For myself, I have wondered that the fire of revenge and hatred should ever have gone out in a single Indian bosom; that he should have been willing to receive the missionary and school-teacher from among a people who had so forfeited their title to Christian, and practised so contrary to their professions. But whoever will take the trouble to wander among the peaceful valleys of Cattaraugus and Alleghany, will be convinced that the natural and artificial passions of Indians may be lulled, and the gall and wormwood which wrong and oppression have engendered in their hearts, may be converted into the sweetest milk of human kindness. They have learned to distinguish between the possessor and the professor; they have learned to value the good gifts it is in our power to bestow, and are willing to sit at our feet and learn wisdom. It has become an annual custom among the Senecas to hold a national picnic, to which the people are all invited. The ceremonies are conducted as at similar festivals among other people, and I would like to have had the world, the unthinking, and still inexcusable ignorant world, look upon a scene which was represented not long since in the forest by North American Indians. Some strangers who happened along here a few months since, exclaimed, “Why, how have you created such a paradise here, and nobody ever has heard of it?” He looked abroad upon the cultivated fields and comfortable dwellings, and could not believe that the Indians had done all this. They are so entirely a distinct and peculiar people, that though living near a great city, and surrounded by an inquisitive and aggressive people, they are less known in the general community than the Chinese or the Laplanders. What has wrought this great change? The quiet labors and the small still voice of the missionary and the school-teacher. As well as I could, I have pictured the Indian as he was, and now I wish you to look upon him as he is. Just stand with me upon this little hill, and look upon this gay concourse of people. At our feet is a beautiful grove of elms and oaks and maples, on the borders of a silver stream, so clear that it is a perfect mirror to the shining pebbles upon its bed. It bears still an Indian name, the Cattaraugus, and flows on to mingle its waters with Lake Erie. There is music in the distance. Look up and you will see a procession. It is heralded by the Seneca National Band, in a costume of red and white, and the tune is Yankee Doodle, though the musicians are all Indians. Then comes the Marshal, who would be singled out by an observer, on any occasion, as a genuine son of a proud race, by his fine figure and noble bearing. With his rich dress, on his caparisoned steed, he is truly princely.