It cannot be new to my pale-faced brother, for he has been told it
often enough, that, besides the Great Master of Life, the red men of
the forest worship a great multitude of spirits with whom they believe
every part of the world to be peopled. According to our belief, a
Manitou dwells upon every hill, and in every valley; in every open
glade and dark morass; in the chambers of every cavern, and the heart
of every rock; in every fountain, and watery depth, and running
stream. These spirits dislike white men very much, because they are
always intruding upon their quiet, robbing both hill and valley of
their stately trees, breaking up the bosom of the earth, penetrating
into every dark morass and cavern, and polluting, by some means or
other, every fountain, and watery depth, and running stream. Indians
do not wish to provoke them, and so try to propitiate them by innocent
and unbloody offerings. We spread on the mountain tops, or hang on the
cliffs, or lay on the shelves of the caves, or drop into the waters,
wreaths of flowers, belts of wampum, clusters of the wild grape,
shining ears of maize, and other gifts which attach them to us. When
an Indian child is born, whether it is a man-child or woman-child, a
spirit is immediately chosen to protect it, and its future life is
expected to be prosperous or not as the guardian spirit is powerful
and well-disposed to his charge, or weak, and undertakes his task of
protection with reluctance.
The Little White Bear of the Iroquois was reposing by night in his
cabin, on the banks of his own pleasant river, in the month of ripe
berries, when he beheld, by the light of the moon, a forest-chief in
all his pride enter the lodge. The step of the stranger was noiseless
as the fall of snow, and of word or sound uttered he none. The chief
of the Tuscaroras arose, and took down his sinewy bow, and drew from
his quiver a sharp and barbed arrow--the figure faded away like a
morning mist before the beams of the sun, and was gone from his eyes.
Tetontuaga woke his comrades, who lay scattered about in careless
slumber--nothing had they seen, heard, or dreamed of. He lay down
again, and, drawing his buffalo cloak closely around him, tried to
close his eyes and ears, in oblivion of things, and to rein his fancy
to look upon other shapes than those of air.
No sooner had he composed his limbs, and invoked the beneficent spirit
who presides over sleep to grant him a slumber unvisited by hideous
or frowning forms, than the shadowy warrior again arose and stood at
his side. The Iroquois had now full opportunity to scan his form and
features. Of gigantic frame he seemed, and his dress was of a texture
and fashion such as the chief had never seen before--of an age and a
nation none might guess. He was a half taller than the tallest man of
the Five Nations, who are reputed the tallest of all the red men of
the land, and his limbs, arms, legs, hands, feet, were of twice the
ordinary size of an Iroquois warrior. His coal-black eyes were larger
than the buffalo's, but they were lustreless as those of the dead; his
teeth, large and of the colour of bones bleached by the sun and rain,
chattered like the teeth of a man overpowered by the cold of the
Bear-Moon. He wore over his shoulders a long robe of curiously dyed,
or painted cloth, fastened at the throat by a piece of shining metal,
and a fur cap made of the skin of an animal never seen by the
Iroquois, above which rose a high plume of feathers of a bird unknown
in Indian lands. The mocassins were of one piece, reaching with no
visible seam to the knees, and he wore upon his sinewy thighs garments
shaped like those worn by the white stranger. His language, when he
spoke, was a strange and uncouth language, yet it was understood by
the Iroquois warrior, who felt, as he heard the strange sound, its
meaning seize his brain as a strong man seizes and binds him who is
weak and powerless. Wondrous were the things which the fierce phantom
related to the startled warrior of the Iroquois. He spoke of the wars
of the Allegewi, and of the torrents of blood that ran into the
Michigan, and the Erie, and the Huron, and the River of the
Mountains[A], and the Næmesi Sipu, discolouring their once clear, and
cresting with red foam, their once calm and peaceful waters. He told
how the men of the Allegewi were beaten and driven no one but the
Great Being, and the Manitous, and the spirits in the Blessed Shades,
knew whither, by the ancestors of the Iroquois, who came from the far
north, across an arm of the Frozen Sea, encountered the Allegewi, the
primitive inhabitants of the soil, who were entrenched behind the
stupendous mounds which still remain, and drove them into perpetual
banishment. He described the pigmy people, and the giant tribes whose
graves and mounds might yet be seen, exciting the wonder of the
curious, and bringing men even from the City of the Rock[B] to view
them, to open them, and to put down their thoughts about them upon
the fair white skin[C]. A wild and unnatural song of triumph, in a
tone as hoarse as the croakings of the raven or the bittern, burst
from his lips, of the valiant exploits of his tribe, his own among the
number, in times long since--when the oak tree now dying with age was
a little child, and the huge rocks were within the strength of a full
grown warrior to poise. He spoke of nations whose names till then had
never reached the ears of the wondering Iroquois, and told of their
loves, and their hatreds, and their forest warfare.
