Chapter VI: The Universal Mother (3)

The game of the dish, which they call the _game of the little bones_, is only played by two persons. Each has six or eight little bones, which at first sight may be taken for apricot stones; they are of that shape and bigness. They make them jump up by striking the ground or the table with a round and hollow dish, which contains them, and which they twirl round first. When they have no dish, they throw the bones up in the air with their hands. If in falling they come all of one colour, he who plays wins five. The game is forty up, and they subtract the numbers gained by the adverse party. Five bones of the same colour win but one for the first time, but the second time they win the game. A less number wins nothing.

He that wins the game continues playing. The loser gives his place to another, who is named by the markers of his side; for they make parties at first, and often the whole village is concerned in the game. Oftentimes also, one village plays against another. Each party choses a marker, but he withdraws when he pleases, which never happens but when he loses. At every throw, especially if it happens to be decisive, they make great shouts. The players appear like people possessed, and the spectators are not more calm. They make a thousand contortions, talk to the bones, load the spirits of the adverse party with curses, and the whole village echoes with imprecations. If all this does not recover their luck, the losers may put off their party till next day. It costs them only a small treat from the company.

Then they prepare to return to the engagement. Each invokes his genius, and throws some tobacco in the fire to his honour. They ask him above all things for lucky dreams. As soon as day appears, they go again to play; but, if the losers fancy that the goods in their cabins made them unlucky, the first thing they do is to change them all. The great parties commonly last five or six days, and often continue all night. In the meantime, as all the persons present are in an agitation that deprives them of reason, they quarrel and fight, which never happens among the savages but on these occasions, and when they are drunk. One may judge, if, when they have done playing, they do not want rest.

It sometimes happens that these parties of play are made by order of the physician, or at the request of the sick. There needs no more for this purpose than a dream of one, or the other. This dream is always taken for the order of some spirit, and then they prepare themselves for play with a great deal of care. They assemble for several nights to try and to see who has the luckiest hand. They consult their genii, they fast, the married persons observe continence; and all to obtain a favourable dream. Every morning they relate what dreams they have had, and all things they have dreamt of, which they think lucky; and they make a collection of all, and put them into little bags, which they carry about with them; and, if any one has the reputation of being lucky, _that is_, in the opinion of these people, of having a familiar spirit more powerful, or more inclined to do good, they never fail to make him keep near him who holds the dish, they even go a great way to fetch him; and, if through age or any infirmity he cannot walk, they will carry him on their shoulders.

There is a game played by the Miamis, which is called the _game of straws_. These straws are small reeds, about the size of wheat straws, and about six inches long. They take a parcel, which are commonly two hundred and one, and always an odd number. After having shuffled them in well together, making a thousand contortions, and invoking the genii, they separate them with a kind of awl, or a pointed bone, into parcels of ten each: every one takes his own at a venture, and he that happens to get the parcel with eleven, gains a certain number of points that are agreed on. The whole game is sixty or eighty **** They have two games more, the first of which is called the _game of the bat_. They play at it with a ball, and sticks bent, and ending with a kind of racket. They set up two posts, which serve for bounds, and which are distant from each other according to the number of players. For instance, if they are eighty, there is half a league distance between the two posts. The players are divided into two bands, which have each their post. Their business is to strike the ball to the post of the adverse party without letting it fall to the ground, and without touching it with the hand; for, in either of these cases, they lose the game, unless he who makes the fault repairs it by striking the ball at one blow to the post, which is often impossible. These savages are so dexterous at catching the ball with their bats, that sometimes one game will last many days together.

The game described by Mackenzie, and called the _game of the platter_, is the same game, I think, that Charlevoix calls the "Game of the Bones." Of the passion for gaming of the Beaver Indians, see his Journal, 149. The same author (page 311), describes another game played by the Indians of the Rocky Mountains. It was played by two persons, each of whom had a "bundle of about fifty small sticks, neatly polished, of the size of a quill, and five inches long; a certain number of these sticks had red lines round them; and as many of these as one of the players might find convenient were curiously rolled up in dry grass, and, according to the judgment of his antagonist, respecting their number and marks, he lost or won."

(3) _Songs and Dances._--p. 147.

Dancing is the favourite amusement of the savage, and one of his methods of propitiating the Deity. Does he feel cheerful, he dances; has he received benefits from a fellow-creature, he makes a dance to his honour; if from the Supreme Being, he gathers his tribe to his cabin, and gives thanks in a dance. When he has reason to fear his God is offended, or when an occurrence takes place, from which he draws an inference of his displeasure, he begins a solemn dance. Thus we have seen, that when the Dutch first landed on New York Island, the inhabitants, who believed them to be celestial beings, began a dance in order to propitiate them.

