Part 2 — [Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship, Book 2, Chap. 2.]
Reading edition
"What hear I at the gateway ringing? What bard upon the drawbridge singing? Go bid him to repeat his song Here, in the hall amid the throng," The monarch cried; The little page hied; As back he sped, The monarch said— "Bring in the gray-haired minstrel." "I greet you, noble lords and peers; I greet you, lovely dames. O heaven begemmed with golden spheres! Who knows your noble names? In hall of splendor so sublime, Close ye, mine eyes—'tis not the time To gaze in idle wonder." The gray-haired minstrel closed his eyes; He struck his wildest air; Brave faces glowed like sunset skies; Cast down their eyes the fair. The king well pleased with the minstrel's song, Sent the little page through the wondering throng A chain of gold to bear him. "O give not me the chain of gold; Award it to thy braves, Before whose faces fierce and bold Quail foes when battle raves; Or give it thy chancellor of state, And let him wear its golden weight With his official burdens. "I sing, I sing as the wild birds sing That in the forest dwell; The songs that from my bosom spring Alone reward me well: But may I ask that page of thine To bring me one good cup of wine In golden goblet sparkling?" He took the cup; he drank it all: "O soothing nectar thine! Thrice bless'd the highly favored hall Where flows such glorious wine: If thou farest well, then think of me, And thank thy God, as I thank thee For this inspiring goblet."
HOPE
[From the German of Schiller.]
Men talk and dream of better days— Of a golden time to come; Toward a happy and shining goal They run with a ceaseless hum. The world grows old and grows young again, Still hope of the better is bright to men. Hope leads us in at the gate of life; She crowns the boyish head; Her bright lamp lures the stalwart youth, Nor burns out with the gray-haired dead; For the grave closes over his trouble and care, But see—on the grave—Hope is planted there! 'Tis not an empty and flattering deceit, Begot in a foolish brain; For the heart speaks loud with its ceaseless throbs, "We are not born in vain"; And the words that out of the heart-throbs roll, They cannot deceive the hoping soul.
MRS. MCNAIR
Misce stultitiam consiliis brevem.—Horace. Mrs. McNair Was tall and fair; Mrs. McNair was slim; She had flashing black eyes and raven hair; But a very remarkably modest air; And her only care was for Mr. McNair; She was exceedingly fond of him. He sold "notions" and lace With wonderful grace, And kept everything neatly displayed in its place: The red, curly hair on his head and his face He always persisted Should be oiled and twisted; He was the sleekest young husband that ever existed. Precisely at four He would leave his store; And Mr. McNair with his modest bride Seated snugly and lovingly by his side, On the rural Broadway, Every pleasant day, In his spick-span carriage would rattle away. Though it must be allowed The lady was proud, She'd have no maid about her the dear lady vowed: So for Mr. McNair The wear and the fare She made it a care of her own to prepare. I think I may guess, being married myself, That the cause was not solely the saving of pelf. As for her, I'll declare, Though raven her hair, Though her eyes were so dark and her body so slim, She hadn't a thought for a man but him. From three to nine, Invited to dine, Oft met at the house of the pair divine: Her husband—and who, by the way, was well able— Did all the "agreeable" done at the table; While she—most remarkably loving bride— Sat snugly and modestly down by his side. And when they went out It was whispered about, "She's the lovingest wife in the town beyond doubt;" And every one swore, from pastor to clown, They were the most affectionate couple in town. Yes; Mrs McNair Was modest and fair; She never fell into a pout or a fret; And Mr. McNair Was her only care And indeed her only pet. The few short hours he spent at his store She spent sewing or reading the romancers' lore; And whoever came It was always the same With the modest lady that opened the door. But there came to town One Captain Brown To spend a month or more. Now this same Captain Brown Was a man of renown, And a dashing blue coat he wore; And a bright, brass star. And a visible scar On his brow—that he said he had got in the war As he led the van: (He never ran!) In short, he was the "General's" right-hand man, And had written his name on the pages of fame. He was smooth as an eel, And rode so genteel That in less than a week every old maid and dame Was constantly lisping the bold Captain's name. Now Mr. McNair, As well as the fair, Had a "bump of reverence" as big as a pear, And whoever like Brown Had a little renown, And happened to visit that rural town, Was invited of course by McNair—to "go down." So merely by chance, The son of the lance Became the bold hero of quite a romance: For Mrs. McNair thought him wonderful fair, And that none but her husband could with him compare. Half her timidity vanished in air The first time he dined with herself and McNair. Now the Captain was arch In whiskers and starch And preferred, now and then, a gay waltz to a march. A man, too, he was of uncommon good taste; Always "at home" and never in haste, And his manners and speech were remarkably chaste. To tell you in short His daily resort He made at the house of "his good friend McNair," Who ('twas really too bad) was so frequently out When the Captain called in "just to see him" (no doubt) But Mrs. McNair was so lonely—too bad; So he chatted and chattered and made her look glad. And many a view Of his coat of blue, All studded with buttons gilt, spangled and new, The dear lady took Half askance from her book, As she modestly sat in the opposite nook. Familiarly he And modestly she Talked nonsense and sense so strangely commingled, That the dear lady's heart was delighted and tingled. A man of sobriety Renown and variety It could not be wrong to enjoy his society: O was it a sin For him to "drop in," And sometimes to pat her in sport on the chin? Dear Ladies, beware; Dear Ladies, take care— How you play with a lion asleep in his lair: "Mere trifling flirtations"—these arts you employ? Flirtations once led to the siege of old Troy; And a woman was in For the sorrow and sin And slaughter that fell when the Greeks tumbled in; Nor is there a doubt, my dears, under the sun, But they've led to the sack of more cities than one. I would we were all As pure as Saint Paul That we touched not the goblet whose lees are but gall; But if so we must know where a flirtation leads; Beware of the fair and look out for our heads. Remember the odious, Frail woman, Herodias Sent old Baptist John to a place incommodious, And prevailed on her husband to cut off his head For an indiscreet thing the old Nazarite said. Day in and day out The blue coat was about; And the dear little lady was glad when he came And began to be talkative, tender and tame. Then he gave her a ring, begged a curl of her hair, And smilingly whispered her—"don't tell McNair." She dropped her dark eyes And with two little sighs Sent the bold Captain's heart fluttering up to the skies. Then alas— What a pass! He fell at the feet of the lady so sweet, And swore that he loved her beyond his control— With all his humanity—body and soul! The lady so frail Turned suddenly pale, Then—sighed that his love was of little avail; For alas, the dear Captain—he must have forgot— She was tied to McNair with a conjugal knot. But indeed She agreed— Were she only a maid he alone could succeed; But she prayed him by all that is sacred and fair, Not to rouse the suspicion of Mr. McNair. 'Twas really too bad, For the lady was sad: And a terrible night o't the poor lady had, While Mr. McNair wondered what was the matter, And endeavored to coax, to console and to flatter. Many tears she shed That night while in bed For she had such a terrible pain in her head! "My dear little pet, where's the camphor?" he said; "I'll go for the doctor—you'll have to be bled; I declare, my dear wife, you are just about dead." "O no, my dear; I pray you don't fear, Though the pain, I'll admit, is exceeding severe. I know what it is—I have had it before— It's only neuralgia: please go to the store And bring me a bottle of 'Davis's Pain- Killer,' and I shall be better again." He sprang out of bed And away he sped In his gown for the cordial to cure her head, Not dreaming that Cupid had played her a trick— The blind little rogue with a sharpened stick. I confess on my knees I have had the disease; It is worse than the bites of a thousand fleas; And the only cure I have found for these ills Is a double dose of "Purgative Pills." He rubbed her head— And eased it, she said; And he shrugged and shivered and got into bed. He slept and he snored, but the poor lady's pain, When her lord slept soundly, came on again. It wore away However by day And when Brown called again she was smiling and gay; But alas, he must say—to the lady's dismay— In the town of his heart he had staid out his stay, And must leave for his regiment with little delay. Now Mrs. McNair Was tall and fair, Mrs. McNair was slim, But the like of Brown was so wonderful rare That she could not part with him. Indeed you can see it was truly a pity, For her husband was just going down to the city, And Captain Brown— The man of renown— Could console her indeed were he only in town. So McNair to the city the next Monday hied, And left bold Captain Brown with his modest young bride. As the serpent did Eve Most sorely deceive— Causing old father Adam to sorrow and grieve, And us, his frail children, tho' punished and chidden, To hanker for things that are sweet but forbidden— The Captain so fair, With his genius so rare, Wound the web of enchantment round Mrs. McNair; And alas, fickle Helen, ere three days were over, She had sworn to elope with her brass-buttoned lover. Like Helen, the Greek, She was modest and meek, And as fair as a rose, but a trifle too weak. When a