Indians, Seminole, Osceola (Copy from Google+)

From Google+

NEW ENGLAND FARMER. January 31, 1838.

                    From the New York Evening Star.
DESTRUCTION OF THE MANDANS, AND
            OTHER TRIBES BY SMALL POX.
                            STUYVESANT INSTITUTE,
                                    New York, Jan. 3, 1838.
    DEAR SIR—Your note of the 2d inst. was duly
received, and to your inquiry “whether the report
of the melancholy fate of the Mandans be
true,” I am sorry to reply that the account you
gave of them a few days since was literally correct.
    Several letters have just been received from
the Upper Missouri, written by gentlemen of
unquestionable veracity (agents of the American
Fur Company to their principals in this city,) giving
a most melancholy account of the ravages of
the small pox among several of the Upper Missouri
tribes of Indians. By the latest accounts
from them, it seems that the disease was raging
with the most desolating effects amongst the
Assineboins, the Blackfeet, and other tribes in that
vicinity. Several thousands had already been destroyed,
and of the interesting, friendly, and gentlemanly
Mandans, nothing remains but a few
straggling individuals, who must, from necessity
and the custom of the country, merge into the
ranks of their surrounding enemies, where they
will be used as slaves. So terminates the existence
of Indian tribes, who, from want of numbers,
become unable to stand against the assaults
of their enemies. Such is unquestionably the result
to which the Mandan nation has arrived, and
their race (with their interesting, peculiar
customs—their religion and social happiness) may be
said to be extinct. Poor noble and gallant fellows!
there are but a few of the civilized world
besides myself who know their virtues, and we
alone well know how to extend our sympathies to
them.
    The Mandans, when I was in their country,
lived all in two villages, in sight of each other, on
the west bank of the Missouri, 1,800 miles above
St. Louis.—They formerly lived further down the
river, and then, in eight or ten villages, the marks
of which I saw, and closely examined, while
descending the Missouri river. They had suffered
immense losses from the hostility of the Sioux
during the last forty years, and their numbers and
strength were very much reduced.
    The American Fur Company, not many years
since, erected a formidable fort by the side of
their principal village on the bank of the river,
and probably had been the means of preserving
them thus far from the destroying hands of the
Sioux, as their village and the plains about it were
under the complete protection of the guns of the
fort. They have fallen victims, however, to an
enemy that was ruthless and irresistible, and it is
probable that little else of them is left for the
world's instruction than the memorials which I
made and collected of them whilst living with
them.
    I became more charmed with this tribe than I
did with any other, and, consequently, took more
pains to portray their customs and peculiarities
of character. I have views of their villages, (as
those will attest who have visited my rooms,)
their lodges, their festivals, their games, their
religious ceremonies, together with a great number
of portraits of their principal men and women,
and also a full collection of their costumes and
other manufactures.
    It is a source of great satisfaction to me (and
should be so to the world also) that I was lucky
enough to snatch such memorials of these unfortunate
people from oblivion at the time that I did;
and their melancholy fate is one more sudden
fulfilment of the prophecies which I have been
making to the world—that these noble fellows are
soon to be swept, nation after nation, from the
face of the earth.
    You ask me “how this disease was carried
among them?” I cannot tell. There is no
doubt, however, that its germ was, in some way
or other, communicated from the civilized borders;
for, although the small pox has been the
greatest destroyer of the Indian race, it is a fact
that it never had its origin amongst them.
Almost every tribe of Indians that now exist, or
ever have existed east of these poor fellows, who
are now taking their turn with it, and as far east
as the Atlantic coast,* have successively suffered
under the desolating ravages of this civilized
scourge. But a few years since the Pawnees
lost one half of their nation; the Puncahs lost
two thirds; the Omahas and Otoes, Missourias
and Kanzas lost one half at least of their numbers
by it. Only one year and a half ago I was
at Prarie du Chien, on the Upper Mississippi,
where I witnessed its frightful effects amongst
the Winnebagoes and Sioux—every other man
amongst them was slain by it; and O-wa-pe-shaw,
the greatest man of the Sioux, with half of
his band, died under the corners of fences, in
little (horrid) groups, to which kindred ties held
them in ghastly death, with their bodies swollen
and covered with pustules—their eyes blinded—
hideously howling their death song in utter despair
—affectionately clinging to each other's
necks with one hand, and grasping bottles and
tin pans of whiskey in the other! But let me
stop. The actual ravages of this deadly disease
(which, like other causes that have led to the
rapid demolition of the numerous tribes of the
West, and of which I shall give some more definite
accounts ere long,) have heretofore been
little known to the civilized world, and for the
reason solely that these benighted people have
had no proper vehicle of knowledge or information
that could reach beyond the oral legends of
their wigwam firesides—they have had no newspapers.
                Yours, &c.
                                                GEORGE CATLIN.
———
    NOTE. Our readers will recollect the tradition
among the Indians, spoken of by the Puritans
on their first settlement of New England.
These white emigrants were told that whole
nations had been swept off before this country
was visited, and the Puritans deemed it a
providential circumstance.
——————————————————
Another copy:
Burlington free press., February 02, 1838




