Bridge of the Gods A Romance of Indian Oregon. 19th Edition.

Homer Balch Frederic

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Encouraged by the steady demand for Mr. Balch's The Bridge of the Gods, since its publication twelve years ago, the publishers have decided to issue a new edition beautified with drawings from the pencil of Mr. L. Maynard Dixon. This tale of the Indians of the far West has fairly earned its lasting popularity, not only by the intense interest of the story, but by its faithful delineations of Indian character.

Informations

• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 23 octobre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819907091
• Langue: English

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PUBLISHERS' NOTE
Encouraged by the steady demand for Mr. Balch's "TheBridge of the Gods," since its publication twelve years ago, thepublishers have decided to issue a new edition beautified withdrawings from the pencil of Mr. L. Maynard Dixon. This tale of theIndians of the far West has fairly earned its lasting popularity,not only by the intense interest of the story, but by its faithfuldelineations of Indian character.
In his boyhood Mr. Balch enjoyed exceptionalopportunities to inform himself regarding the character and mannersof the Indians: he visited them in their homes, watched theirindustries, heard their legends, saw their gambling games, listenedto their conversation; he questioned the Indians and the whitepioneers, and he read many books for information on Indian history,traditions, and legends. By personal inquiry among old natives helearned that the Bridge which suggested the title of his romancewas no fabric of the imagination, but was a great natural bridgethat in early days spanned the Columbia, and later, according totradition, was destroyed by an earthquake.
Before his death the author had the satisfaction ofknowing that his work was stamped with the approval of the pressand the public; his satisfaction would have been more completecould he have foreseen that that approval would be so lasting. JULY1, 1902.
PREFACE.
In attempting to present with romantic setting atruthful and realistic picture of the powerful and picturesqueIndian tribes that inhabited the Oregon country two centuries ago,the author could not be indifferent to the many seriousdifficulties inseparable from such an enterprise. Of the literarysuccess with which his work has been accomplished, he must ofcourse leave others to judge; but he may without immodesty speakbriefly of his preparation for his task, and of the foundation ofsome of the facts and legends which form the framework of hisstory. Indian life and character have long been a favorite studywith him, and in these pages he has attempted to describe them, notfrom an ideal standpoint, but as he knew them in his own boyhood onthe Upper Columbia. Many of the incidents related in the story havecome under his personal observation; others have been told him byaged pioneers, or gleaned from old books of Northwestern travel.The every-day life of the Indians, their food, their dress, theirmethods of making their mats, of building their houses, of shapingtheir canoes, their gambling games, their religious beliefs, theirlegends, their subjects of conversation, the sports and pastimes oftheir children, – all these have been studied at first hand, andwith the advantages of familiar and friendly intercourse with thesepeople in their own homes. By constant questioning, many facts havebeen gained regarding their ancestry, and the fragments of history,tradition, and legend that have come down from them. Indianantiquities have been studied through every available source ofinformation. All the antiquarian collections in Oregon andCalifornia have been consulted, old trading-posts visited, and oldpioneers and early missionaries conversed with. Nothing has beendiscarded as trivial or insignificant that could aid in theslightest degree in affording an insight into Indian character andcustoms of a by-gone age.
As to the great Confederacy of the Wauna, it may besaid that Gray's "History of Oregon" tells us of an alliance ofseveral tribes on the Upper Columbia for mutual protection anddefence; and students of Northwestern history will recall the greatconfederacy that the Yakima war-chief Kamyakin formed against thewhites in the war of 1856, when the Indian tribes were in revoltfrom the British Possessions to the California line. Signal-firesannouncing war against the whites leaped from hill to hill,flashing out in the night, till the line of fire beginning at thewild Okanogan ended a thousand miles south, on the foot-hills ofMount Shasta. Knowing such a confederacy as this to be anhistorical fact, there seems nothing improbable in that part of thelegend which tells us that in ancient times the Indian tribes oneither side of the Cascade Range united under the great war-chiefMultnomah against their hereditary foes the Shoshones. Even thiswould not be so extensive a confederacy as that which Kamyakinformed a hundred and fifty years later.
