A
SUMMER IN THE WILDERNESS;
EMBRACING
A CANOE VOYAGE
UP THE MISSISSIPPI AND AROUND LAKE SUPERIOR.
BY
CHARLES LANMAN,
AUTHOR OF “ESSAYS FOR SUMMER HOURS,” ETC.
And I was in the wilderness alone.
Bryant.
NEW-YORK:
D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 200 BROADWAY.
PHILADELPHIA:
GEO. S. APPLETON, 148 CHESNUT-ST.
MDCCCXLVII.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847,
By D. APPLETON & COMPANY,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Southern District of
New-York.
TO
JAMES F. MELINE, ESQ.,
OF
CINCINNATI, OHIO,
THIS VOLUME
IS,
WITH FEELINGS OF THE HIGHEST RESPECT,
AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED,
BY HIS FRIEND,
THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
Saint Louis—a Western Artist—Twilight in a Cathedral, 13
CHAPTER II.
The Lower Mississippi—Entrance to the Upper Mississippi—The Lower
Rapids—Scenery—Rock Island, 20
CHAPTER III.
Starved Rock on the Illinois—Legend of the Illinois Indians, 26
CHAPTER IV.
Nauvoo—Temple of Nauvoo—A Mormon, and his story—Superb Panorama, 30
CHAPTER V.
The Upper Rapids—Scenery—Prairie Du Chien—Battle of Bad Axe—The
Winnebagoe Indians—Winneshic, Chief of the Winnebagoes—A
Visit to his Wigwam, 34
CHAPTER VI.
The Lead Region—Anecdote of a noted Western Character, 41
CHAPTER VII.
The Alpine Region of the Mississippi—Lake Pepin—Wabashaw, Chief of
the Sioux—An Old Woman, and her story—Legend of Winona, 45
CHAPTER VIII.
Red-Wing Village—Lake Saint Croix—Little Crow, a Sioux
Chief—Scenery, 51
CHAPTER IX.
Mouth of the Saint Peter’s—Dog Feast—Playing Ball—The Sioux
Indians—The Soldier Artist—A Naturalist—Carver’s
Cave—Beautiful Waterfall—Falls of St. Anthony—Legend
connected with them, 56
CHAPTER X.
A Ride on Horseback—Grouse Shooting—A Wilderness Supper—A Race
with a Pack of Wolves, 64
CHAPTER XI.
Crow-Wing—Famous Battle fought here—Legend of the White
Panther—Hole-in-the-Day, Chief of the Chippeway
Indians—The Scalpless Indian—Indian Swimmers—Begging
Dance—Torchlight Fishing, 68
CHAPTER XII.
The Indian Trader—The Fur Trade, 75
CHAPTER XIII.
Spirit Lake—Legends of the Mysterious Spirit—Story of
White-Fisher—Story of Elder-Brother—Outside Feather—Legend
of the Mole, 80
CHAPTER XIV.
The Mississippi—Lake Winnepeg—Bear Hunt—Bear Feast—A Dream, and
its Fulfillment—Manner of Treating the Dead—A Wilderness
Grave-Yard, 85
CHAPTER XV.
Red Cedar Lake—The Chippeway Indians—Their Country—Their Idea of
Creation—Their Religion—Their Heaven and Hell—Their Manner
of Winning the Title of Brave—Their Manner of Life—Their
Idea of Marriage, and Mode of Courtship—Their Hospitality, 91
CHAPTER XVI.
Elk Lake and Surrounding Region—Legend of the Mammoth Elk—Four
Wilderness Pictures, 98
CHAPTER XVII.
Leech Lake—The Pillagers—The Medicine Dance—The Medicine
Society—Virgin Dance—Red River Trappers—Legend of the Two
Women—Legend of Pelican Island—Legend of a Battle between
the Gods of the White and Red Men—Original Indian
Corn—Game of this Region, 104
CHAPTER XVIII.
Fish of the Mississippi—A Catfish Adventure—Spearing Muskalounge—A
Trouting Adventure, 110
CHAPTER XIX.