From Google+

The Columbia Democrat., February 17, 1838

        From the Baltimore American, Jan. 22.
    Mr. Catlin, the celebrated painter of Indian
portraits, has returned from his trip
to the South, where he had gone to procure
the likeness of the chiefs lately captured,
we are almost ashamed to say how,
in Florida. Among the eleven portraits
which he executed are those of Oseola,
Macanopy and Cloud, the first of which
is said to be a most admirable picture.
The warrior is painted at full length, with
his rifle in his hands, and has an expression
and attitude powerfully indicative of
his accute sense of injury. In thus committing
to canvass the pictures of those who
have suffered from the wrongs of the white
man, Mr. C. is preparing a mornful
remembrance of Indian suffering, and
handing down to the reprobation of posterity
the memory of scenes at the mention of
which humanity shudders. There is an
intense interest attaching to the destinies of
the sons of the forest, which cannot have
its full development until the excitement
of the present shall have passed away, and
things be seen as they are, without the
false glare imparted by heated prejudices.
When the day of fair and candid appreciation
shall come, our descendants will perhaps
look with astonishment on the records
of past times, and regard with wonder, not
unmingled with disapproval, the exterminating
policy which could have relentlessly
pursued the destitute Indian from the shores
of the Atlantic to the precipices of the Rocky
Mountains, and left him no place whereon
to rest his foot. As Americans we almost
shudder whilst we anticipate the
judgment then to be passed upon Christian
regard for the benighted savage, and the
mercy of civilized men for a prostrate enemy.
—————————————————————

Osceola of Florida
www.loc.gov/pictures/item/96508305




From Google+

The Daily Pittsburgh Gazette. February 15, 1838.