maid she had suitors as proud as Ulysses, But she ne'er bent her neck to their arms or their kisses, Till McNair he came in With a brush on his chin— It was love at first sight—but a trifle too thin; For, married, the dreams of her girlhood fell short all, And she found that her husband was only a mortal. Dear ladies, betray us— Fast and loose play us— We'll follow you still like bereaved Menelaus, Till the little blind god with his cruel shafts slay us. Cold-blooded as I am, If a son of old Priam Should break the Mosaic commands and defy 'em, And elope with my "pet," and moreover my riches, I would follow the rogue if I went upon crutches To the plains of old Troy without jacket or breeches. But then I'm so funny If he'd give up the money, He might go to the dogs with himself and his "Honey." The lovers agreed That the hazardous deed Should be done in the dark and with very great speed, For Mr. McNair—when the fellow came back— Might go crazy and foolishly follow their track. So at midnight should wait At her garden-gate A carriage to carry the dear, precious freight Of Mrs. McNair who should meet Captain Brown At the Globe Hotel in a neighboring town. A man should be hired To convey the admired. And keep mum as a mouse, and do what was desired. Wearily, wearily half the night The lady watched away; At times in a spirit of sadness quite, But fully resolved on her amorous flight, She longed to be under way; Yet with sad heaving heart and a tear, I declare, As she sorrowfully thought of poor Mr. McNair. "Poor fellow," she sighed, "I wish he had died Last spring when he had his complaint in the side For I know—I am sure—it will terribly grieve him To have me elope with the Captain and leave him. But the Captain—dear me! I hardly can see Why I love the brave Captain to such a degree: But see—there's the carriage, I vow, at the gate! I must go—'tis the law of inveterate fate." So a parting look At her home she took, While a terrible conflict her timid soul shook; Then turned to the carriage heart-stricken and sore, Stepped hastily in and closed up the door. "Crack!" went the whip; She bit her white lip, And away she flew on her desperate trip. She thought of dear Brown; and poor Mr. McNair— She knew he would hang himself straight in despair. She sighed And she cried All during the ride, And endeavored—alas, but she could not decide. Three times she prayed; Three times she essayed To call to the driver for pity and aid— To drive her straight To her garden-gate, And break the spell of her terrible fate. But her tongue was tied— She couldn't decide, And she only moaned at a wonderful rate. No mortal can tell "What might have befell," Had it been a mile more to the Globe Hotel; But as they approached it she broke from her spell. A single hair For Mr. McNair She vowed to herself that she did not care; But the Captain so true In his coat of blue— To his loving arms in her fancy she flew. In a moment or more They drove up to the door, And she felt that her trials and troubles were o'er. The landlord came hastily out in his slippers, For late he had sat with some smokers and sippers. As the lady stepped down With a fret and a frown, She sighed half aloud, "Where is dear Captain Brown?" "This way, my dear madam," politely he said, And straightway to the parlor the lady he led. Now the light was dim Where she followed him, And the dingy old parlor looked gloomy and grim. As she entered, behold, in contemplative mood, In the farther corner the bold Captain stood In his coat of blue: To his arms she flew; She buried her face in his bosom so true: "Dear Captain!—my Darling!" sighed Mrs. McNair; Then she raised her dark eyes and—Good Heavens' I declare!—- Instead of the Captain 'twas—Mr. McNair! She threw up her arms—she screamed—and she fainted; Such a scene!—Ah the like of it never was painted. Of repentance and pardon I need not tell; Her vows I will not relate, For every man must guess them well Who knows much of the "married state." Of the sad mischance suffice it to say That McNair had suspected the Captain's "foul play;" So he laid a snare For the bold and the fair, But he captured, alas, only Mrs. McNair; And the brass-buttoned lover—bold Captain Brown— Was nevermore seen in that rural town. Mrs. McNair Is tall and fair; Mrs. McNair is slim; And her husband again is her only care— She is wonderfully fond of him; For now he is all the dear lady can wish—he Is a captain himself—in the State militia. 1859.
THE DRAFT
[January, 1865.]
Old Father Abe has issued his "Call" For Three Hundred Thousand more! By Jupiter, boys, he is after you all— Lamed and maimed—tall and small— With his drag-net spread for a general haul Of the "suckers" uncaught before. I am sorry to see such a woeful change In the health of the hardiest; It is wonderful odd—it is "passing strange"— As over the country you travel and range, To behold such a sudden, lamentable change All over the East and the West. "Blades" tough and hearty a week ago, Who tippled and danced and laughed, Are "suddenly taken," and some quite low With an epidemical illness, you know: "What!—Zounds!—the cholera?" you quiz;—no—no— The doctors call it the "Draft." What a blessed thing it were to be old— A little past "forty-five;" 'Twere better indeed than a purse of gold At a premium yet unwritten, untold, For what poor devil that's now "enrolled" Expects to get off alive? There's a miracle wrought in the Democrats; They swore it was murder and sin To put in the "Niggers," like Kilkenny cats, To clear the ship of the rebel rats, But now I notice they swing their hats And shout to the "Niggers"—"Go in!"
THE DEVIL AND THE MONK
Once Satan and a monk went on a "drunk," And Satan struck a bargain with the monk, Whereby the Devil's crew was much increased By penceless poor and now and then a priest Who, lacking cunning or good common sense, Got caught in flagrante and out of pence. Then in high glee the Devil filled a cup And drank a brimming bumper to the pope: Then—"Here's to you," he said, "sober or drunk, In cowl or corsets, every monk's a punk. Whate'er they preach unto the common breed, At heart the priests and I are well agreed. Justice is blind we see, and deaf and old, But in her scales can hear the clink of gold. The convent is a harem in disguise, And virtue is a fig-leaf for the wise To hide the naked truth of lust and lecheries. "And still the toilers feed the pious breed, And pin their faith upon the bishop's sleeve; Hungry for hope they gulp a moldy creed And dine on faith. 'Tis easier to believe An old-time fiction than to wear a tooth In gnawing bones to reach the marrow truth. Priests murder Truth and with her gory ghost They frighten fools and give the rogues a roast Until without or pounds or pence or price— Free as the fabled wine of paradise— They furnish priestly plates with buttered toast. Your priests of superstition stalk the land With Jacob's winning voice and Esau's hand; Sinners to hell and saints to heaven they call, And eat the fattest fodder in the stall. They, versed in dead rituals in dead language deep, Talk Greek to th' grex and Latin to their sheep, And feed their flocks a flood of cant and college For every drop of sense or useful knowledge." "I beg your pardon," softly said the monk, "I fear your Majesty is raving drunk. I would be courteous." But the Devil laughed And slyly winked and sagely shook his head. "My fawning dog," the sage satanic said, "Wags not his tail for me but for my bread. Brains rule to day as they have ruled for aye, And craft grown craftier in this modern day Still rides the fools, but in a craftier way; And priestcraft lingers and survives its use; What was a blessing once is now abuse: Grown fat and arrogant on power and pelf, The old-time shepherd has become a wolf And only feeds his flocks to feast himself. To clink of coin the pious juggler jumps, For still he thinks, as in the days of old, The key to holy heaven is made of gold, That in the game of mortals money is trumps, That golden darts will pierce e'en Virtue's shield, And by the salve of gold all sins are healed. So old Saint Peter stands outside the fence With hand outstretched for toll of Peter-pence, And sinners' souls must groan in Purgatory Until they pay the admission-fee to glory. "There was an honest poet once on earth Who beat all other bardies at a canter; Rob' Burns his mother called him at his birth. Though handicapped by rum and much a ranter, He won the madcap race in Tam O'Shanter. He drove a spanking span from Scottish heather, Strong-limbed, but light of foot as flea or feather— Rhyme and Reason, matched and yoked together, And reined them with light hand and limber leather. He wrote to me once on a time—I mind it— A bold epistle and the poet signed it. He thought to cheat "Auld Nickie" of his dues, But who outruns the Devil casts his shoes; And so at last from frolicking and drinkin', 'Some luckless hour' sent him to Hell 'alinkin'![CX] Times had been rather dull in my dominion, And all my imps like lubbers lay a snoring, But Burns began to rhyme us his opinion, And in ten minutes had all Hell aroaring. Then Robbie pulled his book of poems out And read us sundry satires from the book; 'Death and Doctor Hornbook' raised a shout Till all the roof-tin on the rafters shook; And when his 'Unco Guid' the bardie read The crew all clapped their hands and yelled like mad; But 'Holy Willie's Prayer' 'brought down the house'. So I was glad to give the bard a pass And a few pence for toll at Peter's gate; For if the roof of Hell were made of brass Bob Burns would shake it off as sure as fate. I mind it well—that poem on a louse! 'O wad some pow'r the giftie gie us,' Monk, 'To see oursels as others see us'—drunk; 'It wad frae monie a blunder free us'—list!— 'And foolish notion.' Abbot, bishop, priest, 'What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e' you all, 'And ev'n devotion.' Cowls and robes would fall, And sometimes leave a bishop but a beast, And show a leper sore where erst they made a priest."
