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Mark Twain > Life On The Mississippi > Chapter 59

Life On The Mississippi

Chapter 59

                         Legends and Scenery

WE added several passengers to our list, at La Crosse; among others
an old gentleman who had come to this north-western region
with the early settlers, and was familiar with every part of it.
Pardonably proud of it, too. He said--

'You'll find scenery between here and St. Paul that can give
the Hudson points. You'll have the Queen's Bluff--seven hundred
feet high, and just as imposing a spectacle as you can find anywheres;
and Trempeleau Island, which isn't like any other island in America,
I believe, for it is a gigantic mountain, with precipitous sides,
and is full of Indian traditions, and used to be full of rattlesnakes;
if you catch the sun just right there, you will have a picture that
will stay with you. And above Winona you'll have lovely prairies;
and then come the Thousand Islands, too beautiful for anything;
green? why you never saw foliage so green, nor packed so thick;
it's like a thousand plush cushions afloat on a looking-glass--
when the water 's still; and then the monstrous bluffs on both sides of
the river--ragged, rugged, dark-complected--just the frame that's wanted;
you always want a strong frame, you know, to throw up the nice points
of a delicate picture and make them stand out.'

The old gentleman also told us a touching Indian legend or two--
but not very powerful ones.

After this excursion into history, he came back to the scenery,
and described it, detail by detail, from the Thousand Islands
to St. Paul; naming its names with such facility, tripping along
his theme with such nimble and confident ease, slamming in a
three-ton word, here and there, with such a complacent air of 't
isn't-anything,-I-can-do-it-any-time-I-want-to, and letting off
fine surprises of lurid eloquence at such judicious intervals,
that I presently began to suspect--

But no matter what I began to suspect. Hear him--

'Ten miles above Winona we come to Fountain City, nestling sweetly at the feet
of cliffs that lift their awful fronts, Jovelike, toward the blue depths
of heaven, bathing them in virgin atmospheres that have known no other contact
save that of angels' wings.

'And next we glide through silver waters, amid lovely and stupendous
aspects of nature that attune our hearts to adoring admiration,
about twelve miles, and strike Mount Vernon, six hundred feet high,
with romantic ruins of a once first-class hotel perched
far among the cloud shadows that mottle its dizzy heights--
sole remnant of once-flourishing Mount Vernon, town of early days,
now desolate and utterly deserted.

'And so we move on. Past Chimney Rock we fly--noble shaft of six
hundred feet; then just before landing at Minnieska our attention is
attracted by a most striking promontory rising over five hundred feet--
the ideal mountain pyramid. Its conic shape--thickly-wooded surface
girding its sides, and its apex like that of a cone, cause the spectator
to wonder at nature's workings. From its dizzy heights superb views
of the forests, streams, bluffs, hills and dales below and beyond
for miles are brought within its focus. What grander river scenery
can be conceived, as we gaze upon this enchanting landscape,
from the uppermost point of these bluffs upon the valleys below?
The primeval wildness and awful loneliness of these sublime creations
of nature and nature's God, excite feelings of unbounded admiration,
and the recollection of which can never be effaced from the memory,
as we view them in any direction.

'Next we have the Lion's Head and the Lioness's Head, carved by
nature's hand, to adorn and dominate the beauteous stream;
and then anon the river widens, and a most charming and magnificent
view of the valley before us suddenly bursts upon our vision;
rugged hills, clad with verdant forests from summit to base,
level prairie lands, holding in their lap the beautiful Wabasha,
City of the Healing Waters, puissant foe of Bright's disease,
and that grandest conception of nature's works, incomparable Lake Pepin--
these constitute a picture whereon the tourist's eye may gaze
uncounted hours, with rapture unappeased and unappeasable.

'And so we glide along; in due time encountering those majestic domes,
the mighty Sugar Loaf, and the sublime Maiden's Rock--which latter,
romantic superstition has invested with a voice; and oft-times
as the birch canoe glides near, at twilight, the dusky paddler
fancies he hears the soft sweet music of the long-departed Winona,
darling of Indian song and story.

