[Illustration: 107]
Chactas, son of Outalissi the Natchez, related this story to René the
European. Fathers have repeated it to their sons; and I, a traveller to
distant lands, have faithfully narrated what the Indians told me. I
saw in this story the picture of the hunting people and of the laboring
people; religion, the first lawgiver of men; the dangers of ignorance
and religious enthusiasm opposed to the light, the charity and the
veritable spirit of the Evangile; the struggles of the passions and the
virtues in a simple heart; and, finally, the triumph of Christianity
over the most ardent sentiment and the most terrible fear--Love and
Death.
When a Seminole related this story to me, I found it very instructive
and perfectly beautiful, because he narrated it with the flowery
eloquence of the desert, the grace of the cabin, and a simplicity in
describing grief which I am afraid I have not been able to preserve. But
one thing remained for me to learn. I wished to know what had become of
Father Aubry, and no one could tell me. I should never have ascertained
if Providence, who guides all, had not led me to discover what I was
seeking. This is how the matter came about.
I had visited the shores of the Mississippi, which formerly constituted
the southern boundary of New France, and I was desirous of seeing, in
the north, that other wonder of the American empire, the cataract of
Niagara. I had nearly reached the falls, in the ancient country of the
Agannonsioni, * when one morning, as I was crossing a plain, I perceived
a woman seated beneath a tree, and holding a dead child upon her knees.
I quietly approached the young mother, and heard her singing to this
effect:--
“If thou hadst remained amongst us, dear babe, with what grace thy hand
might have bent the bow! Thy arm might have tamed the furious bear,
and thy steps might have outrun the flying kid on the summit of the
mountain. White ermine of the rock, to go so young to the land of souls!
How wilt thou manage to live there? Thy father is not there to feed thee
with the produce of his chase. Thou wilt be cold, and no Spirit will
give thee skins to cover thyself. Oh! I must hasten to rejoin thee, to
sing songs to thee and to give thee my breast.” And the young mother
sang with a trembling voice, rocked the child upon her knees, wetted its
lips with her maternal milk, and bestowed upon the dead all those cares
which are usually given to the living.
According to the Indian custom, the woman desired to dry the body of her
son upon the branches of a tree before taking it away to the tomb of
its ancestors. She therefore undressed the new-born babe, and, after
breathing some instants upon its mouth, uncovered its breast, and
embraced the icy remains, which would certainly have been re-animated by
the fire of that maternal heart, if God had not reserved to Himself the
breath that imparts life.
She rose, and looked about for a tree upon which she might lay her
child. She selected a maple with red flowers, festooned with garlands of
apios, that emitted the sweetest perfumes. With one hand she pulled down
the lowest branch, and with the other she placed the body thereon;
then loosing the branch, it returned to its natural position, with the
remains of innocence concealed in its ordoriforous foliage. Oh, how
touching is this Indian custom! Pompous monuments of the Crassi and
of the Cæsars, I have seen you in your desolated plains; but I by far
prefer those aërian tombs of the savages, those mausoleums of flowers
and verdure, perfumed by the bee and waved by the zephyr, wherein the
nightingale builds its nest and warbles its plaintive melody. When the
mortal remains are those of a young maiden suspended by the hand of
a lover to the tree of death, or of a beloved child placed by a fond
mother in the dwelling of the little birds, the charm is still greater.
I approached her who was groaning at the foot of the maple-tree, and
placed my hands upon her head as I uttered the three cries of grief.
Afterwards, without speaking to the young mother, I imitated her by
taking a bough and driving away the insects that were buzzing about the
child’s body. But I was careful not to disturb a neighboring dove. The
Indian woman said to it: “Dove, if thou art not the soul of my departed
son, thou art doubtless a mother seeking for something to make a nest.
Take these hairs, which I shall no more wash in scented water; take them
for a bed for thy little ones, and may the Great Spirit preserve them to
thee!”
* The Iroquois,
Nevertheless, the mother wept with joy on remarking the stranger’s
politeness. As we were thus occupied, a young man came up and said,
“Daughter of Céluta, take down our child: we will no longer sojourn in
this place; we will set off at the rising of the next sun.” I then said,
“Brother, I wish you a blue sky, plenty of game, a beaver cloak, and
hope! You are not of the desert, then?”
