Since the dates of my other Letters from this place, I have been taking
some wild rambles about this beautiful country of green fields; jolted
and tossed about, on horseback and on foot, where pen, ink, and paper
never thought of going; and of course the most that I saw and have
learned, and would tell to the world, is yet to be written. It is not
probable, however, that I shall again date a letter at this place, as I
commence, in a few days, my voyage down the river in a canoe; but yet
I may give you many a retrospective glance at this fairy land and its
amusements.
A traveller on his tour through such a country as this, has no time to
write, and scarcely time enough to moralize. It is as much as he can
_well_ do to “look out for his _scalp_,” and “for _something to eat_.”
Impressions, however, of the most vivid kind, are rapidly and indelibly
made by the fleeting incidents of savage life; and for the mind that
can ruminate upon them with pleasure, there are abundant materials
clinging to it for its endless entertainment in driving the quill
when he gets back. The mind susceptible of such impressions catches
volumes of incidents which are easy to write—it is but to unfold a web
which the fascinations of this _shorn_ country and its allurements
have spun over the soul—it is but to paint the splendid panorama of a
world entirely different from anything seen or painted before; with its
thousands of miles, and tens of thousands of grassy hills and dales,
where nought but silence reigns, and where the soul of a contemplative
mould is seemingly lifted up to its Creator. What man in the world,
I would ask, ever ascended to the pinnacle of one of Missouri’s
green-carpeted bluffs, a thousand miles severed from his own familiar
land, and giddily gazed over the interminable and boundless ocean of
grass-covered hills and valleys which lie beneath him, where the gloom
of _silence_ is complete—where not even the voice of the sparrow or
cricket is heard—without feeling a sweet melancholy come over him,
which seemed to drown his sense of everything beneath and on a level
with him?
It is but to paint a vast country of green fields, where the _men_
are all _red_—where _meat_ is the staff of life—where no _laws_, but
those of _honour_, are known—where the oak and the pine give way
to the cotton-wood and peccan—where the buffaloes range, the elk,
mountain-sheep, and the fleet-bounding antelope—where the magpie and
chattering parroquettes supply the place of the red-breast and the
blue-bird—where wolves are white and bears grizzly—where pheasants are
hens of the prairie, and frogs have horns!—where the rivers are yellow,
and white men are turned savages in looks. Through the whole of this
strange land the dogs are all wolves—women all slaves—men all lords.
The _sun_ and _rats_ alone (of all the list of old acquaintance), could
be recognised in this country of strange metamorphose. The former shed
everywhere his familiar rays; and Monsr. Ratapon was hailed as an old
acquaintance, which it gave me pleasure to meet; though he had grown a
little more _savage_ in his look.
In traversing the immense regions of the _classic_ West, the mind of
a philanthropist is filled to the brim with feelings of admiration;
but to reach this country, one is obliged to descend from the light
and glow of civilized atmosphere, through the different grades of
civilization, which gradually sink to the most deplorable condition
along the extreme frontier; thence through the most pitiable misery
and wretchedness of savage degradation; where the genius of natural
liberty and independence have been blasted and destroyed by the
contaminating vices and dissipations introduced by the immoral part of
_civilized_ society. Through this dark and sunken vale of wretchedness
one hurries, as through a pestilence, until he gradually rises again
into the proud and chivalrous pale of savage society, in its state of
original nature, beyond the reach of civilized contamination; here he
finds much to fix his enthusiasm upon, and much to admire. Even here,
the predominant passions of the savage breast, of ferocity and cruelty,
are often found; yet _restrained_, and frequently _subdued_, by the
noblest traits, of honour and magnanimity,—a race of men who live and
enjoy life and its luxuries, and practice its virtues, very far beyond
the usual estimation of the world, who are apt to judge the savage and
his virtues from the poor, degraded, and humbled specimens which alone
can be seen along our frontiers. From the first settlements of our
Atlantic coast to the present day, the bane of this _blasting frontier_
has regularly crowded upon them, from the northern to the southern
extremities of our country; and, like the fire in a prairie, which
destroys everything where it passes, it has blasted and sunk them, and
all but their names, into oblivion, wherever it has travelled. It is to
this tainted class alone that the epithet of “poor, naked, and drunken
savage,” can be, with propriety, applied; for all those numerous tribes
which I have visited, and are yet uncorrupted by the vices of civilized
acquaintance, are well clad, in many instances cleanly, and in the
full enjoyment of life and its luxuries. It is for the character and
preservation of these noble fellows that I am an enthusiast; and it is
for these uncontaminated people that I would be willing to devote the
energies of my life. It is a sad and melancholy truth to contemplate,
that all the numerous tribes who inhabited our vast Atlantic States
_have not_ “fled to the West;”—that they are not to be found here—that
they have been blasted by the fire which has passed over them—have
sunk into their graves, and everything but their names travelled into
oblivion.
[Illustration: 33]
[Illustration: 34]
[Illustration: 35]
[Illustration: 36]
The distinctive character of all these Western Indians, as well as
their traditions relative to their ancient locations, prove beyond a
doubt, that they have been for a very long time located on the soil
which they now possess; and in most respects, distinct and unlike those
nations who formerly inhabited the Atlantic coast, and who (according
to the erroneous opinion of a great part of the world), have fled to
the West.
