos every day to enquire "how their tails were;" and the bear shook his fat sides with laughter at the joke, which he thought a very good one, of sending one of his cubs with a request for a "dozen spare tails."

I have said, that throughout the land there were no women. There were men—a plenty, the land was thronged with them—not born, but created of clay—and left to bake in the sun till they received life—and these men were very contented and happy. Wars were very few then, for no one need be told that half the wars which have arisen have grown out of quarrels on account of love of women, and the other half on account of their maintenance. There was universal peace and harmony throughout the land. The Kickapoos ate their deer's flesh with the Potowatomies, hunted the otter with the Osages, and the beaver with the Hurons; and the fierce Iroquois, instead of waking the wild shout of war, went to the land of the Sauks and Ioways to buy wampum, wherewith to decorate their tails. Happy would it have been for the red men if they were still furnished with these appendages, and wanted those which have been supplied in their place—women!

But the consequence which usually attends prosperity happened to the Indians. They became very proud and vain, and forgot their creator and preserver. They no more offered the fattest and choicest of their game upon the memahoppa, or altar-stone, nor evinced any gratitude, nor sung, nor danced in his praise, when he sent his rains to cleanse the earth and his lightnings to cool and purify the air. When their corn grew ripe and tall, they imputed it to their own good conduct and management; when their hunt was successful, to their own skill and perseverance. Reckoning not, as in times past, of the superintendence of the Great Spirit over all things, they banished him altogether from their proud and haughty hearts, teaching them to forget that there was aught greater or more powerful than himself.

Though slow to anger, and waiting long before he remembers the provocations he has received, the Great Spirit, in the end, and when no atonement is made, always inflicts an adequate punishment for every offence. Seeing how wicked the Indians had become, he said to his Manitous: "It is time that the Kickapoos and other red men were punished. They laugh at my thunders, they make mock of my lightnings and hurricanes, they use my bounties without thanking me for them. When their corn grows ripe and tall, instead of imputing its luxuriance to my warm suns and reviving showers, they say, 'We have managed it well;' when their hunt is successful, they place it to account of their own skill and perseverance. Reckoning not, as in times past, of my superintendence over all things, they have banished me altogether from their haughty hearts, and taught themselves to forget that there is aught greater and more powerful than the Indian."

So saying, he bade his chief Manitou repair to the dwelling-places of the red men, and, to punish them for their wickedness, deprive them of that which they most valued, and bestow upon them a scourge and affliction adequate to their offences. The Spirit obeyed his master, and descended to the earth, lighting down upon the lands occupied by the Kickapoos. It was not long before he discovered what it was which that people and the other Indians most valued. He saw, from the pains they took in decorating their tails with gay paints, and beads, and shells, and wampum, that they prized them above every other possession. Calling together all the red men, he acquainted them with the will of his master, and demanded the instant sacrifice of the article upon which they set so much value. It is impossible to describe the sorrow and compunction which filled their bosoms, when they found that the forfeit for their wickedness was to be that beautiful and beloved appendage. But their prayers and entreaties, to be spared the humiliation and sacrifice, were in vain. The Spirit was inexorable, and they were compelled to place their tails on the block and to behold them amputated.

The punishment being in part performed, the Spirit next bethought himself of a gift which should prove to them "a scourge and affliction adequate to their offences." It was to convert the tails thus lopped off into vain, noisy, chattering, laughing creatures, whose faces should he like the sky in the Moon of Plants, and whose hearts should be treacherous, fickle, and inconstant; yet, strange to relate, who should be loved above all other things on the earth or in the skies. For them should life often be hazarded—reputation, fame, and virtue, often forfeited—pain and ignominy incurred. They were to be as a burden placed on the shoulders of an already overloaded man; and yet, a burden he would rather strive to carry than abandon. He further appointed that they should retain the frisky nature of the material from which they were made, and they have retained it to this day.

The Great Spirit, deeming that the trouble wherewith he had provided the red man would not sufficiently vex and punish him, determined to add another infliction, whose sting, though not so potent and irksome, should be without any alleviation whatever. He sent great swarms of musquitoes. Deprived of tails, by which flies could be brushed away at the pleasure of the wearers, the Indians dragged out for a long time a miserable existence. The musquitoes stung them, and their tails teased them. The little insects worried them continually, and their frisky companions, the women, were any thing but a cup of composing drink. At length the Great Spirit, seeing how the poor Indians were afflicted, mercifully withdrew the greater part of the musquitoes, leaving a few as a memorial of the pest which had formerly annoyed them. The Kickapoos petitioned that the women should also be taken away from them, and their old appendages returned—but the Great Spirit answered, that women were a necessary evil, and must remain.



THE HILL OF FECUNDITY.

A TRADITION OF THE MINNATAREES.

At the distance of a sun's journey from the creek, called in the tongue of the white people the Knife Creek—which divides the larger and smaller towns of the Minnatarees from each other by a valley not much above four bowshots across—there are two little hills, situate at a small distance from each other. These hills are famous, throughout all the nations of the west, for the faculty they once possessed of imparting relief to such women as resorted to them for the purpose of crying and lamenting for the circumstance of their having no children. It was there, that, if they were careful to say proper prayers, and to use the proper lamentations, the reproach of barrenness was removed; and those, whose arms had never enfolded a babe of their own, whose ears had never listened to the innocent prattle of children born of their own bodies, might enjoy that greatest of human happinesses; might feel the exquisite pleasure which arises, when the little creatures press to their knees, or draw the food of life from their bosoms.

Once upon a time, many years ago, there was among the Minnatarees a woman, whose name was Namata-washta, or the Pretty Tree. It had been her misfortune to be married, when little more than a child, to a very proud and bad man; who soon came to use her with great cruelty and injustice. She was a very strict and devout worshipper of the Great Spirit, and never failed, whether in the field or in the cabin, by night or by day, to offer up prayers and a portion of every acquisition to the Being who bestowed it upon her. The Great Spirit saw her goodness, and loved her. He made her corn to grow much larger than that of any other woman in the village; and the produce of her garden was always much earlier and better. But she was a barren woman, and thence resulted her misery. For seven weary seasons had she lived in the lodge of her husband; and while his seven other wives had each children at her knee, crying, "My mother!" there was none to address her by that tender name, and to lisp in childish tones its delight, when she returned from the labours of the field of maize—and to bestow its innocent caresses upon her after the separations which unavoidably take place in forest life. Thence arose the extreme harshness of her husband, and the continued sneers and gibes of the wives who had been blest with offspring. The good Namata-washta bore their ill usage for a long time without repining; but, at length, the oft-repeated cruelties of her husband and the incessant insults of her companions became so painful, that she was wont to fly from them to the solitude of the forest.

One evening, she wandered out from the cabin of her husband until she came to the nearest of the two small hills, of which I have been telling my brother. Upon this hill she seated herself, and was occupied in bewailing her fatal misfortune of barrenness, and in praying the Great Spirit to avert it, when some one whispered at her shoulder, "Namata-washta!"

