CASTLE-BUILDING.
BY JAMES T. MITCHELL.
At twilight, when the deepening shades
Of humid night are closing fast,
When o'er bright fields and green arcades
The dazzling beams of gold are cast,
Another day its weary round
Of mingled joys and pains has run,
And clouds, with golden fringes bound,
In beauty veil the setting sun,—
A silence, pleasing, calm, profound,
Falls soothing on the raptured brain;
The hum of busy life is drowned,
On crowded street and lonely plain;
The soul, in dreamy reveries lost,
To shadowy realms far distant roves,
In stormy waves of ether tost,
Then wandering wild in heavenly groves.
And cloud-built castles, towering high,
O'er gorgeous scenes that fancy rears,
Where laughing orbs illume the sky,
Seem mansions for our future years;
And, while the spirit gazing stands,
Enwrapt with pleasure at the scenes
Which fill Imagination's lands
With palaces for fairy queens,
The view is changing—all is gone—
The castles, fading slow away,
As misty shapes at early dawn,
Vanish before the coming day;
And storm-clouds now are lowering round;
Wild demon shapes are flitting by;
Fierce flames are rising from the ground,
And lurid lightnings cleave the sky.
Bleak snow-capped mountains o'er us frown,
While, gray and grim, through darkened air,
Towers and turrets, looking down
From rocky heights o'erhanging there,
Seem prisons for the wandering brain,
Within whose deep and caverned walls
'Tis doomed for ever to remain,
'Mid shrieks as from demoniac halls.
But pyramids above these rise,
Whose summits, gleaming gaily bright,
Inspire with hope the fainting eyes,
As bathed they stand in golden light,
Lifting their peaks high o'er the dark,
Like shining spots, that on the breast
Of darkened Luna, seem to mark
Some towering Etna's blazing crest.
Perched on these lofty granite piles,
Rise adamantine domes of power,
Secure from treachery, force, or wiles,
Reared in Ambition's happy hour,
When, having left the storm behind,
Of raging battles, fears, and hates,
He spurns their threats as empty wind,
Himself the guardian of the gates.
Here in these grand, but lonely halls,—
Unmingling with the crowd below,
And all unharmed by what befalls
Poor wanderers in this world of woe,—
Ambition, well-directed, dwells,
While songs of sorrow, care, and grief,
Give place to martial music's swells,
Which proudly hail the victor chief.
Yet not alone—without a friend
To share his toil-bought honours great,
And by congenial spirit lend
New splendour to his regal state—
Celestial Hope dwells ever near,
And Happiness, her sister gay;
And thus they live, while year on year
With rapid pinions rolls away.
But gazing from these lofty walls,
A landscape rises bright and fair,
Where happy light serenely falls
On scenes of gorgeous beauty there.
Here crystal founts, 'mid orient flowers,
Which radiant shine in varied hues,
Flow joyous through an Eden's bowers,
Where perfume loads the falling dews;
While here and there, these laughing streams,
Dimpling and eddying ever gay,
Rippling o'er golden sand, that gleams
Like the Golcondian diamond's ray,
Leap headlong down a rocky dell,
And o'er the heaven's ethereal azure
Cast many a rainbow's glittering spell,
That chains the heart in silent pleasure.
And 'neath the heaven's o'erarching bow,
Bloom laurels proud, and violets low,
In fragrance sweet, and beauty rare,
With graceful rose, and lily fair;
The mirthful grape, and crocus glad,
Yet here and there, geranium sad,
With hawthorn, and ambrosia kind,
And 'mongst them all is ivy twined.
Amid these blooming spirit-lands,
Mid chaplets wreathed by Love's own hands,
The glowing flowers of Love are found
With which his shining locks are crowned;
He sings a song, through all the day long,
Of joy, and of gladness, and glee,
And he sits so light, on his throne so bright,
Oh ever a conquering king is he!
But when the sunset's golden dyes
Have faded away from the western skies;
And these fairy gardens are seen by night.
