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[Illustration: FRONTISPIECE. _Vol. 3._
_Designed & Etched by W. H. Brooks A. R. H. A._
In a moment multitudes of bright beings start up--"He is ours"!!! _page 110._

_London, Published by Colburn & Bentley--April 1830._]




TRADITIONS OF THE NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS:

                BEING

    A SECOND AND REVISED EDITION OF

      "TALES OF AN INDIAN CAMP."

                  BY

         JAMES ATHEARN JONES.

           IN THREE VOLUMES.

              VOL. III.

LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1830.
F. SHOBERL, JUN., LONG ACRE.




CONTENTS

OF

THE THIRD VOLUME.

                                                          Page
  The Lake of the White Canoe                                 1
  A Legend of the Bomelmeeks                                 33
  The King of the Elks                                       47
  The Daughters of the Sun                                   77
  The Maiden and the Bird                                    91
  The Island of Eagles                                      117
  Legend of Aton-Larre                                      145
  The Fire-Spirit                                           167
  The Origin of Women                                       175
  The Hill of Fecundity. A Tradition of the Minnatarees     183
  TALES OF A WHITE MAN'S GHOST.
      I. Garanga                                            191
     II. The Warning of Tekarrah                            213
    III. The Legend of Pomperaug                            237
     IV. The Son of Annawan                                 251
      V. The Cascade of Melsingah                           279
  Legend of Coatuit Brook                                   305
  The Spirits of Vapour                                     313
  The Devil of Cape Higgin                                  321




TALES OF AN INDIAN CAMP.




THE LAKE OF THE WHITE CANOE.


    Wo! Wo! Wo
    Wo to the sons of the far-off land,
    Weak in heart and pale in face,
    Deer in battle, moose in a race,
    Panthers wanting claw and tooth
    Wo to the red man, strong of hand,
    Steady of purpose, lithe of limb,
    Calm in the toils of the foe,
    Knowing nor tears nor ruth
    Wo to them and him,
    If, cast by hard fate at the midnight damp,
    Or an hour of storm in the dismal swamp,
    That skirts the Lake of the White Canoe!

    Wo to him and them,
    If, when the night's dim lamps are veil'd,
    And the Hunter's Star is hid,
    And the moon has shut her lid,
    For their wearied limbs the only birth
    Be the cold and frosty earth,
    And their flesh be burnt by the gum exhal'd
    From the cedar's poisonous stem,
    And steep'd in the blistering dew
    Of the barren vine in the birchen copse,
    Where rear the pines their giant tops
    Above the Lake of the White Canoe!

    My brother hears--'t is well--
    And let him shun the spot,
    The damp and dismal brake,
    That skirts the shallow lake,
    The brown and stagnant pool[A],
    The dark and miry fen,
    And let him never at nightfall spread
    His blanket among the isles that dot
    The surface of that lake;
    And let my brother tell
    The men of his race that the wolf hath fed
    Ere now on warriors brave and true,
    In the fearful Lake of the White Canoe.

    Wo! Wo! Wo!
    To him that sleeps in those dark fens!
    The she-wolf will stir the brake,
    And the copper-snake breathe in his ear,
    And the bitterns will start by tens,
    And the slender junipers shake
    With the weight of the nimble bear,
    And the pool resound with the cayman's plash,
    And the owl will hoot in the boughs of the ash,
    Where he sits so calm and cool;
    Above his head, the muckawiss[B]
    Will sing his gloomy song;
    Frogs will scold in the pool,
    To see the musk-rat carry along
    The perch to his hairy brood;
    And, coil'd at his feet, the horn-snake will hiss,
    Nor last nor least of the throng,
    The shades of the youth and maid so true,
    That haunt the Lake of the White Canoe.

    And, if he chance to sleep,
    Still will his _okki_ whisper wo,
    For hideous forms will rise:
    The spirits of the swamp
    Will come from their caverns dark and deep,
    Where the slimy currents flow,
    With the serpent and wolf to romp,
    And to whisper in the sleeper's ear
    Of wo and danger near;
    And mist will hide the pale, cold moon,
    And the stars will seem like the sparkling flies
    That twinkle in the prairie glades,
    In my brother's month of June--
    Murky shades, dim, dark shades,
    Shades of the cypress, pine, and yew,
    In the swamp of the Lake of the White Canoe.

    Wo! wo! wo!
    He will hear in the dead of the night--
    If the bittern will stay his toot,
    And the serpent will cease his hiss,
    And the wolf forget his howl,
    And the owl forbear his hoot,
    And the plaintive muckawiss,
    And his neighbour the frog, will be mute--
    A plash like the dip of a water-fowl,
    In the lake with mist so white;
    And two forms will float on his troubled view,
    O'er the brake, with a meteor light,
    And he'll hear the words of a tender song,
    Stealing like a spring-wind along
    The Lake of the White Canoe.