Not to be beat the jolly monk filled up His silver mug with rare old Burgundy; "Here's to your health," he said, "your Majesty"— And drained the brimming goblet at a gulp— "'For when the Devil was sick the Devil a monk would be; But when the Devil got well a devil a monk was he.' In vino veritas is true, no doubt— When wine goes in teetotal truth comes out. To shake a little Shakespeare in the wine: 'Some rise by sin and some by virtue fall'; But in the realm of Fate, as I opine, A devil a virtue is or sin at all. 'The Devil be damned' is what we preach, you know it— At mass and vespers, holy-bread and dinner: From priest to pope, from pedagogue to poet, We sanctify the sin and damn the sinner. This poet Shakespeare, whom I read with pleasure, Wrote once—I think, in taking his own 'Measure':— 'They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad.' The reason halts: If read between the lines—not by the letter— 'Tis plain enough that Shakespeare was atrimmin' His own unruly ship and furling sail To meet a British tempest or a gale, And keep cold water from his wine and women. Now I'll admit, when he's a little mellow, The Devil himself's a devilish clever fellow, And, though his cheeks and paunch are somewhat shrunk, He only lacks a cowl to make a monk. Time is the mother of twins et hic et nunc; Come, hood your horns and fill the mug abrimmin', For we are cheek by jowl on wit and wine and women." And so the monk and Devil filled the mug, And quaffed and chaffed and laughed the night away; And when the "wee sma" hours of night had come, The monk slipped out and stole the abbot's rum; And when the abbot came at break of day, There cheek by jowl—horns, hoofs, and hood—they lay, With open missal and an empty jug, And broken beads and badly battered mug— In fond embrace—dead drunk upon the rug. Think not, wise reader, that the bard hath drunk The wine that fumed these vagaries from the monk; Nor, in the devil ethics thou hast read, There spake the poet in the Devil's stead. Let Virtue be our helmet and our shield, And Truth our weapon—weapon sharp and strong And deadly to all error and all wrong. Yea, armed with Truth, though rogues and rascals throng The citadel of Virtue shall not yield, For God's right arm of Truth prevails in every field.
[Illustration: THE DEVIL AND THE MONK]
FOOTNOTES
[CX]
Tripping. See Burns' "Address to the Deil"
THE TARIFF ON TIN
Monarch of Hannah's rocking-chair, With unclipped beard and unkempt hair, Sitting at ease by the kitchen fire, Nor heeding the wind and the driving sleet, Jo Lumpkin perused the Daily Liar— A leading and stanch Democratic sheet, While Hannah, his wife, in her calico, Sat knitting a pair of mittens for Jo. "Hanner," he said, and he raised his eyes And looked exceedingly grave and wise, "The kentry's agoin, I guess, tu the dogs: Them durned Republikins, they air hogs: A dev'lish purty fix we air in; They've gone un riz the teriff on tin." "How's thet?" said Hannah, and turned her eyes With a look of wonder and vague surprise. "Why them confoundered Congriss chaps Hez knocked the prices out uv our craps: We can't sell butter ner beans no more Tu enny furren ship er shore, Becuz them durned Republikins Hez gone un riz the teriff on tins." Hannah dropped her knitting-work on her knees, And looked very solemn and ill-at-ease: She gazed profoundly into the fire, Then hitched her chair a little bit nigher, And said as she glanced at the Daily Liar With a sad, wan look in her buttermilk eyes: "I vum thet's a tax on punkin-pies, Fer they know we allers bakes 'em in Pans un platters un plates uv tin." "I wouldn't agrumbled a bit," said Jo, "Et a tax on sugar un salt un sich; But I swow it's a morul political sin Tu drive the farmer intu the ditch With thet pesky teriff on tin. Ef they'd a put a teriff on irn un coal Un hides un taller un hemlock bark, Why thet might a helped us out uv a hole By buildin uv mills un givin uv work, Un gladd'nin many a farmer's soul By raisin the price of pertaters un pork: But durn their eyes, it's a morul sin— They've gone un riz the teriff on tin. I wouldn't wonder a bit ef Blaine Hed diskivered a tin mine over in Maine; Er else he hez foundered a combinashin Tu gobble the tin uv the hull creashin. I'll bet Jay Gould is intu the'trust,' Un they've gone in tergether tu make er bust; Un tu keep the British frum crowdin in They've gone un riz the teriff on tin. What'll we du fer pans un pails When the cow comes in un the old uns fails? Tu borrer a word frum Scripter, Hanner, Un du it, tu, in pious manner, You'll hev tu go down in yer sock fer a ducat, Er milk old Roan in a wooden bucket: Fer them Republikins—durn their skin— Hez riz sich a turrible teriff on tin. Tu cents a pound on British tin-plate! Why, Hanner, you see, at thet air rate, Accordin tu this ere newspaper-print— Un it mus be so er it wouldn't' be in't— It's a dollar un a half on one tin pan, Un about six shillin on a coffee-can, Un ten shillin, Hanner, on a dinner-pail! Gol! won't it make the workin men squeal— Thet durned Republikin tax un steal! They call it Protecshin, but blast my skin Ef it aint a morul political sin— Thet durned Republikin teriff on tin. "Un then they hev put a teriff on silk Un satin un velvit un thet air ilk, Un broadcloth un brandy un Havanny cigars, Un them slick silk hats thet our preacher wears; Un he'll hev tu wear humspun un drink skim milk. Un, Hanner, you see we'll hev tu be savin, Un whittle our store-bill down tu a shavin; You can't go tu meetin in silks; I vum You'll hev tu wear ging-um er stay tu hum." But Hannah said sharply—"I won't though, I swum!" And Hannah gazed wistfully on her Jo As he rocked himself mournfully to and fro, And then she looked thoughtfully into the fire, While the sleet fell faster and the wind blew higher, And Jo took a turn at the Daily Liar. 1890.
[Illustration: "THE KENTRY'S AGOIN', I GUESS, TO THE DOGS"]
PAT AND THE PIG
Old Deutchland's the country for sauerkraut and beer, Old England's the land of roast beef and good cheer, Auld Scotland's the mother of gristle and grit, But Ireland, my boy, is the mother of wit. Once Pat was indicted for stealing a pig, And brought into court to the man in the wig. The indictment was long and so lumbered with Latin That Pat hardly knew what a pickle was Pat in; But at last it was read to the end, and the wig Said: "Pat, are you guilty of stealing the pig?" Pat looked very wise, though a trifle forlorn, And he asked of milord that the witness be sworn. "Bless yer sowl," stammered Pat, "an' the day ye was born! Faith how in the divil d'ye think Oi can tell Till Oi hear the ividince?" Pat reckoned well; For the witness was sworn and the facts he revealed— How Pat stole the piggy and how the pig squealed, Whose piggy the pig was and what he was worth, And the slits in his ears and his tail and—so forth; But he never once said, 'in the county of Meath,'[CY] So Pat he escaped by the skin of his teeth.
FOOTNOTES
[CY]
In criminal cases it is necessary to prove that the crime was committed in the county where the venue is laid.
NOTES
[1]
Called in the Dakota tongue "Hok-sée-win-nâ-pee Wo-hán-pee"—Virgins' Dance (or Feast).
[2]
One of the favorite and most exciting games of the Dakotas is ball-playing. A smooth place on the prairie, or in winter, on a frozen lake or river, is chosen. Each player has a sort of bat, called "Tâ-kée-cha-psé-cha," about thirty-two inches long, with a hoop at the lower end four or five inches in diameter, interlaced with thongs of deer-skin, forming a sort of pocket. With these bats they catch and throw the ball. Stakes are set as bounds at a considerable distance from the center on either side. Two parties are then formed and each chooses a leader or chief. The ball (Tâpa) is then thrown up half way between the bounds, and the game begins, the contestants contending with their bats for the ball as it falls. When one succeeds in getting it fairly into the pocket of his bat he swings it aloft and throws it as far as he can toward the bound to which his party is working, taking care to send it if possible where some of his own side will take it up. Thus the ball is thrown and contended for till one party succeeds in casting it beyond the bounds of the opposite party. A hundred players en a side are sometimes engaged in this exciting game. Betting on the result often runs high. Moccasins, pipes, knives, hatchets, blankets, robes and guns are hung on the prize-pole. Not unfrequently horses are staked on the issue and sometimes even women. Old men and mothers are among the spectators, praising their swift-footed sons, and young wives and maidens are there to stimulate their husbands and lovers. This game is not confined to the warriors but is also a favorite amusement of the Dakota maidens, who generally play for prizes offered by the chief or warriors. (See Neill's Hist. Minn., pp 74-5; Riggs' Tâkoo Wakân, pp 44-5, and Mrs. Eastman's Dacotah, p 55.)