[Footnote A: The Hudson.]
[Footnote B: Quebec.]
[Footnote C: The Indians could not be persuaded at first that paper
was any thing else than tanned leather.]
Then he changed the theme, and spoke of the land of souls, the bright
region to which the spirits of the good retire when the body is to be
changed to dust. He painted the pleasures which are the portion of its
inhabitants, and told in the ears of the warrior what description of
men were permitted to be received into it; what were the deeds which
pleased and conciliated the Great Being, and what the crimes which
shut the gates of the Bridge of Souls against the wanderer thither. He
painted minutely the happy land appointed for the residence of the
souls of the Iroquois--where the brave man's shade still pursues the
forest herd, or clasps to his bosom the forms of the sunny-eyed
maidens of his own clime; and the green and happy isles where the
Huron lovers reside, and the frozen and verdureless heath appointed to
the cowards of all the earth. When he had exhausted these subjects, he
related to the warrior many traditions of the old time, tales of
forest love, and of the valour of the men of ancient days. He
continued to visit the lodge of the chief every night for the space of
a moon, entertaining him, with the same fixed and lustreless eye, and
in the same hoarse tone, with these old tales. The Little White Bear
of the Iroquois locked up those things in the great store-house of his
memory, and each day, when the sun returned to the earth, and with it
the ghost of the ancient man had departed, he related to his wondering
tribe the traditions poured into his ear by the phantom warrior. And
this was the first.
* * * * *
The moon was shining brightly on tree and flower, on glade and river,
on land and water; stars were twinkling, and the winds slept in the
caverns of the earth, when a youth and a maiden--he, tall and straight
as a forest tree; fierce as a panther to his enemies, but gentle as a
kid to those he loved; she, little in stature as a sprout of a single
season, but the mildest and most beautiful of all mortal things--came
out of the forest. The horse upon whose back they had escaped from
their enemies lay exhausted at the verge of the wood, and now they
stood alone by the river of silver.
"Here rest thee, my beloved," said the youth, "we are safe. Our good
steed has sped like an arrow through the thicket; our pursuers, my
rival, thy father, thy brother, and all thy tribe, lie foiled and
fainting far behind us. There is no longer footfall or shout in the
wind; the voices of angry men, calling the Algonquin by names he never
owned and whose ignominy he may not avenge, have long since expired on
our ears like the voice of a dying cloud in the Moon of Thunder. Rest
thee, my beloved!--as a young bird that is weary of flying reposes on
the bough of a tree till its faintness has passed away, so must thou
lie down on the green and verdant bank till thy strength returns. I go
to yonder river, to seek a bark to bear us away to the lands of my
nation, and to my pleasant cabin by the stream where I first drew
breath." And he rose to go.
"Oh leave me not!" cried the maiden, her soft cheek bedewed with
tears, and deep sighs proceeding from her oppressed heart. "When thou
art away, I tremble with terror. When I see not the light of thine
eyes, I am filled with dismay. My mother comes, in her anger, to chide
me, and she does not spare; my stern brother storms like the winter's
tempest; my sire rages and threatens; and then, like the panther that
springs across the path of the lone hunter, comes thy hated rival, to
oppress me with the tale of his love and the boast of his success."
"Nay, thou art dreaming, my beloved," said the young warrior. "If
fancy must sway thee, let thy visions be tinted with the cheerful ray
of hope. There is no peril near thee, and soon will I bear my
beautiful bride to the lands of my nation, and to my pleasant cabin
beside the beautiful river where I first drew my breath."
So saying, he sprung lightly to the shore, and was lost to her sight.
