To my readers of the Pacific coast, I need say nothing in commendation of this writer. He is too well known to require an introduction. But that his communication may be appreciated by those who do not know “The Captain,” it may be well to state that he is a member of the old-school Presbyterian church, has long resided West, is respected by all who know him, as a man of unimpeachable honor and integrity. His heart is in his work, and he talks and acts toward the Indians under his charge more as a father than as an officer. A zealous churchman and partisan, he is positive in character, and fearless as a speaker; while he may be lacking in some minor qualities, he has so many important and useful ones that qualify him for his position, that the deficiency, if any, is not felt. As a christian civilizer of Indians he ranks with Father Wilber, of Yakama, and other noble-hearted men.

Warm Springs has been assigned to the Methodist Church; yet so much confidence has Captain Smith inspired by his success, that they have not recommended his removal. In this they have consulted the higher and purer motives that should, and often do, control men in important matters. He should be permitted to hold his office during life.

This communication, coming from such a man, is worthy of careful consideration; touching, as it does, the key-notes of the great question of the Christianization of the Indians.

Here is a man talking of a subject who knows whereof he writes; so far at least as relates to his own experience and observation.

His success, as declared by his letter, is established by many living witnesses, and the anthems of praise that go up from this mountain home of the red men.

The reader who peruses the foregoing letter will not fail to discover that Captain Smith’s heart is in the work, and that he is animated by a true Christian spirit in his labors with his people.

I do not, however, endorse all his strictures on the effects of the Catholic Church, in its labors in behalf of the Indian race. I know many worthy men, who are honestly laboring for them, who are members of the Catholic Church. There is a difference in the polity of that and Protestant Churches, and, however strong my own prejudices may be in favor of the latter, I am not insensible to the fact that the Catholic Church has manifested a great interest in these people. Let them be judged by their works.

Unfortunately for the world, Christianity has not, and does not, divest its followers of the common inheritance of poor weak human nature, and of the passions and prejudices that close our eyes to the virtues and honor due those who differ from us. More charity, more justice, preached and practised, would make man far happier.

In December, 1871, I visited Warm Springs Agency. I remained several days; during which time a series of meetings were held at the agency. From the record kept of that meeting I make a short synopsis. Agent Smith, when his people were assembled in the school-house, called on an Indian to offer prayers. I confess that I was somewhat surprised to witness the response, by a man whose childhood had been passed in a wild Indian camp, and whose youth had witnessed scenes of warfare against the white man, and who had been compelled to accept this poor home, in lieu of the beautiful prairies of “John Day’s” river country,—the name of a branch of the Columbia. A hymn was sung by the people. Nowhere have I ever seen exhibited a more confiding trust in God than was shown by them.

After the preliminaries were over, a discussion was opened on the several matters pertaining to the interests of the Indians,—their church, school, business matters, investment of funds, etc.

The social and civil customs were brought up. We insisted that polygamy was a great crime, and that they should abolish the law permitting it.

The meeting increased in interest and earnestness for several days. We finally proposed that those of them who were willing should come out squarely and renounce all their old ways, and take new names, or, at least, add to their old ones a plain American name. The people were warmed in their hearts. The occasion was one of intense interest. Here were those who had come up from a low, debased condition, through the labors of Christian white men, until they stood on the threshold of a higher life than they had as yet known. It was to them an important step.

The speeches made gave evidence of thought and forecast of mind. They did not rush blindly forward without counting the cost.

This scene reminds me of a Methodist camp meeting in olden time, when people were moved by some invisible power to flee from the wrath to come; when the preacher would call, and exhort, and pray, and a great overshadowing presence touched all hearts, and drove away careless thoughts and selfish purposes, and the multitude would seem to melt and mingle in common sympathy; when saints could throw their arms around sinners, and make them feel how much they loved them, and how earnestly they desired their salvation; when brave old sinners hesitated, faltered and trembled, and strong, brave Christians would then renew the contest in behalf of religion. Men who had knocked elbows for life would meet at a common altar, or gather in knots and surround some stubborn, hard-hearted sinner, who, with thoughtful brow, would whittle sticks and spit, and whittle again, sometimes throwing the chips away from him, indicating “I won’t;” and then, when some more pointed word of argument, or love, was sent home to the sinner’s heart, he would turn the stick and whittle the chips toward him, thus saying, “I may;” until at last, when the preacher calls, “Who will be the next?” the repentant one drops his stick, shuts his knife, draws his bandanna to his eyes, starts forward, escorted by his pious exulting friends, who clear the way for the now penitent man.

