THE INDIAN.
“In the same beaten channel still have run
The blessed streams of human sympathy;
And, though I know this ever hath been done,
The why and wherefore, I could never see!”
Phebe Carey.
In a work which professes to trace, even indistinctly, the reclamation of a country from a state of barbarism, some notice of that from which it was reclaimed is, of course, necessary; and an attempt to distinguish the successive periods, each by its representative character, determines the logic of such notice. Were we as well acquainted with the gradations of Indian advancement—for such unquestionably, there were—as we are with those of the civilized man, we should be able to distinguish eras and periods, so as to represent them, each by its separate ideal. But civilization and barbarism are comparative terms; and, though it is difficult, perhaps impossible, precisely to fix the point at which one ceases and the other begins, yet, within that limit, we must consider barbarism as one period. Of this period, in our plan, the Indian, without reference to distinction of tribe, or variation in degree of advancement, is the representative. As all triangles agree in certain properties, though widely different in others, so all Indians are alike in certain characteristics, though differing, almost radically, each from every other: But, as the points of coincidence in triangles are those which determine the class, and the differences only indicate subspecies, so the similar characteristics in the Indian, are those which distinguish the species, and the variations of character are, at most, only tribal limits. An Indian who should combine all the equivalent traits, without any of the inequalities, would, therefore, be the pure ideal of his race. And his composition should include the evil as well as the good; for a portrait of the savage, which should represent him as only generous and brave, would be as far from a complete ideal, as one which should display only his cruelty and cunning.
My object in this article is, therefore, to combine as many as possible—or as many as are necessary—of the general characteristics of the Indian, both good and bad—so as to give a fair view of the character, according to the principle intimated above. And I may, perhaps without impropriety, here state, that this may be taken as the key to all the sketches which are to follow. It is quite probable that many examples of each class treated, might be found, who are exceptions to the rules stated, in almost every particular; and it is possible, that no one, of any class treated, combined all the characteristics elaborated. Excepting when historical facts are related, or well-authenticated legends worked in, my object is not to give portraits of individuals, however prominent. As was hinted above—the logic of the book points only to the ideal of each class.
And this view of the subject excludes all those discussions, which have so long puzzled philosophers, about the origin of the race—our business is with the question What is he? rather than with the inquiry, Whence did he come? The shortest argument, however—and, if the assumption be admitted, the most conclusive—is that, which assumes the literal truth of the Mosaic account of the creation of man; for from this it directly follows, that the aboriginal races are descendants of Asiatic emigrants; and the minor questions, as to the route they followed—whether across the Pacific, or by Behring's strait—are merely subjects of curious speculation, or still more curious research. And this hypothesis is quite consistent with the evidence drawn from Indian languages, customs, and physical developments. Even the arguments against the theory, drawn from differences in these particulars among the tribes, lose their force, when we come to consider that the same, if not wider differences, are found among other races, indisputably of a single stock. These things may be satisfactorily accounted for, by the same circumstances in the one case, as in the other—by political and local situation, by climate, and unequal progress. Thus, the Indian languages, says Prescott, in his “Conquest of Mexico,” “present the strange anomaly of differing as widely in etymology, as they agree in organization;” but a key to the solution of the problem, is found in the latter part of the same sentence: “and, on the other hand,” he continues,[2] “while they bear some slight affinity to the languages of the Old World, in the former particular, they have no resemblance to them whatever, in the latter.” This is as much as if he had said, that the incidents to the lives of American Indians, are totally different to those of the nations of the Old World: and these incidents are precisely the circumstances, which are likely to affect organization, more than etymology. And the difficulty growing out of their differences among themselves, in the latter, is surmounted by the fact, that there is a sufficient general resemblance among them all, to found a comparison with “the languages of the Old World.” I believe, a parallel course of argument would clear away all other objections to the theory.[3]
But, as has been said, the scope of our work includes none of these discussions; and we shall, therefore, pass to the Indian character, abstracted from all antecedents. That this has been, and is, much misunderstood, is the first thought which occurs to one who has an opportunity personally to observe the savage. Nor is it justly a matter of surprise. The native of this continent has been the subject of curious and unsatisfactory speculation, since the discovery of the country by Columbus: by the very want of those things, which constitute the attraction of other nations, he became at once, and has continued, the object of a mysterious interest. The absence of dates and facts, to mark the course of his migration, remits us to conjecture, or the scarcely more reliable resource of tradition—the want of history has made him a character of romance. The mere name of Indian gives the impression of a shadowy image, looming, dim but gigantic, through a darkness which nothing else can penetrate. This mystery not only interests, but also disarms, the mind; and we are apt to see, in the character, around which it hovers, only those qualities which give depth to the attraction. The creations of poetry and romance are usually extremes; and they are, perhaps, necessarily so, when the nature of the subject furnishes no standard, by which to temper the conception.
