Читать книгу Traditions of the North American Indians - James Athearn Jones - Страница 15
THE IDOLS.
ОглавлениеA TRADITION OF THE RICARAS.
"Whither goest thou, valiant warrior?
Whither goest thou, Son of the Beaver?
Man whom the Mahas fear;
Man whom the Pawnees shun;
Man of the red and painted cheek;
Man of the fierce and fearful shout;
Whither goest thou?"
"I go to make an offering,
I go to give to the Idols a bow,
An arrow, and a spear,
The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,
That stand on the willow bank,
On the willow bank, that o'erlooks the stream,
The shallow and turbid stream;
I go to ask that my heart may be made,
Like the heart of the panther, fierce and stout,
And my soul as clean as the soul of a child,
And my foot as swift as the foot of a buck,
That victory may be mine,
That the pole of my lodge may bend with scalps,
And the song of my lips
Be the song of a Brave,
Who sings of bright deeds in the ears of his tribe."
"Go! Warrior, go!"
"Whither goest thou, Hunter?
Whither goest thou, keen eyed-man?
Man whom the Beaver fears;
Man whom the Panther shuns;
Man of the fleet and ardent foot,
And the firm and patient heart,
And the never blanching-cheek,
Whither goest thou?"
"I go to make an offering,
I go to give to the Idols flesh,
The juicy flesh of the elk,
The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,
That stand on the willow bank,
On the willow bank that o'erlooks the stream,
The shallow and turbid stream;
I go to ask that my eye maybe true
To follow the trail of the deer,
And to lead in the fox's track,
And strong my arm to send the dart
To the life of the bison-ox,
And stout my heart, when I list to the growl
Of the cubs in the panther's den."
"Go! Hunter, go!"
"Whither goest thou, Priest?
Man of wisdom, whither goest thou?
Man that commun'st with the Voice35, And notest the lightning's words; Man that hast knowledge of things unseen By the eye of thy brothers, Whither goest thou?"
"I go to make an offering:
I go to lay my magic robe,
My shaggy hide of the old black bear,
Before the Idols,
The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,
That stand on the willow bank,
On the willow bank that o'erlooks the stream,
The shallow and turbid stream;
I go to ask my Okkis36 to give To the sleep of my nights the dream that shows The image of things to come, That I may behold the fate of my tribe, And the fate of the Indian race; And count the scalps from Mahas torn, And the prisoners brought from Pawnee lands, And the beads from the town of the Rock37; And number the coal-black horses, The Ricara Braves shall steal From the men who wear the cross, That shines like the cold, pale moon"38. "Go! Priest, go!"
"And whither goest thou, Maiden?
Dove of the forest, whither goest thou?
Maiden, as bright as the Hunter's Star,
Maiden, whose hair is the grape-clustered vine,
Whose neck is the neck of the swan,
Whose eyes are the eyes of the dove,
Whose hand is as small as the red-oak's leaf,
Whose foot is the length of the lark's spread wing,
Whose step is the step of the antelope's child,
Whose voice is the voice of a rill in the moon,
Of the rill's most gentle song;
Whither goest thou?"
"I go to make an offering.
I go to lay the gifts of my Brave,
The crest of the Song Sparrow39, that which sang From her bower in the bush, on the beautiful night, When he called me "dearest," And the rainbow-tail of the Spirit Bird, And the shells that were dyed in the sunset's blush, And the beads that he brought from a far-off land, And the skin of the striped lynx that he slew Ere the mocassins deck'd his feet, Before the Idols, The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone, That stand on the willow-bank, On the willow-bank that o'erlooks the stream, The shallow and turbid stream. I make them my Okkis to guard my Brave; I go to ask them to shield his breast Against the Maha's darts; To give to his arm the strength of two; To give to his foot the fleetness of two; To wring from his heart the drop of blood, If he hath such drop, that causes fear To make his cry like the Serpent's hiss40, Among the hills of the setting sun, And when there is Maha blood on his hand, And a bunch of Maha scalps at his back. To send him back to these longing arms, That I may wipe from his weary brow The drops that spring from his toil." "Go! Maiden, go!"