            From the N. Y. Evening Star.
                        OSCEOLA.
    The following letter from Mr. Catlin was
received two days ago. We learn that the writer
himself has returned to the city. His description
of the captive Chief will be read with interest.
            FORT MOULTRIE, Sullivan's Island, }
              near Charleston, Jan.24, 1838. }
    Dear Sir:—For the first time since I arrived
here, I have a moment of leisure to give you a
few lines descriptive of things and events at
this place. Charleston city is about six miles
distant, and in full view from the place where I
am writing. Lovely spring would seem to be
reigning over it, instead of hoary winter, and
her gardens are decked with green foliage and
roses.
    In Fort Moultrie are the Seminole prisoners
of war—250 in number—chiefs, warriors, women
and children, in a motley and miserable
group. Osceola, Micanopy, Cloud, Coahajo, and
King Philip, are the chiefs; and of them, as well
as of several others, I have already secured the
portraits, which I shall bring to New York in
a few days.
    Mick-e-no-pah, who is the first civil chief of
the nation, and was, at the commencement of the
war, the owner of an hundred negroes, is a stately
and dignified man, proud of his superabundant
flesh, and equally so of his title of “General,”
as he is familiarly called. This fat dignitary,
and also Cloud, and several others, seem
tolerably quiescent, and not disposed to grieve
away their fat in their present confinement; but
there is one restless spirit amongst them of a
different cast—one who sits and broods over
his nation's calamities with a broken heart, and
pines and sickens in an agony which none but
himself can know or feel—I mean Osceola
(Powell,) or as he and all the other chiefs
distinctly pronounce it, As-se-o-la.
    From the time I have spent with this Chief,
and the familiar interviews I have had with
him in conversation, I have been enabled to form
a pretty correct notion of the feelings and character,
as well as history, of this extraordinary
man. A Creek by birth, he left his own tribe
whilst a boy, and sought an asylum amongst the
Seminoles where he has been reared, and where
he has flourished since. His father was a white
man, by the name of Powell, who abandoned
him and sent him a vagrant upon the world to
cater for himself. He soon became a favorite
amongst the Seminoles, and from his force of
character and genius alone, he has risen to the
highest honors of the nation.
    All the plays, and other manly sport, Powell
was reputed first in the nation; and his name
was changed to As-se-o-la, from the fact that he
could drink a great quantity of the “black
drink,” (called as-se-o-la) which was prepared
from some bitter and nauseating herbs, and
drank preparatory to the fast and feast of the
green corn dance.
    From such facts, it appears he is entirely a
“self-made man,” and one of an extraordinary
character, which is conclusively proved by the
fact that he is acknowledged, and followed by all
the chiefs of the nation, as their head war chief.
Though he is but a demi-savage in blood, yet he
speaks not a word of English; and in his actions
and feelings is as perfectly an Indian as any
man I ever saw. In stature he is about the
middle size; and in his features there is no striking
peculiarity to stamp them out of mediocre,
but a pleasing symmetry of proportion, upon
which the lights and shadows of passion and
feeling are seen to play with perfect effect.
There is at times spread over them the most
benignant and expressive smiles, even to perfect
effeminacy; and, at others, they are darkened
with the sternness of a Brutus, or the agony of a
dying gladiator. In fact, he is the perfect beau
ideal of and Indian prince—graceful in his
movements, and mild, almost to childishness, in his
intercourse with the world. His hand is small
and delicate to the touch as that of a female,
and the loveliest of them are continually flocking
around him in groups to feel its gentle
grasp, and catch the languishing look from his
downcast eye—to bestow upon him some
beautiful tinsel or plume, and levy upon his raven
locks for a a small and precious keepsake of
As-se-o-la.
    I thought at first, like thousands of others who
take but a glance at him, that he was effeminate
and womanish, but on a little acquaintance
and familiarity with him, I became fully convinced
that the true character of this man is
not to be learned by the transient visitor, who
sees him but a moment, and in that moment a
prisoner withering under a broken spirit,
endeavoring to raise a smirk and a smile to meet
the gazing world who are flocking to see him.
These smiles are soft and beautiful, and are
many; but those who, life myself, have heard
him pour forth his griefs in the simpering tears
of actual childishness, and then instantly rally
and rouse himself into the indignant sternness
of the warrior and hero, will easily see that those
smiles are based upon an agony that regularly
preys upon his substance. His face is certainly
one of the most expressive kind I have ever seen
—capable of the most vivid and striking exhibition
of the human passion that can possibly be
imagined, bearing upon its front the predominant
characteristic impress of sternness and
reserve, and excessive perseverance in the
pursuits of life.
    His manner of dress and ornament is such as
greatly to interfere with the full development of
his true character. His hair is cut close to the
head, except a superabundance which is left on
the forehead, flowing down to his eyes, and
large tufts protruding from his temples in front
of his ears, and dropping down near to the
clavicle, resembling, or rather in all probability
originating, (for Indians fashions never change)
the present fashion which the gentlemen of New
York are adopting, of cultivating locks over the
ears, which might be properly styled “a la Powell.”
Back of this is passed around his head,
with great taste, a richly embroidered handkerchief
or shawl, in the form of a Moorish band or
Turkish turban, supporting two or three ostrich
plumes, which fall quite back in a horizontal
position.
    The ancient and native form of dress he still
adheres to, the tunic and manteau, the leggins
and moccasins; but the approximation of this
tribe to civilization has substituted the material
of calicoes and fustians in place of skins; so that
the base of his dress is of civilized manufacture,
and adorned and ornamented according to their
own whimsical taste. Silver ear drops are pendant
from his ears—silver breastplates, in form
of crescents, and a profusion of beads and trinkets
fall over the breast—a broad and beautifully
garnished belt crosses his left shoulder, to which
is attached his bullet pouch and horn. Around
his waist he wears a blue sash of exquisite
workmanship, interwoven with white and blue
beads—his garters, which are very broad, and
embracing the greater part of the calf of his leg,
are of the same material—tightly bandaged over
his leggins of scarlet cloth, and his moccasins
are of buckskin, ornamented with beads and
hawk bills. Such, with his rifle in his hand, and
his knife in his belt, (his only weapons) is
As-se-o-la, the fallen Prince and Hero of Florida.
    I have listened much and faithfully to the
narrations of this man, and drawn other
information from those who have been longer and
more intimately acquainted with him, and I am
fully convinced that there is something of the
most extraordinary nature in the true character
of this man—a something that bears an impress
which can never be forgotten or erased. He has
a mind of a wonderful construction, calculated
to fortify and yet destroy itself—a lurking cunning,
capable of gilding with the warmth and
glowing pleasantness of sunshine, the whirling
tempest that's raging in his soul, and even in his
mirth and childishness destroying him. He
smiles and fawns and languishes before the
gazing world; but in his solitude, or when he tells
in confidence his tales of grief, though mild and
smiling dew drops moisten his eyes at one moment,
yet the burning hero rushes through their
sockets at the next—his black brows jot over
their balls of fire—his nostrils and bosom swell
with impatience—and his clenched teeth are set
in silent oaths of irretractable revenge. Naturally
of a restless and impatient disposition—in
his captive interviews with the civilized world
he smiles—but in his solitude he grieves and
pines with a broken heart. The world who
barely see him, shake the hand of a laughing
fawn; but those who listen to his griefs as I
have done, will see the sternness of a Roman,
and in his agony a beautiful statue of Vengeance.
    A mind thus organized and enthralled by
such circumstances as have fallen to his lot,
must soon destroy its tenement. There are
elements in such a spirit that wage a deadly war
with the body, when thwarted and chained
down to a prison—his physical strength is rapidly
giving way, and I would be very much surprised
if he should survive many months or even
weeks in his present confinement, and under
his present agony of feeling.
        More anon. In great haste
                Respectfully yours, &c.
                                GEORGE CATLIN.
———————————————————

Partly here:
news.google.com
Edgefield advertiser., February 22, 1838

——————————
THE BOOK OF THE INDIANS
        BY SAMUEL G. DRAKE:
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From Google+

NILES' NATIONAL REGISTER. February 17, 1838.

