extravagant narrations of whatever he had seen, heard, or accomplished.
It seems that he always saw extraordinary things, made extraordinary
journeys, and performed extraordinary feats. He could not look out of
his lodge and see things as other men did. If he described a bird, it
had a most singular variety of brilliant plumage. The animals he met
with were all of the monstrous kind; they had eyes like orbs of fire,
and claws like hooks of steel, and could step over the top of an Indian
lodge. He told of a serpent he had seen, which had hair on its neck like
a mane, and feet resembling a quadruped; and if one were to take his own
account of his exploits and observations, it would be difficult to
decide whether his strength, his activity, or his wisdom should be most
admired.
Iagoo did not appear to have been endowed with the ordinary faculties of
other men. His eyes appeared to be magnifiers, and the tympanum of his
ears so constructed that what appeared to common observers to be but the
sound of a zephyr, to him had a far closer resemblance to the noise of
thunder. His imagination appeared to be of so exuberant a character,
that he scarcely required more than a drop of water to construct an
ocean, or a grain of sand to form an earth. And he had so happy an
exemption from both the restraints of judgment and moral accountability,
that he never found the slightest difficulty in accommodating his facts
to the most enlarged credulity. Nor was his ample thirst for the
marvellous ever quenched by attempts to reconcile statements the most
strange, unaccountable, and preposterous.
Such was Iagoo, the Indian story-teller, whose name is associated with
all that is extravagant and marvellous, and has long been established in
die hunter's vocabulary as a perfect synonym for liar, and is bandied
about as a familiar proverb. If a hunter or warrior, in telling his
exploits, undertakes to embellish them; to overrate his merits, or in
any other way to excite the incredulity of his hearers, he is liable to
be rebuked with the remark, "So here we have Iagoo come again." And he
seems to hold the relative rank in oral narration which our written
literature awards to Baron Munchausen, Jack Falstaff, and Captain Lemuel
Gulliver.
Notwithstanding all this, there are but a few scraps of his actual
stories to be found. He first attracted notice by giving an account of a
water lilly, a single leaf of which, he averred, was sufficient to make
a petticoat and upper garments for his wife and daughter. One evening he
was sitting in his lodge, on the banks of a river, and hearing the
quacking of ducks on the stream, he fired, through the lodge door at a
venture. He killed a swan that happened to be flying by, and twenty
brace of ducks in the stream. But this did not check the force of his
shot; they passed on, and struck the heads of two loons, at the moment
they were coming up from beneath the water, and even went beyond and
killed a most extraordinary large fish called Moshkeenozha.[67] On
another occasion he had killed a deer, and after skinning it, was
carrying the carcass on his shoulders, when he spied some stately elks
on the plain before him. He immediately gave them chase, and had run,
over hill and dale, a distance of half a day's travel, before he
recollected that he had the deer's carcass on his shoulders.
One day, as he was passing over a tract of _mushkeeg_, or bog-land, he
saw musquitoes of such enormous size, that he staked his reputation on
the fact that a single wing of one of the insects was sufficient for a
sail to his canoe, and the proboscis as big as his wife's shovel. But he
was favoured with a still more extraordinary sight, in a gigantic ant,
which passed him, as he was watching a beaver's lodge, dragging the
entire carcass of a hare.
At another time, for he was ever seeing or doing something wonderful, he
got out of smoking weed, and in going into the woods in search of some,
he discovered a bunch of the red willow, or maple bush, of such a
luxuriant growth, that he was industriously occupied half a day in
walking round it.
FOOTNOTES:
[67] The muscalunge.
THE GRAVE LIGHT,
OR
ADVENTURES OF A WARRIOR'S SOUL.
FROM THE ODJIBWA.
There was once a battle between the Indians, in which many were killed
on both sides. Among the number was the leader of the Odjibwas, a very
brave man, who had fought in many battles; but while he was shouting for
victory, he received an arrow in his flesh, and fell as if dead. At last
his companions _thought he was dead_, and treated him as if he were.
They placed his body in a sitting posture, on the field of battle, his
back being supported by a tree, and his face toward the enemies'
country. They put on him his head-dress of feathers, and leaned his bow
against his shoulders, for it was before the white men had brought guns
for the Indians. They then left him and returned to their homes.
The warrior, however, heard and saw all they did. Although his body was
deprived of muscular motion, his soul was living within it. He heard
them lament his death, and felt their touch as they set him up. "They
will not be so cruel as to leave me here," he thought to himself. "I am
certainly not dead. I have the use of my senses." But his anguish was
extreme, when he saw them, one after another depart, till he was left
alone among the dead. He could not move a limb, nor a muscle, and felt
as if he were buried in his own body. Horrid agonies came over him. He
exerted himself, but found that he had no power over his muscles. At
last he appeared to leap out of himself. He first stood up, and then
followed his friends. He soon overtook them, but when he arrived at
their camp no one noticed him. He spoke to them, but no one answered He
seemed to be _invisible_ to them, and his voice appeared to have no
_sound_. Unconscious, however, of his body's being left behind, he
thought their conduct most strange. He determined to follow them, and
exactly imitated all they did, walking when they walked, running when
they ran, sleeping when they slept. But the most unbroken silence was
maintained as to his presence.
