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and to chant aves.
Gathering round
Eliot, in
Massachusetts, the tawny choir sang the psalms of David, in Indian, ‘to one of the ordinary English
tunes, melodiously;’ and in the school of
Brainerd, thirty Lennape boys could answer to all the questions
in the Westminster Assembly's Catechism.
There were instances of the submission of warriors to the penance imposed by the Roman church; and the sanctity of a Mohawk maiden,—the
American Geneveva,— who preserved her vows of chastity, is celebrated in the early histories of New France.
They recognized the connection between the principles of
Christian morals; there were examples among them of men who, under the guidance of missionaries, became anxious for their salvation, having faith enough for despair,
if not for conversion; and even in the doctrine of the divine unity, they seemed to find not so much a novel-
ty as the revival of a slumbering reminiscence.
They were not good arithmeticians; their tales of the number of their years, or of the warriors in their clans, are little to be relied on; and yet every where they counted like
Leibnitz and La Place, and, from the influence of some law that pervades humanity, they began to repeat at ten.
They could not dance like those trained to attitudes of grace; they could not sketch light ornaments like Raphael; yet, under every sky, they delighted in a rhythmic repetition of forms and sounds,— would move in cadence to wild melodies,—and, with great elegance and imitative power, they would tattoo their skins with harmonious arabesques.
We call them cruel; yet they never invented the thumb-screw, or the boot, or the rack, or broke on the wheel, or exiled bands of their nations for opinion's sake; and never protected the monopoly of a medicine man by the gallows,