NOTE.
(1) Instinctive veneration for madness.—p. 194.
Insanity is not common among the Indians. Men in this unhappy situation are always considered as objects of pity. Every one, young and old, feels compassion for their misfortune; to laugh or scoff at them would be considered as a crime, much more so to insult or molest them. Heckewelder tells the following story concerning their treatment of one suspected of insanity, which proves their peculiar feeling with regard to this unfortunate class of men:—
"About the commencement of the Indian war of 1763, a trading Jew, who was going up the Detroit river with a bateau load of goods which he had brought from Albany, was taken by some Indians of the Chippewas nation, and destined to be put to death. A Frenchman, impelled by motives of friendship and humanity, found means to steal the prisoner, and kept him so concealed for some time, that, although the most diligent search was made, the place of his confinement could not discovered. At last, however, the unfortunate man was betrayed by some false friend, and again fell into the power of the Indians, who took him across the river to be burned and tortured. Tied to the stake, and the fire burning by his side, his thirst from the great heat became intolerable, and he begged that some drink might be given him. It is a custom with the Indians, previous, to a prisoner being put to death, to give him what they call his last meal; a bowl of pottage or broth was therefore brought to him for that purpose. Eager to quench his thirst, he put the bowl immediately to his lips, and, the liquor being very hot, he was dreadfully scalded. Being a man of a very quick temper, the moment he felt his mouth burned, he threw the bowl with its contents full into the face of the man who had handed it to him. 'He is mad! he is mad!' resounded from all quarters. The by-standers considered his conduct as an act of insanity, and immediately untied the cords with which he was bound, and let him go where he pleased."
[THE CAVERNS OF THE KICKAPOO.]
The scenery of the Prairie des Chiens is among the most beautiful of the western wilderness—nothing presents finer views than may be had from the lofty hills, which lie east of the Wisconsan. The prairie extends about ten miles along the eastern bank of the river, and is limited on that side by the before-mentioned hills, which rise to the height of about four hundred feet, and run parallel with the course of the river, at a distance of about a mile and a half from it. On the western bank, the bluffs which rise to the same elevation are washed at their base by the river. From the top of this majestic hill, which is called Pike's Mountain, there is a beautiful and magnificent view of the two rivers, Wisconsan and Mississippi, which mingle their waters at its foot. The prairie has retained its old French appellation, derived from an Indian who formerly resided there, and was called the Dog. The hill, or Pike's Mountain, has no particular limits in regard to extension, being merely a part of the river bluffs, which stretch along the margin of the river on the west for several miles, and retain nearly the same elevation above the water. The side fronting upon the river is so abrupt as to render the summit completely inaccessible even to a pedestrian, except in a very few places, where he may ascend by taking hold of the bushes and rocks that cover the slope. In general the acclivity is made up of precipices arranged one above another, some of which are a hundred and fifty feet high.
In one of the niches or recesses formed by one of these precipices, in the cavern of Kickapoo creek, which is a tributary of the Wisconsan, there is a gigantic mass of stone presenting the appearance of a human figure. It is so sheltered by the overhanging rocks, and by the sides of the recess in which it stands, as to assume a dark and gloomy character.
Has my brother—said the Indian chief to the traveller—ever heard how a beautiful woman of my nation became an image of stone? If he has, let him say so; if he has not, the Guard of the Red Arrows will tell him the story.
Once upon a time, many, very many ages ago, there lived in my nation a woman who was called Shenanska, or the White Buffalo Robe. She was an inhabitant of the prairie, a dweller in the cabins which stand upon the verge of the hills. She was the pride of our nation, not so much for her beauty, though she was exceedingly beautiful, as for her goodness, which made her beloved of all. The breath of the summer wind was not milder than the temper of Shenanska, the face of the sun was not fairer than her face. There was never a gust in the one, never a cloud passed over the other. Who but Shenanska dressed the wounds of the Brave when he returned from battle? who but she interceded for the warrior who came back from the fight without a blow? yet who was it encouraged him to wipe the black paint from the memory of his tribe by brave deeds? It was she who dreamed the dreams that led to the slaughter of the Sauks and the Foxes; it was she who pointed out the favourite haunts of the deer and the bison. When the warriors returned victorious from the field of blood, it was she who came out with songs sweeter than the music of the dove; and, when they brought no scalps, it was she who comforted them with stories of past victories, and dreams of those which were yet to be. Before she had seen the flowers bloom twice ten times, she had been by turns the wife of many warriors, for all loved her.
At length, it became the fortune of our tribe to be surprised in our encampment on the banks of the Kickapoo, by a numerous band of the bloody and warlike Mengwe. Many of our nation fell fighting bravely, the greater part of the women and children were scalped, and the remainder were compelled to fly to the wilds for safety. It was the fortune of Shenanska to escape from death, and perhaps worse evils. When the alarm of the war-whoop reached her ear, as she was sleeping in her lodge in the arms of her husband; she arose, and seizing her lance, and bow and arrows, she rushed with the Braves to battle. When she saw half of the men of her nation lying dead around, then she fled, and not till then. Though badly wounded, she succeeded in effecting her escape to the hills. Weakened by loss of blood, she had not strength enough left to hunt for a supply of food; she was near perishing with hunger.
Designed & Etched by W. H. Brooks, A. R. E. A.
The Spirit breathed on her & she became Stone. page 104.
London, Published by Colburn & Bentley, April 1830
While she lay in this languishing state beneath the shade of a tree, there came to her a Being, who was not of this world. He said to her, in a gentle and soothing voice, "Shenanska! thou art wounded and hungry, shall I heal thee and feed thee? Wilt thou return to the lands of thy tribe, and live to be old, a widow and alone, or go now to the land of departed spirits, and join the shade of thy husband? The choice is thine. If thou wilt live crippled, and bowed down by wounds and disease, thou mayest; if thou better likest to rejoin thy friends in the country beyond the Great River, say so." Shenanska replied, that she wished to die. The Spirit then took her in his arms, and placed her in one of the recesses of the cavern, overshadowed by hanging rocks. He then spoke some low words, and, breathing on her, she became stone. Determined that a woman so good and so beautiful should not be forgotten by the world, nor be deprived of the ability of protecting herself from mutilation, he imparted to her statue the power of killing suddenly any Indian that approached near it. For a long time the statue relentlessly exercised this power. Many an unconscious Indian, venturing too near, fell dead without wound or bruise. At length, tired of the havoc it had made, the guardian Spirit took away the power he had given. At this day the statue may be approached with safety. Yet the Indian people hold it in fear and veneration, and none passes it without paying it the homage of a sacrifice. This is my story.
[THE MOUNTAIN OF LITTLE SPIRITS.]
