Chapter VI: Part 6

One day, when I was at the Cornplanter’s town, the ‘_News-Spout_,’ as it is called, was heard. All the Indians in the village immediately retired to their houses (and even their dogs went with them;) when an old man went out to meet the person who brought the news, and to take him to the Long, or Council-House, where a fire was made and refreshments were carried to him, and time given for him to dress and paint himself, so as to appear decent.

When sufficient time had elapsed for the preparatives to be performed, the chiefs went first to the house; and, as the young men were following, I asked an Indian—who spoke English, and to whom (as he professed to be a priest, physician, and conjurer) I gave the name of Doctor—whether there was any impropriety in my going to hear the news. He said, “No”—and that, as I was received as a friend and visiter, all their houses were open to me: and if I did not go without any ceremony, it would appear as if _I doubted their words and hospitality_; which was considered as the greatest affront that could be put on an Indian. For that, if there was any secret business going on they would inform me of it, in a friendly way and then I might retire.

I accordingly went into the house with him; when the Chiefs immediately rose, and gave me a seat among them.

All the Indians in the house were smoking their pipes when I came in; and the stranger was sitting opposite the Chiefs, in a seat, or rather a platform, by himself. The time appeared to me very long, as I was anxious to hear the news; being much interested in the event, as the Indians had been deliberating, whether or not they would permit me to continue surveying, or send me out of the country: and, what surprised me, was, that no one—contrary to their usual custom—asked him for the news; and I was at a loss to account for their conduct. Eventually, the Indian himself—after prefacing the business, with telling them, he had no doubt,—as they knew he had been to the West—they would be gratified in hearing his news. But no one appeared to signify his assent or negative. The Indian then gave an account of an affair between a convoy of Americans—who were carrying reinforcements and provisions to one of our frontier posts—and the Indians; and they had killed the commanding officer and a number of our men: and, after he had related all he had to say, no one asked for any particulars of the action, or for any corroborating circumstance; as I had formerly observed, they were particularly polite to strangers and visiters, and were very cautious to say or do any thing to hurt their feelings, and, soon after, the chiefs and other Indians began to leave the house.

I left the house with the Doctor; and, as soon as we had passed the door, I expressed my surprise to him, at the manner they treated the man who brought the news, as it was so different from any treatment I had before seen, when visited by strangers; and that I would thank him to inform me of the cause of it:—when he, without any hesitation, and with considerable emphasis, answered, “HE ONCE TOLD A LIE”—and continued: “What that man said, may be so true; may be so not. We always listen to what a newsman has to say,—even when we know him to be a liar. But, whether we believe him or not, it is not our custom to let him know; or to say any thing on the subject: for, if we had asked him any questions about the fight, it would have been a great gratification to him; as he would have concluded some of the company did believe him: which is a thing we do not indulge any person in, who has been guilty of telling a lie.” He concluded, by saying, “_He all one as dead._”

PETER OTSAQUETTE, THE ONEIDAN

Peter Otsaquette was the son of a man of consideration among the Oneida Indians of New York. At the close of the Revolutionary war, he was noticed by the Marquis de La Fayette, who, to a noble zeal for liberty, united the most philanthropic feelings. Viewing, therefore, this young savage with peculiar interest, and anticipating the happy results to be derived from his moral regeneration, he took him, though scarcely twelve years old, to France. Peter arrived at that period when Louis XVI. and Maria Antoinette were in the zenith of their glory. There he was taught the accomplishments of a gentleman;—music, drawing, and fencing, were made familiar to him, and he danced with a grace that a Vestris could not but admire. At about eighteen, his separation from a country in which he had spent his time so agreeably and so profitably, became necessary. Laden with favours from the Marquis, and the miniatures of those friends he had left behind. Peter departed for America—inflated, perhaps, with the idea, that the deep ignorance of his nation, with that of the Indians of the whole continent, might be dispelled by his efforts, and he become the proud instrument of the civilization of thousands.

Prosecuting his route to the land of his parents, he came to the city of Albany; not the uncivilized savage, not with any of those marks which bespoke a birth in the forest, or years spent in toiling the wilds of a desert, but possessing a fine commanding figure, an expressive countenance, an intelligent eye, with a face scarcely indicative of the race from which he was descended. He presented, at this period, an interesting spectacle: a child of the wilderness was beheld about to proceed to the home of his forefathers, having received the brilliant advantages of a cultivated mind, and on his way to impart to the nation that owned him, the benefits which civilization had given him. It was an opportunity for the philosopher to contemplate, and to reflect on the future good this young Indian might be the means of producing.

Shortly after his arrival in Albany—where he visited the first families—he took advantage of Governor Clinton’s journey to Fort Stanwix (where a treaty was to be held with the Indians,) to return to his tribe. On the route, Otsaquette amused the company (among whom were the French Minister, Count De Moustiers, and several gentlemen of respectability) by his powers on various instruments of music. At Fort Stanwix, he found himself again with the companions of his early days, who saw and recognised him. His friends and relations had not forgotten him, and he was welcomed to his home and to his blanket.

