are so exchanged as to induce the purchaser to believe he is obtaining a third more than he actually receives; and others, yet more cunning, fill the measure half full of tallow and deal out the liquor from off it, —the witless dupe, not thinking to examine the bottom, supposes he receives the requisite quantity.
No wonder the Indian, with such examples before him, learns to hate the white man, and despise and abhor his boasted civilization. No wonder he looks with an eye of suspicion, alike upon his religion and his learning, and revolts at the thought of either, as the ingenious devices of scientific roguery. He is taught all the white man's vices before he learns any of his virtues. The emissaries of Satan, by their untiring efforts, effectually stop his ears, blind his eyes, and harden his heart, ere yet the heralds of the Gospel set foot upon his soil, to tell him of the blessings of Christianity, and the way to happiness and to heaven.
If the Indian is bad, it is because the white man has made him so. Uncontaminated by intercourse with the offscourings of civilization, who come to cheat and despoil him of his property, and deprive him of his comforts, you find him quite a different being. You find him brave, generous, and hospitable, as well as possessed of many exemplary moral qualities. If he is a savage, he might, in many respects, prove a safe and worthy teacher to those who pride themselves upon a more enlightened education.
He has a heart instinctive of more genuine good feeling than his white neighbor —a soul of more firm integrity—a spirit of more unyielding independence. Place the white man in his condition, divested of all the restraints of law, and unacquainted with the learning and arts of civilized life —surrounded by all the associations of the savage state —and the Indian, by comparison, will then exhibit, in a more striking light, that innate superiority he in reality possesses.
No: The Indian should not be despised. He holds weighty claims upon our pity, our compassion, and our respect, but never should he be despised.
Old Bull Tail, of whom I had occasion to speak in a former chapter having forgotten the wholesome sentiments he advanced at the time referred to, took it
into his head to have a spree. But, as he was not possessed of the means to obtain the wherewith, he adopted a somewhat novel substitute.
He had an only daughter, —and she was handsome—the pride of her family and the boast of her village. She was lovely, and all the high qualities of a princess were exhibited in her deportment. But, Bull Tail must drink; why not give his daughter to the Yellow-hair and receive from him a keg of liquor as a marriage present?
This thought was acted out, and one morning the old chief came to us, followed by his daughter, who, aware of her father's designs, gave vent to her grief in a flood of tears.
As he entered the door, our trader addressed him:
Trader. Bull Tail is welcome to the lodge of the Long-knife; —but, why is his daughter, the pride of his heart, bathed in tears? It pains me that one so beautiful should weep.