Sandy Lake—A queer way of making a Portage, 117
CHAPTER XX.
The Saint Louis River—The Chippeway Falls—Fon du Lac—Scenery of
the Lower Saint Louis, and Passage to Lake Superior, 121
CHAPTER XXI.
General Description of Lake Superior, 128
CHAPTER XXII.
American Shore of Lake Superior—Picturesque Cliffs—Isle
Royal—Apostle Islands—La Point—Indian Payment—Streams
Emptying into the Lake, 132
CHAPTER XXIII.
Canadian Shore of Lake Superior—Thunder Cape—Cariboo Point—The
Island Wonder, with its Watch-Tower and Beautiful
Lake—Menaboujou—His Death and Monument, 136
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Voyager—My Voyaging Companions—Our Mode of Travelling, with
its Pleasures and Miseries—Making Portages—Passing
Rapids—Narrow Escape—The Voyager’s Cheerfulness—Canadian
Songs—Voyaging on Superior—A Midnight Prospect, 141
CHAPTER XXV.
The Copper Region—Rich Discoveries—Copper Companies—Point
Keweenaw—Its Towns and People—Upstart Geologists—A
Conglomerate Paragraph, 152
CHAPTER XXVI.
Sault Saint Marie—Fish of Lake Superior—The Lake Trout—The Common
Trout—The White Fish—A Run down the Sault, 157
CHAPTER XXVII.
Mackinaw—Arched Rock—Robinson’s Folly—The Cave of Skulls—The
Needle—An Idler’s Confession—Mackinaw in the Summer and in
the Winter—Its Destiny, 162
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Recollections of Michigan, 167
SUMMER IN THE WILDERNESS.
CHAPTER I.
Saint Louis, June, 1846.
The River Queen, as Saint Louis is sometimes called, is looked upon as
the threshold leading to the wild and romantic region of the Upper
Mississippi. It was founded in the year seventeen hundred and
sixty-four, by two Frenchmen, named Laclade and Chouteau, who were
accompanied by about thirty Creoles. The first steamer which landed here
came from New Orleans in the year eighteen hundred and nineteen; but the
number now belonging here is rated at three hundred, many of which are
unsurpassed in speed and splendor of accommodations. The population of
this city amounts to forty thousand souls. It is elevated some eighty
feet above the low-water mark of the Mississippi, and from the river
presents a handsome appearance. The old part of the town is inhabited by
a French population, and is in a dilapidated condition; but the more
modern portion is distinguished for its handsome streets, and tastefully
built mansions and public buildings. Fronting the levee or landing are
several blocks of stone stores, which give one an idea of the extensive
business transacted here. On one occasion I saw this wharfing ground so
completely crowded with merchandise of every possible variety, that
travellers were actually compelled to walk from the steamboats to the
hotels. This city is the home market for all the natural productions of
a wilderness country extending in different directions for thousands of
miles, and watered by several of the largest rivers in the world. Its
growth, however, has been somewhat retarded by the peculiar character of
its original inhabitants. The acknowledged wealth of many of its leading
men can only be equalled by their illiberality and want of enterprise.
But time is committing sad ravages among these ancient citizens, for
they are, from age and infirmities, almost daily dropping into the place
of graves. Under the benign influence of true American enterprise, this
city is rapidly becoming distinguished for its New England character, in
spite of the retarding cause alluded to above, and the baneful
institution of Slavery. In fine, it possesses, to an uncommon degree,
all the worthy qualities which should belong to an enlightened and
eminently prosperous city.
