_THE NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS._
The general characteristics of the North American Indians, or the Red Men,
have been made familiar to us through the writings of travellers, and the
picturesque romances of Fenimore Cooper, the American novelist; though of
the latter it may be said, perhaps, that he has used bright colours too
uniformly, and introduced into his sketches too little shadow. The name by
which they are popularly known is, of course, ethnologically incorrect.
Just as, in speaking of the great Western Continent, our forefathers
employed the expression “the West Indies,” or the “Great Indies,” from a
mistaken conception of its geographical position, so they christened by
the term “Indians” all its aboriginal races; and the term has survived in
our common speech owing to its convenience.
Says De Maury: From the North Pole to Tierra del Fuego almost every shade
of human colouring, from black to yellow, finds its representatives.
According to their tribe, the Aborigines are of a brown-olive, a dark
brown, bronze, pale yellow, copper yellow, red, brown, and so on. Nor do
they differ less in stature. Between the dwarf-like proportions of the
Changos, and the tall stature of the Patagonians, we meet with a great
number of intermediary “sizes.” The contours of the body present the same
diversity. Some peoples, like those of the Pampas, are very long in the
bust; others, like the inhabitants of the Peruvian Andes, are short and
broad. So, too, with the shape and size of the head. Yet we recognize
between the various American populations an air of kinship, or certain
predominant and general features which distinguish them from the races of
the old world. As, for example, the pyramidal form of the head and the
narrowness of the forehead, characteristics of great antiquity among the
American populations, having been found in skulls discovered by Mr. Lund
in the caves of Brazil, in association with the bones of animals now
extinct.
In spite of this variety of type, we may divide the Aborigines of America
into two great races, of which one, at least, the Red Skins, is remarkable
for its complete homogeneity. The Red Skins,--with whom alone we shall
concern ourselves,--were formerly distributed over all the upper portion
of the American Continent; that is, over the territory of Canada and the
United States and the northern districts of Mexico. In the sixteenth
century they numbered, it is said, a million and a half of souls. The
“advance of civilisation,”--in other words, the greed and cruelty of the
white man,--have reduced them now to a few thousand families. A few years
more, and American rifles, brandy, poverty, and disease will have
virtually effected the extermination of a race, which has assuredly
merited the respect and recognition we are generally prone to render to
courage and endurance. True it is that our estimate of the Red Skins must
not be taken entirely from the imaginative pages of Chateaubriand and
Fenimore Cooper. The Deerskins, the Hawkeyes, and the Leatherstockings of
the novelist are ideal creations, the like of which have never been found
in the wildernesses of the West. Yet we cannot deny to the Indians a
character of true nobility and exceptional manliness. Their scorn of death
and pain, their stoical composure under tortures, the mere description of
which makes the blood of ordinary men run cold, their disdain of the
allurements of civilisation, their stern refusal of foreign supremacy,
their haughty pride, even their cold and calculated ferocity, are so many
traits which raise them to a higher platform than that occupied by most
savage races.
A hundred times in song, and romance, and drama have been portrayed the
manners of this remarkable people, their subtle stratagems in war and the
chase, the perseverance with which they hunt down their prey or enemy,
their astuteness, their impassiveness, their brooding revenge. Who has
not eagerly followed them in their unwearied wanderings across the rolling
prairies, and through the interminable forests? Who has not listened
eagerly, when seated round the watch-fire, with the calumet to their lips,
they have meditated on the chances of peace and war,--chief after chief
rising, with regal attitude and deliberate eloquence to take his part in
the stern debate? Who has not watched them in their furious
battle-charges, brandishing the dreadful tomahawk, and carrying off the
scalps of their defeated enemies to hang up in their wigwams as the
trophies of their prowess? Who has not breathlessly tracked them in their
pursuit of a flying foe, or in their skilful escape through the thick
brushwood from the pressure of some persistent antagonist? Assuredly this
was a race well worthy of attentive study; and their history, or the
narrative of their adventures, none can peruse without interest. There was
a strain of poetry in their faith, in their customs, in their language at
once laconic and picturesque, even in the names full of meaning which they
bestowed on each tribe, and chief, and warrior. We can hardly suppress a
feeling of regret that so much wild romance should have been swept off the
earth, unless we bring our minds to dwell upon the deep dark shades of the
picture, on their cruelty, perfidiousness, and lust. Even then our
humanity revolts from the treatment they have received at the hands of the
white man. Hunted from place to place like wild beasts, driven back from
one hunting-ground to another, brutalised by misery or drunkenness,
decimated by the diseases of civilisation, incapable of labour, the Red
Skins have struggled in vain against the irresistible onward movement of a
civilisation without bowels; a civilisation ill-adapted to attract and
persuade them, and more anxious to destroy than to assimilate.