Over their moonlit waters bright,
On which, as they're merrily flowing and dancing,
The light of the stars is twinkling and glancing,
There's a charm in that silent midnight hour,
They only can tell who have felt its power.
There's a mystic spell in its silence sweet,
And a magic thrill through all who meet,
Where kindred thoughts together stray,
Whispering beneath pale Luna's ray;
Then is the time for poet's song,
When his voice on the zephyr is borne along,
And slumbering echo, like fairy fay,
Murmurs the words of his wakening lay.
But the rosy beams of the coming morn
Tell us how fast the night has worn,
How far and free the soul has strayed,
Wandering 'mong scenes in fancy laid;
And the heathcock's note, or the matin bell,
As the morning breeze brings its pealing swell,
Recalls the soul from its musings there,
To find its "Castles"—built in air.
C. Schuessele del. Drawn by Capt. S. Eastman. Chromolith of P. S. Duval Pha.
WENONA'S LEAP. LAKE PEPIN, MISS. RIVER.
THE LOVER'S LEAP:
OR, WENONA'S ROCK.
BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.
Love, which "rules the court, the camp, the grove," is not without a share of influence in the wigwam.
It is true that in a polished and refined society, woman is more likely to receive a just appreciation, than where the intellect of man is like the one talent rolled in a napkin, useless, because neglected and unimproved. In an enlightened country, woman is not considered as being only created to perform the household duties of a wife and mother. She is a companion, in the highest sense of the word. Her aim, like his, may be towards the great purposes of life.
Not unmindful of her first duties, those which lie in her province alone, she can go on towards that exalted state of perfection of which the soul is capable, though not to be attained here. Religion, that teaches her "that the price of a virtuous woman is far above rubies," also commends her that "she openeth her mouth with wisdom." We find her in the sacred history not only the friend, the mother, and the wife, but the poet, the heroine, the prophetess, and even the judge. But among Indian nations we find her position more than equivocal. Her influence is undoubted in the domestic relations, but she is still a slave. She was born to labour—what merit then in her strongest efforts! She is an inferior—how then can she hope for justice?
Among the Sioux, the men appear indeed to be a superior class of beings. They are noble-looking, while the women are often repelling in appearance. The difficulties with which they must contend in the harsh climate of their country; their poverty increasing year after year; their frequent and long fastings: these all make the men more hardy, more capable of a continued struggle, but they have a different effect upon the women. They are compelled to remain in the lodge; the care of their children obliges them to forego the excitement of seeking for food, and thus sickness and even death is often brought upon them that could otherwise have been avoided. They are often found buried in the snow in winter, prevented by sickness from making such efforts as saved the lives of their husbands and brothers.
But their noble courage, where the emotions of the heart are concerned, gives them the first place in the romantic traditions of their country.
The Sioux will soon have taken a farewell look of the lands which the Great Spirit gave them in the olden time. The lodge and its occupants are vanishing away. The occasional war-whoop will soon be forgotten where it has been heard in unrecorded ages. The scenes of many a romantic tradition will be forgotten by those who succeed the valiant but doomed people, who must look upon them no more. The hunter and his wild steed depart, and the white man, the axe, the plough, and the powder-horn take their place.[21] The fairy-rings[22] on the prairie must be trodden down. Spirits will no more assemble where are heard the noise and excitement of advancing civilization. The same sun gilds the hills, the same breezes play upon the waters—but the red man must go.
He must, with his heart full of patriotism and sorrow, find another site for his lodge, another country for his hunting-grounds. The wakeen-stone to which he was sacrificed is no longer his. The graves of his ancestors reproach him as he departs.
The illustration of Wenona's Rock presents one of the most striking and beautiful scenes in Indian country. Even were there no tradition connected with it, its wonderful beauty must give it interest. One must indeed feel that God made it. That huge rock with its worn and broken sides—the lake that reflects it in her placid bosom—the everlasting hills stretching out before the eye,—these would show the Creator's handiwork.
