he Indians still continue their New Year's visits. Fresh parties or
families, who come in from the woods, and were not able to come on the
day, consider themselves privileged to present their claims. It should
not be an object of disappointment to find that the Indians do not, in
their ordinary intercourse, evince those striking traits of exalted and
disinterested character which we are naturally accustomed to expect from
reading books. Books are, after all, but men's holiday opinions. It
requires observation on real life to be able to set a true estimate upon
things. The instances in which an Indian is enabled to give proofs of a
noble or heroic spirit cannot be expected to occur frequently. In all
the history of the seaboard tribes there was but one Pocahontas, one
Uncas, and one Philip. Whereas, everyday is calling for the exercise of
less splendid, but more generally useful virtues. To spare the life of a
prisoner, or to relieve a friend from imminent peril, may give applause,
and carry a name down to posterity. But it is the constant practice of
every day virtues and duties, domestic diligence, and common sense, that
renders life comfortable, and society prosperous and happy. How much of
this everyday stamina the Indians possess, it would be presumptuous in
me, with so short an opportunity of observation, to decide. But I am
inclined to the opinion that their defect of character lies here.

Our express for Detroit, via Michilimackinack, set out at three o'clock
this morning, carrying some few short of a hundred letters. This, with
our actual numbers, is the best commentary on our insulated situation.
We divert ourselves by writing, and cling with a death-grasp, as it
were, to our friends and correspondents.

_5th. Gitche ie nay gow ge ait che gah_, "they have put the sand over
him" is a common expression among the Indians to indicate that a man is
dead and buried. Another mode, delicate and refined in its character, is
to suffix the inflection for perfect past tense, _bun_, to a man's name.
Thus Washington e bun would indicate that Washington is no more.

I read the Life of Pope. It is strange that so great a poet should have
been so great a lover of wealth; mammon and the muses are not often
conjointly worshiped. Pope did not excel in familiar conversation, and
few sallies of wit, or pointed observation, are preserved. The following
is recorded: "When an objection raised against his inscription for
Shakspeare was