The Project Gutenberg eBook of Traditions of the North American Indians, Vol. 3
Title: Traditions of the North American Indians, Vol. 3
Author: James Athearn Jones
Release date: March 15, 2007 [eBook #20828]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Schaal, Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by the Canadian Institute for
Historical Microreproductions (www.canadiana.org))
FRONTISPIECE. Vol. 3.
Designed & Etched by W. H. Brooks A. R. H. A.
In a moment multitudes of bright beings start up—"He is ours"!!! page 110.
London, Published by Colburn & Bentley—April 1830.
TRADITIONS
OF THE
NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS:
BEING
A SECOND AND REVISED EDITION
OF
"TALES OF AN INDIAN CAMP."
BY
JAMES ATHEARN JONES.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
———
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1830
LONDON:
F. SHOBERL, JUN., LONG ACRE.
CONTENTS
OF
THE THIRD VOLUME.
TALES OF AN INDIAN CAMP.
THE LAKE OF THE WHITE CANOE.
Wo to the sons of the far-off land,
Weak in heart and pale in face,
Deer in battle, moose in a race,
Panthers wanting claw and tooth
Wo to the red man, strong of hand,
Steady of purpose, lithe of limb,
Calm in the toils of the foe,
Knowing nor tears nor ruth
Wo to them and him,
If, cast by hard fate at the midnight damp,
Or an hour of storm in the dismal swamp,
That skirts the Lake of the White Canoe!
If, when the night's dim lamps are veil'd,
And the Hunter's Star is hid,
And the moon has shut her lid,
For their wearied limbs the only birth
Be the cold and frosty earth,
And their flesh be burnt by the gum exhal'd
From the cedar's poisonous stem,
And steep'd in the blistering dew
Of the barren vine in the birchen copse,
Where rear the pines their giant tops
Above the Lake of the White Canoe!
And let him shun the spot,
The damp and dismal brake,
That skirts the shallow lake,
The brown and stagnant pool[1],
The dark and miry fen,
And let him never at nightfall spread
His blanket among the isles that dot
The surface of that lake;
And let my brother tell
The men of his race that the wolf hath fed
Ere now on warriors brave and true,
In the fearful Lake of the White Canoe.
To him that sleeps in those dark fens!
The she-wolf will stir the brake,
And the copper-snake breathe in his ear,
And the bitterns will start by tens,
And the slender junipers shake
With the weight of the nimble bear,
And the pool resound with the cayman's plash,
And the owl will hoot in the boughs of the ash,
Where he sits so calm and cool;
Above his head, the muckawiss[2]
Will sing his gloomy song;
Frogs will scold in the pool,
To see the musk-rat carry along
The perch to his hairy brood;
And, coil'd at his feet, the horn-snake will hiss,
Nor last nor least of the throng,
The shades of the youth and maid so true,
That haunt the Lake of the White Canoe.
Still will his okki whisper wo,
For hideous forms will rise:
The spirits of the swamp
Will come from their caverns dark and deep,
Where the slimy currents flow,
With the serpent and wolf to romp,
And to whisper in the sleeper's ear
Of wo and danger near;
And mist will hide the pale, cold moon,
And the stars will seem like the sparkling flies
That twinkle in the prairie glades,
In my brother's month of June—
Murky shades, dim, dark shades,
Shades of the cypress, pine, and yew,
In the swamp of the Lake of the White Canoe.
He will hear in the dead of the night—
If the bittern will stay his toot,
And the serpent will cease his hiss,
And the wolf forget his howl,
And the owl forbear his hoot,
And the plaintive muckawiss,
And his neighbour the frog, will be mute—
A plash like the dip of a water-fowl,
In the lake with mist so white;
And two forms will float on his troubled view,
O'er the brake, with a meteor light,
And he'll hear the words of a tender song,
Stealing like a spring-wind along
The Lake of the White Canoe.
Its burthen will be a gloomy tale;
It will cause the rain to flow;
It will tell of youthful love,
Fond but blighted love;
It will tell of father's cruelty;
It will cause the rain to flow;
It will tell of two lovely flowers
That grew in the wilderness;
And the mildew that touch'd the leaf;
And the canker that struck the bud;
And the lightning that wither'd the stem;
And 't will speak of the Spirit-dove,
That summon'd them away,
Deeming them all too good and true,
For aught save to paddle a White Canoe
With these wild stanzas, preliminary to a tradition current among the tribes of that region, Walk in the Water, a Roanoke chief of great celebrity, commenced his tale. Undoubtedly most of the Indians present were as well acquainted with the story as the narrator, but that circumstance seemed to abate nothing of the interest with which it was listened to; it certainly did not diminish the attention of the audience. In this respect, these wild foresters deserve to become a pattern for careful imitation. They never interrupt a speaker. However incongruous or ill put together his tale, or insulting the matter or manner of his speech, or revolting his opinions to their preconceived notions and prejudices, he is heard patiently until he has said all that he has to say. And, after he has seated himself, sufficient time is given him to recollect whether he has left unsaid any thing in his opinion of importance to the correct interpretation of his views.
