published to the world, as the rule by which their conduct is to be regulated.

I hope, Piomingo, that you will not be backward to take notice of the errors and follies you may observe among us. If we go wrong, we cannot plead ignorance as an excuse or palliation for our errors. We have enjoyed great advantages over your nation and the other aborigines of America. They, alas! have long wandered in the devious paths of error; but I hope the time is not far distant when they who have walked in darkness will see a marvelous light.

OLD AGE.

"Thou shalt rise up before the hoary head, and honor the face of an old manI am the Lord."

THIS benevolent precept is found in the law, which was delivered to Moses. The Jews may, for aught we know to the contrary, observe this commandment; but the christians, we suppose, consider it as a part of the ceremonial law; and therefore not binding on them or their posterity. We have often heard religious sophists discuss this knotty point about the moral and ceremonial laws with uncommon ingenuity. Whenever any of the precepts or commandments found in the five books of Moses or indeed in any part of the Old or New Testament, appeared repugnant to the doctrines of the church or the practices of the faithful, these biblical critics will be sure to inform you that they are a part of the ceremonial law; and therefore not to be observed by christians under the new dispensation. Now as we have never seen a young christian "rise up to the hoary head or honor the face of an old man," unless his age were supported by wealth or authority, we are necessarily led to suppose that the precept above mentioned is considered as a part of the ceremonial law of the Jews, and imposes no obligation on "the children of the kingdom."

Among the savages of America age is universally respected. All unite to honor the face of the old man whenever he appears, whether his blanket be old or new, his pipe plain or ornamented with silver. But among the civilized Americans I have always seen age, particularly if it exhibited any appearance of poverty or infirmity, neglected or insulted.

Does the old man appear desirous to relate any of his boyish exploits; no one is disposed to listen. No one can afford time to attend to the old dotard, who had better be in his bed or in his grave than to be here boring us with his antediluvian performances.

If the old man be possessed of any property, it is a hundred to one but some finely polished and highly civilized young christian will observe, "Damn the old codger: I wish he was in hell, and I had his money."

THE SAVAGE-NO. II.

EFFECTS OF CIVILIZATION.

A STOICAL indifference to bodily pain is, among savages, one of the first lessons of youth. Fortitude to bear every evil, and resolution to meet every danger, are inculcated upon us by our teachers, as virtues of the first magnitude. To suffer pain without complaint, and even with cheerfulness, is made the great point of honor. There is no such thing as coercion in the savage system of education. We are proud of doing right, and ashamed of doing wrong. We are taught to consider ourselves as superior to circumstances: at least, we are enabled to preserve a decent tranquility of mind in the midst of the greatest possible adversity. It is known to us, that the vicissitudes of life will expose us to misfortunes of various kinds. We must support the burning heat of the summer's sun, and the intense severity of the winter's cold. We must submit to hunger and thirst and a multitude of other privations. We must

suffer sickness and pain. We may be reduced to a state of servitude. We may become captives, and consequently be exposed to every species of torture that human ingenuity can invent, or the most violent animosity can inflict. All these things being known to our philosophic seniors, they exercise our bodies, and discipline our minds, in such a manner, that we are enabled to maintain a diguity of character in every emergency. We become patient of heat and regardless of cold. We learn to subdue the cravings of hunger without food; and to allay, without drink, the parchings of thirst.. We can indulge in a feast of bear meat and venison, or subsist on the roots of the desert. Untaught by philosophy, we enjoy the present moment; uninstructed in christianity, we "take no thought for the morrow:" we expose our naked breasts to the beating of the storm; and a fearless spirit to every difficulty.

