If, centuries ago, some amateur chronicler had wandered peacefully among the North American Indians, making himself familiar with their language and welcome at their firesides, that he might listen to their legends and record them as they were related in their family circles, in the same way as bands of Eastern wanderers were accustomed to revel in Arabian tales, we might have had some idea of the poetry and enthusiasm and glowing images of a people whose thoughts and fancies soared so freely and wildly, and gave to their compositions a richness and beauty, only rivalled on Grecian plains and among Celtic bards.
Tradition tells us that Homer was a blind ballad singer, and that his immortal lines were gathered here and there among the people long after he slept with his fathers.
The poems of Ossian were collected among the Highlands of Scotland, from those who sang them as their fathers sang them, and were as ignorant as the Indian of our forests of metrical rules and written lore, yet they are the admiration of poets and sages, and considered unparalleled by any thing civilization can boast.
On long winter evenings the Indian hunters gathered around their firesides, to listen to the historical traditions, [[106]]legends of war and hunting, and their fairy tales, which had been handed down through their fathers and fathers’ fathers with scarcely any variation for centuries, kindling the enthusiasm of the warriors and inspiring the little child with the desire some day to realize similar dreams, and hand his name down to posterity as the author of similar exploits.
They have a superstitious fear of relating fables in summer; not till after the snow comes will they talk of snakes, lest they should creep into their beds, or of evil genii lest they in some way be revenged.
It is very difficult for a stranger to rightly understand the morale of their stories, though it is said by those who know them best, that to them the story was always an illustration of some important event or principle.
To strangers they offer all the rites of hospitality, but do not open their hearts. If you ask them they will tell you a story, but it will not be such a story as they tell when alone. They will fear your ridicule, and suppress their humor and their pathos; and so thoroughly have they learned to distrust pale faces, that when they know that he who is present is a friend, they will still shrink from admitting him within the secret portals of their souls.
And when you have learned all that language can convey, there are still a thousand images, suggestions and associations recurring to the Indian, which can strike no chord in your heart. The myriad voices of nature are dumb to you, but to him they are full of life and power.