The treatment of the Indians is a dark chapter in the history of the
United States. The great nations which were formerly the valued allies or
dreaded enemies of the European settlers, the Hurons, the Algonquins, the
Iroquois, the Natchez, the Leni-Lenapes, have entirely disappeared. The
wrecks of other but less important tribes still linger on the shores of
the great Northern lakes, in the woods and wildernesses of the Far West,
at the base of the Rocky Mountains, in Texas, in Arkansas, in California,
and in the northern provinces and deserts of Mexico. Such are the Sioux,
the Dacotahs, the Flatheads, the Big-Bellies, the Blackfoot, the Apaches,
the Comanches. The two latter people have been the most successful in
preserving their vitality. Their characteristics however are very diverse.
The Comanches are of a mild gentle nature, and eager to live on peaceable
terms with the whites. The Apaches, on the other hand, have vowed a
relentless hatred against the Pale Faces; they are the terror of the
_hacienderos_ (or farm proprietors) and gold seekers of Upper Mexico, and
the American journals to this day are full of their incursions, and their
acts of cruelty and brigandage.
Physiologically, the distinctive features of the Red Men are, in addition
to the colour of their skin and the pyramidal form of the head, the
prominency and arched outline of the nose, the width of the nasal
apertures, corresponding to a remarkable development of the olfactory
nerve, and the absence of beard.
The superstitions, or religious customs, of the Red Men are in themselves
a sufficiently interesting subject of study. We begin with an account of
the ceremony through which every one of their youths has to pass before he
is acknowledged to have entered upon manhood. Our knowledge of it is due
to Mr. Catlin, who, as a reputed “medicine-man,” lived for some time with
the Mandan tribe, and became acquainted with their most secret customs.
The object of this rite, which for savage cruelty seems unparalleled, is,
first, to propitiate the Great Spirit on behalf of the neophyte who
undergoes it, so that he may become a successful hunter and a valiant
warrior; and, second, to enable the leader and chief of the tribe, to
watch his behaviour, and determine whether he will be likely to maintain
its character and renown.
The Mandans, we must premise, cherish a legend of a flood which in times
long past inundated the earth, and of which only one man, who escaped in a
large canoe, was the survivor. In a large open space in the centre of the
village a representation of this canoe, a kind of tub, bound with wooden
hoops, and set up on one end, is carefully preserved.
The ceremony of initiation occurs once a year, at the season when the
willow-leaves under the river-bank burst from their shade, and bloom in
all their greenness. Early in the morning of the great day, a figure is
seen on the distant ridge of hills, slowly approaching the village.
Immediately the whole village is alive! The dogs are caught and muzzled;
the horses are brought in from the meadows; the bravos paint their faces
as if for battle, string their bows, feather their arrows, and grasp their
pointed spears. Then into the central area strides the visitor, his body
painted white, a plume of raven’s feathers waving on his head, a white
wolf’s skin flung across his stalwart shoulders, and in his hand a
mystery-pipe. The chief and his leading warriors immediately greet the new
comer, Nu-mohk-muck-a-nah, or the First Man, as he is called,--and conduct
him to the great medicine-lodge, which is open only on this occasion, and
now reeks with the fragrant odours of various aromatic herbs. The skulls
of men and bisons are solemnly laid on the floor; over the beams of the
timber roof are hung several new ropes, with a heap of strong wooden
skewers underneath them; and in the centre is raised a small daïs or
altar, on which the First Man deposits the medicine or mystery of the
tribe,--a profound, a sacred secret, known to none but himself.
To every hut in the village next stalks the First Man, pausing at the door
of each to weep aloud, and when the owner comes out, relating to him the
old, old story of the Flood, and of his own escape from it, and requiring
axe or knife as an offering to the Great Spirit. The demand is never
refused; and loaded with edged tools of various kinds, he returns to the
medicine-lodge. There they remain until the conclusion of the ceremonies,
when they are thrown into the river’s deepest pool.
Thus passes the first day, during which, as during the whole period of the
ceremony, an absolute silence prevails in the village. None know the place
where he sleeps, but on the second morning he re-enters the village, and
marches to the medicine-lodge, followed by a long train of neophytes, and
carrying his bow and arrows, shield, and medicine-bag, and each painted in
the most fantastic fashion. Hanging his weapons over his head, each man
silently seats himself in front of the lodge, and for four days maintains
his position, speaking to none, and neither eating, drinking, nor
sleeping. At the outset, the First Man kindles his pipe at the fire that
burns in the centre of the lodge, and harangues the neophytes, exhorting
them to be brave and patient, and praying the Great Spirit to grant them
strength to endure their trial.
