Chapter 17

"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 aerial 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.

Anon, these two sisters entered into speech with each other, and the artless and unsuspecting soul of the one was contrasted strongly with the cunning of the other. Said the stranger to her who was of the land, "Thou hast a most beautiful land."

"It is indeed a most beautiful land," answered the other.

"It has lofty mountains."

"Its mountains are very lofty."

"It has many beautiful and rapid rivers."

"It has."

"Its suns--"

"Are bright as the eyes of a dove."

"Its winds--"

"Soft as the breath of a young maiden."

"Methinks I should like to live in thy cabin--to rove uncontrolled through thy green glades, and to listen in dreamy and indolent repose to the merry music of thy waterfalls."

"Do, and thou shalt be welcome," replied the dark but beautiful, the stern but guileless, genius of the land.

"Knowest thou not that we are sisters?" asked the bright-eyed, fair-skinned, stranger.

"Nay, I knew it not," replied she of the wilderness.

"We are, and we have two others--thou, the youngest, and I thy next elder. I am come hither to direct thy footsteps, and to render thee my assistance in beautifying the clime so beautiful in itself, and to give to those over whom thou presidest the light of the knowledge I have conducted to my own realms. I have brought with me those who are the pioneers of my footsteps whithersoever I go."

"It is well," answered the genius of the wilderness. "Take as much as thou wilt of my lands. Choose for thyself the fairest spots--make my people as thine own--we are sisters, thou sayest, and I believe thee, for I love thee--sisters should dwell together in peace and love. Yon river bank is very fertile."

"It is indeed very fertile," answered the strange genius, her countenance brightening up as she surveyed the beautiful spot to which her attention was directed.

"Thou shalt have it for thine own," said the elder sister kindly.

"Thou art very good," answered the other. "What use dost thou make of yonder broad, and beautiful, and rapid river?"

"It furnishes food to my people. In the summer moons, the light canoes of my beloved red men are seen gliding over it in swift pursuit of the sturgeon; the fishes which sport in its clear bosom are the sweetest in all the waters of my wide domain."

"I should like to have that river to be mine own," said the pale genius.

"I can spare it," answered the other kindly. "It is thine."

"Yon is a beautiful lake," said the younger. "How calm and unruffled is its surface!"

"It is a very beautiful lake, but thou hast not seen it in its most beautiful season," answered the elder. "Thou shouldst behold it when it waves a wide sea of water-lilies, white as the snow of winter, or when myriads of gay wild-fowl skim its level surface, or settle down upon its pellucid bosom, to take their repast. Then it is indeed beautiful--very beautiful."

"A river and a lake should go together," said the younger.

"They should," answered she of the land, "nor will I be the one to separate them. I give thee the lake."

"How much loftier than all the mountains of my own clime is that which I see towering in the distance towards the land of the warm breezes!"

"That mountain is indeed very lofty," answered the dark Genius.

"I have a noble river, with a flowery bank rising above it, and I have a level lake, but thou hast not given me a mountain, to whose cool and refreshing breezes I may retire, when the fervid and scorching suns of summer invade the lowlands. I would--thou wilt deem me greedy as the hawk or the heron--I would have some such spot, whose breezes, when they kindly dispense health, nerve the soul to great actions, and within whose wild and inaccessible fastnesses, which, ever since Time was, have been the keepers of the free, the weak may find a resting-place, and the wearied by oppression a refuge."

"Take thou the mountain, and name what else thou wilt have."

"Only a few more rivers and a few more vales, which thou canst easily spare, and another mountain for a further refuge, and some more lakes to breed more wild-fowl in, and a forest or two well stocked with deer, and a part of the Great Lake to put my whales in--nothing more, except it be another vale, and another mountain, and another river, and a piece more of the sea."

The dark Genius of the land smiled at the _narrow_ wishes of her younger sister, and replied, that she could spare them all. So the younger sister appropriated to herself the highest mountains, and the most pleasant vales, and the broadest lakes, and the most rapid rivers, and a large piece of the sea to put whales in, and some forests well stocked with deer, and said, "she had taken so little it was scarcely worth thanking for."

Then the dreamer saw in his sleep that, at her bidding, the strange beasts which came in the cloud issued forth to take possession. How their eyes gloated upon the fair gifts which had been made them by the kind spirit of the land! And how grateful they appeared to be, and how exceedingly kind and affectionate they were to the poor Indians! They stroked their heads gently with one hand, while with the other they released them from their oppressive burdens--their beaver skins and their maize--indeed they were too kind. Then to gratify them still further, they produced a burning water[A], which they distributed among them, assuring them of its power to create pleasing images in the mind, and to make bright visions dance before the eyes of those who drank it. The Indians drank as they were bidden, and realised the predicted effects. What a wonderful medicine was the strong water! Under its potent influence, the mirror of the soul became enlarged, and a thousand images, till then unseen, floated before the mental eye. Then might a man receive certain intimations of the object he should choose as his protecting spirit, and astonish his brothers by a medicine of strange proportions and great power. And secrets of the land of souls--the way to pass the "narrow bridge over the fearful river," and how to stay the anger of the dog that guards it at the point where the Huron passes--how to tread the sharp and steep rock upon which the Chippewa finds entrance to his land of rest--all this, and much more, to be attained by no other means, was learned from the strong waters given to the Abnakis by the strange spirit. And Wangewaha, the dreamer, woke from his sleep, rubbed his eyes, and indulged in deep thought of what the dream might portend.

