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.

It may not be doubted that the beautiful Tatoka had many lovers; there
was not a youth in the nation, whose character authorised the
application, that did not become a suitor to the fair daughter of the
White Crane. But the heart of the maiden was touched by none of them;
she bade them all depart as they came; she rejected them all. The
father who loved his daughter too well to sell her as he would a
beaver-trap or a moose-skin, or to compel her to become a wife, would
have been glad to see her choose a protector from among the many
Braves who solicited her affections. But, with the perverseness which
is often seen among women, who are but fools at best, though made to
be loved, she had placed her affections upon a youth, who had
distinguished himself by no valiant deeds in war, nor even by industry
or dexterity in the chase. His name had never reached the surrounding
nations; his own nation knew him not, unless it was as a weak and
imbecile man: he was poor in every thing that constitutes the riches
of Indian life, and poorer still in spirit and acquirements. Who had
heard the twanging of Karkapaha's bow in the retreats of the bear? or
who beheld the war-paint on his cheek or brow?--Where were the scalps
or the prisoners that betokened his valour or daring? No song of
valiant exploits had been heard from his lips, for he had none to
boast of--if he had done aught becoming a man, he had done it when
none were by. The beautiful Tatoka, who knew and lamented the
deficiencies of her lover, strove long to conquer her passion; but,
finding the undertaking beyond her strength, surrendered herself to
the sweets of unrepressed affection, and urged her heart no more to
the unequal task of subduing her love. Their stolen interviews were
managed with much care, and for a long time no one suspected them; but
at length the secret of their love and the story of their shame became
so apparent as to do away the possibility of further concealment. The
lovers were in an agony of fear and terror. Though beloved by her
father, she had no reason to hope that he would so far forget his
dignity and the honour of his family, and so far sacrifice his views
of aggrandizement, as to admit into his family a man who was neither
hunter nor warrior, and whose want of qualifications would have
ensured his rejection by families of ordinary note--how much more from
that of a proud and haughty chief! Love conquers the strongest; and,
rather than be separated, those who love each other well will dare
every danger. Rather than be torn apart, the fond pair, whose
affections were strengthened by the pledge of love which Tatoka bore
about her, determined to fly the anger of the father. The preparations
for flight were made, the night fixed upon came, and they left the
village of the Mahas and the lodge of Mahtoree for the wilderness.

With all their precautions, and supposed exemption from suspicion,
their flight was not unmarked: their intimacy had been for some time
suspected; but it was only the day preceding their elopement that the
mother had discovered undoubted proofs of their guilty intimacy. When
the justly indignant father was made acquainted with the disgrace
which had befallen his house, he called his young men around him, and
bade them pursue the fugitives, promising his daughter to whomsoever
should slay the ravisher. Immediate pursuit was made, and soon a
hundred eager youths were on the track of the hapless pair. With that
unerring skill and sagacity in discovering foot-prints which mark our
race, their steps were tracked, and themselves soon discovered
retreating. But what was the surprise and consternation of the
pursuers, when they found that the path taken by the hapless pair
would carry them to the Mountain of Little Spirits, and that they were
sufficiently in advance to reach it before the pursuers could come up
with them! None durst venture within the supposed limits, and they
halted till the White Crane should be informed of their having put
themselves under the protection of the spirits.

In the mean time the lovers pursued their journey towards the fearful
residence of the little people of the hill. Despair lent them courage
to do an act to which the stoutest Indian resolution had hitherto been
inadequate. They determined, as a last resource, to tell their story
to the spirits, and demand their protection. They were within a few
feet of the hill, when, in a breath, its brow, upon which no object
till now had been visible, became covered with little people, the
tallest of whom was not higher than the knee of the maiden, and many
of them, but these children, were of lower stature than the squirrel.
Their voice was sharp and quick, like the barking of the prairie dog;
a little wing came out at each shoulder; each had a single eye, which
eye was a right in the men, and in the women a left; and their feet
stood out at each side. They were armed as Indians are armed, with
tomahawks, spears, and bows and arrows. He who appeared to be the head
chief, for he wore the air of command and the eagle feather of a
leader, came up to them, and spoke as follows:--

"Why have you invaded the village of a race whose wrath has been so
fatal to your people? How dare you venture within the sacred limits of
our residence? Know you not that your lives are forfeited?"

The trembling pair fell on their knees before the little people, and
Tatoka, for her lover had less than the heart of a doe, and was
speechless, related her story. She told them how long she had loved
Karkapaha, and holding down her head confessed her fatal indiscretion.
Then she pictured the wrath of her father, the pursuit which was
making, doubtless with a view to the punishment by death of her lover,
and concluded her tale of sorrow with a burst of tears, which came
from her eyes like the rain from a summer cloud, and sighs which might
be compared to summer winds breathing from a bed of flowers. The
little man who wore the eagle's feather appeared very much moved with
the sorrows of the pair, and calling around him a large number of men,
who were doubtless the chiefs and counsellors of the nation, a long
consultation took place. The result was a determination to favour and
protect the lovers. They had but just talked themselves into a
resolution to inflict vengeance on all who should approach the hill
with the intent to injure the pair who had thrown themselves upon
their protection, when Shongotongo, or the Big Horse, one of the
Braves whom Mahtoree had dispatched in quest of his daughter, appeared
in view in pursuit of the fugitives. It was not till Mahtoree had
taxed his courage that the Big Horse had ventured on the perilous and
fearful quest. He approached with the strength of heart and singleness
of purpose which accompany an Indian warrior who deems the eyes of his
nation upon him. When first the Brave was discovered thus wantonly,
and with no other purpose but the shedding of blood, intruding on the
dominions of the spirits, no words can tell the rage which appeared to
possess their bosoms, manifesting itself in a thousand wild and
singular freaks of passion and coarseness of language. Secure in the
knowledge of their power to repel the attacks of every living thing,
the intrepid Maha was permitted to advance within a few steps of
Karkapaha. He had just raised his spear to strike the unmanly lover,
when, all at once, he found himself riveted to the ground: his feet
refused to move; his hands, which he attempted to raise, hung
powerless at his side; his tongue, when he attempted to speak, refused
to utter a word. The bow and arrow fell from his hand, and his spear
lay powerless. A little child, not so high as the fourth leaf of the
thistle, came and spat upon him, and a company of young maidens,
whose feet were not longer than the blue feather upon the wing of the
teal, danced a mirthsome dance around him, singing a taunting song of
which he was the burthen. All and each of the tiny spirits did their
part towards inflicting pain and ignominy on the hapless Maha. When
they had finished their task of punishing by preparatory torture, a
thousand little Spirits drew their bows, and a thousand winged arrows
pierced his heart. In a moment, a thousand mattocks, of the size of an
Indian's thumb-nail, were employed in preparing him a grave. And he
was hidden from the eyes of the living, ere Tatoka could have thrice
counted over the fingers of her hand.

When this was done, the chief of the Little Spirits called Karkapaha
to his seat, and spoke to him thus:--"Maha, you have the heart of a
doe; you would fly from a roused wren. Cowards find no favour in the
eyes of the spirits of the air, who do not know what fear is, save
when they see it painted on the cheeks of a mortal. We have not spared
you because you deserved to be spared, but because the maiden loves
you, and we would pleasure her. It is for this purpose that we will
give you the heart of a man, that you may return to the village of the
Mahas, and find favour in the eyes of Mahtoree and the Braves of the
nation. We will take away your cowardly spirit, and will give you the
spirit of the warrior whom we slew, whose heart was firm as a rock,
and whose knees would have trembled when mountains caught the touch of
fear, and not before. Sleep, man of little soul, and wake to be better
worthy the love of the beauteous Antelope."

Then a deep sleep came over the Maha lover. How long he slept he knew
not, but when he woke he felt at once that a change had taken place in
his feelings and temper. The first thought that came to his mind was a
bow and arrow; the second the beautiful Indian girl who lay sleeping
at his side. The Little Spirits had disappeared--not a solitary being,
of the many thousands, who, but a few minutes before, peopled the hill
and filled the air with their discordant cries, was now to be seen or
heard. At the feet of Karkapaha lay a tremendous bow, larger than any
bowman ever yet used, and a sheaf of arrows of proportionate size, and
a spear of a weight which no Maha could wield. Wonder of wonders! the
weak and slender Karkapaha could draw that bow, as an Indian boy bends
a willow twig, and the spear seemed in his hand but a reed, or a
feather. The shrill war-whoop burst unconsciously from his lips, and
his nostrils seemed dilated with the fire and impatience of a
newly-awakened courage. The heart of the fond Indian girl dissolved
in tears, when she saw these proofs of strength and those evidences of
spirit, which, she knew, if they were coupled with valour--and how
could she doubt the completeness of the gift to effect the purposes of
the giver!--would thaw the iced feelings of her father, and tune his
heart to the song of forgiveness. Yet, it was not without many fears,
and tears, and misgivings, on the part of the maiden, that they began
their march for the Maha village. The lover, now a stranger to fear,
used his endeavours to quiet the beautiful Tatoka, and in some measure
succeeded.

Upon finding that his daughter and her lover had gone to the Hill of
the Spirits, and that Shongotongo did not return from his perilous
adventure, the chief of the Mahas had recalled his Braves from the
pursuit, and was listening to the history of the pair, as far as the
returned warriors were acquainted with it, when his daughter and her
lover made their appearance. With a bold and fearless step the once
faint-hearted Karkapaha walked up to the offended father, and, folding
his arms on his breast, stood erect as a pine, and motionless as that
tree when the winds of the earth are chained above the clouds. It was
the first time that Karkapaha had ever looked on angry men without
trembling, and a demeanour so unusual in him excited universal
surprise.

"Karkapaha is a thief," said the White Crane.

"It is the father of my beautiful and beloved Tatoka that says it,"
answered the lover; "else would Karkapaha say it was the song of a
bird that has flown over."

"My warriors say it."

"Your warriors are singing-birds; they are wrens; Karkapaha says they
do not speak the truth.--Karkapaha has the heart of a tiger, and the
strength of a bear; let the Braves try him. He has thrown away the
woman's heart; he has become a man."

"Karkapaha _is_ changed," said the chief thoughtfully, "but when,
and how?"

"The Little Spirits of the Mountain have given him a new soul. Bid
your Braves draw this bow; bid them poise this spear. Their eyes say
they can do neither. Then is Karkapaha the strong man of his tribe;"
and as he said this he flourished the ponderous spear over his head as
a man would poise a reed, and drew the bow as a child would bend a
willow twig.

"Karkapaha is the husband of Tatoka," said Mahtoree, springing to his
feet, and he gave the beautiful maiden to her lover. The traditionary
lore of the Mahas is full of the exploits, both in war and the chase,
of Karkapaha, who was made a man by the Spirits of the Mountain.

THE VALLEY OF THE BRIGHT OLD INHABITANTS.

On the northern branch of the river of the Cherokees, the most
numerous and powerful tribe of the south, there are two high mountains
nearly covered with mossy rocks, and lofty cedars, and pines. These
mountains, rugged and terrible to behold, are made yet more fearful to
the mind of the red man of the forest, who sees the Great Being in the
clouds, and hears him in the winds, and fancies a spirit in every
thing that moves, by the horrid sights and awful sounds which proceed
from them. Often, as the sun sinks behind those mountains, persons who
have their eyes intently fixed upon them will see lofty forms whose
heads stretch far into the sky, standing upon their summits, or
oftener leaping from one mountain to the other clean across the wide
valley which separates them. Those shapes we can see wear the shape of
man, yet their actions do not seem to belong to a race of mortals, and
we deem them spirits--giant spirits, which never had the sinews, and
bones, and muscle, and flesh, of men. And often, in the midnight
hour, the listener hears sounds proceeding from those mountains--the
whispers of love, the loud tones of strife, or the merry ones of
joy--laughing and weeping--wooing and strife--expressing all the
various passions and emotions which find a place in the bosoms of
mortals. With these mighty spirits no mortal hath had communication,
for they never leave the mountain--and who shall dare approach their
villages? No one has heard their story, no one knows their creator,
nor when they were born, nor when they shall die, if death be
appointed to them. They have lived in mystery: showing their forms as
the trunk of a decayed, and branch-less tree shows itself from out a
morning mist, and raising their voices but as a thunder-cloud in
summer, they will depart as a spirit departs, noiselessly, and go no
one knows whither.

