NOTES.
(1) She became his without a wrestle.—p. 143.
Hearne, in his Journey to the Frozen Ocean, says:—"It has ever been the custom, among those people, for the men to wrestle for any woman to whom they are attached; and, of course, the strongest party always carries off the prize. A weak man, unless he be a good hunter, and well beloved, is seldom permitted to keep a wife that a stronger man thinks worth his notice; for at any time when the wives of those strong wrestlers are heavily laden either with furs or provisions, they make no scruple of tearing any other man's wife from his bosom, and making her bear a part of his luggage. This custom prevails throughout all their tribes, and causes a great spirit of emulation among their youth, who are, upon all occasions, from their childhood, trying their strength and skill in wrestling ... The way in which they tear their women and children from one another, though it has the appearance of the greatest brutality, can scarcely be called fighting ... On these wrestling occasions the by-standers never attempt to interfere in the contest. It sometimes happens that one of the wrestlers is superior in strength to the other, and, if a woman be the cause of the contest, the weaker is frequently unwilling to yield, notwithstanding he is greatly overpowered. I observed that very few of those people were dissatisfied with the wives which had fallen to their lot, for, whenever any considerable number of them were in company, scarcely a day passed without some overtures being made for contests of this kind, and it was often very unpleasant to me to see the object of the contest sitting in pensive silence watching her fate, while her husband and his rival were contending for his prize. I have, indeed, not only felt pity for those poor wretched victims, but the utmost indignation, when I have seen them won, perhaps by a man whom they mortally hated. On these occasions, their grief and reluctance to follow their new lord has been so great, that the business has often ended in the greatest brutality; for, in the struggle, I have seen the poor girls stripped quite naked, and carried by main force to their new lodgings. At other times it was pleasant enough to see a fine girl led off the field from the husband she disliked, with a tear in one eye, and a finger in the other; for custom, or delicacy, if you please, has taught them to think it necessary to whimper a little, let the change be ever so much to their inclination."
(2) Game of bones—gambling—games of chance.—p. 143.
Gaming seems to be a natural passion of man, and is carried to a great excess among the American Indians. The games they play are various, but all are for the acquisition of coveted wealth; they never play without a stake, and that, considering the amount of their possessions, a very heavy one. They are emphatically gamblers. I have supposed that a description of their principal games may not be uninteresting to the reader, and have therefore subjoined the following:—
The game of the dish, which they call the game of the little bones, is only played by two persons. Each has six or eight little bones, which at first sight may be taken for apricot stones; they are of that shape and bigness. They make them jump up by striking the ground or the table with a round and hollow dish, which contains them, and which they twirl round first. When they have no dish, they throw the bones up in the air with their hands. If in falling they come all of one colour, he who plays wins five. The game is forty up, and they subtract the numbers gained by the adverse party. Five bones of the same colour win but one for the first time, but the second time they win the game. A less number wins nothing.
He that wins the game continues playing. The loser gives his place to another, who is named by the markers of his side; for they make parties at first, and often the whole village is concerned in the game. Oftentimes also, one village plays against another. Each party choses a marker, but he withdraws when he pleases, which never happens but when he loses. At every throw, especially if it happens to be decisive, they make great shouts. The players appear like people possessed, and the spectators are not more calm. They make a thousand contortions, talk to the bones, load the spirits of the adverse party with curses, and the whole village echoes with imprecations. If all this does not recover their luck, the losers may put off their party till next day. It costs them only a small treat from the company.
Then they prepare to return to the engagement. Each invokes his genius, and throws some tobacco in the fire to his honour. They ask him above all things for lucky dreams. As soon as day appears, they go again to play; but, if the losers fancy that the goods in their cabins made them unlucky, the first thing they do is to change them all. The great parties commonly last five or six days, and often continue all night. In the meantime, as all the persons present are in an agitation that deprives them of reason, they quarrel and fight, which never happens among the savages but on these occasions, and when they are drunk. One may judge, if, when they have done playing, they do not want rest.
