Part 5

We find records of horrible man-eating giants called Kookwesijik; and another family of enormous beings called Ooskoon Kookwesijik,—the liver-coloured giants, who return from their hunting expeditions carrying at their belts a string of caribou as easily as a Micmac could carry a string of rabbits. These tawny giants are friendly, as is shown by their dealings with a party of Micmacs recorded in Legend XVII.; the party had been lost in a fog for several days in or near St. John harbour, and ever afterwards held their powerful deliverers in grateful remembrance, although the Ooskoon Kookwesijik amused themselves for a time at the expense of the pigmy Ulnoo. We might find entertainment for hours with the _Megumoowesoo_, which is like a fawn or satyr of Greek mythology; or the _Culloo_, an enormous bird, of human intelligence, and strength sufficient to carry a whole war-party on its back; or indeed with the dread _Chenoo_, or Northman, a sort of were-wolf, believed to be a transformed lunatic who had been maddened by disappointment in love, and whose icy heart now finds no pleasure save when feasting on human flesh and blood.

All the famous warriors are _booowins_, or _pow-wows_; they have supernatural powers, and when wide awake and in full presence of mind cannot be killed except by other braves possessing like powers. It is remarkable that these braves, or as they say, _kenaps_, even though mortally wounded, would immediately be in perfect health and strength if by any chance they could succeed in taking the life of a warrior; it was also believed that while a _kenap_ was dancing the magic dance, his body could not be pierced by the swiftest arrow. A _booowin_ could assume not only the character but also the form of whatever animal might be the totem of the clan to which he belonged, but he was restricted to his own totem, whether fox or wolf, or wild-goose, or loon, and so when two were fighting, each generally knew what he might expect of his opponent in the event of defeat in fair battle.

The last fight between the Kennebecs and the Micmacs occurred at the mouth of Pictou harbour, and was an instance in which one hero, or as they say, _kenap_, succeeded in destroying, single-handed, a whole war-party of the enemy. The incident is worthy of mention in this connection, for the hero of this closing scene of inter-tribal warfare was a booowin or pow-wow, who might well be compared, if we consider what he accomplished, with Samson, the strong man of Israel, or perhaps, even more properly with Heracles and the other demigods of ancient Grecian story. Our hero’s name is _Kaktoogo_, or Old Thunder, but he also had a second name given by the French, for the French had arrived on Acadia’s shores before this final defeat of the invading Kennebecks; the dignified name was _Toonale_, an attempt to pronounce _Tonnere_, the French translation of his sonorous name. You will notice that “r” was replaced by “l” in all words borrowed from the French and English, for neither the “r” nor “j” sound was formerly heard in the language of the Micmacs.

Let us picture two war-parties of the Kennebecs intrenched within blockhouses from which they make repeated sallies upon the wary natives of _Megamaage_[3]. The forts are constructed by first digging a cellar, and then felling and arranging great trees, so that not only a barricade is formed, but a heavily roofed fort. The Micmacs are intrenched in a somewhat similar manner on their camping-ground at Merrigomish. It was quite evident to the Micmacs that their ancestral foes were not on a mere scalping expedition but had designed a war of extermination. Kaktoogo the Thunderer must make good use of all his magic, or he and his people will certainly be destroyed. First and last of the American Red-men, he took command of a navy; for in order to avoid ambuscades, he took possession of a French trading ship, and came around by sea from Merrigomish to Pictou. Soon he bore down upon the hostile fort with all sails set, and in true Indian fashion, as if his gallant craft were a bark canoe, ran hard aground as near as possible to his deadly foe; but before the French timbers quiver from that disastrous shock; Kaktoogo has leaped into the water, as Cæsar’s standard-bearer did on the coast of savage Britain a few centuries ago, and makes his way with all speed toward the land. Kaktoogo has every faculty alert, and, since he is a mighty pow-wow, no one but another demigod can kill him outright. He reached the shore and rushed upon the fort before either friends or foes had recovered from their astonishment, and,

“Like valor’s minion carved out his passage”

as nobly as ever did Macbeth, or Samson, or any other warrior, nor did he pause till every man of them had paid the forfeit of his life.