Between these two lofty and dreaded mountains, there is a deep valley,
or rather a succession of deep valleys, for the occurrence at short
spaces of low hills breaks the continuousness of that with which the
space between those mountains commences. In these valleys the beams of
the sun are concentrated and drawn together, creating at times a heat
so great, that nothing can live in them but those reptiles, which are
ripened and fattened to full growth only by suns which scorch like
fire. In these same valleys have dwelt, ever since the earth was first
placed on the back of the great tortoise, those Kind Old Kings, the
_Bright Old Inhabitants_(1), which are rattlesnakes of a most
prodigious size, possessed of singular properties, and endowed with
tremendous and fearful powers. It is death to venture within their
limits, and equally fatal to displease them. So well convinced are the
people of my nation of their power to inflict an instant and dreadful
death on all, that no temptation can induce them to betray their
secret recesses to the wanton stranger. They well know that, if they
do so, they shall be exposed to the unceasing attacks of all the
inferior species of snakes who love their kings, which are these
Bright Old Inhabitants, and know by instinct those who injure, or
attempt to injure them. They know that, let but those kings issue
their commands, there is not a snake that crawls but will open his
mouth or use his sting to inflict the greatest possible degree of
vengeance in his power on the enemies and oppressors of those whom he
loves and obeys. Hence the place of residence of the Kind Old Kings is
kept a secret by our people. For a long time they did not know it
themselves, and only became acquainted with it when the occurrence
took place which I am about to relate to my brother.

Once upon a time, many years ago, there lived among the Cherokees a
man who was neither a warrior nor a hunter, yet was the most
celebrated man of his nation, and further known than its proudest
warrior or most expert hunter. He was a priest, and knew the secret
ways, and the will, and the wishes, of his master, the Great Spirit.
Not only was he skilled in the wisdom of the land of souls, but he was
learned in matters which affect the dwellers in the body. He knew how
to cure the ailments of the body, as well as to give answers to the
questions which related to the ways and doings of the Being above all.
He could tell at what time in the morning men should go to the Hill of
Prayer, with clay on their heads, to cry for mercy and aid, and when
they should repair to the Cave of Sacrifice, to gather the will of the
Great Spirit from the hollow voice[A] within it. He alone, of all the
mighty nation of the Cherokees, had seen that Spirit; he alone had
heard him speak, and to none other would that Spirit deign to listen,
or to give reply. Chepiasquit, for that was the name of this famous
priest, was indeed a very wise man, and his sayings were reckoned of
scarcely less authority then the words of his master. Whatever he said
had a weight which other men's words had not; and all his actions,
however trifling in their nature, were magnified into actions of
importance, and became invested with a character, which did not
belong to those of men in other respects more gifted than he. Yet the
unbounded respect in which his nation held him was not undeserved.
Wisdom he possessed, and he used it to the furthering of the
interests, and the advancing of the happiness, of his people. If they
wanted rain, they asked Chepiasquit for it, and he gave it to them. If
too much fell, they had only to complain to him, and the clouds
witheld their floods, and the waters were locked up in the hollow of
the hand of him that created them. If the thunders were heard to roll
awfully, and the fearful lightnings were seen to flash along the black
sky, they spoke to Chepiasquit, who uttered a short prayer to Him who
controuls the elements as well as man, and all became hushed and
still; the black clouds passed away, and the bright stars looked out
from their places of rest in the clear blue sky. All things seemed
obedient to him, when he chose to open his lips in supplication to his
master. The fame which he had acquired by this intimacy and friendship
with the Great Spirit was the means of giving peace to his nation. His
reputation being spread far and near, no tribe durst try their
strength in war, or measure their weapons in combat, with a people who
were possessed of such a friend, protector, leader, and priest. So the
Cherokees rested in peace, and the earth was no more made red with
blood, but wore the robe which nature provided for it--the robe of
green. They planted their corn in the Budding-Moon, and lived to see
it harvested in the Moon of Falling Leaves. They left the doors of
their cabins unlatched at night, and the sentinel slept as sound and
as long as the new-born babe. Their arrows were eaten up by the rust
of sloth and inactivity, and the strings of their bows were rotted by
the mildew of carelessness and idleness. The aged met not now in the
great council-house, to plan distant expeditions, or frustrate
expected invasions; the youth spent their time in courting and
marrying. The fame of Chepiasquit changed the character of the nation
from warlike to peaceable, and banished from the land the vulture of
war and havoc, to give place to the dove of peace and tranquillity.

[Footnote A: Hollow voice--echo.]

Four wives had this wise priest; they bore him many children: but,
great as was his power with the Master of the World, it did not enable
him to obtain for them a continuance of life beyond the second moon of
their birth. All, save one, died while they were yet swinging in their
cradles of willow-bark from the bough of the tree--that one, a
daughter, was spared to his entreaties and prayers. Winona, or the
first-born, for that was the name bestowed on the child, grew up in
the cabin of her father, beautiful beyond any maiden that ever graced
the nation of Cherokees. How shall I describe to my brother from the
far country the matchless charms of Chepiasquit's virgin daughter!
Shall I tell him that her eyes were the eyes of the mountain kid, and
her hair long and glossier than the plumage of the raven, and her
teeth white and even, and her hand delicate and plump, and her foot
small and speedy? Shall I say that her voice was joyful as the voice
of a mated bird in spring, and her temper cheerful, sweet, mild, kind,
and always the same? Shall I increase his admiration for the beautiful
creature, by telling him that she best loved to sit by the quiet
hearth of her parents, leaving it to lighter and less amiable maidens
to rove on idle errands and frivolous pursuits through the village.
For, let my brother learn, she was that wonder, a woman, contented and
happy in her own house, with none but her own father to listen or
reply. During the long evenings of the period when the sun is away
from the earth for so great a portion of the day, she would sit on her
soft couch of skins and dried moss, listening to the tales he would
repeat of the wonderful things he had seen and heard; the dreams of
strange and fearful creatures which had troubled his hours of sleep,
and the actual appearance to him, when sleep was far from his eyelids,
of beings or phantoms not of this world; and the traditions which
told of the love, or hatred, or favour, or punishment, of the Great
Spirit--of his bounties sent to the Cherokees, when famine reared his
gaunt form among them, or of wrath provoked, and punishment inflicted,
when pride dwelt in their villages, when their thoughts were far from
him, when no clay was put on their heads, when the tender and juicy
flesh of the deer smoked not in his sacrifice. Wars he had seen,
though he had left victory to be achieved by others, for he had been a
man of peace. To the tales of her beloved father would the fair maiden
listen with great delight, for they accorded with the belief in
wonderful events and supernatural appearances, which is early
impressed on the mind of every Indian, and never leaves him but with
life. She would sit for hours with her little head rested on her palm,
her whole soul absorbed by the wild narratives, which, during the long
season of winter, are related to while away the hours spared from war
and the chace.

Beloved with a greater degree of affection than is usually felt even
among those whose lives are little subject to the incidents which
weaken or destroy attachments, the beautiful daughter of the Cherokee
priest grew up to womanhood, the cherished idol of all her friends,
the boast and pride of the nation. The young and ardent Braves sought
her hand in marriage; but she was deaf to all their entreaties and
protestations, and refused all their offers. Yet she did it with so
much kindness, and said so many sweet words to blunt the severity of
the refusal, that all her lovers became her friends, and each, with
affectionate kindness, blended with the bold bearing of one who says
what he knows he has courage to perform, promised that his love
mellowed into friendship should remain firmly fixed in his heart, and
that he would defend its object, should danger cross her path, as long
as strength was given him to carry a spear. The rejection by the fair
Winona of so many youths, most of whom were deemed worthy of her
choice, gave the father pain; but he loved his daughter too well to
wish to make her unhappy by a marriage with one she did not love. He
had seen--and who does not?--that the bird selects for its mate the
bird it likes best; that love and affection go to the pairing of all
creatures, save man and woman; and that only with them is it a practice
to bind together, and fetter for life, those whose hearts are far
apart. And he knew, that the Great Spirit disliked that force or
constraint should be used in affairs of this kind. So, in obedience to
the will of his master, as well as the dictates of his own reason,
and the affection he bore her, he permitted his lovely and gentle
child to remain unmarried in his house.

But it was not decreed by him who governs all things that the
beautiful maiden should always remain a stranger to the delightful
pains and agonising pleasures of love. It was in the second month of
spring, when all nature feels the influence of the returning sun, when
birds are carolling on every spray, and the grass and flowers are
waking up from their long and chilled, sleep, and the joyous deer is
out to nip the young buds, that a company of young hunters from the
distant but far-famed nation of the Muscogulgees, passing through the
lands of the Cherokees, stopped for rest and refreshment, and to try
the strength of our young men in the exercises which youth love, at
the village in which the father of the beautiful maiden abode. These
young hunters were the flower of that valiant nation, bred up to
pursue with equal courage and ardour the savage bear into his fearful
retreats, and the foe, notwithstanding his treacherous ambuscades,
through the dark and almost impervious forest. War was their natural
and most beloved pursuit; but now they had doffed their martial
habiliments, wiped off their war-paint, and taken up the bow and spear
to pursue the peaceful occupation of hunting. The leader of this
youthful band of Muscogulgees, was a tall and stately youth, formed in
the noblest and most animated mould of the human form, straight as a
young cedar, with eyes that indicated the fire of his soul, and brow,
and cheek, and lip, that showed the mildness of his heart. With a
small eagle feather, the badge of his chieftainship in his hair, his
robe of dressed deer-skin thrown lightly over his shoulder, at which
hung his bow and well filled quiver, he walked among the admiring
youths and maidens of our nation, a thing to be feared, dreaded, and
loved. He and his company of chosen young Braves now received the
welcome, and experienced, the hospitality, which, in every situation,
and at every season, the red man of the forest offers to those who
visit him. They were feasted and caressed by each and all. The painted
pole was erected and the feast prepared, that an opportunity might be
afforded them of recounting their exploits in the ears of the
listening Braves of our nation; the wrestling ring was formed, that
their skill and strength, if they possessed such, in that exercise,
might be shown; games of chance were appointed, that the favour of the
Great Spirit, and the strength of the protecting _okkis_ of each
nation and individual, might be demonstrated. In every undertaking,
was the superior skill and strength of the youthful leader of the
Muscogulgee band made apparent. In the wrestling ring, the strongest
man of the Cherokees was but a child in his hands; his voice, in the
song of his own exploits, and the recital of the glories of his
nation, was sweeter than the sighing of the gentlest spring wind, and
clearer than the prattling music of the waterfall. In the games which
were played he was equally successful, and he rose from the _match of
straws_ winner of half the valued treasures and trophies of the
opposing Braves. Was it strange, that one so bold and brave should
ingratiate himself with the beautiful maidens of our tribe? Was it
strange, that bright eyes should glisten with tears, and soft bosoms
be filled with throbs, and red lips be fraught with sighs, when the
Guard of the Red Arrows passed before the eyes of beauty? Was it any
thing to excite especial wonder, that the beautiful daughter of the
priest should suffer the fires of love to be lit in her tender bosom?
or that the valiant and handsome Muscogulgee should think her the
fairest creature he had ever seen, should reciprocate the soft passion
which glowed in her bosom, and wish to transfer the lovely flower of
the Cherokees from the cabin of her father to his distant home?

The Guard of the Red Arrows said to the father of the maiden, "I love
your daughter. Her bright black eyes, and long black locks, her
melodious voice, and her gentleness, and her sweet temper, and her
winning air, have caught my heart, as a bird is entangled in the snare
of the fowler, or a deer entrapped in the toils of the hunter. She has
become the light of my soul--when I see her not, all is darkness. I
have no eyes but for her; my ears drink in no other accents than hers;
my last thought when I sink to rest is of the beautiful Fawn, my first
when I awake of the bright-eyed little maiden who gits by the
cabin-fire of the wise priest of her nation. I hare opened my heart to
this charming maiden, and have heard from her lips a soft confession
of her love for the Muscogulgee. She consents to leave the house of
her father, and the home of her childhood, to go, with the Guard of
the Red Arrows, to the cabin he has built himself beside the beautiful
and rapid river of his nation."