But that which occurred soon after his reception, led him to a too fearful anticipation of an unsuccessful project; for the Oneidas, as if they could not acknowledge Otsaquette, attired in the dress with which he appeared before them,—a mark which did not disclose his nation,—and, thinking that he had assumed it, as if ashamed of his own native costume, the garb of his ancestors, they tore it from him with a savage avidity, and a fiend-like ferociousness, daubed on the paint to which he had been so long unused, and clothed him with the uncouth habiliments held sacred by his tribe. Their fiery ferocity, in the performance of the act, showed but too well the bold stand they were about to take against the innovations they supposed Otsaquette was to be the agent for affecting against their immemorial manners and customs, and which, from the venerable antiquity of their structure, it would be nothing short of sacrilege to destroy.

Thus the reformed savage was taken back again to his native barbarity, and—as if to cap the climax of degradation to a mind just susceptible of its own powers—was _married to a squaw_!

From that day, Otsaquette was no longer the accomplished Indian, from whom every wish of philanthropy was expected to be realized. He was no longer the instrument by whose power the emancipation of his countrymen from the thraldom of ignorance and superstition, was to be effected. From that day, he was again an inmate with the forest; was once more buried in his original obscurity, and his nation only viewed him as _an equal_. Even a liberal grant from the State, failed of securing to him that superior consideration among them which his civilization had procured for him with the rest of mankind. The commanding preeminence acquired from instruction, from which it was expected ambition would have sprung up, and acted as a double stimulant, from either the natural inferiority of the savage mind, or the predetermination of his countrymen—became of no effect, and, in a little time, was wholly annihilated. Otsaquette was lost! His moral perdition began from the hour he left Fort Stanwix. Three short months had hardly transpired, when Intemperance had marked him as her own, and soon hurried him to the grave. And, as if the very transition had deadened all the finer feelings of his nature, the picture given him by the Marquis—the very portrait of his affectionate friend and benefactor himself—he parted with!

Extraordinary and unnatural as the conduct of this educated savage may appear, the anecdote is not of a kind altogether unique; which proves, that little or nothing is to be expected from conferring a literary education upon those children of the forest:—An Indian, named George White-Eyes, was taken, while a boy, to the college at Princeton, where he received a classical education. On returning to his nation, he made some little stay in Philadelphia. He was amiable in his manners, and of modest demeanour, without exhibiting any trait of the savage whatever; but, no sooner had he rejoined his friends and former companions, in the land of his nativity, than he dropped the garb and manners of civilization, and resumed those of the savage, and, drinking deep of their intoxicating cup, soon put a period to his existence.

Many other instances might be adduced, to show how ineffectual have been the attempts to plant civilization on savage habits, by means of _literary_ education—“Can the leopard change his spots?”

THE CATASTROPHE.

The son of a Kickapoo Chief, being engaged to a Ouiattanon girl, came in quest of her to fort Knox, at Vincennes—though an Indian war was then waging against the United States; and, in this, the Kickapoos were among the most formidable. We happened to be there at this time. It was summer, and the weather very warm. The young Kickapoo was admitted into the fort, and, among other presents, threw down several joints of venison; observing to the commanding officer, that, if he could not eat them himself, (for they were tainted,) they might answer for his _hogs_ and _dogs_—muttering at the same time, and making the sign of a halter round his neck, that perhaps they might hang him for appearing among them; alluding, no doubt, to the then Indian war.

On the evening of the same day the young Kickapoo got into a drunken frolic, with other savages, among whom was the before mentioned Indian. The latter said to the Kickapoo, “May be I shall kill you:” and, without further preface, he plunged a knife into him—which instantly proved fatal. At this moment the Ouiattanons in company took the alarm—fearful of the consequences that might befall their tribe, from the death of the son of a powerful chieftain. It was therefore determined to propitiate the Kickapoo’s father, by sending a deputation to him with the present of a ten gallon keg of whisky as a peace offering. This was furnished for the purpose, on request, by the commanding officer of the fort. They had not gone far when the precious liquor proved too great a temptation: the keg was broached, and soon emptied. What then was to be done?

Next morning, however, they appeared again at the fort—deplored the ‘_accident_,’ (as they called it,) and begged for another keg of liquor. This too was granted—and off they went again. But this keg met with the fate of the former: its contents proved an irresistible temptation. As no more whisky could now be obtained, the mission fell through.

Upon this, the Indians appeared before the fort, with the murderer in custody, under the window of the writer, and demanded justice to be done on the prisoner. He told them it was an affair for themselves to settle, as it was confined to themselves alone. They now marched in Indian file, carrying off the murderer, who, every now and then, looked fearfully behind him—for the brother of the deceased’s sweetheart had taken post next in his rear. They had not proceeded far, when this brother plunged a knife into the prisoner’s back, which broke, and a part was left buried in the wound. The whole party now returned before the fort—the wounded man singing his death-song. He was borne off by his friends into a thicket, in the prairie, where all their efforts to extract the broken blade proved ineffectual; and the next day or two he died.

The Spider, a brother of the murderer, and then at Kaskaskia, hearing of the predicament which had befallen the latter, hastened to Vincennes—but death had closed the scene. He came in time, however, to attend the funeral. When the body was about to be consigned to the earth, he opened the blanket which enveloped the corpse, and taking off a silver ornament which encompassed his head, he bound it around that of the defunct, saying, “There, brother! this will bring you respect in the land of Spirits.”

