The Indian is noted for his power of endurance of both fatigue and physical pain. I have thought much upon the fear manifested by these reputed brave barbarians; they seem to be borne down with the most tormenting fear for their personal safety at all times, at home or roaming for plunder, or when hunting, and yet courage is made a virtue among them, while cowardice is the unpardonable sin. When compelled to meet death, they seem to muster sullen, obstinate defiance of their doom, that makes the most of a dreaded necessity, rather than seek a preparation to meet it with submission, which they often dissemble, but never possess. Instinct, more than reason, is the guide of the red man. He repudiates improvement, and despises manual effort. For ages has his heart been imbedded in moral pollution. The blanket, as worn by the Indian, is an insuperable barrier to his advance in arts or agriculture. When this is forever dispensed with, then his hands will be free to grasp the mechanic’s tools or guide the plow. It is both graceful and chaste in their eyes, and to adopt the white man’s dress is a great obstacle, a requirement too humiliating, for they have personal as well as national pride. No hat is worn, but the head is covered with feathers and rude ornaments. A heavy mass of wampum, often very expensive, adorns the neck. Frequently the entire rim of each ear is pierced with holes, and adorned with jewels of silver, or something resembling it. The Indian does every thing through motives of policy. He has none of the kindlier feelings of humanity in him. He is as devoid of gratitude as he is hypocritical and treacherous. He observes a treaty, or promise, only so long as it is dangerous for him to disregard it, or for his interest, in other ways, to keep it. Cruelty is inherent in them, and is early manifested in the young, torturing birds, turtles, or any little animal that may fall into their hands. They seem to delight in it, while the pleasure of the adult in torturing his prisoners is most unquestionable. They are inveterate beggars, but never give, unless with a view to receive a more valuable present in return. The white man, he has been taught, is his enemy, and he has become the most implacable enemy of the white man. His most fiendish murders of the innocent is his sweetest revenge for a wrong that has been done by another. The youth are very fond of war. They have no other ambition, and pant for the glory of battle, longing for the notes of the war song, that they may rush in and win the feathers of a brave. They listen to the stories of the old men, as they recall the stirring scenes of their youth, or sing their war songs, which form only a boasting recapitulation of their daring and bravery. They yearn for the glory of war, which is the only path to distinction. Having no arts or industrial pursuits, the tribes are fast waning from war, exposure, and disease.