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WESTERN CHARACTERS
OR
TYPES OF BORDER LIFE
IN THE
WESTERN STATES
BY J. L. McCONNEL
AUTHOR OF "TALBOT AND VERNON,"--"THE GLENNS," ETC.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY DARLEY
[Illustration]
REDFIELD,
110 AND 112 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.
1853.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853,
BY J. S. REDFIELD,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and
for the Southern District of New York.
STEREOTYPED BY C. C. SAVAGE,
13 Chambers Street, N. Y.
PREFATORY NOTE.
Attempts to delineate local character are always liable to
misconstruction; for, the more truthful the sketch, the greater is the
number of persons, to whom resemblance may be discovered; and thus,
while in fact only describing the characteristics of a class, authors
are frequently subjected, very unjustly, to the imputation of having
invaded the privacy of individuals. Particularly is this so, when the
class is idealized, and an imaginary type is taken, as the
representative of the species.
I deem it proper, therefore, to say in advance, that no attempt has been
made in the following pages, to portray any individual; and
that--although I hope I have not been so unsuccessful, as to paint
pictures which have no originals--if there be a portrait in any sketch,
it consists, not in the likeness of the picture to the person, but of
both to the type.
As originally projected, the book would have borne this explanation upon
its face; but the circumstances which have reduced its dimensions, and
changed its plan, have also rendered necessary a disclaimer, which
would, otherwise, have been superfluous.
* * * * *
One or two of the sketches might have been made more complete had I been
fortunate enough to meet with certain late publications, in time to use
them. Such is the elaborate work of Mr. Schoolcraft upon Indian History
and Character; and such, also, is that of Mr. Shea, upon the voyages and
labors of Marquette--a book whose careful accuracy, clear style, and
lucid statement, might have been of much service in writing the sketch
entitled "_The Voyageur_." Unfortunately, however, I saw neither of
these admirable publications, until my work had assumed its present
shape--a fact which I regret as much for my reader's sake as my own.
J. L. McC.
_July 15, 1853._
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
INTRODUCTORY 7
I.
THE INDIAN 19
II.
THE VOYAGEUR 62
III.
THE PIONEER 106
IV.
THE RANGER 157
V.
THE REGULATOR 171
VI.
THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE 246
VII.
THE PEDDLER 268
VIII.
THE SCHOOLMASTER 288
IX.
THE SCHOOLMISTRESS 319
X.
THE POLITICIAN 340
INTRODUCTORY.
--"Our Mississippi, rolling proudly on,
Would sweep them from its path, or swallow up,
Like Aaron's rod, those streams of fame and song."
MRS. HALE.
The valley of a river like the channel of a man's career, does not
always bear proportion to the magnitude or volume of the current, which
flows through it. Mountains, forests, deserts, physical barriers to the
former--and the obstacles of prejudice, and accidents of birth and
education, moral barriers to the latter--limit, modify, and impair the
usefulness of each. A river thus confined, an intellect thus hampered,
may be noisy, fretful, turbulent, but, in the contemplation, there is
ever a feeling of the incongruity between the purpose and the power; and
it is only when the valley is extended, the field of effort open, that
we can avoid the impression of energy wasted, and strength frittered
away. The great intellect, whose scope is not confined by ancient
landmarks, or old prejudices, is thus typified by the broad, deep river,
whose branches penetrate the Earth on every hand, and add to the current
the tributaries of all climes. In this view, how noble an object is the
Mississippi!
In extent, fertility, variety of scenery, and diversity of climate, its
valley surpasses any other in the world. It is the great aorta of the
continent, and receives a score of tributary rivers, the least of which
is larger than the vaunted streams of mighty empires. It might furnish
natural boundaries to all Europe, and yet leave, for every country, a
river greater than the Seine. It discharges, in one year, more water
than has issued from the Tiber in five centuries; it swallows up near
fifty nameless rivers longer than the Thames; the addition of the waters
of the Danube would not swell it half a fathom; and in a single bend,
the navies of the world might safely ride at anchor, five hundred miles
from sea.
It washes the shores of twelve powerful states, and between its arms
lies space enough for twenty more. The rains which fall upon the
Alleghenies, and the snows that shroud the slopes and cap the summits of
the Rocky mountains, are borne upon its bosom, to the regions of
perpetual summer, and poured into the sea, more than fifteen hundred
leagues from their sources. It has formed a larger tract of land, by the
deposits of its inundations, than is contained in Great Britain and
Ireland; and every year it roots up and bears away more trees, than
there are in the Black Forest. At a speed unknown to any other great
river, it rolls a volume, in whose depths the cathedral of St. Paul's
might be sunk out of sight; and five hundred leagues from its mouth, it
is wider than at thirty.
It annually bears away more acres than it would require to make a German
principality, engulfing more than the revenues of many a petty kingdom.