BUFFALO HUNTING.

The buffalo, more properly called the bison, is the great object of Indian hunting in the west. These animals abound in the prairies; and they are often seen coursing over the plains in immense herds. Thousands of them appear under the direction of one of their number, who acts as leader. This propensity to follow a leader affords a ready means to the Indians of destroying them. The manner in which this is accomplished is graphically described in the following extract from the account of a late writer. It affords a wild picture of the scenes which present themselves to the notice of the traveller as he passes through the great prairies of the west.

We passed a precipice of about one hundred and twenty feet high, under which lay scattered the fragments of at least one hundred carcases of buffaloes, although the water, which had washed away the lower part of the hill, must have carried off many of the dead. These buffaloes had been chased down the precipice, in a way very common on the Missouri, and by which vast herds are destroyed in a moment. The mode of hunting is, to select one of the most active and fleet young men, who is disguised, by a buffalo skin around his body, the skin of the head, with the ears and the horns, fastened on his own head, in such a way as to deceive the buffalo. Thus dressed, he fixes himself at a convenient distance, between a herd of buffaloes and any of the river precipices, which sometimes extend for some miles. His companions, in the meantime, get into the rear, and on the side of the herd, and, at a given signal, show themselves, and advance towards the buffalo: they instantly take the alarm; and, finding the hunters beside them, they run towards the disguised Indian or decoy, who leads them on at full speed toward the river, when, suddenly securing himself in some crevice of the cliff which he had previously fixed on, the herd is left on the brink of the precipice. It is then in vain for the foremost to retreat, or even to stop—they are pressed on by the hindmost rank, who, seeing no danger, but from the hunters, goad on those before them, till the whole are precipitated, and the shore is strewed with their dead bodies. Sometimes, in this perilous seduction, the Indian is himself either trodden under foot, by the rapid movements of the buffaloes or missing his footing in the cliff, is urged down the precipice along with the falling herd.

The Indians now select as much meat as they choose, and the rest is abandoned to the wolves, and creates a most dreadful stench. The wolves who had been feasting on these carcases were very fat, and so gentle, that one of them was killed with an espontoon.

RELIGION OF THE INDIANS.

The earliest visiters of the New World, on seeing among the Indians neither priests, temples, idols, nor sacrifices, represented them as a people wholly destitute of religious opinions. Closer inquiry, however, showed that a belief in the spiritual world, however imperfect, had a commanding influence over almost all their actions. Their creed includes even some lofty and pure conceptions. Under the title of the Great Spirit, the Master of Life, the Maker of heaven and earth, they distinctly recognise a supreme ruler of the universe and an arbiter of their destiny. A party of them, when informed by the missionaries of the existence of a being of infinite power, who had created the heavens and the earth, with one consent exclaimed, “_Atahocan! Atahocan!_” that being the name of their principal deity. According to Long, the Indians among whom he resided ascribe every event, propitious or unfortunate, to the favour or anger of the Master of Life. They address him for their daily subsistence; they believe him to convey to them presence of mind in battle; and amid tortures they thank him for inspiring them with courage. Yet though this one elevated and just conception is deeply graven on their minds, it is combined with others which show all the imperfection of unassisted reason in attempting to think rightly on this great subject. It may even be observed, that the term, rendered into our language “great spirit,” does not really convey the idea of an immaterial nature, it imports with them merely some being possessed of lofty and mysterious powers, and in this sense is applied to men, and even to animals. The brute creation, which occupies a prominent place in all their ideas, is often viewed by them as invested, to a great extent, with supernatural powers; an extreme absurdity, which, however, they share with the civilized creeds of Egypt and India.

When the missionaries, on their first arrival, attempted to form an idea of the Indian mythology, it appeared to them extremely complicated, more especially because those who attempted to explain it had no fixed opinions. Each man differed from his neighbour, and at another time from himself; and when the discrepancies were pointed out, no attempt was made to reconcile them. The southern tribes, who had a more settled faith, are described by Adair as intoxicated with spiritual pride, and denouncing even their European allies as “the accursed people.” The native Canadian, on the contrary, is said to have been so little tenacious, that he would at any time renounce all his theological errors for a pipe of tobacco, though, as soon as it was smoked, he immediately relapsed. An idea was found prevalent respecting a certain mystical animal, called Mesou or Messessagen, who, when the earth was buried in water, had drawn it up and restored it. Others spoke of a contest between the hare, the fox, the beaver, and the seal, for the empire of the world. Among the principal nations of Canada, the hare is thought to have attained a decided preeminence; and hence the Great Spirit and the Great Hare are sometimes used as synonymous terms. What should have raised this creature to such distinction seems rather unaccountable; unless it were that its extreme swiftness might appear something supernatural. Among the Ottowas alone the heavenly bodies become an object of veneration; the sun appears to rank as their supreme deity.

