laſt long and bloody war Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they paſſed, and ſaid ‘Logan is the friend of white men.’ I had even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Creſap, the laſt ſpring, in cold blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan, not even ſparing my women and children. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have fought it: I have killed many: I have fully glutted my vengeance: for my country I rejoice at the beams of peace. But do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to ſave his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan?—Not one.”
Before we condemdn the Indians of this continent
as wanting genius, we muſt conſider that
letters have not yet been introduced among them.
Were we to compare them in their preſent ſtate
with the Europeans, north of the Alps, when the
Roman arts and arms firſt croſſed theſe
mountains, the compariſon would be unequal, becauſe,
at that time, thoſe parts of Europe were ſwarming
with numbers, becauſe numbers produce
emulation, and multiply the chances of improvement,
and one improvement begets another. Yet I may
ſafely aſk, how many good poets, how many able
mathematicians, how many great inventors in arts
or ſciences, had Europe, north of the Alps, then
produced? And it was ſixteen centuries after this
before a Newton could be formed. I do not mean
to deny, that there are varieties in the race of men,
M