The dances of the savages are the common dance, and the dances which are held upon particular occasions, and the manner of dancing, varies somewhat. In dancing the _common dance_, they form a circle, and always have a leader, whom the whole company attend to. The men go before, and the women close the circle. The latter dance with great decency, as if engaged in the most serious business; they never speak a word to the men, much less joke with them, which would injure their character. They neither jump nor skip, but move lightly forward, and then backward, yet so as to advance gradually, till they reach a certain spot, and then retire in the same manner. They keep their bodies straight, and their arms hanging down close to their bodies. But the men shout, leap, and stamp, with such violence, that the ground trembles under their feet. Their extreme agility and lightness of foot is never displayed to more advantage than in dancing.

Of the dances held on particular occasions, there are many, and, unlike the last, these are frequent. "Of these," says Loskiel, "the chief is the _dance of peace_, called also the calumet or pipe dance, because the calumet or pipe of peace is handed about during the dance. This is the most pleasing to strangers who attend as spectators. The dancers join hands, and leap in a ring for some time. Suddenly the leader lets go the hand of one of his partners, keeping hold of the other. He then springs forward and turns round several times, by which he draws the whole company around, so as to be enclosed by them, when they stand close together. They disengage themselves as suddenly, yet keeping their hold of each other's hands during all the different revolutions and changes in the dance, which, as they explain it, represents the chain of friendship." This writer, who is in general very indifferent authority for what concerns the Indians, and must have made up his book from the relations of very careless or very stupid observers, never, I think from his own observation, differs very much in his account of this dance from Charlevoix, whose book generally is by far the best which has treated of the North American savages. He says, (vol. ii. p. 68) "They were young people equipped as when they prepare for the march; they had painted their faces with all sorts of colours, their heads were adorned with feathers, and they held some in their hands like fans. The calumet was also adorned with feathers, and was set up in the most conspicuous place. The band of music and the dancers were round about it, the spectators divided here and there in little companies, the women separate from the men. Before the door of the commandant's lodging, they had set up a post, on which, at the end of every dance, a warrior came up, and gave a stroke with his hatchet; at this signal there was a great silence, and this man repeated, with a loud voice, some of his great feats, and then received the applause of the spectators. When the dance of the calumet is intended, as it generally is, to conclude a peace, or a treaty of alliance against a common enemy, they grave a serpent on one side of the tube of the pipe, and set on one side of it a board, on which is represented two men of the two confederate nations, with the enemy under their feet, by the mark of his nation."

Of the two accounts which, it may be seen, differ essentially, I prefer Loskiel's. I think Charlevoix mistook another dance for the calumet dance, especially as he confesses they did him (the commandant) none of the honours which are mentioned. "I did not see the calumet presented to him, and there were no men holding the calumet in their hands."

The _war dance_, held either before or after a campaign, is their greatest dance. It is a dreadful spectacle, the object being to inspire terror in the spectators. No one takes a share in it, except the warriors themselves. They appear armed, as if going to battle. One carries his gun or hatchet, another a large knife, the third a tomahawk, the fourth a large club, or they all appear armed with tomahawks. These they brandish in the air, to signify how they intend to treat, or have treated, their enemies. They affect such an anger or fury on the occasion, that it makes a spectator shudder to behold them. A chief leads the dance, and sings the warlike deeds of himself or his ancestors. At the end of every celebrated feat of valour, he strikes his tomahawk with all his might against a post fixed in the ground. He is then followed by the rest, each finishing his round by a blow against the post. Then they dance all together, and this is the most frightful scene. They affect the most horrible and dreadful gestures, threatening to beat, cut, and stab each other. To complete the horror of the scene, they howl as dreadfully as in actual fight, so that they appear as raving madmen. Heckewelder's description agrees herewith. He remarks, that "Previous to going out on a warlike campaign, the war dance is always performed around the painted post. It is the Indian mode of recruiting. Whoever joins in the dance is considered as having enlisted for the campaign, and is obliged to go with the party."--_Heck. Hist. Acc._ p. 202. The description which Charlevoix gives of what he calls the "_dance of discovery_" among the Iroquois, agrees so fully with the above account of the war dance, that we may presume it is the same, and that his is a new name for an old thing.

Charlevoix describes another dance, which he calls the _dance of fire_.

This last author describes another dance which is not mentioned by any other traveller; it is called, he says, the _dance of the bull_, and is thus described by him: "The dancers form several circles or rings, and the music, which is always the drum and the chickicoue, is in the midst of the place. They never separate those of the same family. They do not join hands, and every one carries on his head his arms and his buckler. All the circles do not turn the same way, and though they caper much, and very high, they always keep time and measure. From time to time, a chief of the family presents his shield: they all strike upon it, and at every stroke he repeats some of his exploits. Then he goes, and cuts a piece of tobacco at a post, where they have fastened a certain quantity, and gives it to one of his friends," &c.--_Charlevoix_, ii. 72.