To dive into the abyss of futurity has always been a favourite object of superstition. It has been attempted by various means; but the Indian seeks it chiefly through his dreams, which always bear with him a sacred character. Before engaging in any high undertaking, especially in hunting or war, the dreams of the principal chiefs are carefully watched and studiously examined; and according to the interpretation their conduct is guided. A whole nation has been set in motion by the sleeping fancies of a single man. Sometimes a person imagines in his sleep that he has been presented with an article of value by another, who then cannot, without impropriety, leave the omen unfulfilled. When Sir William Johnson, during the American war, was negotiating an alliance with a friendly tribe, the chief confidentially disclosed that, during his slumbers, he had been favoured with a vision of Sir William bestowing upon him the rich laced coat which formed his full dress. The fulfilment of this revelation was very inconvenient; yet, on being assured that it positively occurred, the English commander found it advisable to resign his uniform. Soon after, however, he unfolded to the Indian a dream with which he had himself been favored, and in which the former was seen presenting him with a large tract of fertile land most commodiously situated. The native ruler admitted that, since the vision had been vouchsafed, it must be realized, yet earnestly proposed to cease this mutual dreaming, which he found had turned much to his own disadvantage.

The manitou is an object of peculiar veneration; and the fixing upon this guardian power is not only the most important event in the history of a youth, but even constitutes his initiation into active life. As a preliminary, his face is painted black, and he undergoes a severe fast, which is, if possible, prolonged for eight days. This is preparatory to the dream in which he is to behold the idol destined ever after to afford him aid and protection. In this state of excited expectation, and while every nocturnal vision is carefully watched, there seldom fails to occur to his mind something which, as it makes a deep impression, is pronounced his manitou. Most commonly it is a trifling and even fantastic article; the head, beak, or claw of a bird, the hoof of a cow, or even a piece of wood. However, having undergone a thorough perspiration in one of their vapour-baths, he is laid on his back, and a picture of it is drawn upon his breast by needles of fish-bone dipped in vermilion. A good specimen of the original being procured, it is carefully treasured up; and to it he applies in every emergency, hoping that it will inspire his dreams, and secure to him every kind of good fortune. When, however, notwithstanding every means of propitiating its favour, misfortunes befall him, the manitou is considered as having exposed itself to just and serious reproach. He begins with remonstrances, representing all that has been done for it, the disgrace it incurs by not protecting its votary, and, finally, the danger that, in case of repeated neglect, it may be discarded for another. Nor is this considered merely as an empty threat; for if the manitou is judged incorrigible, it is thrown away; and by means of a fresh course of fasting, dreaming, sweating, and painting, another is installed, from whom better success may be hoped.

The absence of temples, worship, sacrifices, and all the observances to which superstition prompts the untutored mind, is a remarkable circumstance, and, as we have already remarked, led the early visiters to believe that the Indians were strangers to all religious ideas. Yet the missionaries found room to suspect that some of their great feasts, in which every thing presented must be eaten, bore an idolatrous character, and were held in honour of the Great Hare. The Ottawas, whose mythological system seems to have been the most complicated, were wont to keep a regular festival to celebrate the beneficence of the sun; on which occasion the luminary was told that this service was in return for the good hunting he had procured for his people, and as an encouragement to persevere in his friendly cares. They were also observed to erect an idol in the middle of their town, and sacrifice to it; but such ceremonies were by no means general. On first witnessing Christian worship, the only idea suggested by it was that of their asking some temporal good, which was either granted or refused. The missionaries mention two Hurons, who arrived from the woods soon after the congregation had assembled. Standing without, they began to speculate what it was the white men were asking, and then whether they were getting it. As the service continued beyond expectation, it was concluded they were _not_ getting it; and as the devotional duties still proceeded, they admired the perseverance with which this rejected suit was urged. At length, when the vesper hymn began, one of the savages observed to the other: “Listen to them now in despair, crying with all their might.”

The grand doctrine of a life beyond the grave was, among all the tribes of America, most deeply cherished and most sincerely believed. They had even formed a distinct idea of the region whither they hoped to be transported, and of the new and happier mode of existence, free from those wars, tortures, and cruelties which throw so dark a shade over their lot upon earth. Yet their conceptions on this subject were by no means either exalted or spiritualized. They expected simply a prolongation of their present life and enjoyments, under more favourable circumstances, and with the same objects furnished in greater choice and abundance. In that brighter land the sun ever shines unclouded, the forests abound with deer, the lakes and rivers with fish; benefits which are farther enhanced in their imagination by a faithful wife and dutiful children. They do not reach it, however, till after a journey of several months, and encountering various obstacles; a broad river, a chain of lofty mountains, and the attack of a furious dog. This favoured country lies far in the west, at the remotest boundary of the earth, which is supposed to terminate in a steep precipice, with the ocean rolling beneath. Sometimes, in the too eager pursuit of game, the spirits fall over, and are converted into fishes. The local position of their paradise appears connected with certain obscure intimations received from their wandering neighbours of the Mississippi, the Rocky Mountains, and the distant shores of the Pacific. This system of belief labours under a great defect, inasmuch as it scarcely connects felicity in the future world with virtuous conduct in the present. The one is held to be simply a continuation of the other; and under this impression, the arms, ornaments, and everything that had contributed to the welfare of the deceased, are interred along with him. This supposed assurance of a future life so conformable to their gross habits and conceptions, was found by the missionaries a serious obstacle when they attempted to allure them by the hope of a destiny, purer and higher indeed, but less accordant with their untutored conceptions. Upon being told that in the promised world they would neither hunt, eat, drink, nor marry, many of them declared that, far from endeavouring to reach such an abode, they would consider their arrival there as the greatest calamity. Mention is made of a Huron girl whom one of the Christian ministers was endeavouring to instruct, and whose first question was what she would find to eat. The answer being “Nothing,” she then asked what she would see; and being informed that she would see the Maker of heaven and earth, she expressed herself much at a loss how she should address him.

