Part 5

"Father, you see before you the warriors of many nations. All the red men of the land are gathered together in the great plain where no trees grow. They have come at your bidding, and at your bidding have buried their war-clubs. They forget that they have been enemies. They smoke in the calumet of peace, and are friends because you wish them to be so. Is it well?

"My father, your children will dance before your tent. It is thus we honour the brave. It is thus we honour the stranger."

To this speech, M. Verdier returned a suitable answer, adapting his words to their simple comprehension, yet using the metaphorical style so common among them. He was glad, he told them, that "words of peace were in their mouths; that there was a mild sky, and that the winds were low. He wished it was always so."

They heard him without giving any tokens of approbation, for it is very uncommon for the Indian to bestow such upon an orator. When he had finished his speech, their wild dances commenced by the striking up of their instrumental and vocal music. The instruments were a gong made of a large keg, over one of the ends of which was stretched a skin which was struck by a small stick, and an instrument consisting of a stick of firm wood, notched like a saw, over the teeth of which a smaller stick was rubbed forcibly backward and forward. They had besides rattles made of strings of deer's hoofs, and also parts of the intestines of an animal inflated, inclosing small stones, which produced a sound like pebbles in a small gourd. With these, rude as they were, very good time was preserved with the vocal performers, seated around them, and by all the natives as they sat, in the inflection of their bodies, or the movements of their limbs. After the lapse of a little time, three individuals leaped up and danced around for a few minutes; then, at a concerted signal from the master of the ceremonies, the music ceased, and they retired to their seats uttering a loud noise, which, by patting the mouth rapidly with the hand, was broken into a succession of sounds, somewhat like the hurried barking of a dog. In the intervals of dancing, a warrior would step forward, and, striking the flagstaff they had erected with a stick or a whip, would recount his martial deeds. This ceremony was called striking the post, and whatever was then said might be relied upon as truth, for the custom bound every warrior to expose the falsehood of the striker, and disgrace him for exaggeration if he indulged in it.

A tall, grey-headed chief rose, and, after lashing the post with his whip, commenced the narration of his exploits. He was succeeded by a young and ardent warrior, whose soul apparently was full of poetry, and burning with love of martial glory. After walking leisurely twice or thrice around the post, he quickened his step, and broke out into the following wild song of boasting and triumph:--

Down I took my spear, my tough spear-- Down I took my bow, my good bow, Fill'd my quiver with sharp arrows, Slung my hatchet to my shoulder. Forth I wander'd to the wild wood. Who comes yonder? Red his forehead with the war-paint-- Ha! I know him by his feather-- Leader of the Ottawas, Eagle of his warlike nation, And he comes to dip that feather In a vanquish'd Maqua's blood.

Then I pois'd my tough ash spear, Then I bent my pride of bows, From my quiver drew an arrow, Rais'd my war-cry--ha! he falls! From his crest I took the feather, From his crown I tore the scalp-lock. Shout his friends their cry of vengeance-- What avails it? are they eagles? Nought else may o'ertake the Maqua.

Came the Hurons to our border-- Hurons from the Lake of Thunder-- Hurons far renown'd for valour-- Forth I went with six to meet them: In my cabin hang ten scalp-locks. Should I fear a mortal warrior? No--a Maqua never trembles.

Why should I fear? I never told a lie, Kind have I been to father and to mother, I never turn'd my back upon a foe. I slew my people's enemies-- Why should I fear to die? Let the flame be kindled round me, Let them tear my flesh with pincers, Probe me with a burning arrow, I can teach a coward Mingo How a valiant man should die.

These were not exactly the kind of tales which M. Verdier had crossed the ocean and threaded the forest to hear, but he patiently awaited their conclusion. At a signal from a venerated chief, their martial narratives were dropped, and all retired to their seats. The dance was succeeded by a feast, of which the chiefs and warriors, together with their guest, first partook, and afterwards the men of inferior note. Before a mouthful was tasted, however, the best and juiciest pieces of the deer were selected as an offering to the Great Spirit. They were not laid upon the fire till the priest had been called to the performance of certain rites and ceremonies by the following hymn, chanted in their peculiarly solemn and impressive manner:--

INDIAN HYMN, OR INVOCATION.

From the wilderness we bring The fat buck we have slain, We have laid him on the coals: Lord of Life! Lord of Life! We have opened the door, That the smoke may ascend To thy nostrils, and please thee, Great Master of Breath, Of our breath!

We will call the wise priest-- He will come! He will come! He will utter thy name with his lips; He will ask that thy hand may be light On our race, in thy wrath, In thy wrath!