The _dance of the green corn_, referred to in the text, or, more properly speaking, "the ceremony of thanksgiving for the first fruits of the earth," is described by Col. Johnston in vol. i. p. 286, of the Archaelogia Americana. It does not differ materially from their common feasts. The principal ceremonies are described in the text.

The following is a description of the Powwah or black dance, by which the devil was supposed to be raised. "Lord's Day, September 1st.--I spent the day with the Indians on the island. As soon as they were up in the morning, I attempted to instruct them, and laboured to get them together, but quickly found they had something else to do; for they gathered together all their powwows, and set about a dozen of them to playing their tricks, and acting their frantic postures, in order to find out why they were so sickly, numbers of them being at that time disordered with a fever and bloody flux. In this they were engaged for several hours, making all the wild, distracted motions imaginable, sometimes singing, sometimes howling, sometimes extending their hands to the utmost stretch, spreading all their fingers, and seemed to push with them, as if they designed to fright something away, or at least keep it at arm's end; sometimes sitting flat on the earth, then bowing down their faces to the ground, wringing their sides, as if in pain and anguish, twisting their faces, turning up their eyes, grunting or puffing. These monstrous actions seemed to have something in them peculiarly fitted to raise the devil, if he could be raised by any thing odd and frightful. Some of them were much more fervent in the business than the others, and seemed to chant, peep, and mutter, with a great degree of warmth and vigour."--_Brainerd's Diary, E_.

GITTSHEE GAUZINEE.

Before the Bigknives or their fathers came to the land of the red men, the Indians generally, and the Chippewas in particular, were in the habit of burying many articles with the dead--if a warrior died, his weapons of war, his spear, his war-club, and his most valued trophies; if a hunter, his instruments of hunting were committed to the earth with him. His beaver-trap, his clothes, even a piece of roasted meat, and a piece of bread, were deposited with him in his grave. The scalps he had taken from the heads of his enemies, the skins of the bears slain by him in encounter foot to foot, were laid by his side, and, when the earth was thrown upon his breast, the utensils of less moment were laid upon his grave. If it was a woman who demanded the rites of burial, various articles which had been most useful to her in life were destined to the same service. As it was supposed that it would be her lot in the other world to perform, for the shades of her husband and family, the duties which she had performed for them while they were living in this, the various domestic implements used in the cabin were buried with her. This practice, once so universal, has been limited, since the coming of the white men among us, to comparatively a very few articles, such as the deceased was particularly fond of, or expressed a desire to have deposited with his or her body. The change I speak of was made in consequence of the following incident, which occurred in the life of a celebrated chief of former days, who had often led the Chippewas to victory and glory.

Gittshee Gauzinee, after an illness of only a few days, expired suddenly in the presence of his numerous friends, by whom he was greatly beloved, and deeply lamented. He had been an expert hunter, and had traversed the wild forests, and threaded the mazes of the wilderness, with a success rarely equalled. As a warrior there was none to surpass him: he could transfix two enemies with the same spear; his arm could bend a bow of twice the size of that bent by an ordinary arm; and his war-whoop sounded loud as the thunder of the moon of early corn. He was in the habit of cherishing, with deep and studious care, the weapons of war which had given him his glory, and among these he particularly attached great value to a fine gun which he had purchased of the first white man that had come to the city of the High Rock. It was with this gun that he had acquired his principal trophies, in remembrance of which he requested that it might be buried with him. But the importance attached to this article, which then was rarely met with among our people, and of great value, induced his friends to pause as to this injunction.

In the meantime, there were some who supposed that his death was not real, but that the functions of life were merely suspended, and would again be restored. On this account the body was not interred, but laid aside in a separate lodge, where it was carefully watched by his afflicted and weeping widow. It came to her mind that his spirit might not have left the tenement of clay; and she was inspired with fresh hopes of his restoration to life, when, upon laying her hand upon his breast above his heart, she could perceive a feeble pulsation. After the lapse of four days, their sanguine hopes were realised; he awoke, as if from a deep sleep, and complained of great thirst. By the kind attentions of his friends, and the use of certain drugs, with which every Indian is familiar, his health began to mend rapidly, and he was soon able to return to the hunt. When he was completely restored, he related the following account of his death, and recovery to life.

He felt, he said, cold chills creeping over him; his respiration became impeded; the dim and shapeless forms of things floated before his eyes, and sounds such as he had never heard before were ringing in his ears. He felt his breath come and go like the flashes of heat which dance before the wind on a summer's day. At length it went out to return no more, and he died.