The preacher comes down from the stand, clapping his hands, and with streaming eyes shouts, “Thank God, another sinner has turned to the Lord!” extends his hand, and utters a few kind words in the listening ear, and resumes, “Who will be the next?”

A cowardly sinner, who dares not come out from the world, and is not brave enough to stand before the battery of divine power, turns and flees, not from the wrath to come, but from the means that are intended to make him whole. He is followed by kind-hearted Christian friends and brought back, and he, too, surrenders; and the preacher says, “Thank the Lord!” and the brethren shout, “Amen! Amen.”

And thus the work goes on until all are converted, or give evidence of penitence, save, perhaps, some strong-willed, hard-hearted, cool-headed one, and then especial efforts are made in his behalf. If he does, at last, yield his stubborn will, the joy is unbounded.

This picture I have made, is a true one of western camp-meetings, and equally true of the Indian meeting held at Warm Springs in December, 1871. I was to that what the presiding elder was to a camp-meeting. Capt. Smith was the “preacher in charge.” After one or two days of speech-making, when all hearts were thoroughly aroused, the proposition above referred to was made. I shall never forget the scene that followed. “Who will be the first to throw away his Indian heart, laws, customs, and be from this day henceforth a white man in everything pertaining to civilization?” Silence reigned; all eyes turned toward “Mark,” head chief. He realized the situation, saw how much of the welfare of his people depended on his example. He saw, besides, his three wives and their ten children.

He arose slowly, half hesitating, as though he had not fully made up his mind what to do. The presence of his women embarrassed him. He said, “My heart is warm like fire, but there are cold spots in it. I don’t know how to talk. I want to be a white man. My father did not tell me it was wrong to have so many wives. I love all my women. My old wife is a mother to the others, I can’t do without her; but she is old, she cannot work very much; I can’t send her away to die. This woman,” pointing to another, “cost me ten horses; she is a good woman; I can’t do without her. That woman,” pointing to still another, “cost me eight horses; she is young; she will take care of me when I am old. I don’t know how to do; I want to do right. I am not a bad man. I know your new law is good; the old law is bad. We must be like the white man. I am a man; I will put away the old law.”

Captain Smith, although a Presbyterian, behaved then like an old-fashioned Methodist, shouting, “Thank God! Thank God, the ice is broke!”

Mark remained standing, and resumed: “I want you to tell me how to do right. I love my women and children. I can’t send any of them away; what must I do?” The old chief was moved, and his upheaving breast gave proof that he was a man. Silence followed, while he stood awaiting the answer,—a silence that was felt.

Here was a people, in the very throes of a new life, making effort to overcome the effects of savage birth and education. The heart of this question was bared. This old superstition was still lingering in their lives, part and parcel of the very existence of the people. It remained with them even after they had put away their religious faith and accepted that of their Christian teachers.

We had long before seen the struggle that it would cost,—the embarrassments that polygamy threw into the question. Our mind was made up, or we thought it was, and, motioning the chief to be seated, we arose and said:—

“I know how much depends on my words. This is a great question. It has always been a hard thing to manage. My heart is not rock. I sympathize with you; Captain Smith feels for you. We will tell you what to do. No man after this day shall ever marry more than one woman. No woman shall ever be sold. The men that have more than one wife must arrange to be lawfully married to one of them. The others are to remain with him until they are married to other persons, or find homes elsewhere. If they do not marry again, the husband must take care of them and their children.”

After a few moments, the chief arose, and said, “I understand; that is right. I will give all my wives a choice. I will be a white man from this day;” and then, advancing toward the desk, he was welcomed by friendly greeting from the white men present.

Holding him by the hand I said to him, “I welcome my red brother to our civilization. You are now a man; our people do not consider the color of a man; it is his heart, his life. What name will you take?”