[Footnote A: Burning water, ardent spirits, commonly called by them the "fire-eater."]

Again he sunk to sleep, and again he dreamed. Still his dream was of strange creatures, aliens to his land, and usurpers of the rights of its native sons. But they had multiplied till their numbers were as the sands upon the sea shore. He stood in imagination upon a lofty hill, and cast his eyes upon the broad lands beneath him. How changed! The forests had been swept away, the land was cleared of its mossy old oaks, and lofty pines, and cedars, but, where they once raised their leafy heads to the winds of heaven, now rose cabins, white as the folds of a cloud, and glittering in the sun like a sheet of ice in a winter's day. The broad and rapid river, as well as the waters of the Great Lake, was marked in streaks of white foam by the many clouds traversing it, like that he had seen in his first dream. The lofty mountains were seamed like the breast of a tattooed warrior(2), by the roads which the strangers had made over it. The vales waved with the yellow wheat, and, herds of tame bisons lay resting on the grassy knolls, or stood grouped at the outlets of the fields, which the industrious strangers had girded in with fences of rock.

And what had become of the former inhabitants of the soil? where were the dusky men who met the strange creatures upon the shore, and bade them welcome, and gave them the fat things of the sea and the land for their subsistence, and warm furs to protect them from the searching winds of the Snow-Moon, and taught them how to follow the trail of forest animals, and to thread, unerringly, their way for many successive nights through the lonely wilderness, by the flow of streams and the course of fishes, and the light of the Hunter's Star, and the moss upon the oaks, and the flight of birds? Listen, and I will tell you.

He sees upon the edge of a stream, overgrown with a thick grove of alders and luxuriant vines, an Indian man and woman. The woman held in her arms a dying child--at the feet of the man, lay a lean and famished dog. Deep thought was in the eye of the one, and absorbing grief in that of the other. Now the hunter cast his eyes into the depths of the river in anxious search for the signs of the approach of the finny people; now he laid his ear to the earth after the manner of his race, when they would detect the sound of footsteps.

"Didst thou see aught in the current, which thine eye is searching?" asked the wife tremulously, fixing her bright black eye, moistened with a tear, upon her hungry infant.

"I saw nothing in the current," answered the hunter. "The net of the stranger hath swept from the flood that which was in part the food of our tribes, when he first became acquainted with these shores. The barbed spear no more brings up the sleeping conger; the Indian throws his hook into the once populous stream, but it returns with the bait untouched."

"Did thy quick ear catch the sound of aught in the mazes of the wood?" asked the fond mother, and her tears fell thick on the cheeks of her little babe.

"My ear caught no sound in the mazes of the wood," answered the hunter. "How should it? The stranger hath left nothing save the mouse, and the mole, and few of them. He has swept away the beloved retreats of the bounding beauty of the forest, the nimble deer, and none are left in the glades, where once they were thicker than the stars. The bear, and the wolf, and the panther, love not their crafty brother, and have gone yet deeper into the forest. The wild duck feeds now in the deep waters only, the mother teaches her brood that death lurks behind the wood-skirted shore."

"Then must this little child--thine and mine--our first-born, die of hunger. Yet bethink thee. I see among yonder lofty trees a cabin, the whiteness of which tells us that one of the despoilers of our joys hath there taken up his abode."

"Wouldst thou have the son of Alknomook--the son of the rightful lord--himself the rightful lord of these wide regions--beg bread from the stranger?"

"Not to save thy life or mine would I ask it, but what would I not do to save the life of this beautiful babe, which the Great Spirit granted to my prayers, when for sixty moons I had lived in thy cabin a disgraced woman(3)."

"Not therefore should the soul of an Indian warrior bend to a master. I cannot beg."

"What was the dream which thou hadst in the last Worm-Moon?"

"Thou sayest well--it was of vengeance had by means of the boy. The son of Alknomook will humble his pride--he will wipe off the war paint, which he laid as deep on his face as the memory of his wrongs weigh on his heart, and he will supplicate the stranger to give him food for his little one."

Still the sleeping chief continued to take note of the things which occurred. He beheld the enfeebled and emaciated Indians at the dwelling of the proud stranger. The stranger sat at the door of his lofty cabin, and thus he addressed the friendless outcasts:

"Why have you dared to trespass on my soil, to bruise my pretty flowers with your rude feet, and to frighten my flocks and herds with your shrill halloos?"

The son of the forest was about to reply fiercely, when his ear caught the plaintive moan of his famished child, and he controlled the tempest of wrath which was rising in his bosom.

"Thine eyes are the eyes of an owl by daylight," replied he calmly. "They have seen a thing which has not happened. The son of Alknomook did not bruise the flowers of the pale face, nor frighten his flocks and herds by his shrill halloos. Wilt thou give me a morsel of food for my famished child?"

"Begone, thou Indian dog!" said the proud and cruel man. "Thou shalt have no food here."

"But my child will die of hunger."

"If thy child die of hunger, there will be a red skin less. Back to thy woods, and herd with wolves and panthers, thy fit associates."