After death he travelled on in the path of the dead for three days, without meeting with any thing extraordinary. He kept the road in which souls go to the Cheke Checkecame, and over mountains, and through valleys, pursued his way steadily. Hunger at length visited him, and he began to suffer much from want of food. When he came in sight of the village of the dead, he saw immense droves of stately deer, mooses, and other large and fat animals, browzing tamely near his path. This only served to aggravate his craving appetite, and excite more eagerly the feeling of hunger, because he had brought nothing with him wherewith to kill them. The animals themselves seemed sensible of his inability to do them harm, frolicking fearlessly around him, now bounding away over the plain in mimic terror, now advancing in gambols to his very feet. The deer skipped lightly along, while the moose followed with a more clumsy step; the wild cat suspended himself by his tail from the trees, while the bear rolled and tumbled on the green sod. Gittshee Gauzinee now bethought himself of the fine gun which he had left at home, and at once resolved to return and obtain it. On his way back, he met a great concourse of people, men, women, and children, travelling onward to the residence of the dead. But he observed that they were all very heavily laden with axes, kettles, guns, meat, and other things, and that each one as they passed uttered loud complaints of the grievous burdens with which the officious and mistaken kindness of their friends had loaded them. Among others, he met a man bowed down by age and infirmity, wearily journeying to the land of the dead, who stopped him to complain of the burthen his friends had imposed upon him, and this aged man concluded his address by offering him his gun, begging him to do so much towards relieving him of his load. Shortly after, he met a very old woman who offered him a kettle, and, a little further on, a young man who offered him an axe. He saw a beautiful and slender young maiden so heavily laden that she was compelled to rest her load against a tree, and a warrior bending under a weight twice as great as any that had ever yet been put on his shoulders. Gittshee Gauzinee accepted the various presents made him, out of courtesy and good nature, for he had determined to go back for his own gun, and other implements, and therefore stood little in need of these: so he journeyed back.

When he came near his own lodge, he could discover nothing but a long line of waving fire, which seemed completely to encircle it. How to get across he could not devise, for, whenever he attempted to advance towards those places where the blaze seemed to be expiring, it would suddenly shoot up into brilliant cones, and pyramids of flame, and this was repeated as often as he approached it. At last he drew back a little, and made a desperate leap into the flames. The united effects of the heat, the violent exertion, and the fear of being burned in the desperate attempt, resulted in his restoration of life. He awoke from his trance, and, though weak and exhausted, he soon recovered his health and strength, and again made the valleys echo with his shouts of war and the hunt.

"I will tell you," said he to his friends, one night after his recovery, "of one practice in which our fathers have been wrong, very wrong. It has been their custom to bury too many things with the dead. Such burthens have been imposed upon them that their journey to the land of the dead has been made one of extreme labour and tediousness. They have complained to me of this, and I would now warn my brethren against a continuance of the practice. Not only is it painful to them, but it retards their progress in their journey. Therefore only put such things in the grave as will not be irksome to carry. The dress which the deceased was most fond of while living he should be clothed in when dead. His feathers, his head dress, and his other ornaments, are but light, and will be very agreeable to his spirit. His pipe also will afford him amusement on the road. If he has any thing more, let it be divided among his nearest relatives and friends, but on no account incumber his spirit with heavy and useless articles."

AMPATO SAPA.

Nothing, M. Verdier says, can be more picturesque and beautiful than the cascade of St. Anthony, so renowned in the topography of the western world. The irregular outline of the Fall, by dividing its breadth, gives it a more impressive character, and enables the eye more easily to take in its beauties. An island, stretching in the river both above and below the Fall, separates it into two unequal parts. From the nature of the rock which breaks into angular, and apparently rhomboidal fragments of a huge size, this fall is subdivided into small cascades, which adhere to each other, so as to form a sheet of water, unrent, but composed of an alternation of retiring and salient angles, and presenting a great variety of shapes and shades. Each of these forms is in itself a perfect cascade. When taken in one comprehensive view they assume a beauty of which we could scarcely have deemed them susceptible. Few falls assume a wilder and more picturesque aspect than these. The thick growth of oaks, hickory, walnut, &c. upon the island, imparts to it a gloomy and sombre aspect, contrasting pleasingly with the bright surface of the watery sheet which reflects the sun in many differently coloured hues. All travellers have spoken of it as possessing wonderful beauties, and the poor unenlightened Indian, who ascribes every thing of an imposing, a sublime, and a magnificent character, every thing which has phenomena he cannot comprehend to a superior being, and who fancies a governing spirit in every deep glen in the wilderness, has associated many of his wild and fanciful traditions with this singular spot. The following favourite tale of, the Dahcotah is not the only tradition connected with this romantic spot.

