His worst traits are those which he has in common with the wild animals of the forest, and which his intercourse with the lowest order of civilised men (who, in point of moral worth, are greatly his inferiors), and the pernicious effects of strong drink, have greatly tended to inflame and debate.

It is a melancholy truth, and deeply to be lamented, that the vicinity of European settlers has always produced a very demoralising effect upon the Indians.  As a proof of this, I will relate a simple anecdote.

John, of Rice Lake, a very sensible, middle-aged Indian, was conversing with me about their language, and the difficulty he found in understanding the books written in Indian for their use.  Among other things, I asked him if his people ever swore, or used profane language towards the Deity.

The man regarded me with a sort of stern horror, as he replied, “Indian, till after he knew your people, never swore—­no bad word in Indian.  Indian must learn your words to swear and take God’s name in vain.”

Oh, what a reproof to Christian men!  I felt abashed, and degraded in the eyes of this poor savage—­who, ignorant as he was in many respects, yet possessed that first great attribute of the soul, a deep reverence for the Supreme Being.  How inferior were thousands of my countrymen to him in this important point.

The affection of Indian parents to their children, and the deference which they pay to the aged, is another beautiful and touching trait in their character.

One extremely cold, wintry day, as I was huddled with my little ones over the stove, the door softly unclosed, and the moccasined foot of an Indian crossed the floor.  I raised my head, for I was too much accustomed to their sudden appearance at any hour to feel alarmed, and perceived a tall woman standing silently and respectfully before me, wrapped in a large blanket.  The moment she caught my eye she dropped the folds of her covering from around her, and laid at my feet the attenuated figure of a boy, about twelve years of age, who was in the last stage of consumption.

“Papouse die,” she said, mournfully clasping her hands against her breast, and looking down upon the suffering lad with the most heartfelt expression of maternal love, while large tears trickled down her dark face.  “Moodie’s squaw save papouse—­poor Indian woman much glad.”

Her child was beyond all human aid.  I looked anxiously upon him, and knew, by the pinched-up features and purple hue of his wasted cheek, that he had not many hours to live.  I could only answer with tears her agonising appeal to my skill.

“Try and save him!  All die but him.” (She held up five of her fingers.) “Brought him all the way from Mutta Lake[1] upon my back, for white squaw to cure.”

[1] Mud Lake, or Lake Shemong, in Indian.

“I cannot cure him, my poor friend.  He is in God’s care; in a few hours he will be with Him.”