The Dashing Torrent Rolled Onward, Unheeding That Bitter Despairing
Cry Of Human Agony, And The Bodies Of These Two, Hurried Into Eternity In
The Bloom Of Youth, Were Not Found For Some Days.
Mrs. De Forest did not
long survive the fate of her child.
The guide related to me another story in which my readers may be
interested, as it is one of the poetical legends of the Indians. It took
place in years now long gone by, when the Indians worshipped the Great
Spirit where they beheld such a manifestation of his power. Here, where
the presence of Deity made the forest ring, and the ground tremble, the
Indians offered a living sacrifice once a year, to be conveyed by the
water spirit to the unknown gulf. Annually, in the month of August, the
sachem gave the word, and fruits and flowers were stowed in a white canoe,
to be paddled by the fairest maiden among the tribes.
The tribe thought itself highly honoured when its turn came to float the
blooming offering to the shrine of the Great Spirit, and still more
honoured was the maid who was a fitting sacrifice.
Oronto, the proudest chief of the Senecas, had an only child named Lena.
This chief was a noted and dreaded warrior; over many a bloody fight his
single eagle plume had waved, and ever in battle he left the red track of
his hatchet and tomahawk. Years rolled by, and every one sent its summer
offering to the thunder god of the then unexplored Niagara. Oronto danced
at many a feast which followed the sacrificial gift, which his tribe had
rejoicingly given in their turn. He felt not for the fathers whose
children were thus taken from their wigwams, and committed to the grave of
the roaring waters. Calma, his wife, had fallen by a foeman's arrow, and
in the blood of his enemies he had terribly avenged his bereavement.
Fifteen years had passed since then, and the infant which Calma left had
matured into a beautiful maiden. The day of sacrifice came; it was the
year of the Senecas, and Lena was acknowledged to be the fairest maiden of
the tribe. The moonlit hour has come, the rejoicing dance goes on; Oronto
has, without a tear, parted from his child, to meet her in the happy
hunting-grounds where the Great Spirit reigns. The yell of triumph rises
from the assembled Indians. The white canoe, loosed by the sachems, has
shot from the bank, but ere it has sped from the shore another dancing
craft has gone forth upon the whirling water, and both have set out on a
voyage to eternity.
The first bears the offering, Lena, seated amidst fruits and flowers; the
second contains Oronto, the proud chief of the Senecas. Both seem to pause
on the verge of the descent, then together rise on the whirling rapids.
One mingled look of apprehension and affection is exchanged, and, while
the woods ring with the yells of the savages, Oronto and Lena plunge into
the abyss in their white canoes. [Footnote: I have given both these
anecdotes, as nearly as possible, in the bombastic language in which they
were related to me by the guide.]
This wild legend was told me by the guide in full view of the cataract,
and seemed so real and life-like that I was somewhat startled by being
accosted thus, by a voice speaking in a sharp nasal down-east twang:
"Well, stranger, I guess that's the finest water-power you've ever set
eyes on." My thoughts were likewise recalled to the fact that it was
necessary to put on an oilskin dress, and scramble down a very dilapidated
staircase to the Cave of the Winds, in order to "do" Niagara in the
"regulation manner." This cave is partly behind the American Fall, and is
the abode of howling winds and ceaseless eddies of spray. It is an
extremely good shower-bath, but the day was rather too cold to make that
luxury enjoyable. I went down another steep path, and, after crossing a
shaky foot-bridge over part of the Grand Rapids, ascended Prospect Tower,
a stone erection 45 feet high, built on the very verge of the Horse-shoe
Fall. It is said that people feel involuntary suicidal intentions while
standing on the balcony round this tower. I did not experience them
myself, possibly because my only companion was the half-tipsy Irish
drosky-driver. The view from this tower is awful: the edifice has been
twice swept away, and probably no strength of masonry could permanently
endure the wear of the rushing water at its base.
Down come those beauteous billows, as if eager for their terrible leap.
Along the ledge over which they fall they are still for one moment in a
sheet of clear, brilliant green; another, and down they fall like
cataracts of driven snow, chasing each other, till, roaring and hissing,
they reach the abyss, sending up a column of spray 100 feet in height. No
existing words can describe it, no painter can give the remotest idea of
it; it is the voice of the Great Creator, its name signifying, in the
beautiful language of the Iroquois, "The Thunder of Waters." Looking from
this tower, above you see the Grand Rapids, one dizzy sheet of leaping
foamy billows, and below you look, if you can, into the very caldron
itself, and see how the bright-green waves are lost in foam and mist; and
behind you look to shore, and shudder to think how the frail bridge by
which you came in another moment may be washed away. I felt as I came down
the trembling staircase that one wish of my life had been gratified in
seeing Niagara.
Some graves were recently discovered in Iris Island, with skeletons in a
sitting posture inside them, probably the remains of those aboriginal
races who here in their ignorance worshipped the Great Spirit, within the
sound of his almighty voice.
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