With the above characteristic and wild song, chanted with the action and in the tones peculiar to the Indian story-teller, and which, in truth, is always the manner in which their traditions are related, the Little Snake, the principal chief of the Ricaras, and who was as celebrated throughout the wilds of the west for his skill in song as Carolan in the palace of his mountain lord, or Blondel at the court of Coeur de Lion, commenced his tale. As far as the visual organ was concerned, Mr. Verdier was before acquainted with the curious images to which it referred. He had seen, a few miles back, from the Mississippi, a small "willow-bank," rising in the words of the song above a "shallow and turbid stream," upon which were two stones bearing a great resemblance to the human form, and a third having a still greater resemblance to a dog. He knew that they were objects of exceeding veneration with all the tribes of the west, especially with the Ricaras, and that whenever they passed them, and they often deviated many miles from their path for that purpose, they never failed to make an offering, generally of some ornament, or valued part of their dress, or martial equipment, to propitiate the intelligences supposed to inhabit the statues, and render them favourable to their wants and wishes, and to their success in war, or the chace He saw that the continued observance of this rite for a long period, probably for ages, had collected around the "Idols" a large heap of stones, sticks, blankets, deer-skins, eagle's' feathers, &c., but he had remained till now in ignorance of the tradition, which assigned to them a past existence as human beings. He knew that every thing which is not in the common order of things, even a tree singularly shaped, or presenting an unusual excrescence, a blade of grass twisted into an uncommon form, a berry or a stalk of maize growing to an unusual size, become, in the eyes of these wild and superstitious children of the forest, invested with supernatural interest; but he had supposed that it was the mere resemblance which these statues bore to human beings that had caused the Indians to regard them as objects worthy of the most hallowed form of their rude worship.
It may be as well to say in this place, what I had contemplated making the subject of a note. It is this—that Indian poetry always wants the correspondence of the last sound of one verse with the last sound or syllable of another. There cannot, I imagine, be found a single instance of their having attempted to produce the "harmonical succession of sounds," which has imparted so much richness and beauty to the cultivated languages. It is necessary to state this, that my readers may not suppose that the omission to make the lines rhyme grew out of an attempt to give to the poetry an appearance of greater originality, and of greater singularity and wildness, the supposed first step to success. I could not, consistently with my determination to represent truly the manners and customs of that interesting and hard-used race in their own style and method, attempt to introduce rhyme into their rude lyrics. The poetry I have given, though it may want the inspiration of Indian poetry, will be found to possess its method. Another trait of Indian poetry to be noticed is the frequent repetition of favourite passages and incidents.
The Indian story-teller, having paused a moment to recruit his strength and voice, which had suffered by his energy, and to gather the opinion of the audience, which, for the first time in the present assembly, was expressed by audible signs of satisfaction, an unusual occurrence in an Indian audience, resumed his tale as follows:—
And who are they
To whom the Brave has given his bow,
His arrow, and his spear;
To whom the Hunter has given the flesh,
The juicy flesh of the elk,
At whose feet the Priest has laid his robe,
The shaggy skin of the old black bear,
Where she, as bright as the Hunter's Star41, The Maid with hair like the clustering grapes, Whose neck is the neck of the swan, Whose eyes are the eyes of the dove, Whose hand is as small as the red-oak's leaf, Whose foot is the length of the lark's spread wing. Whose step is the step of the antelope's child, Whose voice is the voice of a rill in the moon, Of the rill's most gentle song, Has cast the gifts of her Brave, Cast, without a tear, The tuft of the Song Sparrow, that which sang From its bower in the bush on the beautiful night, That he called his maiden, "dearest," And the rainbow-tail of the Spirit Bird, And the shells that were dyed in the sunset's blush, And the beads that he brought from a far-off land, And the skin of the striped lynx that he slew, Ere the mocassins decked his feet? I will tell you who they are: Listen, brother! Thou from the distant land, Pour oil into thine ears, for I Will fill them with a song.