But there is an additional interest in viewing it when we recall the tale of sorrow and passion connected with it. When we recollect that here a young heart throbbed its last emotions—that from that high eminence the sweet notes of woman's voice pealed forth their last music. That here her arms were raised to heaven, appealing for that justice which earth had denied her.
C. Schuessele del. Drawn by Capt. S. Eastman. Chromolith of P. S. Duval Pha.
MARRIAGE CUSTOM OF THE INDIANS.
But it is not only on Wenona's Rock that the devotion of an Indian woman's love is recorded. Go among them and hear the traditions of each band; how many have loved and died. Learn of the sacrifices that only woman can make—of the devotion that only woman can feel—of the sorrows that only woman can endure.
You may see one, who, though past her youth, still attracts you by the full and expressive glances of her dark and brilliant eyes. Her hair (a marvel among Indians), waves along her forehead—and when damp from heat or bathing, divides itself into locks, that would with any pains be formed into ringlets. Her smile lights up her countenance, for her white teeth shine, and her mouth, though large, is expressive. She will not open her heart to a stranger, but to one she loves, she told all.
She had seen but fourteen summers when she left her mother to go to her husband's lodge. She loved to dwell upon that time, for no bride ever boasted greater adornment, and her marriage was celebrated according to the old and venerated customs.[23]
She was a whole morning preparing herself, for her mother loved her, and was proud of her. She had obtained from the traders gay beads of every colour, and brooches in numbers, too.
Her father was a favourite of the traders. He carried them so many beautiful furs—for he was a great hunter—that they gave him trinkets for her in abundance. They gave him, besides, fire-water; and then she and her mother used to leave the wigwam and hide, for fear he would kill her.
When she was ready to go to her husband's lodge, her father and two of her brothers attended her. Her cousin, Whistling Wind, came to meet her, and, taking her upon his back, carried her in and placed her by her husband's side.
She was very happy at first, for her husband loved her; but many moons passed away, and she had no child.
Her husband reproached her, and she could only weep—and no infant's voice was heard in their lodge.
At last her husband brought home another wife, and she was forgotten. Soon she watched him as he carved the thunder-bird on his son's cradle; and the second wife laughed at her, because she could not be a happy mother like herself.
He has beaten her sometimes—for he drinks fire-water too.
She might return to her mother, for her family is a powerful one, but she cannot leave her husband. She cannot forget the love of her early youth. She stays by him, for he is often sick, and she can take better care of him than his other wife, who has many young children.
Wherever is man, with his proud, exacting spirit, there is woman, with her devoted and enduring love. There are many instances of heroic affection, not recorded in the traditionary annals of the Sioux; but Wenona's Rock will stand, as long as the world lasts, a monument in memory of woman's love.
[21] The Seal of Minesota, adopted in 1850, represents an Indian warrior departing on his steed: while a husbandman is in the foreground, surrounded by the implements of civilization,—the plough, axe, and rifle. The scene is located at Anthony's Falls.
[22] On the prairies we frequently observe what the Sioux call Fairy-rings. These are circles, occasioned by the grass growing in this form, higher and of a darker colour than that around it. Medicine-Bottle, an inferior chief, living now about twenty miles from Fort Snelling, says that "they are the paths in which their ancestors danced their war-dances;" the Indians at Lac qui Parle say the same thing. In confirmation of this opinion, it may be stated, that these circles of dark grass vary about as much from true circles as do the paths in which the Sioux dance at the present time. Chequered Cloud, a medicine-woman, much esteemed among the Sioux, says "that these circles were made, in the first instance, by one of their gods, Unk tomi sapa tonka, the large black spider, for the warriors to dance in." I will observe that Dr. Williamson, a missionary among the Sioux, requested from the two Indians mentioned their opinion on this subject, telling them I had asked it. Dr. Williamson gives his own opinion, or rather observation, thus:—"It seems to me, from the appearance of these circles, that they enlarge every year: and I have thought it probable that they originated from the death of some large animal, or other like cause, destroying the common grass of the prairie and enriching the ground, thus starting grass of another kind, or weeds which grow rankly in this manner, and overshadowing, and to some extent destroying the surrounding grass, the next year taking possession of the ground from which the common grass has been destroyed, &c."
