University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
THE INDIANS' ACCOUNT OF THE CREATION.

I NOW became almost thoroughly an Indian.
The clash and struggle of the world
below had ground upon my nerves, and I
was glad to get away. Perhaps by nature I inclined
to the dreamy and careless life of the Arabs of
America; certainly my sympathies had always been
with them, and now my whole heart and soul entered
into the wild life in the forest. In fact from the first
few months I had spent with these people—a sort of
prisoner—I had a keen but inexpressed desire to be
with them and them alone.

Now my desire was wholly gratified. I had seen
my last, my only friend depart, and had shut the
door behind him with a slam—a sort of fierce delight
that I should be left alone in the wilderness.

No more plans for getting money; no more reproach
from fast and clever men who managed the
lower world; no more insults from the coarse and
insolent; no more bumping of my head against the

customs and proprieties of a half, and hence tyrannical,
civilization;—nothing, it seemed to me now, but
rest, freedom, absolute independence.

Did I dread and fear the primeval curse that God
has put upon all men, and so seek to hide away from
Him in the dark deep forests of Shasta?

I think not. I think rather that all men have
more or less of the Arab in their natures; and but
for the struggles for gold, the eddies and currents of
commerce, and the emulation of men in art, and the
like, we should soon become gipsies, Druids, and
wanderers in the wild and fragrant woods that would
then repossess the lands.

Maybe after a while, when the children of men are
tired and weary of the golden toy they will throw it
away, rise up and walk out into the woods, never
more to return to cities, to toil, to strife, to thraldom.

But the Indian's life to an active mind is monotonous,
and so I found it there; listless, dull and
almost melancholy. We rode, we fished, we hunted,
and hunted, and fished, and rode, and that was nearly
all we could do by day. If, however, we had no
intense delights we had no great concern. We
dreamed dreams and built castles higher than the
blue columns of smoke that moved towards the
heavens through the dense black boughs above. And
so the seasons wore away.

Under all this, of course, there was another

current, deep and exhaustless. Indians have their
loves, and as they have but little else, these fill up
most of their lives. That I had mine I do not deny;
and how much this had to do with my remaining
here I do not care to say. Nor can I bring my will
to write of myself in this connection. These things
must remain untold. They were sincere then, and
shall be sacred now.

At night, when no wars or excitement of any kind
stirred the village, they would gather in the chief's
or other great bark lodges around the fires, and tell
and listen to stories; a red wall of men in a great
circle, the women a little back, and the children still
behind, asleep in the skins and blankets. How silent!
You never hear but one voice at a time in an Indian
village.

The Indians say the Great Spirit made this mountain
first of all. Can you not see how it is? they
say. He first pushed down snow and ice from the
skies through a hole which he made in the blue
heavens by turning a stone round and round, till
he made this great mountain, then he stepped out
of the clouds on to the mountain top, and descended
and planted the tree all around by putting his finger
on the ground. Simple and sublime!

The sun melted the snow, and the water ran down
and nurtured the trees and made the rivers. After
that he made the fish for the rivers out of the small

end of his staff. He made the birds by blowing
some leaves which he took up from the ground
among the trees. After that he made the beasts out
of the remainder of his stick, but made the grizzly
bear out of the big end, and made him master over
all the others. He made the grizzly so strong that
he feared him himself, and would have to go up on
the top of the mountain out of sight of the forest to
sleep at night, lest the grizzly, who, as will be seen,
was much more strong and cunning then than now,
should assail him in his sleep. Afterwards, the
Great Spirit wishing to remain on earth, and make
the sea and some more land, he converted Mount
Shasta by a great deal of labour into a wigwam, and
built a fire in the centre of it and made it a pleasant
home. After that his family came down, and they
all have lived in the mountain ever since. They say
that before the white man came they could see the
fire ascending from the mountain by night and the
smoke by day, every time they chose to look in that
direction.

This, I have no doubt, is true. Mount Shasta is
even now, in one sense of the word, an active volcano.
Sometimes only hot steam, bringing up with
it a fine powdered sulphur, staining yellow the snow
and ice, is thrown off. Then again boiling water,
clear at one time and then muddy enough, boils up
through the fissures and flows off into a little pool

within a hundred feet of the summit. It is very
unsettled and uncertain. Sometimes you hear most
unearthly noises even a mile from the little crater, as
you ascend, and when you approach, a tumult like a
thousand engines with whistles of as many keys;
then again you find the mountain on its good behavior
and sober enough.