It will be seen from the specimens interspersed through these volumes, that the poetry of the Indians is in general of the warlike, or of the tender and pathetic kind. Their only poetry is found in their songs. They are sung in a kind of measure, always harmonious to an Indian ear, and frequently to ours. The music is well adapted to the words. It would be idle to attempt to give an idea of it by means of our musical notes, as has been done by other writers; I should probably meet with the fate of those who have tried in the same manner to describe the melodies of the ancient Greeks. They sing it in short lines or sentences, not always the whole at once, but most generally in detached parts, as time permits, and as the occasion or their feelings prompt them. Their accent is very pathetic and melancholy; a by-stander unacquainted with their language would suppose that they were details of some great affliction: both sexes sing in chorus, first the men and then the women. At times the women join in the general song, or repeat the strain which the men have just finished. It seems like two parties singing in questions and answers, and is, upon the whole, very agreeable and enlivening. After thus singing for about a quarter of an hour, they conclude each song with a loud yell, not unlike the cat-bird, which closes its pretty song with mewing like a cat. The voices of the women are clear and full, and their intonations generally correct.
The Dismal Swamp, which gave rise to this genuine Indian tradition, is one of the gloomiest spots on the face of the earth. It is situated in the state of Virginia, and covers a very large space. On the south side of this wild and gloomy region the marshy border is thickly overgrown with immense reeds, and, as far as the eye can take in, waves slowly and heavily one dark green sea. Then, on all the other skirts of the forest itself, the lofty trees are covered to their summits by the yellow jessamine, and other quick-growing creepers, breathing odour, and alive with the chirping of insects and the melody of birds. In the open and less marshy skirts of the vast forest, gigantic tulip-trees shoot up their massy and regular-built trunks, straight and pillar-like, until they put forth their broad arms covered with the magnificent foliage of their glossy deep green leaves, interspersed with superb white and yellow tulip-shaped flowers. Under their shade are sheltered, like shrubs, trees which elsewhere would be the pride of the forest, or the park—the stately gum-tree, and the magnolia, with its broad shining leaves and beautiful white flowers; whilst at their feet you force your way through tangles of the honeysuckle, or thickets of the moisture-loving bay, rich with its large rose-coloured clusters. But, the moment you penetrate beyond the sun's cheering influence into the deeper recesses of the swamp itself, how solemn is the change! There, the cypress and the juniper, rising without a branch to interrupt the regularity of their tall trunks for a hundred feet, stand thick and close together, like so many tall columns reared to support the roof of a vast temple. All is silent as the grave. Not an insect buzzes or chirps about you; no cry or song of bird or beast is heard. You seem to have penetrated beyond the bounds not only of human society and existence but of animal life, and to be passing through the still and dark valley of the shadow of death.
As the traveller pushes his doubtful way along, he will come upon some broad, lake-like sheet of water, still, silent, and sluggish, calmly reflecting the quiet solemnity of the forest. I say still and silent, but these little lakes are visited at certain seasons of the year by myriads of wild fowl, the clapping of whose wings, as they rise from the water, may be heard to a great distance. The water of all those lakes is of the same colour as the roots and bark of the juniper and cedar-trees, from which it receives its hue. And, when the sun flashes on the amber-coloured lake, and the cypress forest throws its gloomy shade over its face, the traveller becomes thrilled with awe and astonishment. He fancies that he has never seen any spot so fitted to be the residence of spirits of a malignant influence, and expects to see evil eyes cast upon him from every copse. The bird and bat, as they flit through the shades of night, magnified by the misty exhalations, seem the envious demons of the spot; and, foolish man! he more regards the dangers which are unreal than those which are real—is more afraid of the spirits which cannot harm, than of the ravenous beasts and poisonous serpents with which he is environed, and whose fangs are death in its most hideous shape.
Having introduced this not altogether gratuitous description of a spot celebrated in America for its picturesque situation and horrors, I resume the rhythmical tale of the chief of the Roanokes.
How long I cannot tell my brother,
That this sad thing befell;
The tale was old in the time of my father,
To whom it was told by my mother's mother.
My brother hears—'tis well—
Nor may he doubt my speech;
The red man's mind receives a tale
As snow the print of a mocassin;
But, when he hath it once,
It abides like a footstep chisell'd in rock,
The hard and flinty rock.
The pale man writes his tales
Upon a loose and fluttering leaf,
Then gives it to the winds that sweep
Over the ocean of the mind;
The red man his on the evergreen
Of his trusty memory(1).