[3]
Pronounced Wah-zeé-yah—the god of the North, or Winter. A fabled spirit who dwells in the frozen North, in a great teepee of ice and snow. From his mouth and nostrils he blows the cold blasts of winter. He and I-tó-ka-ga Wi câs-ta—the spirit or god of the South (literally the "South Man") are inveterate enemies, and always on the war-path against each other. In winter Wa-zi-ya advances southward and drives I-tó-ka-ga Wi-câs-ta before him to the Summer-Islands. But in spring the god of the South having renewed his youth and strength in the "Happy Hunting Grounds," is able to drive Wa-zi-ya back again to his icy wigwam in the North. Some Dakotas say that the numerous granite boulders scattered over the prairies of Minnesota and Dakota, were hurled in battle by Wa-zi-ya from his home in the North at I-tó-ka-ga Wi-câs-ta. The Wa-zi-ya of the Dakotas is substantially the same as "Ka be-bon-ik-ka"—the "Winter-maker" of the Ojibways.
[4]
Mendota—(meeting of the waters) at the confluence of the Mississippi and Minnesota rivers. The true Dakota word is Mdó-tè—applied to the mouth of a river flowing into another, also to the outlet of a lake.
[5]
Pronounced Wee-wâh-stay; literally—a beautiful virgin or woman.
[6]
Cetân-wa-ká-wa-mâni—"He who shoots pigeon-hawks walking"—was the full Dakota name of the grandfather of the celebrated "Little Crow" (Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta—His Red People) who led his warriors in the terrible outbreak in Minnesota in 1862-3. The Chippeways called the grandfather Ká-ká-gè—crow or raven—from his war-badge, a crow-skin; and hence the French traders and courriers du bois called him "Petit Corbeau"—Little Crow. This sobriquet, of which he was proud, descended to his son, Wakinyan Tânka—Big Thunder, who succeeded him as chief; and from Big Thunder to his son Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta, who became chief on the death of Wakinyan Tânka. These several "Little Crows" were successively Chiefs of the Light-foot, or Kapóza band of Dakotas. Kapóza, the principal village of this band, was originally located on the east bank of the Mississippi near the site of the city of St. Paul. Col. Minn. Hist. Soc., 1864, p. 29. It was in later years moved to the west bank. The grandfather whom I, for short, call Wakâwa, died the death of a brave in battle against the Ojibways (commonly called Chippeways)—the hereditary enemies of the Dakotas. Wakinyan Tânka—Big Thunder, was killed by the accidental discharge of his own gun. They were both buried with their kindred near the "Wakan Teepee," the sacred Cave—(Carver's Cave). Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta, the last of the Little Crows, was killed July 3, 1863, during the outbreak, near Hutchinson, Minnesota, by the Lampsons—father and son, and his bones were duly "done up" for the Historical Society of Minnesota. See Heard's Hist. Sioux War, and Neill's Hist. Minnesota, Third Edition.
[Illustration: LITTLE CROW. From an original photograph in the author's possession]
Little Crow's sixteen-year-old son, Wa-wi-na-pe—(One who appears —like the spirit of his forefather) was with him at the time he was killed; but escaped, and after much hardship and suffering, was at last captured at Mini Wakan (Devil's Lake, in North Dakota). From him personally I obtained much information in regard to Little Crow's participation in the "Sioux War," and minutely the speech that Little Crow made to his braves when he finally consented to lead them on the war-path against the whites. A literal translation of that speech will be found further on in this note.
I knew Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta, and from his own lips, in 1859-60 and 61, obtained much interesting information in regard to the history, tradition, customs, superstitions and habits of the Dakotas, of whom he was the recognized Head-Chief. He was a remarkable Indian—a philosopher and a brave and generous man. "Untutored savage" that he was, he was a prince among his own people, and the peer in natural ability of the ablest white men in the Northwest in his time. He had largely adopted the dress and habits of civilized man, and he urged his people to abandon their savage ways, build houses, cultivate fields, and learn to live like the white people. He clearly forsaw the ultimate extinction of his people as a distinct race. He well knew and realized the numbers and power of the whites then rapidly taking possession of the hunting-grounds of the Dakotas, and the folly of armed opposition on the part of his people. He said to me once: "No more Dakotas by and by; Indians all white men. No more buffaloes by and by; all cows, all oxen." But his braves were restless. They smarted under years of wrong and robbery, to which, indeed, the most stinging insults were often added by the traders and officials among them. If the true, unvarnished history of the cause and inception of the "Sioux Outbreak" in Minnesota is ever written and published, it will bring the blush of shame to the cheeks of every honest man who reads it.
Against his judgment and repeated protests, Little Crow was at last, after the depredations had begun, forced into the war on the whites by his hot-headed and uncontrollable "young men."
Goaded to desperation, a party of Little Crow's young "bucks," in August, 1862, began their depredations and spilled white blood at Acton. Returning to their chief's camp near the agency, they told their fellow braves what they had done. The hot-headed young warriors immediately demanded of Little Crow that he put on the "war-paint" and lead them against the white men. The chief severely rebuked the "young men" who had committed the murders, blackened his face (a sign of mourning), retired to his teepee and covered his head in sorrow.
His braves surrounded his tent and cut it into strips with their knives. They threatened to depose him from the chiefship unless he immediately put on the "war-paint" and led them against the whites. They knew that the Civil War was then in progress, that the white men were fighting among themselves, and they declared that now was the time to regain their lost hunting-grounds; that now was the time to avenge the thievery and insults of the Agents who had for years systematically cheated them out of the greater part of their promised annuities, for which they had been induced to part with their lands; that now was the time to avenge the debauchery of their wives and daughters by the dissolute hangers-on who, as employees of the Indian Agents and licensed traders, had for years hovered around them like buzzards around the carcasses of slaughtered buffaloes.
But Little Crow was unmoved by the appeals and threats of his warriors. It is said that once for a moment he uncovered his head; that his face was haggard and great beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. But at last one of his enraged braves, bolder than the rest, cried out:
"Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta is a coward!"
Instantly Little Crow sprang from his teepee, snatched the eagle-feathers from the head of his insulter and flung them on the ground. Then, stretching himself to his full height, his eyes flashing fire, and in a voice tremulous with rage, he exclaimed:
"Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta is not a coward, and he is not a fool! When did he run away from his enemies? When did he leave his braves behind him on the war-path and turn back to his teepees? When he ran away from your enemies, he walked behind on your trail with his face to the Ojibways and covered your backs as a she-bear covers her cubs! Is Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta without scalps? Look at his war-feathers! Behold the scalp-locks of your enemies hanging there on his lodge-poles! Do they call him a coward? Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta is not a coward, and he is not a fool. Braves, you are like little children; you know not what you are doing.
"You are full of the white man's devil-water" (rum). "You are like dogs in the Hot Moon when they run mad and snap at their own shadows. We are only little herds of buffaloes left scattered; the great herds that once covered the prairies are no more. See!—the white men are like the locusts when they fly so thick that the whole sky is a snow-storm. You may kill one—two—ten; yes, as many as the leaves in the forest yonder, and their brothers will not miss them. Kill one—two—ten, and ten times ten will come to kill you. Count your fingers all day long and white men with guns in their hands will come faster than you can count.
"Yes; they fight among themselves—away off. Do you hear the thunder of their big guns? No; it would take you two moons to run down to where they are fighting, and all the way your path would be among white soldiers as thick as tamaracks in the swamps of the Ojibways. Yes; they fight among themselves, but if you strike at them they will all turn on you and devour you and your women and little children just as the locusts in their time fall on the trees and devour all the leaves in one day. You are fools. You cannot see the face of your chief; your eyes are full of smoke. You cannot hear his voice; your ears are full of roaring waters. Braves, you are little children—you are fools. You will die like the rabbits when the hungry wolves hunt them in the Hard Moon (January). Ta-ó-ya-té dú-ta is not a coward: he will die with you."
[7]
Hârps-te-nâh. The first-born daughter of a Dakota is called Winona; the second, Hârpen; the third, Hârpstinâ; the fourth, Wâska; the fifth, Wehârka. The first-born son is called Chaskè; the second, Hârpam; the third, Hapéda; the fourth, Châtun; the fifth, Hârka. They retain these names till others are given them on account of some action, peculiarity, etc. The females often retain their child-names through life.