There is one unique feature connected with the River Queen, which gives
it, at times, a most romantic appearance. It is the point whence must
start all distant expeditions to the North and West, and where the
treasures of the wilderness are prepared for re-shipment to the more
distant markets of our own and foreign countries. Here, during the
spring and summer months may often be seen caravans about to depart for
California, Santa Fe, the Rocky Mountains, and Oregon, while the
sprightly step and sparkling eye will speak to you of the hopes and
anticipations which animate the various adventurers. At one time,
perhaps, may be seen a company of toil-worn trappers entering the city,
after an absence of months, far away on the head waters of the
Mississippi and Missouri rivers, where they have hunted the beaver, the
buffalo, the otter, the bear, and the deer; and as they steal away to
their several homes, from the door of the Fur Company, where they have
just rendered their account, it does the heart good to ponder on the
joys which will be brought into existence by the happy return. And the
Indians, from different nations, who often visit this place, also add
greatly to the picturesque appearance of its streets. Summoned by
curiosity, they congregate here in large numbers, and while their gaudy
trappings and painted faces remind us of the strange wild life they
lead, their prowling propensities and downcast eyes inform us of the
melancholy fact, that they are the victims of a most heartless, though
lawful oppression. This remark, by the way, reminds me of a living
picture which I lately witnessed, and will briefly describe. It was the
sunset hour, and I was returning from a ride on the eastern bank of the
great river. The western sky was flooded with a saffron glow, in the
midst of which floated unnumbered cloud-islands, tinged with deepest
gold. Underneath lay the beautiful city, with its church-spires
up-pointing to the Christian’s home; then passed the rushing tide of the
Mississippi ploughed by many a proud keel; and in the foreground was a
woody bluff, on the brow of which sat a solitary Indian, humming a
strangely solemn song, as his white locks and eagle plumes waved in the
evening breeze. I asked no question of the sorrowing dreamer, but
pursued my way, pondering on the cruel destiny which has power to make
man a stranger and an exile, on the very soil from which he sprang, and
where repose the ashes of his forgotten kindred.
Lover as I am of genuine art, it will not do for me to leave this city,
the sturdy child of a new and great empire, without alluding to its
treasures in this particular. The bright particular star, who uses the
pencil here, is Charles Deas. He is a young man who left New-York about
eight years ago, for the purpose of studying his art in the wilds west
of the Mississippi. He makes this city his head-quarters, but annually
spends a few months among the Indian tribes, familiarizing himself with
their manners and customs, and he is honorably identifying himself with
the history and scenery of a most interesting portion of the continent.
The great charm of his productions is found in the strongly marked
national character which they bear. His collection of sketches is
already very valuable. The following are a few of the pictures which I
saw in his studio, and which pleased me exceedingly. One, called the
Indian Guide, represents an aged Indian riding in the evening twilight
on a piebald horse, apparently musing upon the times of old. The
sentiment of such a painting is not to be described, and can only be
felt by the beholder who has a passion for the wilderness. Another, Long
Jake, is the literal portrait of a celebrated character of the Rocky
Mountains. He looks like an untamed hawk, figures in a flaming red
shirt, and is mounted on a black stallion. He is supposed to be on the
ridge of a hill, and as the sky is blue, the figure stands out in the
boldest relief. Artistically speaking, this is a most daring effort of
the pencil, but the artist has decidedly triumphed. In a picture called
Setting out for the Mountains, Mr. Deas has represented a species of
American Cockney, who has made up his mind to visit the Rocky Mountains.
He is mounted on a bob-tailed, saucy-looking pony, and completely loaded
down with clothing, pistols, guns, and ammunition. He is accompanied by
a few covered wagons, a jolly servant to be his right-hand man, and two
dogs, which are frolicking on the prairie ahead, and while the man
directs the attention of his master to some game, the latter shrugs his
feeble shoulders, seems to think this mode of travelling exceedingly
fatiguing, and personifies the latter end of a misspent life. You
imagine that a few months have elapsed, and, turning to another picture,
you behold our hero Returning from the Mountains. Exposure and hardships
have transformed him into a superb looking fellow, and he is now full of
life and buoyancy, and riding with the most perfect elegance and ease a
famous steed of the prairies. The wagons, servant and dogs, are now in
the rear of our adventurer, who, comically dressed with nothing but a
cap, a calico shirt, and pair of buckskin pantaloons, is dashing ahead,
fearless of every danger that may happen to cross his path. These
pictures completely epitomize a personal revolution which is constantly
taking place on the frontiers. One of our artist’s more ambitious
productions, represents the daring feat of Captain Walker, during a
recent memorable battle in Mexico. The story is that the Captain, who
happened to be alone on a plain, had his horse killed from under him,
and was himself wounded in the leg. Supposing, as was the case, that the
Mexican savage would approach to take his scalp, he feigned himself
dead, as he lay upon his horse, and as his enemy was about to butcher
him, he fired and killed the rascal on the spot, and seizing the reins
of his enemy’s horse, he mounted him and rode into his own camp. In the
picture Walker is in the act of firing. But the picture upon which Mr.