                        DEATH OF OSCEOLA.
    As we had reason to anticipate from the despondency
spoken of by Mr. Catlin in his letter, a day
or two since published in the Star, together with
the severe attack of quinsy sore throat which this
chief suffered a few days before Mr. C. left Charleston,
he has fallen a victim to those combined causes,
and now
                        “Life's fitful fever oe'r
                        Sleeps quiet in his grave.”
    He died on Tuesday night at Fort Moultrie, on
Sullivan's Island, in the harbor of Charleston. Mr.
Catlin informs us that a few days before he left,
Osceola was suddenly attacked one night with a
violent inflammation of the throat, which proved
quinsy. The officers and surgeon thought him
dying, and set up with him. By copious bleeding
in the arm, he recovered. It was at this moment
that Mr. C. saw Osceola under circumstances of so
impressive a character that he can never erase them
from his mind. For some distance, before reaching
his quarters, he heard his deep and heavy groans,
and on entering found the noble chieftain—who
could endure every hardship in Florida's desolate
hammocks, and who dared to peril any danger
“that man dare do”—prostrate on his back, unnerved,
and conquered by disease. His proud spirit in
its grandeur chafing like a torrent in a compressed
ravine against the destructible and perishable
embankments that impeded its bounding course. For
nobly formed as his outward person was, he felt
that it was too circumscribed to contain a soul like
his, and that with all other things earthly, it carried
the fatal impress of death.
    In his extreme suffering he had torn off his Angola
Turban, and his black clustering tresses now flowed
in dishevelled wildness down his nobly formed
neck and shoulders, and over the lap of the favorite
wife on whom his head reposed. The other was
bathing his chest, and it was thus that the group
were arranged when the artist saw this graphic
scene. Osceola, manfully as he breasted mortal
nature, could not conceal the pain he endured. His
features were distorted, or thrown into an expression
of mingled despair and resolute firmness to
meet his fate; the eye rolling in wild frenzy beneath
the fretted brow; the chest heaving like the ocean
billows; the throat laboring in the apparently last
death struggle of the deep gurgling rattle, which
gave to that fine mouth, that once could utter such
winning eloquence, the expression of dark despair,
that implored some pitying hand to put an end to his
misery.
    There was nothing in the dying gladiator, or the
writhings of Laocoon—nor of all that sculpture or
painting has conceived to express the moral sublimity
of human suffering, that could surpass this
scene—that received a deeper coloring from the
darkness of the chamber, only faintly illumed at
times by the gleam that fitfully glared from the
fireplace upon the noble wreck that was perishing on
its hearth.
    Such appeared Osceola, whose life, history, and
personal appearance, have been so often graphically
pourtrayed in our columns by the pens of Catlin,
Simmons, &c. And it was a repetition, probably,
of the foregoing scene which closed its death door
upon this great man, by stratagem a prisoner of war,
and cut off in the zenith of his life by wounded
pride that preyed on his proud spirit, and forever
closed upon the brilliant career that, in all probability,
was destined for him.
    We are not of those who affect any overweening
sympathy for the fortunes of the Indian race, or
extravagant admiration of their character. That they
have been most inhumanly persecuted by the white
races, since the first settlement of the country, is
most true. That they have often taken cruel revenge
on their civilized conquerors is not less so.—
But of their inferiority, intellectually speaking, to
the whites there can be no doubt—and their destiny,
therefore, has been of necessity that of subjection to
us. Their high moral qualities, and their wild but
blameless life, and their courage, we leave to another
occasion.
    A great man of them—greater doubtless because
his blood was half white, though his habits were all
Indian, has fallen among them. In estimating him
therefore it is necessary to make some deduction
for our own race. Had his counsels been strictly
adhered to by the greedy, grasping government
agents sent into Florida before the war broke out,
all would have been well—but they had their selfish
views, and were punished for it with ignominious
death; and many's the stream and the overglade
there, that for these mercenary men has since drunk
deeply of the blood of our best chivalry. If Osceola
had lived and gone on the prairies west, 30,000 men,
as he told Mr. C. were there to do his bidding. He
made numberless inquiries of Mr. C. of the wood,
water and game of that region; and there's no doubt
his mind was fixed to go, and there to have recommenced
a ferocious, cruel, and bloody border war,
to which that of Florida and all its attendant horrors
would have proved a mere episode. The Commanches,
the Osages, the Pawnees, and thousands of
their mounted warriors, with spear of knight and
caparisoned horse, would under this noble chief,
have covered and flower-enamelled praises with
their conquering hordes and carried death and ruin
throughout the border of the Mississippi from Texas
to Wisconsin. So far, therefore, his death has been
a fortunate event for the frontier settlers there, and
we doubt if the news does not dampen the ardor of
his successors, Wild Cat and Alligator, now fighting
for the honor of their incarcerated chief, who was
the soul, the life, the very body and impulse of every