[8]
Wah-pah-sâh was the hereditary name of a long and illustrious line of Dakota chiefs. Wabashaw is a corrupt pronunciation. The name is a contraction of Wâ-pa-hâ-sa, which is from Wâ-ha-pa, the standard or pole used in the Dakota dances and upon which feathers of various colors are tied, and not from Wâ-pa—leaf, as has been generally supposed. Therefore Wâpasa means the Standard—and not the "Leaf-Shaker," as many writers have it. The principal village of these hereditary chiefs was Ke-úk-sa, or Ke-ó-sa,—where now stands the fair city of Winona. Ke-úk-sa signifies—The village of law-breakers; so called because this band broke the law or custom of the Dakotas against marrying blood relatives of any degree. I get this information from Rev. Stephen R. Riggs, author of the Dakota Grammar and Dictionary, "Takoo Wakan," etc. Wapasa, grandfather of the last chief of that name, and a contemporary of Cetan-Wa-kâ-wa-mâni, was a noted chief, and a friend of the British in the war of the Revolution. Neill's Hist. Minn., pp. 225-9.
[9]
E-hó, E-tó—Exclamations of surprise and delight.
[10]
Mah-gâh—The wild-goose.
[11]
Teé-peé—A lodge or wigwam, often contracted to "tee."
[12]
Pronounced Mahr-peé-yah-doó-tah—literally, Cloud Red.
[13]
Pronounced Wahnmdeé—The War Eagle. Each feather worn by a warrior represents an enemy slain or captured—man, woman or child; but the Dakotas, before they became desperate under the cruel warfare of their enemies, usually spared the lives of their captives, and never killed women or infants, except in rare instances under the lex talionis. Neill's Hist. Minn., p. 112.
[14]
Mah-tó—The polar bear—ursus maritimus. The Dakotas say that in olden times white bears were often found about Rainy Lake and the Lake of the Woods in winter, and sometimes as far south as the mouth of the Minnesota. They say one was once killed at White Bear Lake (but a few miles from St. Paul and Minneapolis), and they therefore named the lake Medé Mató—White Bear Lake, literally—Lake White Bear.
[15]
The Hó-hé (Ho-hay) are the Assiniboins or "Stone-roasters." Their home is the region of the Assiniboin River in Manitoba. They speak the Dakota tongue, and originally were a band of that nation. Tradition says a Dakota "Helen" was the cause of the separation and a bloody feud that lasted for many years. The Hóhés are called "Stone-roasters," because, until recently at least, they used wa-ta-pe kettles and vessels made of birch bark in which they cooked their food. They boiled water in these vessels by heating stones and putting them in the water. The wa-ta-pe kettle is made of the fibrous roots of the white cedar interlaced and tightly woven. When the vessel is soaked it becomes water-tight. [Snelling's] Tales of the North-west, p 21, Mackenzie's Travels.
[16]
Hey-ó-ka is one of the principal Dakota deities. He is a giant, but can change himself into a buffalo, a bear, a fish or a bird. He is called the Anti-natural God or Spirit. In summer he shivers with cold, in winter he suffers from heat; he cries when he laughs and he laughs when he cries, etc. He is the reverse of nature in all things. Heyóka is universally feared and reverenced by the Dakotas, but so severe is the ordeal that the Heyóka Wacipee (the dance to Heyóka) is now rarely celebrated. It is said that the "Medicine-men" use a secret preparation which enables them to handle fire and dip their hands in boiling water without injury and thereby gain great eclat from the uninitiated. The chiefs and the leading warriors usually belong to the secret order of "Medicine-men" or "Sons of Unktéhee"—the Spirit of the Waters.
[17]
The Dakota name for the moon is Han-yé-tu-wee—literally, Night-Sun. He is the twin brother of An-pé-tu-wee—the Day Sun. See note 70.
[18]
The Dakotas believe that the stars are the spirits of their departed friends.
[19]
Tee—Contracted from teepee, lodge or wigwam, and means the same.
[20]
For all their sacred feasts the Dakotas kindle a new fire called "The Virgin Fire." This is done with flint and steel, or by rubbing together pieces of wood till friction produces fire. It must be done by a virgin, nor must any woman, except a virgin, ever touch the "sacred armor" of a Dakota warrior. White cedar is "Wakân"—sacred. See note 50. Riggs' Tahkoo Wakân, p. 84.
[21]
All Northern Indians consider the East a mysterious and sacred land whence comes the sun. The Dakota name for the East is Wee-yo-heé-yan-pa—the sunrise. The Ojibways call it Waub-ó-nong —the white land or land of light, and they have many myths, legends and traditions relating thereto. Barbarous peoples of all times have regarded the East with superstitious reverence simply because the sun rises in that quarter.
[22]
See Mrs. Eastman's Dacotah, pp. 225-8, describing the feast to Heyóka.
[23]
This stone from which the Dakotas have made their pipes for ages, is esteemed wakân—sacred. They call it I-yân-ska, probably from iya, to speak, and ska, white, truthful, peaceful,—hence, peace-pipe, herald of peace, pledge of truth, etc. In the cabinet at Albany, N.Y., there is a very ancient pipe of this material which the Iroquois obtained from the Dakotas. Charlevoix speaks of this pipe-stone in his History of New France. LeSueur refers to the Yanktons as the village of the Dakotas at the Red-Stone Quarry. See Neill's Hist. Minn., p. 514.
[24]
"Ho" is an exclamation of approval—yea, yes, bravo.
[25]
Buying is the honorable way of taking a wife among the Dakotas. The proposed husband usually gives a horse or its value in other articles to the father or natural guardian of the woman selected—sometimes against her will. See note 75.
[26]
The Dakotas believe that the Aurora Borealis is an evil omen and the threatening of an evil spirit (perhaps Waziya, the Winter-god—some say a witch, or a very ugly old woman). When the lights appear danger threatens, and the warriors shoot at, and often slay, the evil spirit, but it rises from the dead again.
[27]
Se-só-kah—The Robin.
[28]
The spirit of Anpétu-sâpa that haunts the Falls of St. Anthony with her dead babe in her arms. See the Legend in Neill's Hist. Minn., or my Legend of the Falls.
[29]
Mee-coónk-shee—My daughter.
[30]
The Dakotas call the meteor, "Wakân-dénda" (sacred fire) and Wakân-wóhlpa (sacred gift). Meteors are messages from the Land of Spirits warning of impending danger. It is a curious fact that the "sacred stone" of the Mohammedans, in the Kaaba at Mecca, is a meteoric stone, and obtains its sacred character from the fact that it fell from heaven.
[31]
Kah-nó-te-dahn,—the little, mysterious dweller in the woods. This spirit lives in the forest, in hollow trees. Mrs. Eastman's Dacotah, Pre. Rem. xxxi. "The Dakota god of the woods—an unknown animal said to resemble a man, which the Dakotas worship: perhaps, the monkey."—Riggs' Dakota Dic. Tit—Canotidan.
[32]
The Dakotas believe that thunder is produced by the flapping of the wings of an immense bird which they call Wakinyan—the Thunder-bird. Near the source of the Minnesota River is a place called "Thunder-Tracks" where the foot-prints of a "Thunder-bird" are seen on the rocks twenty-five miles apart. Mrs. Eastman's Dacotah, p. 71. There are many Thunder-birds. The father of all the Thunder-birds—"Wakinyan Tanka"—or "Big Thunder," has his teepee on a lofty mountain in the far West. His teepee has four openings, at each of which is a sentinel; at the east, a butterfly; at the west, a bear; at the south, a red deer; at the north, a caribou. He has a bitter enmity against Unktéhee (god of waters) and often shoots his fiery arrows at him, and hits the earth, trees, rocks, and sometimes men. Wakinyan created wild-rice, the bow and arrow, the tomahawk and the spear. He is a great war-spirit, and Wanmdée (the war-eagle) is his messenger. A Thunder-bird (say the Dakotas) was once killed near Kapóza by the son of Cetan-Wakawa-mâni and he thereupon took the name of "Wakinyan Tanka"—"Big Thunder."
[33]
Pronounced Tah-tâhn-kah—Bison or Buffalo.
[34]
Enâh—An exclamation of wonder. Ehó—Behold! see there!
[35]
The Crees are the Knisteneaux of Alexander Mackenzie. See his account of them, Mackenzie's Travels, (London, 1801) p. xci to cvii.
[36]
Lake Superior. The only names the Dakotas have for Lake Superior are Medé Tânka or Tânka Medé—Great Lake, and Me-ne-yâ-ta—literally, At-the-Water.
[37]
April—Literally, the moon when the geese lay eggs. See note 71.