INDIAN FUNERALS.

Another sentiment, congenial with that now described, is most deeply rooted in the mind of the Indians. This is reverence for the dead, with which Chateaubriand, though somewhat hastily, considers them more deeply imbued than any other people. During life they are by no means lavish in their expressions of tenderness, but on the hour of final separation it is displayed with extraordinary force. When any member of a family becomes seriously ill, all the resources of magic and medicine are exhausted in order to procure his recovery. When the fatal moment arrives, all the kindred burst into loud lamentations, which continue till some person possessing the requisite authority desires them to cease. These expressions of grief, however, are renewed for a considerable time at sunrise and sunset. After three days the funeral takes place, when all the provisions which the family can procure are expended in a feast, to which the neighbours are generally invited; and, although on all solemn occasions it is required that every thing should be eaten, the relations do not partake. These last cut off their hair, cover their heads, paint their faces of a black colour, and continue long to deny themselves every species of amusement. The deceased is then interred with his arms and ornaments, his face painted, and his person attired in the richest robes which they can furnish. It was the opinion of one of the early missionaries, that the chief object of the Hurons in their traffic with the French was to procure materials for honouring their dead; and, as a proof of this, many of them have been seen shivering half naked in the cold, while their hut contained rich robes to be wrapped round them after their decease. The body is placed in the tomb in an upright posture, and skins are carefully spread round it, so that no part may touch the earth. This, however, is by no means the final ceremony, being followed by another still more solemn and singular. Every eighth, tenth, or twelfth year, according to the custom of the different nations, is celebrated the festival of the dead; and, till then, the souls are supposed to hover round their former tenement, and not to depart for their final abode in the west. On this occasion the people march in procession to the places of interment, open the tombs, and, on beholding the mortal remains of their friends, continue some time fixed in mournful silence. The women then break out into loud cries, and the party begin to collect the bones, removing every remnant of flesh. The remains are then wrapped in fresh and valuable robes, and conveyed amid continual lamentation to the family cabin. A feast is then given, followed during several days by dances, games, and prize-combats, to which strangers often repair from a great distance. This mode of celebration certainly accords very ill with the sad occasion; yet the Greek and Roman obsequies were solemnized in a similar manner; nay, in many parts of Scotland, till very recently, they were accompanied by festival, and often by revelry. The relics are then carried to the council-house of the nation, where they are hung for exhibition along the walls, with fresh presents destined to be interred along with them. Sometimes they are even displayed from village to village. At length, being deposited in a pit previously dug in the earth, and lined with the richest furs, they are finally entombed. Tears and lamentations are again lavished; and during a few days food is brought to the place. The bones of their fathers are considered by the Indians the strongest ties to their native soil; and when calamity forces them to quit it, these mouldering fragments are, if possible, conveyed along with them.

INDIAN CANNIBALISM.

It has been made a question whether the Indians can be justly charged with cannibalism. It is certain that all the terms by which they designate their inhuman mode of putting a prisoner to death bear reference to this horrid practice. The expressions are to throw him into the caldron, to devour him, to eat soup made of his flesh. It has hence been plausibly inferred that this enormity really prevailed in early times, but was changed, we can scarcely say mitigated, into the present system of torture. Yet, as every action is described by them in terms highly figurative, those now quoted may have been used as expressing most fully the complete gratification of their revenge. Of this charge they cannot now be either condemned or wholly acquitted. In the excited fury of their passions, portions of the flesh are often seized, roasted, and eaten, and draughts taken of the blood. To eat an enemy’s heart is considered a peculiar enjoyment. Long mentions a gentleman who came upon a party who were busy broiling a human heart, when he with difficulty prevailed on them to desist. There is little hesitation among them, in periods of scarcity, to relieve hunger with the flesh of their captives; and during one war, this fate is said to have befallen many French soldiers who fell into the hands of the Five Nations. Colonel Schuyler told Colden, that, having entered the cabin of a chief who had some rich soup before him, he was invited to partake. Being hungry and tired, he readily agreed, till the ladle, being put into the great caldron, brought up a human hand, the sight of which put an immediate end to his appetite and meal.

INDIAN DANCES.