When he from the far-off land would know
The tales of his father's day,
He unrolls the spirit-skin[3],
And utters what it bids:
The Indian pours from his memory
His song, as a brook its babbling flood
From a lofty rock into a dell,
In the pleasant summer-moon.—
My brother hears.—
And let him write them down
Upon the spirit-skin,
That, when he has cross'd the lake,
The Great Salt Lake,
The lake, where the gentle spring winds dwell,
And the mighty fishes sport,
And has called his babes to his knee,
And his beauteous dove to his arms,
And has smok'd in the calumet
With the friends he left behind,
And his father, and mother, and kin,
Are gather'd around his fire,
To learn what red men say,
He may the skin unroll, and bid
His Okki this tradition read[4]—
The parting words of the Roanoke,
And his tale of a lover and maiden true,
Who paddle the Lake in a White Canoe.
In that far day,
The warlike Roanokes,
The masters of the wilds:
They warr'd on distant lands,
This valiant nation, victors every where;
Their shouts rung through the hollow oaks,
That beetle over the Spirit Bay[6],
Where the red elk comes to drink;
The frozen clime of the Hunter's Star
Rang shrill with the shout of their bands,
And the whistle of their cress[7];
And they fought the distant Cherokee,
The Chickasaw, and the Muscogulgee,
And the Sioux of the West.
They liv'd for nought but war,
Though now and then would be caught a view
Of a Roanoke in a White Canoe.
Of brave and warlike Roanokes,
Were two—a youth and maid,
Who lov'd each other well,
Long and fondly lov'd,
Lov'd from the childish hour,
When, through the bosky dell,
Together they fondly rov'd,
In quest of the little flower,
That likes to bloom in the quiet shade
Of the tall and stately oaks.
The pale face calls it the violet—
'Tis a beautiful child when its leaves are wet
With the morning dew, and spread
To the beam of the sun, and its little head
Sinks low with the weight of the tear
That gems its pale blue eye,
Causing it to lie
Like a maiden whose heart is broke.—
Does my brother hear?
The names of this fond youth and maid
Tell who they were,
For he was Annawan, the Brave,
And she Pequida, the girl of the braid,
The fairest of the fair.
Her foot was the foot of the nimble doe,
That flies from a cruel carcajou,
Deeming speed the means to save;
Her eyes were the eyes of the yellow owl,
That builds his nest by the River of Fish;
Her hair was black as the wings of the fowl[8]
That drew this world from the great abyss.
Small and plump was her hand;
Small and slender her foot;
And, when she opened her lips to sing,
Ripe red lips, soft sweet lips,
Lips like the flower that the honey-bee sips,
The birds in the grove were mute,
The bittern forgot his toot,
And the owl forbore his hoot,
And the king-bird set his wing,
And the woodpecker ceas'd his tap
On the hollow beech,
And the son of the loon on the neighbouring strand
Gave over his idle screech,
And fell to sleep in his mother's lap.
This maid of the Roanokes;
She was mild as a day in spring;
Morning, noon, and night,
Young Pequida smil'd on all,
But most on one.
She smil'd more sweet if he were there,
And her laugh more joyous rung,
And her step had a firmer spring,
And her eye had a keener light,
And her tongue dealt out blither jokes,
And she had more songs to spare,
And she better mock'd the blue jay's cry,
When his dinner of maize was done;
And better far, when he stood in view,
Could she paddle the Lake in her White Canoe.
The bravest he of the Roanokes,
A leader, before his years
Were the years of a full-grown man;
A warrior, when his strength
Was less than a warrior's need;
But, when his limbs were grown,
And he stood erect and tall,
Who could bend the sprout of the oak
Of which his bow was made?
Who could poise his choice of spears,
To him but a little reed?
None in all the land.
And who had a soul so warm?
Who was so kind a friend(2)?
And who so free to lend
To the weary stranger bed and bread,
Food for his stomach, rest for his head,
As Annawan, the Roanoke,
The valiant son of the chief Red Oak?
They seem'd two sides of a sparrow's feather;
Together they roam'd o'er the rocky hill,
And through the woody hollow,
And by the river brink,
And o'er the winter snows;
And they sat for hours by the summer rill,
To watch the stag as he came to drink,
And to see the beaver wallow;
And when the waters froze,
They still had a sport to follow
O'er the smooth ice, for, full in view,
Lay the glassy Lake of the White Canoe.
And the maiden a warrior's daughter;
Both were approv'd for deeds of blood;
Both were fearless, strong, and brave:
One was a Roanoke,
The other a captive Maqua boy,
In battle sav'd from slaughter(3)—
A single ear from a blighted sheaf,
Planted in Aragisken land[9];
And these two men were foes.
When they to manhood came,
And each had skill and strength to bend
A bow with a warrior's aim,
And to wield the club of massy oak
That a warrior-man should wield,
And to pride themselves on a blood-red hand,
And to deem its cleanness shame,
Each claim'd to lead the band,
And angry words arose,
But the warriors chose Red Oak,
Because his sire was a Roanoke.
And out he spoke:
"Have his deeds equall'd mine?
Three are the scalps on his pole[10]—
In my smoke are nine;
I have fought with a Cherokee;
I have stricken a warrior's blow,
Where the waves of Ontario roll;
I have borne my lance where he dare not go;
I have looked on a stunted pine
In the realms of endless frost,
And the path of the Knisteneau
And the Abenaki crost.
