Wangewaha, the great chief of the Abnakis, in one of his hunting
excursions, lay down beneath the shade of a stately fir, on the shore
of the stormy lake, beside which he was born, and the spirit of sleep
came over him. He dreamed a dream, the like of which was never dreamed
before among the red men of the forest. That dream hath come to pass;
each jot and tittle of it has been performed; the things were done
before mine own eyes, and the words spoken into mine own ears. Listen
to the dream of Wangewaha, the great war chief of the Abnakis.
He saw, far in the east, upon the face of the waters, a white cloud
which seemed to be impelled by a strong wind, and it was approaching
the shores of the same land in which the Abnakis dwelt. Along its
lower extremity appeared a narrow outline of exceeding blackness, and
ever and anon the cloud became larger or grew less, now increased and
now diminished, as the wind, or other causes, spread it out, or
contracted it. At length, the wind, which before blew towards the
land, veered and blew from it, but, strange to tell, the cloud was not
carried back, but kept its course onward in defiance of the wind, and
thus fared the cloud.
Upon the shore, watching with extreme and undivided interest the
progress of the cloud, stood many of the sons of the forest. Wonder
and astonishment had seized their souls, at the strange and hitherto
unheard-of sight of a low, compact, dark cloud, moving rapidly against
a strong wind. They saw that it was of unusual shape, and that there
were other circumstances connected with it, such as are not usual with
the spirit-mists of the air. Rightly deeming it a cloud from some very
far region, perhaps some aerial messenger sent by the Great Spirit to
communicate an important errand, they awaited in silent awe the
progress of that to which they could not give a name. Yet, deeming it
possible that grim war might in some one of his thousand forms be
hidden under the semblance of a cloud--that hostile beings might
inhabit what appeared but thin air--they prepared to oppose violence
with violence, and to meet battle with manful battle. Some went and
cut new lance poles, others tough and elastic bows. The priests
prepared sacrifices to appease the spirit, if spirit it were, and
sang propitiatory songs, in which they first called it a good Spirit,
and thanked it as such for the fat deer and mooses it had sent to
their hunting-grounds, and the juicy fish which filled their waters,
and the tender fowls which stocked their lakes. Then they addressed it
as the Spirit of Evil, deprecating its wrath, and imploring its mercy,
beseeching it, if it came in anger, to go away and discharge its venom
elsewhere; if it came to bring them rich gifts, to be speedy about it,
for such never came too soon.
In the mean time, the cloud came every moment nearer, till, at last,
it was scarcely the flight of an arrow distant from the shore. Then
gradually it disappeared, and, in its stead, appeared a large animal,
with innumerable arms and legs of all sizes and shapes, and of all
lengths, and of several colours. Perched on various parts of the legs
and arms of this strange animal were other animals, whose appearance
was unlike any other being ever beheld by the Indians. They wore in
some respects the character of man--were gifted with his strength and
wisdom, his power and capacities--were by turns a prey to lust,
ambition, hate, despair, revenge--commencing life with tears, and
dying with a sigh. Their fangs were for venom the fangs of a snake;
their cunning, the cunning of a fox; and their fierceness, the
fierceness of a mountain cat, or a panther. Very nimble they seemed,
and sprang about the legs and arms of the bigger animal, like a
squirrel leaping from one branch of a tree to another branch. One ran
up a rope till it had reached one of the arms; another slid down in
like manner; a third was perched half-way up; a fourth was running to
and fro on the back of the animal. At length, one of the little
animals dropped a great rope, to which was appended an enormous forked
tree, and this operated to tie up the bigger animal, which rolled
about very much, as if in vain attempts to liberate itself from the
thraldom to which they had subjected it.
