MICMAC MYTHOLOGY
MICMAC MYTHOLOGY.[[2]]
“Weegegijik. Kessegook, wigwamk;
Meskeek oodun Ulnoo, kes saak.”
[May you be happy. The old people are encamped;
There was once, long ago, a large Indian village.]
With this suggestive couplet the Legends, or Ahtookwokun of the Micmacs, in their original form, almost invariably commence. The inseparable introduction shows us how the literature of the people had long ago taken on a settled form, even though there were no written records; it confirms to a considerable degree the common impression that they had a ballad arrangement, and were chanted to weird music in that ancient time; and also indicates how carefully the old men cherish the memory of their former greatness.
These people look upon their folk-lore as a sacred treasure to be carefully preserved by their holy men; and, as in our Saxon traditions the dying Bleys relates the story of Arthur’s birth, so an aged Sakumow may be heard repeating the immortal legends to faithful witnesses, just before he passes on to the regions of the far West, where Glooscap dwells in the presence of the Great Spirit, and where the golden sunsets give us foregleams of that beautiful abode, the happy hunting-ground of the faithful.
Let us approach the study of Micmac Mythology with a becoming reverence, for we are dealing with sacred things; and, as we learn what little we can about a vanishing religion, may we not join with the great American poet in the hope
“That the feeble hands and helpless
Groping blindly in the darkness,
Touch God’s right hand in that darkness
And are lifted up and strengthened.”
Dr. Silas T. Rand, to whom we are indebted for all we know about the ancient religion of the people, thought that a number of the Micmac Legends might be Bible narratives, not any more changed than one would expect after centuries of transmission by word of mouth alone. Professor E. N. Horsford, through whose foresight and generosity the legends were published, and Mr. Charles G. Leland, who has a very interesting collection of Algonquin Legends, were both persuaded that several of the stories must have come either direct from hardy Norsemen, or from the Norsemen through the Eskimo. The two legends that perhaps most closely resemble traditions found in Iceland are “The Adventures of Kaktoogwasees” and “The Beautiful Bride,” the former the thirteenth and the latter the twenty-fourth in Dr. Rand’s collection; they relate almost identical incidents, in the same order, and must have started from the same original, whether Norse or not. The variations which led Dr. Rand to consider them separate stories are probably due to some narrators having confined their attention chiefly to the attractive bride, while others had taken more delight in picturing the rugged qualities of the young Thunderer and his companions. Carefully comparing the two stories, we see that Glooscap acts a prominent part in each, always proving himself a faithful friend. He allows the travellers the use of his kweedun, or canoe, which is a small rocky island covered with a low growth of trees, and, more wonderful still! the kweedun travels without the use of paddles wherever the owner may wish. In both tales we find a man so swift of foot that it is necessary for him to keep one leg tied up firmly to his body, except on great occasions, for when both legs are free, he cannot by any means control his actions; and, when the great occasion comes for an exhibition of his magic, he makes a complete circle around the earth, carrying a brimming goblet of water, in somewhat less than thirty minutes, thus winning the laurels for his party. In both tales, too, we find a magician who keeps the hurricane securely fastened within his nostrils, and it is very interesting when he removes the stoppages and breathes freely, raising a tempestuous sea, and laying waste whole areas of forest. Kaktoogwasees, the young Thunderer, has better magic in his party than all his enemies combined, and we do not hesitate to congratulate him as he leads home his beautiful bride, the daughter of the Earthquake, who, as described in Legend XXIV., has hair as glossy black as the wing of the raven, cheeks of crimson, and a brow as white as January snow.
Dr. Rand says: “I have not found more than five or six Indians who could relate these queer stories, and most, if not all of these, have now gone. Who the original author was, or how old they are we have no means of knowing.” It is evident that several have been borrowed from the Russians and the Eskimo; such, for example, as relate to characters having flinty hearts, or who keep their hearts hidden away within some half-dozen concentric coatings, living or dead and perhaps all hidden away in the bottom of the sea. Also, if we compare Legend III. in Dr. Rand’s collection with the one entitled “The Weaver’s Son” in Jeremiah Curtin’s “Folklore of Ireland,” we must be convinced that the Micmac Legend is an incomplete version of the Irish story. Some of the Legends may have been borrowed from every people with whom the Micmacs came in contact since their ancestors first began to wander from the highlands of Asia; but, granting that all tales bearing such resemblances have been borrowed, it may still be reasonably supposed that most of the Legends of the Micmacs are simply the crystalized thought of a people who had a keen appreciation of the beautiful, living as they did season after season in the most intimate contact with the varied manifestations of nature,—a people whose restless minds were ever on the alert to find some explanation of the workings of that
“Divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.”