“The efforts of a poet's imagination are, more or less, under the control of his opinions:” but opinions of men are founded upon their history; and there is, properly, no historical Indian character. The consequence has been, that poets and novelists have constructed their savage personages according to a hypothetical standard, of either the virtues or vices, belonging, potentially, to the savage state. The same rule, applied to portraiture of civilized men, would at once be declared false and pernicious; and the only reason why it is not equally so, in its application to the Indian, is, because the separation between him and us is so broad, that our conceptions of his character can exert little or no influence upon our intercourse with mankind.
Sympathy for what are called the Indian's misfortunes, has, also, induced the class of writers, from whom, almost exclusively, our notions of his character are derived, to represent him in his most genial phases, and even to palliate his most ferocious acts, by reference to the injustice and oppression, of which he has been the victim. If we were to receive the authority of these writers, we should conclude that the native was not a savage, at all, until the landing of the whites; and, instead of ascribing his atrocities to the state of barbarism in which he lived—thus indicating their only valid apology—we should degrade both the white and the red men, by attributing to the former all imaginable vices, and, to the latter, a peculiar aptitude in acquiring them. These mistakes are natural and excusable—as the man who kills another in self-defence is justifiable; but the Indian character is not the less misconceived, just as the man slain is not less dead, than if malice had existed in both cases. To praise one above his merits, is as fatal to his consideration, as decidedly to disparage him. In either case, however, there is a chance that a just opinion may be formed; but, when both extremes are asserted with equal confidence, the mind is confused, and can settle upon nothing. The latter is precisely the condition of the Indian; and it is with a view of correcting such impressions, that this article is written.
The American Indian, then, is the ideal of a savage—no more, no less: and I call him the ideal, because he displays all those qualities, which the history of the human race authorizes us to infer, as the characteristics of an unenlightened people, for many ages isolated from the rest of mankind.[4] He differs, in many particulars, from the other barbarians of the world; but the broadest distinction lies in this completeness of his savage character. The peculiarities of the country in which their lives assume their direction, its climate, isolation; or connection with the world—all these things contribute to modify the aspects presented by native races. In such points as are liable to modification by these causes, the American differs from every other savage; and without entering into an elaborate comparison of circumstances—for which we have neither the material, the inclination, nor the space—it may be proper briefly to consider one of these causes, and endeavor to trace its effects in the Indian's moral physiognomy.
The state of this continent, when the first Asiatic wanderers landed upon its shores, was, of course, that of a vast, unbroken solitude; and the contemplation of its almost boundless extent and profound loneliness, was certainly the first, and probably the most powerful agency, at work in modifying their original character. What the primary effects of this cause were likely to be, we may observe in the white emigrants, who have sought a home among the forests and upon the plains of the west: whatever they may have been before their migration, they soon become meditative, abstracted, and taciturn. These, and especially the last, are the peculiar characteristics of the Indian; his taciturnity, indeed, amounts to austerity, sometimes impressing the observer with the idea of affectation. The dispersion, which must have been the effect of unlimited choice in lands—the mode of life pursued by those who depended upon the chase for subsistence—the gradual estrangement produced among the separate tribes, by the necessity of wide hunting-grounds—the vast expanse of territory at command—causes operating so long, as to produce a fixed and corresponding nature—are the sources, to which we may trace almost all the Indian's distinctive traits.
“Isolation,” Carlyle says, “is the sum total of wretchedness to man;” and, doubtless, the idea which he means to convey is just. “But,” in the words of De Quincey, “no man can be truly great, without at least chequering his life with solitude.” Separation from his kind, of course, deprives a man of the humanizing influences, which are the consequences of association; but it may, at the same time, strengthen some of the noblest qualities of human nature. Thus, we are authorized to ascribe to this agency, a portion of the Indian's fortitude under hardships and suffering, his contempt for mere meanness, and above all, the proud elevation of his character. The standards of comparison, which were furnished by his experience, were few, and, of course, derived from the ideas of barbarians; but all such as were in any way modified by the solitude of his existence, were rendered impressive, solemn, and exalted.