So complete was the victory that their ancestral foes never sent another war-party into _Megamaage_ the Acadie, or Wholesome Place of the Micmacs. The bold Kaktoogo had at last “made a realm,” but it cannot be said of him that he “reigned,” for more insidious foes than the Kennebecs or the more dreaded Mohawks were among them, and were gradually conquering them by blandishments that stole away the manhood of the nation. _Coureurs-du-bois_ were roaming everywhere throughout the forest, bringing dangerous thunder-weapons and more dangerous fire-water; and Glooscap, the Magnificent One, was grieved as he marked the steady approach of what the pale-face calls “Civilization.” The daring intruders soon visited the Son of Heaven at his home on that giant rock, Blomidon, around whose amethystine base “The tides of Minas swirl;” and several attempts were made to capture the mighty Sakumow, that he too might be caged and sent home to France.

At last Glooscap was disgusted with the treachery of the foreigners, and saddened by the weakness of his own people; so, by way of giving vent to his righteous indignation, he turned his kettle upside down, and transformed his two dogs into rocks, where they stand to-day, the guardians of Blomidon, still looking westward awaiting his return. Then the Great Snowy Owl retreated into the depths of the forest, where his mournful cry is often heard as he wails again and again: “Koo-koo-skoe,—I am so sorry.” The lordly Glooscap sailed away to the land of the setting sun on Fundy’s ebbing tide as it returned again to the ocean; there he makes his home in the Acadie of the blessed, until the faithless interlopers have either changed their barbarian habits, or gone to their own place. When all men shall have learned to honour Truth he will return and usher in the millennium amidst the wildest rejoicing of the elements.

But oh, the people are weary of waiting for his return, the stoutest hearts are failing; for search-party after search-party has come back, bringing only ample proofs of his unceasing love; Glooscap will never return to beautiful _Megamaage_ the Acadie, or Wholesome Place of the Micmacs; Kenap and Sakumow now drown the memory of the former times by destroying body and soul with the withering curse of the pale-face, or take up the wail of the old women and re-echo the mournful cry of the Wobekookoogwes, the great Snowy Owl, which comes again with startling clearness from the depth of the forest: “I am so sorry,—Koo-koo-skoo.” And now as the camp-fire has burned low, and the melancholy cry of the owl resounds through the lonely archways of the forest, let us repeat the final word of the _Booske-atookwa_, the sage story teller, and reverently say _Kespeadooksit_,—the story is ended.

We have spent a few moments, idly perhaps, in hastily reviewing some features of the Mythology of the Micmacs, and we have found a weird delight in studying what was to them most sacred. But the mythology of the people, beautiful as it is, is not by any means the life-giving Truth; the outgrowth of the human mind, this rugged faith must fail to lead that mind to anything outside of itself; for the most magnificent statue on which man ever worked is still at heart a stone. Like Tennyson’s Prophet, the Mythology of the Micmacs is dead:

“Dead! And the people cried with a stormy cry; ‘Send them no more for evermore, Let the people die.’

Dead! ‘Is he then brought so low?’ And a careless people came from the fields With a purse to pay for the show.”

Is it fair for us to infer that the Christians of the Maritime Provinces are content to let the Micmacs grope on in their gloom, ignorantly lifting their hearts in adoration to an unknown God! Can we be so base as to join the rabble “With a purse to pay for the show,”—we who have been given the true Mythology and commanded to carry the news to every creature?

Though Silas T. Rand was a man with the usual desires for visible results in his missionary work, he restrained these desires, and laboured to supplement rather than to supplant the work which had been so faithfully done by the Roman Catholic missionaries. He labored to present the Gospel message in its fullness as related to the unobserved duties of everyday life; and to instil into the minds of the Micmac Christians a clearer understanding of that perfect love which casts out fear. He did not work for a reward; he found his reward in his work, and any one may find it too by speaking of good Mr. Land (Rand) when in conversation with those for whom he gave his life.

