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Address at the Annual Meeting in Chicago
By Rt. Rev. H.B. Whipple.
I accepted the kind invitation of my good
brother, Rev. Dr. Strieby, to address you,
because I do believe that if the hedges
which have been built in the garden of the
Lord are ever taken away, it will be by
hearty, believing work for our Savior. The
history of the North American Indians is a
sad story of wrongs. You may begin far back
in the days of our Puritan fathers, when
Christian men marched to the music of a fife
and drum, with the head of King Philip on a
pole, and then after prayer, decided that
the sins of the father ought to be visited
on the children, and therefore sold his son
as a slave to Bermuda; and you may follow
down to where the saintly Worcester, a
Congregational missionary, was tried,
sentenced, and went to the Penitentiary in
Georgia for teaching Indians to read; and so
on to where a Moravian church of Christian
Indians were cruelly tortured and murdered;
and so on to the last of our Indian wars,
and it is a dark story of robbery and
wrongs—we have spent five hundred millions
on Indian wars, and have killed ten of our
own people to every one killed of the
Indians. Thank God that by the efforts of
Christian men, the heart of the Nation has
been touched, and to-day willing hands and
hearts are laboring for their Christian
civilization.
When I went to my diocese thirty years ago,
there were over twenty thousand Indians in
Minnesota. They had sunk to a depth of
degradation their heathen fathers had not
known. Friends told me it was hopeless, that
they were a perishing race. I said if they
are perishing, the more reason to make haste
to give to them the gospel. The picture was
dark, but not darker than that drawn by the
pen of divine Inspiration in the first
chapter of Romans. I carried it where I have
learned to take all which troubles me, and
at my blessed Savior's feet I promised I
would never turn my back on the Indian whom
God had placed at my door, and I have tried
to keep the vow.
I can tell you the story of Indian missions
by relating one incident. Some years ago,
Rev. Lord Charles Hervey went with me to the
Indian country. We had delightful services.
After the Holy Communion we were sitting on
the green-sward near a house. The head chief
said, "Your friend came from across the
great water; does he know the Indian's
history?" I said "No." He said "I will tell
him."
"Before the white man came, the forests and
prairies were full of game, the rivers and
lakes were full of fish, the wild rice was
Manidou gift to the red man. Would you like
to see one of these Indians?" There stepped
out on the porch an Indian man and woman
dressed in furs, ornamented with porcupine
quills. "There," said the chief, "my people
were like those before the white man came."
"Shall I tell you what the white man did for
us? He came and told us we had no fire
horses, no fire canoes, no houses. He said
if we would sell him our land, he would make
us like white men. Shall I tell you what he
did? No, you had better see it." The door
opened, and out stepped a poor, degraded
looking Indian, his face besmeared with mud,
his blanket in rags, no leggings, and by his
side a poor, wretched looking woman in a
torn calico dress. The chief raised his
hands and said, "Manido Manido, is this an
Indian?" The man bowed his head. "How came
this?" The Indian held up a black bottle and
said, "This was the white man's gift." Some
of us bowed our heads in shame.
Said the chief, "If this were all, I would
not have told you. Long years ago a
pale-faced man came to our country. He spoke
kindly, and seemed to want to help us, but
our hearts were hard. We hated the white man
and would not listen. Every summer when the
sun was so high, he came. We always looked
to see his tall form coming through the
forest. One year I said to my fellows, 'what
does this man come for? He does not trade
with us, he never asks anything of us.
Perhaps the Great Spirit sent him.' We
stopped to listen. Some of us have that
story in our hearts. Shall I tell you what
it has done for us?" The door opened and out
stepped a young man—a clergyman—in a black
frock coat, and by his side a woman neatly
dressed in a black alpaca dress. Said the
chief, "There is only one religion in the
world which can lift a man out of the mire
and tell him to call God 'Father,' and that
is the religion of Jesus Christ."
We have had many deferred hopes, and
sometimes it has been dark as midnight.