    That song will be a song of wo,
    Its burthen will be a gloomy tale;
    It will cause the rain to flow;
    It will tell of youthful love,
    Fond but blighted love;
    It will tell of father's cruelty;
    It will cause the rain to flow;
    It will tell of two lovely flowers
    That grew in the wilderness;
    And the mildew that touch'd the leaf;
    And the canker that struck the bud;
    And the lightning that wither'd the stem;
    And 't will speak of the Spirit-dove,
    That summon'd them away,
    Deeming them all too good and true,
    For aught save to paddle a White Canoe

[Footnote A: The water of the little lake (Drummond's Pond), to which
this tradition relates, is  brown by the roots of the juniper
and cedar.]

[Footnote B: Whip-poor-will.]

With these wild stanzas, preliminary to a tradition current among the
tribes of that region, Walk in the Water, a Roanoke chief of great
celebrity, commenced his tale. Undoubtedly most of the Indians present
were as well acquainted with the story as the narrator, but that
circumstance seemed to abate nothing of the interest with which it was
listened to; it certainly did not diminish the attention of the
audience. In this respect, these wild foresters deserve to become a
pattern for careful imitation. They never interrupt a speaker. However
incongruous or ill put together his tale, or insulting the matter or
manner of his speech, or revolting his opinions to their preconceived
notions and prejudices, he is heard patiently until he has said all
that he has to say. And, after he has seated himself, sufficient time
is given him to recollect whether he has left unsaid any thing in his
opinion of importance to the correct interpretation of his views.

It will be seen from the specimens interspersed through these volumes,
that the poetry of the Indians is in general of the warlike, or of the
tender and pathetic kind. Their only poetry is found in their songs.
They are sung in a kind of measure, always harmonious to an Indian
ear, and frequently to ours. The music is well adapted to the words.
It would be idle to attempt to give an idea of it by means of our
musical notes, as has been done by other writers; I should probably
meet with the fate of those who have tried in the same manner to
describe the melodies of the ancient Greeks. They sing it in short
lines or sentences, not always the whole at once, but most generally
in detached parts, as time permits, and as the occasion or their
feelings prompt them. Their accent is very pathetic and melancholy; a
by-stander unacquainted with their language would suppose that they
were details of some great affliction: both sexes sing in chorus,
first the men and then the women. At times the women join in the
general song, or repeat the strain which the men have just finished.
It seems like two parties singing in questions and answers, and is,
upon the whole, very agreeable and enlivening. After thus singing for
about a quarter of an hour, they conclude each song with a loud yell,
not unlike the cat-bird, which closes its pretty song with mewing like
a cat. The voices of the women are clear and full, and their
intonations generally correct.

The Dismal Swamp, which gave rise to this genuine Indian tradition, is
one of the gloomiest spots on the face of the earth. It is situated in
the state of Virginia, and covers a very large space. On the south
side of this wild and gloomy region the marshy border is thickly
overgrown with immense reeds, and, as far as the eye can take in,
waves slowly and heavily one dark green sea. Then, on all the other
skirts of the forest itself, the lofty trees are covered to their
summits by the yellow jessamine, and other quick-growing creepers,
breathing odour, and alive with the chirping of insects and the melody
of birds. In the open and less marshy skirts of the vast forest,
gigantic tulip-trees shoot up their massy and regular-built trunks,
straight and pillar-like, until they put forth their broad arms
covered with the magnificent foliage of their glossy deep green
leaves, interspersed with superb white and yellow tulip-shaped
flowers. Under their shade are sheltered, like shrubs, trees which
elsewhere would be the pride of the forest, or the park--the stately
gum-tree, and the magnolia, with its broad shining leaves and
beautiful white flowers; whilst at their feet you force your way
through tangles of the honeysuckle, or thickets of the moisture-loving
bay, rich with its large rose- clusters. But, the moment you
penetrate beyond the sun's cheering influence into the deeper recesses
of the swamp itself, how solemn is the change! There, the cypress and
the juniper, rising without a branch to interrupt the regularity of
their tall trunks for a hundred feet, stand thick and close together,
like so many tall columns reared to support the roof of a vast temple.
All is silent as the grave. Not an insect buzzes or chirps about you;
no cry or song of bird or beast is heard. You seem to have penetrated
beyond the bounds not only of human society and existence but of
animal life, and to be passing through the still and dark valley of
the shadow of death.