It will be fifty years on the twelfth of this present month of November since Dr. Rand began the work which has incidentally given us this glimpse of the rich Mythology of the Micmacs. Shall we not on this jubilee occasion revive in some way the work so faithfully carried on, and all unite to realize the fullness of the Gospel message ourselves, as we attempt to give it in its fullness to every man for whom our Father meant it?

[2] The substance of this chapter was delivered as a graduating essay before the Faculty of Acadia University last June, and it appeared in its present form in the October and November numbers of the Prince Edward Island Magazine.—J. S. C.

[3] _Megamaage_ or _Megumagee_, Micmac name for Maritime Provinces.

THE DYING INDIAN’S DREAM.

A POEM.

BY SILAS TERTIUS RAND, Of Hantsport, Nova Scotia, MISSIONARY TO THE MICMAC INDIANS.

THIRD EDITION, REVISED.

WITH SOME ADDITIONAL LATIN POEMS.

WINDSOR, N. S.: C. W. KNOWLES, 1881.

PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION.

The Wigwam Scene described in the following pages, occurred at Hantsport, Nova Scotia, in March, 1855. In the Sixth Annual Report of the Micmac Mission, in a letter written immediately after the event, I find it thus inscribed:

“An event of some interest has just occurred here. One of our sick Indians, named John Paul, has just died and was buried to-day. I have taken from my first acquaintance with him, a great liking to him. I have spent many an hour with him in his wigwam. He always listened attentively to the Scriptures, and engaged readily in religious conversation, and I have not been without hope. Efforts were made to deter him from allowing my visits, but they were unavailing. I never aimed so much to attack his Romish errors directly, as to dwell upon the free salvation of the Gospel—without money and without price. About last New Year’s day, while I was in Halifax, I was informed that the Romish priest had sent orders to him to leave Hantsport, and had threatened him with all the curses of the Church if he remained. His statement to me when I returned, was: “I won’t leave this place till I choose. It is not in the power of any man to keep me out of Heaven. That is a matter between God and my own soul.” He said in Indian: “_Neit alsoomse_.” “I am my own master.” He remained. He continued to listen to the Bible with attention, and to receive my visits with kindness and respect till he died. I now recollect that when I came to read to him, he would send the small children away that we might not be disturbed. The last time I saw him was a precious season to my own soul. It seemed easy to speak of the Great Redeemer, and of the way of Salvation. I may say that special prayer was made for him in the Meeting House, where a number of Christian friends were assembled on the day before he died, holding a special prayer-meeting on our own account. More than one fervent prayer was offered up for the dying Indian. After the meeting I returned to my own house, where I met an Indian from John Paul’s wigwam, who informed me that the poor fellow was very near his end. “But oh,” said he, “he is wonderfully happy! He says he is going right to heaven, and that he has already had a glimpse of that bright happy world. He has been exhorting us all, and telling how easy it is to be saved. He dreamed last night that he was in heaven. Heaven seemed to him to be an immense great palace, as large as this world, all formed of gold. He saw there the glorious Redeemer, surrounded by an immense host of Saints and Angels, all drest in white. As he entered he thought they gathered round him and shouted: John Paul has come! John Paul has come!” The poor fellow did not die until the following morning, and just before he died he looked up towards Heaven, and declared that he saw the angels and the Glory of God. He was astonished that the others could not see what he saw. He wanted them to hold up his children that they might see the wonders that he himself saw. He then sank back on his pillow and quietly expired.

It will be seen that the following Poem is not a work of _fiction_. It aims to relate—with some license of imagination, of course, else it would not be poetry—a plain historical fact. The description of Paul’s skill and knowledge as a hunter, and in managing their frail little water-crafts in a sea, is literally true of many of the Indians, and was true of him. His peace of mind in committing his family into the hands of God, after he found himself disabled, having burst a blood-vessel by carrying a large load, from which he never recovered—he related to me: and this is expressed in the prayer put into his mouth at the close, “which we did not fully _hear_ or _share_.”