While the Red Oak planted the land,
It was mine to lead the band."
And bitter strife arose;
Loud and angry words,
Noisy boasts and taunts,
Menaces and blows,
These foolish men each other gave;
And each like a panther pants
For the blood of his brother chief;
Each himself with his war-club girds,
And forth he madly goes,
His wrath and ire to wreak;
But the warriors interpose.
Thenceforth they met as two eagles meet,
When food but for one lies dead at their feet,
And neither dare be the thief:
Each is prompt to show his ire;
The eye of each is an eye of fire,
And trembles each hand to give
The last and fatal blow;
And thus my brother may see them live
With the feelings that wolf-dogs know.
Had built himself a lodge,
And each had a bird in his nest,
And each had a babe at his knee,
Their hate had no abatement known,
Still each was his brother's enemy.
And thirsted for his blood.
And when those babes had grown,
The one to be a man
In stature, years, and soul,
With a warrior's eye and brow,
And his poll a shaven poll[11],
And his step as a wild colt's free,
And his voice like the winter wind,
Or the roaring of the sea;
The other a maiden ripe,
With a woman's tender heart,
Full of soft and gentle wishes,
Sighs by day and dreams by night,
Their hostile fathers bade them roam
Together no more o'er the rocky dell,
And through the woody hollow,
And by the river brink,
And o'er the winter snows,
Nor sit for hours by the summer rill,
To watch the stag as he came to drink,
And to see the beaver wallow,
Nor when the waters froze,
Have a pleasant sport to follow,
O'er the smooth ice; they bade them shun,
Each other as the stars the sun.
Did they their fathers mind?—
I will tell my brother.—
They met—in secret met'Twas
not in the rocky dell,
Nor in the woody hollow,
Nor by the river brink,
Nor o'er the winter snows,
Nor by the summer rill,
Watching the stag as he came to drink,
And to see the beaver wallow,
That these two lovers met,
Nor when the waters froze,
Giving good sport to follow:
But, when the sky was mild,
And the moon's pale light was veil'd,
And hushed was every breeze,
In prairie, village, and wild,
And the bittern had stayed his toot,
And the serpent had ceased his hiss,
And the wolf forgot his howl,
And the owl forbore his hoot,
And the plaintive wekolis[12],
And his neighbour, the frog, were mute—
Then would my brother have heard
A plash like the dip of a water-fowl,
In the lake with mist so white,
And the smooth wave roll to the bank,
And have seen the current stirr'd
By something that seemed a White Canoe,
Gliding past his troubled view.
By night on the tranquil lake,
When darkness veils the earth;
Nought care they for the wolf,
That stirs the brake on the bank;
Nought that the junipers shake
With the weight of the nimble bear,
Nor that bitterns start by tens,
Nor to hear the cayman's plash,
Nor the hoot of the owl in the boughs of the ash,
Where he sat so calm and cool:
And thus each night they met,
And thus a summer pass'd.
With all its promised joys,
Its host of glittering stars,
Its fields of yellow corn,
Its shrill and healthful winds,
Its sports of field and flood.
The buck in the grove was sleek and fat,
The corn was ripe and tall;
Grapes clustered thick on the vines;
And the healing winds of the north
Had left their cells to breathe
On the fever'd cheeks of the Roanokes,
And the skies were lit by brighter stars
Than light them in the time of summer.
Then said the father of the maid,
"My daughter, hear—
A bird has whispered in my ear,
That, often in the midnight hour,
They who walk in the shades,
The murky shades, dim, dark shades,
Shades of the cypress, pine, and yew,
That tower above the glassy lake,
Will see glide past their troubled view
Two forms as a meteor light,
And will note a white canoe,
Paddled along by two,
And will bear the words of a tender song,
Stealing like a spring-wind along;
Tell me, my daughter, if either be you?"
Ran drops like the summer rain,
And thus she spoke:
"Father, I love the valiant Annawan;
Too long have we roam'd o'er the rocky dell,
And through the woody hollow,
And by the river brink,
And o'er the winter snows,
To tear him from my heart:
Too long have we sat by the summer rill,
To watch the buck as he came to drink,
And to see the beaver wallow,
To live from him apart—
My father hears."
And know'st thou not the wrongs
That foe hath heap'd on me?
The nation made him chief—
Why made they him a chief?
Had his deeds equall'd mine?
Three were the scalps on his pole,
In my smoke were nine:
I had fought with a Cherokee;
I had struck a warrior's blow,
Where the waves of Ontario roll;
I had borne my lance where he dare not go;
I had look'd on a stunted pine,
In the realms of endless frost,
And the path of the Knisteneau,
And the Abenaki crost;
While the Red Oak planted his land,
It was mine to lead the band.
Since then we never spoke,
Unless to utter reproach,
And bandy bitter words;
We meet as two hungry eagles meet,
When a badger lies dead at their feet—
Each would use a spear on his foe,
Each an arrow would put to his bow,
And bid its goal be his foeman's breast,
But the warriors interpose,
And delay the vengeance I owe.