They both were Ricaras,
And the Dog was a Ricara Dog;
It was many suns ago,
Yet ask me not how long,
For the warrior cannot tell,
But this do I know the rivers ran
Through forest, and prairie, and copse,
And the mountains were piled to the base of the clouds,
And the waters were deep,
And the winter was cold,
And the summer was hot;
Grass grew on the prairies,
Flowers bloomed on the lea,
The lark sang in the morning,
The owl hooted at night,
And the world was such a world
As the Ricara world is now:—
My brother hears.
One was a Ricara boy,
And one was a Ricara girl,
And one was a Ricara dog.
My brother hears.
The boy and the girl were lovers,
And the dog loved both,
They loved each other more
Than the soul of an Indian loves his home;
The lodge of his wife and babes,
Or the graves,
The mossy graves,
The green and grass-covered graves,
Of his fathers mouldered and gone;
They loved each other more
Than the warrior loves the shout of his foe,
Or the festival of scalps,
Or the hunter to see the wing,
Of a plover beating the air.
Their fathers were friends;
They dwelt together in one cabin;
They hunted the woods together;
They warred together,
Raising the self-same shout of onset,
Waking the self-same song of triumph:
Their mothers were sisters;
They dwelt together in one cabin;
Together they wrought in the field of maize;
Each bent her back to the bison's flesh,
Load and load alike;
And they went to the wild wood together,
To bring home the food for the fire;
Kind were these sisters to each other;
There was always a clear sky42 in their cabins:— My brother hears.
One Ricara father said to his friend,
While these babes yet swung
In their baskets of bark
From the bough of the oak,
Listen!
I have a young eagle in my eyrie,
Thou hast a young dove in thy nest,
Let us mate them.
Though now they be but squabs,
There will be but twice eight chills of the lake;
And twice eight fails of the maple leaf;
And twice eight bursts of the earth from frosts;
The corn will ripen bat twice eight times,
Tall, sweet corn;
The rose will bloom but twice eight times,
Beautiful rose!
The vine will give but twice eight times
Its rich black clusters,
Sweet ripe clusters,
Grapes of the land of the Ricaras,
Ere thy squab shall be an eagle,
Ere my little dove shall wear
The feathers and plumes of a full-grown bird.
Let us pledge them now
To each other,
That when thy son has become a man,
And painted his face as a brave man paints,
Red on the cheek,
Red on the brow,
And wears but the single lock43, That is graced with the plumes of the Warrior-bird, And has stolen thy bow for the field of strife, And run away with thy spear, And thou findest thy sheaf of arrows gone, And nearest his shout as he follows the steps Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge, And my little dove, My beautiful dove, Sings in the grove, in the hour of eve, All alone, soft songs. Maiden's songs of the restless hour, When the full heart sings, it knows not why: My son shall build himself a lodge, And thy daughter shall light his fires.
Then said his friend,
'Tis well;
Nor hast thou a forked tongue:
My son is pledged to thee,
And to thy little daughter.
When he has become a warrior-man,
And painted his face with the ochre of wrath,
Red on the cheek,
Red on the brow,
And wears but a scalp-lock,
Decked with the plumes of the warrior-bird,
And has stolen my bow for the field of strife,
And run away with my spear,
And I find my sheaf of arrows gone,
And hear his shout as he follows the step
Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge,
And thy dove
Sings in the grove in the hour of eve,
All alone, soft songs,
Maiden songs, songs of the unquiet hour,
Songs that gush out of the swelling soul,
As the river breaks over its banks:
My son shall build himself a cabin,
And thy daughter shall light his fires.
