Some recent measures of the American government, in endeavouring to effect the removal of the Indian tribes on the east of the Mississippi to the west of it, have agitated the public mind in that country to an unprecedented degree, and occasioned the fullest and most public discussion of Indian rights in every possible form; and although the Supreme Court of the United States, the third and a co-ordinate branch of the government, has finally settled the great principles of the question to their own honour and to the honour of the nation, and thus far made an atonement to the injured and to the world for a practical course of injury, which, having passed an important crisis, cannot be so easily arrested, even with all the advantages of such a decision—that decision is notwithstanding an event of the greatest importance.[7] It will have its weight in the nation, and its influence over the world. It is of the highest possible authority, and may fairly be quoted, as an expression of the public opinion of the country, notwithstanding that the accidental combination of certain political causes has transiently sustained a course of administration opposed to it. And although it will be my duty in these pages to expose the injuries done to the American Indians, and to speak with great freedom, as an impartial regard to the common rights of man demands, I am proud to find myself sustained by the decisions of that venerable tribunal. What would otherwise be to the dishonour of my country, and which can never be concealed, I shall the less reluctantly handle, being in such company. The acknowledgment, and if possible, the confirmation of the rights of American Aborigines, is a cause which belongs to all nations; it is at least and practically a common cause between the people of Great Britain and the United States, as each of these governments has nearly an equal number of this race under its jurisdiction, and is necessarily obliged to legislate for their weal, or woe. I regard the decision of the Supreme Court of the United States, as involving and settling principles, from which neither of these two nations can in sobriety and justice depart; and while I shall freely expose any violation of these principles, that may come in my way, I consider, that I am not only discharging a duty to a long oppressed and injured people, but I am proud, in being able to appeal to the above-named decision of the American Supreme Court, the authority and destined influence of which is at least as much a subject of national triumph, as the heretofore injurious treatment done to the Indians, is a subject of regret—and but for this atonement, an occasion of shame, nay, in any case, a shame.
It happens, as before suggested, that Great Britain is involved in a like responsibility, in regard to American Aborigines, as the government of the United States. Not, that the subject, in the hands of the British government, is in the same shape; but it is, at best, in a bad shape. These two nations, which ought to cherish the kindest feelings towards each other, and which possess unrivalled powers to benefit mankind, are alike and simultaneously responsible for the exercise of a direct ameliorating influence, by legislation and government, over two unfortunate and depressed classes of the human race: the Africans and American Indians. The condition of the former class, and the duties which they may rightfully claim from these two Governments, I do not at present undertake to discuss.
It is sufficient for my present purpose, and perhaps it may not be deemed improper to state the fact: that, as the British territories, in North America, are very extensive, and all of them peopled by these tribes, they must be numerous; and many of them so remote in the western and northern regions, that even a tolerably accurate census has probably never yet been obtained. Whether their numbers are equal to those within the jurisdiction of the United States, is not material. I would take liberty here to mention another thing, not because I am solicitous to bring the British government into the same condemnation;—but yet I am sufficiently informed—that the government of the Canadas is in the habit of assuming and asserting the right of removing the Indians, without their consent, from the lands they have occupied from time immemorial. It is true, that the British population of the Canadas has never crowded so hard upon the Indians, as the population of the United States; and consequently has never brought their rights so urgently and so publicly in question. And farther: as the government of the Canadas is not accustomed even to moot the question of the territorial rights of the Indians, but assumes the disposal of them, as parents assign a place for their children, in their own discretion, there has been no occasion of controversy—neither is controversy possible, until the Indians are admitted in court, as a party,—unless they resort to the tomahawk. In principle, therefore, and in practice, so far as there has been occasion for it, it is unnecessary to say, how much less the government of the Canadas is in fault, in regard to the acknowledgment of Indian rights, than the government of the United States;—except that, the former has never promised, so far as I know, and then violated promise. The rapid extension of the population of the Union, and the old and public engagements of the government with the Indian tribes, guaranteeing their rights, have brought those rights into public and earnest discussion. And it must be confessed, that notwithstanding the public registry of treaties, and notwithstanding the recent solemn decision of the Supreme Judiciary of the nation, defining and affirming the rights of the Indians in all that they ask, those rights are yet in a train of actual violation. The decision of a Court is not sufficiently active to arrest and turn such an immense tide of injustice in a day.