Thou hear'st my words—'t is well.
The soul of a Maqua never cools;
His ire can never be assuag'd,
But with the smell of gore
I thirst for the Red Oak's blood;
I live but for revenge;
Thou shalt not wed his son;
Choose thee a mate elsewhere,
And see that ye roam no more
By night o'er the rocky dell,
And through the woody hollow,
But when the sun its eye-lids closes,
See that thine own the example follow."
Spake thus unto his son:
"A bird has whispered in my ear,
That when the stars have gone to rest,
And the moon her eye-lids hath clos'd,
Who walk beside the lake
Will see glide past their troubled view
Two forms as a meteor light,
And will note a white canoe
Paddled along by two,
And will hear the words of a tender song.
Stealing like a spring wind along.
Tell me, my son, if either be you?"
"Mine is a warrior's soul,
And mine is an arm of strength;
I scorn to tell a lie;
The bird has told thee true.
And, father, hear my words:
I now have come to man's estate;
Who can bend the sprout of the oak,
Of which my bow is made?
Who can poise my choice of spears,
To me but a slender reed?
I fain would build myself a lodge,
And take to that lodge a wife:
And, father, hear thy son—
I love the Red Oak's daughter."
And know'st thou not the taunts
His tongue hath heap'd on me:
The nation made me chief,
And thence his ire arose;
Thence came foul wrongs and blows,
And neither yet aveng'd.
He boasted that his fame exceeded mine:
Three, he said, were the scalps on my pole,
While in his lodge were nine—
He did not tell how many I struck,
Nor spoke of my constancy,
When the Nansemonds tore my flesh,
With burning pincers tore;
And he said he had fought with a Cherokee,
And had struck a warrior's blow,
Where the waves of Ontario roll,
And had borne his lance where I dare not go,
And had look'd on a stunted pine,
In the realms of endless frost;
And the path of the Knisteneau
And the Abenaki crost:
While—bitter taunt!—cruel taunt!
And for it I'll drink his blood,
And eat him broil'd in fire—
The Red Oak planted his land,
It was his to lead the band.
My wrath can never be assuag'd;
Thou shalt not wed his daughter,
Choose thee a wife elsewhere;
Choose thee one any where,
Save in the Maqua's lodge.
The Nansemonds have maidens fair,
With bright black eyes, and long black locks,
And voice like the music of rills;
The Chippewa girls of the frosty north
Have feet like the nimble antelopes'
That bound on their native hills;
And their voice is like the dove's in spring—
Take one of those doves to thy cage;
But see no more, by day or night,
The Maqua warrior's daughter."
And haughtily he turn'd away.
Mists were over the face of the moon,
And the stars were like the sparkling flies
That twinkle in the prairie glades,
In my brother's month of June:
And hideous forms had risen;
The spirits of the swamp
Had come from their caverns dark and deep,
Where the slimy currents flow,
With the serpent and wolf to romp,
And to whisper in the sleeper's ear
Of death and danger near.
A beauteous maiden came;
Tall she was as a youthful fir,
Upon the river's bank;
Her step was the step of the antelope;
Her eye was the eye of the doe;
Her hair was black as a coal-black horse;
Her hand was plump and small;
Her foot was slender and small;
And her voice was the voice of a rill in the moon,
Of the rill's most gentle song.
Beautiful lips had she,
Ripe red lips,
Lips like the flower that the honey-bee sips,
When its head is bow'd by dew.
Of the dark and lofty trees,
That threw their image on the lake,
And waited long in silence there.
"Why comes he not, my Annawan,
My lover, brave and true?
He knows his maiden waits for him
Beneath the shade of the yew,
To paddle the lake in her White Canoe."
But Annawan came not:
"He has miss'd me sure," the maiden said,
"And skims the lake alone;
Dark though it be, and the winds are high,
I'll seek my warrior there."
Then lightly to her white canoe
The fair Pequida sprung,
And is gone from the shore alone.
The clouds were dense and black,
Thunders rolled among the hills,
Lightnings flash'd through the shades;
The spirits cried aloud
Their melancholy cries,
Cries which assail the listening ear
When danger and death are near:
Who is he that stands on the shore,
Uttering sounds of grief?
'Tis Annawan, the favour'd youth,
Detain'd so long lest envious eyes
Should know wherefore at midnight hour
He seeks the lake alone.
He finds the maiden gone,
And anguish fills his soul,
And yet, perchance in childish sport,
She hides among the groves.
Loudly he calls, "My maiden fair,
Thy Annawan is here!
Where art thou, maid with the coal-black hair?
What does thy bosom fear?
If thou hast hid in playful mood
In the shade of the pine, or the cypress wood,
If the little heart that so gently heaves
Is lightly pressing a bed of leaves;
Tell me, maiden, by thy voice
Bid thy lover's heart rejoice;
Ope on him thy starry eyes;
Let him clasp thee in his arms,
Press thy ripe, red lips to his.