The father answered, "I cannot spare my daughter to go to the far home
of him who asks her hand. She is the light of my eyes, and the joy of
my heart. What would her mother say, and how should I answer the fond
questions which, with eyes streaming with tears, she would ask, if I
permitted the little fawn she has nursed with so much care to go forth
to a distant land--to be in the morning of her youth separated from
all her friends and companions, and taken to a new and unknown abode?
Gloom would be in my cabin, and tears would rush from the eyes, that
for seventeen harvests have been accustomed to see the gentle maiden
performing her acts of dutiful kindness, and gliding with a foot
noiseless as snow around the couches of her beloved parents. We should
listen in the morning for the carol of the sweetest of all birds, and
miss in the evening the tread of the lightest mortal foot that ever
brushed the dew from the flowers of the prairie. There would be one
missing from the repast of meat; one from the dance of maidens beneath
the shady oak; one from the couch of moss where we sleep. No,
Muscogulgee! I cannot spare the fawn. How should I answer the fond
questions of her mother, when, with eyes streaming with tears, she
should ask me for her daughter? When I told her the truth, she would
cry, 'Hard and cruel man! thou hast torn from me the darling of my
heart, the idol of my soul.--What shall become of me--of thee, thus
deprived of our sweet child?' No, Muscogulgee! I must refuse thee my
daughter. And yet, if thou wilt renounce thine own nation, and come
and take up thy residence in the native land of her thou lovest, or
pretendest to love, the maiden shall be thine. Thou shalt have a cabin
built beside my own, and, as is our Indian wont, the friends of thy
bride shall place within it all the household implements needed in our
simple life. Her friends shall be thy friends, and her father thy
father, and her mother thy mother. When there is thunder and darkness
in the sky of the Cherokees, it shall thunder and be dark in the sky
of the Muscogulgee sojourner among them, and with whomsoever the
Cherokees have buried the hatchet of war, and made a league of amity,
with that tribe or people shall the Muscogulgee keep terms of peace."

The Muscogulgee answered, as became him, that "his father, and his
mother, and his brothers, and his sisters, and all the friends of his
youth, were dwelling in the land of his birth--the land of his
father's bones--how could he quit it? Why should he fly his
father-land, a land pleasant to look upon, and healthful to live in,
abounding in quiet glades where the deer loved to browze, in pleasant
streams filled with fish, in smooth and tranquil lakes, fanned by the
wings of the innumerable fowls which went thither for food. Much as he
loved the beautiful flower of the Cherokees, and much as he wished to
make her his bride, he could not become an exile to obtain her. Why
should her father object to her following the steps of him she loved,
and who would be unto her father, mother, sister, brother, friend, in
that one word _husband_?"

And thus pleaded the lover, but he pleaded in vain, for the father
remained deaf to his entreaties and prayers. Not so the daughter. She
had drunk the sweet poison of his words, and, when he clasped her to
his breast, felt that there was more bliss in that clasp than could be
communicated by the kindest words, and fondest looks, and richest
gifts, of those who were the authors of her being. She heard his fond
words, and believed them true; she saw his face, and knew it fair, and
she trusted him. It was agreed between them, that when the moon had
hid herself behind the lofty woods which skirted the village of her
birth, she should fly from the house of her father, with the Guard of
the Red Arrows, to the cabin he had built him beside the beautiful
river of his nation. But they forgot--these fond and foolish
lovers!--that the Great Spirit was the friend of Chepiasquit, and made
him acquainted with all the secret doings of those who would harm him,
or interfere with his family concerns. They forgot,--simple
children!--that the wise powwow had but to feel the stirring of the
ant under the skin of the left hand, when, binding over his eyes the
hide of a young badger, and laying his head upon a pillow composed of
the leaves of the black hornbeam, the Manitou of Dreams would make
known to him every machination of his enemies. The plans of the
youthful pair for flight were soon revealed to the cunning powwow by
his faithful spirit, and he arose in the morning, knowing what the
night would bring forth, and fully prepared to punish the attempts
which were to be made against the peace of his family. He made all
those careful preparations for impending danger which a wise and
prudent chief should make. He shut up his daughter in his lodge, and,
calling around him the Braves of his nation, he made them acquainted
with the designs of the Muscogulgee, and bade them keep guard around
the endangered cabin and its coveted treasure, but on no account--if
it could be dispensed with--to do harm to the strangers. Having
prepared to oppose violence by violence, if need should be, he,
wishing to prevent bloodshed, for he was a man of peace, called to him
the lover of his daughter, and addressed him thus:

"I did say thou couldst not have my daughter, but upon one
condition--I recall my word, and add thereto a second. She shall be,
with the consent of her father, the companies of thy homeward journey,
if thy heart be strong enough to undertake one quest, and it be the
will of the Great Spirit that thou be spared to accomplish it. Let the
valiant Muscogulgee, who has man written on his brow and eye, though
the down on his cheek proclaims him boy, listen to the words of the
father of Winona, and remember that the manifestation of a strong
heart, at this time, may avail much to gain him the object he so
ardently covets.

"Between the two mountains which rear their lofty heads on the
northern branch of the river of the Cherokees, there is a deep valley,
in which the beams of the sun, being concentrated and drawn together,
create a heat so insupportable that nothing can live there but those
reptiles, which are ripened and fattened to full growth only by fervid
and burning suns. In these deep valleys have dwelt, ever since the
beginning of the world, those Bright Old Inhabitants, the chiefs and
fathers of the rattlesnakes, who are called by our nation the "Kind
Old Kings," being, indeed, the sovereigns of all the tribes or species
of snakes to be found on the earth. It has been death to venture
within their limits, and almost as fatal to displease them by speaking
ill of them, or by harming any of their subjects. Hence we know
nothing of their villages, or their numbers, or their policy--whether
they die like ourselves, or if the copy of nature be eternal in them.
These things would I know; but above all would I know if the lights
which shine so transcendently in those valleys be, as many say, the
eyes of those Kind Old Kings, or be substances not connected with
them--precious stones lit up by the beams of the sun, or dazzling
meteors shining by their own light. Go, brave young man, visit this
valley; confer with the wise old reptiles that inhabit it: above all
see if the lights which illumine it be the eyes of those snakes, or
dazzling meteors shining by their own light, or precious stones lit up
by the beams of the sun. And thou must bring me a tooth from the jaw
of a living king, and a rattle from his tail, and an eye from his
skull. When thou shalt bring us an account of these things, the hand
of my daughter shall accompany her heart, and the one shall become, as
the other hath been, the property of the valiant Muscogulgee. But,
until thou hast performed the required task, my daughter remains
guarded in my cabin."

The Muscogulgee heard the words of the father, and grief filled his
soul. He had heard--for who in those wilds was ignorant of the
tradition?--of the "bright old inhabitants," and he knew how deadly
the enmity which they bear to those who trespass upon their sacred and
secluded retreats. He knew that, in undertaking this invasion of their
solitudes, small chance remained to him of escaping death from their
dreadful fangs. Though they were called the Kind Old Kings, they were
known not to deserve that appellation when just cause was given for
anger. These considerations presented themselves to the young
Muscogulgee, but they did not appal him. He loved the beautiful
daughter of the priest, and, deeming that life passed without her
would not be worth possessing, he determined to attempt the task which
would end it, or give to his arms the object of his love, the bright
and blooming Cherokee maiden. So he made answer to Chepiasquit, that
he would do, or attempt to do, the thing required of him, and received
from the wise old _powwow_ a renewal of his promise, that the maiden
should be his when his task should be accomplished. Then, turning to
his companions, who had gathered around him, he bade them return
immediately to the land of the Muscogulgees, and impart to his friends
a knowledge of the hazardous expedition which he had undertaken. And
then, in the presence of her father and mother, he bade adieu to the
blushing maiden, who received, with many tears, the kiss of affection
upon her soft cheek, and raised her wet eyes in speechless prayer to
the Great Spirit that he might be returned to her arms.

The powwow said to the Muscogulgee, "Thou hast undertaken a fearful
thing, and one which I warn thee will require much and deep thought
and caution, and great valour and wisdom. Thou shalt have my aid and
counsel, but they may not avail so much as thine own steadiness of
soul, and strength of arm. Nevertheless, I will give thee a charm, a
potent charm, and see thou rememberest my directions for its use."

So saying, he drew forth from his basket of amulets the skin of a
mountain cat, in which was a medicine, compounded of those powerful
substances which nature furnishes, to enable men to acquire command
over their own and the inferior species. There were the vine which
never bore fruit, the dry cones of the pine, steeped in the dew that
drops from the leaves of the mountain-laurel, the claws of the tiger,
the teeth of the alligator, the thighbone of the tortoise, and the
ribs of the snail, reduced to a powder, and mixed up with water
dropped from the shell of the butternut, through the ochre of war. The
wise master of the spell had drawn from field, and forest, earth, air,
and water, from beast and bird, and fish and reptile, and insect and
tree, and flower and fruit, all the various properties which have an
agency in subduing things to the will of him, to whom those properties
have been taught. From these he had compounded a medicine, the mighty
power of which was unknown even to himself. Placing this amulet in
the hands of the wondering youth, he bade him remember to repeat aloud
the following words, and in the following manner, should he deem there
was occasion for its use. "I am lost! I am lost! save me! save me! In
the name of the seven men that were bewildered in a foggy morning, and
cooked for the breakfast of the Kind Old Kings, I call upon thee,
Maiden in Green, to protect me from the like fate." The youthful lover
received the sacred amulet, with all the reverence which it ought to
inspire, and, before the great star of day had sunk to sleep behind
the hills of the west, he had slung his bow and quiver to his
shoulder, and taken up the line of his march to the fated valley.

Travelling onward with great expedition, he came near the close of the
next day to the entrance of the eventful spot. He saw the high
mountains covered with mossy rocks, and tall cedars, and pines, and
beheld the "lofty forms, whose heads stretched far into the sky," and
heard the sounds which proceeded from their lips, the soft whispers of
love, the loud tones of strife, or the merry ones of joy, laughing and
weeping, wooing and strife, signs that they were possessed of the
various passions and emotions which find a place in the breasts of
mortals. Between these mountains lay the deep valley spoken of, but
what it was which glittered and glistened in it, he knew not. Whatever
it was, it shone with a splendour which eclipsed the meridian beams of
the sun. The whole space between the two mountains seemed a glare of
light, which dazzled even more than the fiercest glare of noon in the
Month of Thunder. What still more astonished and perplexed the youth
was, that the light seemed of various colours, ever changing, never
for a moment wearing the same appearance. Now it wore the hue of the
maple leaf in autumn, now of the tuft of the blue heron--now it was
purple, now green, now yellow, and then it seemed a mixture of them
all, a blending of all the colours ever beheld into one. Astonished
and dismayed, but still determined to win the hand of the beautiful
Winona or perish, the Guard of the Red Arrows undauntedly entered the
valley, and approached the scene of wondrous splendour. Moving with
great difficulty, for the entrance was overrun with briars and many
other vicious impediments, he came all at once to a clear field, and
beheld what had so enchanted and spell-bound at a distance--what so
filled with horror now it was nearer beheld. He saw the earth covered
with rattlesnakes of a more enormous size than any ever beheld by man,
ay, beyond what even his imagination had pictured in his most
restless and diseased hours of sleep. The bodies of many of them were
larger than the trunks of the largest forest trees, and so unwieldy
that, when they would turn round, they were compelled to take a circle
almost as wide as their length. But bountiful nature, which always
compensates for a defect or disadvantage by adding an excellence, made
up for the heavy motion of their bodies by bestowing upon them the
power of irresistible fascination. She gave to them an eye--to each a
single eye--placing it in the centre of their foreheads, possessing
the power to draw to them every living creature. It was this eye which
emitted the wonderful light which had so dazzled the Muscogulgee at a
distance, and still more dazzled now that he was within reach of the
horrid fascination. These eyes were of every possible colour, and the
light they sent forth was as various as the colour of the eyes. Nor
could the colour of any one of those eyes be set down as positively
this or that, for each moment was it changing. Now the green eye
became blue as the midnight sky--look again, it was yellow as the
fallen leaf; a fourth time, the scarlet hue was entering upon one
side, while the yellow was retreating from the other, leaving the
middle a strange combination of both. Long might the Muscogulgee have
gazed on the brilliant, but terrible scene--a field, stretching
farther than the eye could reach, and all covered with immense snakes,
hissing with a sound loud as the roar of the tempest, shaking their
rattles with a noise like thunder, the while their eyes emitted the
light which he shuddered to look at, and yet, such was their power of
fascination, he was unable to turn from--long, I repeat, might he have
gazed on the scene, but he found himself irresistibly impelled to
enter the field of light. His feet were irresistibly drawn forward,
his mouth was opened to deprecate the anger of the Great Being, his
hands were upraised at what he knew must be instant destruction, for
already were their dreadful jaws expanded, and their hideous tongues,
red as burning coals, twinkling with a motion so quick that it seemed
but the soul of a vapour, when he bethought himself of the charm given
to him by the wise priest, and drew it forth. Bowing, as he was
bidden, to the spirit of storms, who rules the east, to the kind
genius of the south, to the master of the west wind, and to the North
Star, which is the best friend of hunters and bewildered men, he
thrice called upon the Great Spirit, crying in a loud voice, "I am
lost! I am lost! save me! save me! In the name of the seven men who
were bewildered in a foggy morning, and cooked for the breakfast of
the Kind Old Kings, I call upon thee, Maiden in Green, to protect me
from a like fate." Is my brother prepared to hear what was the effect
produced by these words? Does he wish to know if that shrill cry
called up a being unable to protect him, or if the rattles were
stilled, and the jaws were closed, and if darkness was imparted to
those glittering eyes, and silence to those wicked tongues? Listen.