movement in Florida, and whose name imparted a
talismanic charm that proved an inspiration to battle
though he was not there. Now that his spirit
has winged its way to eternity, the face of affairs
may entirely change.
    All who compare the fine portraits of Osceola,
which, happily, for the curious Mr. Catlin had so
fortunately seized at the very last passage of his
glorious life, will be struck with the perfect
correspondence of their traits to all that we know of his
character, and also of the immeasurable distance
there is, between his physiognomy and form and
that of the mere Florida Indian himself, like Micanopy,
Cloud, Coadjoho, who are of a darker hue
and coarser features, analogous to the African.—
While Osceola's bear the very stamp of high mettled
nobility and of commanding genius. The pensive
melancholy cast of expression, the lurking fire of a noble
black eye, a towering forehead, whose finely carved
and compressed outline and playful smile, indicate
an unflinching firmness of resolve.
    But the theme is too inviting and our space too
circumscribed, to say more at present. We have no
doubt that crowds will flock to the Stuyvesant Institute
to look at the lineaments of this truly great
man; for there only can we now form an idea of
what he was who has filled so large a space in the
annals of our country.—N. Y. Star.
                                    ——
            From the Charleston Courier of Feb. 6.
    DEATH OF OCEOLA.—We have been favored
with the following statements of the physicians in
attendance on this distinguished chief, during the
illness which resulted in his death, and insert them
in our paper, believing that they will be read with
much interest.
    As, no doubt, a curiosity exists in the public mind
to know the causes which led to the death of Oceola,
the distinguished Seminole chief, and as many reports
may be circulated on the subject, I have
deemed it advisable to give publicity to a statement
of the circumstances attending his last illness.
    I am impelled, moreover, to do this from another
motive—the sense of a duty which I owe to myself
and those entrusted with his safe keeping—being
conscious that nothing has been omitted in the
discharge of that trust, which could, in any way, have
contributed to the health and comfort of the deceased.
    On the 26th of January, ultimo, he was attacked
in the night with a violent quinsy, of which I was
informed very soon after, and hastened to his room.
He was then laboring under considerable difficulty
of degluti[ti]on and respiration, accompanied with pain
and inflammation of the tonsils. To prevent suffocation,
it was necessary to support him nearly in an
erect position. His pulse was full, quick, and hard.
Blood was instantly drawn, and an emetic and blister
prescribed. At this moment an Indian entered
the room, who, as I afterwards understood, was held
in high esteem as a prophet and doctor. From the
moment of his entrance there was a refusal to take
any thing. Finding myself debarred from the
administration of suitable remedies, and feeling the
responsibility devolving upon me, I requested
professor B. B. Strobel to visit the patient with me.—
He attended and used his best exertions to prevail on
the patient to submit to treatment, such as sacrification,
leeching, &c.—but he pertinaciously refused;
not but what he would have been disposed to acquiesce,
had he not been overruled by the influence of
his family.
                        F. WEEDON, Assistant Surgeon.
    For[t] Moultrie, Sullivan's Island, Feb. 5.
                                    ——
    At the request of Dr. Weedon, I visited Oceola at
Sullivan's Island. I saw him in the evening, by
candle light—he was lying on his blanket before the
fire, his head propped up, and two Indian women
(one on each side of him) employed bathing his
neck with warm water, in which some herbs had
been steeped. He was breathing with much difficulty,
his brow contracted, and his countenance
indicating great bodily pain. His pulse was full
and quick, skin hot and dry. I requested his
permission, through the interpreter, to examine his
throat, to which he assented. I discovered that the
tonsils were so much enlarged as greatly to impede
respiration, and that the mucous membrane of the
pharynx was in a high state of inflammation. As
there was some danger of suffocation unless the disease
was arrested, I proposed to scarify the tonsile.
The patient referred us to his conjurer, who was
sitting on the floor covered up in his blanket, with
all the air and dignity of a great man. He said no!
I next proposed to apply leeches to the throat and
back of the ears—the conjurer said no! I proposed
lastly some medicine and a stimulating wash to be
applied internally—which he also refused—saying
that if the patient was not better in the morning, he
would give him up to us. I urged, entreated and
persuaded him, to let us do something, for although
I did not doubt his ability to cure, in the woods,
where he could have access to his roots and herbs—
yet here he was placed under different circumstances,
and as he had no means within his reach—
begged him to yield up the patient to us. All was
in vain, and we were finally compelled to abandon
Oceola to his fate.
    In conclusion, I have no hesitation in declaring
that I entirely coincided with the views and
prescriptions of Dr. Weedon, and believe that had he
been permitted to put them in practice, the patient
would have recovered.
                                            B. B. STROBEY, M. D.,
        Professor of Anatomy, Medical college, S. Ca.
    Charleston, 5th February, 1838.
——————————————————