Come, my fair Pequida, come!"
But glimmering o'er the lake appears
A solitary, twinkling light—
It seems a fire-fly lamp;
It moves, with motion quick and strange,
Over the broad lake's breast.
The lover sprung to his light canoe,
And swiftly followed the meteor spark,
But the winds were high, and the clouds were dark,
He could not find the maid,
Nor near the glittering lamp.
And laid him on the earth,
Calmly laid him down.
Words he spoke to none,
Looks bestow'd on none.
They brought him food—he would not eat—
They brought him drink—he would not drink—
They brought him a spear and a bow,
And a club, and an arrowy sheaf,
And shouted the cry of war,
And prais'd him, and nam'd him a Chief,
And told how the treacherous Nanticokes
Had slain three Braves of the Roanokes;
That a man of the tribe who never ran
Had vow'd to war on the Red Oak's son—
But he show'd no signs of wrath;
His thoughts were abroad in another path.
Like an arrow impell'd by a vigorous arm.
"You have dug her grave," said he,
"In a spot too cold and damp,
All too cold and damp,
For a soul so warm and true.
Where, think ye, her soul has gone?
Gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,
Where all night long by a fire-fly lamp
She paddles her White Canoe.
And thither I will go!"
And with that he took his quiver and bow,
And bade them all adieu.
And the maiden returned no more;
Alive none saw them more;
But oft their spirits are seen
By him who sleeps in that swamp.
When the night's dim lamps are veil'd,
And the Hunter's Star is hid,
And the moon has shut her lid,
And the she-wolf stirs the brake,
And the bitterns start by tens,
And the slender junipers shake
With the weight of the nimble bear,
And the pool resounds with the cayman's plash,
And the owl sings out of the boughs of the ash,
Where he sits so calm and cool,
And above his head the muckawiss
Sings his gloomy song,
And croak the frogs in the pool,
And he hears at his feet the horn-snake's hiss;
Then often flit along
The shades of the youth and maid so true,
That haunt the Lake of the White Canoe.
NOTES.
(1) Trusty memory.—p. 9.
The memory of the Indians is as astonishing as their native sagacity and penetration. They are entirely destitute of those helps which we have invented to ease our memory, or supply the want of it; yet they are never at a loss to recall to their minds any particular circumstance with which they would impress their hearers. On some occasions, they do indeed make use of little sticks to remind them of the different subjects they have to discuss; and with ease they form a kind of local memory, and that so sure and infallible, that they will speak for a great length of time—sometimes for three or four hours together—and display twenty different presents, each of which requires an entire discourse, without forgetting any thing, and even without hesitation.
(2) Kind Friendship.—p. 14.
Every Indian has a friend nearly of the same age as himself, to whom he attaches himself by the most indissoluble bonds. Two persons, thus united by one common interest, are capable of undertaking and hazarding every thing in order to aid and mutually succour each other; death itself, according to their belief, can only separate them for a time: they are well assured of meeting again in the other world never to part, where they are persuaded they shall have occasion for the same services from one another. Charlevoix tells of an Indian who was a christian, but who did not live according to the maxims of the gospel, and who, being threatened with hell by a Jesuit, asked this missionary whether he thought his friend who was lately departed had gone into that place of torment; the father answered him that he had good grounds to think that the Lord had had mercy upon him, and taken him to heaven. "Then, I won't go to hell, neither?" replied the Indian, and this motive brought him to do every thing that was desired of him; that is to say he would have been full as willing to go to hell as heaven, had he thought to find his companion there.
It is said that these friends, when they happen to be at a distance from each other, reciprocally invoke one another in all dangers. The assistance they promise each other may be surely depended upon.
(3) A Maqua saved from slaughter.—p. 15.
The following is the practice and ceremony of adoption: A herald is sent round the village or camp, to give notice that such as have lost any relations in the late expedition are desired to attend the distribution which is about to take place. Those women, who have lost their sons or husbands, are generally satisfied in the first place; afterwards, such as have been deprived of friends of a more remote degree of consanguinity, or who choose to adopt some of the youth. The division being made, which is done as in other cases without the least dispute, those who have received any share lead them to their tents or huts, and, having unbound them, wash and dress their wounds if they happen to have received any; they then clothe them, and give them the most comfortable and refreshing food their store will afford.
Whilst their new domestics are feeding, they endeavour to administer consolation to them; they tell them they are redeemed from death, they must now be cheerful and happy; and, if they serve them well without murmuring or repining, nothing shall be wanting to make them such atonement for the loss of their country and friends as circumstances will allow of.
If any men are spared, they are commonly given to the widows that have lost their husbands by the hands of the enemy, should there be any such, to whom, if they happen to prove agreeable, they are soon married. The women are usually distributed to the men, from whom they do not fail of meeting with a favourable reception. The boys and girls are taken into the families of such as have need of them. The lot of their conquerors becomes in all things theirs.
