The speeches made gave evidence of thought and forecast of mind. They did not rush blindly forward without counting the cost.
This scene reminds me of a Methodist camp meeting in olden time, when people were moved by some invisible power to flee from the wrath to come; when the preacher would call, and exhort, and pray, and a great overshadowing presence touched all hearts, and drove away careless thoughts and selfish purposes, and the multitude would seem to melt and mingle in common sympathy; when saints could throw their arms around sinners, and make them feel how much they loved them, and how earnestly they desired their salvation; when brave old sinners hesitated, faltered and trembled, and strong, brave Christians would then renew the contest in behalf of religion. Men who had knocked elbows for life would meet at a common altar, or gather in knots and surround some stubborn, hard-hearted sinner, who, with thoughtful brow, would whittle sticks and spit, and whittle again, sometimes throwing the chips away from him, indicating “I won’t;” and then, when some more pointed word of argument, or love, was sent home to the sinner’s heart, he would turn the stick and whittle the chips toward him, thus saying, “I may;” until at last, when the preacher calls, “Who will be the next?” the repentant one drops his stick, shuts his knife, draws his bandanna to his eyes, starts forward, escorted by his pious exulting friends, who clear the way for the now penitent man.
The preacher comes down from the stand, clapping his hands, and with streaming eyes shouts, “Thank God, another sinner has turned to the Lord!” extends his hand, and utters a few kind words in the listening ear, and resumes, “Who will be the next?”
A cowardly sinner, who dares not come out from the world, and is not brave enough to stand before the battery of divine power, turns and flees, not from the wrath to come, but from the means that are intended to make him whole. He is followed by kind-hearted Christian friends and brought back, and he, too, surrenders; and the preacher says, “Thank the Lord!” and the brethren shout, “Amen! Amen.”
And thus the work goes on until all are converted, or give evidence of penitence, save, perhaps, some strong-willed, hard-hearted, cool-headed one, and then especial efforts are made in his behalf. If he does, at last, yield his stubborn will, the joy is unbounded.
This picture I have made, is a true one of western camp-meetings, and equally true of the Indian meeting held at Warm Springs in December, 1871. I was to that what the presiding elder was to a camp-meeting. Capt. Smith was the “preacher in charge.” After one or two days of speech-making, when all hearts were thoroughly aroused, the proposition above referred to was made. I shall never forget the scene that followed. “Who will be the first to throw away his Indian heart, laws, customs, and be from this day henceforth a white man in everything pertaining to civilization?” Silence reigned; all eyes turned toward “Mark,” head chief. He realized the situation, saw how much of the welfare of his people depended on
his example. He saw, besides, his three wives and their ten children.
He arose slowly, half hesitating, as though he had not fully made up his mind what to do. The presence of his women embarrassed him. He said, “My heart is warm like fire, but there are cold spots in it. I don’t know how to talk. I want to be a white man. My father did not tell me it was wrong to have so many wives. I love all my women. My old wife is a mother to the others, I can’t do without her; but she is old, she cannot work very much; I can’t send her away to die. This woman,” pointing to another, “cost me ten horses; she is a good woman; I can’t do without her. That woman,” pointing to still another, “cost me eight horses; she is young; she will take care of me when I am old. I don’t know how to do; I want to do right. I am not a bad man. I know your new law is good; the old law is bad. We must be like the white man. I am a man; I will put away the old law.”
Captain Smith, although a Presbyterian, behaved then like an old-fashioned Methodist, shouting, “Thank God! Thank God, the ice is broke!”
Mark remained standing, and resumed: “I want you to tell me how to do right. I love my women and children. I can’t send any of them away; what must I do?” The old chief was moved, and his upheaving breast gave proof that he was a man. Silence followed, while he stood awaiting the answer,—a silence that was felt.