It sometimes happens that these parties of play are made by order of the physician, or at the request of the sick. There needs no more for this purpose than a dream of one, or the other. This dream is always taken for the order of some spirit, and then they prepare themselves for play with a great deal of care. They assemble for several nights to try and to see who has the luckiest hand. They consult their genii, they fast, the married persons observe continence; and all to obtain a favourable dream. Every morning they relate what dreams they have had, and all things they have dreamt of, which they think lucky; and they make a collection of all, and put them into little bags, which they carry about with them; and, if any one has the reputation of being lucky, that is, in the opinion of these people, of having a familiar spirit more powerful, or more inclined to do good, they never fail to make him keep near him who holds the dish, they even go a great way to fetch him; and, if through age or any infirmity he cannot walk, they will carry him on their shoulders.
There is a game played by the Miamis, which is called the game of straws. These straws are small reeds, about the size of wheat straws, and about six inches long. They take a parcel, which are commonly two hundred and one, and always an odd number. After having shuffled them in well together, making a thousand contortions, and invoking the genii, they separate them with a kind of awl, or a pointed bone, into parcels of ten each: every one takes his own at a venture, and he that happens to get the parcel with eleven, gains a certain number of points that are agreed on. The whole game is sixty or eighty **** They have two games more, the first of which is called the game of the bat. They play at it with a ball, and sticks bent, and ending with a kind of racket. They set up two posts, which serve for bounds, and which are distant from each other according to the number of players. For instance, if they are eighty, there is half a league distance between the two posts. The players are divided into two bands, which have each their post. Their business is to strike the ball to the post of the adverse party without letting it fall to the ground, and without touching it with the hand; for, in either of these cases, they lose the game, unless he who makes the fault repairs it by striking the ball at one blow to the post, which is often impossible. These savages are so dexterous at catching the ball with their bats, that sometimes one game will last many days together.
The game described by Mackenzie, and called the game of the platter, is the same game, I think, that Charlevoix calls the "Game of the Bones." Of the passion for gaming of the Beaver Indians, see his Journal, 149. The same author (page 311), describes another game played by the Indians of the Rocky Mountains. It was played by two persons, each of whom had a "bundle of about fifty small sticks, neatly polished, of the size of a quill, and five inches long; a certain number of these sticks had red lines round them; and as many of these as one of the players might find convenient were curiously rolled up in dry grass, and, according to the judgment of his antagonist, respecting their number and marks, he lost or won."
(3) Songs and Dances.—p. 147.
Dancing is the favourite amusement of the savage, and one of his methods of propitiating the Deity. Does he feel cheerful, he dances; has he received benefits from a fellow-creature, he makes a dance to his honour; if from the Supreme Being, he gathers his tribe to his cabin, and gives thanks in a dance. When he has reason to fear his God is offended, or when an occurrence takes place, from which he draws an inference of his displeasure, he begins a solemn dance. Thus we have seen, that when the Dutch first landed on New York Island, the inhabitants, who believed them to be celestial beings, began a dance in order to propitiate them.
The dances of the savages are the common dance, and the dances which are held upon particular occasions, and the manner of dancing, varies somewhat. In dancing the common dance, they form a circle, and always have a leader, whom the whole company attend to. The men go before, and the women close the circle. The latter dance with great decency, as if engaged in the most serious business; they never speak a word to the men, much less joke with them, which would injure their character. They neither jump nor skip, but move lightly forward, and then backward, yet so as to advance gradually, till they reach a certain spot, and then retire in the same manner. They keep their bodies straight, and their arms hanging down close to their bodies. But the men shout, leap, and stamp, with such violence, that the ground trembles under their feet. Their extreme agility and lightness of foot is never displayed to more advantage than in dancing.