“No,” replied the young man; “we are exiles, and we are going to seek a
country.” Saying that, the warrior lowered his head upon his breast, and
began knocking off the heads of some flowers with the end of his bow.
I saw that there were tears at the bottom of this story, so I remained
silent. The mother took her son’s body down from the branch of the tree,
and gave it to her spouse to carry. I then said, “Will you allow me to
light your fire to-night?”
“We have no cottage,” replied the warrior; “but if you desire to follow
us, we are going to camp on the border of the Falls.”
“With pleasure,” I replied; and we started off together.
We soon arrived at the border of the cataract, which announced itself
with frightful roarings. It is formed by the river Niagara, which takes
its rise in Lake Erie, and falls into Lake Ontario. Its perpendicular
height is one hundred and forty-four feet. From Lake Erie to the Falls,
the river flows with a rapid inclination; and at the leap it is less a
river than a sea whose torrents crush each other in the yawning mouth
of an abyss. The cataract is divided into two branches, and bends like a
horse-shoe. Between the two falls there is an island, hollow underneath,
and which hangs with all its trees over the chaos of the waves. The mass
of the river which rushes towards the north, assumes the form of a vast
cylinder, unrolling itself into a field of snow, and shining with every
color in the sun; that which flows to the east descends into a fearful
shade, and might be taken for a column of the water of the Deluge. A
thousand rainbows bend and cross each other above the abyss. Striking
against the shaken rock, the water rebounds in whirlwinds of froth that
rise above the forests like smoke from a vast burning mass. Pine-trees,
walnut-trees, and rocks worn into fantastic forms, ornament the scene.
Eagles, carried along by the current of air, are whirled down to the
bottom of the gulf; and carcajous, hanging by their flexible tails to
the ends of the fallen branches, wait to seize in the abyss the crushed
bodies of bears and elks.
Whilst I was contemplating this spectacle with a sort of pleasure mixed
with terror, the Indian and his spouse left me. I looked for them as I
ascended the river-side above the Falls, and soon discovered them in a
place suited to their grief. They were lying down upon the grass, with
a number of old men, near some human bones wrapped in bear-skins.
Astonished at everything I had seen during the last few hours, I sat
down near the young mother, and said, “What is all this, my sister?”
She replied: “My brother, the earth of our country and the ashes of our
forefathers follow us in our exile.”
“And how,” I asked, “have you been reduced to such a misfortune?” The
daughter of Céluta responded, “We are the remains of the Natchez. After
the massacre of our nation by the French, to avenge their compatriots,
those of our brothers who escaped from the conquerors found refuge with
our neighbors, the Chikassas. We remained tranquilly with them for some
time; but seven moons ago, the white men from Virginia took possession
of our fields, affirming that they had been given to them by a king of
Europe. So we raised our eyes to heaven, and, laden with the remains of
our forefathers, started on our way across the desert. I was confined
during the march, and as my milk was bad on account of my grief, it
caused my child to die.” As she spoke, the mother wiped her eyes with
her hair. I wept also.
After a while I said, “My sister, let us adore the Great Spirit;
everything happens by His command. We are all travellers; our fathers
were the same; but there is a place where we shall find rest. If I were
not afraid of my tongue being as indiscreet as that of a white man, I
would ask of you if you have heard speak of Chactas the Natchez.”
At these words the Indian woman looked at me, and asked, ‘’Who has
spoken to you of Chactas the Natchez? “I replied, “Wisdom.” The Indian
rejoined, “I will tell you what I know, because you drove away the flies
from the body of my son, and uttered good words concerning the Great
Spirit. I am the daughter of the daughter of René, the European whom
Chactas had adopted. Chactas, who had received baptism, and René, my
unfortunate grandfather, perished in the massacre.”
“Man passes constantly from grief to grief,” I replied, bending myself
with humility. “You might also perhaps be able to give me news of Father
Aubry?”
