I said that I was here in the midst of a strange people, which is
literally true; and I find myself surrounded by subjects and scenes
worthy the pens of Irving or Cooper—of the pencils of Raphael or
Hogarth; rich in legends and romances, which would require no aid of
the imagination for a book or a picture.
The Mandans (or See-pohs-kah-nu-mah-kah-kee, “people of the pheasants,”
as they call themselves), are perhaps one of the most ancient tribes
of Indians in our country. Their origin, like that of all the other
tribes is from necessity, involved in mystery and obscurity. Their
traditions and peculiarities I shall casually recite in this or future
epistles; which when understood, will at once, I think, denominate them
a peculiar and distinct race. They take great pride in relating their
traditions, with regard to their origin; contending that they were the
_first_ people created on earth. Their existence in these regions has
not been from a very ancient period; and, from what I could learn of
their traditions, they have, at a former period, been a very numerous
and powerful nation; but by the continual wars which have existed
between them and their neighbours, they have been reduced to their
present numbers.
This tribe is at present located on the west bank of the Missouri,
about 1800 miles above St. Louis, and 200 below the Mouth of Yellow
Stone river. They have two villages only, which are about two miles
distant from each other; and number in all (as near as I can learn),
about 2000 souls. Their present villages are beautifully located, and
judiciously also, for defence against the assaults of their enemies.
The site of the lower (or principal) town, in particular (+plate+
45), is one of the most beautiful and pleasing that can be seen
in the world, and even more beautiful than imagination could ever
create. In the very midst of an extensive valley (embraced within a
thousand graceful swells and parapets or mounds of interminable green,
changing to blue, as they vanish in distance) is built the city, or
principal town of the Mandans. On an extensive plain (which is covered
with a green turf, as well as the hills and dales, as far as the eye
can possibly range, without tree or bush to be seen) are to be seen
rising from the ground, and towards the heavens, domes—(not “of gold,”
but) of dirt—and the thousand spears (not “spires”) and scalp-poles,
&c. &c., of the semi-subterraneous village of the hospitable and
gentlemanly Mandans.
[Illustration: 45]
[Illustration: 46]
These people formerly (and within the recollection of many of their
oldest men) lived fifteen or twenty miles farther down the river, in
ten contiguous villages; the marks or ruins of which are yet plainly
to be seen. At that period, it is evident, as well from the number of
lodges which their villages contained, as from their traditions, that
their numbers were much greater than at the present day.
There are other, and very interesting, traditions and historical facts
relative to a still prior location and condition of these people,
of which I shall speak more fully on a future occasion. From these,
when they are promulged, I think there may be a pretty fair deduction
drawn, that they formerly occupied the lower part of the Missouri, and
even the Ohio and Muskingum, and have gradually made their way up the
Missouri to where they now are.
There are many remains on the river below this place (and, in fact,
to be seen nearly as low down as St. Louis), which shew clearly the
peculiar construction of Mandan lodges, and consequently carry a strong
proof of the above position. While descending the river, however, which
I shall commence in a few weeks, in a canoe, this will be a subject of
interest; and I shall give it close examination.
The ground on which the Mandan village is at present built, was
admirably selected for defence; being on a bank forty or fifty feet
above the bed of the river. The greater part of this bank is nearly
perpendicular, and of solid rock. The river, suddenly changing its
course to a right-angle, protects two sides of the village, which is
built upon this promontory or angle; they have therefore but one side
to protect, which is effectually done by a strong piquet, and a ditch
inside of it, of three or four feet in depth. The piquet is composed
of timbers of a foot or more in diameter, and eighteen feet high, set
firmly in the ground at sufficient distances from each other to admit
of guns and other missiles to be fired between them. The ditch (unlike
that of civilized modes of fortification) is inside of the piquet, in
which their warriors screen their bodies from the view and weapons of
their enemies, whilst they are reloading and discharging their weapons
through the piquets.