'Then Frontenac looms upon our vision, delightful resort of jaded
summer tourists; then progressive Red Wing; and Diamond Bluff, impressive and
preponderous in its lone sublimity; then Prescott and the St. Croix;
and anon we see bursting upon us the domes and steeples of St. Paul,
giant young chief of the North, marching with seven-league stride in
the van of progress, banner-bearer of the highest and newest civilization,
carving his beneficent way with the tomahawk of commercial enterprise,
sounding the warwhoop of Christian culture, tearing off the reeking scalp
of sloth and superstition to plant there the steam-plow and the school-house--
ever in his front stretch arid lawlessness, ignorance, crime, despair;
ever in his wake bloom the jail, the gallows, and the pulpit; and ever----'

'Have you ever traveled with a panorama?'

'I have formerly served in that capacity.'

My suspicion was confirmed.

'Do you still travel with it?'

'No, she is laid up till the fall season opens. I am helping now to work up
the materials for a Tourist's Guide which the St. Louis and St. Paul Packet
Company are going to issue this summer for the benefit of travelers who go
by that line.'

'When you were talking of Maiden's Rock, you spoke of
the long-departed Winona, darling of Indian song and story.
Is she the maiden of the rock?--and are the two connected by legend?'

'Yes, and a very tragic and painful one. Perhaps the most celebrated,
as well as the most pathetic, of all the legends of the Mississippi.'

We asked him to tell it. He dropped out of his conversational
vein and back into his lecture-gait without an effort,
and rolled on as follows--

'A little distance above Lake City is a famous point known
as Maiden's Rock, which is not only a picturesque spot, but is
full of romantic interest from the event which gave it its name,
Not many years ago this locality was a favorite resort for the Sioux
Indians on account of the fine fishing and hunting to be had there,
and large numbers of them were always to be found in this locality.
Among the families which used to resort here, was one belonging
to the tribe of Wabasha. We-no-na (first-born) was the name
of a maiden who had plighted her troth to a lover belonging
to the same band. But her stern parents had promised her hand
to another, a famous warrior, and insisted on her wedding him.
The day was fixed by her parents, to her great grief.
She appeared to accede to the proposal and accompany them to
the rock, for the purpose of gathering flowers for the feast.
On reaching the rock, We-no-na ran to its summit and standing on
its edge upbraided her parents who were below, for their cruelty,
and then singing a death-dirge, threw herself from the precipice and
dashed them in pieces on the rock below.'

'Dashed who in pieces--her parents?'


'Well, it certainly was a tragic business, as you say.
And moreover, there is a startling kind of dramatic surprise
about it which I was not looking for. It is a distinct
improvement upon the threadbare form of Indian legend.
There are fifty Lover's Leaps along the Mississippi from whose
summit disappointed Indian girls have jumped, but this is the only
jump in the lot hat turned out in the right and satisfactory way.
What became of Winona?'

'She was a good deal jarred up and jolted: but she got herself
together and disappeared before the coroner reached the fatal spot;
and 'tis said she sought and married her true love, and wandered
with him to some distant clime, where she lived happy ever after,
her gentle spirit mellowed and chastened by the romantic incident
which had so early deprived her of the sweet guidance of a mother's
love and a father's protecting arm, and thrown her, all unfriended,
upon the cold charity of a censorious world.'

I was glad to hear the lecturer's description of the scenery,
for it assisted my appreciation of what I saw of it, and enabled
me to imagine such of it as we lost by the intrusion of night.