Of the dances held on particular occasions, there are many, and, unlike the last, these are frequent. "Of these," says Loskiel, "the chief is the dance of peace, called also the calumet or pipe dance, because the calumet or pipe of peace is handed about during the dance. This is the most pleasing to strangers who attend as spectators. The dancers join hands, and leap in a ring for some time. Suddenly the leader lets go the hand of one of his partners, keeping hold of the other. He then springs forward and turns round several times, by which he draws the whole company around, so as to be enclosed by them, when they stand close together. They disengage themselves as suddenly, yet keeping their hold of each other's hands during all the different revolutions and changes in the dance, which, as they explain it, represents the chain of friendship." This writer, who is in general very indifferent authority for what concerns the Indians, and must have made up his book from the relations of very careless or very stupid observers, never, I think from his own observation, differs very much in his account of this dance from Charlevoix, whose book generally is by far the best which has treated of the North American savages. He says, (vol. ii. p. 68) "They were young people equipped as when they prepare for the march; they had painted their faces with all sorts of colours, their heads were adorned with feathers, and they held some in their hands like fans. The calumet was also adorned with feathers, and was set up in the most conspicuous place. The band of music and the dancers were round about it, the spectators divided here and there in little companies, the women separate from the men. Before the door of the commandant's lodging, they had set up a post, on which, at the end of every dance, a warrior came up, and gave a stroke with his hatchet; at this signal there was a great silence, and this man repeated, with a loud voice, some of his great feats, and then received the applause of the spectators. When the dance of the calumet is intended, as it generally is, to conclude a peace, or a treaty of alliance against a common enemy, they grave a serpent on one side of the tube of the pipe, and set on one side of it a board, on which is represented two men of the two confederate nations, with the enemy under their feet, by the mark of his nation."
Of the two accounts which, it may be seen, differ essentially, I prefer Loskiel's. I think Charlevoix mistook another dance for the calumet dance, especially as he confesses they did him (the commandant) none of the honours which are mentioned. "I did not see the calumet presented to him, and there were no men holding the calumet in their hands."
The war dance, held either before or after a campaign, is their greatest dance. It is a dreadful spectacle, the object being to inspire terror in the spectators. No one takes a share in it, except the warriors themselves. They appear armed, as if going to battle. One carries his gun or hatchet, another a large knife, the third a tomahawk, the fourth a large club, or they all appear armed with tomahawks. These they brandish in the air, to signify how they intend to treat, or have treated, their enemies. They affect such an anger or fury on the occasion, that it makes a spectator shudder to behold them. A chief leads the dance, and sings the warlike deeds of himself or his ancestors. At the end of every celebrated feat of valour, he strikes his tomahawk with all his might against a post fixed in the ground. He is then followed by the rest, each finishing his round by a blow against the post. Then they dance all together, and this is the most frightful scene. They affect the most horrible and dreadful gestures, threatening to beat, cut, and stab each other. To complete the horror of the scene, they howl as dreadfully as in actual fight, so that they appear as raving madmen. Heckewelder's description agrees herewith. He remarks, that "Previous to going out on a warlike campaign, the war dance is always performed around the painted post. It is the Indian mode of recruiting. Whoever joins in the dance is considered as having enlisted for the campaign, and is obliged to go with the party."—Heck. Hist. Acc. p. 202. The description which Charlevoix gives of what he calls the "dance of discovery" among the Iroquois, agrees so fully with the above account of the war dance, that we may presume it is the same, and that his is a new name for an old thing.
Charlevoix describes another dance, which he calls the dance of fire.
This last author describes another dance which is not mentioned by any other traveller; it is called, he says, the dance of the bull, and is thus described by him: "The dancers form several circles or rings, and the music, which is always the drum and the chickicoue, is in the midst of the place. They never separate those of the same family. They do not join hands, and every one carries on his head his arms and his buckler. All the circles do not turn the same way, and though they caper much, and very high, they always keep time and measure. From time to time, a chief of the family presents his shield: they all strike upon it, and at every stroke he repeats some of his exploits. Then he goes, and cuts a piece of tobacco at a post, where they have fastened a certain quantity, and gives it to one of his friends," &c.—Charlevoix, ii. 72.
The dance of the green corn, referred to in the text, or, more properly speaking, "the ceremony of thanksgiving for the first fruits of the earth," is described by Col. Johnston in vol. i. p. 286, of the Archælogia Americana. It does not differ materially from their common feasts. The principal ceremonies are described in the text.