There came to the ears of the Muscogulgee youth, from the summit of
the Northern mountains, a sound of distant thunder, which in a moment
was succeeded by the sweetest song that ever was breathed upon mortal
ears. He could not distinguish all the words, but he heard enough to
teach him that it was a song of supplication to the Great Spirit for a
"brave and good Muscogulgee hunter, about to be caught in the fangs of
the Kind Old Kings." The moment the thunder and the song were heard,
the rattles were still, the bright eyes sent forth no more light, and
the fiery tongues retreated within the closed and recumbent jaws. Of
all that body of hideous reptiles not one seemed to be imbued with
breath. Nearer and nearer came the song, and as it came the hunter
fancied that it was the music of a being moving level with the earth,
if not beneath its surface. He was right. Soon, in the grass at his
feet, appeared a little snake scarcely thicker than his little finger,
and not longer than the space between his hand and his shoulder. The
colours of this little reptile were as various and beautiful as those
of the eyes of the Kind Old Kings, but these were fixed and permanent,
those as I have said changeable and changing as a woman's mind. The
head was green, the sides were yellow, the belly white, down its back
ran two red stripes, and there were rings of bright crimson around its
tail. Elevating its head as it drew near, it remained stationary and
silent for a moment, and then addressed the Muscogulgee in these
words:--

"I am the spirit raised by the potent _medicine_ of the Cherokee priest;
and, invoked by thy call, I have hastened hither at thy cry of distress,
to tell thee thou art not _lost_. Though thou didst a foolish thing to
come to this valley of death, and he, at whose bidding the thing was
undertaken, a wicked one in sending thee, yet thou shalt not die this
time. I am the Maiden in Green, the ruling Spirit of both mountain and
valley, having power over even the Bright Old Inhabitants, and they
shall not harm thee. Thou art, if I remember right, commanded, as the
price of the beautiful daughter of the Cherokee _powwow_, to carry to
him a tooth from the jaw of a living King and a rattle from his tail,
and an eye from his skull; and to report of sundry things not
necessary to be named. Thou shalt have my aid to accomplish these
things."

So saying, the Maiden in Green re-commenced her song, the while making
a circuit around the prisoner at a small distance from him. When she
had finished the circuit, she changed her song to one which seemed a
song of reproach and threatening. Whatever was the subject, it had the
effect of rekindling the Bright Old Inhabitants to their former state
of wrath. Their eyes were relit with the glittering beams, and the
hissing and the rattling re-commenced. Seemingly determined to take
instant vengeance upon the intruder, they were now seen making such
haste as their natural tardiness admitted of, towards the Muscogulgee.
From every part of the valley heads could be seen displaying forked
tongues, and all pressing towards the alarmed warrior. But he stood
invulnerable to them, though he knew it not, within the charmed circle
made by his protecting spirit. Their powers of fascination had been
taken away by the Maiden in Green, or rather the counter-fascination,
which kept him within the charmed space, was more powerful than the
influence of their eyes.

Calling to one of the largest of the Kind Old Kings to come near, the
Maiden in Green spoke to him thus:--"This youth is a brave youth, and
he is a Muscogulgee. He loves the beautiful daughter of the _powwow_
Chepiasquit, and has asked her of her father to wife. The father has
imposed on him the task to visit your valley, and make report whether
your eyes are dazzling meteors, or precious stones. And he has bidden
him bring a tooth from the jaw of a living King, and a rattle from his
tail, and an eye from his skull, the which, being faithfully and fully
accomplished, entitles him to claim, as a pledged boon, the hand of
the lovely Winona. What say you, chief of the kings, shall he return
and be made happy?"

The chief of the kings answered that he knew of no one who would
willingly spare an eye, or a tooth, or a rattle. For himself, he had
found them all of use, and could spare neither eye, tooth, nor rattle.
And he bade the Spirit remember, that though queen of both valley and
mountain, her sway extended but to protect, and not to injure. She had
no right to demand from the Kind Old Kings a thing which should
inflict pain or death upon them. And did she not know that, whenever
one of those eyes of light should be carried beyond the limits of the
valley, the transcendent power and brightness which their owners now
possessed should be enjoyed by them no more. Such was the will of the
Great Being; strange that the Maiden in Green should be ignorant of it.

The Spirit answered that she knew not this, yet she was prepared to
say that the decree should be revoked, if they would, without any
further molestation, impart to the Muscogulgee the required
information, and bestow upon him the gift which would make him happy
and prosperous in his suit to the Cherokee maiden. Should they favour
his request, brilliancy should be added to, rather than taken from,
their eyes, and their rattles should grow in size, and increase in
number and speed of motion. But, if they refused to grant him the
boon, the eye, and the tooth, and the rattle, should be taken from
them by force, whereby they would lose the benefit of having done
something to be thanked for.

Upon hearing this, the chief of the Wise Old Kings called a council of
his nation. I know not what was said in this council, but I can tell
my brother what was done. They drew lots among them, and he upon whom
the lot fell submitted to lose an eye, and a tooth, and a rattle.
Having given these to the Muscogulgee, the eldest of the Kings
instructed him in their history, their laws, and their policy,
replying particularly to the questions suggested by the Cherokee
_powwow_.

"We were created," said he, "after all the other beings were created,
and were formed from the variegated sand which is found on the shores
of the distant Lake of the Woods. It was in a pleasant and sunny
morning in the Buck-Moon, that the Great Spirit, having nothing else
to do, amused himself, as he sat in the warm sun on the bank of this
lake, with twisting ropes of those particoloured sands. Having
twisted, in mere sport, a considerable number, and laid them aside, it
came to his mind that amidst all the variety of creatures he had
formed, whose means of locomotion were walking, flying, swimming,
hopping, trotting, running, there were none ordained to move
altogether by crawling. 'Now,' said he to himself, 'if I were breathe
into these ropes the breath of life, and to invest them with the power
to run about, would it not be a sight worth seeing?--would it not
create a deal of sport among the other animals? But I will make them
more wonderful yet.'

"So saying, he selected a number of small round stones, of which he
thrust several into one end of the ropes. Before him, upon the shore,
were scattered many stones of different hues, but all of surpassing
brilliancy, and each outshining the beams of the meridian sun. He
placed one of these shining gems in the other end of each rope, and
then blew upon them until they exhibited signs of life. When the ropes
began to move, their strange and zigzag motions, and the rattling of
their tails, excited the mirth of the Great Being, who laughed loud
and long at the oddity he had formed. That portion of them to which he
had given rattles and the shining eye were appointed rulers over all
the other and inferior species of snakes. And he bade them remember
that he had formed them to crawl in the dust all the days of their
lives, and on no account to attempt an upright posture. 'But,' said
he, as he concluded the word which bade them be ever of the dust,
'this is no place for your tribes. Ye are a thin-skinned, or rather a
skinless race, and should have a habitation and a name only where
fervid suns beam, and the frosts and snows of winter are little known.
Ye could never reach that land if left to your own exertions--I must
assist you.' So saying, he gathered all the new-born reptiles into his
hand, and, hiding them in the folds of his robe, took his departure
towards the warm regions of the South. A few hours sufficed to bring
him to the valley which we now occupy, and here he committed us, and
all the tribes over which we are appointed rulers, to the fostering
care of the bright and glorious star of day. Having created us, and
breathed into us the breath of life, he bade us, as he had done all
the other creatures, each, for the future, to provide for his own
wants. We who carried the rattles were to live for ever; all the
others were to die at an appointed time. We were commanded never to
leave the valley, and, as a compensation for being restricted in our
walks, we were to exercise for ever dominion over all the other
species of snakes. And, as a protection from those who might wage a
war of invasion against us, our eyes were gifted with the power to
fascinate, and attract to us, every living creature that came within
the scope of their vision, save those who were specially favoured by
the Spirit of the Mountain. And thus it is. We, the Kind Old Kings,
are the identical ropes of sand which were twisted in the beginning of
the world by the Maker of all; those of small stature, which ye see
around us, are our children, and the children of our children. _They_
die, but to us who carry the dazzling eyes, death is not appointed.
Yet we increase in stature, and shall continue increasing in stature,
till the Great Tortoise upon which the earth reposes shall sink into
the endless abyss of waters, carrying with him that earth and all its
numerous creatures.

"You may thank the Spirit of the Mountain, Muscogulgee, for your life.
It was forfeited, and would have been taken, but for the intervention
of the Maiden in Green. You may now return--the bearer of what never
before left the valley of the Bright Old Inhabitants--an eye, and a
tooth, and a rattle--wisdom gathered from my words, and instruction
from my lips. They shall not avail him for whom they are intended,
since their possession would convey to him a power which the Great
Spirit would not--could not, without danger to himself--permit a
mortal to exercise. I hand you a tooth: already does the great
_powwow_ of the Cherokees feel, with the increase of the strength of
his mind, the decrease of the strength of his body: here is the
rattle, his strength is ebbing away; the eye, I behold him helpless on
the bed of death. His face is bright with the wisdom and knowledge
imparted by the gifts he hath obtained from us, but, alas! his tongue
is nerveless, he may not communicate the knowledge he hath gained.
Hasten back in peace, Muscogulgee, deliver to him the gifts which seal
his fate and thine--his, to die ere the moon be two days older--thine,
to gain the maiden thou so ardently longest for, and with her to
descend the stream of time, loving and beloved--the happiest of the
happy. But, remember, let none of thy race or name presume again to
visit this valley, lest the most dreadful fate be theirs."

So spoke the eldest of the Wise Old Kings, and his words were
repeated by all his brothers. They permitted the Muscogulgee to depart
in peace, and he returned to the village of the Cherokee priest. He
delivered the gifts as he had been directed, and witnessed the end he
had been taught to expect. He saw the countenance of the _powwow_
lighted up with intelligence more than mortal, but, at the delivery of
each gift, he beheld a third part of the vigour of animal life fade
away, as the eye, the bright, the unfading, but fatal eye, was placed
in his trembling hand, he saw the spark of life quivering like a lamp
in the socket. The priest had just time to beckon to him his lovely
daughter, when, placing her hand in that of the Muscogulgee youth, he
expired.

Brother, I am a Muscogulgee, and my mother was the beautiful daughter
of the Cherokee priest, and my father the brave youth who adventured
into the valley of the Bright Old Inhabitants. I have done.

NOTE.

(1) _Valley of the Bright Old Inhabitants._--p. 225.

Several of the Indian nations believe themselves descended from
rattlesnakes, and all, more or less, profess relationship with that
reptile. A Seneca chief told me that his maternal ancestor was a
maiden rattlesnake, but he destroyed the sublimity of the fiction by
asserting that on their nuptial night she bit off her husband's nose.

Heckewelder, after remarking that some of the Tuscaroras claim
affinity with the rabbit and the ground hog, says: "I found also that
the Indians, for a similar reason, paid great respect to the
rattlesnake, whom they called their _grandfather_, and would on no
account destroy him. One day, as I was walking with an elderly Indian
on the banks of the Muskingum, I saw a large rattlesnake lying across
the path, which I was going to kill. The Indian immediately forbade my
doing so, 'for,' said he, 'the rattlesnake is grandfather to the
Indians, and is placed here on purpose to guard us, and to give us
warning of impending danger by his rattles, which is the same as if he
were to tell us 'Look about!' 'Now, added he,' if we were to kill one
of those, the others would soon know it, and the whole race would
rise upon us, and bite us.' I observed to him that the white people
were not afraid of this, for they killed all the rattlesnakes they met
with. On this he enquired whether any white man had been bitten by
those animals, and of course I answered in the affirmative. 'No
wonder, then,' he replied, 'you have to blame yourselves for that.
Take care you do not irritate them in our country, they and their
grandchildren are on good terms, and neither will hurt the other.'"

Adair, after killing one which infested the camp of the Seminoles,
found himself in serious danger, whereupon he remarks in a note page
263, that the Seminoles "never kill the rattlesnake."

THE LEGEND OF MOSHUP.