When these two Ricara babes were grown,
To know the meaning of words,
And to read the language of eyes,
And to guess by the throbs of the heart,
It was said to them,
To the girl, he will build thee a lodge,
And bring thee a good fat deer of the glade;
To the boy, she will light thy fires, and be
The partner of thy lot.
And knowing this they loved:
No more were they seen apart,
They went together to pluck the grape,
To look for the berry which grew on the moor,
To fright the birds from the maize;
They hunted together the lonely copse,
To search for the bittern's eggs,
And they wandered together to pluck from the waste
The first blue flower of the budding moon;
And, when the village children were come,
Where the rope of grass,
Or the twisted thong of bison-hide,
Hung from the bough,
To swing in childish sport,
These two did always swing each other,
And if by chance they found themselves apart,
Then tears bedew'd their little cheeks,
And the gobs of grief came thick and fast,
Till they found each other's arms again,
And so they grew:—
My brother hears.
The maiden grew up beautiful,
Tall as the chin of a lofty man,
Bright as the star that shines,
To guide the Indian hunter through
The pathless wilds to his home.
Her hair was like the grape-clustered vine;
Her neck was the neck of the swan;
Her eyes were the eyes of the dove;
Her hand was as small as the red oak's leaf;
Her foot was the length of the lark's spread wing;
Her step was the step of the antelope's child;
Her voice was the voice of a rill in the moon,
Of the rill's most gentle song:
Oh, how beautiful was the Ricara girl!
How worthy to be the wife of the man,
And to light-the fires of a Brave! How fit-to be the mother Of stout warriors and expert hunters!
And how grew the Ricara boy?—
Does my brother listen?
He does, it is well.—
He grew to be fair to the eye,
Like a tree that hath smooth bark,
But is rotten or hollow at core;
A vine that cumbers the earth
With the weight of leaves and flowers,
But never brings forth fruit:
He did not become a man:
He painted not as a warrior paints,
Red on the cheek,
Red on the brow,
Nor wore the gallant scalp-lock,
Black with the plumes of the warrior-bird,
Nor stole his father's bow,
Nor ran away with his spear,
Nor took down the barbed sheaf,
Nor raised his shout as he followed the step
Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge.
He better loved to sit by the fire,
While the women were spinning the mulberry-bark(2)
Or to lie at his length by the stream,
To watch the nimble salmon's sport,
Or, placed by the leafy perch of the bird,
To snare the poor simple thing;
He better loved to rove with girls
In search of early flowers.
The Ricara father said to the maid,
"Listen to me, my dove,
When I gave thee away,
I deem'd that I gave
My child to one who would gain renown,
By the deeds which had given his sires renown,
To a boy who would snatch, ere his limbs were grown,
The heaviest bow of the strongest man,
And hie to the strife with a painted face,
And a shout that should ring in the lonely glades,
Like a spirit's among the hills;
I did not deem I had given my dove
To a youth with the heart of a doe;
A gatherer-in of flowers,
A snarer of simple birds,
A weeder with women of maize44, A man with the cheek of a girl— Dost thou listen?
"Now, since thy lover is weak in heart,
A woman in mind and soul,
Nor boasts, nor wishes to boast,
Of deeds in battle done,
Nor sings, nor wishes to sing,
Of men by his arm laid low,
Nor tells how he bore the flames, his foes
Did kindle around his fettered limbs;
And, since he finds more joy in flowers,
And had rather work in the maize-clad field,
Than wend to the glorious strife
With the warriors of his tribe,
I will not keep my faith.—
My daughter hears.—
I bid thee see the youth once more,
And then behold his face no more.
Tell him, the child of the Red Wing weds
With none but the fierce and bold,
Tell him, the man, whose fires she lights,
Must be strong of soul, and stout of arm,
Able to send a shaft to the heart
Of him who would quench that fire,
Able to bend a warrior's bow,
Able to poise a warrior's spear,
Able to bear, without a groan,
The torments devised by hungry foes,
The pincers rending his flesh,
The hot stones searing his eye-balls.—
Dost thou hear?"