Looking up, she beheld a tall woman clothed in a long and flowing robe of white goat-skin; her mocassins were of a blood-red colour; her eyes were black as the shell of the butter-nut; her hair, which was also black, was dressed with gay flowers. After surveying the weeping Namata-washta for some time in silence, and with an appearance of much compassion, she said to her in a gentle voice, "Woman, why art thou weeping?"

"I am weeping," replied the poor Indian woman, "because I have borne my husband no children!"

"And therefore thou weepest, deluded and infatuated woman! Rather shouldst thou rejoice that thou hast not contributed to swell the amount of human suffering. Happier far is she who has added nothing, in respect of children, to the sum of human misery, than she who has become a mother, to see her offspring perish in the strife of warriors, or of hunger, or wretchedness, or wasting disease. That thou hast given birth to no heirs of misery should afford thee joy, rather than sorrow, Namata-washta!"

"But therefore I am held of little account, and of no value in the house of my husband. My place is usurped by those who have children; the other wives of my husband demand and exercise the right to impose hard and disgraceful burdens upon me, because I am barren. My husband beats me with blows, his wives assail me with taunts and reproaches—even the children of the village, as I pass them at their sports, cry out, 'A barren woman!' And thus do they incessantly worry me, till I am compelled to fly to the wilderness for rest and peace!"

"Wouldst thou become the mother of children, Namata-washta?"

"I would."

"Thou shalt have thy wish. Listen to my words. The hill upon which thou art sitting was once a beautiful woman, as its neighbour, the other and larger hill, was a man and a warrior. The woman, who is the hill upon which we now stand, was the first woman that ever lived, and the first that ever became a mother. I will tell thee, Namata-washta, who she was. When the Great Spirit determined to people the Island with human beings, he bade them spring out of the earth, as maize and vegetables do at this day; and bade each take the quality and nature of the soil in which he germinated. The red man forced his head out of a rich and hardy prairie surrounded by lofty trees; the white man took root in a stony and crabbed hill: and both have retained their first natures.

"The woman who became this hill sprung up in a deep and very fat soil, and thence became very fruitful—the most fruitful woman ever known. She came out of the earth on the first day of the Moon of Buffaloes, and, ere it hung in the skies like a bended bow, she had a child at her breast. Every moon, she bestowed upon her husband a son or a daughter, and these sons and daughters were all equally fertile with their mother. The Great Spirit, seeing that if mankind continued thus prolific, the Island would soon be overstocked with inhabitants, determined to take away from the pair the breath he had given them, and with it the power of unlimited procreation and fecundity imparted to their descendants. He changed them into these two hills. But, that the faculty they possessed in so remarkable a degree might not be lost to the world, but might continue to be dispensed to those who wanted it, and should seek it in a proper manner, he said to the hill, which was the fruitful woman: 'Whenever a barren woman approaches thee, lamenting in sincerity her hard fate, and duly supplicating mercy, thou shalt listen to her with pity and compassion. I endow thee with power to grant her prayers. Thou shalt bid her return to her village and repair to the couch of her husband. When twelve suns shall have passed, she shall return to thee soon after the dawning of day. Upon a near approach to thee, she shall see a child, perhaps two children, very light of foot, and whose height shall scarce exceed that of a squirrel. She must approach them, but they will run from her, nor will her utmost speed enable her to overtake them. They will fly to thy protection, nor must thou deny it—they must be received into thy bosom. The chill of their cold hiding place will destroy them, and their souls will enter into the womb of the suppliant woman, and she will become a fruitful and honoured mother.'

"These were the words of the Great Spirit; and often has the power he imparted to that hill been felt to the taking away the reproach from the barren women. Namata-washta, go thou, and do likewise. Follow the directions I have given thee, and, if the having children will render thee happy, thou shalt be happy—if to be the mother of a more numerous offspring than any wife in thy nation may make thee an honoured woman, thou shalt be honoured."

With these words, the Spirit departed from before the eyes of Namata-washta, who never beheld her again. She returned to the cabin of her husband, obeyed the words of the stranger, and saw the results take place which had been foretold. She became the mother of a more numerous progeny than any woman of her nation, took the lead in the lodge of her husband, and was more beloved by him than any other of his wives. She became as much honoured by the people as she had been before despised by them, and died with the reputation of having been the greatest benefactress of the nation that had lived since the days of the two wise boys who discovered the upper world[A].

[Footnote A: See the Tradition vol. i., p. 201.]

The faculty which this hill possessed of imparting fruitfulness was retained till the wickedness of the Minnatarees became so crying, that the Great Spirit, deeming that there would be full enough of these bad people, if left to their natural means of increase, withdrew it, and has never restored it.



TALES OF A WHITE MAN'S GHOST.

I. GARANGA.

If the feet of my brother from the distant land have ever carried him to the spot where the Oswegatchie joins with the river called by the people of his nation the St. Lawrence, he must have seen a broken wall of stone, which that same people built very soon after they had taken possession of the High Rock, and made it the great village of the pale faces. At that time the red men of the wilderness were not very well disposed towards the strangers who had come among them, viewing them as they do wolves, and panthers, and catamounts, which are very much in the way of Indians, and therefore they put them out of it as soon as possible. At length, the great chief or governor at the City of the High Rock, finding that the men whom he left within the big walls he had built on the Oswegatchie were every moment in danger of being massacred by their fierce and warlike neighbours, the Iroquois, recalled his soldiers to his wing from their perilous flight, and bade them soar no more in that dangerous direction. So the high walls he had thrown up to serve as a barrier against the forest warrior fell to the earth, and were never rebuilt. The grass grew up over them, the winds whistled among them, and many spirits, white and red, came and took up their residence in the corners and recesses of the deserted habitation.

Among the white spirits that sojourned in the ruined fort there was one who was very kind to the Indians, and often held long talks with them, though they never saw him. Often, when the sun had retired to his place of rest beyond the western mountains—for he would only hold conversation when darkness covered the earth—the Indians would repair to the outside of the ruins, and, calling upon the "Good Little Fellow," he would come and entertain them, until the purple and grey tints of morning shone in the eastern sky, with tales of his own pale race, and of that other, the red, as connected with them. The eager listeners would be told of cabins in which the Great Spirit was worshipped, that were twice the flight of an arrow broad, and three times its flight in length, and so high as to be beyond the daring of the bird of morning. And he taught them to wonder much, and laugh a little, by telling them that when men went to worship the Being in whose honour and for whose worship the cabin was built, they dressed themselves in their most gorgeous apparel, and put on long robes, painted to look like the gay birds of the forest, and emulating in the brightness of their dyes the bow in the clouds after a shower of rain. When the Indians laughed at this, he told them that the Great Spirit, the white people thought, never listened to those who were not well dressed, and "looked smart." He said the white people were not like the Indians; they only worshipped the Master of Life on the seventh day of the week and a few other days, whereas the Indians worshipped him every day—which was much the best way, he thought. And he told the Indians many other things, respecting the white people living over the Great Salt Lake, some of which made them think they were very wise, and valiant, and prudent, but the most of what he said went to prove them great fools. And when he told them that the men weeded the corn, while the women sat doing nothing, or "galloping from cabin to cabin," the Indians, who had become so well acquainted with him that they could speak with freedom, bade him return and tell his people how much better the Indians managed these things.