In the vast solitudes of Asia, whence the Indian races migrated to this continent, so far as the loneliness of savage deserts and endless plains might exert an influence, we should expect to find the same general character. But the Asians are almost universally pastoral—the Americans never; the wildest tribes of Tartary possess numerous useful domesticated animals—the Americans, even in Mexico,[5] had none; the Tartars are acquainted with the use of milk, and have been so from time immemorial—the Indian, even at this day, has adopted it only in a few localities, among the more enlightened tribes. The migration of the latter either took place at a period before even his Asiatic father had discovered its use, or the accidents which brought him to this continent, were such as to preclude importing domesticated animals; and the lapse of a few generations was sufficient to obliterate even the recollection of such knowledge. “And,” says Prescott,[6] “he might well doubt, whether the wild, uncouth monsters, whom he occasionally saw bounding with such fury over the distant plains, were capable of domestication, like the meek animals which he had left grazing in the green pastures of Asia.” To this leading distinction—the adoption and neglect of pastoral habits—may be referred most of the diversities among races, unquestionably of one stock.
Reasoning from the effects upon human character, produced by the face of different countries, we might expect to find, in the Indian, among other things, a strong tendency toward poetical thought, embodied, not in the mode of expression usually denominated poetry, but in the style of his addresses, the peculiarities of his theories, or the construction of his mythology, language, and laws. This expectation is totally disappointed; but when we examine the degree and character of his advancement, and recollect a few of the circumstances, among which the poetry looked for would be obliged to grow, our disappointment loses its element of surprise. The contemplation of Nature in her primitive, terrible, and beautiful forms—the habit of meditation, almost the necessary consequence of solitude—the strange, wild enchantment of an adventurous life—have failed to develop in the Indian, any but selfish and sensual ideas. Written poetry was, of course, not to be expected, even from the indigenous civilization of Mexico and Peru; yet we might, with some ground for hope, seek occasional traces of poetical thought and feeling. We look in vain for any such thing.
“Extremes meet,” says one of the wisest of adages; and the saying was never more singularly and profoundly vindicated, than in its application to civilization and barbarism. The savage rejects all that does not directly gratify his selfish wants—the highly-civilized man is, in like manner, governed by the principle of utility; and, by both, the merely fanciful and imaginative is undervalued. Thus, as Mr. Macaulay[7] ingeniously says, “A great poem, in a highly-polished state of society, is the most wonderful and splendid proof of genius.” But, for the same reasons, the savage, who should display any remarkably poetical feeling or tone of thought, would be quite as great a prodigy. Poetry flourishes most luxuriantly midway between the two extremes. Its essence is the contemplation of great passions and actions—of love, revenge, ambition. Imagination is then vivified by the means of expression or articulation; and, in the half-civilized state, neither a refined public sentiment, nor the other extreme of barbarous isolation, restrains the exhibition of great (and poetical) emotions.
The best of Hazlitt's numerous definitions of poetry, determines it to be “the excess of imagination, beyond the actual or ordinary impression of any object or feeling.”[8] But the Indian was destitute of all imagination; apparently, the composition of his nature included no such element; and, certainly, the rude exigencies of his life did not admit its action. Even the purity of his mythology, compared to that of the Greeks and Romans,[9] has been (by Lord Lindsay) attributed to this want—though, if such were its only effects, it might very well be supplied.
The Indian has no humor, no romance—how could he possess poetical feeling? The gratification of sensual wants is the end of his life—too often, literally the end! “He considers everything beneath his notice, which is not necessary to his advantage or enjoyment.”[10] To him a jest is as unmeaning as the babbling of a brook; his wife is a beast of burden; and even his courting is carried on by gifts of good things to eat, sent to the parents.[11] Heaven is merely a hunting-ground; his language has no words to express abstract qualities, virtues, vices, or sentiments.[12] His idea of the Great Spirit, and the word which expresses it, may be applied with equal propriety to a formidable (though not beneficent) animal; indeed, the Indian words which we translate “spirit,” mean only superior power, without the qualification of good or evil. He has not even the ordinary inhabitive instinct of the human race; his attachment to any region of country depends upon its capacity to furnish game, and the fading of the former keeps pace with the disappearance of the latter. “Attachment to the graves of his fathers,” is an agreeable fiction—unfortunately, only a fiction.[13] He has always been nomadic, without the pastoral habits which the word supposes: a mere wandering savage, without purpose or motive, beyond the gratification of the temporary want, whim, or passion, and void of everything deserving the name of sentiment.