After nearly three years of hard work, I had
both of my Indian missions destroyed, church
and mission house burned, and our western
border for three hundred miles desolated by
an Indian massacre, which destroyed the
fairest portion of our State, and left eight
hundred of our citizens sleeping in nameless
graves. It was needed to teach us that
nations as well as individuals reap exactly
what they sow. We began again. Here and
there some Indian would listen, and the
gospel was the same to him as to us. One day
an Indian came to our missionary and said,
"I know this religion is true. The men who
have walked in this new trail are better and
happier. But I have always been a warrior,
and my hands are full of blood. Could I be a
Christian?" The missionary repeated the
story of God's love. To test the man he
said, "May I cut your hair?" The Indian
wears his scalp lock for his enemy—when it
is cut it is a sign he will never go on the
war-path again. The man said, "Yes, you may
cut it; I shall throw my old life away." It
was cut. He started for home and met some
wild Indians who shouted with laughter, and
with taunts said: "Yesterday you were a
warrior, to-day you are a squaw." It stung
the man to madness, and he rushed to his
home and threw himself on the floor and
burst into tears. His wife was a Christian,
and came and put her arms about his neck and
said: "Yesterday there was not a man in the
world who dared call you a coward. Can't you
be as brave for Him who died for you as you
were to kill the Sioux?" He sprang to his
feet and said, "I can and I will." I have
known many brave, fearless servants of
Christ, but I never knew one braver than
this chief who is now in Paradise.
I wish I could take you to a Christian
Indian's home. You might see nothing but a
plain log house, and you might wonder why
the tears came in my eyes as he said to me,
"That is my daughter's room; the boys sleep
up stairs; this is for me and my wife." They
are tears of joy, for I knew them when they
herded as swine, in a wigwam. It is the
religion of Christ which has brought respect
for womanhood.
I want to take you far away in the forest to
Red Lake. The head chief, Mah-dwah-go-no-wind,
was a remarkable man as a wild man, true,
honest and brave. He came and asked me to
give him a missionary. I loved him and we
were warm friends. I said "I cannot give you
a missionary for the American Missionary
Association has a missionary now in that
field." The chief came again and again to
see me. He said: "I want your religion. If
you refuse I will ask the Roman Catholics."
I wrote Rev. Dr. Strieby, and told him the
situation. I said "The field is in my
diocese. I have the right to send a
missionary there, but ask your consent
because I will never be a party to present
Christian divisions to heathen men." After
due deliberation, the Association consented.
I am happy to tell you that that old chief
and nearly all the adults of his band are
faithful communicants. At my last visit, the
chief came to me and said, "My Father, since
you were here, my old wife with whom I have
lived fifty years, has gone to sleep in the
grave. I shall go to lie by her side. I have
heard that white Christians bless the place
where they sleep as belonging to God. Will
you bless the place where my wife sleeps and
ask God to care for it until he calls his
children out of the grave?" We formed a
procession of the Indians, the clergy and
the old chief and myself, and marched around
the place singing in Ojibway, "Jesus lover
of my soul"; then I read appropriate
scripture, made an address and offered
prayer, and asked blessing on this "acre of
God." After the service the chief said: "I
thank you for telling me I have a Savior. I
thank you for blessing the place where my
wife sleeps. I have your face on my heart.
Good bye."
I could keep you longer than I ought telling
you of the lights and shadows of missionary
life. The North American Indian is the
noblest type of a wild man on the earth. He
recognizes a Great Spirit, he loves his
home, he is passionately devoted to his
people, and believes in a future life. The
Ojibway language is a marvel. The verb has
inflections by thousands. If an Indian says
"I love" and stops, you can tell by the
inflection of the verb whether he loves an
animate or inanimate object, a man or a
woman. The nicest shade of meaning in St.
Paul's Epistles could be conveyed in Ojibway,
and I have heard a missionary say, "A
classic Greek temple standing in the forest
would not be more marvelous than this
wonderful language."
The Indians are heathen folk and will often
come to the Christian life fettered by old
heathen ideas, and some may stumble and
fall; they did in St. Paul's time; but I can
say that some of the noblest instances of
the power of religion I have ever known have
been among these poor red men. I can recall
death-beds where an Indian looked up in my
face and said, "The Great Spirit has called
me to go on the last journey. I am not
afraid to go, for Jesus is going with me,
and I shall not be lonesome on the road."
I am happy to tell you that the clouds are
breaking. Thousands of this poor race are
rejoicing in the light of the Gospel. The
heart of the nation has been touched, and
thousands are laboring for their salvation.