Once upon a time, as he sat repeating his tales to the wondering Indian visiters, he said to them: Did you ever hear about Garanga, the beautiful bird that was taken from her perch in the cabin of the White Crane, the great warrior of the Iroquois, by a man of my nation?

The Indians all answered, No; and so they would have answered had they heard it twenty times, for he varied his stories every time he repeated them, as the pale faces always do; so they were sure to have a new story though it had an old name. Then I will tell it you, said he, and he began as follows.

There came to this fort, while it was yet standing in all its pride, a young chief of my nation to be its governor. He was a mere youth to be entrusted with so high and responsible an office, but, though young in years, he was old in understanding. He was also very beautiful to look upon, and his stature was of the tallest of the sons of the earth. The Indian maidens that visited the fort with their fathers and brothers bestowed much praise upon his fine and manly form, and their friends of the other sex did the same upon his courageous spirit, and his superiority in those exercises in which one must excel if he would command the esteem, and excite the awe, of the red men of the forest. The men likened him for swiftness to the deer, and for agility to the mountain-cat, and for strength to the bear, and for courage to all that is courageous; the women compared his skin to the water-lily, and his eyes to the blue sky when it is bluest, and his hair to the silken tassels of ripened corn, and his step to the stag's, and his voice to the song-sparrow's. Whatever is beautiful among the works of nature was brought in by comparison, to express their admiration of the graceful and gallant stranger.

Among the bright-eyed maidens who visited the fort, as they said, to buy beads and gay toys, but in reality to gaze upon the noble chief, was the beautiful Garanga, the daughter of one of the principal warriors of the Iroquois. The first time she saw him her little bosom was filled with the flames of love, but she never spoke of it to any one. While the other maidens sat repeating the soft words he had whispered in their ears, for he had the forked tongue which the white man always possesses, the mild and lovely daughter of the White Crane said nothing, but sighed. Her heart had been taken captive at first sight, by the handsome stranger—her little bosom was filled with love for the noble warrior. Nor were the charms of the maiden unmarked by him she loved. He had singled her out among all the dusky maidens, in some degree for her beauty, but more for her softness and her modesty, and had asked himself what one among the women of his own clime was superior to her in all that would give delight to him who should make her his own. His heart answered, None. So, learning from the tell-tale eyes of the beautiful maiden, that she was entirely willing to become the bird of his bower, his companion, his wife, he asked her of her father. The chief, proud to be connected with so distinguished a warrior, gave her to him, without hesitation, and she became his wife.

They were married in the Harvest-Moon, and a great feast was given, which made glad the hearts of both white and red. There was a great firing of cannon, and the fire-eater was given to the Indians, who became very drunk, and made the woods ring again with their boisterous mirth. Before the month in which the Indians harvest their maize had come round again, there was a young bird of the sex of its father, in the house of the governor. Ere the child had lived a moon, the father said to the mother, thoughtfully but kindly,

"Dost thou love thy husband?"

"The Great Spirit only knows how much, and how deeply," answered the fond wife.

"Hast thou joy in the bright eyes, and smiling cheeks, and lovely laugh, of our little son?"

"I have exceeding joy in our son," answered the mother, pressing her infant with a warm embrace to her bosom. "When I look upon his young face, and his little laugh rings in mine ear, and when I mark the bright light of his eyes shining like stars upon me, my heart leaps like a deer stricken to death by the shaft of the hunter. And often while thou art slumbering by my side, do I lie sleepless, my eyes filled with tears, to think that he may die. And yet I have exceeding joy in our child."

"Does it not grieve thee to think that thou, and he, and I, may not meet together in the land of souls?"

"May not meet together in the land of souls? Why? Thou hast sent an arrow to my heart, my husband. Why are the gates of death to separate those who loved each other in life?"

"Our gods are not the same, and the abodes of the souls of the white man and the red man are far apart."

"Why wilt thou not come to the land which holds the spirits of the departed of my race? Thou art a lover of the chace, and often preferrest the pastime of hunting the deer, and the bear, and the panther, through the wild forest, to reposing in the arms of thy Garanga. In the land—my land of souls—thou wilt enjoy thy favourite pursuit. There thou canst course the stag through flowery meads, and over grassy hills, and know nothing of the bitter obstacles which impede the path of an earth-borne hunter. There will be a pleasant cabin built for us beside the placid river of that land—and upon the green banks, beneath the wide-spreading shade of the evergreen larch and cypress, shall our rest be appointed. Come to my heaven, my beloved husband!"

"Garanga! my beautiful Garanga! mother of my son! it may not be!" replied the husband. "The Christian's heaven is unlike the heaven of the infidel, nor does he picture to himself such delights as thou and thy nation fancy are to be the portion of the brave warrior and skilful hunter—of all who do their duty faithfully, and according to the best of their power."

"Then I will go with thee to thy heaven, for I will not be separated from thee!" replied the fond wife. "Teach me how I shall worship thy Master, for alas, I know not his ways."

So the beautiful Garanga forsook the religion of her own nation; and hung round her neck the silver cross and rosary, which marked the belief of her beloved husband. In vain did her father and his people solicit her to quit her husband, and return to them, and to the belief in which she had been bred. Her favourite brother, Mecumeh, came, and besought her, by all the motives of national pride and family vanity, to return to her people in this world, that she might not be severed from them in the land of souls. But the young Garanga, whom her husband called Marguerite, after a woman of his own nation, was bound by a threefold cord—her love to her husband, to her son, and to her religion. Finding that he could not succeed by persuasion, the cunning Mecumeh had recourse to stratagem. The husband was in the habit of going down the river often, on fishing excursions, and, when he returned, he would fire his signal gun—and his wife would hasten, with her little son, to meet him on the shore, and to place the fond kiss of welcome on his cheek.

On one occasion he had been gone longer than usual, by the space of near a moon. Garanga was filled with apprehensions, natural enough to one fondly loving, and at a time when imminent dangers and hair-breadth escapes were of every-day occurrence—when it was known that the people of her nation, displeased with her husband for drawing her away from the faith of her fathers, were studying deep plans of revenge. She had sat in the lofty tower which overlooked the greater part of the surrounding country, and watched for the returning canoe till the last beam of day had faded away from the waters, and that its great star had ever been, could only be gathered from a bright beam that lingered about the folds of the western clouds. The deepening shadows of twilight played tricks with her imagination, and she frequently saw things, which, to her, appeared the object her heart sought, but which were mere creations of a fancy moving at the suggestions of hope. Once she was startled by a water-fowl, which, as it skimmed along the surface of the water, imaged to her fancy the light canoe impelled by her husband's vigorous arm. Again she heard the leap of the heavy Muskalongi, and the splashing waters sounded to her like the first dash of the oar. That passed away, and disappointment and tears followed. The little boy was beside her; he bore the same name as his father, and inherited the warlike disposition and love of daring which distinguished him among his companions. Born and bred among men of war, he understood the use of the bow and the musket; courage and hardihood seemed to be his instinct, and danger his element, and battles, wounds, and the deeds of the valiant, were household words with him. He laughed at his mother's fears, but, in spite of the boy's ridicule, they strengthened till apprehension seemed reality, and she shed tears of sorrow for the fancied death of her beloved husband.