Beneath its turbid waters lie argosies of wealth, and floating palaces,
among whose gilded halls and rich saloons are sporting slimy creatures;
below your very feet, as you sail along its current, are resting in its
bed, half buried in the sand, the bodies of bold men and tender maidens;
and their imploring hands are raised toward Heaven, and the world which
floats, unheeding, on the surface. There lies, entombed, the son whose
mother knows not of his death; and there the husband, for whose
footstep, even yet, the wife is listening--here, the mother with her
infant still clasped fondly to her breast; and here, united in their
lives, not separated in their death, lie, side by side, the bride and
bridegroom of a day;--and, hiding the dread secrets from all human ken,
the mighty and remorseless river passes onward, like the stream of human
life, toward "the land of dreams and shadows!"
To the contemplative mind, there is, perhaps, no part of the creation,
in which may not be found the seed of much reflection; but of all the
grand features of the earth's surface, next to a lofty mountain, that
which impresses us most deeply is a great river. Its pauseless flow, the
stern momentum of its current--its remorseless coldness to all human
hopes and fears--the secrets which lie buried underneath its waters, and
the myriad purposes of those it bears upon its bosom--are all so clearly
typical of Time. The waters will not pause, though dreadful battles may
be fought upon their shores--as Time will steadily march forward, though
the fate of nations hang upon the conflict. The moments fly as swiftly,
while a mighty king is breathing out his life, as if he were a lowly
peasant; and the current flows as coldly on, while men are struggling in
the eddies, as if each drowning wretch were but a floating weed. Time
gives no warning of the hidden dangers on which haughty conquerors are
rushing, as the perils of the waters are revealed but in the crashing
of the wreck.
But the parallel does not stop here. The sources of the
Mississippi--were it even possible that they should ever be
otherwise--are still unknown to man. Like the stream of history, its
head-springs are in the regions of fable--in the twilight of remote
latitudes; and it is only after it has approached us, and assumed a
definite channel, that we are able to determine which is the authentic
stream. It flows from the country of the savage, toward that of
civilization; and like the gradations of improvement among men, are the
thickening fields and growing cultivation, which define the periods of
its course. Near its mouth, it has reached the culmination of
refinement--its last ripe fruit, a crowded city; and, beyond this, there
lies nothing but a brief journey, and a plunge into the gulf of
Eternity!
Thus, an emblem of the stream of history, it is still more like a march
along the highway of a single human life. As the sinless thoughts of
smiling childhood are the little rivulets, which afterward become the
mighty river; like the infant, airy, volatile, and beautiful--sparkling
as the dimpled face of innocence--a faithful reflex of the lights and
shadows of existence; and revealing, through the limpid wave, the
golden sands which lie beneath. Anon, the errant channels are united in
one current--life assumes a purpose, a direction--but the waters are yet
pure, and mirror on their face the thousand forms and flashing colors of
Creation's beauty--as happy boyhood, rapidly perceptive of all
loveliness, gives forth, in radiant smiles, the glad impressions of
unfaded youth.
Yet sorrow cometh even to the happiest. Misfortune is as stern a
leveller as Death; and early youth, with all its noble aspirations,
gorgeous visions, never to be realized, must often plunge, like the
placid river over a foaming cataract, down the precipice of
affliction--even while its current, though nearing the abyss, flow
softly as "the waters of Shiloah." It may be the death of a mother, whom
the bereaved half deemed immortal--some disappointment, like the
falsehood of one dearly loved--some rude shock, as the discovery of a
day-dream's hollowness; happy, thrice happy! if it be but one of these,
and not the descent from innocence to sin!
But life rolls on, as does the river, though its wave no longer flows in
placid beauty, nor reveals the hidden things beneath. The ripples are
now whirling eddies, and a hundred angry currents chafe along the rocks,
as thought and feeling fret against the world, and waste their strength
in vain repining or impatient irritation. Tranquillity returns no more;
and though the waters seem not turbid, there is a shadow in their
depths--their transparency is lost.
Tributaries, great and small, flow in--accessions of experience to the
man, of weight and volume to the river; and, with force augmented, each
rolls on its current toward the ocean. A character, a purpose, is
imparted to the life, as to the stream, and usefulness becomes an
element of being. The river is a chain which links remotest latitudes,
as through the social man relations are established, binding alien
hearts: the spark of thought and feeling, like the fluid of the magnet,
brings together distant moral zones.
On it rushes--through the rapids, where the life receives an
impulse--driven forward--haply downward--among rocks and dangerous
channels, by the motives of ambition, by the fierce desire of wealth, or
by the goad of want! But soon the mad career abates, for the first
effect of haste is agitation, and the master-spell of power is calmness.
Happy are they, who learn this lesson early--for, thence, the current
onward flows, a tranquil, noiseless, but resistless, tide. Manhood,
steady and mature, with its resolute but quiet thoughts, its deep,
unwavering purposes, and, more than all, its firm, profound affections,
is passing thus, between the shores of Time--not only working for itself
a channel broad and clear, but bearing on its bosom, toward Eternity,
uncounted wealth of hopes.
