PRIDE AND GREATNESS OF MIND.
The Indians are proud but not vain; they consider vanity as degrading
and unworthy the character of a man. The hunter never boasts of his
skill or strength, nor the warrior of his prowess. It is not right,
they say, that one should value himself too much for an action which
another may perform as well as himself, and when a man extols his own
deeds, it seems as if he doubted his own capability to do the like
again when he pleased. Therefore, they prefer in all cases to let their
actions speak for themselves. The skins and peltry which the hunter
brings home, the deer’s horns on the roof of his cabin, the horses,
furniture and other property that he possesses, his apparel and that of
his family, the visits with which he is honored by the first and best
men among his nation; all these things show what he is and what he has
done, and with this he rests satisfied.
So with the warrior; it is enough for him that he is known to be a man
of spirit and courage by the scalps and prisoners that he brings home;
he never is seen going about boasting of his warlike exploits, and when
questioned on the subject, he makes his answer as short as possible.
Even when he is entering a town with his prisoners and scalps, he does
not stare about to see whether the people are looking at him, but walks
his usual steady pace and marches straight forward without appearing to
see any body. When at some of their particular festivals, every warrior
is called upon to relate his feats of arms, they make it a point to be
as brief as possible, leaving it to those who have done but little,
to swell their actions into importance, and give themselves credit for
what they have done. I cannot illustrate this subject better than by a
few anecdotes.
In the year 1779, two war chiefs, the one a young man of the Shawano
tribe, and the other an old warrior of the Wyandots, living near
Detroit, much celebrated for his great actions, but who during the
whole of the Revolutionary war, could not be persuaded to take the
field against the Americans, met accidentally at my house on Muskingum,
where they had separately come to pay me a friendly visit. The Shawano
(whose nation, by the bye, are noted for much talk,) entered upon
the subject of war, and with much earnestness in words and gestures,
related the actions he had been engaged in, showing at the same time on
his arm the mark of a bullet wound. During all this time, the Wyandot,
smoking his pipe, listened with great attention and apparent surprise;
and having afterwards to answer, according to custom, by relating
what he had done, he laid down his pipe, and deliberately drawing off
his clothes, except the breech-cloth, rose up and said: “I have been
in upwards of twenty engagements with the enemy and fought with the
French against the English; I have warred against the southern nations,
and my body shows that I have been struck and wounded by nine balls.
These two wounds I received at the same moment, from two Cherokees,
who, seeing me fall, rested their guns against a tree, and ran up
with their tomahawks to dispatch me, and take off my scalp. With the
aid of the Great Spirit I jumped up, just at the moment when they
were about to give me the stroke. I struck them and they both fell
at my feet. I took their scalps and returned home.” Thus this grave
and respectable veteran gave a lesson to the young Shawano, which,
if he well understood, he, no doubt, ever after remembered; for in a
few words, and in less than five minutes, he showed him at once the
contrast between great actions briefly and modestly told, and every
day occurrences related and dwelt on with pompous minuteness. This
contrast, indeed, was particularly striking, the more so as the modest
warrior did not seem to enjoy his triumph, nor to be even conscious
of the accession to his fame which must result from the publicity of
the account which he had given. As both parties spoke the Shawano
language, I well understood every thing they said, and I paid the
most particular attention to their discourse, which was of itself
sufficiently interesting.