It is for these inoffensive and unoffending people, yet unvisited by
the vices of civilized society, that I would proclaim to the world,
that it is time, for the honour of our country—for the honour of
every citizen of the republic—and for the sake of humanity, that our
government should raise her strong arm to save the remainder of them
from the pestilence which is rapidly advancing upon them. We have
gotten from them territory enough, and the country which they now
inhabit is most of it too barren of timber for the use of civilized
man; it affords them, however, the means and luxuries of savage life;
and it is to be hoped that our government will not acquiesce in the
continued wilful destruction of these happy people.
My heart has sometimes almost bled with pity for them, while amongst
them, and witnessing their innocent amusements, as I have contemplated
the inevitable bane that was rapidly advancing upon them; without that
check from the protecting arm of government, and which alone could
shield them from destruction.
What degree of happiness these sons of Nature may attain to in the
world, in their own way; or in what proportion they may relish the
pleasures of life, compared to the sum of happiness belonging to
civilized society, has long been a subject of much doubt, and one which
I cannot undertake to decide at this time. I would say thus much,
however, that if the thirst for knowledge has entailed everlasting
miseries on mankind from the beginning of the world; if refined
and intellectual pains increase in proportion to our intellectual
pleasures, I do not see that we gain much advantage over them on that
score; and judging from the full-toned enjoyment which beams from their
happy faces, I should give it as my opinion, that their lives were
much more happy than ours; that is, if the word happiness is properly
applied to the enjoyments of those who have not experienced the light
of the Christian religion. I have long looked with the eye of a critic,
into the jovial faces of these sons of the forest, unfurrowed with
cares—where the agonizing feeling of poverty had never stamped distress
upon the brow. I have watched the bold, intrepid step—the proud, yet
dignified deportment of Nature’s man, in fearless freedom, with a soul
unalloyed by mercenary lusts, too great to yield to laws or power
except from God. As these independent fellows are all joint-tenants of
the soil, they are all rich, and none of the steepings of comparative
poverty can strangle their just claims to renown. Who (I would ask)
can look without admiring, into a society where peace and harmony
prevail—where virtue is cherished—where rights are protected, and
wrongs are redressed—with no laws, but the laws of honour, which are
the supreme laws of their land. Trust the boasted virtues of civilized
society for awhile, with all its intellectual refinements, to such a
tribunal, and then write down the degradation of the “lawless savage,”
and our trancendent virtues.
As these people have no laws, the sovereign right of summary redress
lies in the breast of the party (or friends of the party) aggrieved;
and infinitely more dreaded is the certainty of cruel revenge from
the licensed hands of an offended savage, than the slow and uncertain
vengeance of the law.
If you think me _enthusiast_, be it so; for I deny it not. It has
ever been the predominant passion of my soul to seek Nature’s wildest
haunts, and give my hand to Nature’s men. Legends of _these_, and
visits to _those_, filled the earliest page of my juvenile impressions.
The tablet has stood, and I am an enthusiast for God’s works as He left
them.
The sad tale of my native “valley,”[2] has been beautifully sung; and
from the flight of “Gertrude’s” soul, my young imagination closely
traced the savage to his deep retreats, and gazed upon him in dreadful
horror, until pity pleaded, and admiration worked a charm.
A journey of 4000 miles from the Atlantic shore, regularly receding
from the centre of civilized society to the extreme wilderness of
Nature’s original work, and back again, opens a book for many an
interesting tale to be sketched; and the mind which lives, but to
relish the works of Nature, reaps a reward on such a tour of a much
higher order than can arise from the selfish expectations of pecuniary
emolument. Notwithstanding all that has been written and said, there is
scarcely any subject on which the _knowing_ people of the East, are yet
less informed and instructed than on the character and amusements of
the West: by this I mean the “Far West;”—the country whose fascinations
spread a charm over the mind almost dangerous to civilized pursuits.
Few people even know the true definition of the term “West;” and where
is its location?—phantom-like it flies before us as we travel, and on
our way is continually gilded, before us, as we approach the setting
sun.
In the commencement of my Tour, several of my travelling companions
from the city of New York, found themselves at a frightful distance
to the West, when we arrived at Niagara Falls; and hastened back to
amuse their friends with tales and scenes of the West. At Buffalo a
steam-boat was landing with 400 passengers, and twelve days out—“Where
from?” “From the West.” In the rich state of Ohio, hundreds were
selling their farms and going—to the West. In the beautiful city of
Cincinnati, people said to me, “Our town has passed the days of its
most rapid growth, it is not far enough West.”—In St. Louis, 1400 miles
west of New York, my landlady assured me that I would be pleased with
her boarders, for they were nearly all merchants from the “West.” I
there asked,—“Whence come those steam-boats, laden with pork, honey,
hides, &c.?”
From the West.
Whence those ponderous bars of silver, which those men have been for
hours shouldering and putting on board that boat?
They come from Santa Fee, from the West.
Where goes this steam-boat so richly laden with dry goods,
steam-engines, &c.?
She goes to Jefferson city.
Jefferson city?—Where is that?
Far to the West.
And where goes that boat laden down to her gunnels, the Yellow Stone?
She goes still farther to the West—“Then,” said I, “I’ll go to the
West.”