Suddenly the sound of the signal gun broke on the stillness of night. Both mother and son sprang on their feet with a cry of joy, and were pressing, hand in hand, towards the outer gate, when a sentinel or soldier, appointed to keep it, stopped them to remind them that it was her husband's order, that no one should venture without the walls after sunset. She, however, insisted on passing, and telling the soldier that she would answer to her husband for his breach of orders, she passed the outer barrier. Young Louis held up his bow and arrow before the sentinel, saying gaily, "I am my mother's body guard, you know." The sentinel saw the tears of the affectionate wife, gave way, and permitted her to pass.

The distance from the fort to the place where the commander of the white men usually moored his canoe was trifling and quickly passed. Garanga and her little son flew along the narrow path, and soon reached the shore. But, alas! instead of the face she loved, and the form she fondly expected to press to her throbbing bosom, she beheld the fierce Mecumeh. At a little distance from him were his companions. Entreaties and remonstrance were alike in vain. On the part of Garanga resistance was not attempted, but it was made with all the spirit of a warrior by young Louis, who snatched a knife from the girdle of one of the Indians, and attempted to plunge it into the bosom of Mecumeh, as he was roughly attempting to bind his wampum-belt over Garanga's mouth to deaden her screams. The uncle wrested the knife from him, and smiled proudly on him, as if he recognized in the brave boy a scion from his own noble and warlike stock. "You will be the eagle of your tribe," said he, "which none will deem strange since she that gave you birth was a daughter of the most valiant chief that roams the wilds. The child of the panther will have the spirit of the panther, nor need the young bear be taught to climb trees, nor the eaglet to fly."

The Indians had two canoes: Garanga was conveyed to one, Louis to the other; and both canoes were rowed into the Oswegatchie, and up the stream as fast as it was possible to impel them against the current of the river.

Not a word nor a cry escaped the boy: he seemed intent on some purpose; and, when the canoe approached near the shore, he drew from his head his fox-skin cap, and threw it so skilfully that it lodged where he meant it should—on the branch of a tree which projected over the water. There was a long white feather in the cap. The Indians had observed the boy's movements; they held up their oars for a moment, and seemed to consult whether they should return and remove the cap, but, after a moment, they again dashed their oars in the water, and proceeded forward. They continued rowing for a few miles, and then landed, hid their canoes behind some trees on the river bank, and plunged into the woods with their prisoners. It was the intention of the Indians to return to their canoes in the morning; and they had not proceeded far from the shore, when they kindled a fire, and prepared some food, and offered a share of it to Garanga and Louis. The poor Garanga had no mind to eat, but Louis ate as heartily as if he had been within the walls of the fort. When the Indians had fed, they stretched themselves before the fire, but not till they had taken the precaution to bind Garanga to a tree, and to compel Louis to lie down in the arms of the brother of his mother. Neither of the prisoners closed their eyes that night. Louis kept his fixed on his mother. She sat upright beside an oak tree; the cord was fastened around her waist, and bound around the tree, which had been blasted by lightning. The bright moon poured its beams through the naked branches upon her face, convulsed with the agony of despair and fear. With one hand she held to her lips the now loved symbol of the faith of her husband—the crucifix; the other grasped another symbol—the rosary. The sight of his beloved mother in such a situation stirred up daring thoughts in the bosom of the heroic boy, but he lay powerless in the naked and brawny arms of the brother of his mother. He tried to disengage himself, but, at the slightest movement, Mecumeh, though still sleeping, seemed conscious, and strained him closer to him. At last the strong sleep that, in the depth of the night, steeps the senses in utter forgetfulness, overpowered him—his arms relaxed their hold, and dropped lifeless beside him, and left Louis free.

The boy rose cautiously—looked for a moment on the Indians, and assured himself that they all slept profoundly. He then possessed himself of Mecumeh's knife, which lay at his feet, and severed the cord which bound his mother to the tree. Neither of them spoke a word—but with the least possible sound they resumed the way by which they had come from the shore—Louis with the confidence, and Garanga with the faint hope, of reaching it before they were overtaken.

It may easily be imagined by those who hear it how often the poor mother, timid as a fawn, was startled by the evening breeze stirring the leaves, or the flight of a bird from among the boughs of the trees, but the boy bounded forward with all the courage of his race(1), as if there were neither fear nor danger in the world.

[Illustration: Designed & Etched by W. H. Brooks, A. R. H. A.

The Boy rose cautiously from the Warrior's grasp.

page 204.

London, Published by Colburn & Bentley, April 1830.]

They had nearly attained the margin of the river where Louis meant to launch one of the canoes, and drop down the current, when the Indian yell, resounding through the woods, struck on their ears. They were missed, pursued, and escape was impossible. Garanga, her bosom filled with overmastering fear, sunk to the ground. Nothing could check the career of Louis. "On!—on, mother!" he cried, "to the shore!" She rose, and instinctively followed her boy. The sound of pursuit came nearer and nearer. They reached the shore, and there beheld three canoes coming swiftly up the river. Animated with hope, Louis screamed the watchword of the garrison, and was answered by his father's voice.

The possibility of escape, and the certain approach of her husband, infused new life into Garanga. "Your father cannot see us," she said, "as we stand here in the shade of the trees; hide yourself in that thicket, I will plunge into the water." Louis crouched under the bushes, and was completely hidden by an overhanging grape-vine, while his mother advanced a few steps into the water where she could be distinctly seen. A shout from the canoes apprised her that she was recognised, and, at the same moment, the Indians, who had now reached the shore, rent the air with their cries of rage and defiance. They stood for a moment as if deliberating what next to do; Mecumeh maintained an undaunted and resolved air, but, with his followers, who did not possess the courage of their race, the aspect of armed men, and a force of thrice their number, had the effect to paralyze their souls. They fled. He looked after them, cried "Shame!" and then with a desperate yell leaped into the water, and stood beside Garanga. The canoes were now within a few yards—he put his knife to her bosom—"The daughter of the White Crane," he said, "should have died by the judgment of our warriors, but now by her brother's hand she must perish:" and he drew back his arm to give vigour to the fatal stroke, when an arrow from the bow of the brave boy pierced his breast, and he fell insensible at his sister's side. A moment after Garanga was in the arms of her husband, and Louis, with his bow unstrung, bounded from the shore, and was received in his father's canoe; and the wild shores rung with the acclamations of the soldiers, while his father's tears were poured like rain upon his cheek.