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Edgefield advertiser., February 15, 1838




From Google+

Burlington free press., February 23, 1838

                        For the Free Press.
    We cut the following from the Vermont
Patriot.
    DEATH OF OSEOLA.—“This celebrated Indian
chief died at Fort Moultrie, on the 30th ult., of an
affection of the throat. We are serious in saying
that the federalists sorely lament the untimely
departure of this barbarian chief—they would have
him survive to extend the black catalogue of his
cold-blooded masacres of helpless women and
children, we suppose. Doubtless the whole whig party
will go into mourning and wear crape to honor the
memory of their departed friend and ally!”
    Although we were prepared for almost
anything from the administration papers
yet we confess that we felt no little surprise
at meeting with such remarks as the above,
in any paper that pretended to respect the
feelings of common humanity, and those
sacred institutions which have their
foundation in the nature of man. The Press
of the United States calls itself the most
free and enlighted on earth; and an individual
of that free and enlightened press is
utterly astonished at the idea of regretting
the death of a high souled chief! The
Vermont Patriot, a supporter of the present
administration, thinks it absolutely necessary,
for fear of being understood in jest, to
assure its readers that it is serious, in
declaring that the federalists are sorry for the
death of a crushed and captive enemy!
The Whigs have been accused of monopolizing
all the decency of the country; can
the Van Buren party plead guilty to a
charge of monopolizing all the humanity?
They need not fear, they will never meet
an accuser.
    OSEOLA's was a soul which demanded,
by its infinite superiority, the reverence of
such a creature as General Jesup. His
greatest, his fatal error consisted in reposing
confidence in the faith or in the honesty
of Jesup. He was deluded into the belief
that this United States officer had some
regard for his word or for the honor of his
country. By this trust he was betrayed
and made a captive. A flag of truce was
violated to capture a solitary Indian chief,
fighting in the cause of Nature and of
justice. And the act was sanctioned by
the government of the United States.—
The charge has even been made, and still
remains undenied, that it was even suggested
by that government. He falls a victim
to the villainous instrumentality (and who
shall say it was not direct?) of his captors;
and the Van Buren papers of the country
are surprised that the whigs should feel
the least sorrow for his untimely end.—
They without doubt are exceedingly rejoiced
that he is removed at any rate, and
by whatever means. They see no reason
why he may not as well be captured by
treachery as by an honorable struggle;
their purpose is equally effected whether
he die by POISON, an untimely death, or
whether he meet his fate on the field of
battle, fighting in defence of his household
gods and his father's graves.
    This may be very well; it may be patriotic;
but it is not christian; and we very
much doubt the patriotism of that individual
or of that party, who wish future nations
to point to the page of our History
and say, that the United States of America,
the greatest and most glorious republic
on earth, violated a flag of truce, POISONED
THEIR CAPTIVE, and GLORIED IN THE DEED.




From Google+

The North-Carolina standard., February 21, 1838

        FROM THE MILLEDGEVILLE FEDERAL UNION.
      OCEOLA, THE INDIAN WARRIOR.
    Oceola was about thirty-three years old,
agreeable to the best accounts we have as to his
age; he was about five feet ten inches high,
rather slender than stout, but elegantly framed;
remarkably small limbs, but capable of iron
endurance. His grand father was a Scotchman
—his grand mother and mother were full Indians;
his father was a halfbreed, and Oceola
was a quarter-blood, or one-fourth white. His
complexion and eyes were much lighter than
those of the Indians generally.
    For years past, his name and character have
been familiar to all who are conversant with the
history of the bloody, harassing and expensive
war in Florida, not yet terminated. By his
boldness and energy, he succeeded in making
himself one of the Chiefs of the Seminole Indians,
and “became the master spirit of this long
and desperate war.” He was the savage,
treacherous, murderer of General Thompson, with
the rifle presented him by the General, for
which act, as well as many others, of like cruel
character, it would have been but just he should
have suffered the tortures of a death more
painful and ignominious than was reserved for his
fate by an all-wise Providence. “No man owed
less to incident. He was bold and decisive in
action—deadly, but consistent in hatred—dark
in revenge—cool, subtle and sagacious in council.
Oceola will be long remembered as the
man, who, with the feeblest means, produced the
most terrible effects.”