Then down the daughter's beauteous cheeks
Ran drops like the plenteous summer rain.
"I hear, my father,
Yet, hard thy words weigh on my heart;
Thou gav'st me to him, while we lay,
Unknowing the pledge, in our willow cage(3),
When first we opened our eyes on the world,
And saw the bright and twinkling stars,
And the dazzling sun, and the moon alive(4),
And the fields bespread with blooming flowers,
And we breath'd the balmy winds of spring;
The old men said, to one another,
'Dost thou know, brother,
Thar, when his years are the years of a man,
And his deeds are the deeds of the good and true,
The son of the Yellow Pine
Shall marry the Red Wing's daughter?'
And the women took up the tale,
And the boys and girls, when met to play,
Told in our ears the pleasing words,
That I was to be his wife.
"And, knowing this, we loved,
And 'tis hard to break the chains of love;
Thou may'st sooner rive the flinty oak,
With the alder spear of a sickly boy,
Than chase him away from my soul.
Twice eight bright years have our hearts been wed.
And thou hast look'd on and smiled;
And now thou com'st, with a frowning brow,
And bid'st me chase him from my soul.
I know his arm is weak,
I know his heart is the heart of a deer,
And his soul is the soul of a dove;
Yet hath he won my virgin heart,
And I cannot drive him hence."
But the father would not hear,
And he bade his daughter think no more
Of the Ricara youth for her mate;
And he said, ere the Moon of Harvest passed,
She should light the fires of a Brave.
What said the Ricara youth,
When he heard the stern command,
Which broke his being's strongest bond,
As ye break an untwisted rope of grass?
Sorrow o'erwhelm'd his soul,
And grief gush'd out at his eyes.
With an aching heart he left his lodge,
When evening gray-mist walk'd out of the earth,
And wandered forth with his dog—
To the woods he went,
To the lonely, dim, and silent woods,
To weep and sigh:
Whom saw he there?—
Does my brother hear?—
He saw the maiden, so long beloved,
Her with hair like the grape-cluster'd vine,
Whose neck was the neck of the swan,
Whose eyes were the eyes of the dove,
Whose hand was as small as the red-oak's leaf,
Whose foot was the length of the lark's spread wwig,
Whose step was the step of the antelope's child.
Whose voice was the voice of a rill in the moon,
Of the rill's most gentle song;
But oh, how chang'd!
Beaming eye and bounding foot,
Laughing lip and placid brow,
Hath the beauteous maid no more.
Slow is her step as a crippled bird's,
And mournful her voice as the dying note
Of a thunder-cloud that hath passed;
And yet she joys to meet the youth.
Into his arms she flies,
Like a fawn that escapes from the hunter's shaft,
And reaches its dam unhurt.
Lock'd in a soft and fond embrace,
The lovers recline on the flowery bank,
And pledge their faith anew;
And loudly they call on the host of stars,
And the cold and dimly shining moon,
And the spirits, that watch by night in the air,
Or chirp in the hollow oak45, to see The plighting of their hands: They married themselves, And man and wife Became in the wilderness.
But love alone could not keep alive
The Ricara boy and girl;
The woods were scarce of game,
No berries were on the heath,
The winds had shaken the grapes from the vine,
And hunger assail'd the pair.
What did they then?
They knelt and pray'd to the Master of Life—
Him of the terrible voice in the cloud—
To send them food, or call
Their spirits away to the happy lands
Beyond the vale of death.
Did the Master hear?
