which we in our English language know nothing. Nearly all parts of speech are turned into verbs and conjugated. Any idea which is expressed in our language can be perfectly well expressed in theirs. Being so highly inflected, and with many particles variously dovetailed in, it is, though so beautiful, and really a work of art, a most difficult language to acquire. A learned ecclesiastic, who told me he spoke nine languages, including a little of this, told me he would rather learn the other eight than the single Ojibway. The greatest authority on Indian languages in our country some time ago made the statement that any verb in the Algonquin tongue is habitually used in a million different forms. The wonder is how such a rude people ever constructed or ever handed down such a highly inflected language. To one who studies it, it is as great a surprise, to use the words of another, "as it would be to come on a beautifully sculptured Corinthian temple out on one of our prairies."

In this paper I have left out altogether everything about the mission to the Ojibways, the ten congregations, and the eleven Indian clergy; though the history of Christianity among these people would be the more interesting narrative of the two.

CIVILIZATION AND CHRISTIANIZATION OF THE

OJIBWAYS IN MINNESOTA.*

BY THE RIGHT REVEREND HENRY B. WHIPPLE, D. D., LL. D.,
BISHOP OF MINNESOTA.

Gentlemen of the Historical Society: It is a great pleasure to tell you the story of our missions to the Ojibways, whom I have learned to love as the brown children of our Heavenly Father. The North American Indian is the noblest type of a wild man in the world. He recognizes a Great Spirit; has an unwavering faith in a future life, a passionate love for his children, and will lay down his life unflinchingly for his people. I have never known an Indian to tell me a lie,—a characteristic of the Indian character to which the officers of the United States Army will bear testimony.

The Ojibways belong to the Algonquin division of the aboriginal American people, which included all the Indians from the Atlantic to the forests of Minnesota, north of the Cherokees, except the Six Nations of New York. Their language is both beautiful and interesting, and exhibits the nicest shades of meaning. The verbs have more inflections than in the Greek language. Perhaps the Epistles of St. Paul are the crux to test a language, but in that respect the richness of the Ojibway tongue cannot be exceeded. Polygamy has existed with them to a much less degree than among other Indians.

At the time of my consecration, Bishop Kemper, honored by all men, said to me, "Dear brother, do not forget the poor Indians who are committed to your care and whom you may gather into the fold of Christ." Three weeks after coming to Minnesota, in 1860, I visited the Indian country. The Indians had fallen to a depth of degradation unknown to their heathen fathers. Our Indian affairs were at their worst. *An address given before the Minnesota Historical Society, May 2, 1898.

The Indians were regarded by politicians as a key to unlock the public treasury, and even Christian folk said, in the language of Cain, "Am I my brother's keeper?" Much as I had heard of their sorrow and wretchedness, I was appalled by the revelation of my first visit. As we entered the forest, we found a dead Indian by the wayside, who had been killed in a drunken fight. A few miles farther on we came to a wigwam where the mother was stripping the outer bark from a pine tree that she might give the pitch to her children to satisfy the gnawings of hunger. Almost at every step we were met by some sign of the existing degradation.

At Gull lake, James Lloyd Breck, of blessed memory, had gathered a little band of Christian Indians. He had left them to establish another mission at Leech lake. The Indians while maddened with drink had driven him and his family from the country. They afterward told me that white men had assured them that their grand medicine was as good as any religion, and that if they did not want the missionary they might drive him away. I held services in the log church, and I remember how deeply my heart was touched by the devotion of a few Christian Indians as I heard for the first time the services of the Church in their musical language.

That same night the deadly fire-water made a pandemonium, and I could only say, "How long, O Lord?" But I then settled the question that, whatever success or failure might attend my efforts, I would never turn my back upon the heathen at any door. Friends within and without my diocese advised me to have nothing to do with Indian missions, saying that a young bishop could not afford to make a failure in his work. I carried it where I have learned to carry all troubles, and I promised my Saviour that, God helping me, I would never cease my efforts for this wronged race. The Rev. E. S. Peake was a missionary residing at Crow Wing, and the Rev. John Johnson Enmegahbowh, ordained a deacon by Bishop Kemper, was living at Gull lake. I spent the following summer visiting all the scattered bands of the Ojibways, and holding services. After one of them, a chief asked me if the Jesus of whom I spoke was the same Jesus that my white brother talked to when he was angry or drunk. The head chief of Sandy lake said to me: "You have spoken

strong words against fire-water and impurity; but, my friend, you have made a mistake. These are words you should carry to your white brothers who bring us the fire-water and corrupt our daughters. They are the sinners, not we."