As the lecturer remarked, this whole region is blanketed with Indian
tales and traditions. But I reminded him that people usually merely
mention this fact--doing it in a way to make a body's mouth water--
and judiciously stopped there. Why? Because the impression left,
was that these tales were full of incident and imagination--a pleasant
impression which would be promptly dissipated if the tales were told.
I showed him a lot of this sort of literature which I had been collecting,
and he confessed that it was poor stuff, exceedingly sorry rubbish;
and I ventured to add that the legends which he had himself told us
were of this character, with the single exception of the admirable
story of Winona. He granted these facts, but said that if I would
hunt up Mr. Schoolcraft's book, published near fifty years ago,
and now doubtless out of print, I would find some Indian inventions
in it that were very far from being barren of incident and imagination;
that the tales in Hiawatha were of this sort, and they came from
Schoolcraft's book; and that there were others in the same book
which Mr. Longfellow could have turned into verse with good effect.
For instance, there was the legend of 'The Undying Head.'
He could not tell it, for many of the details had grown dim
in his memory; but he would recommend me to find it and enlarge
my respect for the Indian imagination. He said that this tale,
and most of the others in the book, were current among the Indians
along this part of the Mississippi when he first came here;
and that the contributors to Schoolcraft's book had got them directly
from Indian lips, and had written them down with strict exactness,
and without embellishments of their own.

I have found the book. The lecturer was right. There are several
legends in it which confirm what he said. I will offer two of them--'The
Undying Head,' and 'Peboan and Seegwun, an Allegory of the Seasons.'
The latter is used in Hiawatha; but it is worth reading in the original form,
if only that one may see how effective a genuine poem can be without
the helps and graces of poetic measure and rhythm--

                         PEBOAN AND SEEGWUN.

An old man was sitting alone in his lodge, by the side
of a frozen stream. It was the close of winter, and his fire
was almost out, He appeared very old and very desolate.
His locks were white with age, and he trembled in every joint.
Day after day passed in solitude, and he heard nothing but the sound
of the tempest, sweeping before it the new-fallen snow.

One day, as his fire was just dying, a handsome young man approached
and entered his dwelling. His cheeks were red with the blood of youth,
his eyes sparkled with animation, and a smile played upon his lips.
He walked with a light and quick step. His forehead was bound
with a wreath of sweet grass, in place of a warrior's frontlet,
and he carried a bunch of flowers in his hand.

'Ah, my son,' said the old man, 'I am happy to see you.
Come in. Come and tell me of your adventures, and what strange
lands you have been to see. Let us pass the night together.
I will tell you of my prowess and exploits, and what I can perform.
You shall do the same, and we will amuse ourselves.'

He then drew from his sack a curiously wrought antique pipe,
and having filled it with tobacco, rendered mild by a mixture
of certain leaves, handed it to his guest. When this ceremony
was concluded they began to speak.

'I blow my breath,' said the old man, 'and the stream stands still.
The water becomes stiff and hard as clear stone.'

'I breathe,' said the young man, 'and flowers spring up over the plain.'

'I shake my locks,' retorted the old man, 'and snow covers the land.
The leaves fall from the trees at my command, and my breath blows them away.
The birds get up from the water, and fly to a distant land.
The animals hide themselves from my breath, and the very ground becomes as
hard as flint.'

'I shake my ringlets,' rejoined the young man, 'and warm showers
of soft rain fall upon the earth. The plants lift up their heads
out of the earth, like the eyes of children glistening with delight.
My voice recalls the birds. The warmth of my breath unlocks the streams.
Music fills the groves wherever I walk, and all nature rejoices.'

At length the sun began to rise. A gentle warmth came
over the place. The tongue of the old man became silent.
The robin and bluebird began to sing on the top of the lodge.
The stream began to murmur by the door, and the fragrance of growing
herbs and flowers came softly on the vernal breeze.

Daylight fully revealed to the young man the character of his entertainer.
When he looked upon him, he had the icy visage of Peboan.[Winter.]> Streams began to flow from his eyes. As the sun increased,
he grew less and less in stature, and anon had melted completely away.
Nothing remained on the place of his lodge-fire but the miskodeed,[The trailing arbutus.]> a small white flower, with a pink border, which is
one of the earliest species of northern plants.

'The Undying Head' is a rather long tale, but it makes up in weird conceits,
fairy-tale prodigies, variety of incident, and energy of movement,
for what it lacks in brevity.

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