Brother he always hears
When mortals go in clay(5)
The Master sat on the crest of the world46, Sat at the door of his mighty lodge, Tossing bright stars at the waning moon47, When there came on the winds the woes of the pair, And pity filled his soul, And grief weighed down his heart. He called to his side the spirit that guards The warlike Indian race, The spirit of courage, and wisdom, and strength, And the fearless spirit came. "Dost thou see," said he, "the Ricara pair, Caltacotah and Miskwa, the Red, They have married themselves in the wilderness, And now they die for food. Look at the husband, note him well? He hath never dared to look on a foe, Nor paints his face as a warrior paints, Nor wears the gallant scalp-lock, Nor hath he a hunter's eye; Unable is he to strike a deer: The white and fringed skin of the goat, Which covers the breast of the maiden, conceals A manlier heart than his. Go, and end their woes." The spirit answered, "I hear."
The shadows of evening fell on the earth,
And the mists were out,
And the bat was abroad.
The Ricara pair were joyful now,
For they had found a vine of grapes.
On the willow bank that o'erlooks the stream,
The shallow and turbid stream,
And, though the grapes were shrivell'd and sour,
These two were joyful now,
When all at once, ere their lips had touch'd,
The Manitou stood at their side,
And trembling shook their limbs.
He saw the woes of the pair,
And he bade them cease to be;
He bade them become a thing to show
The mercy and goodness of Him that rules—
The flintiness of her father's heart—
Their own tried constancy;
And he bade them remain in the wilderness,
Till the rivers should cease to flow,
And the stars should cease to shine.
And they became the Idols,
The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone,
That stood on the willow bank.
'Tis thither the tribes of the land resort,
To make their offerings;
Thither the warrior carries his bow,
His arrow, and his spear,
And the hunter, the juicy flesh of the elk;
The priest, the shaggy skins of the bear,
And she of the fair and youthful form,
The gifts of the favour'd Brave.
All bear thither a valued gift,
And lay it at their feet;
No Ricara takes his bow, till he
Has oft besought their aid,
No Ricara paints as a warrior paints,
Red on the cheek,
Red on the brow,
Till he has thrice before them bow'd,
And said to them, "Make me strong!"
And the maiden and the priest
Petition there for aid.
NOTES.
(1) Okkis.—p. 175.
The particular object of the devotion of an Indian is termed his "Okkis," or "Medicine," or "Manitou," all meaning the same thing, which is neither more nor less than a "household God." The latter, however, may mean a spirit of the air; the former is tied to one predicament. It is selected by himself, sometimes at a very early age, but generally at the period when he enters the duties of life, and is some invisible being, or, more commonly, some animal, which thenceforward becomes his protector or intercessor with the Great Spirit. The Indians place unbounded confidence in these Okkis, and always carry them wherever they go, being persuaded that they take upon them the office of sentinels. Hence, they sleep in perfect security, convinced of the entire good faith of the guardian. There is no possible form which they have not permitted these "medicines" to take. Birds, beasts, and especially of the carnivorous species, are most frequently the adopted sentinels; but sticks, trees, stones, &c., have been known to be selected for that responsible office. If they prove treacherous, and permit any disaster to happen to their charge, they are frequently soundly whipped, and sometimes committed to the flames.
Not only are inanimate objects elected to take the guardianship of individuals—they sometimes become protectors of the national interests. There is a large, fiat rock, about ten miles from Plymouth, Massachusetts, which continues to receive tribute from the Indians, probably from having, at a former period, been their tutelary genius. It is called, if I mistake not, by the white people resident in the neighbourhood, "The Sacrifice Rock," and is still deeply venerated by the few Indians spared by the cupidity of the Pilgrims and their descendants.
Lewis and Clarke, in the account of their Travels across the Rocky Mountains, (vol. i. p. 163) speaking of the national great Memahopa, or "Medicine Stone," of the Mandans, remarks: "This Medicine Stone is the great oracle of the Mandans, and, whatever it announces, is received with the most implicit confidence. Every spring, and on some occasions during the summer, a deputation visits the sacred spot, where there is a thick porous stone, twenty feet in circumference, with a smooth surface. Having reached the place, the ceremony of smoking to it is performed by the deputies, who alternately take a, whiff themselves, and then present the pipe to the stone; after this, they retire to the adjoining wood for the night, during which it may be safely presumed, that all the embassy do not sleep. In the morning, they read the destinies of the nation in the white marks on the stone."