At the distance of a woman's walk of a day from the mouth of the river called by the pale-faces the Whitestone, in the country of the Sioux, in the middle of a large plain, stands a lofty hill or mound. Its wonderful roundness, together with the circumstance of its standing apart from all other hills, like a fir-tree in the midst of a wide prairie, or a man whose friends and kindred have all descended to the dust, has made it known to all the tribes of the West. Whether it was created by the Great Spirit, or piled up by the sons of men, whether it was done in the morning of the world, or when it had grown fat and stately, ask not me, for I cannot tell you. Those things are known to one, and to one only. I know it is called by all the tribes of the land the Hill of Little People, or the Mountain of Little Spirits. And the tradition is yet freshly traced out on the green leaf of my memory, which has made it the terror of all the surrounding nations, and which fills the Sioux, the Mahas, the Ottoes, and all the neighbouring tribes, with great fear and trembling, whenever their incautious feet have approached the sacred spot, or their avocation compels them to look at the work of spirits. No gift can induce an Indian to visit it, for why should he incur the anger of the Little People who dwell within it, and, sacrificed upon the fire of their wrath, behold his wife and children no more? In all the marches and countermarches of the Indians; in all their goings and returnings; in all their wanderings, by day and by night, to and from lands which lie beyond it; their paths are so ordered that none approach near enough to disturb the tiny inhabitants of the hill. The memory of the red man of the forest has preserved but one instance where their privacy was violated, since it was known through the tribes that they wished for no intercourse with mortals. Before that time many Indians were missing every year. No one knew what became of them, but they were gone, and left no trace nor story behind. Valiant warriors filled their baskets with dried corn, and their quivers with tough arrow shafts and sharp points; put new strings to their bows; new shod their mocassins, and sallied out to acquire glory in combat: but there was no wailing in the camp of our foes; their arrows were not felt, their shouts were not heard. Yet they fell not by the hands of their foes; but perished, we know not where or how. At length, the sun shone on the mystery, and the parted clouds displayed a clear spot. Listen!
Many seasons ago, there lived within the limits of the great council-fire of the Mahas, a chief who was renowned for his valour and victories in the field, his wisdom in the council, his dexterity and success in the chase. His name was Mahtoree, or the White Crane. He was celebrated throughout the vast regions of the west, from the Mississippi to the Hills of the Serpent[26], from the Missouri to the Plains of Bitter Frost, for all those qualities which render an Indian warrior famous and feared. He was the terror of his enemies, whom in the conflict he never spared; the delight as well as refuge of his friends, whom he never deserted. Yet, brave as he was, and fierce and reckless when met in the strife of warriors, never did his valour, or his fierceness, or his recklessness of danger, betray him into those excesses of wrath and cruelty, which, after great victories purchased by much blood and loss of dear and valued friends, will often be seen in the camp of the red man of the forest. Never by his counsels was the captive tortured—never by his command were weak and defenceless women and children delivered over to slaughter. He had frequently been known, at the voice of pity crying at the door of the heart, and at the suggestions of a great and proud mind, to cut the bonds which bound the victim to the stake, thereby exposing himself to the wrath and anger of his stern warriors, and to rage which, but for the unequalled valour and daring boldness and wisdom of his career, both as a warrior and a man, would have been attended with death to himself, and the entailment of infamy upon his name. It has already been told our brother, that none but a noted and approved warrior dare take upon himself the liberation of a prisoner, devoted by the spirit of Indian warfare to tortures and death.
In one of the war expeditions of the Pawnee Mahas against the Burntwood Tetons, it was the good fortune of the former to overcome, and to take many prisoners—men, women, and children. One of the captives, Sakeajah, or the Bird-Girl, a beautiful creature in the morning of life, after being adopted into one of the Mahas families, became the favourite wife of the chief warrior of the nation. Great was the love and affection which the White Crane bore his beautiful wife, and it grew yet stronger in his soul, when she had brought him four sons—a gift the more highly prized by the wise and sagacious chief, because, as my brother can see, for he is not a fool, it was the pledge of continued power and importance in the tribe, when his own strength and vigour should have passed away, when the hand of age should no more find joy in bending the bow, and the trembling knee be best pleased to rest upon soft skins by the warm fire of the cabin. Among the children of the forest he is most valued who has provided most plentifully the means to maintain the honour, and secure the safety, of his people; and hence he who can reckon the most brave and warlike sons is esteemed the greatest of benefactors. Among all the red men of the land, that wife acquires the strongest hold on the affections of her husband who has given him the largest family, as that husband acquires the greatest consequence in the eyes of his nation, who sees the most birds in his nest, and is able to carry most vultures to prey upon the corpses of his enemies. Is the barren woman beloved by her husband? Ask me if the male bird watches by the nest of her who sits on addled eggs. I shall tell you "No," nor does the husband love or value the wife who lives alone in his cabin with none to call her mother.
The beautiful Sakeajah gave her husband but one daughter, and upon her did her parents lavish all those affections which had not their origin in war and bloodshed. The sons were loved for the promise they gave of bending their father's bow, and raising his massy club in battle, and shouting his terrible war-cry with the ability to make good the threats it contained—with the daughter were linked the few pacific remembrances which find entrance into that stony thing—an Indian's heart. And well was Tatoka, or the Antelope, for that was the name of the daughter of Mahtoree and Sakeajah, worthy to be loved. She was beautiful, as young Indian maidens generally are, before the hard duties of the field and the cabin have bowed their limbs, and servitude has chilled the fire of their hearts. Her skin was but little darker than that of the chief from the far land who is listening to my story. Her eyes were large and bright as those of the bison-ox, and her hair black and braided with beads, brushed, as she walked, the dew from the flowers upon the prairies. Her temper was soft and placable, and her voice—what is so sweet as the voice of an Indian maiden when tuned to gladness! what so moves the hearer to grief and melancholy by its tones of sorrow and anguish! Our brother has heard them—let him say if the birds of his own forests, the dove of his nest, have sweeter notes than those he hears warbled in the cabin of the red man. His eyes say no. It is well.
It may not be doubted that the beautiful Tatoka had many lovers; there was not a youth in the nation, whose character authorised the application, that did not become a suitor to the fair daughter of the White Crane. But the heart of the maiden was touched by none of them; she bade them all depart as they came; she rejected them all. The father who loved his daughter too well to sell her as he would a beaver-trap or a moose-skin, or to compel her to become a wife, would have been glad to see her choose a protector from among the many Braves who solicited her affections. But, with the perverseness which is often seen among women, who are but fools at best, though made to be loved, she had placed her affections upon a youth, who had distinguished himself by no valiant deeds in war, nor even by industry or dexterity in the chase. His name had never reached the surrounding nations; his own nation knew him not, unless it was as a weak and imbecile man: he was poor in every thing that constitutes the riches of Indian life, and poorer still in spirit and acquirements. Who had heard the twanging of Karkapaha's bow in the retreats of the bear? or who beheld the war-paint on his cheek or brow?—Where were the scalps or the prisoners that betokened his valour or daring? No song of valiant exploits had been heard from his lips, for he had none to boast of—if he had done aught becoming a man, he had done it when none were by. The beautiful Tatoka, who knew and lamented the deficiencies of her lover, strove long to conquer her passion; but, finding the undertaking beyond her strength, surrendered herself to the sweets of unrepressed affection, and urged her heart no more to the unequal task of subduing her love. Their stolen interviews were managed with much care, and for a long time no one suspected them; but at length the secret of their love and the story of their shame became so apparent as to do away the possibility of further concealment. The lovers were in an agony of fear and terror. Though beloved by her father, she had no reason to hope that he would so far forget his dignity and the honour of his family, and so far sacrifice his views of aggrandizement, as to admit into his family a man who was neither hunter nor warrior, and whose want of qualifications would have ensured his rejection by families of ordinary note—how much more from that of a proud and haughty chief! Love conquers the strongest; and, rather than be separated, those who love each other well will dare every danger. Rather than be torn apart, the fond pair, whose affections were strengthened by the pledge of love which Tatoka bore about her, determined to fly the anger of the father. The preparations for flight were made, the night fixed upon came, and they left the village of the Mahas and the lodge of Mahtoree for the wilderness.