It is well known to us, that the time of our existence here is a period of exertion. We are taught therefore to meet unavoidable danger with resolution, and to remove the greatest difficulties by perseverance. We are obliged to climb the highest mountains, leap down the steepest precipice, and swim the widest torrent. The science of hunting engages our earliest attention. We study the nature of our game, the time of the day, and season of the year. We know where to find the buffaloes in the morning; and where they may be discovered in the heat of the day. We know when they visit the low marshy salt springs, and when they descend to cool themselves in the river. We can rouse the deer from his lair in the frosty morning, and trace him over the hills by the newly fallen snow. We surprise the wolf in his gloomy haunts, or destroy him in his foraging excursions. We rouse the bear in his den, and shoot the panther among the rocks. We fix our traps for the fox, and drive, by stratagem, the beaver from his fortified habitation. We find the wild cat on the mountains, and the raccoon in the head of the valleys. We know the haunts of the otter; and the muskrat we shoot as he

peeps from his hole. We kill the mink on the banks of the stream, and the groundhog on the side of the hill. We know the daily rounds of the turkey; we take him on his roost, or shoot him on the ridges. We shoot the geese in their flight, or kill them when settled in the ponds. We see the slightest traces in the forest; we hear the least rustling among the branches; and we smell the approaches of the serpent. We climb round the rocks, slip through the cane, and skulk along the valleys.— We study the course of the wind in our approaches, or breathe on fire, lest we taint the purity of the gale.We know the course our game will pursue, before he has been roused from his harbor. We take the opposite direction, and meet him as he turns round the hill. We guide our course through the boundless wilderness, by the sun, moon, and stars, and even by the appearance of the trees of the forest. We perform the most incredible journeys without fatigue, crossing the widest rivers on the trunk of a tree. Through the immense desert we are familiar with every hill, and at home on the bank of every rivulet. We walk proudly on the hills; and from the towering summits on the Appalachian mountains, we look down, with ineffable contempt, on the brutelike drudgery of civilized life.

Thus the wild horse snuffs the western breeze, bounds joyously over the hills, laughs at the rattling of the chains, and despises the bridle and the plough.

We build dams in the rivers; and shoals of fish pour into our baskets. They are arrested in their course by our arrows and our gigs; or they are lured to destruction by the temptation of our bait. We bid them assemble together, and we scoop them up with our nets. We study the face of the heavens, and foretel the changes of the weather. We know when the gust is about to rise in the west, and when the wind promises a continued rain. We can tell when to prepare for snow, and when ice will appear on the waters.

Do you not suppose, O ye inhabitants of cities, that this system of education, that these pursuits and em

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ployments, are well calculated to sharpen the faculties and exercise the understanding? Where the mind is accustomed to turn itself to such a variety of vocations, and accommodate itself to such a multitude of circumstances, must it not become infinitely superior to that sluggish existence, whose ideas are continually occupied with the millhorse round of domestic drudgery?

Not only the memory, but every faculty we possess, is improved by exercise: how then can his mind be enlightened, who is the mere creature of habit, unaccustomed to thought and reflection? Can he, whose business leads him from the house to the barn, from the barn to the stable, from the stable to the orchard, from the orchard to the cornfield, and from the cornfield to the house again, possess an elevated understanding? Can he, whose most distant excursion extends not beyond the neighboring market town, have a mind enriched with a multitude of ideas? Such a being is distressed if he wander out of sight of the smoke of his own chimney. His friends are miserable, lest he should never return; and he, poor soul! gapes like a fish elevated above the surface of the water by the line of the fisherman. He gazes with surprise on every object he has not been accustomed to contemplate. He expects some beast of prey to start up in every valley, and the devil out of every thornbush. He looks for robbers behind every hedge, savage Indians in every wood. He says his prayers before he crosses a bridge, and confesses his sins on the banks of every torrent. But night overtakes him. How deplorable his situation! Every withered bush is a ghost; and every black stump, an imp of darkness!

But let him get home again. The sight of his barn. door, and the appearance of old Towser-the bawling of his black cow, and the smell of his hogsty-the squalling of his brats, and his snug chimney cornerall in sweet succession-revive, invigorate, and restore him. Having turned off a mug of cider, he "is himself again." And then-and then-the dangers and escapes, the windmills and the giants, the ghosts and the sa