An extravagant, and, I am sorry to say, groundless, notion has obtained currency, among almost all writers upon the Indian character, that he is distinguished for his eloquence. But the same authors tell us, that his language, the vehicle of the supposed eloquence, can express only material ideas.[14] Now, if we knew no more of his character than this, we should be authorized to infer (what is, indeed, true), that he possesses no standard for the distinction of good and evil, and that his imagination is bounded by the lines of his sensible experience. How any degree of eloquence can be compatible with this state of things, passes comprehension. And what reflection would conclude, a little examination will confirm. The mistake has, doubtless, grown out of a misconception of the nature of eloquence itself.[15] If eloquence were all figure—even if it were, in any considerable degree, mere figure—then the tawdriest rhetorician would be the greatest orator. But it is not so. On the contrary, the use of many words (or figures) to express an idea, denotes not command of language, but the absence of that power—just as the employment of numerous tools, to effect a physical object, indicates, not skill in the branch of physics, to which the object belongs, but rather awkwardness. Of course, much must be placed, in both cases, to the account of clumsy instruments; but the instrument of speech differs from others in this: it is fashioned by, as well as for, its use; and a rude, unpolished language is, therefore, an index, in two ways, of the want of eloquence among the people who employ it.
In this view, the figurative elocution of the Indian, so far from affording evidence of oratorical power, if it proves anything, proves the opposite. It is the barrenness of his language, and not the luxuriance of his imagination, which enforces that mode of speech.[16] Imagination is the first element of oratory, simplicity its first condition. We have seen that the Indian is wholly destitute of the former; and the stilted, meretricious, and ornate style, of even his ordinary communications, entirely excludes the latter from our conception of his character.[17]
For example: take the expressions “bury the hatchet,” for “make peace,” and “a cloudless sky,” for “prosperity”—the latter being the nearest approximation to an abstract idea observed in Indian oratory. Upon examining these, and kindred forms of speech, we shall at once perceive that they are not the result of imagination, but are suggested by material analogies. Peace, to the savage, is, at best, but a negative idea; and the state of peacefulness, abstracted from the absence of war, finds no corresponding word in his language. Even friendship only means that relation, in which friends may be of use to each other. As his dialects are all synthetic,[18] his ideas are all concrete. To say, “I love” without expressing what or whom I love, would be, so to speak, very bad Indian grammar. He can not even say “two” correctly, without applying the numeral to some object. The notion of absolute being, number, emotion, feeling, posture, or relation, is utterly foreign to his mode of thought and speech.
So, also, of the “cloudless sky,” used to express a state of prosperity. He does not mean, by the phrase, the serenity of mind which prosperity produces, nor any other abstract inflexion or suggestion of the figure. He is constantly exposed to the storms of heaven, in the chase, and on the war path; and, even in his best “lodge,” he finds but little shelter from their fury. Clear weather is, therefore, grateful to him—bright sunshine associates itself, in his mind, with comfort, or (that supremest of Indian pleasures) undisturbed indolence. And the transition, though, as we have said, an approach to an abstract conception, is easy, even to the mind of a savage. His employment of such illustrations is rather an evidence of rudeness, than of eloquence—of barrenness, than of luxuriance of idea.[19]
From these considerations, it results, that even the very best specimens of Indian oratory, deserve the name of picturesque, rather than of eloquent—two characteristics which bear no greater affinity to each other, than do the picture-writing of the Aztec and the alphabetical system of the Greek. The speech of Logan—the most celebrated of Indian harangues—even if genuine,[20] is but a feeble support to the theory of savage eloquence. It is a mixture of the lament and the song of triumph, which may be found in equal perfection among all barbarous people; but, so far as we are aware, was never elsewhere dignified with that sounding name. The slander of a brave and honorable man,[21] which it contains, might be the result of a mistake easily made; the wrongs of which this chief was the victim, might render even a savage eloquent; and the mixture of bloody vaunting with profound grief, is scarcely to be expected in any but a savage. “Logan never knew fear,” he says; “he would not turn on his heel to save his life.” This species of boasting is perfectly in keeping with the Indian character; but the pathetic reason for this carelessness, which follows—“There is no one to mourn for Logan”—is one not likely to have occurred to an Indian, even in his circumstances. And, granting that the expression was used by the orator, and not (as it seems probable it was) added by Jefferson, it is, I believe, the only example on record of poetical feeling in any Indian speech.