Summoning an old medicine-man, he then appoints him to the charge of the
ceremonies, and as a symbol of office hands him the mystery-pipe. After
which he takes leave of the chiefs and their people, promising that he
will return next year to re-open the lodge, and with slow and stately step
passes out of the village, and disappears beyond the hills.
The master of the ceremonies hastens to put himself in the centre of the
lodge, where he re-lights the pipe, and with every whiff of smoke utters a
petition to the Great Spirit in behalf of the candidates.
During the three days’ silence of the neophytes, the tribe indulge in a
variety of pastimes.
* * * * *
First and foremost is the buffalo dance, in which eight persons are
engaged, each wearing the skin of a bison, and carrying on his back a
large bundle of faggots. In one hand they hold a mystery-rattle, in the
other a small staff. In four couples they place themselves round the Big
Canoe, each couple facing one of the cardinal points of the compass, and
between them dances a young man,--two being got up in black, dotted with
white stars, to represent day, and two in red, to represent night.
A couple of medicine-men, dressed in the hides of grizzly bears, sit
beside the Big Canoe, and profess their intention of devouring the whole
village. To satiate their voracity, the women convey to them abundant
supplies of meat, which men, painted black all over, except their heads,
which are white, in imitation of the bald-headed eagle, carry off
immediately to the prairie, pursued by a number of little boys, painted
yellow, with white heads, who are called antelopes. After a swift chase
they overtake the eagle-men, seize the food, and devour it.
This rude frolic is repeated several times a day, the performers being
summoned by the master of the ceremonies, who, followed by his assistants,
issues from the medicine-lodge, and takes up his post against the Big
Canoe, pouring forth many tears.
On the first day the dance is four times repeated, on the second eight
times, on the third twelve times, and on the fourth sixteen; the dancers
issuing from the hut in which they attire themselves immediately that the
old man lifts up his head, and weeps.
During each performance, the old medicine-men keep up a rattle of drums,
except when they pause to announce to the crowd that the Great Spirit is
pleased with their offerings, and has given them peace; that even their
women and children can hold the mouths of grizzly bears, and the Evil One
does not appear to disturb them.
This bold declaration is repeated thirty-two times during the four days,
and repeated without challenge; but at the thirty-third, the Evil Spirit
makes his appearance, threads his way through the village, and breaks into
the circle,--an uncanny creature, entirely naked, his body painted black,
but with white rings, and his mouth blotched with white indentations like
so many tusks. Carrying in his hand a long magic staff tipped with a red
ball, which he slides before him on the ground, this Evil Spirit makes a
rush at each group of females in the excited crowd. They shriek for
assistance.
The master of the ceremonies straightway abandons his station by the Big
Canoe, and presents his magic pipe to the intruder, who stands immediately
as if petrified into stone, each limb quiescent, each muscle rigid,--a
statue, rather than a man.
The women take advantage of this sudden pause to escape from the Evil
Spirit’s clutch; and as soon as they are out of danger, though their
hearts still beat with excitement, they resume their ordinary quietude,
only laughing loudly and gleefully at the sudden discomfiture of their
antagonist, and at the awkward and ridiculous attitude in which he was
surprised.
The old man stands upright by his side, with his eyeballs glaring him in
the face, while the medicine-pipe holds under its mystic spell his Satanic
Majesty, neutralises all the powers of his magic wand, and deprives him
of the power of locomotion.
No two human beings, says Mr. Catlin, can ever present a more striking
group than is presented by those two individuals, with their fierce eyes
fixed in well-simulated hatred on each other; both contending for the
supremacy, both relying on the potency of their mystery or medicine; the
one, with dismal black body, pretending to be O-ku-hu-de, the Evil Spirit,
and pouring everlasting vengeance on the other, who sternly gazes back
with a look of contemptuous exultation, as he holds him bound by the
influence of his sacred mystery-pipe. Truly, these Red-skinned Mandans are
accomplished actors and pantomimists.
A repetition of this performance takes place until the power of the
mystery-pipe has been sufficiently proved; and the women, gaining
confidence in it, proceed to turn the tables on their persecutor, jeering
him, and overwhelming him with shrieks of laughter. At last, one of the
boldest dashes a handful of sand in his face; an insult which completely
overwhelms him, so that he begins to weep abundantly. Another woman takes
courage to seize his magic staff, and snaps it across her knee. Other
women pick up the broken halves and break them into fragments, which they
fling at O-ku-hu-de’s head. Bereft of all his power, he incontinently
turns tail, and dashes across the prairie, followed for half a mile or so
by volleys of mud and stones and slates.