A LEGEND OF THE BOMELMEEKS.
Twenty-four men, and twenty-four women, from the twenty-four tribes of the wilderness, were met upon the top of the hill Gerundewagh. There were none upon the earth but those twenty-four tribes, and none upon the hill but these twice twenty-four people. They were all friends, and as brothers. There was no strife in the land; no blood deluged the beautiful vales of the wilderness; no cry of war shook the hills. Bows and arrows, and spears, were used for the destruction of bears, and wolves, and panthers; and the ochre, which now stains the brow of the Indian with the red hue of war, was used for the ornamenting of pipes. There was but one language upon the earth—all the tribes understood each other. If a Bomelmeek said to an Algonquin, "Give me meat or drink," he brought him meat or drink—if he said, "Smoke in my pipe," he smoked in the proffered pledge of peace, or he refused. If an Iroquois youth said to a girl of the Red Hurons, "Give me thy heart, and become the star of my cabin," she gave him her heart, and became the star of his cabin, or she bade him think of her no more. It was not then as it is now, that men fell out, and came to blows, because they mistook the words that were spoken. "Yes" was "yes," and "no" was "no," with all the tribes of the land, and interpreters were a thing unknown. So these twice twenty-four people from the twenty-four tribes of the earth sat down upon the top of the hill Gerundewagh, and smoked their pipes.
Whilst they were puffing out clouds of smoke, and enjoying greatly the pleasure which an Indian so covets, one of them, whose sight was keener than the rest, casting his eye far over the western wilderness, cried out, that he saw two somethings whose heads peered far above the woods. Very soon the rest of the people assembled at the hill Gerundewagh were able to see the same somethings, which resembled much the trunks of trees which have been divested of their branches, and look out in the blush of the morning through the vapours of a damp valley. What they were no human tongue could tell, but it was seen that they were approaching the hill Gerundewagh. As the heads came nearer, people were seen flying before them, and the heads following in quick pursuit. At length the twice twenty-four on the hill were able to see that the heads belonged to two enormous snakes, which were moving in devious paths about the land, devouring the inhabitants as fast as they were able to discover and swallow them. Seeing this, and the danger to which they were exposed of becoming also food for the monsters, they set about fortifying the high hill Gerundewagh, that their lives might be safe from the appalling danger, and within their fortification they collected all sorts of defensive materials. Having made themselves tolerably secure, they had leisure to view the war of extermination, which the snakes waged with the sons of the land who were not thus protected.
In the mean time, the snakes, having discovered by their acute power of smelling distant objects that the hill Gerundewagh contained human bodies, with whose flesh they were now become much in love, they immediately bent their course to it. In coming thither, they were compelled to cross, or rather to come down the river Mohawk, which, upon their thus getting lengthways of it, diverted from its natural course, overflowed its banks, sweeping away every impediment, and forming those beautiful meadows which have remained ever since covered with a robe of green. Having at length reached the hill, around whose base they threw themselves in many coils, they commenced the work of death by poisoning the air with their pernicious breath. Soon the atmosphere, which before had been pure, was changed in its nature; appearances resembling the motions of the waves of the great lake Superior when slightly agitated in the hot mornings of summer were seen in the horizon, and have never left it. Before, the rains descended in soft showers in the pauses of gentle winds, now they fell in torrents, accompanied with howling tempests and cold hurricanes. Lightnings, which before only played across the horizon, as the red light of autumn evenings streaks the northern sky, now rent asunder the flinty rock, and rived the knotty oak. Men, who had before died only of old age, now poisoned by the breath of the monsters, fell sick in the morning of life, with the brightness of youthful hope in their eye, and the down of unripe years on their cheek. The hair now often grew grey ere the knee became feeble; the teeth rotted out while there was enough to put between them; the eye often failed to see the beautiful objects, and the ear to drink in the soft sounds, which the Great Master of all created for the food of each. The heart now grew sometimes to be trembling and irresolute, and the soul to have its visions of infelicity. But I speak of after-time; first let me talk of that which is first.