After a while, there was a smaller animal seen leaving the side of the
bigger, as a kid leaves the side of its mother, similar in shape to
the bigger, but having neither arms nor legs; and, upon the back of
this animal, many of the smaller animals sought the shore. When they
had arrived, they presented themselves to the eyes of the astonished
Abnakis, in a shape which seemed to the sleeper to be that of a
panther, wearing the shape of man, yet fierce and cruel as any ever
found in the wilds of the river of the Abnakis. With this fierce and
cruel disposition was coupled a cunning beyond that of the fox, and a
malignity greater than the rattlesnake's. Their fierceness and
cruelty, and the malignity and savage ferocity of their natures, were
hidden, however, under a show of peace. They laughed, and grinned, and
did the other things, which mortals do when they are, or pretend to
be, pleased, making the unsuspecting Abnakis think that they were
their very good friends, when they were only waiting for a chance to
rend them limb from limb. Nor was their disposition wholly hidden by
the mask, which these worthless and wicked beasts had only assumed for
the purpose of beguiling the poor red man. Occasionally the panther
would show his teeth, and the rattlesnake his malignity, though the
cunning of the fox would soon throw a veil over the one, and hush the
noise of the other.
Strange, indeed were the bodies, tempers, and dispositions of the
beasts, which thus passed in sleep before the eyes of the dreaming
chief. He saw them invested with the habits and feelings of men, as
they appeared to be gifted with their capacities and acquirements.
They had courage, not indeed as the Abnakis have it, not the courage
which delights in the post of danger, and encounters difficulties for
the mere honour of overcoming them, but in another, and less active
form, that of endurance. And their wisdom and power were greater than
the wisdom and power of the Abnakis priests, who could draw water
from the clouds, and foretell the coming of tempests and storms(1).
The wisdom and power of the strange beasts was very great--they were
subtler than the fox or the beaver, and stronger than the bear.
Among these beasts, there was one of most transcendent beauty, who
appeared to be their queen. She bore the form of a stately woman. She
was clothed, not as beasts generally are, in fur, but in a robe of an
unknown material, that reached to her feet, which were shrouded in a
veil of so thin a texture, that the pure flesh was transparent through
them, and not shod with mocassins, but with something of a different
form. Around her head was bound a grape-vine, from which hung
beautiful clusters of rich, ripe grapes, intermingled with locks of
hair, of a hue resembling the yellow leaf. Her round and plump arms
were bound with bracelets of a very bright material; and, upon her
long and slender fingers, were rings set with sparkling stones, of
various and exceedingly radiant hues--green, blue, purple, white. In
one of her delicate hands, she carried a small bunch of grain, of a
kind which was never seen before by the Abnakis, but the ears of which
bent over like the wings of a hawk hovering over his prey, or or a
bird settling upon its perch. The same fair hand carried the
instrument wherewith it was reaped. The other hand bore a huge shell
and a three-forked sceptre, emblems of her dominion upon the element,
which supported the cloud upon which she came. Upon her breast she
wore a shield, on which was painted the likeness of two animals, one
of them wearing a shaggy mane, and both looking exceedingly fierce and
warlike. There were upon this shield other paintings and devices,
which even the ingenuity of the priests could not explain. Altogether,
the appearance of the being, animal, or whatever it was, which the
Abnakis dreamer saw, was exceedingly noble and beautiful. They who
came with her said she was the genius of the land beyond the Great
Water, the guardian spirit of an island more powerful than all the
world besides. And surely great power was written in her countenance,
and authoritative command engraved on the lines of her face.
Then Wangewaha saw, and a being also wearing the appearance of a woman
came down from the shades, and confronted the stranger. She was of a
still taller stature than the other, and of the same complexion as the
inhabitants of the land, her skin red, black her hair, her eyes
shining, her step yet more noble and commanding, and her bearing
prouder and more haughty than that of her who appeared to be her
younger sister. Her hair, long, straight, and black, hung over her
shoulders till it reached her feet; her mocassins were of the gaudiest
colours; and beads, and shells, and wampum, were profusely employed in
adorning her person. Above her head towered feathers, the canieu's or
war-eagle's, and the painted vulture's--in her hands she carried a
spear and a sheaf of arrows. A bow hung at one of her shoulders, while
over the other was carelessly thrown the game slain by her archery.