An Indian of the Dahcotah nation had united himself early in life to a youthful female, whose name was Ampato Sapa, which signifies, in the Dahcotah language, the _Dark-day_. With her he lived for many years very happily; their days glided on like a clear stream in the summer noon. There were few husbands and wives who enjoyed as much nuptial happiness as fell to the lot of this Indian couple. Among that people the duties allotted to the female sex are both laborious and incessant; with Ampato Sapa, they were ameliorated by the kindness of her husband, who, in defiance of the customs of our people, performed the greater part of her tasks herself. Their union had been blessed with two children, upon whom both parents doated with a depth of feeling unknown to those who have other treasures besides those which spring from nature. The man had acquired a reputation as a hunter, which drew around him many families who were happy to place themselves under his protection, and avail themselves of such part of his chace, as he needed not for the support of his family. Desirous of strengthening their interest with him, some of them invited him to form a connexion with their family, observing, at the same time, that a man of his talents, and present and increasing importance, required more than one woman, to wait upon the numerous guests whom his reputation would induce to visit his lodge. They assured him that he would soon be acknowledged as a chief, and that in this case a second wife was indispensable. Their pleadings and flattery infused new ideas into his mind, and ambition soon succeeded in dispelling love, and the remembrance of years of conjugal endearment. Fired with the thought of obtaining high honours, he resolved to increase his importance by a union with the daughter of an influential man of his tribe. He had accordingly taken a second wife, without having ever mentioned the subject to his former companion, being desirous to introduce his bride into his lodge, in the manner which should be least offensive to the mother of his children, for whom he yet retained much regard, though bad ambition "had induced him to countenance a divided bed and affections." It became necessary, however, that he should break the matter to her, which he did as follows: "You know," said he, "that I can love no woman so fondly as I doat upon you. You were the first woman I loved, and you are the only one. With regret have I seen you of late subjected to toils which must be oppressive to you, and from which I would gladly relieve you, yet I know of no other way of doing so, than by associating to you, in the household duties, one who shall relieve you from the trouble of entertaining the numerous guests whom my growing importance in the nation collects around me. I have, therefore, resolved to take another wife, but she shall always be subject to your controul, as she will always rank in my affections second to you."

With the utmost anxiety and deepest concern did his companion listen to this unexpected proposal. She expostulated in the kindest terms; entreated him with all the arguments which undisguised love and the purest conjugal affection could suggest. She replied to all the objections he had raised, and endeavoured to dispel all the clouds his seemingly disinterested kindness had thrown over her present situation. Desirous of winning her from her opposition, he concealed the secret of his union with another, while she redoubled her care and exertion, to convince him that she was equal to all the tasks imposed upon her by his increasing reputation and notoriety. When he again spoke on the subject, she pleaded all the endearments of their past life; she spoke of his former kindness for her, of his regard for her happiness, and that of their mutual offspring; she bade him beware of the fatal consequences of this purpose of his. Finding her bent upon withholding her consent to his plan, he informed her that all opposition on her part was unavailing, as he had already selected another partner; and that, if she could not see his new wife as a friend, she must receive her as a necessary incumbrance, for he was resolved that she should be an inmate in his house. The poor Dark-Day heard these words in silent consternation. Watching her opportunity, she stole away from the cabin with her infants, and fled to her father, who lived at a considerable distance from the place of her husband's residence. With him she remained until a party of Dahcotahs went up the Mississippi, on a winter's hunt. Not caring whither she went, so it was not to the lodge of her faithless husband, she accompanied them. All hope had left her bosom, and even her interest in her children had faded with the decay of the impassioned love she had felt for their father. The world, the simple pleasures of Indian life, had no farther charm for Ampato Sapa. She would wander for hours, listless and tearful, by the shaded river bank, or gaze in the night with a distracted look upon the silver moon and star-lit sky. At times, as if fearful of impending pursuit, she would snatch up her children, and rush out into the woods. The Red Man of the forest has a kind of instinctive veneration for madness(1) in every form; the mere supposition of such a misfortune has procured the liberation of a victim bound to the stake, whom no arts or persuasion could operate to save. The people of her tribe saw, with deep commiseration, the seeming aberration of intellect of the poor Indian woman, but, knowing little of the feeling which possessed her bosom, could apply no healing medicine.

In the spring, as they were returning with their canoes loaded with furs, they encamped near the falls which our white brother has seen, and which have became so celebrated in Indian story for the many tragical scenes connected with them. In the morning, as they left their encamping ground on the border of the river, she for a while lingered near the spot, as if working up her mind to some terrible feat of despair. Then, launching her light canoe, she entered it with her children, and paddled down the stream, singing her death-song. The air was one of those melancholy airs which are sung by our people when in deep distress, or about to end the journey of life.

DEATH-SONG OF AMPATO SAPA.

I loved him long and well.
And he to me
Was the soft sun, which makes the young trees bud.
In gentle spring,
And bids the glad birds sing,
From out the boughs, their song of love and joy.
And he would sit beside me on the grass,
And plait my hair with beads,
And tell the trees, and flowers, and birds,
That Dark-Day was more beautiful than they.

I lov'd him long and well.
And he to me
Was as the tree which props the tender vine,
Or clustering ivy, letting them embrace
His strength and pride.
When he withdraws from them,
They fall, and I must die.

He lov'd me once,
And lov'd his little babes;
And he would go with morning to the hills,
And chase the buffalo.