But in the middle of its course, its character is wholly changed; a
flood pours in, whose waters hold, suspended, all impurities. A
struggle, brief but turbulent, ensues: the limpid wave of youth is
swallowed up. Some great success has been achieved; unholy passions are
evoked, and will not be allayed; thenceforward there is no relenting;
and, though the world--nay! Heaven itself!--pour in, along its course,
broad tributaries of reclaiming purity, the cloud upon the waters can
never be dispelled. The marl and dross of Earth, impalpable, but visibly
corrupting, pervade the very nature; and only when the current ceases,
will its primitive transparency return.
Still it hurries onward, with velocity augmented, as it nears its term.
Yet its breadth is not increased; the earth suspended in its waters,
like the turbid passions of the human soul, prevents expansion;[1] for,
in man's career through time, the heart grows wider only in the pure.
Along the base of cliffs and highlands--through the deep alluvions of
countless ages--among stately forests and across extended plains, it
flows without cessation. Beyond full manhood, character may change no
more--as, below its mighty tributaries, the river is unaltered. Its full
development is reached among rich plantations, waving fields, and
swarming cities; while, but the journey of a day beyond, it rushes into
Eternity, leaving a melancholy record, as it mingles with the waters of
the great gulf, even upon the face of Oblivion.
--Within the valley of this river, time will see a population of two
hundred millions; and here will be the seat of the most colossal power
Earth has yet contained. The heterogeneous character of the people is of
no consequence: still less, the storms of dissension, which now and then
arise, to affright the timid and faithless. The waters of all latitudes
could not be blended in one element, and purified, without the tempests
and cross-currents, which lash the ocean into fury. Nor would a stagnant
calmness, blind attachment to the limited horizon of a homestead, or the
absence of all irritation or attrition, ever make one people of the
emigrants from every clime.
And, when this nation shall have become thoroughly homogeneous--when the
world shall recognise _the race_, and, above this, _the power_ of the
race--will there be no interest in tracing through the mists of many
generations, the outlines of that foundation on which is built the
mighty fabric? Even the infirmities and vices of the men who piled the
first stones of great empires, are chronicled in history as facts
deserving record. The portrait of an ancient hero is a treasure beyond
value, even though the features be but conjectural. How much more
precious would be a faithful portrait of _his character_, in which the
features should be his salient traits--the expression, outline, and
complexion of his nature!
To furnish a series of such portraits--embracing a few of the earlier
characters, whose "mark" is traceable in the growing civilization of the
West and South--is the design of the present work. The reader will
observe that its logic is not the selection of actual, but of ideal,
individuals, each representing a class; and that, although it is
arranged chronologically, the periods are not historical, but
characteristic. The design, then, is double; _first_, to select a
_class_, which indicates a certain stage of social or political
advancement; and, _second_, to present a picture of an imaginary
individual, who combines the prominent traits, belonging to the class
thus chosen.
The series halts, beyond the Rubicon of contemporaneous portraiture, for
very obvious reasons; but there are still in existence abundant means of
verifying, or correcting, every sketch. I have endeavored to give the
consciousness of this fact its full weight--to resist the temptation
(which, I must admit, was sometimes strong) to touch the borders of
satire; and, in conclusion, I can only hope that these wishes, with an
earnest effort at fidelity, have enabled me to present truthful
pictures.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] "Were it a clear stream, it would soon scoop itself out a channel
from bluff to bluff."--_Flint's Geography_, p. 103.
I.
THE INDIAN.
"In the same beaten channel still have run
The blessed streams of human sympathy;
And, though I know this ever hath been done,
The why and wherefore, I could never see!"
PHEBE CAREY.
In a work which professes to trace, even indistinctly, the reclamation
of a country from a state of barbarism, some notice of that from which
it was reclaimed is, of course, necessary; and an attempt to distinguish
the successive periods, each by its representative character, determines
the logic of such notice. Were we as well acquainted with the gradations
of Indian advancement--for such unquestionably, there were--as we are
with those of the civilized man, we should be able to distinguish eras
and periods, so as to represent them, each by its separate _ideal_. But
civilization and barbarism are comparative terms; and, though it is
difficult, perhaps impossible, precisely to fix the point at which one
ceases and the other begins, yet, within that limit, we must consider
barbarism as _one_ period. Of this period, in our plan, the Indian,
without reference to distinction of tribe, or variation in degree of
advancement, is the representative. As all triangles agree in certain
properties, though widely different in others, so all Indians are alike
in certain characteristics, though differing, almost radically, each
from every other: But, as the points of coincidence in triangles are
those which determine the class, and the differences only indicate
subspecies, so the similar characteristics in the Indian, are those
which distinguish the species, and the variations of character are, at
most, only tribal limits. An Indian who should combine all the
equivalent traits, without any of the inequalities, would, therefore, be
the pure ideal of his race. And his composition should include the evil
as well as the good; for a portrait of the savage, which should
represent him as only generous and brave, would be as far from a
complete ideal, as one which should display only his cruelty and
cunning.