Deas’s fame will probably rest, contains a large number of figures, and
represents the heroism of Captain James Clarke, who, when about to be
murdered by a council of Indians at North-Bend, threw the war-belt in
the midst of the savages, with a defying shout, and actually overwhelmed
them with astonishment, thereby saving his own life and those of his
companions. This picture is true to history in every particular, and
full of expression.
But enough about these productions of art. I am bound to the fountain
head of the Mississippi, and feel impatient to be with nature in the
wilderness. Before concluding this chapter, however, I will describe a
characteristic incident which I met with in Saint Louis.
I had been taking a lonely walk along the banks of the Mississippi, and,
in fancy, revelling amid the charms of this great western world, as it
existed centuries ago. My mind was in a dreamy mood, and as I re-entered
the city the hum of business fell like discord on my ear. It was the
hour of twilight and the last day of the week, and the citizens whom I
saw seemed anxious to bring their labors to a close that they might be
ready for the Sabbath.
While sauntering leisurely through a retired street, I was startled from
a waking dream, by the sound of a deep-toned bell, and, on lifting my
eyes, I found that I stood before the Catholic cathedral. I noticed a
dim light through one of the windows, and as the gates were open, I
remembered that it was the vesper hour, and entered the church. The
inner door noiselessly swung to, and I found myself alone, the spectator
of a most impressive scene. A single lamp, hanging before the altar,
threw out a feeble light, and so feeble was it, that a solemn gloom
brooded throughout the temple. While a dark shadow filled the aisles and
remote corners, the capitals of the massive pillars on either side were
lost in a still deeper shade. From the ceiling hung many a gorgeous
chandelier, which were now content to be eclipsed by the humble solitary
lamp. Scriptural paintings and pieces of statuary were on every side,
but I could discern that Christ was the centre of attraction in all.
Over, and around the altar too, were many works of art, together with a
multitudinous array of sacred symbols. Just in front of these, and in
the centre of the mystic throne, hung the lonely lamp, which seemed to
be endowed with a thinking principle, as its feeble rays shot out into
the surrounding darkness. That part of the cathedral where towered the
stupendous organ, was in deep shadow, but I knew it to be there by the
faint glistening of its golden pipes: as to the silence of the place, it
was perfectly death-like and holy. I chanced to heave a sigh, and that
very sigh was not without an echo. The distant hum of life, alone
convinced me that I was in a living world.
But softly! A footstep now breaks upon the silence! A priest in a
ghost-like robe, is passing from one chancel door to another. Another
footstep! and lo! a woman, clothed in black, with her face completely
hidden in a veil, passes up an aisle and falls upon her knees in prayer.
She has come here to find consolation in her widowhood. And now, slowly
tottering along, comes a white-haired man, and he, too, falls in the
attitude of prayer. With the pleasures of this world he is fully
satisfied, and his thoughts are now taken up with that strange
pilgrimage, whence travellers never return, and upon which he feels he
must soon enter.
Other life-sick mortals, have also entered the sanctuary, offered up
their evening prayer, and mingled with the tide of life once more. But
again the front door slowly opens, and a little negro boy, some seven
years of age, is standing by my side. What business has he here,—for
surely this offspring of a slave, and a slave himself, cannot be a
religious devotee? I take back that thought. I have wronged the child.
The Spirit of God must tabernacle in his heart, else he would not
approach the altar with such deep reverence. Behold him, like little
Samuel of old, calling upon the Invisible in prayer! What a picture!
Twilight in a superb cathedral, and the only worshipper a child and a
slave!