(2) The mulberry bark.—p. 187.
The Dress of the Indian women.—The dress of the Indian females is regulated, of course, by the nature of the climate. The Southern Indians, by which I mean those occupying the tract of country which is now parcelled out into the States of Louisiana, Florida, Missouri, Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia, at the period of its first settlement by the whites, wore cloaks of the bark of the mulberry tree, or of the feathers of swans, turkeys, &c. The bark they procured from the young mulberry shoots that came up from the roots of the trees which had been cut down. After it was dried in the sun, they beat it to make all the woody part fall off; and then gave the threads that remained a handsome beating; after which, they bleached them by exposing them to the dew. When they were well whitened, they spun them about the coarseness of pack-thread, and wove them in the following manner: two stakes were set in the ground about a yard and a half asunder; having stretched a cord from one to the other, they fastened their threads of bark, double, to this cord, and then interlaced them in a curious manner into a cloak of about a yard square, with a wrought border round the edges. Such is nearly the description given by Du Pratz in his history of Louisiana.
(3) Willow cage.—p. 189.
Indian children, instead of being placed in cradles, are suspended from the boughs of trees beyond the reach of wild animals, in baskets woven of twigs of the willow, when they can be easily procured: the motion, which is a kind of circular swing, is far more pleasant than that of the cradle in use among civilized nations.
(4) Moon alive.—p. 189.
The astronomical knowledge of the Indians is very small, and they entertain singular ideas respecting the heavenly, bodies. When the sun sets they imagine it goes under water. When the moon does not shine, they suppose she it dead; and some call the three last days before the new moon, the naked days. Her first appearance after her last quarter is hailed with great joy. If either sun or moon is eclipsed, they say the sun or moon is in a swoon. I have mentioned before their opinion of the cause of shooting-stars. Adair, who was acquainted only with the Florida Indians, says that when it thundered and blew sharp for a considerable time, they believed that the beloved or holy people were at war above the clouds; and they believed that the war was hot or moderate, in proportion to the noise or violence of the storm. Of all the writers who have ever written on the Indians, Adair, with the usual exception of La Hontan, is the worst. He wrote with a preconceived determination to make them a portion, or "the remnant," of the ten tribes of Israel, to whom they bear about the same resemblance that an Englishman bears to an Otaheitean.
(5) Mortals go in clay.—p. 192.
The Indian mode of worship is wild and singular in the extreme. Nutall, a judicious and scientific traveller, thus describes the solemnity:
"This morning, about day-break, the Indians, who had encamped around us, broke out into their usual lamentations and complaints to the Great Spirit. Their mourning was truly pathetic, and uttered in a peculiar tone. The commencing tone was exceeding loud, and gradually fell off into a low, long continued, and almost monotonous bass; to this tone of lamentation was modulated the subject of their distress or petition. Those who had experienced any recent distress, or misfortune previously blackened their faces with coal, or besmeared them with ashes."—Nutall, p. 190.
I will quote one more extract from a favourite author for the benefit of those who may wish to view the Indian as a worshipper of the Eternal Being whom they are early taught to worship. "From the age of about five years," says Long, "to that of ten or twelve, custom obliges the boy to ascend to a hill-top, or other elevated position, fasting, that he may cry aloud to the Wahconda. At the proper season his mother reminds him that 'the ice is breaking up in the river, the ducks and geese are migrating, and it is time for you to prepare to go in clay.' He then rubs his person over with a whitish clay, and is sent off to the hill-top at sunrise, previously instructed by a warrior what to say, and how to demean himself in the presence of the Master of Life. From this elevation he cries out to the great Wahconda, humming a melancholy tune, and calling on him to have pity on him, and make him a great hunter, horse-stealer, and warrior. This is repeated once or twice a week, during the months of March and April."—Long's First Expedition, vol.. i. p. 240.