My object in this article is, therefore, to combine as many as
possible--or as many as are necessary--of the general characteristics of
the Indian, both good and bad--so as to give a fair view of the
character, according to the principle intimated above. And I may,
perhaps without impropriety, here state, that this may be taken as the
key to all the sketches which are to follow. It is quite probable that
many examples of each class treated, might be found, who are exceptions
to the rules stated, in almost every particular; and it is possible,
that no _one_, of _any_ class treated, combined _all_ the
characteristics elaborated. Excepting when historical facts are related,
or well-authenticated legends worked in, my object is not to give
portraits of individuals, however prominent. As was hinted above--the
logic of the book points only to the ideal of each class.
And this view of the subject excludes all those discussions, which have
so long puzzled philosophers, about the origin of the race--our business
is with the question _What is he?_ rather than with the inquiry, _Whence
did he come?_ The shortest argument, however--and, if the assumption be
admitted, the most conclusive--is that, which assumes the literal truth
of the Mosaic account of the creation of man; for from this it directly
follows, that the aboriginal races are descendants of Asiatic
emigrants; and the minor questions, as to the route they
followed--whether across the Pacific, or by Behring's strait--are merely
subjects of curious speculation, or still more curious research. And
this hypothesis is quite consistent with the evidence drawn from Indian
languages, customs, and physical developments. Even the arguments
against the theory, drawn from differences in these particulars among
the tribes, lose their force, when we come to consider that the same, if
not wider differences, are found among other races, indisputably of a
single stock. These things may be satisfactorily accounted for, by the
same circumstances in the one case, as in the other--by political and
local situation, by climate, and unequal progress. Thus, the Indian
languages, says Prescott, in his "Conquest of Mexico," "present the
strange anomaly of differing as widely in etymology, as they agree in
organization;" but a key to the solution of the problem, is found in the
latter part of the same sentence: "and, on the other hand," he
continues,[2] "while they bear some slight affinity to the languages of
the Old World, in the former particular, they have no resemblance to
them whatever, in the latter." This is as much as if he had said, that
the incidents to the lives of American Indians, are totally different to
those of the nations of the Old World: and these incidents are precisely
the circumstances, which are likely to affect organization, more than
etymology. And the difficulty growing out of their differences among
themselves, in the latter, is surmounted by the fact, that there is a
sufficient general resemblance among them all, to found a comparison
with "the languages of the Old World." I believe, a parallel course of
argument would clear away all other objections to the theory.[3]
But, as has been said, the scope of our work includes none of these
discussions; and we shall, therefore, pass to the Indian character,
abstracted from all antecedents. That this has been, and is, much
misunderstood, is the first thought which occurs to one who has an
opportunity personally to observe the savage. Nor is it justly a matter
of surprise. The native of this continent has been the subject of
curious and unsatisfactory speculation, since the discovery of the
country by Columbus: by the very _want_ of those things, which
constitute the attraction of other nations, he became at once, and has
continued, the object of a mysterious interest. The absence of dates and
facts, to mark the course of his migration, remits us to conjecture, or
the scarcely more reliable resource of tradition--the want of history
has made him a character of romance. The mere name of Indian gives the
impression of a shadowy image, looming, dim but gigantic, through a
darkness which nothing else can penetrate. This mystery not only
interests, but also disarms, the mind; and we are apt to see, in the
character, around which it hovers, only those qualities which give depth
to the attraction. The creations of poetry and romance are usually
extremes; and they are, perhaps, necessarily so, when the nature of the
subject furnishes no standard, by which to temper the conception.
"The efforts of a poet's imagination are, more or less, under the
control of his opinions:" but opinions of men are founded upon their
history; and there is, properly, _no_ historical Indian character. The
consequence has been, that poets and novelists have constructed their
savage personages according to a hypothetical standard, of either the
virtues or vices, belonging, potentially, to the savage state. The same
rule, applied to portraiture of civilized men, would at once be declared
false and pernicious; and the only reason why it is not equally so, in
its application to the Indian, is, because the separation between him
and us is so broad, that our conceptions of his character can exert
little or no influence upon our intercourse with mankind.
Sympathy for what are called the Indian's misfortunes, has, also,
induced the class of writers, from whom, almost exclusively, our notions
of his character are derived, to represent him in his most genial
phases, and even to palliate his most ferocious acts, by reference to
the injustice and oppression, of which he has been the victim. If we
were to receive the authority of these writers, we should conclude that
the native was not a savage, at all, until the landing of the whites;
and, instead of ascribing his atrocities to the state of barbarism in
which he lived--thus indicating their only valid apology--we should
degrade both the white and the red men, by attributing to the former
all imaginable vices, and, to the latter, a peculiar aptitude in
acquiring them. These mistakes are natural and excusable--as the man who
kills another in self-defence is justifiable; but the Indian character
is not the less misconceived, just as the man slain is not less dead,
than if malice had existed in both cases. To praise one above his
merits, is as fatal to his consideration, as decidedly to disparage him.
