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Entered according to Act of Congress, in June, 1869, by J. W. Burkk & Cos., in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the So. District of Georgia.
VOL. 111.
THE NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS.
y&m
UT a few years ago, the streets
where we now walk, the loca
tions of the houses that we in
habit, with so much elegance and cos-
tliness in their adornment, were
owned and possessed by another
race of beings. “ Beneath the same
sun that rolls over our heads, the
Indian hunter pursued the panting
deer ; gazing on the same moon that
shines for us, the Indian lover wooed
his dusky mate.
“ Here the wigwam blaze beamed
on the tender and helpless, and the
council-fire glared on the wise and
daring. Now they dipped their no
ble limbs in your sedgy lakes, and
now they paddled the light canoe
along your rocky shores. Here they
warred ; the echoing whoop, the
bloody grapple, the defying death
song, all were here ; and when the
tiger-strife was over, here curled the
smoke of peace.”
Here the Indian beheld his God,
(the Great Spirit,) in the star that
“ sank in beauty behind his lonely
dwelling; in the sacred orb that
flamed on him from his mid-day
throne ; in the flower that snapped
in the morning breeze ; in the lofty
pine that defied a thousand whirl
winds ; in the timid warbler that
never left its native grove; in the
fearless eagle, whose untried pinion
was wet in clouds ; in the worm that
crawled at his feet; and in his own
matchless form, glowing with a spark
of that light, to whose mysterious source
he bent in humble, though blind adora
tion.
“And all this has passed away.
Two hundred years have changed the
character of a great continent, and blot
ted forever from its face, a whole, pecu
liar people. Art has usurped the bow
ers of nature, and the anointed children
of education have been too powerful for
the tribes of the ignorant.
“ Here and there a stricken few re
main ; but how unlike their bold, un
tamable progenitors. The Indian of
MACON, GEORGIA, SEPTEMBER 11, 1869.
falcon glance and lion bearing, the j
theme of the touching ballad, the hero j
of the pathetic tale, is gone! and his '
degraded offspring crawls upon the 1
soil where he walked in majesty, to re- 1
mind us how miserable is man when the i
foot of the conqueror is on his neck.
“ Asa race, they have withered from
the land. Their arrows are broken,
their springs are dried up, their cabins
are in the dust. Their council fire has
long since gone out on the shore, and ;
their war-cry is fast fading to the un- j
trodden west. Slowly and sadly they j
climb the distant mountains, and read '
their doom in the setting sun. 1 hey
are shrinking before the mighty tide
which is pressing them away ; they
must soon hear the roar of the last wave,
which will settle over them forever.
“Ages hence, the inquisitive white
man, as he stands by some growing city,
will ponder on the structure of their
disturbed remains, and wonder to what
manner of persons they belonged. They
w’ll live only in the songs and chronicles
of their exterminators. Let these be
faithful to their rude virtues, as men,
and pay due to tribute to their unhappy
fate, as a people.”
Most of the above, which is by ChaS.
Sprague, awakens our sympathy, and
causes us to almost forget or overlook
the other, sad, bad features of the In
dian’s character. Well, let us, as the
race is fast passing away before the
“ march of civilization ’ and the enter
prize of the white race, forget or cease to
condemn the Indian for his cruelty, his
blood-thirsty and revengeful atrocities.
Here is something more, which illus
trates how sure and certain is the ulti-
mate overthrow of ignorance, wrong
and vice, when brought in opposition to
or conflict with Christianity, intelli
gence, and the progressive march of
civilization. The following extracts are
from Story:
“ There is in the fate of the unfortu
nate Indians, much to awaken our
sympathy, and much to disturb the
sobriety of our judgment : much
which may be urged to excuse their
own atrocities; much in their char
acter which betrays us into an in
voluntary admiration. What can be
more melancholy than their history?
By a law of their nature, they seem
destined to a slow, but sure extinc
tion. Everywhere, at the approach
of the white man, they fade. We
hear the rustling of their footsteps,
like that of the withered leaves of
autumn, and they are gone forever.
They pass mournfully by us, and
they return no more.
“ Two centuries ago, the smoke of
their wigwams and the fires of their
councils, rose in every valley, from
Hudson’s Bay to the farthest Flori-
da. from the ocean to the Mississippi
sand the lakes. The shouts of vic
tory and the war dance rang through
the mountains and the glades. Ihe
thick arrows and the deadly toma
hawk whistled through the forests ;
and the hunter’s trace and the dark
ecnampment startled the wild beasts
in their lairs. The warriors stood
forth in their glory. The young lis
tened to the songs of other days.
The mothers played with their in-
fants, and gazed on the scene with
warm hopes of the future. Braver men
never lived ; truer men never drew the
bow. They had courage, and fortitude,
and sagacity, and perseverance beyond
most of the human race. They shrunk
from no dangers, and they feared no
hardships.
“But where are they? Where are
the villages, and warriors, and youth ?
! the sachems and the tribes ? the hunters
and their families? They have perish-
I ed. They are consumed. The wasting
1 pestilence has not alone done the mighty
work. No ; nor famine, no? war
No. 11.