The sound or strait, which divides Nope[A] from the main land and the
islands of Nashawn, was not, in the days of our fathers, so wide as it
is now. The small bays which now indent the northern shore of Nope,
and the slight promontories, which, at intervals of a mile or two, jut
out along its coast of a sun's journey, were then wanting; neither the
one nor the other obtruded on its round and exact outline. The strong
current of waters from the boundless bosom of the Great Lake, sweeping
down between this island and the opposite little islands of Nashawn
and its sisters, has made great encroachments upon the former,
widening to a journey of two hours what was once only the work of one
to perform. My brothers, who are with me from the lands of the
Pawkunnawkuts, know that my words are true. They know that the air has
also changed as much as the shape of the shores of Nope. In the times
of our grandfathers, the waves which roll between these islands were
always frozen over, from the hunting month to the month of the red
singing bird. During the cold months, the canoe of the Indian hunter
and fisherman was not permitted to traverse its dark and angry waters
in quest of finny spoil, or in chase of the wild fowl. Then, to
procure his food he took down his spear, and wandered far out on the
frozen water to catch the foolish duck, which had suffered itself to
be imbedded in the congealed clement; or, nearer to his cabin, he cut
holes in the ice, and, as the stupid and benumbed fish glided across
the opening, applied his unerring dart, and threw him to his delighted
woman.

[Footnote A: Martha's Vineyard, a little island upon the coast of New
England.]

But the face of Nope changed, and with it the winters grew milder and
milder. The hunting month was no longer the month of early snow, and
when the red singing bird came, he hopped on an opening bud, and
listened to the croaking of frogs. The alarm of the great sentinel[A]
was heard no longer in the hour of darkness in the depth of the woods.
There was too much sun for the hardy old warrior, and he followed his
great chief, the brown eagle, to the regions of the north. Meantime
the waters, no longer bound up with a chain by the Manitou of Cold,
scooped out bays and heaped up headlands, till they made the shores
of Nope crooked as the path of a bewildered white man, or the thread
of a story which has no truth.

[Footnote A: The owl. See the tradition, vol. 1. p. 61.]

Once upon a time, in the month of bleak winds, a Pawkunnawkut Indian,
who lived upon the main land, near the brook which was ploughed out by
the great trout[A], was caught with his dog upon one of the pieces of
floating ice, and carried in spite of his endeavours to Nope.
Hitherto, it had remained unknown, and, as our people supposed,
unapproachable. Several times they had attempted to visit it, but
their canoes had always been swept away, or pushed back by some
invisible hand, some friendly Manitou of the water, who feared danger
to them, or some angry spirit of the island, who, by these signs,
forbade their approach to his dominions. For many years, and ever
since the memory of our fathers, the Indians, supposing it the
residence of Hobbamock, the being who rules over evil men, sends
disease and death to the Indians, breeds storms in the air, and utters
the fearful sound in the black clouds, had carefully abstained from
attempting to visit it. Nor was it altogether a mere uncertain dread
of evil, which had operated on their minds to people it with living
and moving beings. They could see at times men of monstrous stature
moving rapidly over the island, and at all seasons in the calm
evening, or when the winds blew from it, could hear sounds of anger or
wailing, or of music and merriment, proceeding from its gloomy shades.
And some pretended to have seen distinctly the form of a tall man
wading into the water to grasp whales. The forced visit to its shores
of Tackanash, the Pawkunnawkut, made them see it was not the dream of
a sleeper who has eaten too much meat, but like that which men see
with their eyes when they are awake, and would talk only what the Good
Spirit may hear.

[Footnote A: A brook in Barnstable County, respecting which this
tradition is current among the Indians.]

When Tackanash and his dog arrived at Nope, he found the man whose
existence had been doubted by many of the Indians, and believed to
have been only seen by deceived eyes, heard by foolish ears, and
talked of by lying tongues, living in a deep cave near the end of the
island, nearest the setting sun. And this was the account which
Tackanash on his return gave the chiefs of the strange creature. He
was taller than the tallest tree upon Nope, and as large around him as
the spread of the tops of a vigorous pine, that has seen the years of
a full grown warrior. His skin was very black; but his beard, which he
had never plucked nor clipped, and the hair of his head, which had
never been shaved, were of the colour of the feathers of the grey
gull. His eyes were very white, and his teeth, which were only two in
number, were green as the ooze raked up by the winds from the bottom
of the sea. He was always good-natured and cheerful, save when he
could not get plenty of meat, or when he missed his usual supply of
the Indian weed, and the strong drink which made him see whales
chasing deer in the woods, and frogs digging _quawhogs_. His principal
food was the meat of whales, which he caught by wading after them into
the great sea, and tossing them out, as the Indian boys do black bugs
from a puddle. He would, however, eat porpoises, when no larger fish
were to be had, and even tortoises, and deer, and rabbits, rather than
be hungry. The bones of the whales, and the coals of the fire in which
he roasted them, are to be seen now at the place where he lived. I
have not yet told my brothers the name of this big man of Nope--it
was Moshup.

I hear the stranger ask, "Who was he?" I hear my brothers ask, "Was he
a spirit from the shades of departed men, or did he come from the
hills of the thunder? I answer, he was a Spirit, but whence he came,
when first he landed in our Indian country, I know not. It was a long
time ago, and the Island[A] was then very young, being just placed on
the back of the Great Tortoise which now supports it. As it was very
heavy the tortoise tried to roll it off, but the Great Spirit would
not let him, and whipped him till he lay still. Moshup told the
Pawkunnawkut that he once lived upon the main land. He said that much
people grew up around him, men who lived by hunting and fishing, while
their women planted the corn, and beans, and pumpkins. They had
_powwows_, he said, who dressed themselves in a strange dress,
muttered diabolical words, and frightened the Indians till they gave
them half their wampum. Our fathers knew by this, that they were their
ancestors, who were always led by the priests--the more fools they!
Once upon a time, Moshup said, a great bird whose wings were the
flight of an arrow wide, whose body was the length of ten Indian
strides, and whose head when he stretched up his neck peered over the
tall oak-woods, came to Moshup's neighbourhood. At first, he only
carried away deer and mooses; at last, many children were missing.
This continued for many moons. Nobody could catch him, nobody could
kill him. The Indians feared him, and dared not go near him; he in his
turn feared Moshup, and would seek the region of the clouds the moment
he saw him coming. When he caught children, he would immediately fly
to the island which lay towards the hot winds. Moshup, angry that he
could not catch him, and fearing that, if the creature hatched others
of equal appetite and ferocity, the race of Indians would become
extinct, one day waded into the water after him, and continued in
pursuit till he had crossed to the island which sent the hot winds,
and which is now called Nope. There, under a great tree, he found the
bones of all the children which the great bird had carried away. A
little further he found its nest, with seven hatched birds in it,
which, together with the mother, he succeeded after a hard battle in
killing. Extremely fatigued, he lay down to sleep, and dreamed that he
must not quit the island again. When he waked, he wished much to
smoke, but, on searching the island for tobacco, and finding none, he
filled his pipe with _poke_, which our people sometimes use in the
place of tobacco. Seated upon the high hills of Wabsquoy, he puffed
the smoke from his pipe over the surface of the Great Lake, which soon
grew dim and misty. This was the beginning of fog, which since, for
the long space between the Frog-month and the Hunting-month, has at
times obscured Nope and all the shores of the Indian people. This was
the story which Moshup told Tackanash and his dog. If it is not true,
I am not the liar."

[Footnote A: The Indians, as I have before remarked, believe the world
to be an island, and always speak of it as such.]

Moshup, at the time when Nope was visited by Tackanash, had a wife of
equal size with himself, and four sons, and a daughter, the former
tall, strong, and swift, very expert at catching fish, and nimble in
pursuit of deer, the latter beautiful, sweet-voiced, and bounding as
the fawn. She would sit in the first of the evening, when the dew
began to fall, and the shadows of men lengthened, and sing to her
father songs of the land of the shades of evil men, songs which told
of the crimes they had committed, and their repentance, and guilt, and
compunction, and shame, and death. Though Moshup appeared to care
little for any body, he nevertheless loved his little daughter, as he
called her, whose head peered over the tallest trees, and whose voice
was heard upon the main land. He shewed by many signs how much he
loved his daughter. He strung up the teeth of the shark as a necklace
for her, gathered the finest shells for her anklets, and always gave
her the fattest slice of whale's meat to her portion.

The story of Tackanash, who very soon returned to Waquoit, and his
description of the beauties of Nope, carried many of the Pawkunnawkuts
thither to live. It was indeed a pleasant place, pleasant to the
Indian, for it abounded with all the things he covets. Its ponds were
many, and stocked with fine fish and fat wild ducks; its woods were
filled with deer, and the fertile banks of its streams overrun with
wild vines, on which the grape thickly clustered, and where the walnut
and the hazel-nut profusely loaded both bush and tree. Soon, the
Pawkunnawkuts, at peace among themselves, and blessed by the Good
Spirit with every thing they needed, became very numerous. There was
not a pleasant spot on the island, from which did not arise the smoke
of a cabin fire; nor a quiet lake, in which, in the months of flowers
and fruits, you would not see Indian maidens laving their dusky limbs.
The wild duck found no rest in his sunny slumber on the banks of
Menemshe, the _pokeshawit_ could no longer hide in the sedge, on the
banks of his favourite Quampeche, and the deer, that went to quench
his thirst in the Monnemoy, found the unerring arrow of the Indian in
his heart.

But to Moshup the increase of the Indians seemed to give pain--none
knew why, since the only enjoyments he appeared to covet were still as
numerous as before. Whales were still plenty, _poke_ was still plenty,
and sleep and sunshine as easily enjoyed as ever. Though he never
harmed the Indians, he grew discontented and unhappy, cross and
peevish in his family, and sour and unneighbourly to all around him.
He would beat his wife, if she did but so much as eat a falling scrap
of the whale; toss his sons out of the cave, if, in the indulgence of
boyish glee, they made the least noise while he was taking his nap;
and box the ears of his little daughter, if she did but so much as
look at an Indian youth.

Once upon a time, he bade his children go and play ball upon the beach
that joins the hill[A] of White Paint to Nomensland, telling them that
he would look on and see the sport. When they had played awhile, he
made a mark with his great toe across the beach at each end, and so
deep that the water followed the mark, leaving them surrounded with
it, and in great danger of being drowned. When the tide at length
began to flow across the beach, covering with water the whole space
between the two high lands, the brothers took their little sister, and
held her up out of the water, while Moshup, seated on the high cliffs,
looked on. He told them to act as if they were going to kill whales,
which they did, and were all turned into the fish called _killers_, a
fish which has ever since been an enemy to whales, and is its greatest
terror; As the sister was always a gay girl, painting her cheeks of
many hues, and loving many-coloured ornaments, he commanded her to
become, and she became, the striped killer. He bade her brothers be
always very kind to her, and they have obeyed him.

[Footnote A: Gayhead, which has a chalk cliff.]

When Moshup's wife learned the transformation of her children, she
grieved very much for their loss. Night and day she did nothing hut
weep and call for them, till, at length, Moshup grew tired of her
noise, and, catching her up in his arms in a paroxysm of passion, he
threw her as far as he could towards the country of the Narragansetts.
She fell upon the point which juts far into the ocean, and over whose
rocks the evil Manitou of the deep throws the great waves. The Indians
call it Seconet. There, seated upon the rocks, she began to make all
who came that way contribute to her support. She grew to be so cross
and cruel, exacting so much from Indians, and making so much noise,
that the Great Spirit changed her into a huge rock; the entire shape
of which remained many years. But, when the Yengees came, some of them
broke off her arms, fearing she would use them to their injury, and
her head, lest she should plot mischief; but her body stands there now.

Moshup did not stay long on Nope after he had thrown away his wife,
but while he did remain he was very good to the Indians, sending them
many whales and other good things. He did very little save watch on
the edge of the sea the sport of the killers, and in particular that
which was striped, feeding it with certain pieces of fish, talking
kindly to it, and always calling it by the name his daughter bore.
Sometimes he would remain for many suns perched on the high cliff of
White Paint, looking eagerly towards the place where he had thrown his
old woman. At last, he went away, no one could say with certainty
whither. Some of the Indians supposed they could see him at times
walking on the high hills beyond the tides; others thought that he had
gone back to his master; the Evil Spirit.

THE PHANTOM WOMAN.

A TRADITION OF THE WINNEBAGOES.

The days of Mishikinakwa, or the Little Turtle, were numbered, and the
signs made visible of his approaching dissolution. There had been
voices calling from the hills in the hour of the silent night, "Come,
Mishikinakwa! she waits for thee." The _Nant-e-na_, or little spirits,
which inhabit the earth, and the air, and the fire, and the water,
according to their different natures, had all been busy, proclaiming
the approaching translation of the chief from the troubles and
hardships of this world to the happiness and quiet of another and a
better. There were the rattling of their voices in the brook, and
their whisperings in the air, and their hissings in the fire and their
groanings in the earth. There were the falling of green leaves in the
hour of calm, and the whirl of dry ones in the wind, the hoot of the
grey owl on the ridge of his cabin, and the cry of the muckawiss in
the hollow woods. The _Hottuk Ishtohoollo_ or Holy People(1), with
their relations the _Nana Ishtohoollo_, proclaimed from the clouds
the threatened danger to the life of the warrior; while the _Nana
Ookproose_, or accursed beings, howled out the tidings from their
dwellings in the far west.