With all their precautions, and supposed exemption from suspicion, their flight was not unmarked: their intimacy had been for some time suspected; but it was only the day preceding their elopement that the mother had discovered undoubted proofs of their guilty intimacy. When the justly indignant father was made acquainted with the disgrace which had befallen his house, he called his young men around him, and bade them pursue the fugitives, promising his daughter to whomsoever should slay the ravisher. Immediate pursuit was made, and soon a hundred eager youths were on the track of the hapless pair. With that unerring skill and sagacity in discovering foot-prints which mark our race, their steps were tracked, and themselves soon discovered retreating. But what was the surprise and consternation of the pursuers, when they found that the path taken by the hapless pair would carry them to the Mountain of Little Spirits, and that they were sufficiently in advance to reach it before the pursuers could come up with them! None durst venture within the supposed limits, and they halted till the White Crane should be informed of their having put themselves under the protection of the spirits.
In the mean time the lovers pursued their journey towards the fearful residence of the little people of the hill. Despair lent them courage to do an act to which the stoutest Indian resolution had hitherto been inadequate. They determined, as a last resource, to tell their story to the spirits, and demand their protection. They were within a few feet of the hill, when, in a breath, its brow, upon which no object till now had been visible, became covered with little people, the tallest of whom was not higher than the knee of the maiden, and many of them, but these children, were of lower stature than the squirrel. Their voice was sharp and quick, like the barking of the prairie dog; a little wing came out at each shoulder; each had a single eye, which eye was a right in the men, and in the women a left; and their feet stood out at each side. They were armed as Indians are armed, with tomahawks, spears, and bows and arrows. He who appeared to be the head chief, for he wore the air of command and the eagle feather of a leader, came up to them, and spoke as follows:—
"Why have you invaded the village of a race whose wrath has been so fatal to your people? How dare you venture within the sacred limits of our residence? Know you not that your lives are forfeited?"
The trembling pair fell on their knees before the little people, and Tatoka, for her lover had less than the heart of a doe, and was speechless, related her story. She told them how long she had loved Karkapaha, and holding down her head confessed her fatal indiscretion. Then she pictured the wrath of her father, the pursuit which was making, doubtless with a view to the punishment by death of her lover, and concluded her tale of sorrow with a burst of tears, which came from her eyes like the rain from a summer cloud, and sighs which might be compared to summer winds breathing from a bed of flowers. The little man who wore the eagle's feather appeared very much moved with the sorrows of the pair, and calling around him a large number of men, who were doubtless the chiefs and counsellors of the nation, a long consultation took place. The result was a determination to favour and protect the lovers. They had but just talked themselves into a resolution to inflict vengeance on all who should approach the hill with the intent to injure the pair who had thrown themselves upon their protection, when Shongotongo, or the Big Horse, one of the Braves whom Mahtoree had dispatched in quest of his daughter, appeared in view in pursuit of the fugitives. It was not till Mahtoree had taxed his courage that the Big Horse had ventured on the perilous and fearful quest. He approached with the strength of heart and singleness of purpose which accompany an Indian warrior who deems the eyes of his nation upon him. When first the Brave was discovered thus wantonly, and with no other purpose but the shedding of blood, intruding on the dominions of the spirits, no words can tell the rage which appeared to possess their bosoms, manifesting itself in a thousand wild and singular freaks of passion and coarseness of language. Secure in the knowledge of their power to repel the attacks of every living thing, the intrepid Maha was permitted to advance within a few steps of Karkapaha. He had just raised his spear to strike the unmanly lover, when, all at once, he found himself riveted to the ground: his feet refused to move; his hands, which he attempted to raise, hung powerless at his side; his tongue, when he attempted to speak, refused to utter a word. The bow and arrow fell from his hand, and his spear lay powerless. A little child, not so high as the fourth leaf of the thistle, came and spat upon him, and a company of young maidens, whose feet were not longer than the blue feather upon the wing of the teal, danced a mirthsome dance around him, singing a taunting song of which he was the burthen. All and each of the tiny spirits did their part towards inflicting pain and ignominy on the hapless Maha. When they had finished their task of punishing by preparatory torture, a thousand little Spirits drew their bows, and a thousand winged arrows pierced his heart. In a moment, a thousand mattocks, of the size of an Indian's thumb-nail, were employed in preparing him a grave. And he was hidden from the eyes of the living, ere Tatoka could have thrice counted over the fingers of her hand.
When this was done, the chief of the Little Spirits called Karkapaha to his seat, and spoke to him thus:—"Maha, you have the heart of a doe; you would fly from a roused wren. Cowards find no favour in the eyes of the spirits of the air, who do not know what fear is, save when they see it painted on the cheeks of a mortal. We have not spared you because you deserved to be spared, but because the maiden loves you, and we would pleasure her. It is for this purpose that we will give you the heart of a man, that you may return to the village of the Mahas, and find favour in the eyes of Mahtoree and the Braves of the nation. We will take away your cowardly spirit, and will give you the spirit of the warrior whom we slew, whose heart was firm as a rock, and whose knees would have trembled when mountains caught the touch of fear, and not before. Sleep, man of little soul, and wake to be better worthy the love of the beauteous Antelope."
Then a deep sleep came over the Maha lover. How long he slept he knew not, but when he woke he felt at once that a change had taken place in his feelings and temper. The first thought that came to his mind was a bow and arrow; the second the beautiful Indian girl who lay sleeping at his side. The Little Spirits had disappeared—not a solitary being, of the many thousands, who, but a few minutes before, peopled the hill and filled the air with their discordant cries, was now to be seen or heard. At the feet of Karkapaha lay a tremendous bow, larger than any bowman ever yet used, and a sheaf of arrows of proportionate size, and a spear of a weight which no Maha could wield. Wonder of wonders! the weak and slender Karkapaha could draw that bow, as an Indian boy bends a willow twig, and the spear seemed in his hand but a reed, or a feather. The shrill war-whoop burst unconsciously from his lips, and his nostrils seemed dilated with the fire and impatience of a newly-awakened courage. The heart of the fond Indian girl dissolved in tears, when she saw these proofs of strength and those evidences of spirit, which, she knew, if they were coupled with valour—and how could she doubt the completeness of the gift to effect the purposes of the giver!—would thaw the iced feelings of her father, and tune his heart to the song of forgiveness. Yet, it was not without many fears, and tears, and misgivings, on the part of the maiden, that they began their march for the Maha village. The lover, now a stranger to fear, used his endeavours to quiet the beautiful Tatoka, and in some measure succeeded.
Upon finding that his daughter and her lover had gone to the Hill of the Spirits, and that Shongotongo did not return from his perilous adventure, the chief of the Mahas had recalled his Braves from the pursuit, and was listening to the history of the pair, as far as the returned warriors were acquainted with it, when his daughter and her lover made their appearance. With a bold and fearless step the once faint-hearted Karkapaha walked up to the offended father, and, folding his arms on his breast, stood erect as a pine, and motionless as that tree when the winds of the earth are chained above the clouds. It was the first time that Karkapaha had ever looked on angry men without trembling, and a demeanour so unusual in him excited universal surprise.
"Karkapaha is a thief," said the White Crane.
"It is the father of my beautiful and beloved Tatoka that says it," answered the lover; "else would Karkapaha say it was the song of a bird that has flown over."
"My warriors say it."
"Your warriors are singing-birds; they are wrens; Karkapaha says they do not speak the truth.—Karkapaha has the heart of a tiger, and the strength of a bear; let the Braves try him. He has thrown away the woman's heart; he has become a man."