When the priest had performed certain ceremonies over the holocaust, he retired, and the hymn was resumed as follows:--

We have call'd the wise priest-- He has come! He has come! He has utter'd thy name with his lips, He has open'd his breast to thine eye, He has ask'd that thy hand may be light On our race, in thy wrath, In thy wrath.

Hear us, Master of Breath! Nor destroy, Nor destroy: If thou wieldest the bolt of thy rage, If thou callest thy thunder to shake, If thou biddest thy lightning to smite, We must pass to the feast of the worm, Of the worm.

Oh! grant us our prayers, Lord of life! Lord of life! Make us victors o'er every foe, Make us strong in the den of the bear, Make us swift in the haunts of the buck, Great Master of Breath, Of our breath!

When the feast and sacrifices were concluded, M. Verdier rose and addressed the assembly in these words:

"Brothers and warriors, I have come from a far country to listen to the words of an Indian's mouth. I have left behind me my father, and my mother, and my wife, and my children, and the burial-places of my ancestors, and the council-fire of my great chief, and the temples of the Master of Life, to dwell with the Indians in their wigwams, to go with them to the chace, to feast with them, to talk with them, to offer sacrifices with them. I knew the dangers I must encounter before I could enter their habitations. I knew how dreadful was the rage of the Great Ocean, and how dismal the howling of the winds upon it, in the season of darkness, but I said I will despise the dangers, for I want to look upon the face of the red man, and smoke with him in the calumet of peace.

"Brothers and warriors, I am here--I am glad I came. I have seen the red man--I love him. And I have called together all the red men of the land, that I may learn more of their thoughts and love them more; that I may be able to carry back to my sons, and to the chiefs and the warriors of my own land, proofs of their wisdom, and sagacity, and valour.

"Brothers and warriors, the history of the red man is found only in his traditions, it exists but in his memory. Will you instruct me in those traditions? Will you relate to me the tales which have been handed down to you from old times--the traditions which tell of the great actions of your fathers, of the favours, and mercies, and punishments, of the Great Spirit? These are the things I would hear. I came hither to hear them. The Great Spirit forbid you should refuse my request!"

When M. Verdier had finished his speech, Meshewa, a young warrior of the Shawano nation, rose and said:

"Brothers and warriors, I am a little man, no higher than the shoulder of my brother Meshepeshe, yet I must speak, the Great Spirit bids me speak. He says to me, Wild Horse, rise and relate a tradition of your nation. I will relate this tradition, but I will tell you no lie. Who is there that ever saw Meshewa look upon the ground, or hold his hand before his eyes, when he told his story? He looks up bold as an eagle, he opens his mouth fearlessly, and they who hear his words write them down on the green leaf of their memory.

"Brothers and chiefs, we have here with us a man, whose face is of the colour of the skin of a plucked plover--he listens. He has come, as he has told you, from a land which lies beyond the Great Salt Lake. I believe him, for he does not hide his face, or look ashamed when he speaks.

"Chiefs and brothers, this man was once a warrior, but, when he was no higher than the tree of twelve moons, he offered sacrifice in his own country to the Great Spirit, and knew all the rites proper to be observed in his worship. When the winter snows are rushing to the embrace of the Great River, and the birds have returned to their bowers, and the sap is recruiting the soul of the thirsty tree, he will go to his wife and children, who live very far towards the morning sun. The woman with the bright eyes will come out of her wigwam to meet him, and will ask him if he has brought back his heart. His son will climb to his knee, and weep to have the traditions of our country told him. Our brother will not fear to answer the questions of the woman, for he is prudent and wise. And shall we not teach him to still the cry of the boy? We shall.

"Brothers and chiefs, the stranger loves to hear our words, ask him if he does not. He desires that our mouths should open, and repeat the stories which have been told us by our fathers, and the fathers and mothers of our fathers--stories of deeds which were done when the oak trees, now dying of age, were saplings no higher than my knee. Shall he hear them? He shall. The Good Spirit bids us speak, but he bids us speak only truth. If we lie he will be angry with us, and will give us up to our enemies, or the beasts of prey. He will spoil our harvests. And when were deer ever found in the hunting-path of the liar?

"Brothers and chiefs, I am young. The sprout from the seed of the oak, planted on the day I was born, yet bends to the earth with the weight of the wild cat. The knees of my father are not feeble with age, nor is his hair thin or white. My mother has a young panther in her lodge, she gives it her own milk. Yet I will tell you a story. It is a tale of my nation, a tale of an old day, delivered from father to son till it has reached my time. Listen!"

The youthful chief then rose, and related the Shawano tradition, entitled "The Man of Ashes."