The image of God is defaced in the hearts of the
savage. Cain-like does the child of the forest put forth his hand and
stain it with a brother's blood. But are there no deeds of darkness done
in our own favored land?
But the country of the Dahcotah,--let it be new to those who fly at the
beckon of gain--who would speculate in the blood of their
fellow-creatures, who for gold would, aye do, sell their own souls,--it
is an old country to me. What say the boundless prairies? how many
generations have roamed over them? when did the buffalo first yield to
the arrow of the hunter? And look at the worn bases of the rocks that
are washed by the Father of waters. Hear the Dahcotah maiden as she
tells of the lover's leap--and the warrior as he boasts of the victories
of his forefathers over his enemies, long, long before the hated white
man had intruded upon their lands, or taught them the fatal secret of
intoxicating drink.
The Dahcotahs feel their own weakness--they know they cannot contend
with the power of the white man. Yet there are times when the passion
and vehemence of the warriors in the neighborhood of Fort Snelling can
hardly be brought to yield to the necessity of control; and were there a
possibility of success, how soon would the pipe of peace be thrown
aside, and the yell and whoop of war be heard instead! And who would
blame them? Has not the blood of our bravest and best been poured out
like water for a small portion of a country--when the whole could never
make up for the loss sustained by one desolate widow or
fatherless child?
The sky was without a cloud when the sun rose on the Mississippi.
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