* * * * *
“Weegegijik. Kessegook, wigwamk;
Meskeek oodun Ulnoo, kes saak.”
[May you be happy. The old people are encamped;
There was once, long ago, a large Indian village.]
With this suggestive couplet the Legends, or Ahtookwokun of the Micmacs,
in their original form, almost invariably commence. The inseparable
introduction shows us how the literature of the people had long ago
taken on a settled form, even though there were no written records; it
confirms to a considerable degree the common impression that they had a
ballad arrangement, and were chanted to weird music in that ancient
time; and also indicates how carefully the old men cherish the memory of
their former greatness.
These people look upon their folk-lore as a sacred treasure to be
carefully preserved by their holy men; and, as in our Saxon traditions
the dying Bleys relates the story of Arthur’s birth, so an aged Sakumow
may be heard repeating the immortal legends to faithful witnesses, just
before he passes on to the regions of the far West, where Glooscap
dwells in the presence of the Great Spirit, and where the golden sunsets
give us foregleams of that beautiful abode, the happy hunting-ground of
the faithful.
Let us approach the study of Micmac Mythology with a becoming reverence,
for we are dealing with sacred things; and, as we learn what little we
can about a vanishing religion, may we not join with the great American
poet in the hope
“That the feeble hands and helpless
Groping blindly in the darkness,
Touch God’s right hand in that darkness
And are lifted up and strengthened.”
Dr. Silas T. Rand, to whom we are indebted for all we know about the
ancient religion of the people, thought that a number of the Micmac
Legends might be Bible narratives, not any more changed than one would
expect after centuries of transmission by word of mouth alone. Professor
E. N. Horsford, through whose foresight and generosity the legends were
published, and Mr. Charles G. Leland, who has a very interesting
collection of Algonquin Legends, were both persuaded that several of the
stories must have come either direct from hardy Norsemen, or from the
Norsemen through the Eskimo. The two legends that perhaps most closely
resemble traditions found in Iceland are “The Adventures of
Kaktoogwasees” and “The Beautiful Bride,” the former the thirteenth and
the latter the twenty-fourth in Dr. Rand’s collection; they relate
almost identical incidents, in the same order, and must have started
from the same original, whether Norse or not. The variations which led
Dr. Rand to consider them separate stories are probably due to some
narrators having confined their attention chiefly to the attractive
bride, while others had taken more delight in picturing the rugged
qualities of the young Thunderer and his companions. Carefully comparing
the two stories, we see that Glooscap acts a prominent part in each,
always proving himself a faithful friend. He allows the travellers the
use of his _kweedun_, or canoe, which is a small rocky island covered
with a low growth of trees, and, more wonderful still! the _kweedun_
travels without the use of paddles wherever the owner may wish. In both
tales we find a man so swift of foot that it is necessary for him to
keep one leg tied up firmly to his body, except on great occasions, for
when both legs are free, he cannot by any means control his actions;
and, when the great occasion comes for an exhibition of his magic, he
makes a complete circle around the earth, carrying a brimming goblet of
water, in somewhat less than thirty minutes, thus winning the laurels
for his party. In both tales, too, we find a magician who keeps the
hurricane securely fastened within his nostrils, and it is very
interesting when he removes the stoppages and breathes freely, raising a
tempestuous sea, and laying waste whole areas of forest. Kaktoogwasees,
the young Thunderer, has better magic in his party than all his enemies
combined, and we do not hesitate to congratulate him as he leads home
his beautiful bride, the daughter of the Earthquake, who, as described
in Legend XXIV., has hair as glossy black as the wing of the raven,
cheeks of crimson, and a brow as white as January snow.
Dr. Rand says: “I have not found more than five or six Indians who could
relate these queer stories, and most, if not all of these, have now
gone. Who the original author was, or how old they are we have no means
of knowing.” It is evident that several have been borrowed from the
Russians and the Eskimo; such, for example, as relate to characters
having flinty hearts, or who keep their hearts hidden away within some
half-dozen concentric coatings, living or dead and perhaps all hidden
away in the bottom of the sea. Also, if we compare Legend III. in Dr.
Rand’s collection with the one entitled “The Weaver’s Son” in Jeremiah
Curtin’s “Folklore of Ireland,” we must be convinced that the Micmac
Legend is an incomplete version of the Irish story. Some of the Legends
may have been borrowed from every people with whom the Micmacs came in
contact since their ancestors first began to wander from the highlands
of Asia; but, granting that all tales bearing such resemblances have
been borrowed, it may still be reasonably supposed that most of the
Legends of the Micmacs are simply the crystalized thought of a people
who had a keen appreciation of the beautiful, living as they did season
after season in the most intimate contact with the varied manifestations
of nature,—a people whose restless minds were ever on the alert to find
some explanation of the workings of that
“Divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.”