It may be asked if there was ever a great naturalbridge over the Columbia, – a "Bridge of the Gods," such as thelegend describes. The answer is emphatically, "Yes." Everywherealong the mid-Columbia the Indians tell of a great bridge that oncespanned the river where the cascades now are, but where at thattime the placid current flowed under an arch of stone; that thisbridge was tomanowos , built by the gods; that the GreatSpirit shook the earth, and the bridge crashed down into the river,forming the present obstruction of the cascades. All of theColumbian tribes tell this story, in different versions and indifferent dialects, but all agreeing upon its essential features asone of the great facts of their past history. " Ancutta (longtime back)," say the Tumwater Indians, "the salmon he no passTumwater falls. It too much big leap. Snake Indian he no catch umfish above falls. By and by great tomanowos bridge atcascades he fall in, dam up water, make river higher all way up toTumwater; then salmon he get over. Then Snake Indian all time catchum plenty." "My father talk one time," said an old Klickitat to apioneer at White Salmon, Washington; "long time ago liddle boy, himin canoe, his mother paddle, paddle up Columbia, then come to tomanowos bridge. Squaw paddle canoe under; all dark underbridge. He look up, all like one big roof, shut out sky, no see umsun. Indian afraid, paddle quick, get past soon, no good. Liddleboy no forget how bridge look."
Local proof also is not wanting. In the fall, whenthe freshets are over and the waters of the Columbia are clear, onegoing out in a small boat just above the cascades and looking downinto the transparent depths can see submerged forest trees beneathhim, still standing upright as they stood before the bridge fell inand the river was raised above them. It is a strange, weird sight,this forest beneath the river; the waters wash over the brokentree-tops, fish swim among the leafless branches: it is desolate,spectre-like, beyond all words. Scientific men who have examinedthe field with a view to determining the credibility of the legendabout the bridge are convinced that it is essentially true.Believed in by many tribes, attested by the appearance of thelocality, and confirmed by geological investigation, it is surelyentitled to be received as a historic fact.
The shipwreck of an Oriental vessel on the Oregoncoast, which furnishes one of the most romantic elements in ourstory, is an altogether probable historic incident, as explainedmore fully in a foot-note on page 75.
The spelling of Indian names, in which authoritiesdiffer so widely, has been made as accurate as possible; and, as inthe name "Wallulah," the oldest and most Indian-like form has beenchosen. An exception has been made in the case of the modernizedand corrupted "Willamette," which is used instead of the originalIndian name, "Wallamet." But the meaningless "Willamette" hasunfortunately passed into such general use that one is almostcompelled to accept it. Another verbal irregularity should benoticed: Wauna, the name given by all the Indians in the story tothe Columbia, was only the Klickitat name for it. The Indians hadno general name for the Columbia, but each tribe had a specialname, if any, for it. Some had no name for it at all. It was simply"the big water," " the river," "the big salmon water." WhatWauna, the Klickitat name, or Wemath, the Wasco name, signifies,the author has been unable to learn, even from the Indians who gavehim the names. They do not know; they say their fathers knew, butit is forgotten now.
A rich and splendid treasure of legend and lore haspassed away with the old pioneers and the Indians of the earliergeneration. All that may be found interesting in this or any otherbook on the Indians, compared to what has been lost, is like "atorn leaf from some old romance." F. H. B. OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA,September, 1890.
BOOK I.
THE APOSTLE TO THE INDIANS.
CHAPTER I.
THE NEW ENGLAND MEETING. Such as sit in darkness andthe shadow of death. – Bible .
One Sabbath morning more than two hundred years ago,the dawn broke clear and beautiful over New England. It was one ofthose lovely mornings that seem like a benediction, a smile of Godupon the earth, so calm are they, so full of unutterable rest andquiet. Over the sea, with its endless line of beach and promontorywashed softly by the ocean swells; over the towns of the coast, –Boston and Salem, – already large, giving splendid promise of thefuture; over the farms and hamlets of the interior, and into therude clearings where the outer limits of civilization mingled withthe primeval forest, came a flood of light as the sun rose abovethe blue line of eastern sea. And still beyond, across theAlleghanies, into the depth of the wilderness, passed the sweet,calm radiance, as if bearing a gleam of gospel sunshine to theIndians of the forest.
Nowhere did the Sunday seem more peaceful than in asheltered valley in Massachusetts. Beautiful indeed were thethrifty orchards, the rustic farmhouses, the meadows where thecharred stumps that marked the last clearing were festooned withrunning vines, the fields green with Indian corn, and around allthe sweep of hills dark with the ancient wood. Even the grimunpainted meeting-house on the hill, which was wont to look thevery personification of the rigid Calvinistic theology preachedwithin it, seemed a little less bare and forbidding on that sweetJune Sabbath.
As the hour for morning service drew near, thedrummer took his accustomed stand before the church and began tothunder forth his summons, – a summons not unfitting those sternPuritans whose idea