The following is a description of the Powwah or black dance, by which the devil was supposed to be raised. "Lord's Day, September 1st.—I spent the day with the Indians on the island. As soon as they were up in the morning, I attempted to instruct them, and laboured to get them together, but quickly found they had something else to do; for they gathered together all their powwows, and set about a dozen of them to playing their tricks, and acting their frantic postures, in order to find out why they were so sickly, numbers of them being at that time disordered with a fever and bloody flux. In this they were engaged for several hours, making all the wild, distracted motions imaginable, sometimes singing, sometimes howling, sometimes extending their hands to the utmost stretch, spreading all their fingers, and seemed to push with them, as if they designed to fright something away, or at least keep it at arm's end; sometimes sitting flat on the earth, then bowing down their faces to the ground, wringing their sides, as if in pain and anguish, twisting their faces, turning up their eyes, grunting or puffing. These monstrous actions seemed to have something in them peculiarly fitted to raise the devil, if he could be raised by any thing odd and frightful. Some of them were much more fervent in the business than the others, and seemed to chant, peep, and mutter, with a great degree of warmth and vigour."—Brainerd's Diary, E.
[GITTSHEE GAUZINEE.]
Before the Bigknives or their fathers came to the land of the red men, the Indians generally, and the Chippewas in particular, were in the habit of burying many articles with the dead—if a warrior died, his weapons of war, his spear, his war-club, and his most valued trophies; if a hunter, his instruments of hunting were committed to the earth with him. His beaver-trap, his clothes, even a piece of roasted meat, and a piece of bread, were deposited with him in his grave. The scalps he had taken from the heads of his enemies, the skins of the bears slain by him in encounter foot to foot, were laid by his side, and, when the earth was thrown upon his breast, the utensils of less moment were laid upon his grave. If it was a woman who demanded the rites of burial, various articles which had been most useful to her in life were destined to the same service. As it was supposed that it would be her lot in the other world to perform, for the shades of her husband and family, the duties which she had performed for them while they were living in this, the various domestic implements used in the cabin were buried with her. This practice, once so universal, has been limited, since the coming of the white men among us, to comparatively a very few articles, such as the deceased was particularly fond of, or expressed a desire to have deposited with his or her body. The change I speak of was made in consequence of the following incident, which occurred in the life of a celebrated chief of former days, who had often led the Chippewas to victory and glory.
Gittshee Gauzinee, after an illness of only a few days, expired suddenly in the presence of his numerous friends, by whom he was greatly beloved, and deeply lamented. He had been an expert hunter, and had traversed the wild forests, and threaded the mazes of the wilderness, with a success rarely equalled. As a warrior there was none to surpass him: he could transfix two enemies with the same spear; his arm could bend a bow of twice the size of that bent by an ordinary arm; and his war-whoop sounded loud as the thunder of the moon of early corn. He was in the habit of cherishing, with deep and studious care, the weapons of war which had given him his glory, and among these he particularly attached great value to a fine gun which he had purchased of the first white man that had come to the city of the High Rock. It was with this gun that he had acquired his principal trophies, in remembrance of which he requested that it might be buried with him. But the importance attached to this article, which then was rarely met with among our people, and of great value, induced his friends to pause as to this injunction.
In the meantime, there were some who supposed that his death was not real, but that the functions of life were merely suspended, and would again be restored. On this account the body was not interred, but laid aside in a separate lodge, where it was carefully watched by his afflicted and weeping widow. It came to her mind that his spirit might not have left the tenement of clay; and she was inspired with fresh hopes of his restoration to life, when, upon laying her hand upon his breast above his heart, she could perceive a feeble pulsation. After the lapse of four days, their sanguine hopes were realised; he awoke, as if from a deep sleep, and complained of great thirst. By the kind attentions of his friends, and the use of certain drugs, with which every Indian is familiar, his health began to mend rapidly, and he was soon able to return to the hunt. When he was completely restored, he related the following account of his death, and recovery to life.
