The American Indian was a natural orator. His inspiration came straight from the life of the forest and plain. Figurative language adorned his every-day speech, which was full of allusions to sun, moon, stars, the thunder, the waterfall. Exaggeration, of course, was to be expected of him, and most of the specimens of Indian eloquence that have been translated and preserved are marred by hyperbole. There remains, however, at least one bit of native American eloquence deserving of recognition as equal to the best of its kind in all nations, and that is the speech delivered in 1842 by Colonel Cobb, Head Mingo of the Choctaws east of the Mississippi, in reply to the agent of the United States.
The Choctaws formerly inhabited the lands included in what is now central and southern Mississippi and western Alabama. They were an active nation, subsisting mainly by agriculture. Because they flattened the foreheads of their children, the French called them Flatheads. They acknowledged the sovereignty of the United States in 1786, and in the War of 1812 and the Creek War they served the government. In 1830 they ceded the last of their lands to the government, and were moved during the next fifteen years to the Indian Territory, where they developed a form of constitutional self-rule which has been completely done away with only during the present year.
The removal of the Choctaws from their original home was accomplished gradually, but, as Colonel Cobb's speech indicates, not without friction. J.J. McRae, to whom Colonel Cobb addressed himself, had been authorized to enroll the Choctaws remaining east of the Mississippi and transport them to their new home. Standing by Mr. McRae's side was William Tyler, of Virginia, member of the Choctaw commission, and brother of John Tyler, the then President of the United States. Colonel Cobb, in his closing sentence, referred to William Tyler.
One thousand Choctaws were assembled at Hopahka. Mr. McRae explained to them that their "council fires could be no more kindled here," that "their warriors could have no field for their glory, and their spirits would decay within them." But, he said, if they would "take the hand of their great father, the President, which was now offered to them to lead them to their Western home, then would their hopes be higher, their destinies brighter." Colonel Cobb's reply would be hard to excel in beauty of diction, comprehensive brevity, and elevation of sentiment.
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 wail of an infant. I have lost it in mourning over 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 the resting-places of our dead. Shall we go, too, and give their bones to the wolves?
Brother—Two sleeps have passed since we heard you talk. We have thought upon it. You ask us to leave our country, and tell us it is our father's wish. We would not desire to displease our father. We respect him, and you his child. But the Choctaw always thinks. We want time to answer.
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, though 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 knew 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 plow turns up the bones of our fathers. We dare not kindle our fires; and yet you said we might remain, and you would give us land.