History of the Indians, of North and South America

by Samuel G. Goodrich

In considering the possibility of civilizing the Indians, the author of the splendid work on “The History of the North American Tribes of Indians,” &c., makes the following just and appropriate remarks: “We consider the question to be, not whether the Indian intellect is endowed with the capacity to receive civilization, but whether his savage nature can be so far conciliated, as to make him a fair subject of the benevolent effort. The question is, not as to the possibility of eradicating his ferocity, or giving steadiness to his erratic habits, but as to the practicability of bringing to bear upon him the influences by which his evil propensities and his waywardness must be subdued. The wild ass may be tamed into the most docile of the servants of man; the difficulty is in catching him, in placing him under the influence of the process of training. Whenever the bridle is placed upon his head, the work is done; all the rest follows with the certainty of cause and effect; in the contest between the man and the brute, between intellect and instinct, the latter must submit. So it is between the civilized and savage man. The difficulties to be overcome are the distance by which the races are separated, and the repulsion which impedes their approach. There is no sympathy between the refinement of the civilized man and the habits of the savage; nor any neutral ground, upon which they can meet and compromise away their points of difference. They are so widely separated in the scale of being, as to have no common tastes, habits, or opinions; they meet in jealousy and distrust; disgust and contempt attend all their intercourse, and the result of their contact is oppression and war. And why? The repulsive principle is never overcome; the attraction of sympathy is never established. The parties do not gaze upon each other patiently and long enough to be reconciled to their mutual peculiarities, and sit together in peace until they become acquainted. The habit of enduring each other’s manners is not established, nor the good-fellowship which results from pacific intercourse, even between those who are widely separated by character and station.”

Here the great obstacle to the instruction of the Indian tribes is clearly stated; let this be removed, and we have little doubt that we shall soon have to regard the current opinion of their obduracy as founded in error. The circumstances in which these people are now placed,—large bodies of them having made considerable advances in many of the arts of civilized life, having adopted regular governments, holding pacific intercourse with the United States, and enjoying the ministration of zealous and faithful missionaries among them,—are favorable to the making of one more experiment for their redemption, and this, too, with the important advantage of a good understanding between them and their teachers.

As to the capacity of the aborigines for civilization, we have little doubt. We have already hinted at the successes of Eliot, Mayhew, and the Moravians, in Christianizing some of the most savage tribes; and it would be easy to add other facts of the same nature, and tending to the same point. We could also set before the reader numerous incidents, which show that the Indian character is by no means destitute of the finest elements which belong to human nature.

The affecting story of Totapia, a Choctaw mother, known to the whites by the name of Jenny, related by the Rev. Dr. Morse in his Report, exhibits a touching example of the strength and sensibility of maternal affection in the Indian woman, which, in a Roman or Grecian matron, would have been rendered immortal by the poet and historian. She was the widow of a Choctaw, who, having slain one of his own tribe, was pursued by the relatives of the deceased, and put to death, according to the Indian law. After the death of her husband, she settled near St. Francisville, in Louisiana, where she lived reputably, with four or five children, of whom Hoctanlubbie, or Soue, her son, was the eldest.

At the age of twenty-five, her son murdered an old Indian, for which act, according to the unalterable law of the nation, his life was demanded, and he was sentenced to die. The day of his execution was fixed and had arrived, and the relatives and friends of the murdered, with others, a mingled throng, were assembled after their usual manner, and all things were ready for inflicting the sentence of the law. At this moment of strong and mingled feeling, Jenny, the mother, pressed through the crowd to the spot where her son stood by the instruments prepared to take from him his life. She then addressed the chiefs and the company, demanding the life of her son, and offering in its stead her own. Her plea was this: “He is young; he has a wife, children, brothers, and sisters, all looking to him for counsel and support. I am old; I have only a few days to live, at most; I can do but little more for my family. Nor is it strictly just, it is rather a shame, to take a new chief for an old one.”

The magnanimous offer of the devoted mother was accepted, and a few hours were allowed her to prepare for death. She repaired immediately to the house of a lady, Mrs. T., who had been her kind and liberal friend, and, without divulging what had occurred, said she came to beg a winding-sheet and coffin for her son. Not suspecting the arrangement of Totapia to preserve her son, the lady acceded to her request. When asked in relation to the length of the coffin and grave-clothes, the Choctaw mother replied, “Make them to suit my size, and they will answer for my son.”

Soon after Jenny had left Mrs. T. for the camp, where all things were ready for her execution, a messenger arrived in haste, and informed Mrs. T. of what was passing in the camp, and that Jenny was immediately to die. She hastened to the scene, with the intention of rescuing her; but Jenny, the moment she saw her carriage coming at a distance, imagining, doubtless, what her object was, standing in her grave, caught the muzzle of the gun, the prepared instrument of her death, and, pointing it to her heart, entreated the executioner to do his duty. He obeyed, and she fell dead!

We are not told how it happened that the son suffered his mother to die for him, or whether he could have prevented it. It seems, however, that he was despised for permitting it, and that his own conscience goaded him. The friends of the old man whom he had murdered taunted him, “You coward, you let your mother die for you; you are afraid to die.” Unable to endure all this, he stabbed a son of his former victim, but not until five years had elapsed since the death of his mother.

He returned home with indications of triumph, brandishing his bloody knife, and, without waiting for inquiry, confessed what he had done. He told his Indian friends that he would not live to be called a coward. “I have been told,” he said, “that I fear to die. Now you shall see that I can die like a man.” A wealthy planter, whose house he passed, he invited to see how he could die. This was on Sunday. Monday, at twelve o’clock, was the day he appointed for his self-immolation. Here a scene was presented which baffles all description. Soue walked forward and backward again, still keeping in his hand the bloody knife. With all his efforts to conceal it, he discovered marks of an agitated mind. The sad group present consisted of about ten men and as many females; the latter with sorrowful countenances were employed in making an overshirt for Soue’s burial. The men, all except two of his brothers, were smoking their pipes with apparent unconcern. Several times, Soue examined his gun, and remained silent. His grave had been dug the day before, and he had laid himself down in it, to see if it suited as to length and breadth.

No one had demanded his death; for all who were interested, and felt their honor concerned in it, resided at a distance of thirty or forty miles. The death-song was repeated, as was also the shaking of hands. Both were again repeated the third and last time. Immediately after, Soue stepped up to his wife, a young woman of eighteen, with an infant in her arms, and another little child, two or three years old, standing by her side, and presented to her the bloody knife, which, till now, he had kept in his hand. She averted her face to conceal a falling tear, but, recovering herself, with a forced smile, took it. His sister was sitting by the side of his wife, wholly absorbed in grief, apparently insensible to what was passing, her eyes vacant, and fixed on some distant object. His pipe he gave to a young brother, who struggled hard to conceal his emotions. He then drank a little whisky and water, dashed the bottle on the ground, sung a few words in the Choctaw language, and, with a jumping, dancing step, hurried to his grave. His gun was so fixed by the side of a young sapling as to enable him to take his own life. No one, he had declared, should take it from him.