[38]
Carver's Cave at St. Paul was called by the Dakotas Wakân Teepee—sacred lodge. In the days that are no more they lighted their council-fires in this cave and buried their dead near it. See Neill's Hist. Minn., p. 207. Capt. Carver in his Travels, London, 1778, p. 63, et. seq., describes this cave as follows: "It is a remarkable cave of an amazing depth. The Indians term it Wakonteebe, that is, the Dwelling of the Great Spirit. The entrance into it is about ten feet wide, the height of it five feet, the arch within is near fifteen feet high and about thirty feet broad. The bottom of it consists of fine clear sand. About twenty feet from the entrance begins a lake, the water of which is transparent, and extends to an unsearchable distance; for the darkness of the cave prevents all attempts to acquire a knowledge of it. I threw a small pebble toward the interior parts of it with my utmost strength. I could hear that it fell into the water, and notwithstanding it was of so small a size it caused an astonishing and horrible noise that reverberated through all those gloomy regions. I found in this cave many Indian hieroglyphics which appeared very ancient, for time had nearly covered them with moss so that it was with difficulty I could trace them. They were cut in a rude manner upon the inside of the walls, which were composed of a stone so extremely soft that it might be easily penetrated with a knife: a stone everywhere to be found near the Mississippi. This cave is only accessible by ascending a narrow, steep passage that lies near the brink of the river. At a little distance from this dreary cavern is the burying-place of several bands of the Naudowessie (Dakota) Indians," Many years ago the roof fell in but the cave has been partly restored and is now used as a beer cellar.
[39]
Wah-kâhn-dee—The lightning.
[40]
The Bloody River—the Red River was so called on account of the numerous Indian battles that have been fought on its banks. The Ojibways say that its waters were colored red by the blood of many warriors slain on its banks in the fierce wars between themselves and the Dakotas.
[41]
Tah—The Moose. This is the root-word for all ruminating animals: Ta-tânka, buffalo—Ta-tóka, mountain antelope—Ta-hinca, the red deer—Ta-mdóka, the buck-deer—Ta-hinca-ská, white deer (sheep).
[42]
Hogâhn—Fish. Red Hogan, the trout.
[43]
Tipsânna (often called tipsinna) is a wild prairie-turnip used for food by the Dakotas. It grows on high, dry land, and increases from year to year. It is eaten both cooked and raw.
[44]
Rio Tajo (or Tagus), a river of Spain and Portugal.
[45]
* * * * "Bees of Trebizond— Which from the sunniest flowers that glad With their pure smile the gardens round, Draw venom forth that drives men mad." —Thomas Moore.
[46]
Skeé-skah—The Wood-duck.
[47]
The Crocus. I have seen the prairies in Minnesota spangled with these beautiful flowers in various colors before the ground was free from frost. The Dakotas call them "frost-flowers."
[48]
The "Sacred Ring" around the Feast of the Virgins is formed by armed warriors sitting, and none but a virgin must enter this ring. The warrior who knows is bound on honor, and by old and sacred custom, to expose and publicly denounce any tarnished maiden who dares to enter this ring, and his word cannot be questioned—even by the chief. See Mrs. Eastman's Dacotah, p. 64.
[49]
Prairie's Pride.—This annual shrub, which abounds on many of the sandy prairies in Minnesota, is sometimes called "tea-plant," "sage-plant," and "red-root willow." I doubt if it has any botanic name. Its long plumes of purple and gold are truly the "pride of the prairies."
[50]
The Dakotas consider white cedar "Wakân," (sacred). They use sprigs of it at their feasts, and often burn it to destroy the power of evil spirits. Mrs. Eastman's Dacotah, p. 210.
[51]
Tâhkoo-skahng-skahng. This deity is supposed to be invisible, yet everywhere present; he is an avenger and a searcher of hearts. (Neill's Hist. Minn., p. 57). I suspect he was the chief spirit of the Dakotas before the missionaries imported "Wakân-Tánka" (Great Spirit).
[52]
The Dakotas believe in "were-wolves" as firmly as did our Saxon ancestors, and for similar reasons—the howl of the wolf being often imitated as a decoy or signal by their enemies the Ojibways.
[53]
Shee-shó-kah—The Robin.
[54]
The Dakotas call the Evening Star the "Virgin Star," and believe it to be the spirit of the virgin wronged at the feast.
[55]
Mille Lacs. This lake was discovered by Du Luth, and by him named Lac Buade in honor of Governor Frontenac of Canada, whose family name was Buade. The Dakota name for it is Mdé Wakân—Spirit Lake.
[56]
The Ojibways imitate the hoot of the owl and the howl of the wolf to perfection, and often use these cries as signals to each other in war and the chase.
[57]
The Dakotas called the Ojibways the "Snakes of the Forest" on account of their lying in ambush for their enemies.
[58]
Strawberries.
[59]
Seé-yo—The prairie-hen.
[60]
Mahgâh—The wild-goose. Fox-pups. I could never see the propriety of calling the young of foxes kits or kittens, which mean little cats. The fox belongs to the canis or dog family, and not the felis or cat family. If it is proper to call the young of dogs and wolves pups, it is equally proper to so call the young of foxes.
[61]
When a Dakota is sick he thinks the spirit of an enemy or some animal has entered into his body, and the principal business of the "medicine-man"—Wicásta Wakân—is to cast out the "unclean spirit," with incantations and charms. See Neill's Hist. Minn., pp. 66-8. The Jews entertained a similar belief in the days of Jesus of Nazareth.
[62]
Wah-zeé-yah's star—The North-star. See note 3.
[63]
The Dakotas, like our forefathers and all other barbarians, believe in witches and witchcraft.
[64]
The Medó is a wild potato; it resembles the sweet-potato in top and taste. It grows in bottom-lands, and is much prized by the Dakotas for food. The "Dakota Friend," for December, 1850. (Minn. Hist. Col.)
[65]
The meteor—Wakân-denda—Sacred fire.
[66]
Me-tá-win—My bride.
[68]
The Via Lactea or Milky Way. The Dakotas call it Wanágee Tach-ánku—The pathway of the spirits; and believe that over this path the spirits of the dead pass to the Spirit-land. See Riggs' Tah-koo Wah-kan, p. 101.
[69]
Oonk-táy-he. There are many Unktéhees, children of the Great Unktéhee, who created the earth and man, and who formerly dwelt in a vast cavern under the Falls of St. Anthony. The Unktéhee sometimes reveals himself in the form of a huge buffalo-bull. From him proceed invisible influences. The Great Unktéhee created the earth. "Assembling in grand conclave all the aquatic tribes he ordered them to bring up dirt from beneath the waters, and proclaimed death to the disobedient. The beaver and otter forfeited their lives. At last the muskrat went beneath the waters, and, after a long time, appeared at the surface, nearly exhausted, with some dirt. From this Unktéhee fashioned the earth into a large circular plain. The earth being finished he took a deity, one of his own offspring, and, grinding him to powder, sprinkled it upon the earth, and this produced many worms. The worms were then collected and scattered again. They matured into infants and these were then collected and scattered and became full-grown Dakotas. The bones of the mastodon, the Dakotas think, are the bones of Unktéhees, and they preserve them with the greatest care in the medicine-bag." Neill's Hist. Minn., p. 55. The Unktéhees and the Thunder-birds are perpetually at war. There are various accounts of the creation of man. Some say that at the bidding of the Great Unktéhee, men sprang full grown from the caverns of the earth. See Riggs' "Tahkoo Wahkan", and Mrs. Eastman's Dacotah. The Great Unktéhee and the Great Thunder-bird had a terrible battle in the bowels of the earth to determine which should be the ruler of the world. See description in Winona.
[70]
Pronounced Ahng-páy-too-wee—The Sun; literally the Day-Sun, thus distinguishing him from Han-yé-tuwee (Hahng-yay-too-wee) the Night Sun (the moon). They are twin brothers, but Anpétuwee is the more powerful. Han-yé-tuwee receives his power from his brother and obeys him. He watches over the earth while the sun sleeps. The Dakotas believe the sun is the father of life. Unlike the most of their other gods, he is beneficent and kind; yet they worshiped him (in the sun-dance) in the most dreadful manner. See Riggs' Tahkoo Wakan, pp. 81-2, and Catlin's Okeepa. The moon is worshiped as the representative of the sun; and in the great Sun-dance, which is usually held in the full of the moon, when the moon rises the dancers turn their eyes on her (or him). Anpétuwee issues every morning from the lodge of Han-nán-na (the Morning) and begins his journey over the sky to his lodge in the land of shadows. Sometimes he walks over on the Bridge (or path) of the Spirits—Wanâge Ta-chán-ku,—and sometimes he sails over the sea of the skies in his shining canoe; but somehow, and the Dakotas do not explain how, he gets back again to the lodge of Hannánna in time to take a nap and eat his breakfast before starting anew on his journey. The Dakotas swear by the sun, "As Anpétuwee hears me, this is true!" They call him Father and pray to him—"Wakán! Até, on-she-má-da"—"Sacred Spirit,—Father, have mercy on me." As the Sun is the father, so they believe the Earth is the mother, of life. Truly there is much philosophy in the Dakota mythology. The Algonkins call the earth "Me-suk-kum-mik-o-kwa"—the great-grandmother of all. Narrative of John Tanner, p. 193.