He felt, he said, cold chills creeping over him; his respiration became impeded; the dim and shapeless forms of things floated before his eyes, and sounds such as he had never heard before were ringing in his ears. He felt his breath come and go like the flashes of heat which dance before the wind on a summer's day. At length it went out to return no more, and he died.
After death he travelled on in the path of the dead for three days, without meeting with any thing extraordinary. He kept the road in which souls go to the Cheke Checkecame, and over mountains, and through valleys, pursued his way steadily. Hunger at length visited him, and he began to suffer much from want of food. When he came in sight of the village of the dead, he saw immense droves of stately deer, mooses, and other large and fat animals, browzing tamely near his path. This only served to aggravate his craving appetite, and excite more eagerly the feeling of hunger, because he had brought nothing with him wherewith to kill them. The animals themselves seemed sensible of his inability to do them harm, frolicking fearlessly around him, now bounding away over the plain in mimic terror, now advancing in gambols to his very feet. The deer skipped lightly along, while the moose followed with a more clumsy step; the wild cat suspended himself by his tail from the trees, while the bear rolled and tumbled on the green sod. Gittshee Gauzinee now bethought himself of the fine gun which he had left at home, and at once resolved to return and obtain it. On his way back, he met a great concourse of people, men, women, and children, travelling onward to the residence of the dead. But he observed that they were all very heavily laden with axes, kettles, guns, meat, and other things, and that each one as they passed uttered loud complaints of the grievous burdens with which the officious and mistaken kindness of their friends had loaded them. Among others, he met a man bowed down by age and infirmity, wearily journeying to the land of the dead, who stopped him to complain of the burthen his friends had imposed upon him, and this aged man concluded his address by offering him his gun, begging him to do so much towards relieving him of his load. Shortly after, he met a very old woman who offered him a kettle, and, a little further on, a young man who offered him an axe. He saw a beautiful and slender young maiden so heavily laden that she was compelled to rest her load against a tree, and a warrior bending under a weight twice as great as any that had ever yet been put on his shoulders. Gittshee Gauzinee accepted the various presents made him, out of courtesy and good nature, for he had determined to go back for his own gun, and other implements, and therefore stood little in need of these: so he journeyed back.
When he came near his own lodge, he could discover nothing but a long line of waving fire, which seemed completely to encircle it. How to get across he could not devise, for, whenever he attempted to advance towards those places where the blaze seemed to be expiring, it would suddenly shoot up into brilliant cones, and pyramids of flame, and this was repeated as often as he approached it. At last he drew back a little, and made a desperate leap into the flames. The united effects of the heat, the violent exertion, and the fear of being burned in the desperate attempt, resulted in his restoration of life. He awoke from his trance, and, though weak and exhausted, he soon recovered his health and strength, and again made the valleys echo with his shouts of war and the hunt.
"I will tell you," said he to his friends, one night after his recovery, "of one practice in which our fathers have been wrong, very wrong. It has been their custom to bury too many things with the dead. Such burthens have been imposed upon them that their journey to the land of the dead has been made one of extreme labour and tediousness. They have complained to me of this, and I would now warn my brethren against a continuance of the practice. Not only is it painful to them, but it retards their progress in their journey. Therefore only put such things in the grave as will not be irksome to carry. The dress which the deceased was most fond of while living he should be clothed in when dead. His feathers, his head dress, and his other ornaments, are but light, and will be very agreeable to his spirit. His pipe also will afford him amusement on the road. If he has any thing more, let it be divided among his nearest relatives and friends, but on no account incumber his spirit with heavy and useless articles."
[AMPATO SAPA.]
