[Footnote B:  Mr. Stephen Ruddell.]

Tecumseh had, however, no education, beyond that which the traditions of his race, and his own power of observation and reflection, afforded him.  He rarely mingled with the whites, and very seldom attempted to speak their language, of which his knowledge was extremely limited and superficial.

When Burns, the poet, was suddenly transferred from his plough in Ayrshire to the polished circles of Edinburg, his ease of manner, and nice observance of the rules of good-breeding, excited much surprise, and became the theme of frequent conversation.  The same thing has been remarked of Tecumseh:  whether seated at the tables of generals McArthur and Worthington, as he was during the council at Chillicothe in 1807, or brought in contact with British officers of the highest rank, his manners were entirely free from vulgarity and coarseness:  he was uniformly self-possessed, and with the tact and ease of deportment which marked the poet of the heart, and which are falsely supposed to be the result of civilization and refinement only, he readily accommodated himself to the novelties of his new position, and seemed more amused than annoyed by them.

The humanity of his character has been already portrayed in the pages of this work.  His early efforts to abolish the practice of burning prisoners—­then common among the Indians—­and the merciful protection which he otherwise invariably showed to captives, whether taken by himself or his companions, need no commendation at our hands.  Rising above the prejudices and customs of his people, even when those prejudices and customs were tacitly sanctioned by the officers and agents of Great Britain, Tecumseh was never known to offer violence to prisoners, nor to permit it in others.  So strong was his sense of honor, and so sensitive his feelings of humanity, on this point, that even frontier women and children, throughout the wide space in which his character was known, felt secure from the tomahawk of the hostile Indians, if Tecumseh was in the camp.  A striking instance of this confidence is presented in the following anecdote.  The British and Indians were encamped near the river Raisin; and while holding a talk within eighty or one hundred yards of Mrs. Ruland’s house, some Sauks and Winnebagoes entered her dwelling, and began to plunder it.  She immediately sent her little daughter, eight or nine years old, requesting Tecumseh to come to her assistance.  The child ran to the council house, and pulling Tecumseh (who was then speaking) by the skirt of his hunting-shirt, said to him, “Come to our house—­there are bad Indians there.”  Without waiting to close his speech, the chief started for the house in a fast walk.  On entering, he was met by two or three Indians dragging a trunk towards the door:  he seized his tomahawk and levelled one of them at a blow:  they prepared for resistance, but no sooner did they hear the cry, “dogs!  I am Tecumseh!” than under the flash of his indignant eye, they fled from the house:  and “you,” said Tecumseh, turning to some British officers, “are worse than dogs, to break your faith with prisoners.”  The officers expressed their regrets to Mrs. Ruland, and offered to place a guard around the house:  this she declined, observing, that so long as that man, pointing to Tecumseh, was near them, she felt safe.[A]