So far, therefore, as there may be any disclosures in these pages of a dishonourable political character, it will be seen, that they are, in a great measure, equally applicable to the two governments of Great Britain and the United States;—except that, by accidental circumstances, the great question has come earlier to its crisis, under the administration of the latter, than of the former. It is a grave truth, that neither community can say to the other: You are guilty of a great sin in this matter. The world and heaven have laid the charge at the door of each: Ye are both alike responsible, and both guilty.
CHAPTER XIII.
VINDICATION OF THE AMERICAN INDIANS FROM THE CHARGE OF BEING SAVAGES.
Since the world have agreed in attaching a severe and savage character to the American Aborigines in war; and as I may yet have repeated occasions to develop and describe somewhat of these features in the progress of this story; it is due to that people, that some explanations should be made, and that they should realize the benefit of all the apology of the circumstances in history, which have contributed to form that character. Otherwise they may be robbed of a portion of that sympathy, the full scope of which they have a right to claim. It is no more than fair—it is due to say, that they are not so bad, as these acts of cruelty would seem to indicate. Nay more: they are generally kind—they are often heroically generous. Their domestic character is tranquil and affectionate; and their hospitality is bounded only by their slender means of affording comfort to the stranger. Their fidelity and devotion, when once their faith is pledged, is unrivalled—it is romantic. They are not less true and persevering and heroic in their friendships, than terrible in war. Such is the universal testimony of all, who have ever known them. So kind and amiable are they at home, and in peace, that they invariably secure the tenderest regard of those, who have had opportunity to witness these developments of their character. But for their extreme deprivation of the common comforts of civilized communities, it were almost a temptation to those, who have experienced the selfish friendships and the hollow courtesies of a more refined condition of society, to go and take up their abode among them. And the well known fact, that the savage, as he is called, can never be contented to live away from home, whatever munificent and dazzling offers are made to him—demonstrates most incontrovertibly, that there are charms in the state of society among the American Aborigines, which have their foundation and their secret in the amiable susceptibilities and kind offices of our nature. Habit has its moral power, indeed. But this cannot be the mere force of habit. The indulgence of the bad passions can never make man happy. They will fly from the storm, as soon as they have an opportunity. But the Indian of America will never be contented beyond the bosom of his own tribe—much less in a civilized community. Plant him there, and he is vacant—his eye wanders unsatisfied. Treat him with all possible kindness, and he still remembers with undying regret the kindness of his home. Tempt him by the most attractive offers—and he will turn from them, and say—“Let me go home.”
I say, then, that there is a moral secret of an amiable character, that has created these attachments. It is not the roughnesses of life, that have thus won and chained under these unyielding and indissoluble bonds the domestic affections of the Indian; but it was the long and habitual experience of inartificial kindness—a kindness, of which he could not find even a type in the new condition, to which he had been transferred; and therefore he sighed for his home.
How, then, shall we account for the cruelties of the American Aborigines, as attributed to them in the records of their warfare?—How can these amazing contrarieties of character be reconciled?—For myself I do not think the task insurmountable. Nay—it is easy. In the first place, there have been, as always occurs in such narratives, egregious exaggerations. Imagination always invests the horrible with greater horrors, than what legitimately belong to it. But with all the prunings of exact history, it must be confessed, that Indian warfare in America, is horrible enough. And I here undertake the task of explanation—and I will add, of some show of apology.
The American Indian, in his wild condition, it must be understood, is, in intellectual and moral culture, a barbarian. He is an improvident, uncultivated child of nature—prompted to action only by his present necessities. Yet he is a man. He loves comfort and happiness, as much as he can get by the least possible pains; and while undisturbed by the menaces of foes, his greatest happiness consists in loving and being loved. In all his domestic relations, therefore, he is kind. And in accordance with the same disposition, he is hospitable. Whatever of good, and of the best, that is reckoned such among themselves, belongs to his guest. There is nothing in his power, which he will not surrender. And all this while his native energies lie dormant. He delights in a lazy, indolent existence. When roused by hunger, he will pursue the chase with wakeful vigilance and intense exertion. And when he returns with his game, he satiates his appetite, and lies down to sleep, not caring for the necessities of to-morrow, or the coming week. His wife and daughters cultivate the corn, and gather the wild rice; while himself and sons, after intervals of repose, provide their slender larder with venison, and fish, and fowl.
