MONICA.
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“Speak not, but fly— There are a thousand winged deaths behind, Thirsting for blood. Hope, life, and liberty Are all before; and this good arm is pledged To guide thee.” |
The grave of the Indian is a temple, a sort of gateway to heaven. Around it linger the tenderest affection, the purest devotion of the surviving friend. The grass and flowers that grow over it are never suffered to wither. The snow and the rain are not permitted to remain upon it. The least profanation of that sacred place would be visited with a more terrible vengeance than an affront to the living. Nothing illustrates more clearly the cruel injustice we have done to our red brethren of the forest, by regarding and treating them only as savages, and delineating them always and every where, as destitute of all the refined sympathies of humanity—than this prevailing national characteristic, an affectionate reverence for the dead, and a religious regard for the sepulchres and bones of their ancestors. It touches one of the deepest cords in the human heart. It springs from the very fountain head of social and moral refinement. It links the visible and material, with the unseen and spiritual world; blending all that is tender, and pure, and subduing, in the one, with all that is bright, hopeful, and inviting, in the other. Its existence in any heart, or its prevalence among any people, is proof sufficient that that heart is not wholly hardened in selfishness, and that people not wholly given over to barbarism.
The infant child of an Itean mother lay dead in her tent. He was a beautiful boy, and already the fond mother had read in his brilliant eye, and the vigorous movements of his tiny limbs, the heroic deeds of the future chieftain. But her darling hope was nipped in the very germ. Her only son was shrouded for the grave, and the hour of burial had come. His shroud was a blanket, in which the head, as well as the body, was completely enveloped. His bier was a train, or Indian sled, in the form of a common snow-shoe, on which the body was laid, without a coffin, and secured by bandages from side to side. Into this train was harnessed a favorite dog of the family, when it was drawn with slow and solemn step, to the grave, preceded by the priest or medicine man of the village, in his gorgeous robes of office, and followed by the parents and sister of the child, with all the inmates of the neighboring wigwams.
Arriving at the grave, the procession stopped, and gathered round the bier, the women and children seating or prostrating themselves on the ground, the men standing in a grave and solemn circle around them. The dog, still remaining in his harness, was then shot, and the medicine man, standing over it, addressed it in the following strain, “Go on your journey to the Spirit land. Long and weary is the way you have to go. Linger not on the journey, for precious is the burden you carry. Swim swiftly over the river, lest the little one be lost in the stream, and never visit the camp of its fathers. When you come to the camp of the White-headed Eagle, bark, that they may know who it is you bring, and come out and welcome the little one among its kindred band.”
The body was then laid in the grave, on its little train. The dog was placed by its side, with a kettle of food at its head, to supply it on the journey. A cup, containing a portion of the mother’s milk, freshly drawn, was also put into the grave for the use of the child. The earth was laid gently over it, and covered with the fresh sod, the mother, and her female friends, chanting, the while, a plaintive dirge, designed to encourage the spirit of the departed on its dark and perilous journey. The mother held in her hand a roll of bark, elaborately decorated with feathers and bead-work, encompassed with a scarf of broadcloth, highly embroidered. This was intended as a memento of the deceased, to be sacredly preserved in the family lodge. Such mementoes are always seen there, after the death of a friend, and one may always know, by their number, how many of that household have gone to the spirit-land. It is usually placed upright in the spot where the departed was accustomed to sit, dressed in the same ornaments and bands that he wore while living. At every family meal, a portion of food is set before it. If it be a child who has died, the mother offers it a cup of milk, wraps it in the cradle bands of her lost infant, and bears it about with her wherever she goes.
An Indian grave is a protected spot. That which is described above, was surrounded by a small enclosure of logs, and covered with a roof of bark, to shield it from the rain. At its head, a small round post was set, painted with vermilion. Other decorations were displayed upon the wall of the enclosure, which were carefully guarded, and frequently replaced, as they were soiled by the rains, or torn and defaced by the violence of the winds. Day after day, the bereaved mother and sister visited that grave, taking their work with them, and sitting down by its side, chanted their plaintive lullaby to that sleeping infant, and cheered on that faithful dog in his wearisome journey, charging him not to lag or go astray in traversing the plain, nor suffer his precious burden to fall into the water, in crossing the deep dark rapid river to the spirit land.