In either case, however, there is a chance that a just opinion may be
formed; but, when both extremes are asserted with equal confidence, the
mind is confused, and can settle upon nothing. The latter is precisely
the condition of the Indian; and it is with a view of correcting such
impressions, that this article is written.
The American Indian, then, is the ideal of a savage--no more, no less:
and I call him the ideal, because he displays _all_ those qualities,
which the history of the human race authorizes us to infer, as the
characteristics of an unenlightened people, for many ages isolated from
the rest of mankind.[4] He differs, in many particulars, from the other
barbarians of the world; but the broadest distinction lies in this
_completeness_ of his savage character. The peculiarities of the country
in which their lives assume their direction, its climate, isolation; or
connection with the world--all these things contribute to modify the
aspects presented by native races. In such points as are liable to
modification by these causes, the American differs from every other
savage; and without entering into an elaborate comparison of
circumstances--for which we have neither the material, the inclination,
nor the space--it may be proper briefly to consider _one_ of these
causes, and endeavor to trace its effects in the Indian's moral
physiognomy.
The state of this continent, when the first Asiatic wanderers landed
upon its shores, was, of course, that of a vast, unbroken solitude; and
the contemplation of its almost boundless extent and profound
loneliness, was certainly the first, and probably the most powerful
agency, at work in modifying their original character. What the primary
effects of this cause were likely to be, we may observe in the white
emigrants, who have sought a home among the forests and upon the plains
of the west: whatever they may have been before their migration, they
soon become meditative, abstracted, and taciturn. These, and especially
the last, are the peculiar characteristics of the Indian; his
taciturnity, indeed, amounts to austerity, sometimes impressing the
observer with the idea of affectation. The dispersion, which must have
been the effect of unlimited choice in lands--the mode of life pursued
by those who depended upon the chase for subsistence--the gradual
estrangement produced among the separate tribes, by the necessity of
wide hunting-grounds--the vast expanse of territory at command--causes
operating so long, as to produce a fixed and corresponding nature--are
the sources, to which we may trace almost all the Indian's distinctive
traits.
"Isolation," Carlyle says, "is the sum total of wretchedness to man;"
and, doubtless, the idea which he means to convey is just. "But," in the
words of De Quincey, "no man can be truly _great_, without at least
chequering his life with solitude." Separation from his kind, of course,
deprives a man of the humanizing influences, which are the consequences
of association; but it may, at the same time, strengthen some of the
noblest qualities of human nature. Thus, we are authorized to ascribe to
this agency, a portion of the Indian's fortitude under hardships and
suffering, his contempt for mere meanness, and above all, the proud
elevation of his character. The standards of comparison, which were
furnished by his experience, were few, and, of course, derived from the
ideas of barbarians; but all such as were in any way modified by the
solitude of his existence, were rendered impressive, solemn, and
exalted.
In the vast solitudes of Asia, whence the Indian races migrated to this
continent, so far as the loneliness of savage deserts and endless plains
might exert an influence, we should expect to find the same general
character. But the Asians are almost universally pastoral--the Americans
never; the wildest tribes of Tartary possess numerous useful
domesticated animals--the Americans, even in Mexico,[5] had none; the
Tartars are acquainted with the use of milk, and have been so from time
immemorial--the Indian, even at this day, has adopted it only in a few
localities, among the more enlightened tribes. The migration of the
latter either took place at a period before even his Asiatic father had
discovered its use, or the accidents which brought him to this
continent, were such as to preclude importing domesticated animals; and
the lapse of a few generations was sufficient to obliterate even the
recollection of such knowledge. "And," says Prescott,[6] "he might well
doubt, whether the wild, uncouth monsters, whom he occasionally saw
bounding with such fury over the distant plains, were capable of
domestication, like the meek animals which he had left grazing in the
green pastures of Asia." To this leading distinction--the adoption and
neglect of pastoral habits--may be referred most of the diversities
among races, unquestionably of one stock.
Reasoning from the effects upon human character, produced by the face of
different countries, we might expect to find, in the Indian, among other
things, a strong tendency toward poetical thought, embodied, not in the
mode of expression usually denominated poetry, but in the style of his
addresses, the peculiarities of his theories, or the construction of his
mythology, language, and laws. This expectation is totally disappointed;
but when we examine the _degree_ and _character_ of his advancement,
and recollect a few of the circumstances, among which the poetry looked
for would be obliged to grow, our disappointment loses its element of
surprise. The contemplation of Nature in her primitive, terrible, and
beautiful forms--the habit of meditation, almost the necessary
consequence of solitude--the strange, wild enchantment of an adventurous
life--have failed to develop in the Indian, any but selfish and sensual
ideas. Written poetry was, of course, not to be expected, even from the
indigenous civilization of Mexico and Peru; yet we might, with some
ground for hope, seek occasional traces of poetical thought and feeling.