But their humble and unenviable condition is yet liable to be annoyed by foes; and so defenceless are they, that surprise is fatal. If they suspect hostilities, from another tribe, or are made aware of such design, they know well, that the annihilation of their enemies is their only security;—and that their own extirpation will be as assiduously sought for. And thus, by the necessities of their condition, vigilance and vengeance become their watchword. The indolent savage starts up from his long repose, convokes a council of war, and lights the fires of grave and solemn deliberation; and the purpose being publicly resolved, either in self-defence, or for the avengement of supposed injury, the war-dance is immediately arranged, as the form of enlistment for the enterprise. The reasons of the war are announced to the assembled tribe, with all the peculiar powers of Indian oratory, and by the most impassioned appeals to the excited feelings of the untutored savage;—and their enemies are publicly and solemnly devoted to death and vengeance. The pride of their nation, their wives and little ones, their cabins, their hunting and fishing grounds, their territories claimed by the prescriptive right of possession, the graves and spirits of their fathers—their own lives, dear to all, and now menaced by impending war;—every fact and circumstance, that is precious in present possession, or dear to hope;—all, that belongs to life, and all that is mysterious and awful in religion—are invoked, and brought in with all the power of their wild poetry and savage rhetoric, to shake off the lethargies of peace, and kindle the passions for war. The softer feelings are quenched, and the tender ties of life absolved. The tomahawk is thrown upon the ground, as a gauntlet—and the dissonant sounds of their martial instruments, “grating harsh thunder,” mingled with the deep and hoarse murmur of the solemn chaunt of the war-song, raised by an awful choir of ventriloquists—and every now and then suddenly broken by the sharp and piercing explosion of the fiendly war-whoop;—all dancing and jumping, in utmost disorder, around the fire, naked, painted, and feathered, with tomahawk in hand, each of hideous aspect, and together making a hideous group;—these all, and numerous other characteristic concomitants of the scene, constitute the challenge, which is made upon the assembled warriors, to take up the gauntlet, and thus pledge themselves to the destruction of their enemies. Nothing can exceed the effect of these solemnities on the passions of the Indian. His former tranquil spirit is thoroughly exorcised, and he is suddenly transformed into a fanatic and a madman. Anticipating well the doom, that awaits him, if he falls into the hand of his enemies, he works up all his passions to a fearlessness of death, and to a contempt of every imaginable cruelty. He turns his back, and steels his heart to all domestic endearments. He fasts—he lacerates his own flesh, and accustoms himself to the patient and unflinching endurance of pain and agony, by the inflictions of his own hand. And when the Indian is thus prepared for war, no torment, however ingeniously devised, however cruelly inflicted, can cause a single muscle of his frame to quiver. All his feelings and passions are too stout to be subdued by such inventions. He arms himself alike to endure them, and to inflict them. Such are the necessities, and such is the custom of Indian warfare. It knows no mercy. He becomes a war-stricken and blood-thirsty maniac, from the moment of his enlistment, till he falls by the hand of his foe, or returns victorious to his home. He is elevated above the atmosphere, and thrown beyond the circumference of all ordinary human sympathies. For the time, he is not a man—he is more than a man. He has been excited to a condition of mental intoxication—of spiritual inebriety—and maintains it. The state of his passions is a mere artificial product. It is not the nature of man—it is not the nature of the Indian—but the effect of an adopted, a cherished, an inflexible principle, which, if not necessary, he at least imagines to be so. And woe be to him—woe to the man, or the woman, or the child, that bears the mark of his enemies, and falls in his power. He has taken a solemn religious sacrament, that absolves him from tenderness, that makes tenderness a crime, if it be shown to a foe. In war the American Indian is indeed a barbarian. What else could be expected from his untutored condition—from his uncultivated nature? Cunning, and stratagem, and cruelty are to him a necessary policy—because such is the policy of his enemies. They know not—they cannot be expected to know the refinements of civilized warfare. And it is at least a question, whether the more magnanimous onset and the softer clemency of a conqueror, among civilized nations, are to wash away the crime, by which, in his march to the attainment of his laurels, he has desolated human happiness and life on the largest scale;—while the savage blow, which affords no time to anticipate calamity, and leaves no widow or fatherless child to weep a long and tedious way to the grave, is alone to be damned in human opinion.