[Brumble is an American educator, editor, and translator who has written numerous works about Native American autobiographies. In the following excerpt, he discusses latenineteenth century Social Darwinism, evolutionary thinking, and their influence on Eastman and his writings.]

Charles Alexander Eastman is the first Indian author who tried self-consciously to write autobiography after the modern, Western fashion (aside from the few Indians like George Copway, Samson Occom, and William and Mary Apes who wrote pious accounts of their conversion to Christianity). His first volume of autobiography, Indian Boyhood (1916), begins in this way:

The North American Indian was the highest type of pagan and uncivilized man. He possessed not only a superb physique but a remarkable mind. But the Indian no longer exists as a natural and free man. Those remnants which now dwell upon the reservations present only a sort of tableau—a fictional copy of the past.

This is a rather remarkable passage. For the first fifteen years of his life, Eastman lived according to the ancient tribal ways of the Santee Sioux. He was raised up to be a hunter and a warrior. He was taught never to spare a white enemy. Then, at the age of fifteen, he was abruptly taken out of this life and brought to Flandreau, South Dakota, to learn to live in the white man's way. Soon he outgrew the local school; he went on to Santee Normal School, in Nebraska, then to Beloit College, Knox College, Dartmouth College, and finally to the Boston University Medical School, where he took his degree in 1890. He had long since decided that he wanted to serve his people; and so, degree in hand, he went off to begin his work as Government Physician to the Sioux at Pine Ridge, South Dakota. He arrived one cold and windy day in November. Just one month later he was binding wounds and counting frozen corpses at Wounded Knee.

How could a Sioux Indian who had had such an experience, how could a man who came to know so many of the reservation Indians during his years as a reservation doctor, how could Eastman have written so dismissively of the Indians on the reservations? It is not surprising that those who write about Eastman either ignore this passage or agree with Arlene Hirschfelder that these sentiments are "unworthy of the rest of the book."

But the passage is not an aberration, really. The passage serves, in fact, as a perfectly apt introduction to some of the book's main concerns and themes. And it springs from Romantic Racialist and Social Darwinist assumptions fundamental to Eastman's thinking during these years—and fundamental as well to some other Indian autobiographies in the first decades of this century. Indian Boyhood can best be understood in the light of these assumptions and the feelings to which they gave rise.

Eastman was born in 1858, a year before the publication of The Origin of Species. But even in his mother's day, white-American attitudes toward race were undergoing a profound change. By the mid-nineteenth century, scientific and popular opinion had moved decisively away from the eighteenth-century ideas about the essential unity of the human race that had inspired the Jeffersonian declaration that "all men are created equal." The differences between savages and Americans, for Jefferson, could be explained in terms of environmental differences. Savages were deprived (or degenerate) humans. But by the time Eastman was fingering his first bow, environmental differences were no longer thought to be sufficient to explain human diversity. In 1847 the eminent craniologist S. G. Morton had proved to his own satisfaction that separate races were separate species. This was no mean feat, since scientists at this time assumed that the fertility of offspring was the test for species distinctions—and mulattos, after all, were obviously, indeed disturbingly, fertile. Morton argued that since hybrids—and he cited examples of hybrids among species of birds, fish, mammals, insects—are sometimes fertile, one can account for interracial fertility as a case of hybridity. Some species, Morton argued, are simply endowed with more capacity for hybridization than others, and none more than the several species of man.

And there were as well the separate creationists, those who believed, with Josiah Clark Nott, that all men could not have descended from Adam and Eve; not even God's mark on Cain could suffice to explain such great mental, moral, and physical differences. Racial variations could be scientifically explained only by positing separate acts of creation.

Obviously, such scientific theories often worked to justify deeply felt prejudices. But it is well to remember that even abolitionists could assume that blacks and Indians, because of their inherent inferiority or (more kindly) their inherent weakness, were unlikely long to survive. In 1863, for example, the Reverend J. M. Sturtevant wrote on "The Destiny of the African Race in the United States." He concluded that the direct competition with the white race, which would be the immediate result of emancipation, will have "inevitable" consequences for the Negro:

He will either never marry, or he will, in the attempt to support a family, struggle in vain against the laws of nature, and his children, many of them at least, die in infancy.… Like his brother the Indian of the forest, he must melt away and disappear forever from the midst of us.