The dances of the Indians, even those at common festivals, are on an extensive scale, requiring to a complete performance forty or fifty persons, who execute their evolutions by following each other round a great fire kindled in the centre. Their movements, monotonous but violent, consist in stamping furiously on the ground, and often brandishing their arms in a manner compared by an able writer to a baker converting flour into dough. They keep good time; but the music is so exceedingly simple that this implies little merit. They conclude with a loud shout or howl, which echoes frightfully through the woods. The dances in celebration of particular events are of a more varied character, and often form a very expressive pantomime. The war-dance is the most favourite and frequent. In this extraordinary performance, a complete image is given of the terrible reality; the war-whoop is sounded with the most frightful yells; the tomahawk is wildly brandished; and the enemy are surprised, seized, and scalped, or carried off for torture. The calumet-dance, which celebrates peace between nations, and the marriage-dance, which represents domestic life, are much more pleasing. Some mention is made of a mystic dance, carried on by the jugglers or doctors, with strange superstitious ceremonies, and in which a supernatural personage, termed by some the devil, rises and performs; but it does not seem to have been witnessed by any European, and is said to be now in a great measure disused.

INDIAN GAMES.

There are games to which the Indians are fondly attached, which, though they be only ranked under the head of amusement, are yet constructed in the same serious manner as their other transactions. Their great parties are said to be collected by supernatural authority, communicated by the jugglers; and they are preceded, like their wars and hunts, by a course of fasting, dreaming, and other means of propitiating fortune. The favourite game is that of the bone, in which small pieces of that substance, resembling dice, and painted of different colours, are thrown in the air, and according to the manner in which they fall, the game is decided. Only two persons can play; but a numerous party, and sometimes whole villages, embrace one side or the other, and look on with intense interest. At each throw, especially if it be decisive, tremendous shouts are raised; the players and spectators equally resemble persons possessed; the air rings with invocations to the bones and to the manitous. Their eagerness sometimes leads to quarreling and even fighting, which on no other occasion ever disturb the interior of these societies. To such a pitch are they occasionally worked up, that they stake successively all they possess, and even their personal liberty; but this description must apply only to the more southern nations, as slavery was unknown among the Canadian Indians.

A temporary interval of wild license, of emancipation from all the restraints of dignity and decorum, seems to afford an enjoyment highly prized in all rude societies. Corresponding with the saturnalia and bacchanals of antiquity, the Indians have their festivals of dreams, which, during fifteen days, enlivens the inaction of the coldest season. Laying aside all their usual order and gravity, they run about, frightfully disguised, and committing every imaginable extravagance. He who meets another demands an explanation of his visions, and if not satisfied, imposes some fantastic penalty. He throws upon him cold water, hot ashes, or filth; sometimes, rushing into his cabin, he breaks and destroys the furniture. Although everything appears wild and unpremeditated, it is alleged that opportunities are often taken to give vent to old and secret resentments. The period having elapsed, a feast is given, order is restored, and the damages done are carefully repaired.

BEAUTIFUL TRAIT OF CHARACTER.

One M’Dougal, a native of Argyleshire, having emigrated to Upper Canada, from anxiety to make the most of his scanty capital, or some other motive, he purchased a location, where the price of land is merely nominal, in a country thinly peopled, and on the extreme verge of civilization. His first care was to construct a house, and plant in the wild. This task finished, he spent his whole time, early and late, in the garden and the fields. By vigorous exertions, and occasional assistance, he brought a few acres of ground under crop; acquired a stock of cattle, sheep and hogs; made additional inroads on the glade and the forest, and, though his toils were hard, gradually and imperceptibly became, in a rough way, “well enough to live,” as compared with the poverty he had abandoned at home.

His greatest discomforts were, distance from his neighbours, the church, markets, and even the mill; and, along with these, the suspension (or rather, the enjoyment) after long intervals of time, of those endearing charities and friendly offices, which lend such a charm to social life.

On one occasion, M’Dougal had a melder of corn to grind, and as the distance was considerable, and the roads none of the smoothest, this important part of his duty could only be performed by starting with the sun, and returning with the going down of the same. In his absence, the care of the cattle devolved on his spouse, and as they did not return at the usual hour, the careful matron went out in quest of them. Beyond its mere outskirts, the forest was, to her, _terra incognita_, in the most emphatic sense of the term; and with no compass, or notched trees to guide, it is not to be wondered at that she wandered long and wearily to very little purpose. Like alps on alps, tall trees arose on every side—a boundless continuity of shade—and, fatigued with the search, she deemed it prudent to retrace her steps, while it was yet time. But this resolution was much easier formed than executed; returning was as dangerous as “going o’er,” and, after wandering for hours, she sunk on the ground, her eyes swollen and filled with tears, and her mind agitated almost to distraction. But here she had not rested many minutes, before she was startled by the sound of approaching footsteps, and, anon, an Indian hunter stood before her, “a stoic of the woods, a man without fear.” Mrs. M’Dougal knew that Indians lived at no great distance, but as she had never seen a member of the tribe, her emotions were those of terror—quickening, it may be said, every pulse, and yet paralyzing every limb. The Indian’s views were more comprehensive; constantly on the look out, in search of the quarry, and accustomed to make circuits, comprising the superficies of many a highland mountain and glen, he had observed her, without being observed himself, knew her home, recognized her person, comprehended her mishap, divined her errand, and immediately beckoned her to follow him. The unfortunate woman understood his signal, and obeyed it, as far as terror left her power; and, after a lengthened sweep, which added not a little to her previous fatigue, they arrived at the door of an Indian wigwam.