It may be added that after the Poem was written, I read it to the Indian who gave me the account of John Paul’s death, and as he spoke the English language well, he had no trouble in understanding it. And he assured me that it described the scene correctly.

I may add that the _measure_—or rather the utter disregard of all regular measure—was suggested by an old poem I saw somewhere, describing a very different scene, and the “wildness” of it appeared, to me to be just suited to a scene of the _Wilderness_ and the _wigwam_.

It will not surely be deemed a very great stretch of “poetic license” to represent oneself as an eye and ear-witness of a scene, with the surroundings of which he was so familiar, and which had been so vividly described by those who really were present.

Nor need we speculate about the cause of dreams or their significance. No one will deny that that may be a very exact index of the state of mind at the time, of the one who dreams. And the earnest prayer of the writer is, that the reader of these verses, and himself, may be, at the time of our departure, so full of joy and peace in believing, that whether waking or dreaming, we may rejoice with that joy which is unspeakable and full of glory, receiving the end of our faith, even the salvation of our souls.”

SILAS T. RAND. Hantsport, N. S. [Illustration]

THE DYING INDIAN’S DREAM.

“Jesus, the vision of thy face, Hath overpowering charms; Scarce shall I feel Death’s cold embrace, If Christ be in my arms. Then when you hear my heartstrings break, How sweet my minutes roll; A mortal paleness on my cheek, And glory in my soul.”—_Watts._

I.

Upon his bed of clay, Wasting away, Day after day, A sick and suffering Indian lay; No lordly Chieftain he, Of boasted pedigree, Or famed for bravery In battle or for cruelty; He was of low degree, The child of poverty, And from his infancy, Inured to hardship, toil and pains; He was a hunter, bold and free, Of famed Acadia’s plains. He’d roamed at will, O’er rock and hill, And every spot he knew, Of forest wide, Of mountain side, Of bush and brake, Of stream and lake, Of sunny pool and alder shade, Where the trout and the salmon played, Where the weeping willow wept, Where the whistling wood-cock kept, Where the mink and the martin crept, Where the wolf and the wild-cat stept, Where the bear and the beaver slept, Where the roaring torrent swept, Where the wandering woodman strayed, Where the hunter’s lodge was made, Where his weary form was laid; Where the fish and the game abound, Where the various kinds are found, Every month the Seasons round: Where beetling bluffs o’erhang the deep, Where laughing cascades foam and leap, Dancing away from steep to steep; Where the ash and the maple grew, Where the hawk and the eagle flew, Sailing in the azure blue. With matchless skill, He could hunt and kill, The moose and the carriboo, And smoothly ride On the rolling tide, In the light and frail canoe; Though in angry gusts the tempests blew, Though the thunders roared, And the torrents poured, And the vivid lightnings flew; With a noble pride, Which fear defied, With steady hand and true The fragile skiff By the frowning cliff, He could steadily guide, And safely glide, In joyful glee, Triumphantly, The roaring surges through.

II.

And many a weary day, He had toiled away, In his own humble home, At basket, bark, and broom, To gain the scanty fare, Doled out to him grudgingly, where His ancient sires, Kindled their fires, And roamed without control, Over those wide domains, Rocks, rivers, hills and plains, In undisputed right, lords of the whole. But ah! those days were gone, And weeks and months had flown, Since dire disease had laid him low; Nor huntsman’s skill, Nor workman’s will, In want, in danger, or alarm, Could nerve his powerless, palsied arm, Or bend his useless bow. But God was there, And fervent prayer, To Heaven ascended, And sweetly blended With angel’s song, From Seraph’s tongue; And Joy was there, and Hope, and Faith, Triumphing over pain and death; The Light of Truth around him shone, Auspicious of the brighter dawn; He trusted in the living God, As washed in Jesu’s precious blood; No dread of death or priestly power, Could shake him in that fearful hour, Nor tyrant’s rod. The fluttering breath from his palsied lung, No utterance gave to his quivering tongue; But still his ear Was bent to hear The Words of Truth and Love; His flashing eye Glanced toward the sky, And he whispered, “I shall die; But God is Love; There’s rest above.”