Thus ends the battle of Armageddon. The Evil Spirit has come, and fought,
and been conquered. The next step is to remove the little altar and its
mysterious deposit from the centre of the great medicine-lodge, and pass
the hide ropes through openings in the roof to men stationed without. Then
the master of the ceremonies and his assistants, together with the chiefs
and bravos of the tribe, re-enter the lodge, and take up their positions.
Worn and wasted by four days of abstinence from food, drink, and sleep,
the first neophyte enters the lodge, when called, and takes his stand in
front of two of the executioners. One of them, with a blunt and jagged
double-edged knife, pinches up an inch or so of the flesh of the breast
or shoulder, inserts the knife, and through the incision thus
accomplished, forces a wooden skewer; repeating the process on the other
shoulder or breast, on each arm just below the shoulder and below the
elbow, upon each thigh, and upon each leg just below the knee.
Painful as the operation must be, the neophyte bears it unflinchingly; not
a sigh escapes him; his countenance remains as calm and unruffled as if he
were wrapped in a pleasant dream.
Two of the hide ropes are now let down from the roof, and twisted round
the skewers on the breast or shoulders. To the others are hung the
neophyte’s weapons, while the skulls of bisons depend from those of the
lower arm or leg. At a given signal the neophyte is hauled aloft, and
allowed to swing, at a height of six or eight feet from the ground,
suspended only by the two skewers, while he sustains, not only his own
weight, but that of the heavy skulls. With almost incredible fortitude, he
endures this protracted agony, until exhausted nature gives way, and he
falls into a swoon.
The bystanders seem no longer men, but demons intent on increasing his
tortures. They surround him, a dozen or more at a time, and consider what
new inventions can be adopted. At length, one advances towards the poor
wretch, and begins to turn him round with a pole, which he has brought for
the purpose. This is done very gently at first, but by degrees with more
rapidity and increasing violence, until the neophyte breaks down in his
self-control, and bursts forth into “the most lamentable and heart-rending
cries that the human voice is capable of producing,” imploring the Great
Spirit to support and protect him in his agony, and repeatedly expressing
his belief in that protection.
In this condition he revolves faster and faster, without the least hope of
escape or relief, until he again falls into a swoon; his voice falters,
his strugglings cease; he hangs a still and apparently lifeless thing.
“When he is by turning gradually brought to this condition, which is
generally done within ten or fifteen minutes, there is a close scrutiny
passed upon him among his tormentors, who are checking and holding each
other back as long as the least struggling or tremor can be discovered;
lest he should be removed, before he is, as they term it, dead.”
Having satisfied themselves that their victim is not feigning, they give a
signal; he is lowered to the ground; the skewers which passed through his
breast are removed, and the ropes attached to another candidate. He is
allowed to lie where he fell; none dare to touch him; to do so would be a
sacrilege, because he has placed himself under the protection of the Great
Spirit.
After awhile he partially recovers, and crawls to another part of the
lodge, where, with gleaming axe in hand and a bison’s skull before him,
sits a medicine-man. Holding up the little finger of his left hand as a
sacrifice to the Great Spirit, the neophyte lays it upon the skull, and,
in a moment, the medicine-man’s axe severs it. Sometimes the fore-finger
of the same hand is also offered, and only the thumb and two middle
fingers, which are necessary in holding the bow, are left.
Then comes the last scene of this strange, eventful history, bringing the
neophyte’s sufferings to a climax. The skewers by which he is suspended to
the roof are removed when he is lowered, but eight still remain; two in
each arm, and two in each leg. To each is attached a heavy weight, such as
a bison’s skull, and they must not be _drawn_ out, but must be _torn_ out
by sheer force. With this view he is required to run the last race,--which
takes place in the open air, and in the presence of a concourse of excited
spectators. Leaving the medicine-lodge, the master of the ceremonies leans
his head against the Big Canoe, and fills the air with a loud long wail.
Immediately a score or so of young men, all matched in height, wearing
beautiful dresses of eagle-quills, and carrying in one hand a wreath of
willow-boughs, issue from the dressing-hut. On arriving at the Big Canoe
they assemble round it in a circle, holding on to each other’s
willow-wreath, and then race around it at their utmost speed, screaming
and shouting until the air is filled with their uproar.
The candidates then come out of the medicine-lodge, dragging the heavy
weights attached to their limbs, and are stationed at equal intervals
outside the ring of runners. As each takes his place, two powerful young
men take charge of him, who pass round each of his wrists a broad
leathern strap, which they grasp very firmly, but without tying it.