[71]
The Dakotas reckon their months by moons. They name their moons from natural circumstances. They correspond very nearly with our months, as follows:
January—Wee-té-rhee—The Hard Moon; i.e.—the cold moon.
February—Wee-câ-ta-wee—The Coon Moon—(the moon when the coons come out of their hollow trees).
March—Istâ-wee-ca-ya-zang-wee—the sore-eyes moon (from snow blindness).
April—Magâ-oka-da-wee—the moon when the geese lay eggs; also called Wokâ da-wee—egg-moon; and sometimes Wató-papee-wee, the canoe-moon, or moon when the streams become free from ice.
May—Wó-zu-pee-wee—the planting moon.
June—Wazú-ste-ca-sa-wee—the strawberry moon.
July—Wa-sún-pa-wee—the moon when the geese shed their feathers, also called Chang-pâ-sapa-wee—Choke-Cherry moon, and sometimes—Mna-rchâ-rcha-wee—"The moon of the red-blooming lilies," literally, the red-lily moon.
August—Wasú-ton-wee—the ripe moon, i.e., Harvest Moon.
September—Psin-na-ké-tu-wee—the ripe rice moon. (When the wild rice is ripe.)
October—Wâ-zu-pee-wee or Wee-wa-zu-pee—the moon when wild rice is gathered and laid up for winter.
November—Ta-kee-yu-hrâ-wee—the deer-rutting moon.
December—Ta-hé-cha-psung-wee—the moon when deer shed their horns.
[72]
Oonk-to-mee—is a bad spirit in the form of a monstrous black spider. He inhabits fens and marshes and lies in wait for his prey. At night he often lights a torch (evidently the ignis fatuus or Jack-o' lantern) and swings it on the marshes to decoy the unwary into his toils.
[73]
The Dakotas have their stone-idol, or god, called Toon-kan—or Inyan. This god dwells in stone or rocks and is, they say, the oldest god of all—he is grandfather of all living things. I think, however, that the stone is merely the symbol of the everlasting, all-pervading, invisible Ta-ku Wa-kan—the essence of all life,—pervading all nature, animate and inanimate. The Rev. S.R. Riggs, who for forty years has been a student of Dakota customs, superstitions, etc., says, Tâhkoo Wahkan, p. 55, et seq.: "The religious faith of the Dakota is not in his gods as such. It is in an intangible, mysterious something of which they are only the embodiment, and that in such measure and degree as may accord with the individual fancy of the worshiper. Each one will worship some of these divinities, and neglect or despise others, but the great object of all their worship, whatever its chosen medium, is the Ta-koo Wa-kan, which is the supernatural and mysterious. No one term can express the full meaning of the Dakota's Wakan. It comprehends all mystery, secret power and divinity. Awe and reverence are its due, and it is as unlimited in manifestation as it is in idea. All life is Wakan; so also is everything which exhibits power, whether in action, as the winds and drifting clouds; or in passive endurance, as the boulder by the wayside. For even the commonest sticks and stones have a spiritual essence which must be reverenced as a manifestation of the all-pervading, mysterious power that fills the universe."
[74]
Wazi-kuté—Wah-ze-koo-tay; literally—Pine-shooter,—he that shoots among the pines. When Father Hennepin was at Mille Lacs in 1679-80, Wazi-kuté was the head chief (Itâncan) of the band of Isantees. Hennepin writes the name Ouasicoude, and translates it—the "Pierced Pine." See Shea's Hennepin, p. 234, Minn. Hist. Coll. vol. i, p. 316.
[75]
When a Dakota brave wishes to "propose" to a "dusky maid," he visits her teepee at night after she has retired, or rather, laid down in her robe to sleep. He lights a splinter of wood and holds it to her face. If she blows out the light, he is accepted; if she covers her head and leaves it burning he is rejected. The rejection however is not considered final till it has been thrice repeated. Even then the maiden is often bought of her parents or guardian, and forced to become the wife of the rejected suitor. If she accepts the proposal, still the suitor must buy her of her parents with suitable gifts.
[76]
The Dakotas called the falls of St. Anthony the Ha-Ha—the loud laughing, or roaring. The Mississippi River they called Ha-Ha Wâ-kpa River of the Falls. The Ojibway name for the Falls of St. Anthony is Ka-kâ-bik-kúng. Minnehaha is a combination of two Dakota words—Mini—water and Ha-Ha, Falls; but it is not the name by which the Dakotas designated that cataract. Some authorities say they called it I-hâ-ha—pronounced E-rhah-rhah—lightly laughing. Rev. S.W. Pond, whose long residence as a missionary among the Dakotas in this immediate vicinity makes him an authority that can hardly be questioned, says they called the Falls of Minnehaha "Mini-i-hrpa-ya-dan," and it had no other name in Dakota. "It means Little Falls and nothing else." Letter to the author.
[77]
The game of the Plum-stones is one of the favorite games of the Dakotas. Hennepin was the first to describe this game, in his Description de la Louisiane, Paris, 1683, and he describes it very accurately. See Shea's translation p. 301. The Dakotas call this game Kan-soo Koo-tay-pe—shooting plum-stones. Each stone is painted black on one side and red on the other; on one side they grave certain figures which make the stones Wakan. They are placed in a dish and thrown up like dice. Indeed, the game is virtually a game of dice. Hennepin says: "There are some so given to this game that they will gamble away even their great coat. Those who conduct the game cry at the top of their voices when they rattle the platter, and they strike their shoulders so hard as to leave them all black with the blows."
[78]
Wa-tanka—contraction of Wa-kan Tanka—Great Spirit. The Dakotas had no Wakan Tanka or Wakan-peta—fire spirit—till white men imported them. There being no name for the Supreme Being in the Dakota tongue (except Tâku Skán-skán.—See note 51)—and all their gods and spirits being Wakan—the missionaries named God in Dakota—"Wakan Tanka"—which means Big Spirit, or The Big Mysterious.
[79]
The Dakotas called Lake Calhoun, at Minneapolis, Minn.—Mdé-mdó-za—Loon Lake. They also called it Re-ya-ta-mde—the lake back from the river. They called Lake Harriet—Mdé-únma—the other lake—or (perhaps) Mdé-uma—Hazel-nut Lake. The lake nearest Calhoun on the north—Lake of the Isles—they called Wi-ta Mdé—Island-Lake. Lake Minnetonka they called Me-ne-a-tân-ka—Broad Water.
[80]
The animal called by the French voyageurs the cabri (the kid) is found only on the prairies. It is of the goat kind, smaller than a deer and so swift that neither horse nor dog can overtake it. (Snelling's "Tales of the Northwest," p. 286, note 15.) It is the gazelle, or prairie antelope, called by the Dakotas Ta-tóka-dan—little antelope. It is the Pish-tah-te-koosh of the Algonkin tribes, "reckoned the fleetest animal in the prairie country about the Assiniboin." Captivity and Adventures of John Tanner, p. 301.
[81]
The Wicâstâpi Wakânpi (literally, men supernatural) are the "Medicine-men" or Magicians of the Dakotas. They call themselves the sons or disciples of Unktéhee. In their rites, ceremonies, tricks and pretensions they closely resemble the Dactyli, Idæ, and Curetes of the ancient Greeks and Romans, the Magi of the Persians and the Druids of Britain. Their pretended intercourse with spirits, their powers of magic and divination, and their rites are substantially the same, and point unmistakably to a common origin. The Dakota "Medicine-Man" can do the "rope trick" of the Hindoo magician to perfection. The teepee used for the Wakan Wacipee—or Sacred Dance—is called the Wakan Teepee—the Sacred Teepee. Carvers Cave at St. Paul was also called Wakan Teepee because the Medicine-men or magicians often held their dances and feasts in it. For a full account of the rites, etc., see Riggs' Tahkoo Wahkan, Chapter VI. The Ta-sha-ke—literally, "Deer-hoofs"—is a rattle made by hanging the hard segments of deer-hoofs to a wooden rod a foot long—about an inch in diameter at the handle end, and tapering to a point at the other. The clashing of these horny bits makes a sharp, shrill sound something like distant sleigh-bells. In their incantations over the sick they sometimes use the gourd shell rattle.
The Chân-che-ga—is a drum or "Wooden Kettle." The hoop of the drum is from a foot to eighteen inches in diameter, and from three to ten inches deep. The skin covering is stretched over one end, making a drum with one end only. The magical drum-sticks are ornamented with down, and heads of birds or animals are carved on them. This makes them Wakan.
The flute called Cho-tanka (big pith) is of two varieties—one made of sumac, the pith of which is punched out. The second variety is made of the long bone of the wing or thigh of the swan or crane. They call the first the bubbling chotanka from the tremulous note it gives when blown with all the holes stopped. Riggs' Tâhkoo Wahkan, p. 476, et seq.