Her conductor invited her to enter, by signs: but this she sternly refused to do, dreading the consequence, and preferring death in the open air to the tender mercies of cannibals within. Perceiving her reluctance, and scanning her feelings, the hospitable Indian darted into the wigwam, and communed with his wife, who, in a few minutes, also appeared: and, by certain signs and sympathies, known only to females, calmed the stranger’s fears, and induced her to enter their lowly abode. Venison was instantly prepared for supper, and Mrs. M’Dougal—though still alarmed at the novelty of her situation, found the viands delicious, and had rarely, if ever, partaken of so savoury a meal. Aware that she was wearied, the Indians removed from their place near the roof, two beautiful deer skins, and, by stretching and fixing them across, divided the wigwam into two apartments. Mats were also spread in both, and next, the stranger was given to understand, that the further dormitory was expressly designed for her accommodation. But here again her courage failed her, and to the most pressing intreaties, she replied by signs, as well as she could, that she would prefer to sit and sleep by the fire. This determination seemed to puzzle the Indian and his squaw sadly. Often they looked at each other, and conversed softly in their own language: and, at last, the Red took the White woman by the hand, led her to her couch, and became her bedfellow. In the morning she awoke greatly refreshed, and anxious to depart, without further delay—but the Indian would on no account permit it. Breakfast was prepared—another savoury and well-cooked meal—and then the Indian accompanied his guest, and conducted her to the very spot where the cattle were grazing. These he kindly drove from the wood, on the verge of which Mrs. M’Dougal descried her husband, running about every where, hallooing and seeking for her, in a state of absolute distraction. Great was his joy, and great his gratitude to her Indian benefactor, who was invited to the house, and treated to the best the larder afforded, and presented, on his departure, with a suit of clothes.

In about three days he returned, and endeavoured, by every wile, to induce Mr. M’Dougal to follow him into the forest. But this invitation the other positively declined—and the poor Indian went on his way, obviously grieved and disappointed. But again he returned; and, though words were wanting, renewed his intreaties—but still vainly, and without effect: and then, as a last desperate effort, he hit upon an expedient, which none, save an Indian hunter, would have thought of. Mrs. M’Dougal had a nursling only a few months old—a fact the Indian failed not to notice. After his pantomimic eloquence had been thrown away, he approached the cradle, seized the child, and darted out of the house with the speed of an antelope. The alarmed parents instantly followed, supplicating and imploring, at the top of their voices. But the Indian’s resolves were as fixed as fate—and away he went, slow enough to encourage his pursuers, but still in the van by a good many paces, and far enough ahead to achieve the secret purpose he had formed—like the parent-bird, skimming the ground, when she wishes to wile the enemy from her nest. Again and again Mr. M’Dougal wished to continue the chase alone—but maternal anxiety baffled every remonstrance; and this anxiety was, if possible, increased, when she saw the painted savage enter the wood, and steer, as she thought, his course towards his own cabin. The Indian, however, was in no hurry;—occasionally, he cast a glance behind, poised the child almost like a feather, treading his way with admirable dexterity, and kept the swaddling clothes so closely drawn around it, that not even the winds of heaven were permitted to visit it roughly. It is, of course, needless to go into all the details of this singular journey, further than to say, that the Indian, at length, called a halt on the margin of a most beautiful prairie, teeming with the richest vegetation, and comprising many thousands of acres. In a moment the child was restored to its parents—who, wondering what so strange a procedure could mean, stood, for some minutes, panting for breath, and eyeing one another in silent and speechless astonishment.

The Indian, on the other hand, appeared overjoyed at the success of his manœuvre—and never did a human being frisk about and gesticulate with greater animation. We have heard, or read, of a professor of signs: and supposing such a character were wanted, the selection could not—or, at least should not—be a matter of difficulty, so long as even a remnant remains of the aborigines of North America. All travellers agree in describing their gestures as highly dignified, eloquent, and intelligent: and we have the authority of Mr. M’Dougal for saying, that the hero of the present strictly authentic tale, proved himself to be a perfect master of the art. The restoration of the child—the beauty and wide extent of the prairies, and various other circumstances combined—flashed across our countryman’s mind—operating conviction where jealously and distrust had lurked before. Mr. M’Dougal, in a trice, examined the soil, and immediately saw the propriety of the advice given by the _untutored one_. By a sort of tacit agreement, a day was fixed for the removal of the materials of our countryman’s cabin, goods and chattels;—and the Indian, true to his word, brought a detachment of his tribe to assist in one of the most romantic “flittings” that ever was undertaken either in the old or new world. In a few days a roomy log-house was fashioned, and a garden formed in a convenient section of the beautiful prairie, from which the smoke was seen curling, and the woodpecker tapping at no great distance. M’Dougal was greatly pleased at the change—and no wonder, seeing that he could almost boast of a body-guard as bold as the bowmen of Robin Hood. His Indian friend speedily became a sort of foster brother, and his tribe as faithful as the most attached Tail of Gillies that ever surrounded a Highland chieftain. Even the stupid kine lowed, on finding themselves suddenly transferred to a boundless range of richest pasture:—and, up to the date of the last advices, were improving rapidly in condition, and increasing in numbers.