When evening came he addressed the party. "Is it possible," said he,
"that you do not see me, nor hear me, nor understand me? Will you permit
me to starve when you have plenty? Is there no one who recollects me?"
And with similar sentiments he continued to talk to them, and to upbraid
them at every stage of their homeward journey, but his words seemed to
pass like the sounds of the wind.
At length they reached the village, and the women and children, and old
men, came out, according to custom, to welcome the returning war party.
They set up the shout of praise. Kumaudjing! kumaudjing! kumaudjing!
They have met, fought, and conquered, was heard at every side. Group
after group repeated the cry.
Kumaudjing! kumaudjing! kumaudjing!
They have met, fought, and conquered
The strong and the brave,
See the eagle plumes nod,
And the red trophies wave.
Kumaudjing! kumaudjing!
The war-banner waves,
They have fought like our fathers,
And scorn to be slaves,
The sons of the noble,
They scorn to be slaves.
And he--where is he, who has led them to fight,
Whose arrow was death,
And whose war-club was might.
Kumaudjing! kumaudjing!
The hero is near,
He is tying his enemies' scalp to his robe.
And wiping the enemies' blood from his spear.
He is near--he is near,
And, hark, his Sa-sa-kwan[68]
Now bursts on the ear.
The truth, however, was soon revealed; although it caused a momentary
check, it did not mar the _general_ joy. The sight of scalps made every
tongue vocal. A thousand inquiries were made, and he heard his own fate
described, how he had fought bravely, been killed, and left among the
dead.
"It is not true," replied the indignant chief, "that I was killed and
left upon the field of battle. I am here. I live. I move. See me."
Nobody answered. He then walked to his own lodge. He saw his wife
tearing her hair, and lamenting his fate. He asked her to bind up his
wounds. She made no reply. He placed his mouth close to her ear, and
called for food. She did not notice it. He drew back his arm and struck
her a blow. She felt nothing.
Thus foiled he determined to go back. He followed the track of the
warriors. It was four days' journey. During three days he met with
nothing extraordinary. On the fourth, toward evening, as he drew near
the skirts of the battle field, he saw a fire in the path. He stepped on
one side, but the fire had also moved its position. He crossed to the
other side, but the fire was still before him. Whichever way he took,
the fire appeared to bar his approach. At this moment he espied the
enemy of his fortunes in the moccasin, or flat-headed snake. "My son,"
said the reptile, "you have heretofore been considered a brave man--but
beware of this fire. It is a strong spirit. You must appease it by the
sacred gift." The warrior put his hand to his side, but he had left his
sack behind him. "Demon," he exclaimed, addressing the flame, "why do
you bar my approach. Know that I am a spirit. I have never been defeated
by my enemies, and I will not be defeated by you."
So saying, he made a sudden effort and leaped through the flames. In
this effort he _awoke from his trance_. He had lain eight days on the
battle field. He found himself sitting on the ground, with his back
supported by a tree, and his bow leaning against his shoulder, as his
friends had left him. He looked up and beheld a large Gha Niew, or war
eagle, sitting in the tree, which he immediately recognised as his
guardian spirit, or personal Manito. This bird had watched his body, and
prevented the other birds of prey from devouring it.
He arose and stood for a few minutes, but found himself weak and
emaciated. By the use of simples and such forest arts as our people are
versed in, he succeeded in reaching his home. When he came near, he
uttered the Sa sa kwan, or war cry, which threw the village into an
uproar. But while they were debating the meaning of so unexpected a
sound, the wounded chief was ushered into their midst. He related his
adventures as before given. He concluded his narrative by telling them
that it is pleasing to the spirits of the dead to have a fire lit up on
their graves at night, after their burial. He gave as a reason, that it
is four days' travel to the place appointed for the residence of the
soul, and it requires a light every night at the place of its
encampment. If the friends of the deceased neglect this rite, the spirit
is compelled to build a fire for itself.
Light up the fire upon my grave
When I am dead.
'Twill softly shed its beaming rays,
To guide the soul its darkling ways,
And ever, as the day's full light
Goes down, and leaves the world in night,
These kindly gleams, with warmth possest,
Shall show my spirit where to rest
When I am dead.
Four days the funeral rite renew,
When I am dead.
