| 205 about one thousand in number, assembled at Hopahka, informing them that "their council fire scould [should?] no more be kindled there;" that "their warriors can have no field for their glory, and that their spirits will decay within them;" and that if they should "take the hand of their great father, the President, which is now offered to them to lead them to their western homes, then will their hopes be higher, their destinies higher."
The Natchez Courier appropriately says of this bit of eloquence that, for comprehensivness and brevity, for beauty of diction and force, for affecting sublimity and propriety of sentiment, we have never seen any production to exceed it. We publish it as a composition worthy to be preserved.
SPEECH OF COL. COBB,
Head Mingo of the Choctaws, East of the Mississippi, in reply to the Agent of the U. S.
Brother: We have heard you talk as from the lips of our Father, the great White Chief at Washington, and my people have called upon me to speak to you. The red man has no books, and when he wishes to make known his views, like his fathers before him, he speaks from his mouth. He is afraid of writing.-When he speaks, he knows what he says; the Great Spirit hears him. Writing is the invention of the pale faces; it gives birth to error and to feuds. The Great Spirit talks-we hear him in the thunder-in the rushing winds and the mighty waters-but he never writes.
Brother: When you were young we were strong; we fought by your side; but our arms are now broken. You have grown large. My people have become small.
Brother: My voice is weak; you can scarcely hear me; it is not the shout of a warrior, but the bewail of an infant. I have lost it in mourning for the misfortunes of my people.-These are their graves, and in those aged pines you hear the ghosts of the departed. Their ashes are here, and we have been left to protect them. Our warriors are nearly all gone to the far country West; but here are our dead. Shall we go too, and give their bones to the wolves?
Brother: Our hearts are full. Twelve winters ago our chiefs sold our country. Every warrior that you see here was opposed to the treaty. If the dead could have been counted, it could never have been made; but, alas! tho' they stood around, they could not be seen or heard. Their tears came in the rain drops, and their voices in the wailing wind, but the pale faces know it not, and our land was taken away.
Brother: We do not now complain. The Choctaw suffers, but he never weeps. You have the strong arm, and we cannot resist.-But the pale face worships the Great Spirit.-So does the red man. The Great Spirit loves truth. When you took our country you promised us land. There is your promise in the book. Twelve times have the trees dropped their leaves, and yet we have received no land. Our houses have been taken from us. The white man's plough [plow] turns up the bones of our fathers. We dare not kindle up our fire; and yet you said we might remain and you would give us land.
Brother: Is this truth? But we believe, now our Great Father knows our condition, he will listen to us. We are as mourning orphans in our country; but our father will take us by the hand. When he fulfils [fulfills] his promise, we will answer his talk. He means well. We know it But we cannot think now. Grief has made children of us. When our business is settled we shall be men again, and talk to our Great Father about what he has promised.
Brother: You stand in the moccasins of a great chief; you speak the words of a mighty nation, and your talk was long. My people are small; their shadow scarcely reaches to your knee; they are scattered and gone; when I shout, I hear my voice in the depths of the woods, but no answering shouts come back.-My words, therefore, are few. I have nothing more to say, but to tell what I have said to the tall chief of the pale faces, whose brother* stands by your side.
*William Tyler, of Virginia, brother to the President of the United States, recently appointed one of the Choctaw Commissioners.
To the Editor of the Boston Weekly Bee.
Mormonism.
Dear Sir-I have for some time past, been a regular attendant at the meeting of the Latter Day Saints, or Mormons, held at the Boylston Hall-and have thought I would give you some account of how those people are getting along. When Elder Adams left here, some weeks since, for the City of the Saints, where he had been called by the heads of the church, it was supposed that no one could be found competent to fill his place-that the meetings would decline-Mormonism die away, and finally sink into its original nothingness. Not so, however-no sooner had this lion, as he was called, left
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