His years were not the years of an aged man; his hair was yet
unstained by the frost of tune, his eye yet flashed with the fire of
manhood, his step remained strong and steady. Yet, without hunger,
without want, without pain, without disease, without a wound, in the
prime of life, in the vigour of manhood, beloved by his friends, and
feared by his enemies, the pride of the Winnebagoes was seen fast
approaching the house of the dead.

None knew why, yet from one fatal day he was seen to droop, as a lily
bends before, a fervid sun. From one fatal day his joy forsook him,
and his eye became like a troubled water. His laugh had no more the
joyousness of his healthful hour; his step was no more light and
buoyant; food no more pleased his palate; sleep refreshed him no more.
They came and sang the war-song at the door of his cabin, and he
suffered them to depart without the answering shout. It was sung in
his ears, "The Potowatomies are in in our war-path," but he raised not
his head--"The Hurons have the scalp of thy brother's son," and no cry
of vengeance burst from his lips. Slowly and gradually he faded away,
and the time soon came that he could move no more from his bed of
soft grass, but lay in silent expectation of the sound of the voice
that calls the spirit home. It was while he was thus laid on the couch
of death that he called the tribe around him, and told them why peace
had departed from his soul, and why he waited anxiously the moment of
his release from the chains of the flesh.

"I launched my canoe," said he, "upon the lake which has given its
name to our nation, when the sun was getting low in the latter part of
the month of the blooming lilies. Stilness was abroad upon the face of
the waters, and the lake lay as calm as a babe rocked to sleep on the
breast of its mother. Not the slightest ripple broke upon its surface,
which was smooth as a field of ice frozen in a calm. Nothing marred
its beauty, save now and then a sportive fish gliding over its bosom,
or the swallow skimming along, catching the flies as they rose from
the quenching of their thirst. The brown eagle was wheeling in spiral
mazes towards his beloved sun, and I heard the chirping of the
grasshopper, and the hum of the bee, each carolling away in his
light-hearted labour. Afar lay the headlands, jutting into the lake,
and the precipitous cliffs which rise over the deeper portion of its
waters. Behind me were the smokes of the cabins of my people, and
before me the beautiful expanse of the unruffled lake.

"As I brushed my light bark along, I saw, standing on the water at a
distance from me, a very beautiful woman. My tongue has not the power
to paint the charms of this stately and bright-eyed creature. She was
tall, and as straight as a youthful fir, and her eyes shone with such
brilliancy, that you could not endure to look upon them, any more than
upon the sun, but turned away to contemplate other objects. She was
clothed in a garment which glittered in the sun like the sparkling
sand of the Spirits' Island[A], and her locks, which were yellow as
the beams of that sun falling upon the folds of a cloud, flowed down
her beautiful form till they swept the surface of the waters. Filled
with sudden love for this beautiful creature, and anxious to secure
her to myself, I spread the blanket of friendship to the wind[B], and
paddled my canoe towards her. As I came near her, I could perceive a
strange alteration in her appearance. Her shape gradually altered, her
arms imperceptibly disappeared, her complexion assumed a different
hue, her cheek no more glowed with life, her eyes had lost their
brilliancy, her before glittering locks glittered no longer, and, when
I came to the spot where she stood, I found only a shapeless monument
of stone, having a human face and the fins and tail of a fish. For a
long time I sat in amazement and uncertainly of purpose, fearing
either to approach nearer, or to speak to the once loved, but now
fearful object. At length, having made an offering of tobacco to
propitiate the spirit, and deprecated its wrath for having dared to
love it, I addressed it in these words:

[Footnote A: See note, vol. i. page 59.]

[Footnote B: See note, vol. i. page 253.]

"'Spirit, that wast beautiful but now, and hast only become divested of
thy unequalled brilliancy because a poor mortal approaches thee!
guardian spirit of our nation! messenger to myself from the Great
Spirit! or whatever other name thou bearest, tell me why thou art
changed. Why has thy form, but now straight as the fir and scarcely
less tall, become crooked and misshapen, and no higher than the oak of
two summers? why has thine eye, but now so bright that my own were
pained by its brilliance, faded, and become of the lack-lustre colour
of stone? And thy garments, which glittered like the folds of a cloud
tinged by the beams of the setting sun--why have they partaken of the
change? And thy locks, which were yellow and shining as the sparkling
sand of the Spirits' Island, why have they become of the hue of the
brown moth? Is it because I dared to think thee beautiful--because my
heart dared to feel for thee the flame of sudden love! If thine anger
hath been aroused at my presumption, forgive me, so thou wearest again
the beautiful form that was thine when I first saw thee.'

"Having addressed the beautiful spirit thus, I paused for her reply.
It came in tones soft and sweet as the wind of summer lightly sweeping
the bosom of a prairie, and these were the words which belonged to
them:

"'Mishikinakwa, it is not hatred of thee that makes me refuse to be
seen by thee save at a distance, it is not hatred of thee which makes
me refuse to re-animate that mass of stone and re-shape it to the
proportions thou didst say were so beautiful. Oh no! I have seen thee
before, chief of the Winnebagoes, and spirit as I am, have beheld thee
with the eyes of love. But the beings which are not of clay are not
allowed to associate with flesh and blood. I permitted thee a distant
view of my face and form, that if thou thoughtest them worth the pains
of death, thou mightst encounter those pains, and thy spirit, divested
of its fleshly form, might fly to the arms of thy Light of the Shades,
and rove with her through the valley of endless bliss. Choose, then,
between me, and a longer stay upon earth--between the pains of a life
which must be assailed by woes and sorrows, by continual storm, angry
winter, parching thirst, pinching hunger, and chilling nakedness, and
the joys which will attend thee when thou art clasped in the arms of
her thou lovest, and who will return thy love with equal ardour.
Unlike the maidens of the earth, my charms can never fade; never, like
theirs, can my love be turned into hatred, or my heart grow cold, or
my eyes cease to regard the beloved object with favour. Loving on
through all changes, and loving on for ever, thy mind cannot fancy
half the bliss which will be thine--mine--ours--if thou darest to
die.'

"She ceased speaking, but my pleased ears remained listening long
after her gentle voice had died away. And the delighted breeze softly
returned from the calm and transparent waters, and the spirit of the
echo gently repeated from the neighbouring hills, 'Unlike the maidens
of the earth, my charms can never fade; never like theirs can my love
be turned into hatred, or my heart grow cold, or my eyes cease to
regard the beloved object with favour. Loving on through all changes,
and loving on _for ever_, thy mind cannot fancy half the bliss which
will be thine--mine--ours--if thou darest to die.

    'Come to me, lover, come!
    I'll wait thy death,
    In the evening's breath,
    On the brow of the mountain,
    That shadows the fountain,
    Come, my lover, come!

    'Come to me, lover, come!
    Again will I wear
    Bright gold in my hair,
    And my eyes shall be bright
    As the beam of light.
    Come, my lover, come!

    'Come quick, my lover, come!
    And thou shall be prest
    To a faithful breast,
    And thou shalt be led
    To a bridal bed.
    Mishikinakwa, come!'

"Thus called to the shades of happiness by so bright, and beautiful,
and beloved, a being, how can I remain on the earth? Since that moment
I have wished much to die; every day have I asked the Master of Life
to take from me the breath he has given, and permit me to go to the
land that holds the spirit of my affianced wife. I loathe the vile
chain which binds me from her; I hate all the things I see, for they
are all less beautiful than she; and all sounds pain mine ear, for is
it not filled with her voice, a hundred times sweeter than aught ever
heard on earth? Ha! her voice again! She calls me to her arms! She
bids me come and drink of the crystal streams in the land of souls;
she bids me come and chase with her the fawn and the kid, to bring her
berries from the hills, and flowers from the vales, and to brush with
our mingled footsteps, in early morning, the dew from the glades, and
to blend in early evening the music of our lips, and the breath of our
sighs, by the sides of the grass-wrapt fountain. She bids me come, and
be clasped to a faithful breast, and called to a bridal bed. I come,
beautiful spirit, to the appointed spot,

    To the brow of the mountain,
    That shadows the fountain.

Put then the bright gold in thy rolling locks, and let thine eyes
shine as when I first saw thee. Be again as straight as the young fir,
and array thyself in the garment which glittered like the sands of the
Spirits' Island."

With a convulsive start, the warrior raised himself upon his couch to
an upright posture. Gazing wildly around for a moment, he threw his
arms forward, shouting "I come, beloved, I come!" and then falling
back he lay a lifeless corpse. And so died Mishikinakwa, the Little
Turtle of the Winnebagoes, of love for a phantom woman.

Note.

(1) _The Hottuk Ishtohoollo, or Holy People._--p. 273.

Almost every hill and cavern has, in the eye of the Indian, its
tutelary deity. The tradition entitled "The Mountain of Little
Spirits" is one which paints a genuine belief.

Adair, in his History of the North American Indians, says, "They (viz.
the Cherokees, Creeks, Choctaws, &c.) believe the higher regions to be
inhabited by good spirits, whom they call _Hottuk Ishtohoollo_, and
_Nana Ishtohoollo_, 'Holy People,' and relations to the 'Great Holy
One?' The _Hottuk Ookproose_, or _Nana Ookproose_, 'accursed people,'
or 'accursed beings,' they say possess the dark regions of the West;
the former attend and favour the virtuous; and the latter in like
manner accompany and have power over the vicious. Several warriors
have told me," he says, "that their _Nana Ishtohoollo_, 'concomitant
Holy Spirits,' or angels, have forewarned them, as by intuition, of a
dangerous ambuscade, which must have been attended with certain death,
when they were alone and seemingly out of danger; and, by virtue of
the impulse, they immediately darted off, and with extreme difficulty
escaped the crafty, pursuing enemy."

All the Northern Indians are very superstitious with respect to the
existence of fairies. One of their tribes, the Chepewyans, speak of a
race whom they call _Nant-e-na_, whom they say they frequently see,
and who are supposed by them to inhabit the different elements of
earth, sea, and air, according to their several qualities. To one or
the other of these fairies they usually attribute any change in their
circumstances either for better or worse; and, as they are led into
this way of thinking entirely by the art of the conjurors, there is no
such thing as any general mode of belief; for those jugglers differ so
much from each other in their accounts of these beings, that those who
believe any thing they say have little to do but change their opinions
according to the will and caprice of the conjuror, who is almost daily
relating some new whim or extraordinary event.

Every thing which is not easily understood is a spirit. Among the
Creek Indians the Whip-poor-will is a spirit; the Jack o' Lantern is
the same: and, with regard to the latter, they agree with the remnant
of the Massachusett Indians, who believe it is the shape which the
Evil Spirit takes in his visits to the sons of men. An old Indian
woman, who lived some time as a domestic in my father's family, and
was possessed of all the genuine traits of Indian character, was
nearly thrown into convulsions by being caught a few rods from the
house when one of these meteors made its appearance.

Tonti, in his account of De la Salle's Expedition, says: "They are so
extravagant as to believe that every thing in the world has a spirit.
It is upon this principle that are grounded all the foolish
superstitions of their jugglers or Manitous, who are their priests or
magicians."

THE TWO GHOSTS.