Her robe was made of the furs of the gayest forest animals, and her
emblems were an ear of maize and the antlers of a buck. Stately she
moved, as a wild swan on a calm lake, or a black cloud over the brow
of a mountain; and the boldness of her demeanour, and the fierceness
of her eyes, contrasted strongly with the softness and effeminacy of
her that seemed her younger, and more delicate, sister.
Anon, these two sisters entered into speech with each other, and the
artless and unsuspecting soul of the one was contrasted strongly with
the cunning of the other. Said the stranger to her who was of the
land, "Thou hast a most beautiful land."
"It is indeed a most beautiful land," answered the other.
"It has lofty mountains."
"Its mountains are very lofty."
"It has many beautiful and rapid rivers."
"It has."
"Its suns--"
"Are bright as the eyes of a dove."
"Its winds--"
"Soft as the breath of a young maiden."
"Methinks I should like to live in thy cabin--to rove uncontrolled
through thy green glades, and to listen in dreamy and indolent repose
to the merry music of thy waterfalls."
"Do, and thou shalt be welcome," replied the dark but beautiful, the
stern but guileless, genius of the land.
"Knowest thou not that we are sisters?" asked the bright-eyed,
fair-skinned, stranger.
"Nay, I knew it not," replied she of the wilderness.
"We are, and we have two others--thou, the youngest, and I thy next
elder. I am come hither to direct thy footsteps, and to render thee my
assistance in beautifying the clime so beautiful in itself, and to
give to those over whom thou presidest the light of the knowledge I
have conducted to my own realms. I have brought with me those who are
the pioneers of my footsteps whithersoever I go."
"It is well," answered the genius of the wilderness. "Take as much as
thou wilt of my lands. Choose for thyself the fairest spots--make my
people as thine own--we are sisters, thou sayest, and I believe thee,
for I love thee--sisters should dwell together in peace and love. Yon
river bank is very fertile."
"It is indeed very fertile," answered the strange genius, her
countenance brightening up as she surveyed the beautiful spot to which
her attention was directed.
"Thou shalt have it for thine own," said the elder sister kindly.
"Thou art very good," answered the other. "What use dost thou make of
yonder broad, and beautiful, and rapid river?"
"It furnishes food to my people. In the summer moons, the light canoes
of my beloved red men are seen gliding over it in swift pursuit of the
sturgeon; the fishes which sport in its clear bosom are the sweetest
in all the waters of my wide domain."
"I should like to have that river to be mine own," said the pale
genius.
"I can spare it," answered the other kindly. "It is thine."
"Yon is a beautiful lake," said the younger. "How calm and unruffled
is its surface!"
"It is a very beautiful lake, but thou hast not seen it in its most
beautiful season," answered the elder. "Thou shouldst behold it when
it waves a wide sea of water-lilies, white as the snow of winter, or
when myriads of gay wild-fowl skim its level surface, or settle down
upon its pellucid bosom, to take their repast. Then it is indeed
beautiful--very beautiful."
"A river and a lake should go together," said the younger.
"They should," answered she of the land, "nor will I be the one to
separate them. I give thee the lake."
"How much loftier than all the mountains of my own clime is that which
I see towering in the distance towards the land of the warm breezes!"
"That mountain is indeed very lofty," answered the dark Genius.
"I have a noble river, with a flowery bank rising above it, and I have
a level lake, but thou hast not given me a mountain, to whose cool and
refreshing breezes I may retire, when the fervid and scorching suns of
summer invade the lowlands. I would--thou wilt deem me greedy as the
hawk or the heron--I would have some such spot, whose breezes, when
they kindly dispense health, nerve the soul to great actions, and
within whose wild and inaccessible fastnesses, which, ever since Time
was, have been the keepers of the free, the weak may find a
resting-place, and the wearied by oppression a refuge."
"Take thou the mountain, and name what else thou wilt have."
"Only a few more rivers and a few more vales, which thou canst easily
spare, and another mountain for a further refuge, and some more lakes
to breed more wild-fowl in, and a forest or two well stocked with
deer, and a part of the Great Lake to put my whales in--nothing more,
except it be another vale, and another mountain, and another river,
and a piece more of the sea."