"Karkapaha is changed," said the chief thoughtfully, "but when, and how?"
"The Little Spirits of the Mountain have given him a new soul. Bid your Braves draw this bow; bid them poise this spear. Their eyes say they can do neither. Then is Karkapaha the strong man of his tribe;" and as he said this he flourished the ponderous spear over his head as a man would poise a reed, and drew the bow as a child would bend a willow twig.
"Karkapaha is the husband of Tatoka," said Mahtoree, springing to his feet, and he gave the beautiful maiden to her lover. The traditionary lore of the Mahas is full of the exploits, both in war and the chase, of Karkapaha, who was made a man by the Spirits of the Mountain.
[THE VALLEY OF THE BRIGHT OLD INHABITANTS.]
On the northern branch of the river of the Cherokees, the most numerous and powerful tribe of the south, there are two high mountains nearly covered with mossy rocks, and lofty cedars, and pines. These mountains, rugged and terrible to behold, are made yet more fearful to the mind of the red man of the forest, who sees the Great Being in the clouds, and hears him in the winds, and fancies a spirit in every thing that moves, by the horrid sights and awful sounds which proceed from them. Often, as the sun sinks behind those mountains, persons who have their eyes intently fixed upon them will see lofty forms whose heads stretch far into the sky, standing upon their summits, or oftener leaping from one mountain to the other clean across the wide valley which separates them. Those shapes we can see wear the shape of man, yet their actions do not seem to belong to a race of mortals, and we deem them spirits—giant spirits, which never had the sinews, and bones, and muscle, and flesh, of men. And often, in the midnight hour, the listener hears sounds proceeding from those mountains—the whispers of love, the loud tones of strife, or the merry ones of joy—laughing and weeping—wooing and strife—expressing all the various passions and emotions which find a place in the bosoms of mortals. With these mighty spirits no mortal hath had communication, for they never leave the mountain—and who shall dare approach their villages? No one has heard their story, no one knows their creator, nor when they were born, nor when they shall die, if death be appointed to them. They have lived in mystery: showing their forms as the trunk of a decayed, and branch-less tree shows itself from out a morning mist, and raising their voices but as a thunder-cloud in summer, they will depart as a spirit departs, noiselessly, and go no one knows whither.
Between these two lofty and dreaded mountains, there is a deep valley, or rather a succession of deep valleys, for the occurrence at short spaces of low hills breaks the continuousness of that with which the space between those mountains commences. In these valleys the beams of the sun are concentrated and drawn together, creating at times a heat so great, that nothing can live in them but those reptiles, which are ripened and fattened to full growth only by suns which scorch like fire. In these same valleys have dwelt, ever since the earth was first placed on the back of the great tortoise, those Kind Old Kings, the Bright Old Inhabitants(1), which are rattlesnakes of a most prodigious size, possessed of singular properties, and endowed with tremendous and fearful powers. It is death to venture within their limits, and equally fatal to displease them. So well convinced are the people of my nation of their power to inflict an instant and dreadful death on all, that no temptation can induce them to betray their secret recesses to the wanton stranger. They well know that, if they do so, they shall be exposed to the unceasing attacks of all the inferior species of snakes who love their kings, which are these Bright Old Inhabitants, and know by instinct those who injure, or attempt to injure them. They know that, let but those kings issue their commands, there is not a snake that crawls but will open his mouth or use his sting to inflict the greatest possible degree of vengeance in his power on the enemies and oppressors of those whom he loves and obeys. Hence the place of residence of the Kind Old Kings is kept a secret by our people. For a long time they did not know it themselves, and only became acquainted with it when the occurrence took place which I am about to relate to my brother.
Once upon a time, many years ago, there lived among the Cherokees a man who was neither a warrior nor a hunter, yet was the most celebrated man of his nation, and further known than its proudest warrior or most expert hunter. He was a priest, and knew the secret ways, and the will, and the wishes, of his master, the Great Spirit. Not only was he skilled in the wisdom of the land of souls, but he was learned in matters which affect the dwellers in the body. He knew how to cure the ailments of the body, as well as to give answers to the questions which related to the ways and doings of the Being above all. He could tell at what time in the morning men should go to the Hill of Prayer, with clay on their heads, to cry for mercy and aid, and when they should repair to the Cave of Sacrifice, to gather the will of the Great Spirit from the hollow voice[27] within it. He alone, of all the mighty nation of the Cherokees, had seen that Spirit; he alone had heard him speak, and to none other would that Spirit deign to listen, or to give reply. Chepiasquit, for that was the name of this famous priest, was indeed a very wise man, and his sayings were reckoned of scarcely less authority then the words of his master. Whatever he said had a weight which other men's words had not; and all his actions, however trifling in their nature, were magnified into actions of importance, and became invested with a character, which did not belong to those of men in other respects more gifted than he. Yet the unbounded respect in which his nation held him was not undeserved. Wisdom he possessed, and he used it to the furthering of the interests, and the advancing of the happiness, of his people. If they wanted rain, they asked Chepiasquit for it, and he gave it to them. If too much fell, they had only to complain to him, and the clouds witheld their floods, and the waters were locked up in the hollow of the hand of him that created them. If the thunders were heard to roll awfully, and the fearful lightnings were seen to flash along the black sky, they spoke to Chepiasquit, who uttered a short prayer to Him who controuls the elements as well as man, and all became hushed and still; the black clouds passed away, and the bright stars looked out from their places of rest in the clear blue sky. All things seemed obedient to him, when he chose to open his lips in supplication to his master. The fame which he had acquired by this intimacy and friendship with the Great Spirit was the means of giving peace to his nation. His reputation being spread far and near, no tribe durst try their strength in war, or measure their weapons in combat, with a people who were possessed of such a friend, protector, leader, and priest. So the Cherokees rested in peace, and the earth was no more made red with blood, but wore the robe which nature provided for it—the robe of green. They planted their corn in the Budding-Moon, and lived to see it harvested in the Moon of Falling Leaves. They left the doors of their cabins unlatched at night, and the sentinel slept as sound and as long as the new-born babe. Their arrows were eaten up by the rust of sloth and inactivity, and the strings of their bows were rotted by the mildew of carelessness and idleness. The aged met not now in the great council-house, to plan distant expeditions, or frustrate expected invasions; the youth spent their time in courting and marrying. The fame of Chepiasquit changed the character of the nation from warlike to peaceable, and banished from the land the vulture of war and havoc, to give place to the dove of peace and tranquillity.