But there were gleams of light. An Indian woman, the queen of the Pokegamas, followed me thirty miles to attend a service. She said to me: "Your missionary baptized my daughter. The Great Spirit called her home. I have heard a whisper in my heart, 'You must be a Christian and follow your child to the Great Spirit's home."" At another place I buried the child of a woman who brought me a lock of hair, saying: "Kechemuckadaiconai, the Great Spirit has called my child. I have heard that when white mothers lose their babies they sometimes have their hair made into a cross to remind them of the baby who has gone, and of Jesus who called it. Will you have my baby's hair made into a cross?" The following year, this woman walked forty miles to give me a large mokuk of dried berries. She said nothing, but pointed to the little cross which I had made for her. They were simple things, but they told me that the hearts of an Indian mother and a white mother are alike.

I will mention an incident of our Sioux mission. Some of my hearers will remember the noted Sioux orator, Red Owl. He never attended a church service. One day he came into the school-room. There hung on the wall the picture of the Ecce Homo,-that sweet, sad face of the Saviour. He asked, "Who is that? Why are His hands bound? Why are those thorns on His head, and blood on His brow?" Again and again he came to the school-room and sat before the picture, asking questions about the "Son of the Great Spirit," until he had learned the story. One day as I was driving over the prairie, I saw a wood cross over a newly made grave, and when I asked what it meant, Wabasha told me that Red Owl was dead; that he had suddenly been taken ill, and that when he was dying he called his young men around him and said, "The story of the Great Spirit is true. I have it in my heart. When 1 am dead put a cross, like that on the mission house, over my grave, that the Indians may see what was in Red Owl's heart."

For three years we labored faithfully, but the clouds were often black and there was much to perplex in the example

of a Christian nation. On one occasion the Sioux had killed one of our Ojibways near Gull river. On my next visit to the Sioux country I said to their head chief, "Wabasha, your people have murdered one of my Ojibways, and yesterday you had a scalp dance in front of our mission. The wife and children of the murdered man are asking for him. The Great Spirit is angry." Wabasha drew his pipe from his mouth, and, slowly blowing a cloud of smoke into the air, said: "White men go to war with their own brothers, and kill more men than Wabasha can count all the days of his life. Great Spirit looks down and says, 'Good white man; he has my book; I love him, and will give him good place when he dies.' Indian has no Great Spirit book. He wild man. Kill one man; has scalp dance. Great Spirit very angry. Wabasha don't believe it!"

In 1862, I visited the Sioux Mission on the upper Minnesota river. There were forerunning signs of the coming of that awful massacre. These Indians had sold to the United States government eight hundred thousand acres of their reservation, for which they had never received a penny, except a few worthless goods sent to the Upper Sioux. They had been told by the traders that all had been paid out for claims, and that a large part of their annuities had also been thus used. It was true. Of the money which came too late, twenty-five thousand dollars had been taken from other trust funds to pay these annuities.

I visited the Ojibways, on my return, at Crow Wing, and while I was there a letter came to Hole-in-the-Day, in care of the Rev. Mr. Peake, marked "In haste." Hole-in-the-Day was at Leech lake. I sent for his head warrior, who opened the letter. It was from Little Crow, and said: "Your men killed one of our farmer Indians. I tried to keep my men back. They have gone for scalps. Look out!" On my way to Red lake, I found the Indians turbulent, and felt that an impending cloud hung over our border. When it broke the only light which fell upon the scenes of bloodshed was that which came from the loyalty of those Christian Indians who rescued so many women and children from death. Enmegahbowh, who had been made a prisoner, escaped and travelled thirty miles in the night to warn Fort Ripley of its danger. He sent Chief Bad Boy to the Mille Lacs Indians