From the wilderness we bring
The fat buck we have slain,
We have laid him on the coals:
Lord of Life!
Lord of Life!
We have opened the door,
That the smoke may ascend
To thy nostrils, and please thee,
Great Master of Breath,
Of our breath!
We will call the wise priest--
He will come!
He will come!
He will utter thy name with his lips;
He will ask that thy hand may be light
On our race, in thy wrath,
In thy wrath!
When the priest had performed certain ceremonies over the holocaust, he
retired, and the hymn was resumed as follows:--
We have call'd the wise priest--
He has come!
He has come!
He has utter'd thy name with his lips,
He has open'd his breast to thine eye,
He has ask'd that thy hand may be light
On our race, in thy wrath,
In thy wrath.
Hear us, Master of Breath!
Nor destroy,
Nor destroy:
If thou wieldest the bolt of thy rage,
If thou callest thy thunder to shake,
If thou biddest thy lightning to smite,
We must pass to the feast of the worm,
Of the worm.
Oh! grant us our prayers,
Lord of life!
Lord of life!
Make us victors o'er every foe,
Make us strong in the den of the bear,
Make us swift in the haunts of the buck,
Great Master of Breath,
Of our breath!
When the feast and sacrifices were concluded, M. Verdier rose and
addressed the assembly in these words:
"Brothers and warriors, I have come from a far country to
listen to the words of an Indian's mouth. I have left behind
me my father, and my mother, and my wife, and my children, and
the burial-places of my ancestors, and the council-fire of my
great chief, and the temples of the Master of Life, to dwell
with the Indians in their wigwams, to go with them to the
chace, to feast with them, to talk with them, to offer
sacrifices with them. I knew the dangers I must encounter
before I could enter their habitations. I knew how dreadful
was the rage of the Great Ocean, and how dismal the howling of
the winds upon it, in the season of darkness, but I said I
will despise the dangers, for I want to look upon the face of
the red man, and smoke with him in the calumet of peace.
"Brothers and warriors, I am here--I am glad I came. I have
seen the red man--I love him. And I have called together all
the red men of the land, that I may learn more of their
thoughts and love them more; that I may be able to carry back
to my sons, and to the chiefs and the warriors of my own land,
proofs of their wisdom, and sagacity, and valour.
"Brothers and warriors, the history of the red man is found
only in his traditions, it exists but in his memory. Will you
instruct me in those traditions? Will you relate to me the
tales which have been handed down to you from old times--the
traditions which tell of the great actions of your fathers, of
the favours, and mercies, and punishments, of the Great
Spirit? These are the things I would hear. I came hither to
hear them. The Great Spirit forbid you should refuse my
request!"
When M. Verdier had finished his speech, Meshewa, a young warrior of the
Shawano nation, rose and said:
"Brothers and warriors, I am a little man, no higher than the
shoulder of my brother Meshepeshe, yet I must speak, the Great
Spirit bids me speak. He says to me, Wild Horse, rise and
relate a tradition of your nation. I will relate this
tradition, but I will tell you no lie. Who is there that ever
saw Meshewa look upon the ground, or hold his hand before his
eyes, when he told his story? He looks up bold as an eagle, he
opens his mouth fearlessly, and they who hear his words write
them down on the green leaf of their memory.
"Brothers and chiefs, we have here with us a man, whose face
is of the colour of the skin of a plucked plover--he listens.
He has come, as he has told you, from a land which lies beyond
the Great Salt Lake. I believe him, for he does not hide his
face, or look ashamed when he speaks.
"Chiefs and brothers, this man was once a warrior, but, when
he was no higher than the tree of twelve moons, he offered
sacrifice in his own country to the Great Spirit, and knew all
the rites proper to be observed in his worship. When the
winter snows are rushing to the embrace of the Great River,
and the birds have returned to their bowers, and the sap is
recruiting the soul of the thirsty tree, he will go to his
wife and children, who live very far towards the morning sun.
The woman with the bright eyes will come out of her wigwam to
meet him, and will ask him if he has brought back his heart.
His son will climb to his knee, and weep to have the
traditions of our country told him. Our brother will not fear
to answer the questions of the woman, for he is prudent and
wise. And shall we not teach him to still the cry of the boy?
We shall.
"Brothers and chiefs, the stranger loves to hear our words,
ask him if he does not. He desires that our mouths should
open, and repeat the stories which have been told us by our
fathers, and the fathers and mothers of our fathers--stories
of deeds which were done when the oak trees, now dying of age,
were saplings no higher than my knee. Shall he hear them? He
shall. The Good Spirit bids us speak, but he bids us speak
only truth. If we lie he will be angry with us, and will give
us up to our enemies, or the beasts of prey. He will spoil our
harvests. And when were deer ever found in the hunting-path of
the liar?
"Brothers and chiefs, I am young. The sprout from the seed of
the oak, planted on the day I was born, yet bends to the earth
with the weight of the wild cat. The knees of my father are
not feeble with age, nor is his hair thin or white. My mother
has a young panther in her lodge, she gives it her own milk.
Yet I will tell you a story. It is a tale of my nation, a tale
of an old day, delivered from father to son till it has
reached my time. Listen!"
The youthful chief then rose, and related the Shawano tradition,
entitled "The Man of Ashes."