Nor did the fierce Mecumeh die. He was conveyed to the fort, his wound was healed, and he lived to be reckoned among the aged men of his nation. The affectionate Garanga prevailed upon him to embrace the religion which had become her own, so that they who lived happily together in this life were not separated by the hand of death, but repaired to the heaven of white men together.

NOTE.

(1) Courage of his race.—p. 205.

The North American Indian knows nothing of fear, he is perfectly insensible to danger. I am not now referring to the wonderful fortitude he displays while his enemies are exercising their cunning and dexterity in devising, and carrying into effect, torments which baffle description, but to the quality which is denominated courage among civilised nations. Tecumseh was one of the bravest men that ever lived, so was the celebrated Mackintosh. They must, however, be allowed to display their valour in their own peculiar manner. I shall further illustrate their remarkable and peculiar use of this quality by referring to some well attested instances of almost superhuman daring. The first is of a young Andirondack or Algonquin chief named Piskaret. The story will further illustrate the mode of warfare used in these bloody expeditions.

"Piskaret set out for the country of the Five Nations, about the time the snow began to melt, with the precaution of putting the hinder part of his snow-shoes forward, that if any should happen upon his footsteps, they might think he was gone the contrary way; and, for further security, went along the ridges and high grounds, where the snow was melted, that his track might be often lost; when he came near one of the villages of the Five Nations, he hid himself till night, and then entered a cabin, while every body was fast asleep, murdered the whole family, and carried their scalps into his lurking-place. The next day, the people of the village searched for the murderer in vain. The following night he murdered all he found in another cabin. The inhabitants next day searched likewise in vain for the murderer; but the third night a watch was kept in every house. Piskaret, in the night, bundled up the scalps he had taken the two former nights, to carry, as the proof of his victory, and then stole privately from house to house, till at last he found an Indian nodding, who was upon the watch in one of the houses; he knocked this man on the head: but, as this alarmed the rest, he was forced immediately to fly. He was, however, under no great concern from the pursuit, being more swift of foot than any Indian then living. He let his pursuers come near him from time to time, and then would dart from them. This he did with design to tire them out with the hopes of overtaking him. As it began to grow dark, he hid himself, and his pursuers stopped to rest. They, not being apprehensive of any danger from a single man, soon fell asleep, and the bold Piskaret observing this, knocked them all on the head, and carried away their scalps with the rest."—Colden's History of the Five Nations, Lond. 1747, p. 26.

Another instance which I shall relate of courage and intrepidity will at the same time show the abolition of a bloody rite said to have been peculiar to the Pawnee Loups, of making propitiatory sacrifices to Venus, or the Great Star.

"An Ietan woman, who was brought captive into the village, was doomed to the Great Star, by the warrior, whose property she had become by the fate of war. She underwent the usual preparations, and, on the appointed day, was led to the cross, amidst a great concourse of people, as eager, perhaps, as their civilized fellow-men, to witness the horrors of an execution. The victim was bound to the cross with thongs of skin, and the usual ceremonies being performed, her dread of a more terrible death was about to be terminated by the tomahawk and the arrow. At this critical juncture, Petalesharoo (son of the Knife Chief), stepped forward into the area, and, in an hurried but firm manner, declared that it was his father's wish to abolish this sacrifice; that, for himself, he had presented himself before them, for the purpose of laying down his life upon the spot, or of releasing the victim. He then cut the cords which bound her to the cross, carried her swiftly through the crowd to a horse, which he presented to her, and having mounted another himself, he conveyed her beyond the reach of immediate pursuit; when, after having supplied her with food, and admonishing her to make the best of her way to her own nation, which was at the distance of at least four hundred miles, he was constrained to return to his village. The emancipated Ietan had, however, the good fortune, on her journey of the subsequent day, to meet with a war-party of her own people, by whom she was conveyed to her family in safety.

"Another display of the firmness and determination of the young warrior was required to abolish this sacrifice, it is to be hoped for ever. The succeeding spring, a warrior, who had captured a fine Spanish boy, vowed to sacrifice him to the Great Star, and accordingly placed him under the care of the magi for that purpose.

"The Knife Chief, learning the determination of the warrior, consulted with his son, respecting the best means of preventing a repetition of the horrible ceremony. 'I will rescue the boy,' said Petalesharoo, 'as a warrior should, by force;' but the Knife Chief, unwilling that his son should again expose himself to a danger so imminent as that which he had once encountered in this cause, hoped to compel the warrior to exchange his victim for a large quantity of merchandize, which he would endeavour to obtain with that view. For this purpose, he repaired to Mr. Pappan, who happened to be in the village for the purposes of trade, and communicated to him his intentions. Mr. Pappan generously contributed a considerable quantity of merchandize, and much was added by himself, by Petalesharoo, and other Indians.

"All this treasure was laid in a heap together, in the lodge of the Knife Chief, who thereupon summoned the warrior before him. The chief armed himself with his war-club, and explained the object of his call, commanding the warrior to accept the merchandize, and yield up the boy, or prepare for instant death. The warrior refused, and the chief waved his club in the air towards the warrior. 'Strike!' said Petalesharoo, who stood near to support his father; 'I will meet the vengeance of his friends.' But the more prudent and politic chief added a few more articles to the mass of merchandize, in order to give the warrior another opportunity of acquiescing without forfeiting his word.

"This expedient succeeded; the goods were reluctantly accepted, and the boy was liberated."—James's Account of an Expedition to the Rocky Mountains, ii, 81.

II. THE WARNING OF TEKARRAH.

It was at early nightfall, on a warm and beautiful day, in the month which the white man calls June, but which the red man calls the Hot Moon, that a little fleet, consisting of three small bateaux, fitted out at Montreal, and conveying a body of pale-faced warriors, under the command of one whose hair was white and whose face was seamed with scars, entered the mouth of the Oswego[A]. This petty armament was joined at the beginning of the following season of sleep by a great number of canoes that contained the traders, artizans, and labourers, with their families, together with such tools and utensils as had been deemed necessary for the commencement of a new settlement, which it was the design of the chief of the strangers to establish on the south side of Lake Ontario. They brought with them, besides a great quantity of provisions, the usual articles wherewith to traffic with the possessors of the soil. The Oswego—as my red brothers know—is principally formed by the confluence of the outlets of those numerous lesser lakes that diversify and adorn the vast space of country that lies between the Great Ocean and the Lake of Storms[B]. Its course is northward, and, after whirling and foaming along the narrow and obstructed channel that nature seems to have grudgingly lent for its passage, it finds repose in the small harbour bearing its name, which mingles its contributions with the placid but mighty waters of the west.

[Footnote A: Rapid river.]

[Footnote B: Lake Superior.]