The Mandans are undoubtedly secure in their villages, from the attacks
of any Indian nation, and have nothing to fear, except when they meet
their enemy on the prairie. Their village has a most novel appearance
to the eye of a stranger; their lodges are closely grouped together,
leaving but just room enough for walking and riding between them; and
appear from without, to be built entirely of dirt; but one is surprised
when he enters them, to see the neatness, comfort, and spacious
dimensions of these earth-covered dwellings. They all have a circular
form, and are from forty to sixty feet in diameter. Their foundations
are prepared by digging some two feet in the ground, and forming the
floor of earth, by levelling the requisite size for the lodge. These
floors or foundations are all perfectly circular, and varying in size
in proportion to the number of inmates, or of the quality or standing
of the families which are to occupy them. The superstructure is then
produced, by arranging, inside of this circular excavation, firmly
fixed in the ground and resting against the bank, a barrier or wall of
timbers, some eight or nine inches in diameter, of equal height (about
six feet) placed on end, and resting against each other, supported by
a formidable embankment of earth raised against them outside; then,
resting upon the tops of these timbers or piles, are others of equal
size and equal in numbers, of twenty or twenty-five feet in length,
resting firmly against each other, and sending their upper or smaller
ends towards the centre and top of the lodge; rising at an angle of
forty-five degrees to the apex or sky-light, which is about three or
four feet in diameter, answering as a chimney and a sky-light at the
same time. The roof of the lodge being thus formed, is supported by
beams passing around the inner part of the lodge about the middle of
these poles or timbers, and themselves upheld by four or five large
posts passing down to the floor of the lodge. On the top of, and over
the poles forming the roof, is placed a complete mat of willow-boughs,
of half a foot or more in thickness, which protects the timbers from
the dampness of the earth, with which the lodge is covered from bottom
to top, to the depth of two or three feet; and then with a hard or
tough clay, which is impervious to water, and which with long use
becomes quite hard, and a lounging place for the whole family in
pleasant weather—for sage—for wooing lovers—for dogs and all; an airing
place—a look-out—a place for gossip and mirth—a seat for the solitary
gaze and meditations of the stern warrior, who sits and contemplates
the peaceful mirth and happiness that is breathed beneath him, fruits
of his hard-fought battles, on fields of desperate combat with
bristling Red Men.
The floors of these dwellings are of earth, but so hardened by use,
and swept so clean, and tracked by bare and moccassined feet, that
they have almost a polish, and would scarcely soil the whitest linen.
In the centre, and immediately under the sky-light (+plate+ 46) is the
fire-place—a hole of four or five feet in diameter, of a circular form,
sunk a foot or more below the surface, and curbed around with stone.
Over the fire-place, and suspended from the apex of diverging props or
poles, is generally seen the pot or kettle, filled with buffalo meat;
and around it are the family, reclining in all the most picturesque
attitudes and groups, resting on their buffalo-robes and beautiful mats
of rushes. These cabins are so spacious, that they hold from twenty
to forty persons—a family and all their connexions. They all sleep on
bedsteads similar in form to ours, but generally not quite so high;
made of round poles rudely lashed together with thongs. A buffalo skin,
fresh stripped from the animal, is stretched across the bottom poles,
and about two feet from the floor; which, when it dries, becomes much
contracted, and forms a perfect sacking-bottom. The fur side of this
skin is placed uppermost, on which they lie with great comfort, with
a buffalo-robe folded up for a pillow, and others drawn over them
instead of blankets. These beds, as far as I have seen them (and I have
visited almost every lodge in the village), are uniformly screened with
a covering of buffalo or elk skins, oftentimes beautifully dressed
and placed over the upright poles or frame, like a suit of curtains;
leaving a hole in front, sufficiently spacious for the occupant to pass
in and out, to and from his or her bed. Some of these coverings or
curtains are exceedingly beautiful, being cut tastefully into fringe,
and handsomely ornamented with porcupine’s quills and picture writings
or hieroglyphics.