But he would come
And press me in his arms, when darkness hid
Both beast and bird from the clear hunter's eye.
Then he would creep to where our children slept,
And smile--but sweeter smile upon their mother.

He loves another now.
A younger bird is in his nest,
And sings sweet songs from Dark-Days once fair bower,
And I am lov'd no more.
He will be no more to me as the sun,
Which gives the young trees life in gentle spring.
Nor as the tree which props the tender vine.
He loves another better than Dark-Day--
He cares not for her,
Nor for his children:
No, he cares not for them.

I will die;
I will go to the happy lands,
Beyond the mighty river.
There I shall see again my tender mother,
There I shall meet the warriors of my tribe,
And they shall make my sons good men.
There I shall meet, ere many moons be past,
My husband reconcil'd to me, and he
Again shall sit beside me on the grass,
And plait my hair with beads,
And tell the trees, and birds, and flowers,
That Dark-Day is more beautiful than they.

As she paddled her canoe down the stream, her friends perceived her intent, but too late; their persuasions and attempts to prevent her from proceeding were of no avail. She continued to sing, in a mournful voice, the past pleasures which she had enjoyed while she was the undivided object of her husband's affections: at length, her voice was drowned in the sound of the cataract; the current carried down her frail bark with inconceivable rapidity; it came to the edge of the precipice, was seen for a moment enveloped with spray, but never after was a trace of the canoe or its passengers discovered. Yet the Indians imagine that often in the morning a voice is heard singing a mournful song along the edge of the fall, and that it dwells on the inconstancy of a husband. They assert that sometimes a white dove is seen hovering over the neighbouring sprays; at other times, Ampato Sapa wanders in her proper person near the spot, with her children wrapped in skins, and pressed to her bosom.

NOTE.

(1) _Instinctive veneration for madness._--p. 194.

Insanity is not common among the Indians. Men in this unhappy situation are always considered as objects of pity. Every one, young and old, feels compassion for their misfortune; to laugh or scoff at them would be considered as a crime, much more so to insult or molest them. Heckewelder tells the following story concerning their treatment of one suspected of insanity, which proves their peculiar feeling with regard to this unfortunate class of men:--

"About the commencement of the Indian war of 1763, a trading Jew, who was going up the Detroit river with a bateau load of goods which he had brought from Albany, was taken by some Indians of the Chippewas nation, and destined to be put to death. A Frenchman, impelled by motives of friendship and humanity, found means to steal the prisoner, and kept him so concealed for some time, that, although the most diligent search was made, the place of his confinement could not discovered. At last, however, the unfortunate man was betrayed by some false friend, and again fell into the power of the Indians, who took him across the river to be burned and tortured. Tied to the stake, and the fire burning by his side, his thirst from the great heat became intolerable, and he begged that some drink might be given him. It is a custom with the Indians, previous, to a prisoner being put to death, to give him what they call his last meal; a bowl of pottage or broth was therefore brought to him for that purpose. Eager to quench his thirst, he put the bowl immediately to his lips, and, the liquor being very hot, he was dreadfully scalded. Being a man of a very quick temper, the moment he felt his mouth burned, he threw the bowl with its contents full into the face of the man who had handed it to him. 'He is mad! he is mad!' resounded from all quarters. The by-standers considered his conduct as an act of insanity, and immediately untied the cords with which he was bound, and let him go where he pleased."

THE CAVERNS OF THE KICKAPOO.

The scenery of the Prairie _des Chiens_ is among the most beautiful of the western wilderness--nothing presents finer views than may be had from the lofty hills, which lie east of the Wisconsan. The prairie extends about ten miles along the eastern bank of the river, and is limited on that side by the before-mentioned hills, which rise to the height of about four hundred feet, and run parallel with the course of the river, at a distance of about a mile and a half from it. On the western bank, the bluffs which rise to the same elevation are washed at their base by the river. From the top of this majestic hill, which is called Pike's Mountain, there is a beautiful and magnificent view of the two rivers, Wisconsan and Mississippi, which mingle their waters at its foot. The prairie has retained its old French appellation, derived from an Indian who formerly resided there, and was called the Dog. The hill, or Pike's Mountain, has no particular limits in regard to extension, being merely a part of the river bluffs, which stretch along the margin of the river on the west for several miles, and retain nearly the same elevation above the water. The side fronting upon the river is so abrupt as to render the summit completely inaccessible even to a pedestrian, except in a very few places, where he may ascend by taking hold of the bushes and rocks that cover the slope. In general the acclivity is made up of precipices arranged one above another, some of which are a hundred and fifty feet high.

In one of the niches or recesses formed by one of these precipices, in the cavern of Kickapoo creek, which is a tributary of the Wisconsan, there is a gigantic mass of stone presenting the appearance of a human figure. It is so sheltered by the overhanging rocks, and by the sides of the recess in which it stands, as to assume a dark and gloomy character.