The religion of the Indian has given as much troublesome material to the builders of systems, as has been furnished by all his other characteristics combined. The first explorers of America supposed that they had found a people, quite destitute of any religious belief. But faith in a higher power than that of man, is a necessity of the human mind; and its organization, more or less enlightened, is as natural, even to the most degraded savage, as the formation of his language. Both depend upon general laws, common to the intellect of all races of men; both are affected by the external circumstances of climate, situation, and mode of life; and the state of one may always be determined by that of the other. “No savage horde has been caught with its language in a state of chaos, or as if just emerging from the rudeness of indistinguishable sounds. Each appears, not as a slow formation by painful processes of invention, but as a perfect whole, springing directly from the powers of man.”[22] And though this rigor of expression is not equally applicable to the Indian's religion, the fact is attributable solely to the difference in nature of the subjects. As the “primary sounds of a language are essentially the same everywhere,” the impulses and instincts of piety are common to all minds. But, as the written language of the Indian was but the pictorial representation of visible objects, having no metaphysical signification, so the symbols of his religion, the objects of his adoration, were drawn from external nature.[23] Even his faith in the Great Spirit is a graft upon his system, derived from the first missionaries;[24] and, eagerly as he adopted it, it is probable that its meaning, to him, is little more exalted, than that of the “Great Beaver,” which he believes to be the first progenitor, if not the actual creator, of that useful animal.
We often see the fact, that the Indian believes in his manitou, cited as an evidence, that he has the conception of a spiritual divinity. But the word never conveyed such a meaning; it is applicable more properly to material objects, and answers, with, if possible, a more intense and superstitious significance, to the term amulet. The Indian's manitou might be, indeed always was, some wild animal, or some part of a beast or bird—such as a bear's claw, a buffalo's hoof, or a dog's tooth.[25] And, though he ascribed exalted powers to this primitive guardian, it must be remembered that these powers were only physical—such, for example, as would enable it to protect its devotee from the knife of his enemy, or give him success in hunting.
Materialism, then, reigns in the religion, as in the language, of the Indian; and its effects are what might be expected. His whole system is a degraded and degrading superstition; and, though it has been praised for its superior purity, over that of the ancients, it seems to have been forgotten, that this purity is only the absence of one kind of impurity: and that its cruel and corrupting influences, of another sort, are ten-fold greater than those of the Greek mythology. The faith of the Greek embodied itself in forms, ceremonies, and observances—regularly appointed religious rites kept his piety alive; the erection of grand temples, in honor of his deity, whatever might be his conception of that deity's character, attested his genuine devotion, and held constantly before his mind the abstract idea of a higher power. The Indian, before the coming of the white man, erected no temples[26] in honor of his divinities; for he venerated them only so long as they conferred physical benefits[27] upon him; and his idea of beneficence was wholly concrete. He had no established form of worship; the ceremonies, which partook of a religious character, were grotesque in their conception, variable in their conduct, and inhuman in their details. Such, for example, are the torturing of prisoners, and the ceremonies observed on the occasion of a young Indian's placing himself under his guardian power.
The dogmas of the Indian religion, until varied by the teaching of missionaries, were few and simple—being circumscribed, like everything else belonging to him, by the material world. He believed in a good spirit, and an evil spirit; but his conception was limited by the ideas of benefit or injury, to himself; indeed, it may safely be doubted, whether the word “spirit,” in its legitimate sense, is at all applicable to his belief. “Power in a state of exertion,” is the more accurate description of his imperfect notion: abstract existence he never conceived; the verb “to be” except as relating to time, place, and action, had no meaning in his language.[28] He believed, also, in subordinate powers of good and evil; but, since his life was occupied more in averting danger and calamity, than in seeking safety or happiness, he paid far more respect to the latter than to the former—he prayed oftener and more fervently to the devils, than to the angels. His clearest notion of divinity, was that of a being able to injure him; and, in this sense, his devotion might be given to man, bird, or beast.
There seems to be no doubt, that he believed in a sort of immortality, even before the missionaries visited his country. But it was not so much a new state of existence, as a continuation of present life.[29] He killed horses upon the grave of the departed warrior, that he might be mounted for his long journey; and buffalo meat and roasted maize were buried with him, that he might not suffer from hunger.[30] On arriving in the land of the blest, he believed, that the dead pursued the game of that country, as he had done in this; and the highest felicity of which he conceived, was the liberty to hunt unmolested by the war-parties of his enemies. Heaven was, therefore, in his conception, only a more genial earth, and its inheritors but keener sportsmen.