Weeks and months had passed since that humble grave was made, and that precious treasure confided to its bosom. It was a calm glorious evening in mid-summer. The moon shone brightly on the Itean encampment. There was not, in the whole valley of the west, a more beautiful spot for a settlement. The smooth open green-sward was closely surrounded with trees on three sides. On the other, the land gradually sloped towards the river, which flowed quietly by, ever and anon sparkling in the moonbeams, or reflecting the dark forest and flowery banks in its azure depths.
The wigwams in the opening were all closed. Their inmates were at rest. Presently, the buffalo-skin, that served as a door to the principal cabin, was drawn aside, and the beautiful daughter of the chief emerged into the light, and passed swiftly on to the river. Following its course a short distance, by the narrow path that threaded the woods on its bank, she came to the little grave, threw herself on the earth by its side, and wept. It was Monica, the sister of that buried infant, the same whom we saw at his grave when it was first opened, and who had daily, since that time, sung over it her simple song.
The grief and disappointment of the mother, in the loss of her only son, was not more deep or sincere, or enduring, than that of this affectionate and devoted sister. From the moment of his birth, he was the idol of her soul. She looked forward to the time, in her ardent imagination very near at hand, when, emulating the virtues and deeds of his father, he should become the noblest chief of his tribe. She had pictured to herself the many wonderful exploits he should achieve, and the love and veneration with which he would be regarded throughout the nation. But now, those hopes were blasted, those visions had all faded into darkness. Time had not soothed her disappointment, or softened the poignancy of her grief. Waking or sleeping, the image of her lost brother was before her. She longed to follow him, that she might overtake him on the way, and help him in his passage over that fearful stream.
She had laid down that night, as usual, and slept by the side of her mother. Her dreams were troubled. She thought that arid plain and dark river were before her. The faithful dog was struggling with the waves. The little ark which held that precious treasure, was buffeted about by the winds. Chilled with the cold, and terrified by the dark howling storm, the lone child sobbed bitterly, and looked imploringly round for his mother. In her distress and agitation, she awoke. Unable to sleep, or even to rest, she rose, and ran to the grave.
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“I come, I come, my precious one, I am ever by your side— Fear not, your voyage is almost done Over that dismal tide; The winds shall hush, the storm pass o’er, And a friendly band shall come To meet you on the spirit shore, And bid you welcome home. Fear not, for love that never sleeps Shall guard you o’er that wave; And mother her constant vigil keep Beside your quiet grave.” |
Having chanted her simple lay of love, Monica turned from the grave, stepped into a canoe, and paddled down the stream. Overcome with grief, she dropped her paddle, sat pensively down in her shallop, and left it to follow its course down the current. For several hours it glided silently on. She gave no heed to the hours, till morning broke in the east. Suddenly starting up from her long dream, she looked for her paddle. It was gone. Seeing a bough floating on the water near her, she leaned out to catch it, as the canoe passed on. It was decayed, and broke in her hand. Throwing it from her, she looked eagerly about for some other means of reaching the shore. At length, passing under the shadow of an immense tree, that overhung the stream, she seized a branch that almost dipped into the water, and drawing herself in to the bank, sprang on shore.
Slowly and doubtfully the timid girl threaded the thick forest, scarcely knowing which way to turn. Hoping to find some friendly wigwam near, she sounded the shrill call of her tribe. The call was instantly answered, but not by a friendly voice. Two stern and stalwart warriors of the Pawnee tribe, who were deadly enemies to the Iteans, chanced to be passing that way, and, recognizing the call as that of an enemy, sprang from the thicket, seized the trembling maiden, and bore her away in triumph. Many a weary league she travelled on by the side of her merciless captors, ere she reached their distant encampment. Worn, exhausted in strength and desponding in heart, she fell to the earth in the midst of the throng that gathered around her, and besought them to kill her at once, and let her go to her poor infant brother.