Has my brother--said the Indian chief to the traveller--ever heard how a beautiful woman of my nation became an image of stone? If he has, let him say so; if he has not, the Guard of the Red Arrows will tell him the story.

Once upon a time, many, very many ages ago, there lived in my nation a woman who was called Shenanska, or the White Buffalo Robe. She was an inhabitant of the prairie, a dweller in the cabins which stand upon the verge of the hills. She was the pride of our nation, not so much for her beauty, though she was exceedingly beautiful, as for her goodness, which made her beloved of all. The breath of the summer wind was not milder than the temper of Shenanska, the face of the sun was not fairer than her face. There was never a gust in the one, never a cloud passed over the other. Who but Shenanska dressed the wounds of the Brave when he returned from battle? who but she interceded for the warrior who came back from the fight without a blow? yet who was it encouraged him to wipe the black paint from the memory of his tribe by brave deeds? It was she who dreamed the dreams that led to the slaughter of the Sauks and the Foxes; it was she who pointed out the favourite haunts of the deer and the bison. When the warriors returned victorious from the field of blood, it was she who came out with songs sweeter than the music of the dove; and, when they brought no scalps, it was she who comforted them with stories of past victories, and dreams of those which were yet to be. Before she had seen the flowers bloom twice ten times, she had been by turns the wife of many warriors, for all loved her.

At length, it became the fortune of our tribe to be surprised in our encampment on the banks of the Kickapoo, by a numerous band of the bloody and warlike Mengwe. Many of our nation fell fighting bravely, the greater part of the women and children were scalped, and the remainder were compelled to fly to the wilds for safety. It was the fortune of Shenanska to escape from death, and perhaps worse evils. When the alarm of the war-whoop reached her ear, as she was sleeping in her lodge in the arms of her husband; she arose, and seizing her lance, and bow and arrows, she rushed with the Braves to battle. When she saw half of the men of her nation lying dead around, then she fled, and not till then. Though badly wounded, she succeeded in effecting her escape to the hills. Weakened by loss of blood, she had not strength enough left to hunt for a supply of food; she was near perishing with hunger.

While she lay in this languishing state beneath the shade of a tree, there came to her a Being, who was not of this world. He said to her, in a gentle and soothing voice, "Shenanska! thou art wounded and hungry, shall I heal thee and feed thee? Wilt thou return to the lands of thy tribe, and live to be old, a widow and alone, or go now to the land of departed spirits, and join the shade of thy husband? The choice is thine. If thou wilt live crippled, and bowed down by wounds and disease, thou mayest; if thou better likest to rejoin thy friends in the country beyond the Great River, say so." Shenanska replied, that she wished to die. The Spirit then took her in his arms, and placed her in one of the recesses of the cavern, overshadowed by hanging rocks. He then spoke some low words, and, breathing on her, she became stone. Determined that a woman so good and so beautiful should not be forgotten by the world, nor be deprived of the ability of protecting herself from mutilation, he imparted to her statue the power of killing suddenly any Indian that approached near it. For a long time the statue relentlessly exercised this power. Many an unconscious Indian, venturing too near, fell dead without wound or bruise. At length, tired of the havoc it had made, the guardian Spirit took away the power he had given. At this day the statue may be approached with safety. Yet the Indian people hold it in fear and veneration, and none passes it without paying it the homage of a sacrifice. This is my story.

THE MOUNTAIN OF LITTLE SPIRITS.

At the distance of a woman's walk of a day from the mouth of the river called by the pale-faces the Whitestone, in the country of the Sioux, in the middle of a large plain, stands a lofty hill or mound. Its wonderful roundness, together with the circumstance of its standing apart from all other hills, like a fir-tree in the midst of a wide prairie, or a man whose friends and kindred have all descended to the dust, has made it known to all the tribes of the West. Whether it was created by the Great Spirit, or piled up by the sons of men, whether it was done in the morning of the world, or when it had grown fat and stately, ask not me, for I cannot tell you. Those things are known to one, and to one only. I know it is called by all the tribes of the land the Hill of Little People, or the Mountain of Little Spirits. And the tradition is yet freshly traced out on the green leaf of my memory, which has made it the terror of all the surrounding nations, and which fills the Sioux, the Mahas, the Ottoes, and all the neighbouring tribes, with great fear and trembling, whenever their incautious feet have approached the sacred spot, or their avocation compels them to look at the work of spirits. No gift can induce an Indian to visit it, for why should he incur the anger of the Little People who dwell within it, and, sacrificed upon the fire of their wrath, behold his wife and children no more? In all the marches and countermarches of the Indians; in all their goings and returnings; in all their wanderings, by day and by night, to and from lands which lie beyond it; their paths are so ordered that none approach near enough to disturb the tiny inhabitants of the hill. The memory of the red man of the forest has preserved but one instance where their privacy was violated, since it was known through the tribes that they wished for no intercourse with mortals. Before that time many Indians were missing every year. No one knew what became of them, but they were gone, and left no trace nor story behind. Valiant warriors filled their baskets with dried corn, and their quivers with tough arrow shafts and sharp points; put new strings to their bows; new shod their mocassins, and sallied out to acquire glory in combat: but there was no wailing in the camp of our foes; their arrows were not felt, their shouts were not heard. Yet they fell not by the hands of their foes; but perished, we know not where or how. At length, the sun shone on the mystery, and the parted clouds displayed a clear spot. Listen!