At the moment of his disappearance, a cloud passed over the face of
the bright moon, obscuring her blessed light. The maiden, deeming it
an inauspicious omen, sat down upon the green bank, and, leaning her
head upon her hand, suffered the tears to stream through her slender
fingers. But vain was the presage--idle were her fears. The cloud has
passed away from the face of the pale orb, and lo! there is her lover.
He comes with a joyous step and a laughing eye, as though he had been
successful in his search for the further means of flight. Cheer up,
Mekaia[A]; it is indeed thy Moscharr[B].
[Footnote A: The star flower.]
[Footnote B: The mountain plant.]
"Now haste, my beloved one," said the Mountain Plant. "I have found
the object of my search. Here is a canoe, and soon shall it convey my
Star-flower over the rapid tide. Soon will my little bark shoot over
the noisy current, and I and my beloved be altogether beyond the power
of our pursuers."
So saying, he drew the unreluctant maiden swiftly forward. They gained
the shore, placed themselves in the canoe, and committed it to the
current. With her hand clasped in his, her head resting softly upon
his shoulder, while his arm fondly encircled her slender waist, they
glided down the rapid River of the Mountains. No sail was raised to
catch the breeze; no oar was used to impel them through the water;
yet, ere the maiden had time to breathe, the light canoe was gliding,
rapid as thought, down the mid-waves of the current. Then the maiden
spoke.
"Now say, O Moscharr, whither is it you are guiding the bark? Mark you
not, love, how we are gliding down the stream towards the dreadful
Oniagarah?"
"Be calm, my Mekaia," answered the lover, "I am but guiding you to
yonder strand, upon which the current sets full and strong. Be calm,
my Mekaia, we are safe."
The maiden held her tongue, for was she not with him she loved? Away
then, away they went, and still onward, while faster, and fleeter, and
more boisterous, the foaming waters flowed around them, and less
distant every moment seemed the dreadful cataract. Its roar was like
that of an approaching cloud from which thunders are issuing. Again
the timid maiden addressed her lover:
"Now tell me, O Moscharr, whither is it you are guiding the bark? See,
the shore is more distant, and hark! what awful noise is that which
strikes mine ear from out of the black curtain ahead of us? It cannot
be the thunders, for there is no cloud; it cannot be the voice of the
Great Spirit, for he is the friend of the Ottawa girl."
"Be calm, my Mekaia," answered the lover, "there is no danger; it is
thy lover that guides the bark, and he will be careful of the flower
of the forest maidens. I see the shore--I see the rock--and whenever I
will I can guide to either."
Away then, away goes their light bark, and still they speed onward
with the swiftness of an arrow from a well drawn bow. The tall dark
forests that rose above their starting-place are fast receding from
view, and hark! pealing like the thunders of heaven, the roar of the
mighty cataract, to come within whose influence is instant
destruction.
"Now tell me, O Moscharr, what dreadful sound is that which breaks in
so loud and angry a tone upon my ear from out of the black curtain?"
demanded the maiden.
"It is the surge breaking on the sandy shore, or the night winds
rushing through the forest," answered he.
"And tell me what are those lifting their white heads before us, as
the snow, which has fallen in a calm, is swept about by the whirlwind
which follows it?"
"Billows breaking on the shoals that surround yon little island."
Away then, away goes their little bark, dashing among the wild waves,
like a leaf caught up into air by the summer whirlwind, till all at
once burst upon the horror-stricken maiden, in their most tremendous
and appalling aspect, the waters of the far-famed, the wondrous
Oniagarah. See the white sheet of foam which rises in spray, mocking
the soaring of the bird of morning. "It is only the Great Spirit that
can save us now!" exclaimed the frantic maiden. "Lo, my Moscharr, we
hasten to the land of souls!"
"Not the Great Spirit himself, did he will it, could save us,"
answered the lover in a tone which seemed to be that of impiety.
"Were he here himself, with all the Manitous of the earth, and the
air, and the flood, and the fire, gathered together from mountain, and
valley, and wood, and prairie, he could not save us. Together, Mekaia,
we shall sleep in the stormy cataract."