As the traveller pushes his doubtful way along, he will come upon some
broad, lake-like sheet of water, still, silent, and sluggish, calmly
reflecting the quiet solemnity of the forest. I say still and silent,
but these little lakes are visited at certain seasons of the year by
myriads of wild fowl, the clapping of whose wings, as they rise from
the water, may be heard to a great distance. The water of all those
lakes is of the same colour as the roots and bark of the juniper and
cedar-trees, from which it receives its hue. And, when the sun flashes
on the amber- lake, and the cypress forest throws its gloomy
shade over its face, the traveller becomes thrilled with awe and
astonishment. He fancies that he has never seen any spot so fitted to
be the residence of spirits of a malignant influence, and expects to
see evil eyes cast upon him from every copse. The bird and bat, as
they flit through the shades of night, magnified by the misty
exhalations, seem the envious demons of the spot; and, foolish man! he
more regards the dangers which are unreal than those which are
real--is more afraid of the spirits which cannot harm, than of the
ravenous beasts and poisonous serpents with which he is environed, and
whose fangs are death in its most hideous shape.

Having introduced this not altogether gratuitous description of a spot
celebrated in America for its picturesque situation and horrors, I
resume the rhythmical tale of the chief of the Roanokes.

    It was many seasons ago,
    How long I cannot tell my brother,
    That this sad thing befell;
    The tale was old in the time of my father,
    To whom it was told by my mother's mother.
    My brother hears--'tis well--
    Nor may he doubt my speech;
    The red man's mind receives a tale
    As snow the print of a mocassin;
    But, when he hath it once,
    It abides like a footstep chisell'd in rock,
    The hard and flinty rock.
    The pale man writes his tales
    Upon a loose and fluttering leaf,
    Then gives it to the winds that sweep
    Over the ocean of the mind;
    The red man his on the evergreen
    Of his trusty memory(1).
    When he from the far-off land would know
    The tales of his father's day,
    He unrolls the spirit-skin[A],
    And utters what it bids:
    The Indian pours from his memory
    His song, as a brook its babbling flood
    From a lofty rock into a dell,
    In the pleasant summer-moon.--
    My brother hears.--

    He hears my words--'tis well--
    And let him write them down
    Upon the spirit-skin,
    That, when he has cross'd the lake,
    The Great Salt Lake,
    The lake, where the gentle spring winds dwell,
    And the mighty fishes sport,
    And has called his babes to his knee,
    And his beauteous dove to his arms,
    And has smok'd in the calumet
    With the friends he left behind,
    And his father, and mother, and kin,
    Are gather'd around his fire,
    To learn what red men say,
    He may the skin unroll, and bid
    His Okki this tradition read[B]--
    The parting words of the Roanoke,
    And his tale of a lover and maiden true,
    Who paddle the Lake in a White Canoe.

    There liv'd upon the Great Arm's brink[C],
    In that far day,
    The warlike Roanokes,
    The masters of the wilds:
    They warr'd on distant lands,
    This valiant nation, victors every where;
    Their shouts rung through the hollow oaks,
    That beetle over the Spirit Bay[D],
    Where the red elk comes to drink;
    The frozen clime of the Hunter's Star
    Rang shrill with the shout of their bands,
    And the whistle of their cress[E];
    And they fought the distant Cherokee,
    The Chickasaw, and the Muscogulgee,
    And the Sioux of the West.
    They liv'd for nought but war,
    Though now and then would be caught a view
    Of a Roanoke in a White Canoe.

    Among this tribe, this valiant tribe,
    Of brave and warlike Roanokes,
    Were two--a youth and maid,
    Who lov'd each other well,
    Long and fondly lov'd,
    Lov'd from the childish hour,
    When, through the bosky dell,
    Together they fondly rov'd,
    In quest of the little flower,
    That likes to bloom in the quiet shade
    Of the tall and stately oaks.
    The pale face calls it the violet--
    'Tis a beautiful child when its leaves are wet
    With the morning dew, and spread
    To the beam of the sun, and its little head
    Sinks low with the weight of the tear
    That gems its pale blue eye,
    Causing it to lie
    Like a maiden whose heart is broke.--
    Does my brother hear?

    He hears my words--'tis well--
    The names of this fond youth and maid
    Tell who they were,
    For he was Annawan, the Brave,
    And she Pequida, the girl of the braid,
    The fairest of the fair.
    Her foot was the foot of the nimble doe,
    That flies from a cruel carcajou,
    Deeming speed the means to save;
    Her eyes were the eyes of the yellow owl,
    That builds his nest by the River of Fish;
    Her hair was black as the wings of the fowl[F]
    That drew this world from the great abyss.
    Small and plump was her hand;
    Small and slender her foot;
    And, when she opened her lips to sing,
    Ripe red lips, soft sweet lips,
    Lips like the flower that the honey-bee sips,
    The birds in the grove were mute,
    The bittern forgot his toot,
    And the owl forbore his hoot,
    And the king-bird set his wing,
    And the woodpecker ceas'd his tap
    On the hollow beech,
    And the son of the loon on the neighbouring strand
    Gave over his idle screech,
    And fell to sleep in his mother's lap.

    And she was good as fair,
    This maid of the Roanokes;
    She was mild as a day in spring;
    Morning, noon, and night,
    Young Pequida smil'd on all,
    But most on one.
    She smil'd more sweet if he were there,
    And her laugh more joyous run