We look in vain for any such thing.
"Extremes meet," says one of the wisest of adages; and the saying was
never more singularly and profoundly vindicated, than in its application
to civilization and barbarism. The savage rejects all that does not
directly gratify his selfish wants--the highly-civilized man is, in like
manner, governed by the principle of _utility_; and, by both, the merely
fanciful and imaginative is undervalued. Thus, as Mr. Macaulay[7]
ingeniously says, "A great poem, in a highly-polished state of society,
is the most wonderful and splendid proof of genius." But, for the same
reasons, the savage, who should display any remarkably poetical feeling
or tone of thought, would be quite as great a prodigy. Poetry flourishes
most luxuriantly midway between the two extremes. Its essence is the
contemplation of great passions and actions--of love, revenge, ambition.
Imagination is then vivified by the means of expression or articulation;
and, in the half-civilized state, neither a refined public sentiment,
nor the other extreme of barbarous isolation, restrains the exhibition
of great (and poetical) emotions.
The best of Hazlitt's numerous definitions of poetry, determines it to
be "the excess of imagination, beyond the actual or ordinary impression
of any object or feeling."[8] But the Indian was destitute of all
imagination; apparently, the composition of his nature included no such
element; and, certainly, the rude exigencies of his life did not admit
its action. Even the purity of his mythology, compared to that of the
Greeks and Romans,[9] has been (by Lord Lindsay) attributed to this
want--though, if such were its only effects, it might very well be
supplied.
The Indian has no humor, no romance--how could he possess poetical
feeling? The gratification of sensual wants is the end of his life--too
often, _literally_ the end! "He considers everything beneath his notice,
which is not necessary to his advantage or enjoyment."[10] To him a jest
is as unmeaning as the babbling of a brook; his wife is a beast of
burden; and even his courting is carried on by gifts of good things _to
eat_, sent to the parents.[11] Heaven is merely a hunting-ground; his
language has no words to express abstract qualities, virtues, vices, or
sentiments.[12] His idea of the Great Spirit, and the word which
expresses it, may be applied with equal propriety to a formidable
(though not beneficent) _animal_; indeed, the Indian words which we
translate "spirit," mean only superior power, without the qualification
of good or evil. He has not even the ordinary inhabitive instinct of the
human race; his attachment to any region of country depends upon its
capacity to furnish game, and the fading of the former keeps pace with
the disappearance of the latter. "Attachment to the graves of his
fathers," is an agreeable fiction--unfortunately, only a fiction.[13]
He has always been nomadic, without the pastoral habits which the word
supposes: a mere wandering savage, without purpose or motive, beyond the
gratification of the temporary want, whim, or passion, and void of
_everything_ deserving the name of sentiment.
An extravagant, and, I am sorry to say, groundless, notion has obtained
currency, among almost all writers upon the Indian character, that he is
distinguished for his _eloquence_. But the same authors tell us, that
his language, the vehicle of the supposed eloquence, can express only
material ideas.[14] Now, if we knew no more of his character than this,
we should be authorized to infer (what is, indeed, true), that he
possesses no standard for the distinction of good and evil, and that his
imagination is bounded by the lines of his sensible experience. How any
degree of eloquence can be compatible with this state of things, passes
comprehension. And what reflection would conclude, a little examination
will confirm. The mistake has, doubtless, grown out of a misconception
of the nature of eloquence itself.[15] If eloquence were all
_figure_--even if it were, in any considerable degree, _mere_
figure--then the tawdriest rhetorician would be the greatest orator. But
it is not so. On the contrary, the use of many words (or figures) to
express an idea, denotes not command of language, but the absence of
that power--just as the employment of numerous tools, to effect a
physical object, indicates, not skill in the branch of physics, to which
the object belongs, but rather awkwardness. Of course, much must be
placed, in both cases, to the account of clumsy instruments; but the
instrument of speech differs from others in this: it is fashioned _by_,
as well as _for_, its use; and a rude, unpolished language is,
therefore, an index, in two ways, of the want of eloquence among the
people who employ it.