That this idea of immortality involved that of accountability, in some form, seems to admit of no doubt; but this doctrine, like almost all others belonging to the primitive savage, has been moulded to its present definite shape, by the long-continued labors of Christian missionaries.[31] He believed, indeed, that the bad Indians never reached the happy hunting-grounds, but the distinction between the good and the bad, in his mind, was not at all clear; and, since the idea of the passage across the gulf of death most prevalent among all tribes, is that of a narrow bridge, over which only steady nerves and sure feet may carry the wanderer, it seems probable that the line was drawn between the brave warrior and the successful hunter, on the one hand, and the coward and the unskilful, on the other. If these views be correct, the inferences to be drawn from the Indian's belief in immortality and accountability, are of but slender significance.
Corrupt manners and degrading customs never exist, in conjunction with a pure religious system. The outlines of social institutions are metaphysically coincident with the limits of piety; and the refinement of morals depends upon the purity of faith. We may thus determine the prevailing spirit of a national religion, by observation of domestic manners and habits; and, among all the relations of life, that of parent and child is the best index to degree of advancement. Filial piety is but the secondary manifestation of a devotional heart; and attachment and obedience to a father on earth, are only imperfect demonstrations of love to our Father in heaven. What, then—to apply the principle—is the state of this sentiment in the Indian? By the answer to that question, we shall be able to estimate the value of his religious notions, and to determine the amount of hope, for his conversion, justified by their possession. The answer may be given in a few words: There is no such sentiment in the Indian character. Children leave their infirm parents to die alone, and be eaten by the wolves;[32] or treat them with violent indignity,[33] when the necessity of migration gives no occasion for this barbarous desertion. Young savages have been known to beat their parents, and even to kill them; but the display of attachment or reverence for them, is quite unknown. Like the beast of the forest, they are no sooner old enough to care for themselves, than they cease even to remember, by whose care they have become so; and the slightest provocation will produce a quarrel with a father, as readily as with a stranger. The unwritten law of the Indian, about which so many writers have dreamed, enacts no higher penalty for parricide, than for any other homicide; and a command to honor his father and mother because they are his father and mother, would strike the mind of an Indian as simply absurd.
If the possession of a religion, whose fruits are no better than these, can, of itself, give ground for hope to the Christian philanthropist, let him cherish it fondly. But it is much to be feared, that the existence of such a system indefinitely postpones, if it does not entirely preclude, the Indian's conversion. Even a bird which has never known the forest, will eventually escape to the wilds which God has made its home; and the young Indian, who has been reared in the city, will fly to the woods and prairies, and return to the faith of his fathers, because these, and only these, will satisfy his nature.[34]
A theme of praise, in itself more just, has been the Indian's courage; but the same circumstances of poetical interest, which have magnified men's views of his other qualities, have contributed to exaggerate this also. If calm steadiness of nerve, in the moment of action, be an element in true courage, that of the primitive savage was scarcely genuine. In all his battles, there were but two possible aspects—the furious onset, and the panic retreat: the firmness which plants itself in line or square, and stubbornly contends for victory, was no part of his character. A check, to him, always resulted in a defeat; and, though this might, in some measure, be the consequence of that want of discipline, which is incident to the savage state, the remark applies with equal justice, whether he fought singly or in a body. He was easily panic-struck, because the impulse of the forward movement was necessary to keep him strung to effort; and the retrograde immediately became a rout, because daring, without constancy, collapses with the first reaction.
Notwithstanding the enervating influences attributed to refinement and luxury, genuine, steady courage is one of the fruits borne by a high civilization. It is the result of combination, thought, and the divinity which attaches to the cultivated man. And, though it may seem rather unfair to judge a savage by the rules of civilization, it has long been received as a canon, that true valor bears an inverse ratio to ferocious cruelty. Of all people yet discovered upon earth, the Indian is the most ferocious. We must, therefore, either vary the meaning of the word, when applied to different people, or deny the savage the possession of any higher bravery, than that which lives only through the onset.