The maiden heard the dreadful words in silence. But even then she
showed the depth of her affection. The love of a woman endures through
all changes; she shrinks not at death, so the beloved one be at her
side. When the beauteous flower of the forest saw her fate
approaching, and so near, she sank into the arms of her Moscharr, as
though it were pleasanter to die there than elsewhere; and a soft
smile, for she smiled even in that dread moment, told that she was
most happy to die, if she could die on the breast of him she loved.
But hark, what voice is that calling upon thee, wretched maiden! Did
not he who won thy youthful heart, while yet it was little and
fluttering, so pronounce the loved word "Mekaia?" Was not _that_ the
tone and accent which oft rang through the hollow beech woods, when
together ye went to gather the ripened mast, and chanced to separate
till the cry recalled? And look--see, one stands upon the beetling
rock above thee, amidst the crash and thunder of the eddy into which
thou art cast, his arms stretched towards thee, beautiful flower of
the wilderness, and his look one of unutterable agony and despair. It
is Moscharr, beautiful Mekaia, it is he who sat by thy side in the
playful hours of infancy, and won thy little heart ere it knew
wherefore it was beating. With the speed of the blast he has followed
thy course down the shore of the cataract, and now he stands upon the
edge of the terrible gulf, horror depicted in his countenance, his
eyes cast upward in supplication to the Great Spirit, that thou mayst
yet be preserved, and agony and doubt written on his face, lest the
prayer he breathes may not be heard. And if that be thy lover who
calls franticly upon thee from the beetling rock, who is he that sits
at thy side, wearing the form and semblance of that lover, and
speaking with the soft and kind tones which were ever his when
addressing the flower of the forest maids? Alas! rose of the
wilderness, it is the ruling spirit of the angry flood, the dreadful
MANITOU OF THE CATARACT!
One tearful look the maiden bestows upon her agonised lover, ere the
canoe glides over the precipice, and, swift as rocks hurled by spring
rains down the side of the mountains, disappears in the horrid chasm
below. One tearful look, one heart-rending shriek, which rises even
above the roar of the cataract, as the canoe plunges through the
foam, and she is gone from his eyes, like a feather caught up on the
wings of a great wind.
What beautiful little bird is that which descends from yon
silver-edged cloud, which is floating so high in the heavens that only
the vulture may venture a flight thither, or the gray eagle sweep to
it in his pride? Beautiful creature! beautiful bird(1)! not so large
as the swallow, its neck a bright green, its wings scarlet, mottled
with white, and having a train thrice as long as its body, in which
are blended all the colours that adorn the rainbow. It came to the
spot where the lover, unmanned by the dreadful catastrophe, stood
mourning like a mother bereaved of her children, and, thrice circling
his head, invited his attention by all the means which could be used
by mortals, except that of speech. The lover sees at length the
beautiful creature, and knows _whose_ messenger it is. But why comes
the herald of hope to him in his hour of despair? Can the Great
Spirit, all-powerful as he is, succour him? Can joy be yet in store
for him? It must be so, else why has he sent down his own messenger
from the sky? That Being is too kind and too good to hold out false
hopes; it is not in his nature to intimate an intention of succouring
unless he actually entertains such intention. Be comforted, Mountain
Plant, thou hast a friend!
And now commenced their toilsome journey down the side of the
cataract. The spirit-bird led, and the bereaved lover followed. Poised
on joyful wing, the little messenger fluttered before him, singing
sweet songs of promise, until they had descended into the frightful
abyss, and its secrets stood revealed before them. Terrific sight!
tremendous sound! Their eyes were appalled by the view of billows
which mount to the very skies--of huge volumes of water, dashing down
the dreadful precipice into a vast basin, which seemed large enough to
be the tomb of the giant Chappewee; and their ears were saluted with
sounds, whose loudness and violence were a thousand times beyond those
of the tempest, or the thunder, or the earthquake. Onward they groped
their desperate way beyond the fiercest fall, until all at once they
came to a dreadful cavern shrouded in the deepest night and gloom.
Notwithstanding the whirl of waters, and the impetuous rush of the
blast, and, though the earth rocked around them like a canoe on the
stormy waves of the Spirits' Bay of Lake Huron(2), yet the brave and
patient Moscharr, unwearied and fearless, followed through pass and
pitfall, by stream and steep, the flight of his little conductor.