Four wives had this wise priest; they bore him many children: but, great as was his power with the Master of the World, it did not enable him to obtain for them a continuance of life beyond the second moon of their birth. All, save one, died while they were yet swinging in their cradles of willow-bark from the bough of the tree—that one, a daughter, was spared to his entreaties and prayers. Winona, or the first-born, for that was the name bestowed on the child, grew up in the cabin of her father, beautiful beyond any maiden that ever graced the nation of Cherokees. How shall I describe to my brother from the far country the matchless charms of Chepiasquit's virgin daughter! Shall I tell him that her eyes were the eyes of the mountain kid, and her hair long and glossier than the plumage of the raven, and her teeth white and even, and her hand delicate and plump, and her foot small and speedy? Shall I say that her voice was joyful as the voice of a mated bird in spring, and her temper cheerful, sweet, mild, kind, and always the same? Shall I increase his admiration for the beautiful creature, by telling him that she best loved to sit by the quiet hearth of her parents, leaving it to lighter and less amiable maidens to rove on idle errands and frivolous pursuits through the village. For, let my brother learn, she was that wonder, a woman, contented and happy in her own house, with none but her own father to listen or reply. During the long evenings of the period when the sun is away from the earth for so great a portion of the day, she would sit on her soft couch of skins and dried moss, listening to the tales he would repeat of the wonderful things he had seen and heard; the dreams of strange and fearful creatures which had troubled his hours of sleep, and the actual appearance to him, when sleep was far from his eyelids, of beings or phantoms not of this world; and the traditions which told of the love, or hatred, or favour, or punishment, of the Great Spirit—of his bounties sent to the Cherokees, when famine reared his gaunt form among them, or of wrath provoked, and punishment inflicted, when pride dwelt in their villages, when their thoughts were far from him, when no clay was put on their heads, when the tender and juicy flesh of the deer smoked not in his sacrifice. Wars he had seen, though he had left victory to be achieved by others, for he had been a man of peace. To the tales of her beloved father would the fair maiden listen with great delight, for they accorded with the belief in wonderful events and supernatural appearances, which is early impressed on the mind of every Indian, and never leaves him but with life. She would sit for hours with her little head rested on her palm, her whole soul absorbed by the wild narratives, which, during the long season of winter, are related to while away the hours spared from war and the chace.
Beloved with a greater degree of affection than is usually felt even among those whose lives are little subject to the incidents which weaken or destroy attachments, the beautiful daughter of the Cherokee priest grew up to womanhood, the cherished idol of all her friends, the boast and pride of the nation. The young and ardent Braves sought her hand in marriage; but she was deaf to all their entreaties and protestations, and refused all their offers. Yet she did it with so much kindness, and said so many sweet words to blunt the severity of the refusal, that all her lovers became her friends, and each, with affectionate kindness, blended with the bold bearing of one who says what he knows he has courage to perform, promised that his love mellowed into friendship should remain firmly fixed in his heart, and that he would defend its object, should danger cross her path, as long as strength was given him to carry a spear. The rejection by the fair Winona of so many youths, most of whom were deemed worthy of her choice, gave the father pain; but he loved his daughter too well to wish to make her unhappy by a marriage with one she did not love. He had seen—and who does not?—that the bird selects for its mate the bird it likes best; that love and affection go to the pairing of all creatures, save man and woman; and that only with them is it a practice to bind together, and fetter for life, those whose hearts are far apart. And he knew, that the Great Spirit disliked that force or constraint should be used in affairs of this kind. So, in obedience to the will of his master, as well as the dictates of his own reason, and the affection he bore her, he permitted his lovely and gentle child to remain unmarried in his house.
But it was not decreed by him who governs all things that the beautiful maiden should always remain a stranger to the delightful pains and agonising pleasures of love. It was in the second month of spring, when all nature feels the influence of the returning sun, when birds are carolling on every spray, and the grass and flowers are waking up from their long and chilled, sleep, and the joyous deer is out to nip the young buds, that a company of young hunters from the distant but far-famed nation of the Muscogulgees, passing through the lands of the Cherokees, stopped for rest and refreshment, and to try the strength of our young men in the exercises which youth love, at the village in which the father of the beautiful maiden abode. These young hunters were the flower of that valiant nation, bred up to pursue with equal courage and ardour the savage bear into his fearful retreats, and the foe, notwithstanding his treacherous ambuscades, through the dark and almost impervious forest. War was their natural and most beloved pursuit; but now they had doffed their martial habiliments, wiped off their war-paint, and taken up the bow and spear to pursue the peaceful occupation of hunting. The leader of this youthful band of Muscogulgees, was a tall and stately youth, formed in the noblest and most animated mould of the human form, straight as a young cedar, with eyes that indicated the fire of his soul, and brow, and cheek, and lip, that showed the mildness of his heart. With a small eagle feather, the badge of his chieftainship in his hair, his robe of dressed deer-skin thrown lightly over his shoulder, at which hung his bow and well filled quiver, he walked among the admiring youths and maidens of our nation, a thing to be feared, dreaded, and loved. He and his company of chosen young Braves now received the welcome, and experienced, the hospitality, which, in every situation, and at every season, the red man of the forest offers to those who visit him. They were feasted and caressed by each and all. The painted pole was erected and the feast prepared, that an opportunity might be afforded them of recounting their exploits in the ears of the listening Braves of our nation; the wrestling ring was formed, that their skill and strength, if they possessed such, in that exercise, might be shown; games of chance were appointed, that the favour of the Great Spirit, and the strength of the protecting okkis of each nation and individual, might be demonstrated. In every undertaking, was the superior skill and strength of the youthful leader of the Muscogulgee band made apparent. In the wrestling ring, the strongest man of the Cherokees was but a child in his hands; his voice, in the song of his own exploits, and the recital of the glories of his nation, was sweeter than the sighing of the gentlest spring wind, and clearer than the prattling music of the waterfall. In the games which were played he was equally successful, and he rose from the match of straws winner of half the valued treasures and trophies of the opposing Braves. Was it strange, that one so bold and brave should ingratiate himself with the beautiful maidens of our tribe? Was it strange, that bright eyes should glisten with tears, and soft bosoms be filled with throbs, and red lips be fraught with sighs, when the Guard of the Red Arrows passed before the eyes of beauty? Was it any thing to excite especial wonder, that the beautiful daughter of the priest should suffer the fires of love to be lit in her tender bosom? or that the valiant and handsome Muscogulgee should think her the fairest creature he had ever seen, should reciprocate the soft passion which glowed in her bosom, and wish to transfer the lovely flower of the Cherokees from the cabin of her father to his distant home?
The Guard of the Red Arrows said to the father of the maiden, "I love your daughter. Her bright black eyes, and long black locks, her melodious voice, and her gentleness, and her sweet temper, and her winning air, have caught my heart, as a bird is entangled in the snare of the fowler, or a deer entrapped in the toils of the hunter. She has become the light of my soul—when I see her not, all is darkness. I have no eyes but for her; my ears drink in no other accents than hers; my last thought when I sink to rest is of the beautiful Fawn, my first when I awake of the bright-eyed little maiden who gits by the cabin-fire of the wise priest of her nation. I hare opened my heart to this charming maiden, and have heard from her lips a soft confession of her love for the Muscogulgee. She consents to leave the house of her father, and the home of her childhood, to go, with the Guard of the Red Arrows, to the cabin he has built himself beside the beautiful and rapid river of his nation."