The dark Genius of the land smiled at the _narrow_ wishes of her
younger sister, and replied, that she could spare them all. So the
younger sister appropriated to herself the highest mountains, and the
most pleasant vales, and the broadest lakes, and the most rapid
rivers, and a large piece of the sea to put whales in, and some
forests well stocked with deer, and said, "she had taken so little it
was scarcely worth thanking for."
Then the dreamer saw in his sleep that, at her bidding, the strange
beasts which came in the cloud issued forth to take possession. How
their eyes gloated upon the fair gifts which had been made them by
the kind spirit of the land! And how grateful they appeared to be, and
how exceedingly kind and affectionate they were to the poor Indians!
They stroked their heads gently with one hand, while with the other
they released them from their oppressive burdens--their beaver skins
and their maize--indeed they were too kind. Then to gratify them still
further, they produced a burning water[A], which they distributed
among them, assuring them of its power to create pleasing images in
the mind, and to make bright visions dance before the eyes of those
who drank it. The Indians drank as they were bidden, and realised the
predicted effects. What a wonderful medicine was the strong water!
Under its potent influence, the mirror of the soul became enlarged,
and a thousand images, till then unseen, floated before the mental
eye. Then might a man receive certain intimations of the object he
should choose as his protecting spirit, and astonish his brothers by a
medicine of strange proportions and great power. And secrets of the
land of souls--the way to pass the "narrow bridge over the fearful
river," and how to stay the anger of the dog that guards it at the
point where the Huron passes--how to tread the sharp and steep rock
upon which the Chippewa finds entrance to his land of rest--all this,
and much more, to be attained by no other means, was learned from the
strong waters given to the Abnakis by the strange spirit. And
Wangewaha, the dreamer, woke from his sleep, rubbed his eyes, and
indulged in deep thought of what the dream might portend.
[Footnote A: Burning water, ardent spirits, commonly called by them
the "fire-eater."]
Again he sunk to sleep, and again he dreamed. Still his dream was of
strange creatures, aliens to his land, and usurpers of the rights of
its native sons. But they had multiplied till their numbers were as
the sands upon the sea shore. He stood in imagination upon a lofty
hill, and cast his eyes upon the broad lands beneath him. How changed!
The forests had been swept away, the land was cleared of its mossy old
oaks, and lofty pines, and cedars, but, where they once raised their
leafy heads to the winds of heaven, now rose cabins, white as the
folds of a cloud, and glittering in the sun like a sheet of ice in a
winter's day. The broad and rapid river, as well as the waters of the
Great Lake, was marked in streaks of white foam by the many clouds
traversing it, like that he had seen in his first dream. The lofty
mountains were seamed like the breast of a tattooed warrior(2), by the
roads which the strangers had made over it. The vales waved with the
yellow wheat, and, herds of tame bisons lay resting on the grassy
knolls, or stood grouped at the outlets of the fields, which the
industrious strangers had girded in with fences of rock.
And what had become of the former inhabitants of the soil? where were
the dusky men who met the strange creatures upon the shore, and bade
them welcome, and gave them the fat things of the sea and the land for
their subsistence, and warm furs to protect them from the searching
winds of the Snow-Moon, and taught them how to follow the trail of
forest animals, and to thread, unerringly, their way for many
successive nights through the lonely wilderness, by the flow of
streams and the course of fishes, and the light of the Hunter's Star,
and the moss upon the oaks, and the flight of birds? Listen, and I
will tell you.
He sees upon the edge of a stream, overgrown with a thick grove of
alders and luxuriant vines, an Indian man and woman. The woman held in
her arms a dying child--at the feet of the man, lay a lean and
famished dog. Deep thought was in the eye of the one, and absorbing
grief in that of the other. Now the hunter cast his eyes into the
depths of the river in anxious search for the signs of the approach of
the finny people; now he laid his ear to the earth after the manner of
his race, when they would detect the sound of footsteps.