As George Fredrickson has written, Sturtevant's "racial Malthusianism" anticipates Darwin's idea of the struggle between the species—"as well as the 'social Darwinist'justification of a laissez-faire economy as the arena for a biological competition resulting in the 'survival of the fittest'."

Such ideas were at the peak of their influence when Eastman entered Dartmouth College in 1883. Just ten years earlier Whitelaw Reid, sometime influential Assistant Editor of the New York Tribune under Horace Greeley, had addressed the college, speaking about how quickly the new scientific ideas were winning acceptance:

Ten or fifteen years ago the staple subject here for reading and talk, outside study hours, was English poetry and fiction. Now it is English science. Herbert Spencer, John Stuart Mill, Huxley, Darwin, Tyndall, have usurped the places of Tennyson and Browning, and Matthew Arnold and Dickens.

And in the year of Eastman's matriculation, for another example, The New Englander, an important periodical for Yankee clergymen, reversed itself and began to publish editorials to justify the ways of Darwin to man. Sizeable pockets of resistance remained, of course; but still it may be said that evolution had won the high ground in its battle with religion by the time Eastman began college. Much of the success of these ideas was due to Herbert Spencer. It was he who coined the phrase "survival of the fittest." It was Spencer who worked out most completely the social and racial implications of evolutionist ideas. Spencer managed, as well, much of the popularization of Social Darwinism. By the time Eastman published Indian Boyhood, Spencer's books had sold well over 300,000 copies—a figure probably unmatched by any other author dealing with subjects as difficult as sociology and philosophy.

It was largely to Spencer, then, that white Americans owed thanks for ideas that must have seemed divine compensation for the awkward religious choices forced upon them by Darwinian evolution. It was Spencer who did most to teach Americans that what was happening to the Indians was the inevitable—sad, of course, but certainly inevitable—working out of the laws of nature. And such ideas powerfully influenced those who concerned themselves with Indian affairs during these years. They provided the intellectual underpinnings of the Dawes Severalty Act of 1887—"the political expression of American thought about the Indian" throughout Eastman's adult years. This Act, which caused land to be taken from the tribes and allotted to individual Indians, assumed that the tribes were bound to die out. This was perfect Spencerism, perfect Social Darwinism. Societies, or races (it was so difficult, really, to distinguish between the two), were fundamentally like organisms. They had their span of life, and then they died, sooner if they were weaker than competing societies/races, later if they were strong of tooth and claw and intellect. The Indians, then, simply could not survive as Indians. Eastman was officially consulted about the provisions of the Dawes Act. And he was consulted precisely because he was rather famous proof that an individual Indian could compete with Americans. He approved of the Act and urged his Indian friends to embrace it. He and his fellow Indians could compete as individuals, each with his separate allotment; the tribes must, of course, inevitably vanish.

This kind of thinking produced a curious blend of fatalism and nostalgia. Indians are vanishing—and let us cherish our remembrances of real Indians. The Bureau of Indian Affairs even arranged an official farewell. With Joseph K. Dixon as prime mover, the Bureau arranged the Last Council, a meeting of chiefs and aging warriors from several of the Western tribes. This meeting took place in the Valley of the Little Bighorn in 1909. The record of that meeting was Dixon's The Vanishing Race (1913). In this book Dixon collected narratives (mostly autobiographical) from twenty-one Indians from fifteen tribes. The book was illustrated with Rodman Wanamaker's gorgeous sepia photographs. Dixon explained the Last Council and his book in this way:

The preservation of this record in abiding form is all the more significant because all serious students of Indian life and lore are deeply convinced of the insistent fact that the Indian, as a race, is … soon destined to pass completely away.… These original Americans Deserve a Monument.

It is important to realize that Dixon is no champion of Anglo domination. He does not think of the Indians as morally inferior:

The ruthless tread of cruel forces—we call them civilization … have in cruel fashion borne down upon the Indian until he had to give up all that was his and all that was dear to him—to make himself over or die. He would not yield. He died.