When all the preliminaries are completed, a signal is given, and the
neophytes begin to race round the Big Canoe, outside the inner circle,
each man being dragged along by his custodians, until the skulls and other
weights drag out the skewers to which they are fastened. The bystanders
scream and yell and shout in a frenzy of excitement; eager, moreover, to
drown the groans of the sufferers, should the instincts of nature prevail
over their self-control, and desirous of encouraging them in their final
trial.
Sometimes the neophyte’s flesh proves to be so tough that the skewers
cannot be dragged out, and in such cases their friends jump on the skulls
as they rattle along the ground, so as to increase their weight.
Humanity cannot long endure a torture so horrible: the sufferers quickly
faint, though they are still hauled round in the barbarous race, nor set
free until the last weight is dragged from the quivering, bleeding body.
Then the unconscious wretch is released, and left, for the second time, in
the care and protection of the Great Spirit. In due time he recovers his
senses, struggles to his feet, totters through the crowd, is received by
his friends, and conducted to his own hut.
Mr. Catlin supplies two illustrations of the rigorous tenacity with which
the Indians adhere to the rule that the skewers must be _dragged_, not
_removed_, from the sufferer’s flesh.
In one case the skewer had chanced to pass under a sinew, and the neophyte
was dragged round and round the ring in vain. In vain his friends added
their weight to that of the bison’s skulls. The scene became so horrible
that even the spectators could no longer endure it, and in sympathy with
their cries the master of the ceremonies stopped the race, leaving the
youth, unconscious, on the ground. As soon as he regained his senses, he
crawled away to the prairie on his hands and knees, and there remained,
without food or drink, for three hours longer, until suppuration took
place, and he was enabled to get rid of the skewer. Then he crawled home,
and strange to say, notwithstanding the agony he had undergone, and his
loss of strength, recovered in a few days.
In the second case, two of the weights attached to the arms refused to
yield, and the hapless neophyte crept as best he could to the steep bluff
overhanging the river, where he drove a stake into the ground. Fastening
the weights to this stake by a couple of ropes, he lowered himself about
midway down the cliff, and so hung suspended for more than two days, until
the obstinate flesh gave way, and allowed him to drop into the water. He
swam to the side, crawled up the acclivity, and returned to his village.
It gives one a vivid idea of the remarkable vitality and physical force of
the Indian race, when one reads that this man, too, recovered!
* * * * *
The Indian has a vague idea of God and immortality. He believes in a Great
Spirit, who, after death, admits the brave to his happy hunting-grounds,
where game is inexhaustible, and the pleasure of the chase is ever open to
the hunter. Beyond this dim and dubious conception, his imagination never
carries him.
He is prone, as might be supposed, for such proneness is the cause of
ignorance, and ignorance is the Red Man’s bane, to the wildest and
coarsest superstitions, and he is always at the mercy of the medicine-man
of his tribe. One of his most potent superstitions is that connected with
the “medicine-bag,” which he firmly believes to be his sole “secret of
success,” his all-powerful charm and talisman, without which he would fail
in every undertaking and be defeated and disgraced in battle.
At the age of fourteen or fifteen, the young Indian goes forth into the
woods in search of his medicine. On a litter of leaves and twigs he lies
for some days--as long, in fact, as his physical powers hold out--neither
eating nor drinking; for in proportion to the duration of his fast will be
the potency of his “medicine.” His endurance at length gives way, and he
goes to sleep. The bird, beast, or reptile of which he dreams becomes his
“medicine.” He returns home, and as soon as he has recovered his strength,
he sallies forth in quest of the charm; having found and killed the
animal, he preserves the skin in such shape as his fancy
suggests,--usually in the form of pouch or bag. If small, he slings it
round his neck, and wears it concealed. In other cases, it hangs from his
waist or shoulder.
However he may wear it, the Indian never parts from it. He would be
disgraced and defeated in battle--he would fail in his undertakings--if it
were absent from his person. Should he be deprived of it in battle, he is
overwhelmed with shame, until he can kill an enemy, and take _his_
medicine-bag to replace his own. If, without losing his own, he captures
that of an enemy, he is entitled to assume a “double medicine,” and with
two medicine-bags about him he stalks to and fro, the observed of all
observers. To take a medicine-bag is not less honourable than to take a
scalp, and the successful bearer has all the advantage of the double
protection afforded by the double charm.
It is seldom that an Indian will voluntarily part with his medicine-bag,
and if he does, he forfeits his reputation almost irretrievably. Now and
then he is persuaded by the white man to bury it, but its place of
interment immediately assumes an air of sanctity in his eyes. He frequents
the spot as if drawn thither by an irresistible influence, will throw
himself on the sod, and talk to the buried treasure as if it were alive.