Once it was thought a rare achievement to make
the ascent of Mount Shasta; now I find that almost
every summer some travellers and residents make
the ascent. This must not be undertaken, however,
when the arid sage brush plains of the east are
drawing the winds across from the sea. You would
at such a time be blown through the clouds like a
feather.

Two days only are required to make the crater
from the ranches in Shasta valley at the north
base of the mountain. The first day you ride
through the dense forest—a hard day's journey indeed—up
to the snow line, where you sleep, leave
your horses, and with pike and staff confront the ice
and snow.

I ascended this mountain the last time more than
fifteen years ago. It was soon after I first returned
to the Indians. I acted as guide for some travelling,
solemn, self-important-looking missionaries in black
clothes, spectacles and beaver hats. They gave me
some tracts, and paid me for my services in prayers

and sermons. The memories of the trip were so
unpleasant that I never had courage or desire to
undertake it again.

There is but one incident in it all that I have ever
recalled with pleasure. I had come out of the forest
like a shadow, timid, shrinking, sensitive, to these
men: like an Indian, eager to lead them, to do them
any service for some kind words, some sympathy,
some recognition from these great, good men, wise
and learned, who professed to stand so near the
throne eternal, who were so anxious for the heathen.
I led and fed and watered and groomed their horses.
I watched while they slept, spread their blankets
beneath the trees on the dry soil, folded and packed
them, headed the gorges, shunned the chaparral
and bore on my own shoulders all the toils, and took
on my own breast all the dangers of the day. I
found them the most sour, selfish, and ungrateful
wretches on earth. But I led them to the summit
—two of them only—panting, blowing, groaning at
every step. The others had sat down on blocks of
ice and snow below. These two did not remain a
moment. They did not even lift their eyes to the
glory that lay to the right or to the left. What to
them was the far faint line of the sea to the west;
the long white lakes that looked like snow drifts, a
hundred miles away to the east? Had they not
been on the summit? Had they not said a prayer

and left tracts there? Could they not have that to
say, to report, to write about? Was all this not
enough?

Hastily, indeed, they muttered something, hurriedly
drew some tracts from their pockets, brought far
away into this wilderness by these wise, good men,
for the benighted heathen, then turned as if afraid
to stay, and retraced their steps.

I hated these men, so manifestly unfit for anything
like a Christian act—despised them, not their
books or their professed work. When I had swept
my eyes around on the space below and photographed
the world for myself, I turned and saw
these tract-leaves fluttering at my feet, in the wind,
in the snow, like the wings of a wounded bird. A
strange, fierce fit of inspiration possessed me then. I
drew my bowie-knife, drove it through the open,
fluttering leaves, and pinned them to the snow, then
turned to descend the mountain, with a chuckle of
delight.

These wild people of the forest about the base of
Mount Shasta, by their valour, their savage defiance
of the white man, and many commendable traits,
make good their claim to be called the first of the
land. They are much nobler, physically, than any
other tribes of Indians found between the Nez-Perces
of the north and the Apaches of the south. They
raise no grain, rarely dig roots, but subsist chiefly on
meat, acorn bread, nuts and fish.

These Indians have a great thirst for knowledge,
particularly of the location and extent of countries.
They are great travellers. The fact is, all Indians
are great travellers. In any tribe, even in the deserts
of Arizona, or the tribes of the plains, you will find
guides who can lead you directly to the sea to the
west, or the Sierras to the east. A traveller with
them is always a guest. He repays the hospitality
he receives by relating his travels and telling of the
various tribes he has visited, their extent, location,
and strength. No matter if the traveller is from a
hostile tribe, he is treated well and allowed to pass
through any part of the country, and go and come
when he likes. Having no fortresses, and being
constantly on the move, makes it perfectly safe for
them to let their camps and locations be known to all.

A story-teller is held in great repute; but he is
not permitted to lie or romance under any circumstances.
All he says must bear the stamp of truth,
or he is disgraced forever. Telling stories, their
history, traditions, travels, and giving and receiving
lessons in geography, are their chief diversion
around their camp and wigwam fires at night;
except the popular and never-exhausted subject of
their wars with the white man, and the wrongs of
their race.