He hesitated, looking down for a moment; then raising his eyes to my own with earnest gaze, he inquired if he might take my name, saying that he liked it because it sounded well.

Acknowledging the compliment, I extended my hand, and addressed him as Mr. Mark Meacham, which was greeted with great applause. His second wife, Matola, arose and made a short speech, inquiring what was to become of her and her children. “Is your heart made of stone? Can I give Mark up? No I won’t; he will want my children. I want them. I won’t go away. I am his wife. I am satisfied with being his second wife; we did not know it was wrong. Nobody told us so. We get along well together. I won’t leave him; I am his wife.” The plan was explained, and she was reconciled. John Mission was next to follow Mark, saying, “that when he was a small boy, he first heard about the new law. He had waited for the time when his people would come to it. They have come now. I am glad in my heart. I give you my hand.”

Billy Chinook said, “I throw away the law my fathers made. I take this new law. I have two wives. They are both good. If anybody wants one of my wives, he can have her; if he don’t, she can stay. Long time I have waited for the new law. It has come. I give you my hand.”

Hand-shaking was renewed, and then one after another arose and made short speeches, and came forward and were enrolled; the captain growing warmer and more enthusiastic as each new name was entered on the roll. Nearly one hundred had come out squarely, and we adjourned the meeting to the following day.

On reassembling, next morning, the invitation was renewed, and nearly all of the men present surrendered. Sitting moody, gloomy, silent, was a tall, fine-looking fellow, with a blanket on his shoulders. His name was Pi-a-noose.

He had been called on several times, but had not responded until near the close of this civil revival. Unexpectedly he laid aside his blanket and arose. Every eye was turned on this man, because he had opposed every new law. While he was a peaceable, quiet man, he was a strong one, and had always exercised great influence, especially with the younger men.

He began to talk,—breaking a breathless silence, because it was supposed that he would take a stand against the new law,—the Indian way of speaking of all new rules. His speech was one of vast importance to his hearers, and was as follows:—

“I was born a wild Indian. My father was a wild Indian. A long time I have fought you in my heart. I have not talked much; I wanted to think. I have thought about the new law a great deal. I thought I would not have the new law. My heart says No! I cannot fight against it any longer. I am now going to be a white man. I will give up the old law.”

He advanced towards the desk, and the captain, unable to restrain his emotions of pleasure, gave vent to exclamations of gladness by slapping his hand on the desk, while tears came to his eyes in proof of his pleasure. The hand-shaking that followed was of that kind which expressed more than words. A throng gathered around Pi-a-noose, congratulating him.

Here was a scene that would have touched the heart of man possessed of any feeling,—a savage transformed into a man! The world scoffs at such sentiments, because it seldom witnesses a spectacle so grand in human life. Indians who have passed into that new life are like white men newly converted to Christianity. Our meeting adjourned with great demonstrations of pleasure on the part of all interested.

The captain called his employÉs together for prayer-meeting. A few Indians were present, taking part in the exercises. Strange sounds,—those of prayer going up from an Indian agency, where, in years agone, shouts of revelry and bacchanalian songs arose from throats that were used to the language of the debauchee; even officers, if history be true, had taken part in the disgraceful orgies.

This agency has two classes of Indians—one that are anxious to advance; the other who, adopting the religion of white men, are loth to abandon their old habits. The former are fast coming up to the estate of civilized, Christianized manhood. A few years more and the treaty will expire, and then those who are qualified should be admitted to citizenship, and the remainder removed to some locality where they could find suitable lands for cultivation. This will not probably be done. The Government owes these people a debt that it may be slow in paying.

The Dalles fishery should be returned to them, and a peaceful enjoyment of its privileges guaranteed. Captain Smith should be permitted to remain with those for whom he has done so much, and who regard him with reverence. This may not be either, because the success of party will require another change in the policy.

A new administration may change the whole plan of civilization, and remand these Indians back to the care of their first masters, or into the hands of the politicians. In either event, it will be a misfortune to those who have advanced so much under the humane policy of the present administration. Warm Springs has had but two agents in eight years. This agency has legends and romantic stories connected with its people, one of which I propose to give in other connections.