Sometimes he will offer sacrifices to it, and if he be a rich man, will
even offer a horse. On the latter occasion, the whole tribe take part in
the ceremony, and march forth to the prairie in picturesque procession,
led by the owner of the medicine-bag, who drives before him his most
valued and valuable steed, decked with coloured devices. At the appointed
spot, he delivers a long prayer or oration to the Great Spirit, and sets
free the horse, which thenceforth enjoys the free life of the wild horses
of the prairie, and if at any time recaptured is immediately released.
The position which in most savage tribes is held by the priest, among the
American Indians is held by the “medicine-man.” His influence is
considerable, and his powers are supposed to be vast. He is called upon to
heal the sick and save the dying, and, above all, to bring down the genial
rain from heaven when it is needed for the growth of the crops.
We owe to Mr. Catlin an interesting description of the rain-making
ceremony. A drought had withered the maize-fields for some weeks, and
application for help having been made to the medicine-men they duly set to
work. On the first day one Wah-ku, or the Shield, came to the front; but
failed--that day an equally unsuccessful experiment was made by Om-pah, or
the Elk. The third day was devoted to Wa-rah-pa, or the Beaver, and on the
fourth recourse was had to Wak-a-dah-ha-ku, the White Buffalo Hair, who
was strong in the possession of a shield coloured with red lightnings, and
in the arrow which he carried in his hand.
Taking his station by the medicine-lodge, he harangued the people,
protesting that for the good of his tribe he was willing to sacrifice
himself, and that if he did not bring the much-desired rain, he was
content to live for the rest of his life with the old women and the dogs.
He asserted that the first medicine-man had failed, because his shield
warded off the rain-clouds; the second, who wore a head-dress made of a
raven’s skin, because the raven was a bird that soared above the storm,
and cared not whether the rain came or stayed; and the third, because the
beaver was always wet, and required no rain. But as for him,
Wak-a-dah-ha-ku, the red lightnings on his shield would attract the
rain-clouds, and his arrow would pierce them, and pour the water over the
thirsty fields.
It chanced that, as he ended his oration, a steamer, the first that had
ever ploughed the Missouri river, fired a salute from a twelve-pounder
gun, as she passed the Mandan village. To the Indians the roar of the
cannon was like the voice of thunder, and their joy knew no bounds. The
successful medicine-man was loaded with valuable gifts; mothers hastened
to offer their daughters to him in marriage; and the elder medicine-men
issued from the lodge, eager to enrol him in their order. But, from the
roof of the lodge, where he had taken his stand, Wak-a-dah-ha-ku
discovered the steamer, as she dashed up the river, and discharged her gun
again and yet again. He hastened to address the chiefs and people,
explaining that the sounds they heard were not those of thunder, but that
his potent medicine had brought a thunder-boat to the village. To the
river-bank rushed the wondering population, and the rest of the day was
spent in a fever of excitement, in which the rain-maker was forgotten.
Just before sunset his quick eyes discovered a black cloud, which,
unobserved by the noisy multitude, swiftly came up from the horizon. At
once he assumed his station on the roof of the lodge; strung his bow and
made ready his arrow; arrested the attention of his fellows by his loud
and exultant speech; and as the cloud impended over the village, shot his
arrow into the sky. Lo, the rain immediately descended in torrents,
wetting the rain-maker to the skin, but establishing in everybody’s mind a
firm and deep conviction of his power.
All night raged the storm; but unhappily a flash of lightning penetrated
one of the wigwams, and killed a young girl. The newly-made medicine-man
was sorely terrified by this catastrophe, which he feared the chiefs would
impute to him, making him responsible for the girl’s death, and punishing
him accordingly.
But he was a man of much astuteness, and early in the morning, collecting
three of his best horses, he mounted the lodge-roof again, and for a third
time addressed the people of his tribe.
“Friends,” he said, “my medicine was too strong, I am young, and I did not
know where to stop. I did not regulate its power. And now the wigwam of
Mah-sish is laid low, and many are the eyes that weep for Ko-ka, the
antelope. Wak-a-dah-ha-ku gives three horses to rejoice the hearts of
those who sorrow for Ko-ka. His medicine is great. His arrow pierced the
black cloud, and the lightning came, and with it the thunder-boat. Who
says that the medicine of Wak-a-dah-ha-ku is not strong?”
This artful address was received with much favour, and thenceforward
Wak-a-dah-ha-ku was known as the “Big Double Medicine.”
