The American Missionary — Volume 44, No. 02, February, 1890

by Various

I can tell you the story of Indian missions by relating one incident. Some years ago, Rev. Lord Charles Hervey went with me to the Indian country. We had delightful services. After the Holy Communion we were sitting on the green-sward near a house. The head chief said, "Your friend came from across the great water; does he know the Indian's history?" I said "No." He said "I will tell him."

"Before the white man came, the forests and prairies were full of game, the rivers and lakes were full of fish, the wild rice was Manidou gift to the red man. Would you like to see one of these Indians?" There stepped out on the porch an Indian man and woman dressed in furs, ornamented with porcupine quills. "There," said the chief, "my people were like those before the white man came."

"Shall I tell you what the white man did for us? He came and told us we had no fire horses, no fire canoes, no houses. He said if we would sell him our land, he would make us like white men. Shall I tell you what he did? No, you had better see it." The door opened, and out stepped a poor, degraded looking Indian, his face besmeared with mud, his blanket in rags, no leggins, and by his side a poor, wretched looking woman in a torn calico dress. The chief raised his hands and said, "Manido Manido, is this an Indian?" The man bowed his head. "How came this?" The Indian held up a black bottle and said, "This was the white man's gift." Some of us bowed our heads in shame.

Said the chief, "If this were all, I would not have told you. Long years ago a pale-faced man came to our country. He spoke kindly, and seemed to want to help us, but our hearts were hard. We hated the white man and would not listen. Every summer when the sun was so high, he came. We always looked to see his tall form coming through the forest. One year I said to my fellows, 'what does this man come for? He does not trade with us, he never asks anything of us. Perhaps the Great Spirit sent him.' We stopped to listen. Some of us have that story in our hearts. Shall I tell you what it has done for us?" The door opened and out stepped a young man—a clergyman—in a black frock coat, and by his side a woman neatly dressed in a black alpaca dress. Said the chief, "There is only one religion in the world which can lift a man out of the mire and tell him to call God 'Father,' and that is the religion of Jesus Christ."

We have had many deferred hopes, and sometimes it has been dark as midnight. After nearly three years of hard work, I had both of my Indian missions destroyed, church and mission house burned, and our western border for three hundred miles desolated by an Indian massacre, which destroyed the fairest portion of our State, and left eight hundred of our citizens sleeping in nameless graves. It was needed to teach us that nations as well as individuals reap exactly what they sow. We began again. Here and there some Indian would listen, and the gospel was the same to him as to us. One day an Indian came to our missionary and said, "I know this religion is true. The men who have walked in this new trail are better and happier. But I have always been a warrior, and my hands are full of blood. Could I be a Christian?" The missionary repeated the story of God's love. To test the man he said, "May I cut your hair?" The Indian wears his scalp lock for his enemy—when it is cut it is a sign he will never go on the war-path again. The man said, "Yes, you may cut it; I shall throw my old life away." It was cut. He started for home and met some wild Indians who shouted with laughter, and with taunts said: "Yesterday you were a warrior, to-day you are a squaw." It stung the man to madness, and he rushed to his home and threw himself on the floor and burst into tears. His wife was a Christian, and came and put her arms about his neck and said: "Yesterday there was not a man in the world who dared call you a coward. Can't you be as brave for Him who died for you as you were to kill the Sioux?" He sprang to his feet and said, "I can and I will." I have known many brave, fearless servants of Christ, but I never knew one braver than this chief who is now in Paradise.

I wish I could take you to a Christian Indian's home. You might see nothing but a plain log house, and you might wonder why the tears came in my eyes as he said to me, "That is my daughter's room; the boys sleep up stairs; this is for me and my wife." They are tears of joy, for I knew them when they herded as swine, in a wigwam. It is the religion of Christ which has brought respect for womanhood.

I want to take you far away in the forest to Red Lake. The head chief, Mah-dwah-go-no-wind, was a remarkable man as a wild man, true, honest and brave. He came and asked me to give him a missionary. I loved him and we were warm friends. I said "I cannot give you a missionary for the American Missionary Association has a missionary now in that field." The chief came again and again to see me. He said: "I want your religion. If you refuse I will ask the Roman Catholics." I wrote Rev. Dr. Strieby, and told him the situation. I said "The field is in my diocese. I have the right to send a missionary there, but ask your consent because I will never be a party to present Christian divisions to heathen men." After due deliberation, the Association consented. I am happy to tell you that that old chief and nearly all the adults of his band are faithful communicants. At my last visit, the chief came to me and said, "My Father, since you were here, my old wife with whom I have lived fifty years, has gone to sleep in the grave. I shall go to lie by her side. I have heard that white Christians bless the place where they sleep as belonging to God. Will you bless the place where my wife sleeps and ask God to care for it until he calls his children out of the grave?" We formed a procession of the Indians, the clergy and the old chief and myself, and marched around the place singing in Ojibway, "Jesus lover of my soul"; then I read appropriate scripture, made an address and offered prayer, and asked blessing on this "acre of God." After the service the chief said: "I thank you for telling me I have a Saviour. I thank you for blessing the place where my wife sleeps. I have your face on my heart. Good bye."

I could keep you longer than I ought telling you of the lights and shadows of missionary life. The North American Indian is the noblest type of a wild man on the earth. He recognizes a Great Spirit, he loves his home, he is passionately devoted to his people, and believes in a future life. The Ojibway language is a marvel. The verb has inflections by thousands. If an Indian says "I love" and stops, you can tell by the inflection of the verb whether he loves an animate or inanimate object, a man or a woman. The nicest shade of meaning in St. Paul's Epistles could be conveyed in Ojibway, and I have heard a missionary say, "A classic Greek temple standing in the forest would not be more marvelous than this wonderful language."

The Indians are heathen folk and will often come to the Christian life fettered by old heathen ideas, and some may stumble and fall; they did in St. Paul's time; but I can say that some of the noblest instances of the power of religion I have ever known have been among these poor red men. I can recall death-beds where an Indian looked up in my face and said, "The Great Spirit has called me to go on the last journey. I am not afraid to go, for Jesus is going with me, and I shall not be lonesome on the road."

I am happy to tell you that the clouds are breaking. Thousands of this poor race are rejoicing in the light of the Gospel. The heart of the nation has been touched, and thousands are laboring for their salvation. The Indians are not decreasing. It is due to the absence of internecine wars, to their protection from dangerous contagious diseases, to better medical care and a wiser administration. In the future, Indians must have citizenship, but not until they are prepared for this precious boon. The ballot cannot redeem humanity. I was asked by President Cleveland what I thought of making the Indian a voter. I said, "It has been tried." Under an old territorial law, any Indian who wore the civilized dress could vote. I have heard of an election where a tribe of Indians were put through a hickory shirt and pair of pants, and we know how that election went. The Indian must have the protection of law. In his wild state he has the "lex talionis." He becomes a Christian. A drunken wild man kills his cow or insults his wife. He could punish the brute, but we have taught him that he must not revenge his wrongs, and so the Christian Indian is pitiably helpless. I can take you to an Indian village where property and life are safe, where childhood, womanhood, and old age are cared for, and it is due to the Gospel of Christ.