Traditions of the North American Indians Volume II Part 7

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 quant.i.ty, 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 princ.i.p.al 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 surpa.s.s 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 princ.i.p.al 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 appet.i.te, 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 pa.s.sed 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 r.e.t.a.r.ds 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 amus.e.m.e.nt on the road. If he has any thing more, let it be divided among his nearest relatives and friends, but on no account inc.u.mber 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 a.s.sume a beauty of which we could scarcely have deemed them susceptible. Few falls a.s.sume 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 a.s.sociated 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 s.e.x 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 a.s.sured 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 a.s.sociating 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 inc.u.mbrance, 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 impa.s.sioned 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 gra.s.s, 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 cl.u.s.tering 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 gra.s.s, 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 pa.s.sengers 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 a.s.sert 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 compa.s.sion 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 cla.s.s 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 ma.s.s 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 a.s.sume 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.