Of the medical practices of these medicine-men Mr. Kane, in his
“Wanderings of an Artist,” furnishes a striking illustration.
“About ten o’clock at night,” he says, “I strolled into the village, and
on hearing a great noise in one of the lodges, I entered it, and found an
old woman supporting one of the handsomest Indian girls I had ever seen.
She was in a state of nudity. Cross-legged and naked, in the middle of the
room, sat the medicine-man, with a wooden dish of water before him;
twelve or fifteen other men were sitting round the lodge. The object in
view was to cure the girl of a disease affecting her side. As soon as my
presence was noticed, a space was cleared for me to sit down.
“The officiating medicine-man appeared in a state of profuse perspiration,
from the exertions he had used, and soon took his seat among the rest, as
if quite exhausted; a younger medicine-man then took his place in front of
the bowl, and close beside the patient.
“Throwing off his blanket, he commenced singing and gesticulating in the
most violent manner, whilst the others kept time by beating with little
sticks in hollow wooden bowls and drums, singing continually. After
exercising himself in this manner for about half an hour, until the
perspiration ran down his body, he darted suddenly upon the young woman,
catching hold of her side with his teeth, and shaking her for a few
minutes, while the patient seemed to suffer great agony. He then
relinquished his hold, and cried out he had got it, at the same time
holding his hands to his mouth; after which he plunged them in the water
and pretended to hold down with great difficulty the disease which he had
extracted, lest it might spring out and return to its victim.
“At length, having obtained the mastery over it, he turned round to me in
an exulting manner, and held up something between the finger and thumb of
each hand, which had the appearance of a piece of cartilage; whereupon one
of the Indians sharpened his knife, and divided it in two, having one in
each hand. One of the pieces he threw into the water and the other into
the fire, accompanying the action with a diabolical noise which none but a
medicine-man can make. After which he got up perfectly satisfied with
himself, although the poor patient seemed to me anything but relieved by
the violent treatment she had undergone.”
* * * * *
A considerable amount of superstition attaches to the calumet, or
medicine-pipe, by which all the great questions of peace and war are
settled. This pipe is borne by an individual specially selected for the
honour, who, during his term of office, is not less sacred than the pipe
he carries. His seat is always on the right side of the lodge, and no one
is suffered to interpose between him and the fire. He is not even allowed
to cut his own food, but his wives cut it for him, and place it in an
official food-bowl, specially reserved for his use. As for the calumet, it
is hung outside the lodge in a large bag, which is picturesquely and gaily
embroidered. Much ceremony attends its uncovering. Whatever the weather,
or the time of year, the bearer begins by stripping off all his garments
except his cloth, and he then pours upon a red-hot coal some fragrant gum,
which fills the air with perfumed smoke. Removing the different wrappers,
he fills the bowl with tobacco, and blows the smoke to the four points of
the compass, to the earth, and to the sky, with each breath uttering a
prayer to the Great Spirit for assistance in war against all enemies, and
for bison and corn from all parts. With equal ceremony the pipe, which no
woman is allowed to see, is restored to its bag. The whole proceeding
takes place in the deepest silence.
The bowl of the calumet is made of a peculiar stone, found in the Red
Pipe-stone Quarry, on the Citeau des Prairies, a place to which the
following tradition attaches. We give it as related by Mr. Catlin:
Here, he says, according to the Indian traditions, happened the mysterious
birth of the red pipe, which has blown its fumes of peace and war to the
remotest corners of the continent, which has visited every warrior, and
passed through its reddened stem the irrevocable oath of war and
desolation. And here, also, the peace-breathing calumet was born, and
fringed with the eagle’s quills, which has shed its thrilling fumes over
the land, and soothed the fury of the relentless savage.
At a remote period the Great Spirit here called the Indian nations
together, and, standing on the precipice of the red pipe-stone rock, broke
from its wall a piece, and made a huge pipe by turning it in his hand,
which he smoked over them, to the north, the south, the east, and the
west, and told that this stone was red,--that it was their flesh,--that
they must use it for their pipes of peace,--that it belonged to them
all,--and that the war-club and scalping-knife must not be raised on its
ground. At the last whiff of his pipe his head went into a great cloud,
and the whole surface of the rock for several miles was melted and
glazed. Two great ovens were opened beneath, and two women (guardian
spirits of the place) entered them in a blaze of fire; and they are heard
there yet, (Tso-mec-cos-tu and Tso-me-cos-te-won-du,) answering to
invocations of the high priests or medicine-men, who consult them when
they are visitors to this sacred place.