While onward bent, with typic woes,
I seek the red man's last repose;
Let no rude hand the flame destroy,
Nor mar the scene with festive joy;
While night by night, a ghostly guest,
I journey to my final rest,
When I am dead.
No moral light directs my way
When I am dead.
A hunter's fate--a warrior's fame,
A shade, a phantom, or a name,
All life-long through my hands have sought,
Unblest, unlettered, and untaught:
Deny me not the boon I crave--
A symbol-light upon my grave,
When I am dead.
FOOTNOTES:
[68] War cry.
PAUGUK.
FROM THE MYTHOLOGY OF THE CHIPPEWAS.
In a peculiar class of languages like the native American, in which
symbols are so extensively used, it might be anticipated that Death
should be thus denoted.
I asked SHAGUSH KODA WAIKWA, from whom this allegory is derived, whether
the Northern Indians discriminated between a corpse, a ghost, a spirit,
an angel, and death, considered as a personification. The answer was
affirmative, and I received the name for each.
Pauguk, according to this authority, is the personification of death. He
is represented as existing without flesh or blood. He is a hunter, and
besides his bow and arrows, is armed with a _puggamagon_, or war club.
But he hunts only men, women, and children. He is an object of dread and
horror. To see him is a sure indication of death. Some accounts
represent his bones as covered by a thin transparent skin, and his eye
sockets as filled with balls of fire.
Pauguk never speaks. Unlike the JEEBI or ghost, his limbs never assume
the rotundity of life, neither is he to be confounded in form with the
numerous class of minor Manitoes, or spirits. He does not possess the
power of metamorphosis. Unvaried in repulsiveness, he is ever an object
of fear; and often, according to Indian story, has the warrior, flushed
with the ardour of battle, rushing forward to seize the prize of
victory, clasped the cold and bony hand of PAUGUK.
"I shall never forget the fate of OWYNOKWA," continued the narrator.
"She was a widow of my native village, who had been left with six sons.
One after the other, as they became of suitable age, they had joined the
war parties who went out against their enemies and fallen in battle. At
last but one was left; he was her only stay and comfort, supplying her
with food and protection in her old age. But he too, as he became old
enough, spurning the dull life of a hunter, followed the war drum of his
tribe, and went out against our enemies in the West. The absence of such
a war party, is a time of anxiety and suspense with the women of a
village. To relieve this, and at the same moment to prepare them for
more particular intelligence, the returning party gives the war-cry of
triumph, and the death-wail indicating the number slain, as soon as they
come within hearing. On the present occasion, Owynokwa rushed from her
lodge, the moment she caught the first sound. She stood with her lips
parted, in an attitude of intense and agonized suspense; and as soon as
the death-wail broke upon her ear, despair appeared to rivet her to the
spot. She heeded nothing; not a muscle moved; she neither inquired nor
heard, who were the slain, but sank slowly to the earth in the place
where she stood. She was carried into her lodge, and the next morning
showed signs of reanimation, but they were slight and brief--the
rigidity of death soon seized upon her frame, and she followed her son
to the land of spirits. Her son was indeed among the slain, but mortal
tongue had not communicated the fact. It was generally supposed she had
met the glare of Pauguk at the moment the death-wail or Chee kwau dum
had broke on her ear."
THE VINE AND OAK.
AN ALLEGORY IN THE MANNER OF THE ALGICS.
A vine was growing beside a thrifty oak, and had just reached that
height at which it requires support. "Oak," said the ivy vine, "bend
your trunk so that you may be a support to me." "My support," replied
the oak, "is naturally yours, and you may rely on my strength to bear
you up, but I am too large and too solid to bend. Put your arms around
me, my pretty vine, and I will manfully support and cherish you, if you
have an ambition to climb, even as high as the clouds. While I thus hold
you up, you will ornament my rough trunk with your pretty green leaves
and shining scarlet berries. They will be as frontlets to my head, and I
shall stand in the forest like a glorious warrior, with all his plumes.
We were made by the Master of Life to grow together, that by our union
the weak should be made strong, and the strong render aid to the weak."
"But I wish to grow _independently_," said the vine, "why cannot you
twine around me, and let me grow up straight, and not be a mere
dependant upon _you_." "Nature," answered the oak, "did not _so_ design
it. It is impossible that you should grow to any height _alone_, and if
you try it, the winds and rain, if not your own weight, will bring you
to the ground. Neither is it proper for you to run your arms hither and
yon, among the trees. The trees will begin to say--"It is not my
vine--it is a stranger--get thee gone, I will not cherish thee." By this
time thou wilt be so entangled among the different branches, that thou
canst not get back to the oak; and nobody will _then_ admire thee, or
pity thee."
"Ah me," said the vine, "let me escape from such a destiny:" and with
this, she twined herself around the oak, and they both grew and
flourished happily together.