Cunning supplied the place of the nobler quality; the object of his warfare was to overcome by wily stratagem, rather than by open combat. “Skill consisted in surprising the enemy. They followed his trail, to kill him when he slept; or they lay in ambush near a village, and watched for an opportunity of suddenly surprising an individual, or, it might be, a woman and her children; and, with three strokes to each, the scalps of the victims being suddenly taken off, the brave flew back with his companions, to hang the trophies in his cabin.”[35] If they succeeded in taking prisoners, it was only that they might be reserved for the most infernal torments, and the gratification of a brutal ferocity, not the trial and admiration of the victim's courage, was the purpose of their infliction.[36]
The fortitude of the Indian under suffering, has often been referred to, in evidence of moral courage. And it is certainly true, that the display so frequently made of triumph in the hour of death by torture, indicates,[37] in part, an elevation of character, seldom found among more civilized men. It is, however, the elevation of a barbarian; and its manifestations are as much the fruit of impotent rage, as of a noble fortitude. The prisoner at the stake knows that there is no escape; and his intense hatred of his enemies takes the form of a wish, to deprive them of a triumph. While his flesh is crisping and crackling in the flames, therefore, he sings of the scalps he has taken, and heaps opprobrious epithets upon the heads of his tormentors. But his song is as much a cry of agony, as of exultation—his pain only adopts this mode of expression. It is quite certain, also, that he does not suffer so deeply, as would a white man in the same circumstances. By long exposure, and the endurance of hardships incident to his savage life, his body acquires an insensibility akin to that of wild animals.[38] His nerves do not shrink or betray a tendency to spasm, even when a limb is amputated. Transmitted from one generation to another, this physical nature has become a peculiarity of the race. And when assisted by the fierce hatred above referred to, it is not at all strange that it should enable him to bear with fortitude, tortures which would conquer the firmness of the most resolute white man.[39]
The Indian's dignified stoicism has been as much exaggerated, as his courage and fortitude. It is not quite true that he never expresses surprise, or becomes loquacious. But he has a certain stern impassibility of feature—a coldness of manner—which have been mistaken for dignity. His immobility of countenance, however, may be the effect of sluggish sensibilities, or even of dull perceptions;[40] and the same savage vanity, which leads him to make a display of strength or agility before friend or enemy, prevents his acknowledging ignorance, by betraying surprise.[41] We have been in company with Indians from the Far West, while they saw a railroad for the first time. When they thought themselves unnoticed, they were as curious about the singular machinery of the locomotive, and as much excited by the decorations and appointments of the cars, as the most ignorant white man. But the moment they discovered that their movements were observed, they resumed their dignified composure; and, if you had judged of the Indian country by their subsequent deportment, you might have believed that the vast prairies of the Missouri were everywhere intersected by railroads—that the Indian had, in fact, never known any other mode of travelling. “On first seeing a steamboat, however,” says Flint, who well understands his character, “he never represses his customary 'Ugh!'”
Generally, among white men, he who is fondest of inflicting pain, is least able to endure it. But the Indian reverses almost all the principles, which apply to civilized life; and, accordingly, we find that, with all his so-called fortitude, he is the most intensely cruel of all living men. Before possession of the continent was taken by Europeans, war was more constantly the occupation of his life, than it has been since; but even now his only object in taking his enemies alive, is to subject them to the most inhuman tortures.[42] And in these brutal orgies, the women are most active, even taking the lead, in applying the cord and the brand.[43] Nor is this cruelty confined to enemies, as the practice of leaving the aged and infirm to die of starvation sufficiently proves.
And his treachery is equal to his cruelty. No treaty can bind him longer than superior force compels him to observe it. The discovery that his enemy is unprepared for an attack, is sufficient reason to him for making it; his only object in concluding peace, is to secure an advantage in war; and before the prospect of a bloody inroad, his faith melts away, like snow before the sun. The claims of gratitude he seldom acknowledges; he cherishes the memory of a benefit, only until he finds an opportunity of repaying it with an injury; and forbearance to avenge the latter, only encourages its repetition.[44] The numerous pretty stories published of Indian gratitude, are either exceptional cases, or unmixed romances.
There have been some tribes of Indians in a measure reclaimed from their state of barbarism; the Cherokees, I believe, (and perhaps one or two other nations,) have even increased in numbers, under the influence of civilization. But this is the result of numerous favorable causes combined, and proves nothing, from which to infer the Indian's docility. Other savages, on coming in contact with civilized men, have discovered a disposition to acquire some of the useful arts—their comforts have been increased, their sufferings diminished, and their condition ameliorated, by the grafting of new ideas upon the old. But, between the red man and the white, contiguity has brought about little more than an exchange of vices.