The Indians are not decreasing. It is due to
the absence of internecine wars, to their
protection from dangerous contagious
diseases, to better medical care and a wiser
administration. In the future, Indians must
have citizenship, but not until they are
prepared for this precious boon. The ballot
cannot redeem humanity. I was asked by
President Cleveland what I thought of making
the Indian a voter. I said, "It has been
tried." Under an old territorial law, any
Indian who wore the civilized dress could
vote. I have heard of an election where a
tribe of Indians were put through a hickory
shirt and pair of pants, and we know how
that election went. The Indian must have the
protection of law. In his wild state he has
the "lex talionis." He becomes a Christian.
A drunken wild man kills his cow or insults
his wife. He could punish the brute, but we
have taught him that he must not revenge his
wrongs, and so the Christian Indian is
pitiably helpless. I can take you to an
Indian village where property and life are
safe, where childhood, womanhood, and old
age are cared for, and it is due to the
Gospel of Christ.
While missionary work must be carried on in
the native tongue, the schools ought to
teach the English language—if schools are
conducted only in the heathen tongue, you
not only have no Christian ideas, but when
the child has learned to read, he has no
books. He should be taught in a language
which opens to him the literature, the
science and the Christian teaching of the
Christian world. The Gospel of Jesus Christ
will do for the Indian what it has done for
others through all the ages—give him home,
manhood and freedom.
Lastly—we are living in eventful times. One
hundred years ago the people who spoke the
English tongue were less numerous than some
of the Latin races of Europe. To-day one
hundred and fifty millions of people speak
the English language. When we remember how
God made the Greek tongue the language of
the world to prepare for the first preaching
of the Gospel of His Son, may we not believe
he designs to use our English tongue to
prepare for the second coming of our Lord?
Brethren, we hear a great deal about Indian
problems, Negro problems, and problems which
hinder all work for God and man. When
General Sherman and other officers of the
army were sent out to investigate that awful
massacre in Colorado, they wrote in their
report: "The Indian problem, like all other
human problems, can be solved by one
sentence in an old book—'Do unto others as
you would have them do unto you.'"
Letter From Miss
Collins
I went to Oahe to take two girls to school,
and was gone eleven days. I travelled nearly
three hundred miles, driving my ponies
myself, and last Sabbath held the services
for Spotted Bear in the morning, as Mr.
Riggs was absent; taught a class in the
afternoon, and returned to Cheyenne agency
on Monday, to find that the Indian man who
went with me had returned home. I visited
the Government school there, and witnessed
Major McChesney issue the annuities to the
Indians; found a party of Indians coming
this way as far as the Itazipco camp on the
Moreau; came with them so far—about
forty-five miles from here—and from there
Bessie, Jumbo (my ponies) and I came on
alone. I drove the forty-five miles in one
day, arriving here at dark.
At Cheyenne a number of fine-looking,
well-dressed young Indian men came up to me
and addressed me in English. I did not
recognize some of them, and they told me
they went to school to me in '75, '76 and
'77. I remember them as dirty little
long-haired, blanket Indians. It made my
heart strong to take these manly young men
by the hand and to hear them say, "You were
my first teacher."
One night, when I was coming home, we got
into camp, and the Indian tent had on one
side a man and his wife, his son and
daughter, and his baby twins. On the other
side of the fire, another man, wife and
child, four dogs, two puppies, and back of
the fire a man and his wife and two young
men and myself. When supper was ready, the
dogs were put outside, the children hushed,
and the head man said, "Winona pray." They
were all strangers to me but two of them, so
you may know I was surprised. I prayed, and
when I finished, all said, "Ho, ho, ho,"
that is, all the men. I was again surprised
at the universal consent or endorsement of
the petition. I had some rich experiences,
many hardships new to me, but I sowed seed
which I doubt not will spring up. A
half-breed Indian, Joe Hodgkiss, and his
wife, were very kind to me.
When I got in sight of the house here, men
stood all along the road waiting to shake
hands with me. I should not have undertaken
the trip, but the girls were about fifteen
years old, and if they were not in school
this winter they never would be. I could not
see the good material in them wasted. Mr.
Reed could not go, and he did not want Elias
to leave his school to go. So I hired a team
and went. I am glad I did. God meant me to
get into the homes and hearts of those
strangers, and I had no fear but that he
planned it all.
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American Missionary Association, 1888-1895
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