“He was not more fortunate than Chactas,” said the Indian. “The
Cherokees, who were hostile to the French, attacked his Mission. They
were guided thither by the sound of a bell that was rung to succor
travellers. Father Aubry could have escaped, but he would not abandon
his children, and remained to encourage them to die by his example. He
was burnt with great torture; but his enemies could not draw from him
a single cry that might be turned to the shame of his God or to the
dishonor of his country. During the punishment he never ceased to pray
for his executioners, and to pity the lot of his fellow-victims. In
order to compel him to betray a mark of weakness, the Cherokees led to
his feet a Christian savage, whom they had horribly mutilated. But they
were much surprised when they saw the young man go down upon his knees
and kiss the wounds of the old hermit, who cried out to him, ‘My
child, we have been given as a spectacle to men and to the angels.’
The Indians, furious at his expression, forced a red-hot iron down his
throat to prevent him from speaking; and thereupon, no longer able to
console his fellow-creatures, he expired.
“It is said that the Cherokees, accustomed though they were to see
savages suffer with indifference, could not refrain from confessing that
there was in Father Aubry’s courage something unknown to them, and which
surpassed every description of courage they had witnessed. Several of
them, struck by his remarkable death, afterwards became Christians.
[Illustration: 111]
“On his return to the land of white men, several years later, Chactas,
having heard of the misfortunes of the chief of prayer, went to gather
the Father’s ashes, and those of Atala. He arrived at the spot where the
mission had formerly existed, but he could scarcely recognize it. The
lake was overflown, and the savannah changed into a marsh; the natural
bridge, which had fallen in, had buried Atala’s tomb and the Groves of
Death beneath its ruins. Chactas wandered about the place for a length
of time: he visited the hermit’s grotto, which he found full of weeds
and raspberry-trees, and occupied by a fawn giving suck to her kid. He
sat down upon the rock beneath which he had watched his dying Atala; but
there was nothing on it beyond a few feathers fallen from the wings of
some birds of passage.
“While he was weeping, the missionary’s tamed serpent issued from the
neighboring bushes, and came creeping to his feet. Chactas warmed in
his bosom the faithful friend who had remained alone in the midst of the
ruins. The son of Outalissi stated that several times, at the approach
of night, he fancied he saw the shades of Atala and Father Aubry rise
out of the misty twilight. These visions filled him with religious fear
and a joyful sadness.
[Illustration: 113]
[Illustration: 115]
“After having sought the tomb of his sister and of the hermit in vain,
he was on the point of abandoning the spot, when the fawn from the
grotto set to leaping in front of him. She stopped at the foot of the
Mission cross. That cross was then half surrounded by water; the wood
of it was covered with moss, and the pelican of the wilderness loved to
perch upon its worm-eaten arms. Chactas judged that the graceful fawn
had led him to the tomb of his host.
“He dug below the rock that had formerly served as an altar, and there
found the remains of a man and woman. He had no doubt but they were
those of the priest and of the virgin, buried, perhaps, by the angels
in that place; so he wrapped them in bear-skins, and started on his way
back to his country, carrying off the precious remains, which sounded
on his shoulders like the quiver of death. At night he placed them under
his pillow, and had dreams of love and of virtue. O stranger! you may
here contemplate that dust, and also the remains of Chactas himself.”
As the Indian finished speaking, I rose, went towards the sacred ashes,
and prostrated myself before them in silence. I afterwards walked away
slowly, and with long strides, saying to myself, “Thus ends upon earth
all that is good, virtuous and feeling! Man, thou art but a rapid
and painful dream! Thou only existest by misfortune; and if thou art
anything at all, it is merely by the sadness of thy soul and the eternal
melancholy of thy thoughts!”
I was preoccupied with such reflections all night. The next morning, at
day-break, my hosts left me. The young warriors opened the march, and
their wives closed it. The former were charged with the holy relics,
the latter carried their infants. The old men walked slowly in the
middle--placed between their forefathers and their posterity, between
remembrance and hope, between the lost country and the country to be
found.
O what tears are shed when we thus abandon our native land!--when, from
the summit of the mountain of exile, we look for the last time upon the
roof beneath which we were bred, and see the hut-stream still flowing
sadly through the solitary fields surrounding our birth-place!
Unfortunate Indians!--you whom I have seen wandering in the deserts
of the New World with the ashes of your ancestors;--you who gave
me hospitality in spite of your misery--I could not now return your
generosity, for I am wandering, like you, at the mercy of men; but less
fortunate than you in my exile, I have not brought with me the bones of
my fathers.
[Illustration: 118]