Mouth of the Saint Peter’s, July, 1846.
The hamlet of Saint Peter is at the mouth of the Saint Peter’s river,
and at the head of steamboat navigation on the Mississippi. My sojourn
here has been interesting from many circumstances. I feel that I am on
the extreme verge of the civilized world, and that all beyond, to the
ordinary traveller, is a mysterious wilderness; and every object which
attracts my attention is made doubly entertaining by the polite
attentions I receive from several gentlemen connected with Fort Snelling
and the Fur Company.
Here it was that I first saw an extensive encampment of Sioux or Dacotah
Indians, who had, within six miles of the Fort, no less than three large
villages. This, as is well known, is one of the most peculiar and savage
tribes of the northwest, and as I happen to be here during their gala
season, I have had an opportunity of being present at some of their
feasts and games.
On one occasion it was announced throughout the village that the Indians
were to have a Dog Feast, in which none but the bravest and most
distinguished of the warriors are allowed to participate. The idea that
lies at the bottom of this rite is, that by eating of a dog’s liver the
heart is made strong. The feast took place on the open prairie, in the
afternoon, and was attended by about one hundred men, while there must
have been a thousand spectators. The first step in the ceremony was for
the Indians to seat themselves in a circle around a large pole, and
devote a few moments to smoking. Their only article of clothing was the
clout, and their only weapon a long knife, while their heads were
decorated with death-trophies, and their bodies encircled by a belt from
which hung all the scalps the wearers had taken. Suddenly a whoop was
given, and the whole party commenced dancing to the monotonous music of
a drum. Then broke upon the ear the howl, and in a moment more the dying
groan of a dog from without the circle of dancers. The carcass was
thrown into their midst by a woman. A chorus of deafening yells
resounded through the air, the dog was immediately opened, his liver
taken out, suspended to the pole by a string, and the dance resumed. A
moment had hardly elapsed, however, before the dancers, one after
another, stepped up and took a bite of the yet warm and quivering liver.
Soon as this was all eaten, another dog was thrown into the ring, and
the same horrible ceremony repeated; and so they continued until the
carcasses of ten dogs were lying at the foot of the pole in the centre
of the dancing crowd. Another human howl ascended to the sky, and the
feast was ended. All the while the river flowed peacefully onward, and
the mellow sunlight bathed in its own gorgeous hues the illimitable
prairie.
I have also had an opportunity of witnessing in this place the Indian
mode of playing Ball. There is nothing exclusive in this game, and every
male Indian who is sufficiently active may take a part therein. It
sometimes lasts for several days, and when I witnessed it, was played by
two companies or bands, of about one hundred and fifty individuals each.
The balls used are formed of a deer-skin bag, stuffed with the hair of
that animal and sewed with its sinews. The clubs are generally three
feet long, and have at the lower end a sinewy netting, sufficiently
large to hold the ball, and each player is furnished with one of these
clubs. With these they catch and throw the ball, and though they are not
allowed to touch it with their hands, it is sometimes kept from once
touching the ground for a whole afternoon. The station of each party is
marked by a pole, on a line with which the players stand, just before
beginning the game. The poles are usually about five hundred yards
apart. The ball first makes its appearance midway between the parties,
to which point a most furious rush is made, and the object to be
attained and which talleys, is, for the player to throw the ball
_outside_ of his own line of standing.
The Olympic beauty of this game is beyond all praise. It calls into
active exercise every muscle of the human frame, and brings into bold
relief the supple and athletic forms of the best-built people in the
world. The only _ornaments_ worn are of paint and marked all over the
body, which, with the usual exception, is perfectly naked. At one time a
figure will rivet your attention similar to the Apollo Belvidere, and at
another, you will actually be startled by the surpassing elegance of a
Mercury. The only music that accompanies the game is a chorus of wild
clear laughter. The only drawback connected with it is the danger of
getting your legs broken, or the breath knocked out of your body, which
are calamities that frequently happen.