The Pawnees were not only hostile to the Iteans, but were, in some respects, the most savage tribe in the great valley. They alone, of the North American Indians, continued, down the present century, and far within it, to practice the savage rite of sacrificing human victims on the altar of their gods. With them it was a propitiatory sacrifice, offered to the Great Star, or the planet Venus. This dreadful ceremony annually preceded the preparations for planting corn, and was supposed to be necessary to secure a fruitful season. The victim was always some prisoner, who had been captured in war, or otherwise; and there was never wanting an individual who coveted the honor of making a captive from some hostile tribe, and dedicating the spoils of his prowess to the national benefit.
The captors of Monica were in quest of a victim for this sacrifice, when they wandered away alone, and prowled for several days, about the encampment of her tribe. With this view, they bore her away in triumph, deaf to all her entreaties and tears, and gave her in charge to the priests, to be made ready against the return of the season.
The best wigwam in the village was assigned for her accommodation. Cheerful companions of her own age were given her. The most sedulous attention was paid to her wants. She was dressed in gay apparel, continually feasted on the choicest luxuries which their fields and hunting grounds afforded, and treated with the utmost tenderness by all about her. Every possible means was employed to allay her grief, and promote that cheerfulness of spirit, which is essential to health and comeliness, in order that she might thus be made a more suitable and acceptable offering.
The personal charms of Monica required no such system of treatment, in order to their full development. She was a rare specimen of native grace and loveliness, and would have been a fitting model, in every feature and limb, for a Phidias or a Praxitiles. The exceeding beauty and gentleness of their captive, while it won the admiration and regard of all her young companions, only made her, in the view of the priests and chiefs of the tribe, a more desirable victim for the altar.
For a long time, Monica was inconsolable. Deprived of that dearest privilege of visiting daily the grave of her brother, distracted in view of the anxiety which her mother would feel for her, she refused to be comforted, or to take any pleasure in the means employed to amuse her. Time and kindness, however, and the promise that she should, by and by, return to her father-land, restored, in a degree, her serenity of mind. She was too affectionate and confiding, to reject the sympathy and kindness even of an enemy. Grateful for the unwearied efforts which her companions made to amuse and comfort her, she came, at last, to regard them as friends. Gratitude begat affection. Affection created confidence. She unburdened her heart of the sorrows that oppressed it. By that effort, the burden was lightened. Something of the elasticity and vivacity of youth returned. She sang and played, if not to amuse herself, yet to gratify others, whose assiduous kindness, and seemingly generous sympathy, she had no other means of repaying. Thus, entirely ignorant of the terrible doom that awaited her, Monica passed the winter of her captivity, looking ever forward to the opening spring as the period of her promised release, and return to the wigwam of her mother.
At length the fatal day arrived, and every thing was ready for the sacrifice. The whole Pawnee tribe was assembled to witness and take part in the solemnities. From every side, they were seen emerging from the thick forest, or gliding noiselessly over the bosom of the silver stream, leaping from cliff to cliff of the distant hills, or winding down their steep passes and narrow defiles, to meet in the great central village, around the grand council fire of the nation. The whole tribe was there—the chiefs in all their gaudy array of bead-work, feathers, and paint, their embroidered moccasins, their gaily wrought tunics and belts, their polished rifles, and glittering tomahawks—the women and children, and the rank and file of the people, in all the finery and gewgaws they could command. It was a brave sight to those accustomed to the barbaric finery and wild sports of the Indian, but fearful and hideous to one unused to the rude painted visages and half naked forms of the warriors.
The awful hour of those dreadful orgies was announced by all those discordant shouts and hideous yells, which, with those primitive races, serve the purpose of trumpet, drum and bell. The stake was set, and the faggots made ready, in the centre of the great opening. The priests stood at their post, and the vast multitude of eager excited witnesses thronged around, waiting in terrible expectation for the consummation of that horrid rite, and kindling into phrenzy in view of the mad revelry that would follow. Presently, the outer ranks of that crowding circle made way, and opened a passage to the ring within. Through this living avenue, a company of chiefs marched in, singing, or rather shouting, a wild song, and dancing in fantastic measures. At their head was the captor of Monica, leading the timid girl by the hand. She was arrayed in the most showy and expensive style of Indian costume, the various decorations of her person comprising all that was beautiful and rare in ornament, according to the uncultivated taste of that people. Unconscious still of the doom that awaited her, and hoping, perhaps, that this was to be the festival of her freedom, when she would be sent away in peace to her home, she entered the circle with a cheerful face, and an elastic step, smiling on her young companions as she passed, and wondering at the cold look, or sometimes averted eye, with which her salutation was answered.