On the eastern part of this harbour, and on a site sufficiently elevated to command its entrance, this party of daring adventurers began to construct a defence against the attacks of your race. Before the frosts of winter had robbed the surrounding forest of its foliage, or compelled the wild-duck to seek a retreat in the secluded waters of the warm south, or the deer had gathered to their couch of leaves in the thicket, a rude but effectual barrier to hostile attack was raised and completed. The intervening summer had been passed by the artisans and labourers, not only in the building of the fortress, but in the erection of such cabins and lodging-places for warriors within its enclosure, as were deemed requisite for the protection of its inmates from the piercing winds, and cold rains, and chilling frosts, of winter. In the mean time the traders had been diligently and successfully employed in exchanging their beads and trinkets, their knives, blankets, and strong waters, with the men of the adjacent woods, for fish and venison to supply the immediate wants of the warriors, and furs and skins to send to the land of their birth. The Indians, with whom this intercourse and barter was carried on, were of the tribe of the Onandagas. They inhabited a valley as fair as the sun ever shone upon. From a point in the interior—distant more than a sun's journey to the south, this capacious valley opens and widens as it advances northwardly—presenting, in its general outline, an immense space, with three sides, the base of which, for the distance of half a sun's travel, is washed by the waters of the beautiful Ontario. As it recedes from the lake, its surface rises gradually to the point or tip, whence, did the strength of vision and the shape of the earth permit, the eye might command a complete survey of the valley, and of the inland ocean that spreads before it. On either side, it is bounded by steep and high hills that verge towards each other as they stretch to the south, and whose elevation increases, until they are lost among a range of lofty mountains, at the termination of the valley.

At this precise point, there gushes forth, from beneath a huge and precipitous rock, a large spring of pure and clear water, cool and refreshing as the dark forest through which it glides, and which, after a sinuous course along the centre of the dell, receiving as it flows the contributions of numerous lesser springs and streams, communicates its waters to the foaming current of the Oswego. Whether this singular but beautiful region now presents the form in which it was first fashioned by the Master of Life, or has since received the shape and appearance it bears from the disruption of some mighty mass of waters, from frightful earthquakes, or some other great convulsion of nature—neither I nor my red brothers can say. Yet does it appear plain that no convulsive heavings of an earthquake could have left its outline or its surface so smooth or regular. No bursting of waters from the top of a mountain (a mountain too, having no capacious bosom for its reception) could have borne away such an immense body of earth as must have been scooped out from between the high and wide-spreading hills.

But, if this region was singular in its formation, it was not less so in the character and manners of the tribe by which it was peopled. They claimed direct descent from the Great Spirit—the Creator of the world. Regarding themselves as his offspring, they deemed themselves the especial objects of his fatherly care. Deeply possessed with a sense of this superhuman relation, it will not be matter of surprise to my brothers that they should refer to it all the more important events of their lives, and that it should impart its influence even to the minuter circumstances of their daily intercourse both with strangers and with each other. From their belief of their relationship to the Good Spirit, they were a good people. Hence they were, according to their crude notions of religion, strictly a religious people; and, although they worshipped the supposed founder of their race, rather with the qualified adoration that one pays to a good father watching over, and guiding from his dwelling among the stars, the destinies of his earthly children; and, although they were insensible to the deep and humble devotion, and piety, which belong to the worshippers of the same Being in the land of the pale-faces; yet was their superstition free from much of the grossness in which the idolatry of the people of the wilderness is usually buried. Their idols and images were indeed numerous and of rude workmanship, but, like the images before whom kneel no small portion of the people of the land which was mine, they were professed to be worshipped only as the visible representations of invisible spirits. Human sacrifices were not known among them—for they rightly held that the Great Spirit was a kind and affectionate Father, and could not delight in the shedding of the blood of his children, or seeing them sacrificed on his peaceful altars. They had numerous fasts and feasts, but they were accompanied by no cruel rites. Those who presided over the religious ceremonies and observances of this simple people, united, as is usual among most, if not all unenlightened nations, the character and office of priest and prophet—of expounders of visions and dreams—and had the ordering of fasts in the acceptable manner, and at the proper time. They were few in number, and universally revered, beloved, and feared. Their influence and authority were felt in every cabin in the nation. No restraint being imposed upon them, as it is upon the priests in the City of the Rock, they had no inclination to impose any unnatural restraint upon others. Assailed by no external temptations to indulgence themselves, their prohibitions were limited to the very few gratifications that are inconsistent with the habits of Indian life. Avarice was a passion of which neither they nor their tribe had, as yet, felt the influence. All things were in common; and individual appropriation of property was unknown. The "strong waters" of the white man, the fire which hath eaten into the bowels of the race of the red man, had not yet diffused their poison, and drunkenness was a vice of which these people did not understand the meaning. A moral influence over the minds of their tribe was the only distinction to which the priests of Onondaga had aspired. This influence they sought to attain, not by inflicting penance upon the people, but by pretending to immediate intercourse and communication with the Great Spirit. Reverencing that Spirit, these good sons of the forest could not forbear to respect the channels through which his wise and benevolent communications were made.

Not only did these priests of the Manitou direct the devotions of the people, and convey to them the responses of the same mighty Being in times of peril, but won their love and confidence by professing to heal their maladies. Identified with them in their ordinary pursuits, they were, on common occasions, distinguished from them in exterior decoration only by a bone which they wore on the left arm, like a bracelet, just above the wrist, and by the method of arranging their hair. On their bracelets were carved, in rude outline, the representations of certain beasts; and on that of the eldest of the prophets were other cabalistic inscriptions, of which none but the wearers themselves could penetrate the meaning. Their hair, instead of hanging loosely over their foreheads and shoulders, as was usual with their tribe, in common with the other red men of the forest, was collected into a roll at the top of the head, and tied round with a string of red wampum, its extremities being suffered to fall on either side, as nature or accident might dispose it. When they would intercede with the Great Spirit, or know his will by divination, they assumed other dresses; the skins of bears or buffaloes, or mantles curiously woven of feathers. They usually dwelt together on a sort of consecrated ground, set apart for their special accommodation, and which was as unlike the rest of the valley, as the valley itself was unlike the ordinary conformation of the earth. The allotted ground, or space set apart for their use, was called The Prophets' Plain, and was situated on a projecting declivity of the western side of this beautiful glen, whose banks, although they presented, as they opened and widened to the north, a regular outline, were, nevertheless, varied in their actual surface by occasional deviations and sinuosities, arising as well from the unexplainable curvatures of its original structure, as from the narrow, deep ravines, that had been worn by the autumn floods and perennial streamlets from the adjacent hills. In like manner the surface of the bed of the valley was subject to frequent inequalities, produced, perhaps, by the nature of the soil on which it rested. It was formed of a soft stone and a hard stone. Where the latter prevailed, the surface was usually more elevated and undulating than where the former was found; and of that description was the spot appropriated to the prophets of Onondaga. It was situated about half a day's journey up the valley from the lake, and was sufficiently elevated above the circumjacent level to command a view of the broad bosom of the Ontario over the tops of the forest. Along its outer extremity glided the beautiful stream of the glen. Upon one side of the plain, where it was united to the hills, were the cabins of the prophets.