There are not many particulars with regard to manners and habits wherein
the Sioux Indians differ from their surrounding brethren. Living, as
they mostly do, in a vast prairie region, their favorite and principal
mode of travelling is on horseback, and away from the larger rivers, you
will find them possessed of the finest horses, which they love and
protect with true Arabian affection. They are of course admirable
horsemen, and very expert in hunting the buffalo. They are most cruel
and vindictive towards their enemies, and have, from time immemorial,
been at war with their neighbors of the north and west; and their hatred
of the white man seems to be a cherished emotion of their nature.
Physically speaking, they are a noble race of men and women, but
universally considered as the Ishmaelites of the wilderness. Speaking of
these Indians, reminds me of their pictorial historian, Capt. Seth
Eastman. This gentleman is an officer in the army, and an artist of
ability. He is a native of Maine, has been in the service about eighteen
years, and stationed at Fort Snelling for the last five. All his leisure
time has been devoted to the study of Indian character, and the
portraying upon canvass of their manners and customs, and the more
important fragments of their history. The Sioux tribes have attracted
the most of his attention, although he has not neglected the Chippeways,
and he has done much to make us acquainted with the Seminoles of
Florida, where he was once stationed for several years. Excepting a few,
which he has occasionally presented to his friends, all that he ever
painted are now in his possession, and it was my good fortune to spend
many agreeable hours admiring their beauties. The collection now numbers
about four hundred pieces, comprising every variety of scenes, from the
grand Medicine Dance to the singular and affecting Indian Grave. When
the extent and character of this Indian Gallery are considered, it must
be acknowledged the most valuable in the country, not even excepting
that of George Catlin. But what adds greatly to the interest called
forth by these pictures is the use to which they are to be applied.
Instead of being used as a travelling exhibition to accumulate gold,
this gallery is to be presented to a distinguished college, from which
the artist will only demand the education of his children. There is
something in this movement so foreign to the sordid passion of our age,
and so characteristic of the true spirit of art, that the heart is
thrilled with pleasure as we remember the American soldier-artist of the
wilderness.
I have also had the pleasure of meeting at St. Peter’s M. Lamarre Piquo,
the distinguished French naturalist from Paris. He has been in the
Indian country upwards of a year, and is to remain some months longer.
He is on a professional tour, collecting specimens in every department
of natural history, and for that purpose is constantly wandering along
the rivers, through the woods, and over the prairies of the northwest,
with no companions but Half-Breeds or Indians. He seems to be a most
passionate lover of his science, and the appearance of his temporary
store-room or museum is unique and interesting. Here, an immense buffalo
stares at you with its glassy eyes, while just above it, pinned to the
wall, may be seen a collection of curious beetles, butterflies, and
other insects; then an elk and a deer will display their graceful forms,
while at their feet will be coiled up the rattlesnake, the adder, and
other frightful serpents; here the otter, the beaver, the fox, the wolf,
the bear, and other native animals; there a complete flock of web-footed
creatures, from the wild swan and pelican to the common duck; here an
eagle and hawk, a partridge and scarlet-bird; and there, embalmed in
spirit, a vast variety of curious reptiles. M. Lamarre Piquo belongs to
that honorable class of scholars whose labors tend to develope the
glorious resources of our country, and among whom we find such men as
Wilson, Audubon, Silliman, and Houghton.
Among the natural beauties associated with St. Peter’s ought not to be
forgotten Carver’s Cave, the Cascade Waterfall, the Lakes, and the
Pilot’s Nob. The Cave is about four miles below, and was named after
Carver, who was the first white man that explored it thoroughly; its
Indian name however was Wahon-teebe, which means Dwelling of the Great
Spirit. The entrance to it is on the brink of the river, five feet high
and about twice as wide; and the arch within is not far from fifteen
feet high and twenty broad. The bottom is covered with sand, which
slopes down to a lake of pure water, the opposite boundary of which has
never been visited. On one of the inner sides, not far from the
entrance, are quite a number of Indian hieroglyphics, partly covered
with the moss of by-gone centuries.
About two miles north of St. Peter’s there empties into the Mississippi
a small river, without a name, the parent of a most beautiful waterfall.