Geography is taught by making maps in the sand
or ashes with a stick. For example, the sea a hundred

miles away is taken as a base. A long line is drawn
there, and rivers are led into the sea by little
crooked marks in the sand. Then sand or ashes are
heaped or thrown in ridges to show the ranges of
mountains.

This tribe is defined as having possessions of such
and such an extent on the sea. Another tribe
reaches up this river so far to the east of that tribe,
and so on, till a thousand miles of the coast are
mapped out with tolerable accuracy. In these exercises
each traveller, or any one who by his age,
observation, or learning, is supposed to know, is
expected to contribute his stock of information, and
aid in drawing the chart correctly. I have seen the
great Willamette valley, hundreds of miles away,
which they call Pooakan Charook, very well drawn,
and the location of Mount Hood pointed out with
precision. They also chart out the great Sacramento
valley, which they call Noorkan Charook,
or South Valley. This valley, however, although
a hundred miles away, is almost in sight. They
trace the Sacramento River correctly, with its
crooks and deviations, to the sea.

Their code of morals, which consists chiefly of a
contempt of death, a certainty of life after death,
temperance in all things, and sincerity, is taught by
old men too old for war; and these lessons are given
seldom, generally after some death or disaster, when

the young men are depressed and not disposed to
listen to tales or take part in any exercises around
the camp. The women never attempt to teach anything,
or even to correct the children. In fact, the
children are rarely corrected. To tell the truth,
they are not at all vicious. I recall no rudeness
on their part, or disrespect for their parents or
travellers. They were fortyfold more civil than
are the children of the whites.

Quite likely this is because they have not so
many temptations to do wrong as white children
have. They have a natural outlet for all their energies;
they can hunt, fish, trap, dive and swim,
run in the woods, ride, shoot, throw the lance, do
anything they like in like directions, and only receive
praise for their achievements.

There is a story published that these Indians will
not ascend Mount Shasta for fear of the Great
Spirit there. This is only partly true. They will
not ascend the mountain above the timber line
under any circumstances; but it is not fear of either
good or evil spirit that restrains them. It is their
profound veneration for the Good Spirit: the Great
Spirit who dwells in this mountain with his people as
in a tent.

This mountain, as I said before, they hold is his
wigwam, and the opening at the top whence the
smoke and steam escapes is the smoke-place of his

lodge, and the entrance also from the earth. Another
mistake, which I wish to correct, is the statement
of one writer, that they claim the grizzly bear
as a fallen brother, and for this reason refuse to kill
or molest him. This is far from the truth. Instead
of the grizzly bear being a bad Indian undergoing a
sort of purgatory for his sins, he is held to be a propagator
of their race.

The Indian account of their creation is briefly
this. They say that one late and severe spring-time
many thousand snows ago, there was a great storm
about the summit of Shasta, and that the great Spirit
sent his youngest and fairest daughter, of whom he
was very fond, up to the hole in the top, bidding her
speak to the storm that came up from the sea, and
tell it to be more gentle or it would blow the mountain
over. He bade her do this hastily, and not
put her head out, lest the wind would catch her in
the hair and blow her away. He told her she should
only thrust out her long red arm and make a sing,
and then speak to the storm without.

The child hastened to the top, and did as she was
bid, and was about to return, but having never yet
seen the ocean, where the wind was born and made
his home, when it was white with the storm, she
stopped, turned, and put her head out to look that
way, when lo! the storm caught in her long red hair,
and blew her out and away down and down the

mountain side. Here she could not fix her feet in
the hard, smooth ice and snow, and so slid on and on
down to the dark belt of firs below the snow rim.

Now, the grizzly bears possessed all the wood and
all the land even down to the sea at that time, and
were very numerous and very powerful. They were
not exactly beasts then, although they were covered
with hair, lived in caves, and had sharp claws; but
they walked on two legs, and talked, and used clubs
to fight with, instead of their teeth and claws as they
do now.