Dixon is certainly sympathetic; he feels a very personal sense of loss: "The door of the Indian's yesterdays opens to a new world—a world unpeopled with red men, but whose population fills the sky, the plains, with sad and spectre-like memories." He is thinking in social-Darwinist terms. "The white is the conquering race," he says; the Indians are "ancient forerunners." He is not as happy as Andrew Carnegie or Teddy Roosevelt was about the consequences of evolutionary forces, but he is every bit as certain that what has happened was inevitable. What he feels he can do now is to preserve as much of what is really Indian as he can. And so he gives us Red Whip's story of his fight with the Sioux—eleven against a hundred and thirty; he gives us Pretty Voice Eagle's remembrances of a time when there were no white men along the upper reaches of the Missouri; he gives us Mountain Chief's recollections of his boyhood sports. He also includes Wanamaker's photographs. And just as Dixon asked the questions that elicited the narratives, so Wanamaker posed the Indians for the photographs. The next-to-last photograph in the book shows the old warriors in their best buckskins and feathers riding in single file down a treeless hill toward the camera. This is captioned "Down the Western Slope." And in case we should miss the point, the last photograph in the book shows a huddle of riderless horses: "The Empty Saddle."

When all of this is taken into account, we may see that the opening epigraph in Indian Boyhood is not heartless. There is no failure of compassion here. The passage is a verbal equivalent of Wanamaker's "The Empty Saddle." The "real" Indians had been a glorious race; but it was a race that could not compete with the whites, and so it was dying out. Eastman saw upon the reservations the sad survivors of the Darwinian struggle. In his assessment of these people Eastman was agreeing with Spencer that contemporary primitive societies were sometimes retrograde. And he was agreeing with Dr. Carlos Montezuma, who was known as "the fiery Apache." Montezuma had been stolen from his family by raiding Pimas when he was four years old; he was then purchased and adopted by a Mexican-American reporter. Eventually, he worked his way through Chicago Medical College. He went on to serve as a physician on the reservations. And it was there, he said, that he "saw in full what deterioration is for the Indians." Montezuma bridled at the suggestion that he ought to live "among his people":

Not that I do not revere my race, but I think if I had remained there on the reservation and not have been captured years and years ago, I would not be standing here defending my race.… I find that the only, the best thing for the good of the Indian is to be thrown on the world.… Better send every Indian away. Get hold and send them to Germany, France, China, Alaska, Cuba, if you please, and then when they come back 15 or 20 years from now you will find them strong, a credit to the country, a help and an ornament to this race.

This was a view widely held by progressive Indians looking at the misery and poverty on the reservations. The pan-Indian and progressive Society of the American Indian argued that the BIA was very much mistaken to permit—let alone encourage—Indians to retain such vestiges of tribal life as the reservation system allowed. The Indians needed to be forced out of the tribes, off the reservation. The tribes must vanish as social institutions, for it was the tribe that kept individual Indians from achieving all that Eastman and Montezuma had achieved as individuals, away from their tribes.

Elaine Goodale, the woman who was to become Eastman's wife, provides another interesting case in point. She went to work in the Indian schools before she was twenty years old; she soon came to the attention of General Richard Henry Pratt, the founder of the Carlisle Indian School, and other prominent figures in the Indian reform movement. Her memoirs make fascinating reading for anyone interested in the enlightened attitude toward Indians in these years. Goodale steeped herself in the customs of the Dakota. She herself learned Sioux and thoroughly enjoyed her knowledge of the language. But utility and not sentiment, she was convinced, must rule in matters of education; and she saw no reason why teachers should know Sioux, since instruction was, quite rightly in her view, in English only. She was proud of her knowledge of Sioux customs, and observed them fairly punctiliously in her intercourse with her neighbors. The whole business, then, of Americanizing the Indians had for her and her progressive friends nothing to do with abhorrence of their ways. She had an explicitly romantic love of their ways. But the Americanizing was necessary, inevitable; consequently, sentiment had to be set aside.

The tribes must vanish, but they were important as memories. The glory of the tribe must be remembered. Goodale worked very hard and very ingeniously to turn Indians into civilized Americans. And yet she could write with real fondness of Indians as they were before their civilizing:

Dear, lovable, intensely feminine Sioux women of days gone by! How affectionately I recall their devotion to their families, their innocent love of finery and gossip, eager curiosity and patient endurance.

It is in just this way, with the same limitations, that Montezuma can "revere" his race. And it is in this same way that Eastman hopes to convey a sense of the glory of his people.… All that Eastman can do now is try to record what he remembers of the old ways. What he can do is set down for his Anglo audience the nobility of the "real" Indians. Like Dixon and the Bureau, Eastman wants to set it all down before it vanishes.