It was not until she was led quite up to the stake, and saw the fearful faggots piled around it, that she comprehended the meaning of these mysterious preparations. Her awful doom flashed upon her, like a bolt from heaven. With one loud, piercing, heart-rending shriek, she fell to the earth, and called upon her mother. She was lifted up by the stern priest, placed upon the pile, and bound to the stake. With wild incantations, and horrid yells, the dread orgies were commenced. The torch was lighted, and ready to be applied. At that instant, a shrill whoop burst from the adjoining wood. A brave young warrior, leaping into the midst of the circle, rushed to the stake, cut the cords that bound the helpless victim, tore her away from the pile, and, dashing back through the panic-struck crowd, flung her upon a fleet horse which he had prepared for the occasion, sprung himself upon another, and was soon lost in the distant windings of the wood.
It was the act of a moment. Even the Indian warriors, who are not easily surprised, or put off their guard, were confounded and paralysed. Before they could comprehend the object of this sudden phantom, this rash interruption of their festival, their victim was gone. The bare stake, and the useless heap of faggots were there. The proud chief, who furnished the victim, and the fierce-looking priests, who were to officiate in the dark rites of the sacrifice, stood in blank astonishment around, as if a bolt from the cloud had smitten them. A momentary silence prevailed among that mighty throng. A low murmur succeeded, like the distant moans of a coming storm: then, like the tempest, bursting in all its wrath, fierce cries of vengeance from a thousand flaming tongues, furious discordant yells and shouts, accompanied with frantic gestures, and looks of rage, such as would distort the visage of a fiend. Some of the fleetest started off in hot but vain pursuit. Those who remained, promised themselves a day of terrible retribution. The mothers secretly rejoiced in the escape; while those of the young girls who had been the chosen companions of the captive, gave vent to their joy and gratitude in wild songs and dances.
In this manner, that turbulent assembly broke up. Without the usual feast and its accompanying games, they scattered to their several homes, coolly meditating revenge, and darkly foreboding the famine that should ensue from the absence of the accustomed sacrifice.
Meanwhile, the fugitives held on their way, with the speed of the wind. Not a word was spoken. It was a race of life and death, and every faculty of the rescuer as well as of the rescued was absorbed in the one idea and effort to escape. Over hill and plain, and shallow stream, those foaming steeds flew on, pausing not even to snuff the breeze, till they had cleared the territory of the Pawnees, and reached a sheltered nook within the precincts of a neutral tribe. Here, as among all the Indian tribes the woman is considered competent to take care of herself in all ordinary emergencies, her deliverer left her, giving her ample directions for the way, and cautioning her to use the utmost diligence to avoid pursuit.
“But, tell me first,” she cried, tears of grateful joy standing in her eyes, “tell me to whom I am indebted for this miraculous escape—that, in all my prayers to the Great Spirit, I may call down his blessing upon your head.”
“I am Petalesharro,” replied the youth, modestly. “My father is Latalashaw, the chief of my tribe. We do not believe, with our people, that the Great Spirit delights in the sacrifice. He loves all his red children, and they should all love one another.”
“But, will not your chiefs revenge upon your head this interference with their solemn rites? If any national calamities follow, will they not charge them all to your account? I could not bear that my generous deliverer should be struck down by those terrible hands, in the prime of his youth, as the reward of his heroic benevolence. Better that I should return and submit to the fate they had prepared for me.”
“Fear not for me, Monica. Petalesharro fears not to meet the assembled council of his nation. Not a brave among them all will raise a hand to hurt him. He will make them know that the Great Star needs not the blood of the captive. And never again shall the fires be kindled for that cruel sacrifice.”
Encouraged by the words of the young chief, Monica turned, with a strong heart, towards her home, still some four hundred miles distant. The same kind providence which had rescued her from the devouring flames, still guided and guarded her solitary way, and gave her strength and spirits for her toilsome journey.