The father answered, "I cannot spare my daughter to go to the far home of him who asks her hand. She is the light of my eyes, and the joy of my heart. What would her mother say, and how should I answer the fond questions which, with eyes streaming with tears, she would ask, if I permitted the little fawn she has nursed with so much care to go forth to a distant land—to be in the morning of her youth separated from all her friends and companions, and taken to a new and unknown abode? Gloom would be in my cabin, and tears would rush from the eyes, that for seventeen harvests have been accustomed to see the gentle maiden performing her acts of dutiful kindness, and gliding with a foot noiseless as snow around the couches of her beloved parents. We should listen in the morning for the carol of the sweetest of all birds, and miss in the evening the tread of the lightest mortal foot that ever brushed the dew from the flowers of the prairie. There would be one missing from the repast of meat; one from the dance of maidens beneath the shady oak; one from the couch of moss where we sleep. No, Muscogulgee! I cannot spare the fawn. How should I answer the fond questions of her mother, when, with eyes streaming with tears, she should ask me for her daughter? When I told her the truth, she would cry, 'Hard and cruel man! thou hast torn from me the darling of my heart, the idol of my soul.—What shall become of me—of thee, thus deprived of our sweet child?' No, Muscogulgee! I must refuse thee my daughter. And yet, if thou wilt renounce thine own nation, and come and take up thy residence in the native land of her thou lovest, or pretendest to love, the maiden shall be thine. Thou shalt have a cabin built beside my own, and, as is our Indian wont, the friends of thy bride shall place within it all the household implements needed in our simple life. Her friends shall be thy friends, and her father thy father, and her mother thy mother. When there is thunder and darkness in the sky of the Cherokees, it shall thunder and be dark in the sky of the Muscogulgee sojourner among them, and with whomsoever the Cherokees have buried the hatchet of war, and made a league of amity, with that tribe or people shall the Muscogulgee keep terms of peace."
The Muscogulgee answered, as became him, that "his father, and his mother, and his brothers, and his sisters, and all the friends of his youth, were dwelling in the land of his birth—the land of his father's bones—how could he quit it? Why should he fly his father-land, a land pleasant to look upon, and healthful to live in, abounding in quiet glades where the deer loved to browze, in pleasant streams filled with fish, in smooth and tranquil lakes, fanned by the wings of the innumerable fowls which went thither for food. Much as he loved the beautiful flower of the Cherokees, and much as he wished to make her his bride, he could not become an exile to obtain her. Why should her father object to her following the steps of him she loved, and who would be unto her father, mother, sister, brother, friend, in that one word husband?"
And thus pleaded the lover, but he pleaded in vain, for the father remained deaf to his entreaties and prayers. Not so the daughter. She had drunk the sweet poison of his words, and, when he clasped her to his breast, felt that there was more bliss in that clasp than could be communicated by the kindest words, and fondest looks, and richest gifts, of those who were the authors of her being. She heard his fond words, and believed them true; she saw his face, and knew it fair, and she trusted him. It was agreed between them, that when the moon had hid herself behind the lofty woods which skirted the village of her birth, she should fly from the house of her father, with the Guard of the Red Arrows, to the cabin he had built him beside the beautiful river of his nation. But they forgot—these fond and foolish lovers!—that the Great Spirit was the friend of Chepiasquit, and made him acquainted with all the secret doings of those who would harm him, or interfere with his family concerns. They forgot,—simple children!—that the wise powwow had but to feel the stirring of the ant under the skin of the left hand, when, binding over his eyes the hide of a young badger, and laying his head upon a pillow composed of the leaves of the black hornbeam, the Manitou of Dreams would make known to him every machination of his enemies. The plans of the youthful pair for flight were soon revealed to the cunning powwow by his faithful spirit, and he arose in the morning, knowing what the night would bring forth, and fully prepared to punish the attempts which were to be made against the peace of his family. He made all those careful preparations for impending danger which a wise and prudent chief should make. He shut up his daughter in his lodge, and, calling around him the Braves of his nation, he made them acquainted with the designs of the Muscogulgee, and bade them keep guard around the endangered cabin and its coveted treasure, but on no account—if it could be dispensed with—to do harm to the strangers. Having prepared to oppose violence by violence, if need should be, he, wishing to prevent bloodshed, for he was a man of peace, called to him the lover of his daughter, and addressed him thus:
"I did say thou couldst not have my daughter, but upon one condition—I recall my word, and add thereto a second. She shall be, with the consent of her father, the companies of thy homeward journey, if thy heart be strong enough to undertake one quest, and it be the will of the Great Spirit that thou be spared to accomplish it. Let the valiant Muscogulgee, who has man written on his brow and eye, though the down on his cheek proclaims him boy, listen to the words of the father of Winona, and remember that the manifestation of a strong heart, at this time, may avail much to gain him the object he so ardently covets.
"Between the two mountains which rear their lofty heads on the northern branch of the river of the Cherokees, there is a deep valley, in which the beams of the sun, being concentrated and drawn together, create a heat so insupportable that nothing can live there but those reptiles, which are ripened and fattened to full growth only by fervid and burning suns. In these deep valleys have dwelt, ever since the beginning of the world, those Bright Old Inhabitants, the chiefs and fathers of the rattlesnakes, who are called by our nation the "Kind Old Kings," being, indeed, the sovereigns of all the tribes or species of snakes to be found on the earth. It has been death to venture within their limits, and almost as fatal to displease them by speaking ill of them, or by harming any of their subjects. Hence we know nothing of their villages, or their numbers, or their policy—whether they die like ourselves, or if the copy of nature be eternal in them. These things would I know; but above all would I know if the lights which shine so transcendently in those valleys be, as many say, the eyes of those Kind Old Kings, or be substances not connected with them—precious stones lit up by the beams of the sun, or dazzling meteors shining by their own light. Go, brave young man, visit this valley; confer with the wise old reptiles that inhabit it: above all see if the lights which illumine it be the eyes of those snakes, or dazzling meteors shining by their own light, or precious stones lit up by the beams of the sun. And thou must bring me a tooth from the jaw of a living king, and a rattle from his tail, and an eye from his skull. When thou shalt bring us an account of these things, the hand of my daughter shall accompany her heart, and the one shall become, as the other hath been, the property of the valiant Muscogulgee. But, until thou hast performed the required task, my daughter remains guarded in my cabin."
The Muscogulgee heard the words of the father, and grief filled his soul. He had heard—for who in those wilds was ignorant of the tradition?—of the "bright old inhabitants," and he knew how deadly the enmity which they bear to those who trespass upon their sacred and secluded retreats. He knew that, in undertaking this invasion of their solitudes, small chance remained to him of escaping death from their dreadful fangs. Though they were called the Kind Old Kings, they were known not to deserve that appellation when just cause was given for anger. These considerations presented themselves to the young Muscogulgee, but they did not appal him. He loved the beautiful daughter of the priest, and, deeming that life passed without her would not be worth possessing, he determined to attempt the task which would end it, or give to his arms the object of his love, the bright and blooming Cherokee maiden. So he made answer to Chepiasquit, that he would do, or attempt to do, the thing required of him, and received from the wise old powwow a renewal of his promise, that the maiden should be his when his task should be accomplished. Then, turning to his companions, who had gathered around him, he bade them return immediately to the land of the Muscogulgees, and impart to his friends a knowledge of the hazardous expedition which he had undertaken. And then, in the presence of her father and mother, he bade adieu to the blushing maiden, who received, with many tears, the kiss of affection upon her soft cheek, and raised her wet eyes in speechless prayer to the Great Spirit that he might be returned to her arms.
The powwow said to the Muscogulgee, "Thou hast undertaken a fearful thing, and one which I warn thee will require much and deep thought and caution, and great valour and wisdom. Thou shalt have my aid and counsel, but they may not avail so much as thine own steadiness of soul, and strength of arm. Nevertheless, I will give thee a charm, a potent charm, and see thou rememberest my directions for its use."