Many people cannot think of mythology without seeing confused
apparitions of Zeus with his family of gods and goddesses on old
Olympus, but here, among the earliest Acadians, we find traditions
which, when organized into a system will be worthy of the most careful
study. Dr. Rand, who translated the legends and recorded them for us,
did not make any attempt to classify the characters, and for that very
reason his work is of the greater value to science, since he was not
hunting up a basis for any theory of his own. Mr. Leland has made a
beginning, in the way of grouping related stories; but someone might
well spend half a life-time in opening up this promising mine, and
placing Micmac Mythology, as it surely deserves to be placed, on an
equality with our accepted Classics.
It may seem a rash statement, and evince a poor appreciation for the
classic authors we have read, but there are those who are persuaded that
in the Mythology of the Americans, as in that of our fathers, the
Norsemen, we find a rugged strength and a manly purity which is very
obscure if not altogether unknown among those imaginary characters which
grew up in the minds of the ancient Greeks, and later became the
property of Rome and the world. True, the tales of the northern nations
are not so gracefully told, and themselves lack the perfect etiquette we
find among the Greeks; but for strength, and brilliancy of conception,
surely those great characters rudely sketched in black and white have a
stimulating suggestiveness that is altogether obscure amid the milder
tones and softly blending harmonies of the polished ideals of the East.
Philosophers, who know, tell us that we of Northern climes cannot
worship, or love, or even hate with that refinement of cruelty which
those experience who bask in brighter sunshine beneath a milder sky.
Suppose we yield them the palm in this respect, are we not more than
repaid by the dignity and majesty that comes with the consciousness of
being master of the fury of the elements! Such dignity did the Micmac
heroes have; and the ideals of the people left its impress upon the
character of the nation, until the necessity of self-preservation, and
the slip-shod policy of their conquerors, destroyed every noble
ambition.
In Micmac Mythology we have a plant of native growth which bids fair to
be as beautiful and profitable as any of the famous exotics; shall we
not cultivate it with some of the attention we now bestow upon Greek
Mythology? and as we study the story of Acadian heroes,—rugged, strong,
and beautiful in their primeval simplicity, may we not hope to hear a
deep voice speaking to us through the shady vistas of the past, and
saying:—
“Be thou a hero, let thy might
Tramp on the eternal snows its way,
And through the ebon walls of night,
Carve out a passage unto day.”
Of the eighty-seven stories in Dr. Rand’s collection many are pure and
simple myths; some are mythical with an evident purpose to teach some
practical lesson, and so may be considered fables or parables; while
still others are merely records of history, somewhat mythical, perhaps,
and yet no doubt largely the record of facts.
Perhaps the feature that most impresses itself upon the careful reader
is the number of instances in which weakness overcomes all obstacles.
Frail children and dwarfs are able by the use of magic to overcome
fabulous monsters, and destroy whole families of giants with such
weapons as a spear made from a splinter, or a supple bow whose string is
a single hair. A small canoe which a weak old woman can sew up in a
single evening, is found sufficient to carry two men over a stormy sea
in the teeth of a raging hurricane, while in the quiet of Glooscap’s
tent old Noogomich, the grandmother, chips a piece of beaver bone into
the pot when preparing a meal for visitors, and in a few moments the pot
is seen to be full of the finest moose-meat.
The Micmacs did not worship images. They believed in a Great Spirit whom
they called _Nikskam_, which means Father-of-us-all, and compares with
the Norse All-fadir; to him they also gave the name _Nesulk_, meaning
Maker, and _Ukchesakumow_, the Great Chief. They seem to have had that
mute reverence for the Great Spirit which kept the children of Israel
from lightly uttering the sacred name “Jehovah,” for we find no mention
anywhere in the Legends of _Nesulk_ the Maker or _Nikskam_ the
All-father. They have the name _Mundu_ which sounds like “Manitou” of
the neighboring tribes, or as the poet has it: “Gitche Manito the
mighty;” but they give the name to the spirit of evil. Perhaps they
borrowed it from enemies, and naturally supposed that the god of their
enemies must be the devil. Notice in this connection the place called
“Main-de-Dieu” in Cape Breton, which, someone has said, is Mundu or
_devil_ for the Micmac, and _hand of God_ for the Frenchman.