The stream is perhaps fifty feet wide, and after a wayward passage
across the green prairie, it finally comes to a precipice of more than
one hundred feet deep, and in an unbroken sheet discharges its
translucent treasure into the pool below. So completely hidden by a mass
of foliage is this fall, that you would pass it by unnoticed, were it
not for its ever-murmuring song. The array of luxuriant trees that
surround it, seem to be acquainted with its sorrow, for they all bend
gracefully over it in sympathy and love; while the spray which ascends
from the abyss seems like the incense of a mysterious sacrifice. But
before a thought of poetic melancholy can glide into the heart, the eye
is delighted with the form and colors of a rainbow, and the
contradictory and unaccountable influences of nature make us happy.
The Lakes in the neighborhood of St. Peter’s, on the bosom of the
prairie, number some four or five, the most conspicuous of which are
Harriet and Calhoun. They are not deep, but perfectly clear, abound in
fish, and encircled with sand. The Pilot’s Nob is a grass-covered peak,
commanding a most magnificent series of views. To the west lies a
boundless prairie; to the north and south the fantastic valley of the
Mississippi; and to the east a wilderness of forests and prairie,
apparently reaching to the shores of Michigan. But let us to the Falls
of St. Anthony, which are a few miles above St. Peter’s.
These Falls are more famous than remarkable. They were first visited by
Father Hennepin in 1689, who gave them their present name, out of
respect to his patron saint. Their original name, in the Sioux language,
was Owah-Menah, meaning falling water. They owe their reputation
principally to the fact that they “veto” the navigation of the Upper
Mississippi. They are surrounded with prairie, and therefore easily
approached from every direction. The river here is perhaps half a mile
wide, and the entire height of the Falls, including the upper and lower
rapids, is said to measure some twenty-five or thirty feet, and they are
consequently without an imposing feature. The line of the Falls is
nearly straight, but broken near the centre by a large island, and just
below this are no less than seven smaller but more picturesque islands,
which are looked down upon by steep bluffs on either side of the river.
For half a mile before the waters make their plunge, they glide swiftly
across a slanting, but perfectly flat bed of rock; and after they have
reached the lower level, they create a perfect sheet of foam, as if
venting their wrath upon the rocks which impede their progress; but in a
few moments they murmur themselves to sleep, and then glide onward
towards the far distant ocean in perfect peace.
These Falls seem to be the grand head-quarters for the eagles of the
wilderness, which congregate here in great numbers. At one moment a
hungry individual might be seen, struggling with a bass or trout,
directly in the pure foam; and then another, with well-filled crop, high
up in heaven, would be floating on his tireless pinions. At another
time, too, you might see a perfect crowd of them hovering over the body
of some floating animal which had lost its life while attempting to
cross the upper rapids, and fearful indeed was the shriek of conflict
between those warriors of the air.
Associated with the Falls of St. Anthony is the following Indian legend.
A Chippeway woman, the daughter of a chief, and the wife of a warrior,
had been cruelly treated by her faithless husband. She was not
beautiful, but young and proud, and the mother of a lovely
daughter-child. Goaded to the quick by repeated wrongs, she finally
resolved to release herself from every trouble, and her child from evil
friends, by departing for the Spirit Land, and the Falls were to be the
gateway to that promised heaven. It was an Indian summer evening, and
nature was hushed into a deep repose. The mother and her child were
alone in their wigwam, within sight and hearing of the Falls, and the
father was absent on a hunting expedition. The mother kissed and
caressed her darling, and then dressed it with all the ornaments in her
possession, while from her own person she rejected every article of
clothing which she had received from her husband, and arrayed herself in
richer garments which she had made with her own hands. She then obtained
a full-blown lily, and crushing its petals and breaking its stem, she
placed it on a mat in the centre of her lodge, as a memorial of her
wrongs. All things being ready, she seized the child, hastened to the
river, launched her frail canoe, and in a moment more was floating on
the treacherous stream. According to a universal Indian custom, she sang
a wild death-song,—for a moment her canoe trembled on the brow of the
watery precipice, and in an instant more the mother and child were for
ever lost in the foam below.