Sir William took the hint, and gave him the clothes; but he resolved to dream in his turn; accordingly, not long after, he went to the wigwam of his red friend, and informed him that he had dreamed that Hendrick made him a present of a very fine tract of land of about five thousand acres.
“Have you really dreamed that?” inquired the chief, in dismay; and, after a moment’s pause, “Very well,” said he, “you shall have the land; but if you please, Sir William, we will not dream any more.”
The heaven of every nation is a place where the greatest degree of happiness is to be enjoyed hereafter; and of course it differs among different nations, according to their various notions of happiness. The Indians placed their chief pleasure in a life of easy indolence, varied only by the delights of hunting and gaming. Their paradise is, therefore, a land of eternal spring, where the sun’s beams are ever mild and refreshing, and where the green woods are stocked with every animal suitable for eating and the chase; and the waters are filled with fish of the most delightful flavor.
Not only the souls of men but also those of animals are admitted into this happy abode. And hence, among some tribes, it is the custom to shoot the dead man’s horse over the grave of his master. But the way to this heaven is long and full of dangers; such as meeting with ferocious wild beasts, crossing rapid streams on a single log, and the like. To enable the warrior to pass safely through all these and to gain his subsistence until he arrives at his future abode, they place in his grave weapons for hunting, a pipe, a tinder-box and flint, together with food, and in modern times a bottle of rum is added, if the man has been in life, very fond of this destructive liquor—a thing but too common among the natives.
Thus have we followed the Indian of North America from his birth to the place where he awaits the joys of another life—from his “tree-rocked cradle,” to his grave. Let us now glance at his general character and his probable fate.
It must be owned that the character of the Indian of the north, is by no means amiable. He is bold, but reserved, even to his friends; fierce and implacable to his enemies; indolent, except when pressed by hunger, or excited by revenge. Too proud to condescend to labor with his own hands, he compels his wife to bear the drudgery of the lodge, a sure sign of the savage. He never forgives an injury, never forgets a kindness. In war he is brave and cunning, in religion superstitious and cruel.
His virtues and his vices are all those of a barbarian; and such, it is to be feared, he will ever be. The attempt to civilize the natives within the limits of the United States, has been made often and zealously for more than two hundred years, but in vain. The remnant of this once powerful race is melting fast away, as one of their own orators express it, “like snow before the sun;” and perhaps, in a century more, not one will be left to remind us that the land which we inhabit was once their own. Still, it is no less our duty to do all we can to save and render happy, for a while, at least, the feeble remnants of a people to whom we owe so much.
In the crowded saloon of Mr. Catlin, the Indian lecturer, in the midst of an intensely interesting discourse, a person rose up, and in a solemn manner said, “Mr. Catlin, will you have the goodness to stop for a moment?” The audience looked with astonishment, and the lecturer paused: “I have lost my little boy in the crowd,” said the gentleman, “and wish to call for him.” A dead pause ensued in the 1200 persons present. “Clark Potter,” said the father. “Here I am, father,” said a shrill voice in the corner; at which shouts of laughter and applause ensued, and the stripling was handed over the benches to his anxious parent.