They have the dignity of neither race.
The death of Oseola, (as described by Catlin,) presents a fine picture
in the stern, warlike kind, taking leave with kindness, as a private
friend, of the American officers; but, as a foe in national regards, he
raised himself in his dying bed, and painted his face with the tokens of
eternal enmity.
The historian of the Indians should be one of their own race, as able to
sympathize with them, and possessing a mind as enlarged and cultivated
as John Ross, and with his eye turned to the greatness of the past,
rather than the scanty promise of the future. Hearing of the wampum
belts, supposed to have been sent to our tribes by Montezuma, on the
invasion of the Spaniard, we feel that an Indian who could glean
traditions familiarly from the old men, might collect much that we could
interpret.
Still, any clear outline, even of a portion of their past, is not to be
hoped, and we shall be well contented if we can have a collection of
genuine fragments, that will indicate as clearly their life, as a
horse's head from the Parthenon the genius of Greece.
Such, to me, are the stories I have cited above. And even European
sketches of this greatness, distant and imperfect though they be, yet
convey the truth, if made in a sympathizing spirit. Adair's Red Shoes,
Murray's old man, Catlin's noble Mandan chief, Henry's Wa-wa-tam, with
what we know of Philip, Pontiac, Tecumseh and Red Jacket, would suffice
to give the ages a glimpse at what was great in Indian life and Indian
character.
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