At this time, there was a family of grizzlies
living close up to the snow. The mother had lately
brought forth, and the father was out in quest of
food for the young, when, as he returned with his
club on his shoulder and a young elk in his left hand,
he saw this little child, red like fire, hid under a fir-bush,
with her long hair trailing in the snow, and
shivering with fright and cold. Not knowing what
to make of her, he took her to the old mother, who
was very learned in all things, and asked her what
this fair and frail thing was that he had found shivering
under a fir-bush in the snow. The old mother
Grizzly, who had things pretty much her own way,
bade him leave the child with her, but never mention
it to any one, and she would share her breast
with her, and bring her up with the other children,
and maybe some great good would come of it.

The old mother reared her as she promised to do,
and the old hairy father went out every day with his
club on his shoulder to get food for his family till
they were all grown up, and able to do for themselves.

“Now,” said the old mother Grizzly to the old
father Grizzly, as he stood his club by the door and
sat down one day, “our oldest son is quite grown
up, and must have a wife. Now, who shall it be but
the little red creature you found in the snow under
the black fir-bush.” So the old grizzly father kissed
her, said she was very wise, then took up his club
on his shoulder, and went out and killed some meat
for the marriage feast.

They married, and were very happy, and many
children were born to them. But, being part of
the Great Spirit and part of the grizzly bear, these
children did not exactly resemble either of their
parents, but partook somewhat of the nature and
likeness of both. Thus was the red man created; for
these children were the first Indians.

All the other grizzlies throughout the black
forests, even down to the sea, were very proud and
very kind, and met together, and, with their united
strength, built for the lovely little red princess a
wigwam close to that of her father, the Great Spirit.
This is what is now called “Little Mount Shasta.”

After many years, the old mother Grizzly felt

that she soon must die; and, fearing that she had
done wrong in detaining the child of the Great Spirit,
she could not rest till she had seen him and restored
him his long-lost treasure, and asked his forgiveness.

With this object in view, she gathered together all
the grizzlies at the new and magnificent lodge built
for the Princess and her children, and then sent her
eldest grandson to the summit of Mount Shasta, in
a cloud, to speak to the Great Spirit and tell him
where he could find his long-lost daughter.

When the Great Spirit heard this he was so glad
that he ran down the mountain-side on the south so
fast and strong that the snow was melted off in
places, and the tokens of his steps remain to this
day. The grizzlies went out to meet him by
thousands; and as he approached they stood apart
in two great lines, with their clubs under their arms,
and so opened a lane by which he passed in great
state to the lodge where his daughter sat with her
children.

But when he saw the children, and learned how
the grizzlies that he had created had betrayed
him into the creation of a new race, he was very
wroth, and frowned on the old mother Grizzly till
she died on the spot. At this the grizzlies all set
up a dreadful howl; but he took his daughter on
his shoulder, and turning to all the grizzlies, bade

them hold their tongues, get down on their hands
and knees, and so remain till he returned. They
did as they were bid, and he closed the door of the
lodge after him, drove all the children out into the
world, passed out and up the mountain, and never
returned to the timber any more.

So the grizzlies could not rise up any more, or
use their clubs, but have ever since had to go on all-fours,
much like other beasts, except when they have to
fight for their lives, when the Great Spirit permits them
to stand up and fight with their fists like men.

That is why the Indians about Mount Shasta will
never kill or interfere in any way with a grizzly.
Whenever one of their number is killed by one of
these kings of the forest, he is burned on the spot,
and all who pass that way for years cast a stone
on the place till a great pile is thrown up.
Fortunately, however, grizzlies are not plentiful
about the mountain.

In proof of the truth of the story that the grizzly
once walked and stood erect, and was much like a
man, they show that he has scarcely any tail, and
that his arms are a great deal shorter than his
legs, and that they are more like a man than any
other animal.

These Indians burn their dead. I have looked into
this, and, for my part, I should at the last like to be
disposed of as a savage.

There is no such thing as absolute independence.
You must ask for bread when you come into the
world, and will ask for water when about to leave it.
Freedom of body is equally a myth, and a demagogue's
text; though freedom of mind is a certainty,
and within the reach of all, grand duke or galley-slave,
peasant or prince.

Since we are always more or less dependent, a wise
and just man will seek to make the load as light as
possible on his fellows. Socrates disliked to trouble
even so humble and coarse a person as his jailer.
Mahomet mended his own clothes, and Confucius
waited on himself till too feeble to lift a hand.

If these wise men were careful not to take the time
of others to themselves, when living and capable of
doing or saying something for the good of their fellows
in return, how much more careful we should be
not to do so when dead—when we can help nothing
whatever, and nothing whatever can help or
harm us!