From Google+

The Caledonian., February 27, 1838

    INDIAN POPULATION. From a recently published
communication made to the War Department it appears
that the number of Indians within the territorial
limits of the United States is 332,498. The
number east of the Mississippi is                 49,364
Number of Indians who have emigrated from
    east to west side                                          51,327
Number of Indigenous tribes                        231,806
                                                                         —————
        Aggregate                                                332,498
    The Indian Commissioner, Mr. Harris, estimates
that these Indians can bring into the field rising
sixty-six thousand warriors, that is, when emigration
is completed, and they choose to coalesce. To
avoid a coalition, it is stated that a force of 7,000
men will be necessary, stationed at various points
of the western frontier.
    It would not be strange, but rather in perfect
consistency with the Indian character, if, after the
policy of our Government of removing the Indians
beyond the Mississippi is consummated, with all
their wrongs fresh in remembrance, they should,
under the guidance of some master-spirit, concentrate
their strength and open an almost endless, devastating
and sanguinary border war. It would be contrary
to past experience, to suppose the gathering
wrath of these men, conscious of their many wrongs,
would not, at some future period, burst out with
volcanic fury. Without other objections to the
“Indian policy,” this one apprehension would
seem sufficient to change the purposes of its further
prosecution. It must be an endless bill of expense
to the United States, however peaceably inclined
the Indians may be; for it will be necessary to keep
up military establishments along the whole line, to
anticipate any hostile movements on their part.
                ————————————————

    Extract of a letter from the seat of war in
                        Florida, Jan. 25, 1838.
    The Indians are surrounded by the troops, and
General Jesup says he will not receive a white
flag. The soldiers are in high spirits, but I think
the Indians have the advantage.
    The Indian force is computed at 1200 warriors.
They appear now to be completely hemmed in
by the three armies, viz: Gen. Jesup, Gen.
Smith and Col. Taylor. It was Col. Taylor's
command that the Indians fought with on
Christmas. Fighting the Indians in Florida is like
catching a mouse in a hay-stack, to put the best
construction upon it. But the major part of the
officers do not want to bring the war to a close.
There are but few high-minded and honorable
gentlemen in this section of the country, for,
when the war is over, they will have to go home
and get an honest living. No man of spirit would
take a commission here. Many of them are in
debt, and do not like to go home; and some
would be shot by their own men, if brought into
action. I am speaking of the militia now. The
regulars are fine fellows, and do all that is done.
    Many of the volunteer officers are very good
men; but volunteers, as an effective force, are a
complete nuisance; for when attacked they fall
back, and leave the brunt to be borne by the regulars;
besides, most of the volunteers are mounted,
and cost considerably more than foot soldiers.
    You may expect to here something decisive in
a few days, as an express has arrived here bringing
information that Gen. Scott has orders to
enlist an unlimited number of volunteers, and
proceed to Niagara frontier. The loafing officers
are all on nettles about it; they however,
are not worthy to carry Gen. Scott's shoes. The
regular officers with us are fine men, and of
estimable character.
    Gen. Scott is idolized by the men, but is the
terror of the officers.
                ————————————————
            From the National Intelligencer.
    THE FLORIDA WAR.—A letter from an officer
of the Army, now in Florida, addressed to his
friend, the Editor of the Political Arena, under
date of Jan. 25, gives some further particulars of
the encounter with the Indians, which may be
interesting to our readers, as follows:
    “The battle lasted only an hour or two, when
we drove them in every direction. Our loss was
only eight killed, and thirty-three wounded, (two
since dead.) No officer wounded but Gen. Jesup,
who received a slight wound below his left
eye.
    “We made no prisoners, and found only two
dead Indians on the battle ground; we have,
however, captured several hundred head of cattle.
    “The Indians were posted in a very thick
hammock, with a deep stream running through it;
they were stationed along the stream, behind
trees and stumps, in which they had cut notches
to rest their rifles in. It was extremely difficult
to penetrate the hammock, and particularly
uncomfortable, as the Indian rifle balls flew thick
and fast, and the stream was not fordable, but
deep enough to swim both man and horse.”
    The same officer, in the following remarks,
discloses a feeling, in regard to this war, which
we believe is very prevalent among the officers as
well of the Navy as of the Army:
    “I fervently hope this is the last war (Indian
war at least) that it will ever be my fate to
participate in. It is fatiguing cheerless, and every
way uncomfortable.—There is seldom any thing
to animate or enliven us, except such an affair as
we had yesterday, which excites us a little; but
the only pleasure it could give us would and did
arise from the hope that it has a tendency to close
the war, and allow us to return to our friends
and families. It is no cause for triumph to
beat and drive the poor miserable Indians, who
are desperately and obstinately contending for
their natural rights and possessions, against most
unequal forces.”
——————————
The Caledonian., February 27, 1838
news.google.com




From Google+

Edgefield advertiser., February 22, 1838

    OSAGE INDIANS.—We have conversed
with a gentleman, just come in by land from
Fort Gibson, on the Arkansas river. He
informs us that the condition of this miserable
tribe is pitiable in the extreme. They
have no annuities from the Government;
the sums stipulated to be paid to them for
their lands have all been settled, and their
crops having failed this season, they are
literally in a state of starvation and want.
No man residing within the confines of civilization
can appreciate the extreme wretchedness
to which these miserable beings are
frequently reduced. They have little or
no game within their own territory, and
no source of relief whatever. We believe
a bill has been reported in Congress for
extending to them some relief. This measure
should, if passed at all, be adopted with all
possible haste, and whatever relief it is
designated to extend to them, should be given
before they perish, as many must, if not soon
relieved.
                    ——————————