In this view, the figurative elocution of the Indian, so far from
affording evidence of oratorical power, if it proves anything, proves
the opposite. It is the barrenness of his language, and not the
luxuriance of his imagination, which enforces that mode of speech.[16]
Imagination is the first element of oratory, simplicity its first
condition. We have seen that the Indian is wholly destitute of the
former; and the stilted, meretricious, and ornate style, of even his
ordinary communications, entirely excludes the latter from our
conception of his character.[17]
For example: take the expressions "bury the hatchet," for "make peace,"
and "a cloudless sky," for "prosperity"--the latter being the nearest
approximation to an abstract idea observed in Indian oratory. Upon
examining these, and kindred forms of speech, we shall at once perceive
that they are not the result of imagination, but are suggested by
_material_ analogies. Peace, to the savage, is, at best, but a negative
idea; and the _state_ of peacefulness, abstracted from the absence of
war, finds no corresponding word in his language. Even friendship only
means that relation, in which friends may be of _use_ to each other. As
his dialects are all synthetic,[18] his ideas are all concrete. To say,
"_I love_" without expressing _what_ or _whom_ I love, would be, so to
speak, very bad Indian grammar. He can not even say "two" correctly,
without applying the numeral to some object. The notion of absolute
being, number, emotion, feeling, posture, or relation, is utterly
foreign to his mode of thought and speech.
So, also, of the "cloudless sky," used to express a state of prosperity.
He does not mean, by the phrase, the serenity of mind which prosperity
produces, nor any other abstract inflexion or suggestion of the figure.
He is constantly exposed to the storms of heaven, in the chase, and on
the war path; and, even in his best "lodge," he finds but little shelter
from their fury. Clear weather is, therefore, grateful to him--bright
sunshine associates itself, in his mind, with comfort, or (that
supremest of Indian pleasures) undisturbed indolence. And the
transition, though, as we have said, an approach to an abstract
conception, is easy, even to the mind of a savage. His employment of
such illustrations is rather an evidence of rudeness, than of
eloquence--of barrenness, than of luxuriance of idea.[19]
From these considerations, it results, that even the very best specimens
of Indian oratory, deserve the name of _picturesque_, rather than of
_eloquent_--two characteristics which bear no greater affinity to each
other, than do the picture-writing of the Aztec and the alphabetical
system of the Greek. The speech of Logan--the most celebrated of Indian
harangues--even if genuine,[20] is but a feeble support to the theory of
savage eloquence. It is a mixture of the lament and the song of triumph,
which may be found in equal perfection among all barbarous people; but,
so far as we are aware, was never elsewhere dignified with that sounding
name. The slander of a brave and honorable man,[21] which it contains,
might be the result of a mistake easily made; the wrongs of which this
chief was the victim, might render even a savage eloquent; and the
mixture of bloody vaunting with profound grief, is scarcely to be
expected in any _but_ a savage. "Logan never knew fear," he says; "he
would not turn on his heel to save his life." This species of boasting
is perfectly in keeping with the Indian character; but the pathetic
reason for this carelessness, which follows--"There is no one to mourn
for Logan"--is one not likely to have occurred to an Indian, even in his
circumstances. And, granting that the expression _was_ used by the
orator, and not (as it seems probable it was) added by Jefferson, it is,
I believe, the only example on record of poetical feeling in any Indian
speech.
The _religion_ of the Indian has given as much troublesome material to
the builders of systems, as has been furnished by all his other
characteristics combined. The first explorers of America supposed that
they had found a people, quite destitute of any religious belief. But
faith in a higher power than that of man, is a necessity of the human
mind; and its organization, more or less enlightened, is as natural,
even to the most degraded savage, as the formation of his language. Both
depend upon general laws, common to the intellect of all races of men;
both are affected by the external circumstances of climate, situation,
and mode of life; and the state of one may always be determined by that
of the other. "No savage horde has been caught with its language in a
state of chaos, or as if just emerging from the rudeness of
indistinguishable sounds. Each appears, not as a slow formation by
painful processes of invention, but as a perfect whole, springing
directly from the powers of man."[22] And though this rigor of
expression is not equally applicable to the Indian's religion, the fact
is attributable solely to the difference in nature of the subjects. As
the "primary sounds of a language are essentially the same everywhere,"
the impulses and instincts of piety are common to all minds. But, as the
written language of the Indian was but the pictorial representation of
visible objects, having no metaphysical signification, so the symbols of
his religion, the objects of his adoration, were drawn from external
nature.[23] Even his faith in the Great Spirit is a graft upon his
system, derived from the first missionaries;[24] and, eagerly as he
adopted it, it is probable that its meaning, to him, is little more
exalted, than that of the "Great Beaver," which he believes to be the
first progenitor, if not the actual creator, of that useful animal.
We often see the fact, that the Indian believes in his _manitou_, cited
as an evidence, that he has the conception of a spiritual divinity. But
the word never conveyed such a meaning; it is applicable more properly
to material objects, and answers, with, if possible, a more intense and
superstitious significance, to the term _amulet_. The Indian's _manitou_
might be, indeed always was, some wild animal, or some part of a beast
or bird--such as a bear's claw, a buffalo's hoof, or a dog's tooth.[25]
And, though he ascribed exalted powers to this primitive guardian, it
must be remembered that these powers were only physical--such, for
example, as would enable it to protect its devotee from the knife of his
enemy, or give him success in hunting.