Holding this, I earnestly desire that my body
shall be burned, as soon as the breath has left
it, in the sheets in which I die, without any delay,
ceremony, or preparation, beyond the building of
a fire. There shall be no tomb or inscription of
any kind. If a man does any great good, history
will take note of it. If he has true friends, he will
live in their hearts while they live, and that is

certainly as long as he could live on marble, in a village
churchyard, or elsewhere.

The waste of toil and money, which means
time, taken from the poor and needy by the strong
and wealthy, in conducting funerals and celebrating
doubtful virtues by building monuments, is something
enormous. Even good taste, to say nothing
of this great sacrifice of time, should rise above a
desire to ride to the grave in a hundred empty
carriages, and crop up through the grass in shameless
boast of all the virtues possible, chiselled
there. Particularly in an age when successful soap-boilers,
or packers of pork, rival the most refined
in the elegance of tombs and flourish of epitaphs.
Another good reason why I protest against this
display about the dead, is that so much is done
about the worthless and worn-out body, that the
mind is constantly directed down into the dismal
grave, instead of being lifted to the light of heaven
with the immortal spirit. One good reason is enough
for anything.

Besides, there is a waste of land in the present
custom that is inexcusable. Remember, all waste
time, all waste labour, all waste land, is loss. That
loss must be borne by some one, some portion of the
country; and it is not the wealthy or refined who
must bear it. True, they may directly take the
money from their purses, but indirectly all such losses

are borne by the poor. Sift it down and you will see.

Death to the poor man is a terrible thing, made
tenfold terrible by the present custom of interment.
He sees that even in death there is a distinction
between him and his master, and that he is still
despised. The rich man goes to his marble vault,
which is to the poor a palace, in pomp and display of
carriages, attended by the dignitaries of the Church,
while he, the poor and despised, is quietly carted
away to a little corner set apart for the poor. Of
course, a strong and philosophic mind would laugh
at this, but to the poor it is a fearful contrast.
“Death is in the world,” and throws a shadow on
the poor that may, in part, be lifted when all are
interred alike—burned in one common fire.

These Indians, as I have before intimated, never
question the immortality of the soul. Their fervid
natures and vivid imaginations make the spirit world
beautiful beyond description, but it is an Indian's
picture, not a Christian's or Mahomedan's. No city set
upon a hill, no places curtained in silk and peopled
by beautiful women: woods, deep, dark, boundless,
with parks of game and running rivers; and above
and beyond all, not a white man there.

I have seen half-civilized Indians who are first-rate
disbelievers, but never one who is left to think
for himself. When an Indian tries to understand
our religion he stumbles, as he does when he tries to
understand us in other things.

The marriage ceremony of these people is not imposing.
The father gives a great feast, to which all
are invited, but the bride and bridegroom do not
partake of food. A new lodge is erected and furnished
more elegant than any other of the village,
by the women, each vieing with the other to do
the best in providing their simple articles of the
Indian household.

In the evening, while the feast goes on and the
father's lodge is full of guests, the women and
children come to the lodge with a great number of
pitch torches, and two women enter and take the
bride away between them: the men all the time
taking no heed of what goes on. They take her to
the lodge, chanting as they go, and making a great
flourish with their torches. Late at night the men
rise up, and the father and mother, or those standing
in their stead, take the groom between them to the
lodge, while the same flourish of torches and chant
goes on as before. They take him into the lodge
and set him on the robes by the bride. This time
the torches are not put out, but are laid one after
another in the centre of the lodge. And this is the
first fire of the new pair, which must not be allowed
to die out for some time. In fact, as a rule, in time
of peace Indians never let their lodge-fires go out so
long as they remain in one place.

When all the torches are laid down and the fire

[ILLUSTRATION]

THE INDIAN BRIDAL.

[Description: 645EAF. Illustration page. A young Indian woman, looking despondant, is led by a male Indian and another female Indian, both carrying burning torches. In the background are more Indians, following the procession, also carrying torches. There is a teepee off to the left. ]

burns bright, they are supposed to be married. The
ceremony is over, and the company go away in the
dark.

Late in the fall, the old chief made the marriage-feast,
and at that feast neither I not his daughter
took meat......