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THE INDIANS

JOSEPH STORY

There is in the fate of these unfortunate beings much to awaken our sympathy, and much to disturb the sobriety of our judgment; much which may be urged to excuse their own atrocities; much in their characters which betrays us into an involuntary admiration. What can be more melancholy than their history? By law of 5 their nature, they seem destined to a slow but sure extinction. Everywhere at the approach of the white man they fade away. We hear the rustling of their footsteps, like that of the withered leaves of autumn, and they are gone forever. They pass mournfully by us, and they return no more. Two centuries ago the 10 smoke of their wigwams and the fires of their councils rose in every valley from Hudson's Bay to the farthest Florida, from the ocean to the Mississippi and the lakes. The shouts of victory and the war dance rang through the mountains and the glades. The thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk whistled through the forests; 15 and the hunter's trace and dark encampment startled the wild beasts in their lairs. The warriors stood forth in their glory. The young listened to the songs of other days. The mothers played with their infants, and gazed on the scene with warm hopes of the future. The aged sat down; but they wept not. They should 20 soon be at rest in fairer regions, where the Great Spirit dwelt in a home prepared for the brave, beyond the western skies. Braver men never lived; truer men never drew the bow. They had courage and fortitude, and sagacity and perseverance beyond most of the human race. They shrank from no dangers, and they feared no 25 hardships. If they had the vices of savage life they had the virtues also. They were true to their country, their friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were unconquerable also. Their love, like their hate, 30 stopped not on this side of the grave.

But where are they? Where are the villagers, and warriors,

nor war.

and youth; the sachems and the tribes; the hunters and their families? They have perished. They are consumed. The wast35 ing pestilence has not alone done the mighty work. No, nor famine, There has been a mightier power, a moral canker, which has eaten into their heart-cores —a plague, which the touch of the white man communicated-a poison which betrayed them into a lingering ruin. The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region 40 which they may now call their own. Already the last feeble remnants of the race are preparing for their journey beyond the Mississippi. I see them leave their miserable homes-the aged, the helpless, the women, and the warriors-"few and faint, yet fearless still." The ashes are cold on their native hearths. The 45 smoke no longer curls round their lowly cabins. They move on with a slow, unsteady step. The white man is upon their heels, for terror or dispatch; but they heed him not. They turn to take a last look at their deserted villages. They cast a last glance upon the graves of their fathers. They shed no tears; they utter 50 no cries; they heave no groans. There is something in their hearts which passes speech. There is something in their looks, not of vengeance or submission, but of hard necessity, which stifles both; which chokes all utterance; which has no aim nor method. It is courage absorbed in despair. They linger but for a moment. 55 Their look is onward. They have passed the fatal stream. It shall never be repassed by them-no, never. Yet there lies not between us and them an impassable gulf. They know and feel that there is for them still one remove farther, not distant, nor unseen. It is to the general burial ground of their race.

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Reason as we may, it is impossible not to read in such a fate much that we know not how to interpret; much of provocation to cruel deeds and deep resentments; much of apology for wrong and perfidy; much of pity mingling with indignation; much of doubt and misgiving as to the past; much of painful recollections; much 65 of dark forebodings.

GLOSSARY. Sobriety; fortitude; sachems; canker; perfidy; forebodings.

STUDY. The selection from Irving dealt with the sad fortunes of one particular Indian. What does this passage from Judge Story deal with? Does the speaker seem impressed to any extent with the idea that the Indians have not been fairly treated? Observe that the key to the oration is found in the question composing the second sentence: "What can be more melancholy than their history?" Show that this is true by reading passages which bring out the "melancholy" points in their history.

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT

ROBERT BURNS

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp;
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hodden-grey, and a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is King o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:

For a' that and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

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GLOSSARY. (For this poem.) Hings=hangs; a' = all; gowd=gold; hamely: homely; hodden-grey coarse woolen cloth; gie=give; sae=so; birkie fellow; ca'd=called; wha=who; coof=blockhead; mak=make; aboon above; guid=good; mauna fa= must not undertake; bear the gree= come out ahead; warld = world.

STUDY. What kind of poverty would a man be a "coward slave" to be ashamed of? Why is such poverty no proof of a man's degradation? What does stanza 2 add to the thought of stanza I? What type of man is presented in stanza 3? What shows the speaker's contempt for him? Is it justified? What limitations on a prince's power does stanza 4 bring out? Does it suggest a higher standard of manhood than mere rank? What condition does the last stanza pray for? Do you think the world would be better if this condition prevailed? What are some of the changes that such a condition would bring about? (In reading this poem be careful to bring out the fiery independence and contempt for "flunkies" and mere rank which actuate the speaker. It has been said that, on one occasion, Burns was sent to the kitchen to wait with the servants until the high-toned company invited to meet him had assembled. When finally called in he recited this poem, composed while waiting. Even if not true, this story suggests how to read the poem.)

IN TYPEE

HERMAN MELVILLE

I. POP-GUNS AND OLD SHOES

In my various wanderings through the vale, and as I became better acquainted with the character of its inhabitants, I was more and more struck with the light-hearted joyousness that everywhere prevailed. The minds of these simple savages, unoccupied by matters of graver moment, were capable of deriving the 5 utmost delight from circumstances which would have passed unnoticed in more intelligent communities. All their enjoyment, indeed, seemed to be made up of the little trifling incidents of the passing hour; but these diminutive items swelled altogether to an amount of happiness seldom experienced by more enlight- 10 ened individuals, whose pleasures are drawn from more elevated and rarer sources.

What community, for instance, of refined and intellectual mortals would derive the least satisfaction from shooting popguns? The mere supposition of such a thing being possible would 15 excite their indignation, and yet the whole population of Typee did little else for ten days but occupy themselves with that childish amusement, fairly screaming, too, with the delight it afforded them.

One day I was frolicking with a little spirited urchin, some 20 six years old, who chased me with a piece of bamboo about three feet long, with which he occasionally belabored me. Seizing the stick from him, the idea happened to suggest itself, that I might make for the youngster, out of the slender tube, one of those nursery muskets with which I had sometimes seen children play- 25 ing. Accordingly, with my knife, I made two parallel slits in the cane several inches in length, and cutting loose at one end the elastic strip between them, bent it back and slipped the point into a little notch made for the purpose. Any small substance placed against this would be projected with considerable force through 30

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