It is natural for a deceitful person to take advantage
of the credulity of others. The genuine Indian never utters a
falsehood, and never employs flattery (that powerful weapon in the
hands of the insidious), in his communications with the whites.
His worst traits are those which he has in common with the wild
animals of the forest, and which his intercourse with the lowest
order of civilised men (who, in point of moral worth, are greatly
his inferiors), and the pernicious effects of strong drink, have
greatly tended to inflame and debate.
It is a melancholy truth, and deeply to be lamented, that
the vicinity of European settlers has always produced a very
demoralising effect upon the Indians. As a proof of this,
I will relate a simple anecdote.
John, of Rice Lake, a very sensible, middle-aged Indian, was
conversing with me about their language, and the difficulty he found
in understanding the books written in Indian for their use. Among
other things, I asked him if his people ever swore, or used profane
language towards the Deity.
The man regarded me with a sort of stern horror, as he replied,
"Indian, till after he knew your people, never swore - no bad word in
Indian. Indian must learn your words to swear and take God's name in
vain."
Oh, what a reproof to Christian men! I felt abashed, and degraded
in the eyes of this poor savage - who, ignorant as he was in many
respects, yet possessed that first great attribute of the soul, a
deep reverence for the Supreme Being. How inferior were thousands
of my countrymen to him in this important point.
The affection of Indian parents to their children, and the deference
which they pay to the aged, is another beautiful and touching trait
in their character.
One extremely cold, wintry day, as I was huddled with my little ones
over the stove, the door softly unclosed, and the moccasined foot of
an Indian crossed the floor. I raised my head, for I was too much
accustomed to their sudden appearance at any hour to feel alarmed,
and perceived a tall woman standing silently and respectfully before
me, wrapped in a large blanket. The moment she caught my eye she
dropped the folds of her covering from around her, and laid at my
feet the attenuated figure of a boy, about twelve years of age, who
was in the last stage of consumption.
"Papouse die," she said, mournfully clasping her hands against her
breast, and looking down upon the suffering lad with the most
heartfelt expression of maternal love, while large tears trickled
down her dark face. "Moodie's squaw save papouse - poor Indian woman
much glad."
Her child was beyond all human aid. I looked anxiously upon him, and
knew, by the pinched-up features and purple hue of his wasted cheek,
that he had not many hours to live.