The reader will remember, perhaps, the allusion to the Peace-pipe in
Longfellow’s “Hiawatha,”--
“On the mountains of the Prairie,
On the great Red Pipe-stone quarry,
Gitche Manito, the Mighty,
He the Master of Life, descending,
On the red crags of the quarry
Stood erect, and called the nations,
Called the tribes of men together.
From his footprints flowed a river,
Leaped into the light of morning,
O’er the precipice plunging downward,
Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet.
And the Spirit, stooping earthward,
With his finger on the meadows,
Traced a winding pathway for it,
Saying to it, ‘Run in this way!’
From the red stone of the quarry
With his hand he broke a fragment,
Moulded it into a pipe-head,
Shaped and fashioned it with figures;
From the margin of the river
Took a long reed for a pipe-stem,
With its dark green leaves upon it;
Filled the pipe with bark of willow;
With the bark of the red willow;
Breathed upon the neighbouring forest,
Made its great boughs chafe together,
Till in flame they burst and kindled;
And erect upon the mountains,
Gitche Manito, the mighty,
Smoked the calumet, the Peace-pipe,
As a signal to the nations.”
Some of the legends of the Indian tribes are of a very picturesque, and
even poetical character, as may be seen in Mr. Schoolcraft’s “Algic
Researches.” Take, as an example, the graceful tradition of the Red Swan.
Three brothers went out to the chase, excited by a wager to see who would
carry home the first game. But the binding and limiting condition was,
that each was to shoot no other animal than those he was in the habit of
killing.
They set out in different directions. Odjebwa, the youngest, had not gone
far before he saw a bear, an animal which by the agreement he had no right
to kill. He followed him close, however, and drove an arrow through him,
which brought him to the ground. Although contrary to the bet, he
immediately began to skin him, when suddenly something red tinged all the
air around him. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he was perhaps deceived, but
without effect, for the red hue continued. At length he heard a strange
noise in the distance. It first resembled a human voice; but after
following it up for some time, he reached the shores of a lake, and then
discovered the object he was in search of. Far out on the shining waters
sat a most beautiful Red Swan, whose plumage glittered in the sunshine;
and ever and anon he made the noise which had before attracted Odjebwa’s
attention. He was within longbow range, and pulling the arrow from the
bow-string up to his ear, he took deliberate aim, and shot. The arrow took
no effect, and he shot again and again until his quiver was empty. Still
the swan remained statelily circling round and round, stretching its long
neck, and dipping its bill into the water, indifferent to the missiles
aimed at it. Odjebwa ran home, secured all his own and his brother’s
arrows, and these too, ineffectually shot away: then stood and gazed at
the beautiful bird.
While thus standing, he remembered a saying of his brother’s, that in
their deceased father’s medicine-bag were three magic arrows. Off he
started, his anxiety to kill the swan overcoming every scruple. At any
other time he would have deemed it a sacrilege to open his father’s
medicine-bag, but now he hastily violated it, seized the three magic
arrows and ran back. The swan was still floating on the lake. He shot the
first arrow with great precision, and came very near his mark. The second
flew still nearer; and as he took the third and last arrow, he felt his
arm strengthen, and drawing it up with vigour, sent the shaft right
through the neck of the swan, a little above the breast. Still even this
death-stroke did not prevent the bird from flying off,--which it did very
slowly, flapping its wings, and rising gradually into the air, until it
passed far away into the sunset.
Quoting again from Longfellow, we place before the reader his allusion to
this pretty legend:--
“Can it be the sun descending
O’er the level plain of water?
Or the Red Swan, floating, flying,
Wounded by the magic arrow,
Staining all the waves with crimson,
With the crimson of its life-blood,
Filling all the air with splendour,
With the splendour of its plumage?
Yes; it is the sun descending,
Sinking down into the water;
No; it is the Red Swan floating,
Diving down beneath the water;
To the sky its wings are lifted,
With its blood the waves are reddened!”
The Indians regard the maize, or Indian corn, with almost superstitious
veneration,--which is not wonderful, perhaps, when its immense importance
to them is taken into consideration. They esteem it, says Schoolcraft, so
important and divine a grain, that their story-tellers invented various
tales, in which this idea is symbolised under the form of a special gift
from the Great Spirit. The Odjebwa-Algonquins, who call it Mon-da-min, or
the Spirit’s grain or berry, cherish a legend, in which the stalk in full
tassel is represented as descending from the sky, under the guise of a
handsome youth; in response to the prayers of a young man offered at his
fast of virility, or coming to manhood.
“All around the happy village
Stood the maize-fields, green and shining,
Waved the green plumes of Mondamin,
Waved his soft and sunny tresses,
Filling all the land with plenty.”