The twice twenty-four, who were of a very bold and courageous nature, and feared nothing more than to be thought cowards, attacked the serpents with their bows and arrows. It was fruitless, however, to wage war with creatures covered with an impenetrable coat of scales. The serpents were not even startled by the arrows, so that no resource but death remained to the twice twenty-four. Their food being soon gone, they were compelled to venture out in quest of the means of sustaining life. As fast as they came out at the gate of the fortification, the one or other of the monsters snapped them up at a mouthful, until there remained of all those who occupied it at first but ten women and eleven men. What was to be done? I could not have told had I been there, but the eleventh man had the art and cunning to deliver the land from the assaults of the venomous serpents. He said to his brothers, "One of the serpents is a woman. I know it by her eyes, which are very bright, and beguiling, and roving, and treacherous. I know it by her sputtering, if all does not go right, and her frequent viewing herself in the waters of Lake Canandaigua, and the noisy chatter she is continually making about nothing. These are signs which cannot be misunderstood; she is a woman, I know. Now, if I can but catch the old man, asleep, I will make love to her, and it shall go hard but I will get her to assist in his destruction." So the Eleventh Man—who was a curious creature for making love to women, and knew all the arts necessary to be used, and all the nonsense proper to be uttered, knew when to look, and when to shut his eyes, when to be passionate, and when to be cold, and all that sort of thing—set about winning the love of the frail wife of the Great Snake. Whenever the old man took a nap, which was very often, then of a certainty would you see the Bomelmeek on the top of the fortification, winking and blinking, ogling and sighing, and doing other fooleries, at the Squaw-Snake. And soon could it be seen that she had noticed his declarations of love, and was not disposed to be very cruel or "ridiculous." Oh, it was a curious sight to see the courtship, though not more curious than I have seen other courtships. When he winked, she winked; when he ogled her, she ogled him; when he sighed, she—taking care to turn her head the other way, for her breath was not the myrtle's or the orange blossom's—sighed also, and very loud. So foolery was exchanged for foolery, and the thing throve well. Still the Eleventh Man dared not, for some time, venture out of the fortification, for he had remarked her taste for human flesh, and her dexterity in snapping off heads, and did not know but her love for him might extend to a wish to try the flavour of his meat, and that she might, in a moment of soft dalliance, practise on him her skill in unjointing necks. Women have been known to inflict a greater evil than either on the man they have pretended to love. At least, so the Eleventh Man said, and, as I have before told my brother, he was a knowing man in these matters. It soon became plain that something must be done. There was no food remaining in the fort, and the speedy death of all must ensue, unless it were procured. The Eleventh Man, who was as courageous in war as he was in peace, with the high-mindedness which belongs to an Indian(1), said he would go and submit himself to the good will of the pretty creature. So, taking his spear, and his bow and arrow, for he knew that women like to be wooed by warriors, and delight in the handsome bearing and gay dress of lovers, and often die and perish of a fever for feathers and gewgaws, he chose the moment when the old man was wrapped in a deep sleep, and ventured out. A woman can hear the lightest step of a lover when she is fast asleep, and when the thunder of the western hills would not awake her. And so it was with the Squaw-Snake, who, though very drowsy with watching the stars, and squinting at the moonas folks always do when they are in love—had no sooner heard the step of her beloved on the green sod than she advanced to meet him. Now comes the perilous moment! Bomelmeek, beware! She is raising her tail, at whose end is a horrible sting to clasp thee as with a pair of arms. And look, see her jaws, white with foam, and larger than the largest tree of the forest, are extended to kiss thy cheek, or scarcely worse to snap off thy head. Brave man! With what undaunted firmness he suffers himself to be taken to her arms—no, not to her arms, but her tail—and how patiently he suffers his cheeks that have felt the breath of sweet lips to be slabbered by a nasty snake! Oh! if he fall a victim to his love for his nation, he will deserve to live as long in the remembrance of the Bomelmeeks, as their great founder, the Earwig.
Fond and long continued were the caresses of the Eleventh Man and the Squaw-Snake, and luckily they were not interrupted by the old man, who, unlike many husbands I have known, contrived to sleep just as long as they wished he should. Before he awaked, it had been agreed between them that the death of the old man should be accomplished. So she bade him dip in the poison of her sting the points of two arrows, both intended to be put to a good use. He did so, and then retired within the fortification. Drawing his bow to his ear, and pointing an arrow at the head of the aged husband, he let fly with unerring skill. This done, he levelled the other arrow with the same precision at the head of the faithless wife. Wounded to death by the poisoned darts, the horrid monsters rolled down the hill in great agony, sweeping away, in their descent, all the trees upon the side to its very bottom, and amidst their contortions disgorging the heads of the Indians they had swallowed. Those heads rolled into Lake Canandaigua, where they were converted into stones, and are to be found there to this day. The Indian, as seated in his canoe he glides over the lake, frequently sees them lying on its pebbly bottom, and the larger bark of the white man is often dashed to pieces against them. So the eleven men and the ten women were freed from the serpents.
But now it was that the strangest circumstance was revealed to the survivors. The poison which the serpents had poured on the earth with their pernicious breath had so operated that a confusion of tongues had taken place, and different nations no longer understood each other. The Iroquois could no longer speak in the dialect of the Natchez; the Bomelmeeks of the land of Frost no longer sung their war-songs in the tongue of the Walkullas of the land of Flowers. The Senecas attempted in vain to make known their wishes to the Red Hurons of the Lakes, who were alike puzzled to converse with the Narragansetts of the Land of Fish. A youth of one nation, if he wished to take a woman of another nation to wife, had now to talk with his eyes, whereas before he made use of his tongue to tell his lies with.
So the land was re-peopled from the survivors of the hill Gerundewagh, and the confusion of tongues went on increasing, and has done so to this day. The Bomelmeeks have faded from the land; the descendants of the Eleventh Man, of whom there were very many, alone remaining, one of whom now tells this story, which is certainly true.