Nothing, M. Verdier says, can be more picturesque and beautiful than the cascade of St. Anthony, so renowned in the topography of the western world. The irregular outline of the Fall, by dividing its breadth, gives it a more impressive character, and enables the eye more easily to take in its beauties. An island, stretching in the river both above and below the Fall, separates it into two unequal parts. From the nature of the rock which breaks into angular, and apparently rhomboidal fragments of a huge size, this fall is subdivided into small cascades, which adhere to each other, so as to form a sheet of water, unrent, but composed of an alternation of retiring and salient angles, and presenting a great variety of shapes and shades. Each of these forms is in itself a perfect cascade. When taken in one comprehensive view they assume a beauty of which we could scarcely have deemed them susceptible. Few falls assume a wilder and more picturesque aspect than these. The thick growth of oaks, hickory, walnut, &c. upon the island, imparts to it a gloomy and sombre aspect, contrasting pleasingly with the bright surface of the watery sheet which reflects the sun in many differently coloured hues. All travellers have spoken of it as possessing wonderful beauties, and the poor unenlightened Indian, who ascribes every thing of an imposing, a sublime, and a magnificent character, every thing which has phenomena he cannot comprehend to a superior being, and who fancies a governing spirit in every deep glen in the wilderness, has associated many of his wild and fanciful traditions with this singular spot. The following favourite tale of, the Dahcotah is not the only tradition connected with this romantic spot.
An Indian of the Dahcotah nation had united himself early in life to a youthful female, whose name was Ampato Sapa, which signifies, in the Dahcotah language, the Dark-day. With her he lived for many years very happily; their days glided on like a clear stream in the summer noon. There were few husbands and wives who enjoyed as much nuptial happiness as fell to the lot of this Indian couple. Among that people the duties allotted to the female sex are both laborious and incessant; with Ampato Sapa, they were ameliorated by the kindness of her husband, who, in defiance of the customs of our people, performed the greater part of her tasks herself. Their union had been blessed with two children, upon whom both parents doated with a depth of feeling unknown to those who have other treasures besides those which spring from nature. The man had acquired a reputation as a hunter, which drew around him many families who were happy to place themselves under his protection, and avail themselves of such part of his chace, as he needed not for the support of his family. Desirous of strengthening their interest with him, some of them invited him to form a connexion with their family, observing, at the same time, that a man of his talents, and present and increasing importance, required more than one woman, to wait upon the numerous guests whom his reputation would induce to visit his lodge. They assured him that he would soon be acknowledged as a chief, and that in this case a second wife was indispensable. Their pleadings and flattery infused new ideas into his mind, and ambition soon succeeded in dispelling love, and the remembrance of years of conjugal endearment. Fired with the thought of obtaining high honours, he resolved to increase his importance by a union with the daughter of an influential man of his tribe. He had accordingly taken a second wife, without having ever mentioned the subject to his former companion, being desirous to introduce his bride into his lodge, in the manner which should be least offensive to the mother of his children, for whom he yet retained much regard, though bad ambition "had induced him to countenance a divided bed and affections." It became necessary, however, that he should break the matter to her, which he did as follows: "You know," said he, "that I can love no woman so fondly as I doat upon you. You were the first woman I loved, and you are the only one. With regret have I seen you of late subjected to toils which must be oppressive to you, and from which I would gladly relieve you, yet I know of no other way of doing so, than by associating to you, in the household duties, one who shall relieve you from the trouble of entertaining the numerous guests whom my growing importance in the nation collects around me. I have, therefore, resolved to take another wife, but she shall always be subject to your controul, as she will always rank in my affections second to you."