So saying, he drew forth from his basket of amulets the skin of a mountain cat, in which was a medicine, compounded of those powerful substances which nature furnishes, to enable men to acquire command over their own and the inferior species. There were the vine which never bore fruit, the dry cones of the pine, steeped in the dew that drops from the leaves of the mountain-laurel, the claws of the tiger, the teeth of the alligator, the thighbone of the tortoise, and the ribs of the snail, reduced to a powder, and mixed up with water dropped from the shell of the butternut, through the ochre of war. The wise master of the spell had drawn from field, and forest, earth, air, and water, from beast and bird, and fish and reptile, and insect and tree, and flower and fruit, all the various properties which have an agency in subduing things to the will of him, to whom those properties have been taught. From these he had compounded a medicine, the mighty power of which was unknown even to himself. Placing this amulet in the hands of the wondering youth, he bade him remember to repeat aloud the following words, and in the following manner, should he deem there was occasion for its use. "I am lost! I am lost! save me! save me! In the name of the seven men that were bewildered in a foggy morning, and cooked for the breakfast of the Kind Old Kings, I call upon thee, Maiden in Green, to protect me from the like fate." The youthful lover received the sacred amulet, with all the reverence which it ought to inspire, and, before the great star of day had sunk to sleep behind the hills of the west, he had slung his bow and quiver to his shoulder, and taken up the line of his march to the fated valley.
Travelling onward with great expedition, he came near the close of the next day to the entrance of the eventful spot. He saw the high mountains covered with mossy rocks, and tall cedars, and pines, and beheld the "lofty forms, whose heads stretched far into the sky," and heard the sounds which proceeded from their lips, the soft whispers of love, the loud tones of strife, or the merry ones of joy, laughing and weeping, wooing and strife, signs that they were possessed of the various passions and emotions which find a place in the breasts of mortals. Between these mountains lay the deep valley spoken of, but what it was which glittered and glistened in it, he knew not. Whatever it was, it shone with a splendour which eclipsed the meridian beams of the sun. The whole space between the two mountains seemed a glare of light, which dazzled even more than the fiercest glare of noon in the Month of Thunder. What still more astonished and perplexed the youth was, that the light seemed of various colours, ever changing, never for a moment wearing the same appearance. Now it wore the hue of the maple leaf in autumn, now of the tuft of the blue heron—now it was purple, now green, now yellow, and then it seemed a mixture of them all, a blending of all the colours ever beheld into one. Astonished and dismayed, but still determined to win the hand of the beautiful Winona or perish, the Guard of the Red Arrows undauntedly entered the valley, and approached the scene of wondrous splendour. Moving with great difficulty, for the entrance was overrun with briars and many other vicious impediments, he came all at once to a clear field, and beheld what had so enchanted and spell-bound at a distance—what so filled with horror now it was nearer beheld. He saw the earth covered with rattlesnakes of a more enormous size than any ever beheld by man, ay, beyond what even his imagination had pictured in his most restless and diseased hours of sleep. The bodies of many of them were larger than the trunks of the largest forest trees, and so unwieldy that, when they would turn round, they were compelled to take a circle almost as wide as their length. But bountiful nature, which always compensates for a defect or disadvantage by adding an excellence, made up for the heavy motion of their bodies by bestowing upon them the power of irresistible fascination. She gave to them an eye—to each a single eye—placing it in the centre of their foreheads, possessing the power to draw to them every living creature. It was this eye which emitted the wonderful light which had so dazzled the Muscogulgee at a distance, and still more dazzled now that he was within reach of the horrid fascination. These eyes were of every possible colour, and the light they sent forth was as various as the colour of the eyes. Nor could the colour of any one of those eyes be set down as positively this or that, for each moment was it changing. Now the green eye became blue as the midnight sky—look again, it was yellow as the fallen leaf; a fourth time, the scarlet hue was entering upon one side, while the yellow was retreating from the other, leaving the middle a strange combination of both. Long might the Muscogulgee have gazed on the brilliant, but terrible scene—a field, stretching farther than the eye could reach, and all covered with immense snakes, hissing with a sound loud as the roar of the tempest, shaking their rattles with a noise like thunder, the while their eyes emitted the light which he shuddered to look at, and yet, such was their power of fascination, he was unable to turn from—long, I repeat, might he have gazed on the scene, but he found himself irresistibly impelled to enter the field of light. His feet were irresistibly drawn forward, his mouth was opened to deprecate the anger of the Great Being, his hands were upraised at what he knew must be instant destruction, for already were their dreadful jaws expanded, and their hideous tongues, red as burning coals, twinkling with a motion so quick that it seemed but the soul of a vapour, when he bethought himself of the charm given to him by the wise priest, and drew it forth. Bowing, as he was bidden, to the spirit of storms, who rules the east, to the kind genius of the south, to the master of the west wind, and to the North Star, which is the best friend of hunters and bewildered men, he thrice called upon the Great Spirit, crying in a loud voice, "I am lost! I am lost! save me! save me! In the name of the seven men who were bewildered in a foggy morning, and cooked for the breakfast of the Kind Old Kings, I call upon thee, Maiden in Green, to protect me from a like fate." Is my brother prepared to hear what was the effect produced by these words? Does he wish to know if that shrill cry called up a being unable to protect him, or if the rattles were stilled, and the jaws were closed, and if darkness was imparted to those glittering eyes, and silence to those wicked tongues? Listen.
There came to the ears of the Muscogulgee youth, from the summit of the Northern mountains, a sound of distant thunder, which in a moment was succeeded by the sweetest song that ever was breathed upon mortal ears. He could not distinguish all the words, but he heard enough to teach him that it was a song of supplication to the Great Spirit for a "brave and good Muscogulgee hunter, about to be caught in the fangs of the Kind Old Kings." The moment the thunder and the song were heard, the rattles were still, the bright eyes sent forth no more light, and the fiery tongues retreated within the closed and recumbent jaws. Of all that body of hideous reptiles not one seemed to be imbued with breath. Nearer and nearer came the song, and as it came the hunter fancied that it was the music of a being moving level with the earth, if not beneath its surface. He was right. Soon, in the grass at his feet, appeared a little snake scarcely thicker than his little finger, and not longer than the space between his hand and his shoulder. The colours of this little reptile were as various and beautiful as those of the eyes of the Kind Old Kings, but these were fixed and permanent, those as I have said changeable and changing as a woman's mind. The head was green, the sides were yellow, the belly white, down its back ran two red stripes, and there were rings of bright crimson around its tail. Elevating its head as it drew near, it remained stationary and silent for a moment, and then addressed the Muscogulgee in these words:—
"I am the spirit raised by the potent medicine of the Cherokee priest; and, invoked by thy call, I have hastened hither at thy cry of distress, to tell thee thou art not lost. Though thou didst a foolish thing to come to this valley of death, and he, at whose bidding the thing was undertaken, a wicked one in sending thee, yet thou shalt not die this time. I am the Maiden in Green, the ruling Spirit of both mountain and valley, having power over even the Bright Old Inhabitants, and they shall not harm thee. Thou art, if I remember right, commanded, as the price of the beautiful daughter of the Cherokee powwow, to carry to him a tooth from the jaw of a living King and a rattle from his tail, and an eye from his skull; and to report of sundry things not necessary to be named. Thou shalt have my aid to accomplish these things."
So saying, the Maiden in Green re-commenced her song, the while making a circuit around the prisoner at a small distance from him. When she had finished the circuit, she changed her song to one which seemed a song of reproach and threatening. Whatever was the subject, it had the effect of rekindling the Bright Old Inhabitants to their former state of wrath. Their eyes were relit with the glittering beams, and the hissing and the rattling re-commenced. Seemingly determined to take instant vengeance upon the intruder, they were now seen making such haste as their natural tardiness admitted of, towards the Muscogulgee. From every part of the valley heads could be seen displaying forked tongues, and all pressing towards the alarmed warrior. But he stood invulnerable to them, though he knew it not, within the charmed circle made by his protecting spirit. Their powers of fascination had been taken away by the Maiden in Green, or rather the counter-fascination, which kept him within the charmed space, was more powerful than the influence of their eyes.