On the second day of her pilgrimage, as she climbed the summit of a range of hills that ran athwart her path, she was alarmed by the appearance of a considerable body of armed men, just emerging from a distant ravine of the same range, in a direction that would lead them immediately across her path. They were too far off to enable her to discern, by their dress and accoutrements, to what tribe they belonged. She supposed they must be Pawnees in pursuit of their lost captive. If she attempted to pass on before them, they would discover her track, and soon overtake her flight. She had nothing to do, therefore, but wait till they had passed, in the hope of eluding their eager scent. Concealing herself in the thicket, in a position that overlooked the valley, she awaited with composure the coming of that fearful band. They descended into the valley, and, to the utter consternation of Monica, began to pitch their tents under the shade of a spreading oak, on the bank of a little stream. She watched the movement with an anxious heart, not knowing how she should escape, with a pursuing enemy so near. Her consternation and anxiety were soon, however, changed to joy, when one of the company, approaching the vicinity of her hiding place, to cut a pole for his tent, was recognized as a chief of her own tribe. Springing from the thicket with a scream of delight, which startled the whole encampment, and brought every brave to his feet, with his hand on the trigger of his rifle, she rushed into the midst of her astonished people, and was received with silent joy, as one restored from the dead. Under their protection, the remainder of her journey was safely and easily performed. Before the moon, which was then crescent, had reached her full, Monica had embraced her mother, and added a fresh flower to the grave of her brother.
The brave, the generous, the chivalrous Petalesharro returned to his father’s tent with the fearless port and composed dignity of one whose consciousness of rectitude placed him above fear. He was a young man, just entered upon manhood, and a general favorite of his tribe.[E] His countenance, as represented in Col. McKenney’s magnificent work upon the North American tribes, is one of uncommon beauty of feature. In its mildness of expression, it is almost effeminate. But in heart and soul he was a man and a hero. His courage, and the power of his arm, were acknowledged by friend and foe; and on the death of his father, he was raised to the chieftaincy of his tribe. The season which followed his noble act of humane, may we not say religious chivalry, was one of uncommon fertility, health and prosperity. “The Great Star” had not demanded the victim. And the Pawnees never again polluted their altars with the blood of a human sacrifice.
[E] Major Long, in his “Expeditions to the Rocky Mountains,” thus describes Petalesharro, as he appeared in his native wilds, and among his own people, in the full costume which he wore on the occasion of some great festival of his tribe.
“Almost from the beginning of this interesting fete, our attention had been attracted to a young man, who seemed to be the leader or partisan of the warriors. He was about twenty-three years of age, of the finest form, tall, muscular, exceedingly graceful, and of a most prepossessing countenance. His head-dress, of war-eagles’ feathers, descended in a double series upon his back, like wings, down to his saddle-croup; his shield was highly decorated, and his long lance by a plaited casing of red and blue cloth. On enquiring of the interpreter, our admiration was augmented by learning that he was no other than Petalesharro, with whose name and character we were already familiar. He is the most intrepid warrior of the nation, the eldest son of Letalashaw, and destined, as well by mental and physical qualifications, as by his distinguished birth, to be the future leader of his people.”
Petalesharro visited Washington in 1821, where his fine figure and countenance, and his splendid costume attracted every eye. But there was that in his history and character, which had gone before him, that secured for him a worthier homage than that of the eye. His act of generous chivalry to the Itean captive was the theme of every tongue. The ladies of the city caused an appropriate medal to be prepared, commemorating the noble deed, and presented it to him, in the presence of a large assemblage of people, who took a lively interest in the ceremony. In reply to their complimentary address, the brave young warrior modestly said—“My heart is glad. The white woman has heard what I did for the captive maid, and they love me, and speak well of me, for doing it. I thought but little of it before. It came from my heart, as the breath from my body. I did not know that any one would think better of me for that. But now I am glad. For it is a good thing to be praised by those, who only praise that which is good.”
TULA,
OR
THE HERMITESS OF ATHABASCA.
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I thought to be alone. It might not be! There is no solitude in thy domains, Save what man makes, when in his selfish breast, He locks his joys, and bars out others’ grief. |