"On mentioning this and your letter to Mr. G. H. Pond," Dr. W. continues, "he said, Lieut. Mather, the geologist, who visited this country (Minesota) with Featherstonhaugh, many years ago, had advanced the same opinion. In confirmation of it, I would observe, that in the large prairies up the St. Peter's River, I have often seen buffalo bones in these circles." Mr. Pond, the Doctor adds, did not think these circles originated in this way: saying, some supposed they were caused by a mineral in the soil, and that he had observed, that when cattle came on or near these circles, they always eat the dark grass in the ring close to the ground, neglecting or passing over that growing elsewhere.
[23] The marriage custom of the Sioux is given in "Dacota, or Legends of the Sioux." The ancient form, as represented in the illustration, is still venerated, and frequently, though not always celebrated.
THE INDIAN MOTHER,
AND THE SONG OF THE WIND.
BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.
Softly the Indian mother[24] sings—
"Woman's heart is strong,
When she works for those she loves,
Through the summer's day so long.
Hark! to the wind's wild voice, my babe—
What may its story be,
Stirring thy cradle-bed, securely laid
In the arms of the forest tree?"
"We have travelled afar, but we come again;
We have passed o'er the couch of weakness and pain;
We have seen the gifted from earth depart;
We have fanned the brow of the broken heart;
We have fled from the shrieks of the mighty in death,
From the battle's rage and the victor's breath;
We have been at the grave—at the infant's birth;
We know all the cares of the children of earth.
"Our wail is heard o'er the mighty deep,
In whose breast the loved and lost ones sleep,
When, sweeping in rage, the hurricane blast
Tosses to heaven the waters vast.
When we bear o'er the foaming and dashing main
The voices that ne'er will be heard again;
Yet we come and go at His will, who said
To the sea 'Be still!' and its waves obeyed.
"The air was still as we stayed our breath,
While the mother wept o'er her young child's death—
A fatherless child; 'twas peacefully laid,
So placid and calm, 'neath the curtain's shade.
Yet, pressing the clay to her throbbing breast,
'Oh! when,' she cried, 'will I be at rest?'
We sang for the child a requiem low,
And the mother's to sing on our way we go.
"But why should we chaunt of sorrow and gloom,
Of night and the tempest, of tears and the tomb?
Those who are parted shall meet again—
The sea yield her victims, the earth her slain;
Our mission we haste o'er ocean to bear;
We tell of his glory whose servants we are.
We quell with our tidings the idol's dark power,
That the cries of its victims be heard never more.
"We raise from the earth the spirit crushed;
At the sight of the cross its murmurs are hushed.
Our voice is heard, and the wandering son
In spirit turns to his long-left home.
He remembers his father's voice in prayer,
And he kneels by the side of his mother there;
And he cries, while his steps are homeward trod,
'Oh! be thou mine, my father's God!'
"Alike is the charge and the mission given
To the faithful heart and the winds of heaven,
To tell how the Saviour came to earth,
How poor he was from the hour of his birth:
His own griefs unheeded, for others he sighed;
Of the life that he lived, of the death that he died.
To earth's farthest shore these tidings we bear—
All glory to Him whose servants we are."
Again the Indian mother sings—
"Woman's heart is strong,
When she works for those she loves,
Through the summer's day so long.
I would know what the wild winds said, my babe—
What could their story be,
Stirring thy cradle-bed, securely laid
In the arms of the forest tree?"
[24] Indian women take great interest in listening to instruction connected with religious subjects. They often deplore the difference in their position from that of the white woman, desiring for themselves and their children the thousand comforts and advantages they observe the wives and children of the white man possess. Only can they ever hope to enjoy them when their nation becomes a Christian one.