E-né-pee—vapor-bath, is used as a purification preparatory to the sacred feasts. The vapor-bath is taken in this way: "A number of poles, the size of hoop-poles or less, are taken, and their larger ends being set in the ground in a circle, the flexible tops are bent over and tied in the center. This frame-work is then covered with robes and blankets, a small hole being left on one side for an entrance. Before the door a fire is built, and round stones about the size of a man's head, are heated in it. When hot they are rolled within, and the door being closed steam is made by pouring water on them. The devotee, stripped to the skin, sits within this steam-tight dome, sweating profusely at every pore, until he is nearly suffocated. Sometimes a number engage in it together and unite their prayers and songs." Tâhkoo Wakan, p. 83. Father Hennepin was subjected to the vapor-bath at Mille Lacs by Chief Aqui-pa-que-tin, two hundred years ago. After describing the method, Hennepin says: "When he had made me sweat thus three times in a week, I felt as strong as ever." Shea's Hennepin, p. 228. For a very full and accurate account of the Medicine-men of the Dakotas, and their rites, etc., see Chap. II, Neill's Hist. Minnesota.
[82]
The sacred O-zu-ha—or Medicine sack must be made of the skin of the otter, the coon, the weasel, the squirrel, the loon, a certain kind of fish or the skins of serpents. It must contain four kinds of medicine (or magic) representing birds, beasts, herbs and trees, viz.: The down of the female swan colored red, the roots of certain grasses, bark from the roots of cedar trees, and hair of the buffalo. "From this combination proceeds a Wakân influence so powerful that no human being, unassisted, can resist it." Wonderful indeed must be the magic power of these Dakota Druids to lead such a man as the Rev. S.R. Riggs to say of them: "By great shrewdness, untiring industry, and more or less of actual demoniacal possession, they convince great numbers of their fellows, and in the process are convinced themselves of their sacred character and office." Tâhkoo Wakân, pp. 88-9.
[83]
Gâh-ma-na-tek-wahk—the river of many falls—is the Ojibway name of the river commonly called Kaministiguia, near the mouth of which is situated Fort William. The view on Thunder-Bay is one of the grandest in America. Thunder-Cap, with its sleeping stone-giant, looms up into the heavens. Here Ka-be-bon-ikka—the Ojibway's god of storms—flaps his huge wings and makes the Thunder. From this mountain he sends forth the rain, the snow, the hail, the lightning and the tempest. A vast giant, turned to stone by his magic, lies asleep at his feet. The island called by the Ojibways the Mak-i-nak (the turtle) from its tortoise-like shape, lifts its huge form in the distance. Some "down-east Yankee" called it "Pie-island," from its fancied resemblance to a pumpkin pie, and the name, like all bad names, sticks. McKay's Mountain on the mainland, a perpendicular rock more than a thousand feet high, upheaved by the throes of some vast volcano, and numerous other bold and precipitous headlands, and rock-built islands, around which roll the sapphire-blue waters of the fathomless bay, present some of the most magnificent views to be found on either continent.
[84]
The Mission of the Holy Ghost—at La Pointe, on the isle Wauga-bâ-me—(winding view) in the beautiful bay of Cha-quam-egon —was founded by the Jesuits about the year 1660. Father René Menard was probably the first priest at this point. After he was lost in the wilderness, Father Glaude Allouëz permanently established the mission in 1665. The famous Father Marquette, who took Allouëz's place, Sept. 13, 1669, writing to his superior, thus describes the Dakotas: "The Nadouessi are the Iroquois of this country, beyond La Pointe, but less faithless, and never attack till attacked. Their language is entirely different from the Huron and Algonquin. They have many villages but are widely scattered. They have very extraordinary customs. They principally use the calumet. They do not speak at great feasts, and when a stranger arrives give him to eat of a wooden fork, as we would a child. All the lake tribes make war on them, but with small success. They have false oats (wild rice,) use little canoes, and keep their word strictly." Neill's Hist. Minn., p. III.
[85]
Michâbo or Manni-bozo—the Good Spirit of the Algonkins. In autumn, in the moon of the falling leaf, ere he composes himself to his winter's sleep, he fills his great pipe and takes a god-like smoke. The balmy clouds from his pipe float over the hills and woodland, filling the air with the haze of "Indian Summer." Brinton's Myths of the New World, p. 163.
[86]
Pronounced Kah-tháh-gah—literally, the place of waves and foam. This was the principal village of the Isantee band of Dakotas two hundred years ago, and was located at the Falls of St. Anthony, which the Dakotas called the Ha-ha,—pronounced Rhah-rhah,—the loud-laughing waters. The Dakotas believed that the Falls were in the center of the earth. Here dwelt the Great Unktéhee, the creator of the earth and man: and from this place a path led to the Spirit-land. DuLuth undoubtedly visited Kathâga in the year 1679. In his "Memoir" (Archives of the Ministry of the Marine) addressed to Seignelay, 1685, he says: "On the 2nd of July, 1679, I had the honor to plant his Majesty's arms in the great village of the Nadouecioux called Izatys, where never had a Frenchman been, etc." Izatys is here used not as the name of the village, but as the name of the band—the Isantees. Nadouecioux was a name given the Dakotas generally by the early French traders and the Ojibways. See Shea's Hennepin's Description of Louisiana, pp. 203 and 375. The villages of the Dakotas were not permanent towns. They were hardly more than camping grounds, occupied at intervals and for longer or shorter periods, as suited the convenience of the hunters; yet there were certain places, like Mille Lacs, the Falls of St. Anthony, Kapoza (near St. Paul), Remnica (where the city of Red Wing now stands), and Keuxa (or Keoza) on the site of the city of Winona, so frequently occupied by several of the bands as to be considered their chief villages respectively.
Mr. Neill, usually very accurate and painstaking, has fallen into an error in his prefatory notes to the last edition of his valuable History of Minnesota. Speaking of DuLuth, he says:
"He appears to have entered Minnesota by way of the Pigeon or St. Louis River, and to have explored where no Frenchman had been, and on July 2, 1679, was at Kathio (Kathâga) perhaps on Red Lake or Lake of the Woods, which was called 'the great village of the Wadouessioux,' one hundred and twenty leagues from the Songaskicons and Houetepons who were dwellers in the Mille Lac region."
Now Kathâga (Mr. Neill's Kathio) was located at the Falls of St. Anthony on the Mississippi as the whole current of Dakota traditions clearly shows and DuLuth's dispatches clearly indicate. Besides, the Songaskicons and Houetepons were not and never were "dwellers in the Mille Lac region." The Songaskicons (Sissetons) were at that time located on the Des Moines river (in Iowa), and the Houetabons (Ouadebatons) at and around Big Stone Lake. The Isantees occupied the region lying between the mouth of the Minnesota River and Spirit Lake (Mille Lacs) with their principal village—Kathága—where the city of Minneapolis now stands. These facts account for the "one hundred and twenty leagues" as distances were roughly reckoned by the early French explorers.
September 1, 1678, Daniel Greysolon DuLuth, a native of Lyons, France, left Quebec to explore the country of the Dakotas. "The next year (1679) on the 2nd day of July, he caused the king's arms to be planted in the great village of the Nadouessioux (Dakotas) called Kathio" (Kathága) "where no Frenchman had ever been, also at the Songaskicons and Houetabons, one hundred and twenty leagues distant from the former. * * * * On this tour he visited Mille Lacs, which he called Lake Buade, the family name of Frontenac, governor of Canada." Neill''s History of Minnesota, p. 122. This is correct, except the name of the village—Kathio, which is a misprint or perhaps an error of a copyist. It should be Kathága. DuLuth was again at the Falls of St. Anthony in 1680 and returned to Lake Superior via the Mississippi, Rum River and Mille Lacs, according to his own dispatches.
Franquelin's "Carte de la Louisiane" printed at Paris A.D. 1684, from information derived from DuLuth, who visited France in 1682-3, and conferred with the minister of the Colonies and the minister of Marine—shows the inaccuracy, as to points of compass at least, of the early French explorers. According to this map, Lake Buade (Mille Lacs) lies north-west of Lake Superior and Lake Pepin lies due west of it.
DuLuth was afterward appointed to the command of Fort Frontenac near Niagara Falls, and died there in 1710. The official dispatch from the Governor of Canada to the French Government is, as regards the great explorer, brief and expressive—"Captain DuLuth is dead. He was an honest man."
To Daniel Greysolon DuLuth, and not to Father Hennepin, whom he rescued from his captors at Mille Lacs, belongs the credit of the first exploration of Minnesota by white men.
Father Hennepin was a self-conceited and self-convicted liar. Daniel Greysolon DuLuth "was an honest man."