Many people cannot think of mythology without seeing confused apparitions of Zeus with his family of gods and goddesses on old Olympus, but here, among the earliest Acadians, we find traditions which, when organized into a system will be worthy of the most careful study. Dr. Rand, who translated the legends and recorded them for us, did not make any attempt to classify the characters, and for that very reason his work is of the greater value to science, since he was not hunting up a basis for any theory of his own. Mr. Leland has made a beginning, in the way of grouping related stories; but someone might well spend half a life-time in opening up this promising mine, and placing Micmac Mythology, as it surely deserves to be placed, on an equality with our accepted Classics.
It may seem a rash statement, and evince a poor appreciation for the classic authors we have read, but there are those who are persuaded that in the Mythology of the Americans, as in that of our fathers, the Norsemen, we find a rugged strength and a manly purity which is very obscure if not altogether unknown among those imaginary characters which grew up in the minds of the ancient Greeks, and later became the property of Rome and the world. True, the tales of the northern nations are not so gracefully told, and themselves lack the perfect etiquette we find among the Greeks; but for strength, and brilliancy of conception, surely those great characters rudely sketched in black and white have a stimulating suggestiveness that is altogether obscure amid the milder tones and softly blending harmonies of the polished ideals of the East. Philosophers, who know, tell us that we of Northern climes cannot worship, or love, or even hate with that refinement of cruelty which those experience who bask in brighter sunshine beneath a milder sky. Suppose we yield them the palm in this respect, are we not more than repaid by the dignity and majesty that comes with the consciousness of being master of the fury of the elements! Such dignity did the Micmac heroes have; and the ideals of the people left its impress upon the character of the nation, until the necessity of self-preservation, and the slip-shod policy of their conquerors, destroyed every noble ambition.
In Micmac Mythology we have a plant of native growth which bids fair to be as beautiful and profitable as any of the famous exotics; shall we not cultivate it with some of the attention we now bestow upon Greek Mythology? and as we study the story of Acadian heroes,—rugged, strong, and beautiful in their primeval simplicity, may we not hope to hear a deep voice speaking to us through the shady vistas of the past, and saying:—
“Be thou a hero, let thy might
Tramp on the eternal snows its way,
And through the ebon walls of night,
Carve out a passage unto day.”
Of the eighty-seven stories in Dr. Rand’s collection many are pure and simple myths; some are mythical with an evident purpose to teach some practical lesson, and so may be considered fables or parables; while still others are merely records of history, somewhat mythical, perhaps, and yet no doubt largely the record of facts.
Perhaps the feature that most impresses itself upon the careful reader is the number of instances in which weakness overcomes all obstacles. Frail children and dwarfs are able by the use of magic to overcome fabulous monsters, and destroy whole families of giants with such weapons as a spear made from a splinter, or a supple bow whose string is a single hair. A small canoe which a weak old woman can sew up in a single evening, is found sufficient to carry two men over a stormy sea in the teeth of a raging hurricane, while in the quiet of Glooscap’s tent old Noogomich, the grandmother, chips a piece of beaver bone into the pot when preparing a meal for visitors, and in a few moments the pot is seen to be full of the finest moose-meat.
The Micmacs did not worship images. They believed in a Great Spirit whom they called Nikskam, which means Father-of-us-all, and compares with the Norse All-fadir; to him they also gave the name Nesulk, meaning Maker, and Ukchesakumow, the Great Chief. They seem to have had that mute reverence for the Great Spirit which kept the children of Israel from lightly uttering the sacred name “Jehovah,” for we find no mention anywhere in the Legends of Nesulk the Maker or Nikskam the All-father. They have the name Mundu which sounds like “Manitou” of the neighboring tribes, or as the poet has it: “Gitche Manito the mighty;” but they give the name to the spirit of evil. Perhaps they borrowed it from enemies, and naturally supposed that the god of their enemies must be the devil. Notice in this connection the place called “Main-de-Dieu” in Cape Breton, which, someone has said, is Mundu or devil for the Micmac, and hand of God for the Frenchman.