The whole range of the valley, including its bed, and steep lofty sides, was overspread with a dark and umbrageous forest. With this circumstance, the few scattered patches appropriated to the cultivation of maize, and "the openings," as they are denominated in the western world, present a problem of no very easy solution. They are unique in the vegetable kingdom, being midway between the nakedness of a prairie and the thick gloom of a wilderness. The few scattered trees that grow upon them are uniformly oak. They are separated from each other at unequal distances, but are rarely less than sixty yards apart. They do not shoot up to a lofty height, and destitute of branches like the tenants of the thick woods, but bow their heads, and spread their arms, as if conscious of their dependence upon the precarious charity of a long-cultivated country. Beneath them grows a coarse thin grass; but they are never encumbered with the shrubs and underwood that usually form very serious obstacles in the way of the forest traveller. The Prophets' Plain was the only exception. Along the junction of the plain with the western hill, its margin was thickly set with stunted pines, hemlocks, cedars, and, beneath, tangled briars. No one ventured to penetrate these sacred recesses, for there were extended, near the inner border, the few scattered wigwams of the prophets. Such was the character and description of the plain where the religious ceremonies of the Onondagas were performed, and where their council fires were lighted.

In the interval of eighteen seasons, that had rolled away since the erection of the fortress at Oswego, the character of the red men of the valley had undergone a great and disastrous change.

From the most peaceable, inoffensive, and happy, of all the sons of the forest, they had become the most dissolute, quarrelsome, and drunken. They were constantly seen about the villages of the whites begging, bartering every thing they possessed, and performing every drudgery, however servile or degrading, for the strong waters of the pale-face. The free and lofty spirit that once animated the nation was gone; a spirit which, though it had not been often aroused to action, was yet susceptible of the highest efforts of Indian heroism. Their encounters with the neighbouring tribes had not been frequent, yet, when they did take place, the Onondagas had displayed a spirit of intrepid daring, of craft, of patience, and of hardihood in suffering, that had seldom been surpassed among the nations of the forest. But now the spirit of the tribe was broken, and they were no longer numbered among the fierce resenters of wrong. The Oneidas trespassed upon their hunting-grounds and slaughtered their people, yet their warriors were too debased and abject to avenge the insult, or wipe away the memory of their wrongs with blood. They were, evidently, hastening to ruin. Their numbers were rapidly diminishing, as well from the usual effects of intoxication as from the exposures and accidents to which they were subjected from its influence; and, more than all, from the constant quarrels and murders which daily took place among them. In a few more years, if the course they then pursued had been continued, the whole tribe must have become utterly extinct; their name existing but in the recollection of the story-teller, and the green turf alone marking the lands they once inhabited. It fortunately happened, however, at the period alluded to, that the prophets, together with a few of the elder chiefs, who had stood aloof from the contaminating influence of the white men, were enabled to arouse the almost extinguished energy of the people, so far as to assemble them round a council-fire, that was lighted at early dawn one frosty morning, in the Moon of Falling Leaves, on the Prophets' Plain. The whole tribe was called together. A solemn gravity, even beyond the ordinary measure of Indian deliberation, sat upon the countenance of each chief and prophet, indicating that matters of high importance were impending. These sat in a circle around the great fire, their eyes cast upon the earth, and all silent as a grove of oaks in a calm morning. Without the circle of chiefs and prophets stood promiscuously grouped the remainder of the tribe—men, women, and children—all discovering more than common anxiety to learn the reason of the extraordinary call.

But let me not anticipate the circumstances that attended, nor the events that followed, the Warning of Tekarrah[A], as recited by Wonnehush, chief of the Onondagas.

[Footnote A: Tekarrah, i.e. [Greek: angelos], messenger, of the Great Spirit.]

From a remote corner of the camp, this aged man intimated an intention to speak. A deep silence pervaded the whole crowd, and every eye was fixed upon him. After a short pause, he slowly rose, and cast an anxious eye around the room in which the fire was lighted. But his eye, although it retained proof of its former power and lustre, had now become dim with age. His furrowed brow, his whitened locks, and bended form, once as straight as the arrow that sped from his youthful bow, evinced the ravages which time had made on his noble form. Yet his voice was still strong and clear. At length, adjusting the folds of his blanket, he stretched forth his withered arm, and, with the dignity of one from the Land of Souls, and with all the eloquence of his race, thus addressed the wandering inmates of the camp:—

Brothers, shall Wonnehush tell you a lie? No! Let the white man, whose heart is the heart of a fawn, and whose ways are the ways of the serpent, let him speak with a forked tongue. It is for him that lives in great towns, and buys his bread by selling strong waters, to poison the red men—it is for him to deal in lies. The red man hunts the buffalo, and traps the beaver in the woods that were given him by the Great Spirit. He crosses the big mountain, and enters the deep valleys beyond it, and no man dares to stop his path. He has a great heart, and scorns to tell a lie. Hear, then, the words of Wonnehush!

Brothers, I am an oak of the forest. The snows of a hundred winters have fallen on my branches. Once the tree was covered with green leaves, but they have dropped at my side, and the sap, which once made the tree strong and flourishing, has left the trunk, and the moisture has decayed from my roots.

Brothers, I am an aged, a very aged man. I can no longer bend the bow of my youth, and my tomahawk falls short of its death-mark. But my ears have been open, and my tongue can repeat to you the traditions of the valley. Listen to the chief of Onondaga, and believe the words he will tell you, for he never spoke other than the truth. He never in youth had a forked tongue, or a faint heart, and why should he bear them now?

Brothers, the flowers of the prairie have blossomed and faded, and the leaves of the forest budded and withered, more than fifty times since the canoes of the white men entered the mouth of the Rapid River. My tribe was then spread from the lake to the mountain, and the smoke of their cabins curled over the tops of the hemlocks, from Skeneateles to Oneida. The Great Spirit was their kind father. He looked into their wigwams, and saw they were happy. They hunted the fat bear, the stately moose, and the delicious deer, through wide forests, and speared the juicy fish of many waters. Their hearts were very stout, and their arms were very long. In war, who were so brave as the Onondagas?—The scalps of their enemies were strung as thick upon their belt-girdles as the stars in the path of the Master of Life. Their wives were good and affectionate, their sons strong and brave, and their daughters sweet-tempered and beautiful. They were happy, for they were virtuous, and favoured by the Great Spirit, for they did all they could to deserve his love.