This passion of the Indians, which I have called _pride_, but which
might, perhaps, be better denominated _high-mindedness_, is generally
combined with a great sense of honour, and not seldom produces actions
of the most heroic kind. I am now going to relate an instance of this
honourable pride, which I have also witnessed. An Indian of the Lenape
nation, who was considered as a very dangerous person, and was much
dreaded on that account, had publicly declared that as soon as another
Indian, who was then gone to Sandusky, should return from thence, he
would certainly kill him. This dangerous Indian called in one day at my
house on the Muskingum to ask me for some tobacco. While this unwelcome
guest was smoking his pipe by my fire, behold! the other Indian whom he
had threatened to kill, and who at that moment had just arrived, also
entered the house. I was much frightened, as I feared the bad Indian
would take that opportunity to carry his threat into execution, and
that my house would be made the scene of a horrid murder. I walked to
the door, in order not to witness a crime that I could not prevent,
when to my great astonishment I heard the Indian whom I thought in
danger, address the other in these words: “Uncle, you have threatened
to kill me--you have declared that you would do it the first time we
should meet. Now I am here, and we are together. Am I to take it for
granted that you are in earnest, and that you are really determined
to take my life as you have declared? Am I now to consider you as my
avowed enemy, and in order to secure my own life against your murderous
designs, to be the first to strike you and embrue my hands in your
blood?--I will not, I cannot do it. Your heart is bad, it is true, but
still you appear to be a generous foe, for you gave me notice of what
you intended to do; you have put me on my guard, and did not attempt
to assassinate me by surprise; I, therefore, will spare you until you
lift up your arm to strike, and then, uncle, it will be seen which of
us shall fall!” The murderer was thunderstruck, and without replying a
word, slunk off and left the house.
The anecdote with which I am going to conclude this chapter, will
display an act of heroism produced by this elevation of mind which I
have called _pride_, which, perhaps, may have been equalled, but, I
dare say, was hardly ever surpassed. In the spring of the year 1782,
the war chief of the Wyandots of Lower Sandusky sent a white prisoner
(a young man whom he had taken at Fort M’Intosh) as a present to
another chief, who was called the _Half-king_ of Upper Sandusky,[174]
for the purpose of being adopted into his family, in the place of one
of his sons, who had been killed the preceding year, while at war with
the people on the Ohio. The prisoner arrived, and was presented to the
Half-king’s wife, but she refused to receive him, which, according to
the Indian rule, was, in fact, a sentence of death. The young man was,
therefore, taken away, for the purpose of being tortured and burnt on
the pile. While the dreadful preparations were making near the village,
the unhappy victim being already tied to the stake, and the Indians
arriving from all quarters to join in the cruel act or to witness it,
two English traders, Messrs. _Arundel_ and _Robbins_ (I delight in
making this honourable mention of their names), shocked at the idea of
the cruelties which were about to be perpetrated, and moved by feelings
of pity and humanity, resolved to unite their exertions to endeavour to
save the prisoner’s life by offering a ransom to the war chief, which
he, however refused, because, said he, it was an established rule among
them, that when a prisoner who had been given as a present, was refused
adoption, he was irrevocably doomed to the stake, and it was not in
the power of any one to save his life. Besides, added he, the numerous
war captains who were on the spot, had it in charge to see the
sentence carried into execution. The two generous Englishmen, however,
were not discouraged, and determined to try a last effort. They well
knew what effects the high-minded pride of an Indian was capable of
producing, and to this strong and noble passion they directed their
attacks: “But,” said they, in reply to the answer which the chief had
made them, “among all those chiefs whom you have mentioned, there is
none who equals you in greatness; you are considered not only as the
greatest and bravest, but as the best man in the nation.” “Do you
really believe what you say?” said at once the Indian, looking them
full in the face. “Indeed, we do.” Then, without saying another word,
he blackened himself, and taking his knife and tomahawk in his hand,
made his way through the crowd to the unhappy victim, crying out with
a loud voice: “What have you to do with _my_ prisoner?” and at once
cutting the cords with which he was tied, took him to his house which
was near Mr. Arundel’s, whence he was forthwith secured and carried off
by safe hands to Detroit, where[175] the commandant, being informed
of the transaction, sent him by water to Niagara, where he was soon
afterwards liberated. The Indians who witnessed this act, said that it
was truly heroic; they were so confounded by the unexpected conduct of
this chief, and by his manly and resolute appearance, that they had not
time to reflect upon what they should do, and before their astonishment
was well over, the prisoner was out of their reach.