We find records of horrible man-eating giants called Kookwesijik; and
another family of enormous beings called Ooskoon Kookwesijik,—the
liver-coloured giants, who return from their hunting expeditions
carrying at their belts a string of caribou as easily as a Micmac could
carry a string of rabbits. These tawny giants are friendly, as is shown
by their dealings with a party of Micmacs recorded in Legend XVII.; the
party had been lost in a fog for several days in or near St. John
harbour, and ever afterwards held their powerful deliverers in grateful
remembrance, although the Ooskoon Kookwesijik amused themselves for a
time at the expense of the pigmy Ulnoo. We might find entertainment for
hours with the _Megumoowesoo_, which is like a fawn or satyr of Greek
mythology; or the _Culloo_, an enormous bird, of human intelligence, and
strength sufficient to carry a whole war-party on its back; or indeed
with the dread _Chenoo_, or Northman, a sort of were-wolf, believed to
be a transformed lunatic who had been maddened by disappointment in
love, and whose icy heart now finds no pleasure save when feasting on
human flesh and blood.
All the famous warriors are _booowins_, or _pow-wows_; they have
supernatural powers, and when wide awake and in full presence of mind
cannot be killed except by other braves possessing like powers. It is
remarkable that these braves, or as they say, _kenaps_, even though
mortally wounded, would immediately be in perfect health and strength if
by any chance they could succeed in taking the life of a warrior; it was
also believed that while a _kenap_ was dancing the magic dance, his body
could not be pierced by the swiftest arrow. A _booowin_ could assume not
only the character but also the form of whatever animal might be the
totem of the clan to which he belonged, but he was restricted to his own
totem, whether fox or wolf, or wild-goose, or loon, and so when two were
fighting, each generally knew what he might expect of his opponent in
the event of defeat in fair battle.
The last fight between the Kennebecs and the Micmacs occurred at the
mouth of Pictou harbour, and was an instance in which one hero, or as
they say, _kenap_, succeeded in destroying, single-handed, a whole
war-party of the enemy. The incident is worthy of mention in this
connection, for the hero of this closing scene of inter-tribal warfare
was a booowin or pow-wow, who might well be compared, if we consider
what he accomplished, with Samson, the strong man of Israel, or perhaps,
even more properly with Heracles and the other demigods of ancient
Grecian story. Our hero’s name is _Kaktoogo_, or Old Thunder, but he
also had a second name given by the French, for the French had arrived
on Acadia’s shores before this final defeat of the invading Kennebecks;
the dignified name was _Toonale_, an attempt to pronounce _Tonnere_, the
French translation of his sonorous name. You will notice that “r” was
replaced by “l” in all words borrowed from the French and English, for
neither the “r” nor “j” sound was formerly heard in the language of the
Micmacs.
Let us picture two war-parties of the Kennebecs intrenched within
blockhouses from which they make repeated sallies upon the wary natives
of _Megamaage_[3]. The forts are constructed by first digging a cellar,
and then felling and arranging great trees, so that not only a barricade
is formed, but a heavily roofed fort. The Micmacs are intrenched in a
somewhat similar manner on their camping-ground at Merrigomish. It was
quite evident to the Micmacs that their ancestral foes were not on a
mere scalping expedition but had designed a war of extermination.
Kaktoogo the Thunderer must make good use of all his magic, or he and
his people will certainly be destroyed. First and last of the American
Red-men, he took command of a navy; for in order to avoid ambuscades, he
took possession of a French trading ship, and came around by sea from
Merrigomish to Pictou. Soon he bore down upon the hostile fort with all
sails set, and in true Indian fashion, as if his gallant craft were a
bark canoe, ran hard aground as near as possible to his deadly foe; but
before the French timbers quiver from that disastrous shock; Kaktoogo
has leaped into the water, as Cæsar’s standard-bearer did on the coast
of savage Britain a few centuries ago, and makes his way with all speed
toward the land. Kaktoogo has every faculty alert, and, since he is a
mighty pow-wow, no one but another demigod can kill him outright. He
reached the shore and rushed upon the fort before either friends or foes
had recovered from their astonishment, and,
“Like valor’s minion carved out his passage”
as nobly as ever did Macbeth, or Samson, or any other warrior, nor did
he pause till every man of them had paid the forfeit of his life.