We find records of horrible man-eating giants called Kookwesijik; and another family of enormous beings called Ooskoon Kookwesijik,—the liver-coloured giants, who return from their hunting expeditions carrying at their belts a string of caribou as easily as a Micmac could carry a string of rabbits. These tawny giants are friendly, as is shown by their dealings with a party of Micmacs recorded in Legend XVII.; the party had been lost in a fog for several days in or near St. John harbour, and ever afterwards held their powerful deliverers in grateful remembrance, although the Ooskoon Kookwesijik amused themselves for a time at the expense of the pigmy Ulnoo. We might find entertainment for hours with the Megumoowesoo, which is like a fawn or satyr of Greek mythology; or the Culloo, an enormous bird, of human intelligence, and strength sufficient to carry a whole war-party on its back; or indeed with the dread Chenoo, or Northman, a sort of were-wolf, believed to be a transformed lunatic who had been maddened by disappointment in love, and whose icy heart now finds no pleasure save when feasting on human flesh and blood.
All the famous warriors are booowins, or pow-wows; they have supernatural powers, and when wide awake and in full presence of mind cannot be killed except by other braves possessing like powers. It is remarkable that these braves, or as they say, kenaps, even though mortally wounded, would immediately be in perfect health and strength if by any chance they could succeed in taking the life of a warrior; it was also believed that while a kenap was dancing the magic dance, his body could not be pierced by the swiftest arrow. A booowin could assume not only the character but also the form of whatever animal might be the totem of the clan to which he belonged, but he was restricted to his own totem, whether fox or wolf, or wild-goose, or loon, and so when two were fighting, each generally knew what he might expect of his opponent in the event of defeat in fair battle.
The last fight between the Kennebecs and the Micmacs occurred at the mouth of Pictou harbour, and was an instance in which one hero, or as they say, kenap, succeeded in destroying, single-handed, a whole war-party of the enemy. The incident is worthy of mention in this connection, for the hero of this closing scene of inter-tribal warfare was a booowin or pow-wow, who might well be compared, if we consider what he accomplished, with Samson, the strong man of Israel, or perhaps, even more properly with Heracles and the other demigods of ancient Grecian story. Our hero’s name is Kaktoogo, or Old Thunder, but he also had a second name given by the French, for the French had arrived on Acadia’s shores before this final defeat of the invading Kennebecks; the dignified name was Toonale, an attempt to pronounce Tonnere, the French translation of his sonorous name. You will notice that “r” was replaced by “l” in all words borrowed from the French and English, for neither the “r” nor “j” sound was formerly heard in the language of the Micmacs.
Let us picture two war-parties of the Kennebecs intrenched within blockhouses from which they make repeated sallies upon the wary natives of Megamaage[[3]]. The forts are constructed by first digging a cellar, and then felling and arranging great trees, so that not only a barricade is formed, but a heavily roofed fort. The Micmacs are intrenched in a somewhat similar manner on their camping-ground at Merrigomish. It was quite evident to the Micmacs that their ancestral foes were not on a mere scalping expedition but had designed a war of extermination. Kaktoogo the Thunderer must make good use of all his magic, or he and his people will certainly be destroyed. First and last of the American Red-men, he took command of a navy; for in order to avoid ambuscades, he took possession of a French trading ship, and came around by sea from Merrigomish to Pictou. Soon he bore down upon the hostile fort with all sails set, and in true Indian fashion, as if his gallant craft were a bark canoe, ran hard aground as near as possible to his deadly foe; but before the French timbers quiver from that disastrous shock; Kaktoogo has leaped into the water, as Cæsar’s standard-bearer did on the coast of savage Britain a few centuries ago, and makes his way with all speed toward the land. Kaktoogo has every faculty alert, and, since he is a mighty pow-wow, no one but another demigod can kill him outright. He reached the shore and rushed upon the fort before either friends or foes had recovered from their astonishment, and,
“Like valor’s minion carved out his passage”
as nobly as ever did Macbeth, or Samson, or any other warrior, nor did he pause till every man of them had paid the forfeit of his life.
So complete was the victory that their ancestral foes never sent another war-party into Megamaage the Acadie, or Wholesome Place of the Micmacs. The bold Kaktoogo had at last “made a realm,” but it cannot be said of him that he “reigned,” for more insidious foes than the Kennebecs or the more dreaded Mohawks were among them, and were gradually conquering them by blandishments that stole away the manhood of the nation. Coureurs-du-bois were roaming everywhere throughout the forest, bringing dangerous thunder-weapons and more dangerous fire-water; and Glooscap, the Magnificent One, was grieved as he marked the steady approach of what the pale-face calls “Civilization.” The daring intruders soon visited the Son of Heaven at his home on that giant rock, Blomidon, around whose amethystine base “The tides of Minas swirl;” and several attempts were made to capture the mighty Sakumow, that he too might be caged and sent home to France.