Keeping the lamp carried by the spirit-bird in view, he regarded not
the huge rocks toppling above his head, and each moment threatening
him with instant destruction, but fought on his perilous course, till
they had threaded the labyrinth, and found themselves in a cavern, as
unlike the first, as the tranquil summer sky is unlike the blustering
of the sky in the Moon of Storms.
The cavern, into which they now found entrance, was lit up by a blaze
of effulgence, which seemed as great as would be that of a hundred
suns shining at one time. So astonishing was the brightness, so
surpassing the beauty of those things which served for the lamps of
this vast hall, that the Iroquois warrior for a moment forgot the
cause which brought him thither, and stopped to admire the glories
which were scattered around him. It was, indeed, filled with all that
might dazzle and ravish the sight. Above them glittered a firmament
studded, it seemed, with stars, yet flashing a light far more
brilliant than the stars of night ever gave. And the sides of the
cavern glittered with the gorgeous hues reflected from the shining
stones of many colours wherewith it was set.
But why halts the spirit-bird guide, and why does he veil his lamp?
Why looks he with anxious eyes to yonder bright chambers in the
cavern? What beings are those which appear in that chamber, and whose
are those accents that fall on the eager ears of the lovers? I behold
a couch formed of spar that glitters like icicles in the beams of the
sun. It is covered with the softest grass that grows at the bottom of
the torrent, and upon it is laid, panting with weariness and fright, a
beautiful woman--it is the flower of the forest maidens, the lost
Mekaia! At her side, no longer counterfeiting the Iroquois warrior,
but showing himself in all his native ugliness, his body crooked and
disproportioned, his hair coarse as the weeds that grow on the rocks
of the great salt sea, his eyes green as a meadow in spring, his mouth
of enormous size, and his ears like those of a buffalo, stands her
persecutor and ravisher, the Fiend of the Cataract. And thus he wooed
the fair helpless being that lay upon the couch of dazzling stone:
"Mekaia, beauteous Mekaia, the mighty Manitou of Oniagarah asks thy
love. If thou wilt give it me, I will give thee in return all the
treasures of earth and flood, the diamonds which lie in the depths of
the cataract, and the bright ore, which, in other lands, buys both the
bodies and souls of men. The thing that thou wishest shall be within
the reach of thy hand as soon as wished; and, to please thee, my form
shall again take the shape and appearance of him thou lovest. I go
now, fair maiden, but soon will I return to thee and love. But, if
thou again refusest me, the Manitou shall come to woo thee like
himself, and, in his own proper form, of more hideous seeming than
that which he now wears, and invested with thrice his present terrors,
enforce his claim. His wishes gratified, he will spurn thee from him,
and cast forth thy corse to the torrent."
With this heavy threat the Manitou vanished. And now seize, seize, ye
lovers, the happy minute! 'Tis a moment of fate. Fly, fly! and look,
the aërial messenger of Him who governs all things beckons them on.
They obey the mute appeal, and with the fleetness of the mountain goat
rush from the cavern. Their way is dark and dreadful, but fear lends
them wings. They know from the lips of their beautiful guide, the
Spirit-bird, which at length has opened its mouth to impart to them
words of kind encouragement, that with the dawning of day the fiend of
the flood is but mortal--that with the crowing of the cock his power
is at an end; and they are urging their limbs to their utmost speed,
for see, the gleam of red tells that day is nigh. The little messenger
from the Great Spirit still points the pathway, and under his care and
guidance they speedily gain the mid-height. Alas for the lovers!
Heaven preserve them in this their hour of extreme peril, for see, the
horrible fiend is on their track, straining every nerve in pursuit;
and so rapidly does he gain upon them, that, unless aid be sent from
some superior power, they will be soon in his grasp.