Once upon a time, many ages ago, there lived, near the shores of Lake
Superior, a hunter, who was considered the most intrepid and expert in
his vocation of all the hunters of the wilderness. His lodge, which
was built with the steady reference to the wants of nature, which are
always seen in the location of an Indian village or habitation, was
situated in a remote part of the forest, at the distance of many days'
journey from any other dwelling. Here, alone, and free from the bloody
spirit of warfare which distinguished the men of his tribe, his days
glided on like the quiet flow of a river that has no fall. He spent
the period of light in the noble amusement of hunting, and his
evenings in relating to his beautiful and bright-eyed wife the
incidents which had befallen him that day in the chace; or he detailed
those which had happened to him before she became the star of his
lodge; or he spoke of their long-tried, and mutual love; or he fondly
sketched scenes of future bliss; or he held on his knee, and pressed
to his heart, the little pledge of their love, which now, for the
first time, began to venture across the floor of his cabin without a
hand to sustain it. As game was then very abundant, he seldom failed
to bring home in the evening a store of meats sufficient to last them
until the succeeding evening; and, while they were seated beside the
pleasant fire of their lodge, partaking of the fruits of his labour,
he would relate those tales, and enforce those precepts, which every
good Indian thinks necessary for the instruction of his wife and
children. This was his occupation, these were his pleasures. Who could
ask a better or nobler than the first? who desire more intense, or
purer, than the last? Far removed from all sources of disquiet,
surrounded with all that they deemed necessary to their comfort,
tenderly loving, and thence completely happy, their lives passed away
with scarcely less bliss than that of the disembodied spirits of the
good in the Happy Shades. The breast of the hunter had never felt the
pangs of remorse, for he had been a just man in all his dealings. He
had never violated the laws of his tribe, by encroaching upon the
hunting-grounds of his neighbours, or by taking that which did not of
right belong to him. No offended hunter waylaid his steps to revenge
an interference with his rights, no haughty chief came to the door of
his lodge, to say, "Chippewa, give back that which you have stolen."
No dream of the fame to be acquired by war--by the frequent slaughter
of unoffending women and children, or even of hardy warriors, his
equals in strength and valour--danced before his eyes, filling his
sleep with bloody images and sights of horror. The white man had not
yet come to fill the mind of the poor Indian with cravings for things
which were not needed till they were known; as yet, he had not been
taught that clothes and blankets were necessary to his comfort, or
that game could not be killed without guns. The skin of the buffalo,
the moose, the bear, and the deer, answered the purpose of protecting
him from the heat and the cold; and the bow and arrow well supplied
the place of the gun, especially when pointed by the steady hand and
unerring eye of an Indian hunter. Having then, no more than now,
occasion to fell large trees, the axes of stone in use among us when
white men landed on our shores answered all the simple purposes of
Indian life. Iron and powder, which, with _one_ other fatal gift, have
already led to the almost total, and will soon effect the total,
extinction of the race by furnishing us with a surer mode of
destruction, had not yet found their way into those remote and
peaceful forests, nor had the white man poured that one other fatal
gift, his wrathful phial of liquid fire[A] upon our devoted Indian
race. Our wants were then few, easily supplied, and totally
independent of white men.

[Footnote A: "Wrathful phial of liquid fire" is a literal translation
of the Chippewa word for ardent spirit.]

Peacefully glided away the life of the Chippewa hunter, happy in his
ignorance, but still happier in his simplicity. Relying fully upon the
superintending care of an overruling Great Spirit, whom he had always
served, no anxious dread of present want, no fears for the future
filled his bosom. His life was as unruffled as the surface of a lake
in the calm of the summer.

One evening, during the winter season, when snow covered the earth,
and ice locked up the waters of the Great Lake, it chanced that this
happy Chippewa hunter remained out much later than usual. His wife
sate lonesome in her tent, and began to be agitated with fears that
some fatal accident had befallen him. Darkness had already veiled the
face of nature, and gathering gloom rested upon the brow of night. She
listened attentively, to catch the sounds of coming footsteps, but
nothing could be heard but the wind whistling around the sides of
their slender lodge, and through the creaking branches of the
surrounding forest of oaks and pines. Time passed away in this state
of suspense; he came not, and every moment augmented her fears, and
added to the loneliness of her heart. With the little pledge of their
mutual love clasped to her bosom, she sat counting every moment as it
flew, with difficulty commanding her tears, and singing them down with
fragments of some of the simple songs which all the sons of the earth
are in the habit of using, to while away hours rendered weary by any
passing occurrence. At length her heart gave way, and she burst into a
deep and fervent passion of tears. Suddenly she heard the sound of
approaching footsteps upon the frozen surface of snow. Not doubting
that it must be her beloved husband, she quickly undid the loop, which
held, by an inner fastening, the door of the lodge, and, throwing it
open, beheld two strange females standing in front of it. She could
not hesitate what course to pursue. She bade them enter and warm
themselves, knowing, from the distance to the nearest cabin, that they
must have walked a long way. When they had entered she invited them to
remain. She soon observed that they were total strangers in that part
of the country, and the more closely she scrutinized their manners,
their dress, and their dignified deportment, the stronger grew her
conviction that they were persons of no ordinary character. No
efforts, no persuasions, could induce them to come near the fire; they
took their seats in a remote part of the lodge, and drew their
garments about their persons in such a manner as almost completely to
hide their faces. They seemed shy and taciturn, spoke not, and
remained as motionless as stones fixed in the earth. Occasionally,
though but seldom, glimpses could be caught of their faces, which were
pale and ghastly, even to the hue of death. Their eyes she saw were
vivid but sunken, their cheek-bones as prominent as if all flesh had
left them, and their whole persons, as far as could be judged,
emaciated and fleshless. Seeing that her strange guests, of whom she
now began to feel much fear, avoided all conversation, and appeared
anxious to escape observation, she forbore to question them, and sat
in silence until her husband entered. He had been led farther than
usual in pursuit of game, but returned with the carcase of a large and
very fat deer. No sooner had he laid his spoil on the floor of his
cabin, than the mysterious females, exclaiming, "Behold! what a fine,
fat animal!" immediately ran up, and pulled off pieces of the whitest
fat, which they ate with great avidity. As this is esteemed the
choicest part of the animal, and is generally, by Indian courtesy,
left to the share of the master of the lodge, such conduct appeared
very strange to the hunter. Supposing, however, that they had been a
long time without food, for he attributed their extreme leanness and
ghastliness to hunger and privation, he forbore to accuse them of
rudeness, and his wife, following her husband's example, was equally
guarded in her language. On the following evening, the same scene was
repeated. He brought home the best portions of the deer he had killed,
and, while in the act of laying it down before his wife, according to
custom, the two females again ran up, and tore off, as on the first
night, the choicest and most delicate portions, which they ate with
the same eagerness and unappeasable avidity as before. Such unhandsome
behaviour, such repeated abuses of his hospitality, were calculated to
raise displeasure on the brow of the hunter, but still the deference
due to strange guests induced him to pass it over in silence.
Observing their partiality for this part of the animal, he resolved
the next day to anticipate their wants, by cutting off and tying up a
portion of the fat for each. These parcels he placed upon the top of
his burthen, and, as soon as he entered the lodge, he gave to each
her portion. Still the guests appeared dissatisfied, and took more
from the carcass lying before the wife. Many persons would have
repressed this forwardness, by some look, word, or action, but this
man, being a just and prudent man, slow to provocation, and patient
under afflictions of every kind, abstained from any of them. He was,
perhaps, the more disposed to this quiet spirit of forbearance, from a
suspicion that his guests were persons of distinguished rank, who
chose thus to visit him in disguise, and also from reflecting, that
the best luck had attended him in hunting, since the residence of the
mysterious strangers beneath his roof.

In other respects, the deportment of the females was unexceptionable,
though marked with some peculiarities. They were quiet, modest, and
discreet. They maintained a cautious silence through the day, neither
uttering a word nor moving, but folded up in their skin mantles they
remained in the corner of their lodge. When it became dark, they would
get up, and, taking those instruments which were then used in breaking
up and preparing fuel, would repair to the forest. There they would
busy themselves in seeking dry limbs and fragments of trees, blown
down by tempests. When a sufficient quantity had been gathered to last
till the succeeding night, they carried it home upon their shoulders;
then, carefully putting every thing in its proper place within the
lodge, they resumed their seats and their studied silence. They were
ever careful to return from their nocturnal labours before the dawning
of day, and were never known to go out before the hour of dusk. In
this manner they repaid, in some measure, the kindness of the hunter,
and relieved his wife from her most laborious duties.

Thus nearly the whole winter passed away, every day leading to some
new development of character or office of friendship, which served to
endear the parties to each other. Their faces daily lost something of
that deathlike hue which had at first marked them, and they visibly
improved in strength. They began to throw off some of that cold
reserve and forbidding austerity, which had kept the hunter so long in
ignorance of their true character. Every day, their appearance and
behaviour approximated more nearly to that of the beings of ordinary
life. One evening the hunter returned very late, after having spent
the day in toilsome exertion. Again he deposited the product of his
hunt at the feet of his wife, and again the silent females began to
tear off the flesh as before, though with still greater rudeness and
ill-breeding. The patience of the wife was completely lost, she could
no longer controul her feelings, and suffered the thought to pass her
mind, "Their conduct is certainly very strange! how can I bear with it
any longer!" She did not, however, give utterance to her feelings in
words. But an immediate change was seen in the females. They became
unusually reserved, and gave evident signs of being uneasy in their
situation. The good hunter immediately perceived this change, and,
fearful that they had taken offence, so soon as they had retired to
rest, he enquired of his wife whether any harsh expression had escaped
her lips during the day. She replied that she had uttered nothing to
give the least offence. He now tried to compose himself to sleep, but
he felt restless and uneasy, for he could plainly hear the sighs and
half-smothered lamentations of the two females. Every moment added to
his conviction that his guests had taken deep offence, and, as he
could not banish this idea from his mind, he raised himself on his
couch, and addressed the sobbing inmates thus:

"Tell me, ye women that have so long been the inmates of my lodge,
what is it that causes you pain of mind, and makes you unceasingly
utter these sighs? Has the wife of my bosom given you any cause of
offence while I was absent in the chase? My fears persuade me that, in
some unguarded moment, she has forgotten what is due to the rights of
hospitality, and used expressions ill befitting the mysterious
character which you seem to sustain. Tell me, ye strangers from a
strange country--ye women who appear to be not of this world--what is
it that causes you pain of mind, and makes you utter these unceasing
sighs?"

"It is not for this that we weep; it is not for this that we sigh,"
replied the mysterious women. "No unkind expressions have been used
towards us since our residence in your hospitable lodge. We have
received from you all the affectionate attentions which we could
expect, far more than could reasonably be asked of one who procures
his food and supports his family by a life of incessant toil and
labour. We thank you for all your kindness. No, it is not for this: it
is not for ourselves that we weep. We are weeping for the fate of
mankind. We are weeping for the fate of mortals whom death awaits at
every stage of their existence--weak mortals! whom death cuts down
equally while the bloom of youth is on their cheek, and when their
hair is whitened by the frosts of time--proud, vain men! whom hunger
pinches, cold benumbs, and poverty emaciates--frail beings! who are
born in tears, who are nurtured in tears, who die in tears, and whose
whole course is marked upon the thirsty sands of life in a broad line
of tears. It is for these that we weep.

"You have spoken truly, brother; we are not of this world. We are
Spirits from the land of the dead, sent upon the earth to try the
sincerity of the living. It is not for the dead but the living that we
mourn. It is not for the dead, whose flesh quietly reposes in the
dust, and whose souls repair to the mansions of happiness, that we
mourn, but for the living who are subjected to many, many pains, and
beset with innumerable troubles and anxieties. It was by no means
necessary that your wife should express her thoughts by words; we knew
them ere they were spoken. We saw that for once displeasure towards us
had arisen in her heart. It is enough--our mission is ended. We came
hither but to try you. We knew before we came that you were a kind
husband, an affectionate father, a temperate and honest man. We saw,
from the mansions of the blest, the patience with which you bore your
disappointments in the chace; the gratitude to the Great Spirit which
you always evinced; the tribute to his goodness which you always paid
when your hunts were successful, and you were enabled to return to
your cabin with the wealth of the forest. Still we find that you have
some of the weaknesses of a mortal, and your wife is found still more
wanting in our eyes. But it is not for you alone that we weep; it is
for the fate of mankind.

"Often, very often, has the widowed husband exclaimed, 'Oh death, how
cruel, how relentless thou art, to take from me my best friend, my
beloved wife, in the spring of her youth, in the prime of her
strength, in the morning of her usefulness, in the bloom of her
beauty! Just when I had come to know her best, and to love her most,
thou didst take her from my arms, leaving me to pine in unavailing
regrets. If thou wilt permit her, just Judge! to return once more to
my arms, and again be the star of my humble abode, my gratitude shall
never cease; my thankfulness shall be daily manifested in songs and
sacrifices to thy name. The high hill shall hear the cry of a man with
clay in his hair, and the valley shall be filled with the smoke of a
sacrificial flame. I will raise my voice continually to thank the
Master of Life for the return to my arms of his excellent gift. And to
her shall the return be productive of unbounded felicity. I will
devote my time to study how I can best promote her happiness, while
she is permitted to remain, and our lives shall roll away, like a
pleasant stream through a vale of flowers.' If a parent has been
bereaved of a child rendered dear by its innocence and sportive
fondness, he has said, while tears were furrowing his cheek, 'Great
Manitou, wilt thou return this beloved child for a few more years to
my bosom? It was but young and little. Its voice, softer than the
breath of spring, had not fashioned its tones of tenderness into
words. I had not heard it thank me for the gift of life; it was a
flower blasted in the bud. If thou wilt permit its return, it shall be
taught to sing thy praises; it shall be made to walk in the straight
path; it shall be a just hunter and a true warrior.' The bereft lover
has besought the Great Spirit for the return of his deceased mistress:
his petition has painted the charms of her voice sweet as the south
wind; her step light and graceful as the fawn's; her locks clustering
like grapes. And, 'Oh!' he has said, 'will it disarrange the harmony
of thy system, if she may but for a little while return to my arms; if
but for a few, a very few years, she may illumine the darkness of my
lodge by the splendour of her eyes, and send joy to my soul by the
soft tones of her voice, and the sound of her steps?' Thus, also, has
the mother prayed for her daughter; the wife for her husband; the
sister for her brother; the friend for his bosom-companion, until the
sounds of mourning, and the cries of the living, have pierced the very
recesses of the dead. Among those who have wished their departed
friends to return, were many who were cruel and unkind to them while
living. These have not failed to promise the most endearing conduct,
should their relatives be allowed to return.