"Didst thou see aught in the current, which thine eye is searching?"
asked the wife tremulously, fixing her bright black eye, moistened
with a tear, upon her hungry infant.
"I saw nothing in the current," answered the hunter. "The net of the
stranger hath swept from the flood that which was in part the food of
our tribes, when he first became acquainted with these shores. The
barbed spear no more brings up the sleeping conger; the Indian throws
his hook into the once populous stream, but it returns with the bait
untouched."
"Did thy quick ear catch the sound of aught in the mazes of the wood?"
asked the fond mother, and her tears fell thick on the cheeks of her
little babe.
"My ear caught no sound in the mazes of the wood," answered the
hunter. "How should it? The stranger hath left nothing save the mouse,
and the mole, and few of them. He has swept away the beloved retreats
of the bounding beauty of the forest, the nimble deer, and none are
left in the glades, where once they were thicker than the stars. The
bear, and the wolf, and the panther, love not their crafty brother,
and have gone yet deeper into the forest. The wild duck feeds now in
the deep waters only, the mother teaches her brood that death lurks
behind the wood-skirted shore."
"Then must this little child--thine and mine--our first-born, die of
hunger. Yet bethink thee. I see among yonder lofty trees a cabin, the
whiteness of which tells us that one of the despoilers of our joys
hath there taken up his abode."
"Wouldst thou have the son of Alknomook--the son of the rightful
lord--himself the rightful lord of these wide regions--beg bread from
the stranger?"
"Not to save thy life or mine would I ask it, but what would I not do
to save the life of this beautiful babe, which the Great Spirit
granted to my prayers, when for sixty moons I had lived in thy cabin a
disgraced woman(3)."
"Not therefore should the soul of an Indian warrior bend to a master.
I cannot beg."
"What was the dream which thou hadst in the last Worm-Moon?"
"Thou sayest well--it was of vengeance had by means of the boy. The
son of Alknomook will humble his pride--he will wipe off the war
paint, which he laid as deep on his face as the memory of his wrongs
weigh on his heart, and he will supplicate the stranger to give him
food for his little one."
Still the sleeping chief continued to take note of the things which
occurred. He beheld the enfeebled and emaciated Indians at the
dwelling of the proud stranger. The stranger sat at the door of his
lofty cabin, and thus he addressed the friendless outcasts:
"Why have you dared to trespass on my soil, to bruise my pretty
flowers with your rude feet, and to frighten my flocks and herds with
your shrill halloos?"
The son of the forest was about to reply fiercely, when his ear caught
the plaintive moan of his famished child, and he controlled the
tempest of wrath which was rising in his bosom.
"Thine eyes are the eyes of an owl by daylight," replied he calmly.
"They have seen a thing which has not happened. The son of Alknomook
did not bruise the flowers of the pale face, nor frighten his flocks
and herds by his shrill halloos. Wilt thou give me a morsel of food
for my famished child?"
"Begone, thou Indian dog!" said the proud and cruel man. "Thou shalt
have no food here."
"But my child will die of hunger."
"If thy child die of hunger, there will be a red skin less. Back to
thy woods, and herd with wolves and panthers, thy fit associates."
The soul of the stern but generous warrior filled with ire and the
spirit of vengeance, as he poured out his feelings in the emphatic
language of his people. "Not so spoke the Abnakis to the weary,
naked, and hungry, men who came to their shores, and besought them to
grant them shelter," said he. "We gave them the food from our own
mouths, and took the skins which fenced our wigwams to protect them
from the winds of the cold moon." Nor did he cease speaking till he
had denounced upon the pale faces the wrath of the Great Spirit for
the injuries they had inflicted upon the Indians.
Ah, what is that which draws tears to the eyes of the dreamer, and
brings sighs to his labouring heart? He beholds an Indian mother lying
dead in the skirts of the forest. Upon her arm is laid a little child,
and beside them, leaning on a bow, is the husband of the one and the
father of the other. Sorrow has bowed him down, as far as the soul of
an Indian may be bowed--there are no tears in his eyes, yet distress
is written on the features of his face, in letters of enduring agony.