Calling to one of the largest of the Kind Old Kings to come near, the Maiden in Green spoke to him thus:—"This youth is a brave youth, and he is a Muscogulgee. He loves the beautiful daughter of the powwow Chepiasquit, and has asked her of her father to wife. The father has imposed on him the task to visit your valley, and make report whether your eyes are dazzling meteors, or precious stones. And he has bidden him bring a tooth from the jaw of a living King, and a rattle from his tail, and an eye from his skull, the which, being faithfully and fully accomplished, entitles him to claim, as a pledged boon, the hand of the lovely Winona. What say you, chief of the kings, shall he return and be made happy?"
The chief of the kings answered that he knew of no one who would willingly spare an eye, or a tooth, or a rattle. For himself, he had found them all of use, and could spare neither eye, tooth, nor rattle. And he bade the Spirit remember, that though queen of both valley and mountain, her sway extended but to protect, and not to injure. She had no right to demand from the Kind Old Kings a thing which should inflict pain or death upon them. And did she not know that, whenever one of those eyes of light should be carried beyond the limits of the valley, the transcendent power and brightness which their owners now possessed should be enjoyed by them no more. Such was the will of the Great Being; strange that the Maiden in Green should be ignorant of it.
The Spirit answered that she knew not this, yet she was prepared to say that the decree should be revoked, if they would, without any further molestation, impart to the Muscogulgee the required information, and bestow upon him the gift which would make him happy and prosperous in his suit to the Cherokee maiden. Should they favour his request, brilliancy should be added to, rather than taken from, their eyes, and their rattles should grow in size, and increase in number and speed of motion. But, if they refused to grant him the boon, the eye, and the tooth, and the rattle, should be taken from them by force, whereby they would lose the benefit of having done something to be thanked for.
Upon hearing this, the chief of the Wise Old Kings called a council of his nation. I know not what was said in this council, but I can tell my brother what was done. They drew lots among them, and he upon whom the lot fell submitted to lose an eye, and a tooth, and a rattle. Having given these to the Muscogulgee, the eldest of the Kings instructed him in their history, their laws, and their policy, replying particularly to the questions suggested by the Cherokee powwow.
"We were created," said he, "after all the other beings were created, and were formed from the variegated sand which is found on the shores of the distant Lake of the Woods. It was in a pleasant and sunny morning in the Buck-Moon, that the Great Spirit, having nothing else to do, amused himself, as he sat in the warm sun on the bank of this lake, with twisting ropes of those parti-coloured sands. Having twisted, in mere sport, a considerable number, and laid them aside, it came to his mind that amidst all the variety of creatures he had formed, whose means of locomotion were walking, flying, swimming, hopping, trotting, running, there were none ordained to move altogether by crawling. 'Now,' said he to himself, 'if I were breathe into these ropes the breath of life, and to invest them with the power to run about, would it not be a sight worth seeing?—would it not create a deal of sport among the other animals? But I will make them more wonderful yet.'
"So saying, he selected a number of small round stones, of which he thrust several into one end of the ropes. Before him, upon the shore, were scattered many stones of different hues, but all of surpassing brilliancy, and each outshining the beams of the meridian sun. He placed one of these shining gems in the other end of each rope, and then blew upon them until they exhibited signs of life. When the ropes began to move, their strange and zigzag motions, and the rattling of their tails, excited the mirth of the Great Being, who laughed loud and long at the oddity he had formed. That portion of them to which he had given rattles and the shining eye were appointed rulers over all the other and inferior species of snakes. And he bade them remember that he had formed them to crawl in the dust all the days of their lives, and on no account to attempt an upright posture. 'But,' said he, as he concluded the word which bade them be ever of the dust, 'this is no place for your tribes. Ye are a thin-skinned, or rather a skinless race, and should have a habitation and a name only where fervid suns beam, and the frosts and snows of winter are little known. Ye could never reach that land if left to your own exertions—I must assist you.' So saying, he gathered all the new-born reptiles into his hand, and, hiding them in the folds of his robe, took his departure towards the warm regions of the South. A few hours sufficed to bring him to the valley which we now occupy, and here he committed us, and all the tribes over which we are appointed rulers, to the fostering care of the bright and glorious star of day. Having created us, and breathed into us the breath of life, he bade us, as he had done all the other creatures, each, for the future, to provide for his own wants. We who carried the rattles were to live for ever; all the others were to die at an appointed time. We were commanded never to leave the valley, and, as a compensation for being restricted in our walks, we were to exercise for ever dominion over all the other species of snakes. And, as a protection from those who might wage a war of invasion against us, our eyes were gifted with the power to fascinate, and attract to us, every living creature that came within the scope of their vision, save those who were specially favoured by the Spirit of the Mountain. And thus it is. We, the Kind Old Kings, are the identical ropes of sand which were twisted in the beginning of the world by the Maker of all; those of small stature, which ye see around us, are our children, and the children of our children. They die, but to us who carry the dazzling eyes, death is not appointed. Yet we increase in stature, and shall continue increasing in stature, till the Great Tortoise upon which the earth reposes shall sink into the endless abyss of waters, carrying with him that earth and all its numerous creatures.
"You may thank the Spirit of the Mountain, Muscogulgee, for your life. It was forfeited, and would have been taken, but for the intervention of the Maiden in Green. You may now return—the bearer of what never before left the valley of the Bright Old Inhabitants—an eye, and a tooth, and a rattle—wisdom gathered from my words, and instruction from my lips. They shall not avail him for whom they are intended, since their possession would convey to him a power which the Great Spirit would not—could not, without danger to himself—permit a mortal to exercise. I hand you a tooth: already does the great powwow of the Cherokees feel, with the increase of the strength of his mind, the decrease of the strength of his body: here is the rattle, his strength is ebbing away; the eye, I behold him helpless on the bed of death. His face is bright with the wisdom and knowledge imparted by the gifts he hath obtained from us, but, alas! his tongue is nerveless, he may not communicate the knowledge he hath gained. Hasten back in peace, Muscogulgee, deliver to him the gifts which seal his fate and thine—his, to die ere the moon be two days older—thine, to gain the maiden thou so ardently longest for, and with her to descend the stream of time, loving and beloved—the happiest of the happy. But, remember, let none of thy race or name presume again to visit this valley, lest the most dreadful fate be theirs."
So spoke the eldest of the Wise Old Kings, and his words were repeated by all his brothers. They permitted the Muscogulgee to depart in peace, and he returned to the village of the Cherokee priest. He delivered the gifts as he had been directed, and witnessed the end he had been taught to expect. He saw the countenance of the powwow lighted up with intelligence more than mortal, but, at the delivery of each gift, he beheld a third part of the vigour of animal life fade away, as the eye, the bright, the unfading, but fatal eye, was placed in his trembling hand, he saw the spark of life quivering like a lamp in the socket. The priest had just time to beckon to him his lovely daughter, when, placing her hand in that of the Muscogulgee youth, he expired.
Brother, I am a Muscogulgee, and my mother was the beautiful daughter of the Cherokee priest, and my father the brave youth who adventured into the valley of the Bright Old Inhabitants. I have done.