At last Glooscap was disgusted with the treachery of the foreigners, and saddened by the weakness of his own people; so, by way of giving vent to his righteous indignation, he turned his kettle upside down, and transformed his two dogs into rocks, where they stand to-day, the guardians of Blomidon, still looking westward awaiting his return. Then the Great Snowy Owl retreated into the depths of the forest, where his mournful cry is often heard as he wails again and again: “Koo-koo-skoe,—I am so sorry.” The lordly Glooscap sailed away to the land of the setting sun on Fundy’s ebbing tide as it returned again to the ocean; there he makes his home in the Acadie of the blessed, until the faithless interlopers have either changed their barbarian habits, or gone to their own place. When all men shall have learned to honour Truth he will return and usher in the millennium amidst the wildest rejoicing of the elements.
But oh, the people are weary of waiting for his return, the stoutest hearts are failing; for search-party after search-party has come back, bringing only ample proofs of his unceasing love; Glooscap will never return to beautiful Megamaage the Acadie, or Wholesome Place of the Micmacs; Kenap and Sakumow now drown the memory of the former times by destroying body and soul with the withering curse of the pale-face, or take up the wail of the old women and re-echo the mournful cry of the Wobekookoogwes, the great Snowy Owl, which comes again with startling clearness from the depth of the forest: “I am so sorry,—Koo-koo-skoo.” And now as the camp-fire has burned low, and the melancholy cry of the owl resounds through the lonely archways of the forest, let us repeat the final word of the Booske-atookwa, the sage story teller, and reverently say Kespeadooksit,—the story is ended.
We have spent a few moments, idly perhaps, in hastily reviewing some features of the Mythology of the Micmacs, and we have found a weird delight in studying what was to them most sacred. But the mythology of the people, beautiful as it is, is not by any means the life-giving Truth; the outgrowth of the human mind, this rugged faith must fail to lead that mind to anything outside of itself; for the most magnificent statue on which man ever worked is still at heart a stone. Like Tennyson’s Prophet, the Mythology of the Micmacs is dead:
“Dead!
And the people cried with a stormy cry;
‘Send them no more for evermore,
Let the people die.’
Dead!
‘Is he then brought so low?’
And a careless people came from the fields
With a purse to pay for the show.”
Is it fair for us to infer that the Christians of the Maritime Provinces are content to let the Micmacs grope on in their gloom, ignorantly lifting their hearts in adoration to an unknown God! Can we be so base as to join the rabble “With a purse to pay for the show,”—we who have been given the true Mythology and commanded to carry the news to every creature?
Though Silas T. Rand was a man with the usual desires for visible results in his missionary work, he restrained these desires, and laboured to supplement rather than to supplant the work which had been so faithfully done by the Roman Catholic missionaries. He labored to present the Gospel message in its fullness as related to the unobserved duties of everyday life; and to instil into the minds of the Micmac Christians a clearer understanding of that perfect love which casts out fear. He did not work for a reward; he found his reward in his work, and any one may find it too by speaking of good Mr. Land (Rand) when in conversation with those for whom he gave his life.
It will be fifty years on the twelfth of this present month of November since Dr. Rand began the work which has incidentally given us this glimpse of the rich Mythology of the Micmacs. Shall we not on this jubilee occasion revive in some way the work so faithfully carried on, and all unite to realize the fullness of the Gospel message ourselves, as we attempt to give it in its fullness to every man for whom our Father meant it?
| [2] | The substance of this chapter was delivered as a graduating essay before the Faculty of Acadia University last June, and it appeared in its present form in the October and November numbers of the Prince Edward Island Magazine.—J. S. C. |
| [3] | Megamaage or Megumagee, Micmac name for Maritime Provinces. |
the
DYING INDIAN’S
DREAM.
A POEM.
BY SILAS TERTIUS RAND,
Of Hantsport, Nova Scotia,
MISSIONARY TO THE MICMAC INDIANS.
THIRD EDITION, REVISED.
WITH SOME ADDITIONAL LATIN POEMS.