From the great number of inmates in these lodges, they are necessarily
very spacious, and the number of beds considerable. It is no uncommon
thing to see these lodges fifty feet in diameter inside (which is an
immense room), with a row of these curtained beds extending quite
around their sides, being some ten or twelve of them, placed four or
five feet apart, and the space between them occupied by a large post,
fixed quite firm in the ground, and six or seven feet high, with large
wooden pegs or bolts in it, on which are hung and grouped, with a wild
and startling taste, the arms and armour of the respective proprietor;
consisting of his whitened shield, embossed and emblazoned with the
figure of his protecting _medicine_ (or mystery), his bow and quiver,
his war-club or battle-axe, his dart or javelin—his tobacco pouch and
pipe—his medicine-bag—and his eagle—ermine or raven head-dress; and
over all, and on the top of the post (as if placed by some conjuror
or Indian magician, to guard and protect the spell of wildness that
reigns in this strange place), stands forth and in full relief the head
and horns of a buffalo, which is, by a village regulation, owned and
possessed by every man in the nation, and hung at the head of his bed,
which he uses as a mask when called upon by the chiefs, to join in the
buffalo-dance, of which I shall say more in a future epistle.
This arrangement of beds, of arms, &c., combining the most vivid
display and arrangement of colours, of furs, of trinkets—of barbed and
glistening points and steel—of mysteries and hocus pocus, together
with the sombre and smoked colour of the roof and sides of the
lodge; and the wild, and rude and red—the graceful (though uncivil)
conversational, garrulous, story-telling and happy, though ignorant
and untutored groups, that are smoking their pipes—wooing their
sweethearts, and embracing their little ones about their peaceful and
endeared fire-sides; together with their pots and kettles, spoons,
and other culinary articles of their own manufacture, around them;
present altogether, one of the most picturesque scenes to the eye of a
stranger, that can be possibly seen; and far more wild and vivid than
could ever be imagined.
Reader, I said these people were garrulous, story-telling and happy;
this is true, and literally so; and it belongs to me to establish the
fact, and correct the error which seems to have gone forth to the world
on this subject.
As I have before observed, there is no subject that I know of within
the scope and reach of human wisdom, on which the civilized world in
this enlightened age are more incorrectly informed, than upon that
of the true manners and customs, and moral condition, rights and
abuses, of the North American Indians; and that, as I have also before
remarked, chiefly on account of the difficulty of our cultivating a
fair and honourable acquaintance with them, and doing them the justice,
and ourselves the credit, of a fair and impartial investigation of
their true character. The present age of refinement and research has
brought every thing else that I know of (and a vast deal more than
the most enthusiastic mind ever dreamed of) within the scope and fair
estimation of refined intellect and of science; while the wild and
timid savage, with his interesting customs and modes has vanished, or
his character has become changed, at the approach of the enlightened
and intellectual world; who follow him like a phantom for awhile, and
in ignorance of his true character at last turn back to the common
business and social transactions of life.
Owing to the above difficulties, which have stood in the way, the world
have fallen into many egregious errors with regard to the true modes
and meaning of the savage, which I am striving to set forth and correct
in the course of these epistles. And amongst them all, there is none
more common, nor more entirely erroneous, nor more easily refuted,
than the current one, that “the Indian is a sour, morose, reserved and
taciturn man.” I have heard this opinion advanced a thousand times and
I believed it; but such certainly, is not uniformly nor generally the
case.
I have observed in all my travels amongst the Indian tribes, and
more particularly amongst these unassuming people, that they are a
far more talkative and conversational race than can easily be seen
in the civilized world. This assertion, like many others I shall
occasionally make, will somewhat startle the folks at the East, yet
it is true. No one can look into the wigwams of these people, or into
any little momentary group of them, without being at once struck with
the conviction that small-talk, gossip, garrulity, and story-telling,
are the leading passions with them, who have little else to do in
the world, but to while away their lives in the innocent and endless
amusement of the exercise of those talents with which Nature has
liberally endowed them, for their mirth and enjoyment.
One has but to walk or ride about this little town and its environs
for a few hours in a pleasant day, and overlook the numerous games and
gambols, where their notes and yelps of exultation are unceasingly
vibrating in the atmosphere; or peep into their wigwams (and watch
the glistening fun that’s beaming from the noses, cheeks, and chins,
of the crouching, cross-legged, and prostrate groups around the fire;
where the pipe is passed, and jokes and anecdote, and laughter are
excessive) to become convinced that it is natural to laugh and be
merry. Indeed it would be strange if a race of people like these, who
have little else to do or relish in life, should be curtailed in that
source of pleasure and amusement; and it would be also strange, if a
life-time of indulgence and practice in so innocent and productive a
mode of amusement, free from the cares and anxieties of business or
professions, should not advance them in their modes, and enable them to
draw far greater pleasure from such sources, than we in the civilized
and business world can possibly feel. If the uncultivated condition of
their minds curtails the number of their enjoyments; yet they are free
from, and independent of, a thousand cares and jealousies, which arise
from mercenary motives in the civilized world; and are yet far a-head
of us (in my opinion) in the real and uninterrupted enjoyment of their
simple natural faculties.
