Speech of Four-legs, head chief of the Winnebagoes.—N.B. It is not to be understood, that this man actually had as many legs, as his name indicates. The fancy of the American Aborigines, in the invention and application of names, especially to their chiefs, is well known to be greatly exuberant, and not a little removed from what the Europeans would call classical purity. All that Four-legs exhibited to the eye, to entitle him to this name, was the suspension of a fox’s tail, from being attached to the external of each of his knees; which played and dangled, as he walked, making a show at least equal to, and altogether more attractive than, the calf and ankle of his own leg. But to his speech:—
“Brothers, attend to my words. Thanks to the Great Spirit, who has kept us all till now. We are glad to shake hands with you. May we long smoke the pipe of friendship. Before our chiefs went to see our great father, where is built the great council-house, we did not know the great nation. And we once drew our short knives against the long knives—(long swords of the whites) we took the tomahawk and rifle—and we said: We will have every scalp of them. But they were too many for us. And when our chiefs came back, and told us what they had seen, we said: we shall never dare to lift up our short knives against the long knives again. And so, we wish to live in peace.
“Brothers, I have counted the trees of the forests all around the lake of my fathers; (Winnebago Lake, thirty miles long and fifteen broad)—when the sun was asleep in the woods, I have looked up from the door of my cabin, and counted the stars—but our chiefs told us, when they returned: You cannot count the white men! Brothers, we do not wish to fight the white men; we wish for peace. Our chiefs told us of your big cabins, all put together in a great heap, so great, that one must walk a whole journey to get round it. They told us of your big canoes, with great wings, and how they let out the smoke and thunder from their sides. We were afraid at their story—and we wish for peace. Our chiefs told us of your warriors, how many they are, and how they all push together straight forward, and do not run and dodge like an Indian behind a tree. They told us of rifles, so big, that an Indian could not put his arms around one—and that four horses must draw it on rollers—and that when it fires, it makes a great noise like thunder. It makes the ground shake, and the clouds too. Brothers, we wish for peace.
“I have no more to say.”
It is true, Four-legs does not seem to speak much to the point under discussion. Nor is it to be inferred, that he was not a brave man, from the singular turn, which he happened to take in his speech. He is notwithstanding (was—for he is dead now) a warrior of great fame. He no doubt really desired peace, and was sufficiently convinced, from all he had heard, that his nation could never beat the whites. It is but a few years since, however, that the Winnebagoes supposed themselves the greatest and mightiest nation on earth; and their pride was equal to their estimation of their own relative importance. But Four-legs, just at this time, seems to have been in the humour of compliments;—and besides, he has been reckoned an arch politician, for an Indian. He might say one thing, and mean another.
By John Metoxen, at the breaking up of the deliberations of the Council.
“Brothers, I speak now both to my white and red brothers—to all who are here. I am an old man—and my spirit will soon be with the spirits of my fathers. I have been at the head of my people for many years. I have been anxious for them. When I came before them from New York to Green Bay, and told them to build their cabins at the Grande Kawkawlin, I thought they would have peace, and that I should die in peace. But I see, that I must go down to the grave without comfort. It is not peace. All the doings of this Council show, that there is no rest for my people, who came here for rest.
“I wish to say a word to the Winnebagoes and Menomenies. Brothers. It is not good, that the white man has stood between us, and kept us apart. Once we smoked in peace. We came from the rising sun, and asked you to give us a home. We told you, there was no more home for us among the graves of our fathers—because the white man had come there. You took us by the hand, and said: We are glad to see you. Here is our country. Come and live among us. We said to you: Give us land that we can call our own, and we will pay you for it. You did so. And we made a covenant. We said: The white man shall never come here. And our great father, the President, said: My white children shall never trouble you. We lived in peace, till the white man came. He, brothers, has told you wrong stories. He has made you believe, what is not true. It is he that wants your land, and not we. We agreed, that we would keep him off. But he has divided us; and now there is no more peace. He will get your land and ours, and then what will our children do?—Brothers, come back to us. Let us smoke the pipe again. We told you the ways of the white man, that he is a snake in the grass—that he will bite and destroy, when we don’t see—that he has great power—and that he will drive away the Indians, and give their land to his own children. You now see, that our words are come to pass. The white man has come and set his foot and his cabin on Fox River—and is getting more of our land every year. First, he spoke smooth words. Now he speaks rough words—because he has got the power. Brothers, come back to us. We will be one people. We will unite together against the white man, and pray our great father to take him away. And then we shall have peace, and no more trouble. I give you the faith and love of our tribes. It is not rotten. It is good.