to the wretched condition of the red man, who is, perhaps, with all his
ignorance, quite as well prepared to receive them as many of those who
are already wise in their own eyes. The very degradation and misery in
which he lives, and of which he is not unable to perceive some of the
causes, prepare him to welcome the instruction which promises better
things. Evils which are covered up under the smoothness of civilization,
stand out in all their horrible deformity in the _abandon_ of savage
life; the Indian cannot get even one gleam of light, without instantly
perceiving the darkness around him. Here, then, is encouragement to
paint him as he is, that the hearts of the good may be moved at his
destitute and unhappy state; to set forth his wants and his claims, that
ignorance may no longer be pleaded as an excuse for withholding, from
the original proprietor of the soil, the compensation or atonement which
is demanded at once by justice, honor, and humanity.

Authentic pictures of Indian life have another and a different value, in
a literary point of view. In the history and character of the aborigines
is enveloped all the distinct and characteristic poetic material to
which we, as Americans, have an unquestioned right. Here is a peculiar
race, of most unfathomable origin, possessed of the qualities which have
always prompted poetry, and living lives which are to us as shadowy as
those of the Ossianic heroes; our own, and passing away--while we take
no pains to arrest their fleeting traits or to record their picturesque
traditions. Yet we love poetry; are ambitious of a literature of our
own, and sink back dejected when we are convicted of imitation. Why is
it that we lack interest in things at home? Sismondi has a passage to
this effect:--

"The literature of other countries has been frequently adopted by a
young nation with a sort of fanatical admiration. The genius of those