Materialism, then, reigns in the religion, as in the language, of the
Indian; and its effects are what might be expected. His whole system is
a degraded and degrading superstition; and, though it has been praised
for its superior purity, over that of the ancients, it seems to have
been forgotten, that this purity is only the absence of _one kind_ of
_im_purity: and that its cruel and corrupting influences, of another
sort, are ten-fold greater than those of the Greek mythology. The
faith of the Greek embodied itself in forms, ceremonies, and
observances--regularly appointed religious rites kept his piety alive;
the erection of grand temples, in honor of his deity, whatever might be
his conception of that deity's character, attested his genuine devotion,
and held constantly before his mind the abstract idea of a higher power.
The Indian, before the coming of the white man, erected no temples[26]
in honor of his divinities; for he venerated them only so long as they
conferred physical benefits[27] upon him; and his idea of beneficence
was wholly concrete. He had no established form of worship; the
ceremonies, which partook of a religious character, were grotesque in
their conception, variable in their conduct, and inhuman in their
details. Such, for example, are the torturing of prisoners, and the
ceremonies observed on the occasion of a young Indian's placing himself
under his guardian power.
The dogmas of the Indian religion, until varied by the teaching of
missionaries, were few and simple--being circumscribed, like everything
else belonging to him, by the material world. He believed in a good
spirit, and an evil spirit; but his conception was limited by the ideas
of benefit or injury, _to himself_; indeed, it may safely be doubted,
whether the word "spirit," in its legitimate sense, is at all applicable
to his belief. "Power in a state of exertion," is the more accurate
description of his imperfect notion: abstract existence he never
conceived; the verb "_to be_" except as relating to time, place, and
action, had no meaning in his language.[28] He believed, also, in
subordinate powers of good and evil; but, since his life was occupied
more in averting danger and calamity, than in seeking safety or
happiness, he paid far more respect to the latter than to the former--he
prayed oftener and more fervently to the devils, than to the angels. His
clearest notion of divinity, was that of a being able to injure him;
and, in this sense, his devotion might be given to man, bird, or beast.
There seems to be no doubt, that he believed in a sort of immortality,
even before the missionaries visited his country. But it was not so much
a new state of existence, as a continuation of present life.[29] He
killed horses upon the grave of the departed warrior, that he might be
mounted for his long journey; and buffalo meat and roasted maize were
buried with him, that he might not suffer from hunger.[30] On arriving
in the land of the blest, he believed, that the dead pursued the game of
that country, as he had done in this; and the highest felicity of which
he conceived, was the liberty to hunt unmolested by the war-parties of
his enemies. Heaven was, therefore, in his conception, only a more
genial earth, and its inheritors but keener sportsmen.
That this idea of immortality involved that of accountability, in some
form, seems to admit of no doubt; but this doctrine, like almost all
others belonging to the primitive savage, has been moulded to its
present definite shape, by the long-continued labors of Christian
missionaries.[31] He believed, indeed, that the bad Indians never
reached the happy hunting-grounds, but the distinction between the good
and the bad, in his mind, was not at all clear; and, since the idea of
the passage across the gulf of death most prevalent among all tribes,
is that of a narrow bridge, over which only steady nerves and sure feet
may carry the wanderer, it seems probable that the line was drawn
between the brave warrior and the successful hunter, on the one hand,
and the coward and the unskilful, on the other. If these views be
correct, the inferences to be drawn from the Indian's belief in
immortality and accountability, are of but slender significance.
Corrupt manners and degrading customs never exist, in conjunction with a
pure religious system. The outlines of social institutions are
metaphysically coincident with the limits of piety; and the refinement
of morals depends upon the purity of faith. We may thus determine the
prevailing spirit of a national religion, by observation of domestic
manners and habits; and, among all the relations of life, that of parent
and child is the best index to degree of advancement. Filial piety is
but the secondary manifestation of a devotional heart; and attachment
and obedience to a father on earth, are only imperfect demonstrations of
love to our Father in heaven. What, then--to apply the principle--is the
state of this sentiment in the Indian? By the answer to that question,
we shall be able to estimate the value of his religious notions, and to
determine the amount of hope, for his conversion, justified by their
possession. The answer may be given in a few words: There is no such
sentiment in the Indian character. Children leave their infirm parents
to die alone, and be eaten by the wolves;[32] or treat them with violent
indignity,[33] when the necessity of migration gives no occasion for
this barbarous desertion. Young savages have been known to beat their
parents, and even to kill them; but the display of attachment or
reverence for them, is quite unknown. Like the beast of the forest, they
are no sooner old enough to care for themselves, than they cease even to
remember, by whose care they have become so; and the slightest
provocation will produce a quarrel with a father, as readily as with a
stranger. The unwritten law of the Indian, about which so many writers
have dreamed, enacts no higher penalty for parricide, than for any other
homicide; and a command to honor his father and mother because they
_are_ his father and mother, would strike the mind of an Indian as
simply absurd.