III.

He slept! the dying Indian slept! A balmy peace had o’er him crept, And for the moment kept His senses steeped In calm repose,— Such as the dying Christian only knows. Consumption’s work was done; Its racking course was run; His flesh was wasted, gone; He seemed but skin and bone, A breathing skeleton— Deep silence reigned—no sound, Save the light fluttering round Of scattered leaflets, found Upon the frozen ground, And the gently whispering breeze, Soft sighing through the trees, Was in the wigwam heard; The voice of man, and beast, and bird, Were hushed—save the deep drawn sigh, And the feeble wail of the infant’s cry, Soothed by the mother’s sobbing lullaby, And bursts of grief from children seated nigh, Waiting to see their father die. Kindred and friends were there, Gathered for prayer, To soothe the suffering and the grief to share; And Angel Bands were near, Waiting with joy to bear A ransomed spirit to that World on high, That “Heaven of joy and love, beyond the Sky.”

IV.

He dreamed! the dying Indian dreamed! Flashes of Glory round him gleamed! A bright effulgence beamed From on high, and streamed Far upward and around; it seemed That his work on earth was done, That his mortal course was run, Life’s battle fought and won; That he stood alone, Happy, light and free, Listening to sweetest melody, And softest harmony, From the etherial plains, In loud extatic strains, Such as no mortal ear Could bear, or be allowed to hear. When suddenly to his wondering eyes, Upstarting to the skies, A glorious Palace stood; All formed of burnished gold, Solid, of massive mould, The bright Abode Of the Creator God! Ample, vast and high, Like Earth, and Sea, and Sky, The Palace of the King of kings, Where the flaming Seraph sings, Waving his golden wings; Where the ransomed sinner brings, Honor and glory to the Eternal Son, Casting his dazzling crown, In lowly adoration down, Before the blazing Throne, Of the Eternal One. Every eye upon him turns, Every breast with rapture burns, And trembles the lofty Dome, As they shout him welcome home— “John Paul has come! John Paul has come!”

V.

He woke! the dying Indian woke Opened his eyes and spoke; A heavenly radiance broke From his bright beaming eye, And with a loud exultant cry, And clear ringing voice, In the soft accents of his native tongue, And in glowing imagery, Suited to the theme, Like that of the Immortal Dreamer’s Dream, In Bedford’s mystic “Den,” whose fame, He’d never heard, nor knew the “Pilgrim’s” name— Or that Sublimer Song, By John of old, in Patmos’ Prison sung, To the Celestial Throng;— Whose dazzling visions of the Throne, He’d never read, or heard, or known; He told the visions of his head, While slumbering upon his bed; And spoke of those unutterable joys Prepared on high, Beyond the sky, For sinners saved in Jesus when they die.

VI.

With mute amaze, And earnest gaze, Seated round his cot Entranced, and to the spot Enchained, we listen to the story. Catching glimpses of the glory; As though the echoing roll From the Eternal Hill, In soft vibrations broke, Upon our senses while he spoke, Sending through every soul, A deep unutterable thrill! “Oh! I have been in Heaven!” To me it has been given To see the Throne of Light, And Hosts of Angels bright, And Ransomed Spirits robed in white; They knew my name, And who I am, And whence I came; I heard them loud through Heaven proclaim; “Make room! make room! John Paul has come! John Paul has come! Bear the glad tidings far As the remotest star! Let every tongue The shout prolong! Sound the Redeemer’s praise, In loudest, loftiest lays! To Him who bought him With His precious blood; To Him who brought him To this bright Abode Of perfect blessedness, And everlasting peace, ‘The Bosom of his Father and his God.’”

VII.