"The Great Spirit has, at length, consented to make a trial of their
sincerity, by sending us upon the earth at a very severe season of the
year, and in a time of general scarcity. He did this to see how we
should be received, coming as strangers, no one knowing whence. It was
necessary that this severity of proof should be exacted. Three months
were allowed us to make the trial; and if, during that time, no
irksomeness of feeling had been evinced, no angry passions excited, at
the place where we should have taken up our abode, all those in the
land of spirits, whom their relations had desired to return, would
have been restored to them. We had already passed more than half the
time assigned to us, and had already dared to hope for a successful
termination of our mission. Had your wife maintained those feelings of
unmixed generosity and kindness which have heretofore marked her
conduct, the ransom would have been complete. When the leaves began to
bud, and the birds to sing their sweet songs of love, and to warble
their gentle burdens of gratitude for the return of their beloved
spring, our mission would have been successfully terminated. The
deceased husband and wife would then have been each returned to the
arms of his or her rejoicing partner, the maiden to the arms of her
tender lover, the infant to the bosom of its adoring mother. But it is
now too late. Our trial is finished, and we are called to the pleasant
fields, and beautiful shades, whence we came. It is not for those who
remain in those shades; it is not for the souls we left in the abode
of happy spirits, that we grieve, but for you that are left on earth.

"Brothers, it is necessary and proper, that one man should die to make
room for another who is born in his place; otherwise the world would
be filled to overflowing. It is just, that the goods gathered by one
should be left to be divided by others, for in the land of spirits
there is no want. There is neither sorrow nor hunger, death nor pain,
in that land. Pleasant fields filled with game lie spread before the
eye, and birds of most beautiful plumage and shapes are singing on
every bush. Every stream is filled with fat fish, and every hill is
crowned with groves of trees, whose fruit is sweet and pleasant to the
taste and beautiful to the eye. No piercing winds rack the bones, no
storms, no whirlwinds, assail the ear. All kinds of games have been
invented to amuse, and many, very many, instruments to play upon. It
is not here, brother, but _there_, that men begin truly to live. It is
not for those that rejoice through those pleasant groves, but for you
that are left behind, that we weep.

"Brother, take our thanks for your hospitality. Regret not our
departure. We go not in anger with thee, nor with thy wife. Fear not
evil. Thy luck shall still be good in the chace, and a bright sky
prevail over thy lodge. Mourn not for us, for no corn will spring up
from tears; but join us in lamentations for the fate of mankind. Mourn
for mortals whom death awaits at every stage of their existence; whom
death cuts down equally while the bloom of youth is on their cheek,
and when their hair is whitened by the frosts of time--proud, vain
men, whom hunger pinches, cold benumbs, and poverty emaciates--frail
beings, who are born in tears, nurtured in tears, die in tears, and
whose whole course is marked upon the thirsty sands of life by a broad
line of tears. It is for those that we weep."

The spirits ceased; but the hunter had no power over his voice to
reply. As they continued their address, he saw a light beaming from
their faces, and gradually a blue vapour filling the whole lodge with
an unnatural light. As soon as the females ceased speaking, a deep and
dense darkness prevailed. He listened, but the sobs of the spirits
had ceased. He heard the door of his tent open and shut, but he never
saw more of his mysterious visitors. Their promise was not forgotten;
he found the success which they spoke of. He became a most celebrated
hunter, and never wanted for any thing necessary to his ease. He
became the father of many children, all of whom grew up to manhood:
and health, peace, and long life, were the rewards of his
hospitality.

THE VISION OF THE ABNAKIS CHIEF.

Wangewaha, the great chief of the Abnakis, in one of his hunting
excursions, lay down beneath the shade of a stately fir, on the shore
of the stormy lake, beside which he was born, and the spirit of sleep
came over him. He dreamed a dream, the like of which was never dreamed
before among the red men of the forest. That dream hath come to pass;
each jot and tittle of it has been performed; the things were done
before mine own eyes, and the words spoken into mine own ears. Listen
to the dream of Wangewaha, the great war chief of the Abnakis.

He saw, far in the east, upon the face of the waters, a white cloud
which seemed to be impelled by a strong wind, and it was approaching
the shores of the same land in which the Abnakis dwelt. Along its
lower extremity appeared a narrow outline of exceeding blackness, and
ever and anon the cloud became larger or grew less, now increased and
now diminished, as the wind, or other causes, spread it out, or
contracted it. At length, the wind, which before blew towards the
land, veered and blew from it, but, strange to tell, the cloud was not
carried back, but kept its course onward in defiance of the wind, and
thus fared the cloud.

Upon the shore, watching with extreme and undivided interest the
progress of the cloud, stood many of the sons of the forest. Wonder
and astonishment had seized their souls, at the strange and hitherto
unheard-of sight of a low, compact, dark cloud, moving rapidly against
a strong wind. They saw that it was of unusual shape, and that there
were other circumstances connected with it, such as are not usual with
the spirit-mists of the air. Rightly deeming it a cloud from some very
far region, perhaps some aërial messenger sent by the Great Spirit to
communicate an important errand, they awaited in silent awe the
progress of that to which they could not give a name. Yet, deeming it
possible that grim war might in some one of his thousand forms be
hidden under the semblance of a cloud--that hostile beings might
inhabit what appeared but thin air--they prepared to oppose violence
with violence, and to meet battle with manful battle. Some went and
cut new lance poles, others tough and elastic bows. The priests
prepared sacrifices to appease the spirit, if spirit it were, and
sang propitiatory songs, in which they first called it a good Spirit,
and thanked it as such for the fat deer and mooses it had sent to
their hunting-grounds, and the juicy fish which filled their waters,
and the tender fowls which stocked their lakes. Then they addressed it
as the Spirit of Evil, deprecating its wrath, and imploring its mercy,
beseeching it, if it came in anger, to go away and discharge its venom
elsewhere; if it came to bring them rich gifts, to be speedy about it,
for such never came too soon.

In the mean time, the cloud came every moment nearer, till, at last,
it was scarcely the flight of an arrow distant from the shore. Then
gradually it disappeared, and, in its stead, appeared a large animal,
with innumerable arms and legs of all sizes and shapes, and of all
lengths, and of several colours. Perched on various parts of the legs
and arms of this strange animal were other animals, whose appearance
was unlike any other being ever beheld by the Indians. They wore in
some respects the character of man--were gifted with his strength and
wisdom, his power and capacities--were by turns a prey to lust,
ambition, hate, despair, revenge--commencing life with tears, and
dying with a sigh. Their fangs were for venom the fangs of a snake;
their cunning, the cunning of a fox; and their fierceness, the
fierceness of a mountain cat, or a panther. Very nimble they seemed,
and sprang about the legs and arms of the bigger animal, like a
squirrel leaping from one branch of a tree to another branch. One ran
up a rope till it had reached one of the arms; another slid down in
like manner; a third was perched half-way up; a fourth was running to
and fro on the back of the animal. At length, one of the little
animals dropped a great rope, to which was appended an enormous forked
tree, and this operated to tie up the bigger animal, which rolled
about very much, as if in vain attempts to liberate itself from the
thraldom to which they had subjected it.

After a while, there was a smaller animal seen leaving the side of the
bigger, as a kid leaves the side of its mother, similar in shape to
the bigger, but having neither arms nor legs; and, upon the back of
this animal, many of the smaller animals sought the shore. When they
had arrived, they presented themselves to the eyes of the astonished
Abnakis, in a shape which seemed to the sleeper to be that of a
panther, wearing the shape of man, yet fierce and cruel as any ever
found in the wilds of the river of the Abnakis. With this fierce and
cruel disposition was coupled a cunning beyond that of the fox, and a
malignity greater than the rattlesnake's. Their fierceness and
cruelty, and the malignity and savage ferocity of their natures, were
hidden, however, under a show of peace. They laughed, and grinned, and
did the other things, which mortals do when they are, or pretend to
be, pleased, making the unsuspecting Abnakis think that they were
their very good friends, when they were only waiting for a chance to
rend them limb from limb. Nor was their disposition wholly hidden by
the mask, which these worthless and wicked beasts had only assumed for
the purpose of beguiling the poor red man. Occasionally the panther
would show his teeth, and the rattlesnake his malignity, though the
cunning of the fox would soon throw a veil over the one, and hush the
noise of the other.

Strange, indeed were the bodies, tempers, and dispositions of the
beasts, which thus passed in sleep before the eyes of the dreaming
chief. He saw them invested with the habits and feelings of men, as
they appeared to be gifted with their capacities and acquirements.
They had courage, not indeed as the Abnakis have it, not the courage
which delights in the post of danger, and encounters difficulties for
the mere honour of overcoming them, but in another, and less active
form, that of endurance. And their wisdom and power were greater than
the wisdom and power of the Abnakis priests, who could draw water
from the clouds, and foretell the coming of tempests and storms(1).
The wisdom and power of the strange beasts was very great--they were
subtler than the fox or the beaver, and stronger than the bear.

Among these beasts, there was one of most transcendent beauty, who
appeared to be their queen. She bore the form of a stately woman. She
was clothed, not as beasts generally are, in fur, but in a robe of an
unknown material, that reached to her feet, which were shrouded in a
veil of so thin a texture, that the pure flesh was transparent through
them, and not shod with mocassins, but with something of a different
form. Around her head was bound a grape-vine, from which hung
beautiful clusters of rich, ripe grapes, intermingled with locks of
hair, of a hue resembling the yellow leaf. Her round and plump arms
were bound with bracelets of a very bright material; and, upon her
long and slender fingers, were rings set with sparkling stones, of
various and exceedingly radiant hues--green, blue, purple, white. In
one of her delicate hands, she carried a small bunch of grain, of a
kind which was never seen before by the Abnakis, but the ears of which
bent over like the wings of a hawk hovering over his prey, or or a
bird settling upon its perch. The same fair hand carried the
instrument wherewith it was reaped. The other hand bore a huge shell
and a three-forked sceptre, emblems of her dominion upon the element,
which supported the cloud upon which she came. Upon her breast she
wore a shield, on which was painted the likeness of two animals, one
of them wearing a shaggy mane, and both looking exceedingly fierce and
warlike. There were upon this shield other paintings and devices,
which even the ingenuity of the priests could not explain. Altogether,
the appearance of the being, animal, or whatever it was, which the
Abnakis dreamer saw, was exceedingly noble and beautiful. They who
came with her said she was the genius of the land beyond the Great
Water, the guardian spirit of an island more powerful than all the
world besides. And surely great power was written in her countenance,
and authoritative command engraved on the lines of her face.

Then Wangewaha saw, and a being also wearing the appearance of a woman
came down from the shades, and confronted the stranger. She was of a
still taller stature than the other, and of the same complexion as the
inhabitants of the land, her skin red, black her hair, her eyes
shining, her step yet more noble and commanding, and her bearing
prouder and more haughty than that of her who appeared to be her
younger sister. Her hair, long, straight, and black, hung over her
shoulders till it reached her feet; her mocassins were of the gaudiest
colours; and beads, and shells, and wampum, were profusely employed in
adorning her person. Above her head towered feathers, the canieu's or
war-eagle's, and the painted vulture's--in her hands she carried a
spear and a sheaf of arrows. A bow hung at one of her shoulders, while
over the other was carelessly thrown the game slain by her archery.
Her robe was made of the furs of the gayest forest animals, and her
emblems were an ear of maize and the antlers of a buck. Stately she
moved, as a wild swan on a calm lake, or a black cloud over the brow
of a mountain; and the boldness of her demeanour, and the fierceness
of her eyes, contrasted strongly with the softness and effeminacy of
her that seemed her younger, and more delicate, sister.