So complete was the victory that their ancestral foes never sent another
war-party into _Megamaage_ the Acadie, or Wholesome Place of the
Micmacs. The bold Kaktoogo had at last “made a realm,” but it cannot be
said of him that he “reigned,” for more insidious foes than the
Kennebecs or the more dreaded Mohawks were among them, and were
gradually conquering them by blandishments that stole away the manhood
of the nation. _Coureurs-du-bois_ were roaming everywhere throughout the
forest, bringing dangerous thunder-weapons and more dangerous
fire-water; and Glooscap, the Magnificent One, was grieved as he marked
the steady approach of what the pale-face calls “Civilization.” The
daring intruders soon visited the Son of Heaven at his home on that
giant rock, Blomidon, around whose amethystine base “The tides of Minas
swirl;” and several attempts were made to capture the mighty Sakumow,
that he too might be caged and sent home to France.
At last Glooscap was disgusted with the treachery of the foreigners, and
saddened by the weakness of his own people; so, by way of giving vent to
his righteous indignation, he turned his kettle upside down, and
transformed his two dogs into rocks, where they stand to-day, the
guardians of Blomidon, still looking westward awaiting his return. Then
the Great Snowy Owl retreated into the depths of the forest, where his
mournful cry is often heard as he wails again and again:
“Koo-koo-skoe,—I am so sorry.” The lordly Glooscap sailed away to the
land of the setting sun on Fundy’s ebbing tide as it returned again to
the ocean; there he makes his home in the Acadie of the blessed, until
the faithless interlopers have either changed their barbarian habits, or
gone to their own place. When all men shall have learned to honour Truth
he will return and usher in the millennium amidst the wildest rejoicing
of the elements.
But oh, the people are weary of waiting for his return, the stoutest
hearts are failing; for search-party after search-party has come back,
bringing only ample proofs of his unceasing love; Glooscap will never
return to beautiful _Megamaage_ the Acadie, or Wholesome Place of the
Micmacs; Kenap and Sakumow now drown the memory of the former times by
destroying body and soul with the withering curse of the pale-face, or
take up the wail of the old women and re-echo the mournful cry of the
Wobekookoogwes, the great Snowy Owl, which comes again with startling
clearness from the depth of the forest: “I am so sorry,—Koo-koo-skoo.”
And now as the camp-fire has burned low, and the melancholy cry of the
owl resounds through the lonely archways of the forest, let us repeat
the final word of the _Booske-atookwa_, the sage story teller, and
reverently say _Kespeadooksit_,—the story is ended.
We have spent a few moments, idly perhaps, in hastily reviewing some
features of the Mythology of the Micmacs, and we have found a weird
delight in studying what was to them most sacred. But the mythology of
the people, beautiful as it is, is not by any means the life-giving
Truth; the outgrowth of the human mind, this rugged faith must fail to
lead that mind to anything outside of itself; for the most magnificent
statue on which man ever worked is still at heart a stone. Like
Tennyson’s Prophet, the Mythology of the Micmacs is dead:
“Dead!
And the people cried with a stormy cry;
‘Send them no more for evermore,
Let the people die.’
Dead!
‘Is he then brought so low?’
And a careless people came from the fields
With a purse to pay for the show.”
Is it fair for us to infer that the Christians of the Maritime Provinces
are content to let the Micmacs grope on in their gloom, ignorantly
lifting their hearts in adoration to an unknown God! Can we be so base
as to join the rabble “With a purse to pay for the show,”—we who have
been given the true Mythology and commanded to carry the news to every
creature?
Though Silas T. Rand was a man with the usual desires for visible
results in his missionary work, he restrained these desires, and
laboured to supplement rather than to supplant the work which had been
so faithfully done by the Roman Catholic missionaries. He labored to
present the Gospel message in its fullness as related to the unobserved
duties of everyday life; and to instil into the minds of the Micmac
Christians a clearer understanding of that perfect love which casts out
fear. He did not work for a reward; he found his reward in his work, and
any one may find it too by speaking of good Mr. Land (Rand) when in
conversation with those for whom he gave his life.
It will be fifty years on the twelfth of this present month of November
since Dr. Rand began the work which has incidentally given us this
glimpse of the rich Mythology of the Micmacs. Shall we not on this
jubilee occasion revive in some way the work so faithfully carried on,
and all unite to realize the fullness of the Gospel message ourselves,
as we attempt to give it in its fullness to every man for whom our
Father meant it?
[Illustration]
-----
[2] The substance of this chapter was delivered as a graduating essay
before the Faculty of Acadia University last June, and it appeared in
its present form in the October and November numbers of the Prince
Edward Island Magazine.—J. S. C.
[3] _Megamaage_ or _Megumagee_, Micmac name for Maritime Provinces.
THE
DYING INDIAN’S
DREAM.