Many seasons ago, there lived within the limits of the great council-fire of the Mahas, a chief who was renowned for his valour and victories in the field, his wisdom in the council, his dexterity and success in the chase. His name was Mahtoree, or the White Crane. He was celebrated throughout the vast regions of the west, from the Mississippi to the Hills of the Serpent[A], from the Missouri to the Plains of Bitter Frost, for all those qualities which render an Indian warrior famous and feared. He was the terror of his enemies, whom in the conflict he never spared; the delight as well as refuge of his friends, whom he never deserted. Yet, brave as he was, and fierce and reckless when met in the strife of warriors, never did his valour, or his fierceness, or his recklessness of danger, betray him into those excesses of wrath and cruelty, which, after great victories purchased by much blood and loss of dear and valued friends, will often be seen in the camp of the red man of the forest. Never by his counsels was the captive tortured--never by his command were weak and defenceless women and children delivered over to slaughter. He had frequently been known, at the voice of pity crying at the door of the heart, and at the suggestions of a great and proud mind, to cut the bonds which bound the victim to the stake, thereby exposing himself to the wrath and anger of his stern warriors, and to rage which, but for the unequalled valour and daring boldness and wisdom of his career, both as a warrior and a man, would have been attended with death to himself, and the entailment of infamy upon his name. It has already been told our brother, that none but a noted and approved warrior dare take upon himself the liberation of a prisoner, devoted by the spirit of Indian warfare to tortures and death.

[Footnote A: Hills of the Serpent, the Rocky Mountains. I have before mentioned the Indian superstition that thunder is the hissing of a great serpent, which has his residence among those mountains.]

In one of the war expeditions of the Pawnee Mahas against the Burntwood Tetons, it was the good fortune of the former to overcome, and to take many prisoners--men, women, and children. One of the captives, Sakeajah, or the Bird-Girl, a beautiful creature in the morning of life, after being adopted into one of the Mahas families, became the favourite wife of the chief warrior of the nation. Great was the love and affection which the White Crane bore his beautiful wife, and it grew yet stronger in his soul, when she had brought him four sons--a gift the more highly prized by the wise and sagacious chief, because, as my brother can see, for he is not a fool, it was the pledge of continued power and importance in the tribe, when his own strength and vigour should have passed away, when the hand of age should no more find joy in bending the bow, and the trembling knee be best pleased to rest upon soft skins by the warm fire of the cabin. Among the children of the forest he is most valued who has provided most plentifully the means to maintain the honour, and secure the safety, of his people; and hence he who can reckon the most brave and warlike sons is esteemed the greatest of benefactors. Among all the red men of the land, that wife acquires the strongest hold on the affections of her husband who has given him the largest family, as that husband acquires the greatest consequence in the eyes of his nation, who sees the most birds in his nest, and is able to carry most vultures to prey upon the corpses of his enemies. Is the barren woman beloved by her husband? Ask me if the male bird watches by the nest of her who sits on addled eggs. I shall tell you "No," nor does the husband love or value the wife who lives alone in his cabin with none to call her mother.

The beautiful Sakeajah gave her husband but one daughter, and upon her did her parents lavish all those affections which had not their origin in war and bloodshed. The sons were loved for the promise they gave of bending their father's bow, and raising his massy club in battle, and shouting his terrible war-cry with the ability to make good the threats it contained--with the daughter were linked the few pacific remembrances which find entrance into that stony thing--an Indian's heart. And well was Tatoka, or the Antelope, for that was the name of the daughter of Mahtoree and Sakeajah, worthy to be loved. She was beautiful, as young Indian maidens generally are, before the hard duties of the field and the cabin have bowed their limbs, and servitude has chilled the fire of their hearts. Her skin was but little darker than that of the chief from the far land who is listening to my story. Her eyes were large and bright as those of the bison-ox, and her hair black and braided with beads, brushed, as she walked, the dew from the flowers upon the prairies. Her temper was soft and placable, and her voice--what is so sweet as the voice of an Indian maiden when tuned to gladness! what so moves the hearer to grief and melancholy by its tones of sorrow and anguish! Our brother has heard them--let him say if the birds of his own forests, the dove of his nest, have sweeter notes than those he hears warbled in the cabin of the red man. His eyes say no. It is well.