Brothers, the white man came over the Great Lake, and settled down upon all the best spots of the land, as the wild-duck lights upon the lake which contains his favourite food. Soon his brothers joined him, and, to protect their coward hearts from the red men, they built a fort at Oswego. To that vile spot they enticed our young men, and our women, to bring them the spoils of the water and the land—the fish, venison, and skins—and gave them wampum and the fire-eater in exchange. When they had swallowed the strong waters of the pale-faces, they became as beasts, and fell about the earth like trees shivered by lightnings, or prostrated by the tempest. When they arose from the earth, it was to quarrel with each other. The ground was wet, and the waters red, with the blood of Onandagas slain by the hands of their brothers. They sought the deer, and the bear, and the moose, and the wolf, no more, or, if they sought, their hands were so enfeebled by the strong waters that the quest was fruitless, and the maize which was planted was suffered to be choked with weeds. Instead of the noble pastimes of war and the chace, they loitered around the cabins of the white men; and, instead of the tongue which had been given them by their father, the Great Spirit, and with which they had spoken for many, many ages, they learned the tongue of the stranger. The words and wise sayings of the prophets had no longer a charm for them, and the traditions which once flowed from their lips to patient, and pleased, and attentive, hearers, were neglected for the lying tales of the stranger. The knees of the once swift runner shook like a reed in the wind. The heart of the once fearless warrior had become softer than woman's. The blood of his enemies no more reddened his tomahawk; his shout of onset was heard no more among the hills of the Iroquois. He became a prey to the cunning hatred of the strangers, whose anger was kindled against him because he was the son of the Great Spirit. And they mixed the poisonous juices of herbs with the strong waters they gave him, that his death might be sure. Is it strange that our people have disappeared from the plain, as the dew in the morning or the snows of the Planting-Moon before the beams of the noontide sun?

Brothers, more than thirty years have passed since a council-fire was kindled on the Prophets' Plain, in the Moon of Early Frost. It was a great fire, for there were assembled all the people of the valley. In the middle of the assembly stood the priests, next the chiefs and warriors of Wonnehush, and without them the aged men and women, and the children, and the wives of the warriors. Then the priests began the dance and the howl, wherewith they commence their invocations to the Great Spirit. Suddenly there appeared in the midst of the people a stranger who was a head taller than the tallest man of the nation. His form was noble and majestic beyond any thing ever seen by our people. His eye had the brightness of the sunbeam, and his manner was graceful as the waving of a field of corn. Upon the border of his mantle were strange figures; and his belt of wampum glittered like the girdle of the heavens. He was one upon whom no Onondaga eye had ever before looked—a stranger in the valley—perhaps a warrior sent hither by one of the fierce tribes of the land to insult, by some reproach, for their effeminacy and weakness, the terror and sin-stricken Onondagas.

At length he rose to speak, and every sound was hushed, not only in the Indian camp, but in surrounding nature. Not a bird chirped; not a leaf was heard to rustle among the trees of the plain; the beasts of the forests were still; the busy bee desisted from its hum; even the winds were hushed and silent while the stranger delivered his solemn warning.

"I am," said he, "Tekarrah, the messenger of the Great Spirit. Onondagas, listen to my words! I am come from your father, that same Spirit, to speak the words of truth in your ears, and to tell you that he is exceedingly angry with you. You have exchanged your broad and rich lands for useless toys; you have taken the maize and the meat from the mouths of your starving children, to purchase from the strangers the strong waters which have made your warriors as timid as the deer you once hunted through the forests. You have thrown away the tongue which was given you by your Great Father, and have taken that of your destroyers. You have forgotten the deeds of your fathers, which made them feared and honoured from the Falls of the Mohawk to Lake Huron. The Great Spirit has spoken to you in his thunders, and by the mouth of his priests, but you have heard neither; and, though his blessings were showered thick upon you, you have been like adders, and stung the hand which dispensed them.

"Onondagas! hear the warning words of the Great Spirit. If you will return to your cabins, and forget the things that were taught you, and unlearn the tongue of the white man, to use again the language of your fathers—if, instead of the rifle, you will shoot with the bow, and cause the arrow to whistle instead of the bullet—if you will cease to give the spoils of the chace and the produce of your fields for beads and strong waters—if you will chase the Oneidas from your hunting-grounds, and again occupy them yourselves—then will the Great Spirit forgive you, and once more take you to his bosom. But, if you will not hearken to his voice, nor to the voice of his prophets, listen to the words of vengeance.

"Before twelve moons shall have faded from the skies, your tribe shall have passed away. Not an Onondaga shall be left to tell the proud story of the glory of his nation. The cabin of the pale-face shall be built on the burial spot of your fathers, and his herds and flocks shall feed on the consecrated ground of the priests. The white man shall say to his children—'Here once lived a people called the Onondagas. They once were the bravest of all the tribes of the land, but they became the most feeble and cowardly. It was the cunning of whites which wrought their ruin. We gave them strong waters—they tasted the poison—they loved it—and lo! we dwell upon their ashes.'"

Brothers, a sudden blast of wind shook the branches of the trees, a black cloud overspread the plain, and, although every eye seemed fixed upon the place where Tekarrah had stood, yet he was gone. He had come and vanished like one of those fiery balls that we see on a summer's evening, travelling in the misty valleys.

Brothers, we returned to our cabins, and pondered upon his words. They sunk deep into our hearts, and our tribe profited by the warning. We forsook all trade with the white men, and forgot their tongue. We threw away the rifle which was heard no more in our woods, and made the bow and arrow, and the tomahawk, and the war-club, again our weapons. Again we were clothed with the skins of the animals we slew in the chace, and the meat we killed in the woods was applied as it should be, to feed our young ones. The snows of more than thirty winters have whitened our valley, since we have abstained from the strong waters of the pale-faces. Our nation have since grown like the oak, firm and strong-rooted, and the Oneidas dare no longer kindle their fires on our border. Our warriors have hearts as stout as our fathers in the olden time; our runners outstrip the wild cat for agility, and the roebuck for speed. Our people linger no more round the settlement at Oswego, but are happy and contented in the deep shades of the forest, with the coarse but healthy enjoyments of Indian life. The Great Spirit again smiles upon his children, and they smoke in the calumet of peace. Our tribe is strong and warlike, in the full vigour of health, while the red men of other nations are perishing around us.

Brothers, hear me, for I am old, and your fathers were wont to hear the council of the elders. Remember the tale of Wonnehush; he tells you no lie. Carry his words to your tribes, and let the warning of Tekarrah be heard in every wigwam beyond the mountains.

* * * * *

Much has been said and written of the eloquence of the Indians, but it all conveys a very imperfect and inadequate idea of the beauty and excellence of their orations. They are untranslatable by whites, for we are without the nice perception of natural beauty and sublimity which the Indian possesses, and therefore cannot convey with accuracy and fulness his ideas of the external objects from which his figures and metaphors are drawn. If a bird flits before him, he discerns hues, and remarks circumstances in its notes and motions, which are imperceptible to the white man. The same acuteness which enabled an Indian scout to apprise his commander, and to apprise him correctly, that an "Indian, tall and very cowardly, with a new blanket, a short gun, and an old dog," had passed[A] where the utmost industry of his employer could find no trace or footstep, is carried into every pursuit, and forms a part of every faculty and quality of the Indian. But to return to his elocution.