They live in a country and in communities, where it is not customary
to look forward into the future with concern, for they live without
incurring the expenses of life, which are absolutely necessary and
unavoidable in the enlightened world; and of course their inclinations
and faculties are solely directed to the enjoyment of the present day,
without the sober reflections on the past or apprehensions of the
future.
With minds thus unexpanded and uninfluenced by the thousand passions
and ambitions of civilized life, it is easy and natural to concentrate
their thoughts and their conversation upon the little and trifling
occurrences of their lives. They are fond of fun and good cheer, and
can laugh easily and heartily at a slight joke, of which their peculiar
modes of life furnish them an inexhaustible fund, and enable them to
cheer their little circle about the wigwam fire-side with endless
laughter and garrulity.
It may be thought, that I am taking a great deal of pains to establish
this fact, and I am dwelling longer upon it than I otherwise should,
inasmuch as I am opposing an error that seems to have become current
through the world; and which, if it be once corrected, removes a
material difficulty, which has always stood in the way of a fair and
just estimation of the Indian character. For the purpose of placing
the Indian in a proper light before the world, as I hope to do in
many respects, it is of importance to me—it is but justice to the
savage—and justice to my readers also, that such points should be
cleared up as I proceed; and for the world who enquire for correct and
just information, they must take my words for the truth, or else come
to this country and look for themselves, into these grotesque circles
of never-ending laughter and fun, instead of going to Washington
City to gaze on the poor embarrassed Indian who is called there by
his “Great Father,” to contend with the sophistry of the learned and
acquisitive world, in bartering away his lands with the graves and the
hunting grounds of his ancestors. There is not the proper place to
study the Indian character; yet it is the place where the sycophant and
the scribbler go to gaze and frown upon him—to learn his character,
and write his history! and because he does not speak, and quaffs the
delicious beverage which he receives from white men’s hands, “he’s a
speechless brute and a drunkard.” An Indian is a beggar in Washington
City, and a white man is almost equally so in the Mandan village. An
Indian in Washington is mute, is dumb and embarrassed; and so is a
white man (and for the very same reasons) in this place—he has nobody
to talk to.
A wild Indian, to reach the civilized world, must needs travel
some thousands of miles in vehicles of conveyance, to which he is
unaccustomed—through latitudes and longitudes which are new to
him—living on food that he is unused to—stared and gazed at by the
thousands and tens of thousands whom he cannot talk to—his heart
grieving and his body sickening at the exhibition of white men’s wealth
and luxuries, which are enjoyed on the land, and over the bones of
his ancestors. And at the end of his journey he stands (like a caged
animal) to be scanned—to be criticised—to be pitied—and heralded to the
world as a mute—as a brute, and a beggar.
A white man, to reach this village, must travel by steam-boat—by
canoes—on horseback and on foot; swim rivers—wade quagmires—fight
mosquitoes—patch his moccasins, and patch them again and again, and his
breeches; live on meat alone—sleep on the ground the whole way, and
think and dream of his friends he has left behind; and when he gets
here, half-starved, and half-naked, and more than half sick, he finds
himself a beggar for a place to sleep, and for something to eat; a
mute amongst thousands who flock about him, to look and to criticise,
and to laugh at him for his jaded appearance, and to speak of him as
they do of all white men (without distinction) as liars. These people
are in the habit of seeing no white men in their country but Traders,
and know of no other; deeming us all alike, and receiving us all under
the presumption that we come to trade or barter; applying to us all,
indiscriminately, the epithet of “liars” or Traders.
The reader will therefore see, that we mutually suffer in each other’s
estimation from the unfortunate ignorance, which distance has chained
us in; and (as I can vouch, and the Indian also, who has visited
the civilized world) that the historian who would record justly and
correctly the character and customs of a people, must go and live among
them.
LETTER—No. 12.