WINDSOR, N. S.:
C. W. KNOWLES,
1881.
PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION.
The Wigwam Scene described in the following pages, occurred at Hantsport, Nova Scotia, in March, 1855. In the Sixth Annual Report of the Micmac Mission, in a letter written immediately after the event, I find it thus inscribed:
“An event of some interest has just occurred here. One of our sick Indians, named John Paul, has just died and was buried to-day. I have taken from my first acquaintance with him, a great liking to him. I have spent many an hour with him in his wigwam. He always listened attentively to the Scriptures, and engaged readily in religious conversation, and I have not been without hope. Efforts were made to deter him from allowing my visits, but they were unavailing. I never aimed so much to attack his Romish errors directly, as to dwell upon the free salvation of the Gospel—without money and without price. About last New Year’s day, while I was in Halifax, I was informed that the Romish priest had sent orders to him to leave Hantsport, and had threatened him with all the curses of the Church if he remained. His statement to me when I returned, was: “I won’t leave this place till I choose. It is not in the power of any man to keep me out of Heaven. That is a matter between God and my own soul.” He said in Indian: “Neit alsoomse.” “I am my own master.” He remained. He continued to listen to the Bible with attention, and to receive my visits with kindness and respect till he died. I now recollect that when I came to read to him, he would send the small children away that we might not be disturbed. The last time I saw him was a precious season to my own soul. It seemed easy to speak of the Great Redeemer, and of the way of Salvation. I may say that special prayer was made for him in the Meeting House, where a number of Christian friends were assembled on the day before he died, holding a special prayer-meeting on our own account. More than one fervent prayer was offered up for the dying Indian. After the meeting I returned to my own house, where I met an Indian from John Paul’s wigwam, who informed me that the poor fellow was very near his end. “But oh,” said he, “he is wonderfully happy! He says he is going right to heaven, and that he has already had a glimpse of that bright happy world. He has been exhorting us all, and telling how easy it is to be saved. He dreamed last night that he was in heaven. Heaven seemed to him to be an immense great palace, as large as this world, all formed of gold. He saw there the glorious Redeemer, surrounded by an immense host of Saints and Angels, all drest in white. As he entered he thought they gathered round him and shouted: John Paul has come! John Paul has come!” The poor fellow did not die until the following morning, and just before he died he looked up towards Heaven, and declared that he saw the angels and the Glory of God. He was astonished that the others could not see what he saw. He wanted them to hold up his children that they might see the wonders that he himself saw. He then sank back on his pillow and quietly expired.
It will be seen that the following Poem is not a work of fiction. It aims to relate—with some license of imagination, of course, else it would not be poetry—a plain historical fact. The description of Paul’s skill and knowledge as a hunter, and in managing their frail little water-crafts in a sea, is literally true of many of the Indians, and was true of him. His peace of mind in committing his family into the hands of God, after he found himself disabled, having burst a blood-vessel by carrying a large load, from which he never recovered—he related to me: and this is expressed in the prayer put into his mouth at the close, “which we did not fully hear or share.”
It may be added that after the Poem was written, I read it to the Indian who gave me the account of John Paul’s death, and as he spoke the English language well, he had no trouble in understanding it. And he assured me that it described the scene correctly.
I may add that the measure—or rather the utter disregard of all regular measure—was suggested by an old poem I saw somewhere, describing a very different scene, and the “wildness” of it appeared, to me to be just suited to a scene of the Wilderness and the wigwam.
It will not surely be deemed a very great stretch of “poetic license” to represent oneself as an eye and ear-witness of a scene, with the surroundings of which he was so familiar, and which had been so vividly described by those who really were present.
Nor need we speculate about the cause of dreams or their significance. No one will deny that that may be a very exact index of the state of mind at the time, of the one who dreams. And the earnest prayer of the writer is, that the reader of these verses, and himself, may be, at the time of our departure, so full of joy and peace in believing, that whether waking or dreaming, we may rejoice with that joy which is unspeakable and full of glory, receiving the end of our faith, even the salvation of our souls.”
SILAS T. RAND.
Hantsport, N. S.
The Dying Indian’s Dream.
“Jesus, the vision of thy face,
Hath overpowering charms;
Scarce shall I feel Death’s cold embrace,
If Christ be in my arms.
Then when you hear my heartstrings break,
How sweet my minutes roll;
A mortal paleness on my cheek,
And glory in my soul.”—Watts.