It would have been a blessed thing indeed if all the whisky sold to Indians in violation of law, had been "null and void and without effect," but unfortunately it had the same debasing effect with the Indian as upon the white man, as the following eloquent appeal from an Indian would seem to indicate:
Simon Pokagon, mentioned in the previous chapter, of Hartford, Michigan, was chief of the Pottawatomie band of Indians of his State. In an address to the white people, he employed this very remarkable language in denunciation of the evil of drunkenness:
"While I appreciate and laud those noble Christian missionaries, I can not do otherwise than openly condemn those white traders who, dog-like, tagged them into the wilderness and beside the Christian altars they had built, stuck out their signs, and dealt out to our young men and old men that liquid hell which lures but to destroy. Could you see what I have seen and feel what I have felt, as this snake, born of the white man, has coiled itself closer and tighter like a vise around the heartstrings of your own family, you would cry out: 'Pokagon, we do not blame, but pity you!' And well you may, for the blood of my people, as the blood of Abel, is crying from the ground against the Cains of humanity who, for paltry gold in times past and even now, are dealing out to our race that cursed abomination of misery and death. You send missionaries across the great deep to save Hindoo children from being drowned in the Ganges, or crushed under the wheels of Juggernaut, and yet in your own Christian land thousands are yearly being drowned in the American Ganges of fire-water, while the great Juggernaut of King Alcohol is ever rolling on night and day, crushing its victims without mercy. Hark! Do you hear that agonizing wail on every side? Fathers and sons are falling into drunkards' graves; mothers and daughters are weeping over them; wives are lamenting as they bend over the bruised heads of their husbands as they return from the midnight brawl; and briars of bitter disappointment encumber the bridal garden; brave men and women who have fought long and well to redeem and save the fallen are beginning to fear the power of the saloon and its votaries, while the pious who in faith have prayed long and well are beginning to doubt the favor of God.
"Soon I will stand in the presence of the Great Spirit and shall there plead with him in heaven, as I have plead with him on earth, that he will take those by the hand who have so bravely fought against the old dragon, Drink, the destroyer of your children and ours, and lead them on to glorious victory."
Said a missionary to a chief of the Little Ottawas, "I am glad that you do not drink whisky; but it grieves me to find that your people use so much of it." "Ah, yes," replied the chief, and he fixed an arch and impressive eye upon the missionary which communicated the reproof before he uttered it "we Indians use a great deal of whisky, but we do not make it."
While going through the Indian village of the World's Fair at Chicago, in 1903, the author of this book made the acquaintance of Deerfoot, the famous runner, the Indian who defeated all human racers and outstripped horses. Concerning this remarkable man, the Buffalo News had this to say:
"The death of Louis Bennett, known all over the world as Deerfoot, removes the most picturesque character from the native tribes of this State.
"In 1850, having outdone all the runners of his tribe, he thought he would try conclusions with white athletes. The conclusions were invariably in favor of the native and his fame as a long-distance runner became in a short time the talk of the land. Backed by a well known 'sport' of those days, he made a tour of American cities, easily outdoing all the local champions. Then his fame spread to England, whose athletics were then much more firmly established than those of this country. He visited the brawny islands in 1861.
"Despite the boastful predictions the remarkable Indian, with his peculiar stride, met and defeated the English champions, although he was given a couple of hard brushes. His endurance was nothing less than wonderful and he always ended a race fresh, and while his antagonist was running on sheer pluck Deerfoot was still running on wind. He remained in England almost two years and came back loaded with medals.
"On his return to America, not finding any men for a contest, he turned his attention to horses, and at Chicago he actually beat a number of horses in races. Since that time he receded from the public view, living quietly at his farm. Up to his death, however, he retained his remarkable powers and he was accustomed to take, as an old man, walks that would tax the endurance of an average youth.