There are other ways as well in which Indian Boyhood reflects evolutionist ideas. The book assumes, for example, that the races may be ordered, that some are higher, some lower. We should not be surprised, then, when we find Eastman telling us that the Indians were a "primitive people." But for Eastman there were also distinctions—gradations—to be found among primitive peoples. As we have seen, Eastman began Indian Boybood with the assertion that "The North American Indian was the highest type of pagan and uncivilized man." And if the North American Indians were "higher" than the South American Indians and the Africans, and the other primitive peoples, there are also gradations even among the Indians. Consider, for example, Eastman's comparison of the woodland Indians, like Eastman's Santee Sioux, and the Plains Indians:

There was almost as much difference between the Indian boys who were brought up on the open prairies and those of the woods, as between city and country boys. The hunting of the prairie boys was limited and their knowledge of natural history imperfect. They were, as a rule, good riders, but in all-around physical development much inferior to the red men of the forest.

Environment alone could not account for such differences. Eastman believed that differing races have differing instincts. For example, Indians in general have an instinct for the hunt. So it is that when hunting, Eastman's Indian moves with an "inborn dignity" and "native caution." Eastman can even recall for his readers the moment when he first felt these native stirrings:

I was scarcely three years old when I stood one moming… with my little bow and arrow in my hand, and gazed up among the trees. Suddenly the instinct to chase and kill seized me powerfully. Just then a bird flew over my head and then another caught my eye.… Everything else was forgotten and in that moment I had taken my first step as a hunter.

Eastman considered himself, then, to have inherited the blood of a superior tribe of the "highest" type of pagan people. And Eastman's family, it seems, was remarkable too—even among the Santee Sioux. His mother, Eastman wrote, was "sometimes called the 'Demi-Goddess' of the Sioux, who tradition says had every feature of a Caucasian descent with the exception of her luxuriant black hair and deep black eyes." His uncle "was known … as one of the best hunters and bravest warriors among the Sioux in British America." It was, however, his grandmother who was largely responsible for raising Eastman:

It was not long before I began to realize her superiority to most of her contemporaries. This idea was not gained entirely from my own observation, but also from a knowledge of the high regard in which she was held by other women.

In some measure, of course, Eastman's sense of his tribe's and his family's superiority is quite traditional. It is well known that in some tribes the word for a member of the tribe was the same as the word for human being. And Eastman's pride in his family could have been matched by Achilles as readily as by other non-literate people whose sense of self-definition was shaped by ancient attitudes toward tribe and family. But ideas about the stages of human development are at work in Eastman's book as well, ideas that were central to much of social evolutionist thought. In 1877 Lewis Henry Morgan offered up a scientific rendering of Romantic conceptions of "national character" (such as we find, for example, in Carlyle and in Emerson's English Traits). He theorized that human history could be divided into three main "ethnical periods": Savagery, Barbarism, and Civilization. And these could further be broken down as follows:

Lower Savagery: from "the infancy of the human race" up to the time of the discovery of fire; fruit and nut gathering; beginnings of language.

Middle Savagery: fishing and use of fire; spread of mankind over the globe (examples: Australians and Polynesians).

Upper Savagery: bow and arrow (examples: northern Atapascan tribes).

Lower Barbarism: pottery making (examples: tribes east of the Missouri River).

Middle Barbarism: in the Old World, the domestication of animals; in the New World, farming with irrigation and building with adobe and stone (examples: "Village Indians of New Mexico … and Peru").

Upper Barbarism: commences with the smelting of iron (examples: Homeric Greeks)

Civilization: from the time of the first use of phonetic alphabet up to present time.

Eastman did not see the history of the human race in quite the same way as Morgan did. For Eastman the North American Indian was "the highest type of pagan and uncivilized man," while Morgan would have graded Eastman's Santees no higher than the bow-and-arrow Upper Savagery stage. But it is quite clear that Eastman did assume, like Morgan and Spencer and others, that societies could be ranked in terms of their stage of evolution. And so, even though he considered his people, and especially his own family, to have been remarkably close to the Caucasian ideal, Eastman did realize that his family still was not fully evolved. His uncle, for example, was "a typical Indian—not handsome, but truthful and brave." The Santees in general were a "primitive people" and "superstitious."