But the brave Moscharr still clung to hopes of escape, and still
exerted himself with almost superhuman power to accomplish it. With
one arm encircling the lifeless form of the maiden, he employed the
other to draw himself, by means of the protruding shrubs, over the
steep precipices. A sudden thought enabled him to baffle for a while
the grim pursuer. His foot, applied to a loose rock, launched it in a
tone of thunder upon the fiend, who was borne backward half the
distance of an arrow's flight by the ponderous mass. During the time
he was struggling to disengage himself from the weight that pinned him
to the earth, the lover had nearly won the farthest bound of the
Manitou's kingdom. And see, the purple and grey breaks out from the
east. It is day, and the power of the Manitou, as far as regards his
spiritual nature, is ended. Summon, O Moscharr, all your strength and
fleetness, and by one desperate effort escape his personal strength,
as the fortunate coming of the daylight's beam has placed you beyond
the reach of his supernatural power! Hurry on! hurry on! The kingdom
of the Manitou extends but to the lowest bubble of foam--it ends with
the last billow of the rapids--the goal is before you; it is scarce
half a bowshot from you--haste, and it is won. Hurry on! hurry on! the
moment you have reached the boundary of the fiend-kingdom, multitudes
of good spirits--friends to you, but deadly and implacable foes to
your enemy--will start up to assist you.
With the maiden on his arm, all wounded and bleeding, his own body
lacerated and torn, yet unyielding as ever, does the brave Moscharr
pursue his flight. But he feels as if the moment of death was near at
hand. Exhausted by his almost superhuman efforts to escape, he finds a
weakness and trembling stealing over his limbs, and he faints, and
falls with his lovely burthen to the earth, at the very moment of
victory and safety. The Manitou has reached him, and, with a
fiend-like laugh on his horrid face, bends exultingly forward to seize
his helpless victims. One hand he lays upon the tender arm of the
forest-flower, the other is in the hair of the lover. But, as he bends
forward, a sudden jerk of the Iroquois, occasioned by returning life,
draws him unwittingly over the line which marks the boundaries of his
kingdom and sway. In a moment--in a breath--ere the eye could have
winked, or the spirit thought--multitudes of bright beings start up
from each nook, and dell, and dingle--from field and flood. The deep
space, the rocks above them, below them, at their side, the air above
and around them, as far as the eye can reach, is filled with
beneficent spirits. "He is ours!" they shout; "he is ours! He has
passed from the region over which he had sway; he has left the
dominions and powers over which he held rule. He is ours! he is ours!
Not in vain did we leave our verdant bowers in the distant Lake of the
Thousand Islands, to hasten to the succour of the maiden flower of the
forest and her brave and faithful lover. It was the Great Spirit that
inspired us to come hither, that we might save from death, and what
were far worse, the beautiful betrothed of the valiant Moscharr. He is
ours! he is ours! the Manitou is ours! Now launch your light barks,
brothers--launch your light barks! The skiffs that brought us hither
must be moored in the calm bays of our dear island before the broad
sun looks over the tops of the eastern hills. But first we must punish
our ruthless foe. Let us inflict on him the fate he threatened to
inflict on the beauteous maiden--let us bind him and throw him down
these rugged rocks into the wave that rolls furiously below! He is
ours! he is ours!"
At once--at the conclusion of their song of triumph--a thousand bright
forms sprung upon the prostrate and powerless Manitou, and bound and
dragged him to the steep. And while again arose their wild but
melodious cry, "He is ours! he is ours!" they launched him into the
thundering torrent below, which swept his mangled and lifeless body
into utter oblivion.
When the destruction of the fiend was accomplished, the beautiful
spirit-bird, which, while the deed of his death was doing, sat eyeing
them intently from a broken crag above their heads, rose from its
perch, and, after dropping upon the pair, from his radiant wings,
showers of light as the tokens of the love of its Master for them,
soared back to the skies whence it came. The happy Moscharr and his
loved Mekaia then accompanied the friendly spirits, who had assisted
in the overthrow of the bad Manitou, to their home in the beautiful
Lake of the Thousand Islands. The pair were welcomed with songs and
rejoicings to the spirit shores, and loud were the revels, and
boisterous the mirth, of its little inhabitants. Triumphs were made
for them, mingled with rejoicings, at the downfall of their
long-feared and much hated foe. And when they had displayed their love
for the pair, by all the means within their power--dancing, feasting,
and kind speech--they dismissed them to their homes, with many
blessings upon their heads, and invocations of the Good Spirit to
protect and prosper them. The brave Moscharr and his beautiful bride
soon reached the home of his people, and lived to see their children's
children listen with mute astonishment to the tale of the escape of
their father's parents from the Manitou of the Cataract.