Almost the only things coveted by the “redskin” from the “paleface,” were his arms, his trinkets, and his “firewater.” He could appreciate whatsoever gave him superiority in war, gratified his childish vanity, or ministered to his brutal appetite. But the greater comfort of the white man's house—the higher excellence of his boat—his improved agricultural implements or extended learning—none of these things appealed to the Indian's passions or desires. The arts of peace were nothing to him—refinement was worse than nothing. He would spend hours in decorating his person, but not a moment in cleansing it: I believe no tradition exists of an Indian ever having used soap or bought a fine-tooth comb! He is, indeed, a “pattern of filthiness;” but even in civilized life, we find that this is not at all incompatible with an extravagant love of ornament; and, in this respect, the savage is not behind his more enlightened brethren and sisters. Beads, ribands, and scarlet cloth—with powder and lead, guns, tomahawks, and knives—are the acquisitions which he prizes most highly.
Pre-eminent, however, above all these in his estimation, is the greatest curse which has yet reached him—the liquid fire called whiskey! He is, by nature, a drunkard, and the fury of his intoxication equals the ferocity of his warfare. “All words would be thrown away,” says Mr. Flint,[45] “in attempting to portray, in just colors, the effects of whiskey upon such a race.” Fire should be kept away from combustibles—whiskey from the Indian, and for the same reason. With drunkenness, he possesses, also, its inseparable companion, the vice of gambling.[46] He is the most inveterate gamester: Before the demon of avarice everything gives way. He even forgets his taciturnity, in the excitement of the game, and becomes loquacious and eager. He will stake all his most valuable possessions, and, losing these, will even risk his own liberty, or life, on the turn of a card. We were once witness to a game in San Antonio (in Western Texas), among a party of Lipans,[47] a race of fine-looking men, who range the table-lands north of the sources of the Nueces. Two of them, one the handsomest warrior among them, lost, first, the money, which they had just received as the price of skins, brought to the city for sale. They then staked, successively, their horses, their arms, their moccasins, and their blankets. The “luck” was against them—everything was lost; and we supposed the game was over. But—as a last resource, like drawing blood from their beating hearts—each produced a little leathern bottle, containing whiskey! And, as if these possessed a higher value than all the articles yet lost, the game went on with increased interest! Even the potent “spirit” thus evoked, could not prevail upon Fortune to change her face: the whiskey was lost with the rest! Each rose to his feet, with the usual guttural exclamation, and, afoot, and unarmed as he was, silently took his way to the prairies; while the winners collected in a group, and with much glee, proceeded to consume the liquid poison so cheaply obtained.
We come, finally to the question of the Indian's fate: What is to become of the race? The answer presents no difficulties, save such as grow out of men's unwillingness to look unpleasant truths in the face. There has been, of late years, much lamentation, among our own people, over the gradual extinction of these interesting savages; and in Europe we have been made the subject of indignant eloquence, for (what those, who know nothing about it, are pleased to call) “our oppression of the Indian.” But, in the first place, the decay of the American races is neither so rapid nor so universal, as is generally supposed;[48] and, in the second place, if the fact were otherwise, we could, at the worst, be charged only with accelerating a depopulation already begun. “The ten thousand mounds in the Mississippi Valley, the rude memorials of an immensely numerous former population, but, to our view, no more civilized than the present races, are proofs that the country was depopulated, when the white man first became acquainted with it. If we can infer nothing else from these mounds, we can clearly infer, that this country once had its millions.”[49] What had become of this immense population? The successive invasions of new hordes of barbarians from the north, intestine wars, and the law, that men shall advance toward civilization, or decay from the earth—these are the only causes to which we may ascribe their disappearance.
The extinction of the Indian race is decreed, by a law of Providence which we can not gainsay. Barbarism must give way to civilization. It is not only inevitable, but right, that it should be so. The tide of empire, which has been flowing since the earliest times, has set steadily toward the West. The Indian emigrated in the wrong direction: and now, after the lapse of many centuries, the descendants of the first Asians, having girdled the globe, meet on the banks of the Mississippi! On the one side, are enlightenment, civilization, Christianity: on the other, darkness, degradation, barbarism: and the question arises, which shall give way? The Indian recedes: at the rate of seventeen miles a year,[50] the flood rolls on! Already it has reached the shores of the Pacific: One century will reduce the whole continent to the possession of the white man; and, then, the lesson which all history teaches, will be again taught—that two distinct races cannot exist in the same country on equal terms. The weaker must be incorporated with the stronger—or exterminated.[51]