The little garden was smiling like a rose in the desert—grass, overabundant, was gradually giving way to thriving crops, and the kine so well satisfied with their _gang_, that the herds and enclosures were like unheeded to keep them from the corn. The Indians continued friendly and faithful—occasionally bringing presents of venison and other game, and were uniformly rewarded from the stores of a dairy, overflowing with milk, butter, and cheese.

Attached as the Red man was to his own mode of life, he was induced at length to form a part of the establishment, in the capacity of grieve, or head shepherd—a duty he undertook most cheerfully, as it still left him opportunities of meeting and communing with his friends, and reconnoitering the altering denizens of the forest. Let us hope, therefore, that no untoward accident will occur to mar this beautiful picture of sylvan life; that the M’Dougal colony will wax stronger, till every section of the prairie is forced to yield tribute to the spade and the plough.

THE REFORMED INDIAN.

Some of the Indians believe, that the “Evil Spirit” is the maker of spirituous liquors, from which, notwithstanding, hardly one of them can refrain. An Indian near the Delaware Water Gap, told Mr. Heckewelder, a missionary, that he had once, when under the influence of strong liquor, killed the best Indian friend he had, fancying him to be his worst avowed enemy. He said that the deception was complete; and that while intoxicated, the face of his friend presented to _his_ eyes all the features of the man with whom he was in a state of hostility. It is impossible to express the horror which struck him, when he awoke from that delusion. He was so shocked, that from that moment, he resolved never more to taste of the maddening potion, of which he was convinced the devil was the inventor; for that it could only be the “Evil Spirit” who made him see his enemy when his friend was before him, and produced so strong a delusion on his bewildered senses, that he actually killed him. From that time until his death, which happened thirty years afterwards, he never drank a drop of ardent spirits, which he always called “the devil’s blood;” and was firmly persuaded that the devil, or some of his infernal spirits, had a hand in preparing it.

FIDELITY.

Among the North American Indians, one of the first lessons they inculcate on their children, is duty to their parents, and respect for old age; and there is not among the most civilized nations, any people who more strictly observe the duty of filial obedience. A father need only to say, in the presence of his children, “I want such a thing done”—“I want one of my children to go upon such an errand”—“Let me see who is the good child that will do it.” The word _good_ operates as it were by magic, and the children immediately vie with each other to comply with the parent’s wishes. If a father sees an old decrepid man or woman pass by, led along by a child, he will draw the attention of his own children to the object, by saying, “What a _good_ child that must be, which pays such attention to the aged! That child, indeed, looks forward to the time when it will likewise be old, and need its children’s help.” Or he will say, “May the Great Spirit, who looks upon him, grant this _good_ child a long life!”

STRATAGEM DEFEATED.

Early in the war of the American revolution, a Sergeant, who travelled through the woods of New Hampshire, on his way to the American army, met with a singular adventure, which ended much to his credit.

He had twelve men with him. Their route was far from any settlement, and they were obliged every night to encamp in the woods. The Sergeant had seen a good deal of the Indians, and understood them well;—early in the afternoon, one day, as they were marching on, over bogs, swamps, and brooks, under the towering maple trees, a body of Indians, exceeding their own number, rushed out upon a hill in front of them.

They appeared to be pleased at meeting with the Sergeant and his party. They considered them, they said, as their best friends; for themselves, they had taken up the hatchet for the Americans, and would scalp and strip those rascally English for them, like so many wild cats. “How do you do, pro?” (meaning brother) said one. “How do you do, pro?” said another, and so they went about, shaking hands with the Sergeant and his twelve men.

They went off, at last, and the Sergeant, having marched onward a mile or two, halted his men, and addressed them,—“My brave fellows,” said he, “we must use all possible caution, or before morning we shall all of us be dead men. You are amazed, but depend upon me, these Indians have tried to put our suspicion to sleep; you will see more of them by-and-bye.”

It was concluded, finally, to adopt the following scheme for defence: they encamped for the night, near a stream of water, which protected them from behind. A large oak was felled, and a brilliant fire kindled; each man cut a log of wood, about the size of his body, rolled it nicely up in his blanket, placed his hat on the end of it, and laid it before the fire, that the enemy might take it for a man.

Thirteen logs were fitted out in this way, representing the Sergeant and his twelve men. They then placed themselves, with loaded guns, behind the fallen tree; by this time it was dark, but the fire was kept burning till midnight. The Sergeant knew, that if the Savages ever came, they would come now.

A tall Indian was seen, at length, through the glimmering of the fire, which was getting low. He moved cautiously towards them, skulking, as an Indian always does. He seemed to suspect, at first, that a guard might be watching, but seeing none, he came forward more boldly, rested on his toes, and was seen to move his finger, as he counted the thirteen men, sleeping, as he supposed, by the fire. He counted them again, and retired; another came up, and did the same. Then the whole party, sixteen in number, came up and glared silently at the logs, till they seemed to be satisfied they were fast asleep. Presently they took aim, fired their whole number of guns upon the logs, yelled the horrid war-whoop, and pushed forward to murder and scalp their supposed victims. The Sergeant and his men were ready for them; they fired upon them, and not one of the Indians was left to tell the story of that night. The Sergeant reached the army in safety.

SCENES IN KING WILLIAM’S WAR, 1689.

SURPRISE OF DOVER.