Eastman saw himself as an embodiment of Social Darwinist notions about the evolution of the races. He had "evolved" from the woodland life of the Santee Sioux to the heights of white culture.

In Indian Boyhood, then, Eastman provides an explanation for just why it was that he was able to compete so successfully with the white man.… He could compete because he was a member of perhaps the best family of the best tribe of the "highest type of pagan and uncivilized man." This idea of competition is central to Indian Boyhood—just as it is central to Social Darwinism. Andrew Carnegie, for example, one of the best at the practice of Social Darwinism, was convinced by his reading of Darwin and Spencer that the "law" of competition was fundamentally biological. In an article for the North American Review Carnegie argued that although we may object to what seems the harshness of this law,

It is here; we cannot evade it; no substitutes for it have been found; and while the law may sometimes be hard for the individual, it is best for the race, because it assures the survival of the fittest in every department.

There is much in Indian Boyhood for Carnegie to applaud. "There was always keen competition among us," Eastman wrote. "We felt very much as our fathers did in hunting and war—each one strove to excel all the others." After hunting he and his mates would compare their kills: "We … kept strict account of our game, and thus learned who were the best shots among the boys." He remembers that the adult hunters "started before sunrise, and the brave who was announced throughout the camp as the first one to return with a deer on his back, was a man to be envied." There were even prizes for the young men who could hull rice the fastest. Because his mother died shortly after he was born, Eastman recalled, he "had to bear the humiliating name 'Hakadah,' meaning 'the pitiful last'." Indian Boyhood is, among other things, the story of how he earned—and how he continued through life to deserve—the name Ohiyesa, "winner."

This is certainly not to suggest that the Santee knew nothing of competition before Darwin, Spencer, and Carnegie whispered to them upon the wind. One has only to read Two Leggings: The Autobiography of a Crow Warrior to realize how intensely competitive a warrior society could be. But as he wrote about competition, as he thought about all the ways in which he had himself competed, Eastman must have been influenced by what he had learned about competition in the classroom and on the playing fields of Dartmouth. And Eastman was captain of athletic teams at Dartmouth.

Another striking feature of the book is its emphasis on childhood: the book is about an Indian boyhood, and the book was written for children. This, too, I think, is related to Eastman's Social Evolutionist assumptions. Notions about the childhood and the maturity of races were the common coin of Social Evolutionist explanations. The following passage from Spencer's Principles of Sociology is typical. I quote at length in order to demonstrate how rich the metaphor seemed to the Social Evolutionist:

The intellectual traits of the uncivilized … are traits recurring in the children of the civilized.

Infancy shows us an absorption in sensations and perceptions akin to that which characterizes the savage. In pulling to pieces its toys, in making mud-pies … the child exhibits great tendency to observe with little tendency to reflect. There is, again, an obvious parallelism in the mimetic propensity. Children are ever dramatizing the lives of adults; and savages, along with their other mimicries, similarly dramatize the actions of their civilized visitors.…

There was a time, then, when their enemies and friends could refer to Indians and blacks as "childlike" with the full authority of science. In her memoirs Elaine Goodale, for example, refers to the Sioux as being childlike, even though she could be infuriated by the official government statements that so often "were patronizing in tone, addressing the Indians as if they were children incapable of reason." There is no real inconsistency here, for Goodale wanted Indians to be treated like other Americans; she wanted them off the reservation, out of the reservation schools. Since she wanted them to become "adults," she wanted them to be treated like adults. And so in Indilan Boyhood we find that the Santees were "children of the wilderness." When he was very young, Eastman conversed with squirrels and birds in "an unknown dialect"—he was, then, a child of Nature. As he was in years, so were his people in spirit:

They are children of Nature, and occasionally she whips them with the lashes of experience, yet they are forgetful and careless. Much of their suffering could have been prevented by a little calculation.

But "calculation" is just what Spencer would not expect of savages, for "Lacking the ability to think, and the accompanying desire to know, the savage is without tendency to speculate." Eastman's formulation is a bit less brutal, but he is in fundamental agreement with Spencer. Eastman quite freely explains some of his people's behavior, for example, by speaking in terms of their "superstitions." And he devotes a whole chapter to making a distinction between the medicine men and women who worked upon the people's credulity and the herbal healers, whose remedies were real remedies. Eastman's grandmother was one of the latter, and so we see again that Eastman is descended from the best, most nearly rational, most fully evolved family of the best, most fully evolved tribe of the "highest type of pagan and uncivilized man."