With the utmost anxiety and deepest concern did his companion listen to this unexpected proposal. She expostulated in the kindest terms; entreated him with all the arguments which undisguised love and the purest conjugal affection could suggest. She replied to all the objections he had raised, and endeavoured to dispel all the clouds his seemingly disinterested kindness had thrown over her present situation. Desirous of winning her from her opposition, he concealed the secret of his union with another, while she redoubled her care and exertion, to convince him that she was equal to all the tasks imposed upon her by his increasing reputation and notoriety. When he again spoke on the subject, she pleaded all the endearments of their past life; she spoke of his former kindness for her, of his regard for her happiness, and that of their mutual offspring; she bade him beware of the fatal consequences of this purpose of his. Finding her bent upon withholding her consent to his plan, he informed her that all opposition on her part was unavailing, as he had already selected another partner; and that, if she could not see his new wife as a friend, she must receive her as a necessary incumbrance, for he was resolved that she should be an inmate in his house. The poor Dark-Day heard these words in silent consternation. Watching her opportunity, she stole away from the cabin with her infants, and fled to her father, who lived at a considerable distance from the place of her husband's residence. With him she remained until a party of Dahcotahs went up the Mississippi, on a winter's hunt. Not caring whither she went, so it was not to the lodge of her faithless husband, she accompanied them. All hope had left her bosom, and even her interest in her children had faded with the decay of the impassioned love she had felt for their father. The world, the simple pleasures of Indian life, had no farther charm for Ampato Sapa. She would wander for hours, listless and tearful, by the shaded river bank, or gaze in the night with a distracted look upon the silver moon and star-lit sky. At times, as if fearful of impending pursuit, she would snatch up her children, and rush out into the woods. The Red Man of the forest has a kind of instinctive veneration for madness(1) in every form; the mere supposition of such a misfortune has procured the liberation of a victim bound to the stake, whom no arts or persuasion could operate to save. The people of her tribe saw, with deep commiseration, the seeming aberration of intellect of the poor Indian woman, but, knowing little of the feeling which possessed her bosom, could apply no healing medicine.
In the spring, as they were returning with their canoes loaded with furs, they encamped near the falls which our white brother has seen, and which have became so celebrated in Indian story for the many tragical scenes connected with them. In the morning, as they left their encamping ground on the border of the river, she for a while lingered near the spot, as if working up her mind to some terrible feat of despair. Then, launching her light canoe, she entered it with her children, and paddled down the stream, singing her death-song. The air was one of those melancholy airs which are sung by our people when in deep distress, or about to end the journey of life.
Death-Song of Ampato Sapa.
I loved him long and well.
And he to me
Was the soft sun, which makes the young trees bud.
In gentle spring,
And bids the glad birds sing,
From out the boughs, their song of love and joy.
And he would sit beside me on the grass,
And plait my hair with beads,
And tell the trees, and flowers, and birds,
That Dark-Day was more beautiful than they.
I lov'd him long and well.
And he to me
Was as the tree which props the tender vine,
Or clustering ivy, letting them embrace
His strength and pride.
When he withdraws from them,
They fall, and I must die.
He lov'd me once,
And lov'd his little babes;
And he would go with morning to the hills,
And chase the buffalo.
But he would come
And press me in his arms, when darkness hid
Both beast and bird from the clear hunter's eye.
Then he would creep to where our children slept,
And smile—but sweeter smile upon their mother.
He loves another now.
A younger bird is in his nest,
And sings sweet songs from Dark-Days once fair bower,
And I am lov'd no more.
He will be no more to me as the sun,
Which gives the young trees life in gentle spring.
Nor as the tree which props the tender vine.
He loves another better than Dark-Day—
He cares not for her,
Nor for his children:
No, he cares not for them.
I will die;
I will go to the happy lands,
Beyond the mighty river.
There I shall see again my tender mother,
There I shall meet the warriors of my tribe,
And they shall make my sons good men.
There I shall meet, ere many moons be past,
My husband reconcil'd to me, and he
Again shall sit beside me on the grass,
And plait my hair with beads,
And tell the trees, and birds, and flowers,
That Dark-Day is more beautiful than they.
As she paddled her canoe down the stream, her friends perceived her intent, but too late; their persuasions and attempts to prevent her from proceeding were of no avail. She continued to sing, in a mournful voice, the past pleasures which she had enjoyed while she was the undivided object of her husband's affections: at length, her voice was drowned in the sound of the cataract; the current carried down her frail bark with inconceivable rapidity; it came to the edge of the precipice, was seen for a moment enveloped with spray, but never after was a trace of the canoe or its passengers discovered. Yet the Indians imagine that often in the morning a voice is heard singing a mournful song along the edge of the fall, and that it dwells on the inconstancy of a husband. They assert that sometimes a white dove is seen hovering over the neighbouring sprays; at other times, Ampato Sapa wanders in her proper person near the spot, with her children wrapped in skins, and pressed to her bosom.