For a while he surveys the scene of death in stern silence, but soon
the memory of his wrongs weighs upon his soul and rouses him to
action. He springs upon his feet, and his shrill war-whoop rings
through the forest, like the echo of the tap of the woodpecker on the
hollow beech. His eye flashes fire as he grasps his war spear, and his
laugh, when he examines his good ash bow, is like the cry of a hungry
panther. Is not vengeance his? Look at yonder flames! He hath kindled
them. Listen to that wail of many over the slaughtered corpses of
their friends, who lay down to rest at the beginning of darkness, and
woke ere the sun came over the hills in the shades of the valley of
death. Bitterly, deeply, deadly, has the son of Alknomook revenged his
own, and the wrongs of his race.
Again the dreamer saw, and still his dream was of the land where he
dwelt. He saw the two sister Genii sitting in the same spot where he
had at first beheld them. She who was of the far clime still retained
the beauty and grace which were her's when her little foot first
touched the greensward of the hitherto, by her, untrodden island.
Still around her head was bound the grape-vine laden with rich, ripe,
clusters, amongst which were intermingled locks of hair, of a hue
resembling the yellow leaf. Still were her round and plump arms bound
with the shining bracelets, and her long and slender fingers adorned
with the glittering rings. The sheaf of nodding grain was still an
emblem of her power, and the shell and sceptre another. But she wore
no more the suppliant air which at first distinguished her. Pride and
haughtiness, and command and oppression, were now written on her face,
and ruled her gestures.
By her side stood the other Genius, the spirit of the land, her elder
sister--but oh, how changed! Her once glossy black locks now hung
uncombed upon a shoulder once beautifully rounded, but rounded no
longer; her mocassins were torn and soiled; and missing from her
wrists and ancles the gay ornaments of bead and shell-work which
adorned them in the day of her prosperity and pride. The feathers of
the canieu or war-eagle, and the painted vulture, towered above her
head no more, and gone from her shoulder was the emblem of the race
over which she had borne rule, the bow and the arrow.
Anon these two sisters entered into speech with each other. She who
was of the land, from the moment that the Bird of Ages planted it in
the bosom of the waters, said to the other,
"Thou hast a most beautiful land."
"It is indeed a most beautiful land," answered the other, casting her
eye proudly over the space beneath her feet.
"It has lofty mountains."
"Its mountains are very lofty."
"It has many rapid and beautiful rivers."
"It has."
"Its suns--"
"Are bright as the eyes of a dove in the moon of buds."
"Its winds--"
"Soft and balm-scented as the breath of a young maiden."
"I should like to live in thy cabin, to range uncontrolled through thy
green glades, and to listen in dreaming repose to the music of thy
merry waterfalls."
"Ah, no doubt thou wouldst, but dost thou think I would permit thee?"
replied she, who was once a stranger in the land, but was a stranger
no longer.
"Knowest thou not that we are sisters?" asked the dark Genius timidly.
"Nay, I knew it not," replied the other.
"We are, and so thou didst say when thou camest in the white cloud,
and I gave thee hills, and mountains, and rivers, and lakes, and
glades, and a part of the sea."
"The more fool thou, for admitting one to wrest from thee thy fair
possessions."
"I deemed thee in want, and then wert thou not my sister?"
"If thou wert I have forgotten it," replied the other haughtily. "If
thou didst me favours, thine impertinence in remembering them hath
more than cancelled the obligation. Depart from me, and let me behold
thy face no more."
The dark Genius withdrew at the bidding of her haughty sister, and the
chief of the Abnakis awoke, and related his dream to his tribe. Hath
it not come to pass? Look abroad on the land, and make answer. The
race of the red man hath disappeared from the earth, as the snows
disappear before the beams of a spring sun, or the hues of purple and
gold on the western sky, at the approach of darkness. It is only in
the regions of the Hunter's Star, where the pale face dare not
venture, that the red man may now be found.