    Preserving the purity of the Negro race.
—Sixteen white Ladies recently petitioned
the Legislature of Massachusetts, to repeal
the law which interdicted their marriage
with negroes. What a commentary upon
the madness of Abolitionism! The thing
however would not take with the negroes
themselves, as will be seen from the article
below. However anxious Charlotte F.
Thompson, and the other fifteen white
Ladies of Rehoboth may be, to amalgamate
with David Sherrod and his associates,
they may give up all hope now as the black
gentry are determined on preserving the purity
of their race. What will Mr. Channing
say to this sign in his own pure and
proud Massachusetts!
                    From the Boston Centinel.
    SHOWING PROPER RESENTMENT.—On
Saturday, in the Senate, the memorial of
David Sherrod and others, colored people, of
Boston, praying the Legislature “not to
repeal the law which interdicts marriage
between white people and persons of color,”
so petitioned for by Charlotte E. Thompson,
and others, white women of Rehobeth,
was committed to the Committee on Slavery,
&c., in concurrence. The following
is a copy of this valuable document:—
“ To the Hon. Senate and House of Representatives:—
    “The undersigned, PEOPLE OF COLOR, in
the City of Boston, have learned with deep
regret and mortification, that Charlotte F.
Thompson and fifteen other WHITE LADIES
of Rehobeth, have petitioned your Hon.
Body for a repeal of the law, which interdicts
marriage between white people and
persons of color. Now your memorialists,
regarding this as a very wise and SALUTARY
LAW, calculated to PRESERVE THE PURITY
OF OUR RACE, and to prevent the evils
resulting from a mixed BREED, do respectfully,
but earnestly, remonstrate and protest
against a repeal of the law referred to—and
as in duty bound will ever pray.”




From Google+

Eliza Cook's Journal, Volumes 3-4. 1850.

                SONG OF THE RED INDIAN.
OH! why should the white man hang on my path,
    Like the hound on the tiger's track?
Does the flush of my dark skin waken his wrath?
    Does he covet the bow at my back?
He has rivers and seas where the billow and breeze
    Bear riches for him alone;
And the sons of the wood never plunge in the flood
    That the white man calls his own.
Then why should he covet the streams where none
    But the red-skin dare to swim?
Oh! why should he wrong the hunter one,
    Who never did harm to him?

The Father above thought fit to give
    To the white man corn and wine;
There are golden fields where he may live,
    But the forest shades are mine.
The eagle has its place of rest,
    The wild horse where to dwell,
And the Spirit who gave the bird its nest,
    Made me a home as well.
Then back, go back from the red-skin's track,
    For the hunter's eyes grow dim,
To find the white man wrongs the one
    Who never did harm to him.

Oh! why does the pale-face always call
    The red man “heathen brute?”
He does not bend where the dark knees fall,
    But the tawny lip is mute.
We cast no blame on his creed or name,
    Or his temples, fine and high;
But he mocks at us with a laughing word
    When we worship a star-lit sky.
Yet, white man, what has thy good faith done,
    And where can its mercy be,
If it teach thee to hate the hunter one,
    Who never did harm to thee.

We need no book to tell us how
    Our lives shall pass away;
For we see the onward torrent flow,
    And the mighty tree decay.
“Let thy tongue be true and thy heart be brave”
    Is among the red-skins' lore;
We can bring down the swift wing and dive in the wave
    And we seek to know no more.
Then back, go back, and let us run
    With strong, unfettered limb,
For why should the white man wrong the one
    Who never did harm to him?

We know there's a hand that has fixed the hill
    And planted the prairie sod;
That can fling the lightnings when it will,
    Till the stricken mountains nod.
Far away and alone, where the headlong tide
    Dashes on with our bold canoe,
We ask and trust that hand to guide
    And carry us safely through.
The Great Spirit dwells in the beautiful sun,
    And while we kneel in its light,
Who will not own that the hunter one
    Has an altar pure and bright?

The painted streak on a warrior's cheek
    Appears a wondrous thing;
The white man stares at a wampum belt,
    And a plume from the heron's wing.
But the red man wins the panthers' skins
    To cover his dauntless form;
While the pale-face hides his breast in a garb
    That he takes from the crawling worm.
And your lady fair, with her gems so rare,
    Her ruby, gold, and pearl,
Would be as strange to other eyes
    As the bone-decked Indian girl.

Then why does the cruel white man come
    With the war-whoop yelling sound?
Oh! why does he take our wigwam home,
    And the jungled hunting-ground?
The wolf-cub has its lair of rest,
    The wild horse where to dwell,
And the Spirit who gave the bird its nest
    Made me a place as well.
Then back, go back, from the red-skin's track,
    For the hunter's eyes grow dim,
To find that the white man wrongs the one
    Who never did harm to him.