There is, then, something quite consciously appropriate in Eastman's addressing Indian Boyhood to children. "I have put together these fragmentary recollections of my thrilling wild life," Eastman wrote in the dedication, "expressly for the little son who came too late to behold for himself the drama of savage existence." The hope would seem to be that his son, and his other youthful readers, might derive vicariously some of the benefits of a savage childhood:

What boy would not be an Indian for a while when he thinks of the freest life in the world? This life was mine. Every day there was a real hunt. There was real game. Occasionally there was a medicine dance away off in the woods where no one could disturb us, in which the boys impersonated their elders, Brave Bull, Standing Elk, High Hawk, Medicine Bear, and the rest.

Much that Tom Sawyer urged his band to imagine, Eastman lived in fact. Eastman was very active in the Boy Scouts of America, and he wrote extensively for them. After he gave up doctoring, he ran for a time a woodsy camp for young women. He taught them archery and other Indian lore as being peculiarly appropriate to their formative years. In one book he described Indian life as the prototype for the Boy Scouts and the Campfire Girls. He considers his own remembrances of Indian ways, then, to be naturally well suited for children. It is no coincidence that Indian Boyhood should end with Eastman's passage into the adult world and the white world. The passage into the white world is the passage into adulthood for the Indian.

Eastman was not alone in assuming that Indian life—the life of real Indians—provided good stories for children. Much of what was published about Indians during the first three decades of this century was intended for children. James Willard Schultz wrote many of his stories about his life among the Black-feet for Youth's Companion and American Boy. But among many examples, Luther Standing Bear provides probably the closest analogy. Standing Bear, like Eastman, was brought up in the old ways; he learned all that an Oglala boy ought to learn. He describes himself as having been precisely of an age to allow him the traditional Oglala education, but none of its application. This will say that he, too, conceives of himself as having been taken away from his people and brought to school just as he was entering upon the life of an adult. Soon after he killed his first and only buffalo he was whisked off to be a student in the first class at Carlisle Indian School. Standing Bear described his Indian life in My Indian Boyhood. He inscribed the book to children, "with the hope that the hearts of the white boys and girls … will be made kinder toward the little Indian boys and girls."

Standing Bear is like Eastman, too, in having written more than one volume of autobiography. Standing Bear went on to write My People the Sioux in 1928. And Eastman wrote From the Deep Woods to Cvilization in 1916. Both were written for adults. But there are interesting differences between the adult books and Eastman's boyhood book that cannot be explained simply by the change of audience. For example, neither Standing Bear nor Eastman in their "adult" autobiographies is willing to dismiss Indian spiritualism as "superstition," the way Eastman had done in Indian Boyhood. Now, a good deal had happened since the publication of Indian Boyhood in 1902. By the time they wrote their adult autobiographies, both Standing Bear and Eastman had lived long enough in civilization to have felt some pangs of disillusionment. But it must also be remembered that the vogue for Social Darwinism had faded by this time. Boasian, particularist anthropology was in the ascendancy. The bright promise of the Dawes Act had faded, and Indian tribes were demonstrating a remarkable staying power. They were neither vanishing nor melting with quite the alacrity Social Darwinists had anticipated. The older he became, the more Eastman allowed himself to conceive of himself as a Santee, the more eager he was to return to the lakes and the woods and find there some of what he had left behind.

But Indian Boyhood, as we have seen, is driven by earlier, Social Darwinist assumptions. And so, at the end of the book, Eastman recalls his preparations for initiation into Santee manhood. When his Santee elders feel that he is ready to become a warrior, when they feel that he is ready to become an adult, they give him his first gun, the white man's "mysterious iron." This image of the first gun is full of meaning: it is symbolic of the rite of passage; it looks forward to the white world Eastman will soon enter; it implies white dominance; it suggests the imminent breakup of the old ways. It is "mysterious," and so it is suggestive, too, of the rationality of white civilization and the credulity of the Indians.

It is a powerfully ambivalent image. And it sums up a good deal of Indian Boyhood's Social Darwinist thinking.

H. David Brumble III, "Charles Alexander Eastman's 'Indian Boyhood'. Romance, Nostalgia, and Social Darwinism," in American Indian Autobiography, University of California Press, 1988, pp. 147-64.