About Cherokee phoenix. (New Echota [Ga.]) 1828-1829 | View Entire Issue (Oct. 1, 1828)
VOL. §. RDITED BY ELIAS BOUDINQTT. PRINTED WEEKLY BY | ISAACHE. HARRIES, FOR THE CHEROKEE NATION. At $250 if paid in advance, $3 in six months, or $3 50 if paid at the end of the year. . To subscribers who can read only the Cherokee language the price will be $2,00 in advance, or $2,50 to be paid within the year. ; Every subscriptior will be considered as continued unless subscribers give notice to the contrary before the commencement of a new year. Any person procuring six subscribers, angd becoming responsiple for the payment, shall receive a severth gratis. Advertisemerts vill he inserted at seven ty-five cents per’ cruare for the first inser tion, and thirty-seven ~nd a half cents for each continuance; longer ones in propor tion. g R 3= Al letters addressed ¢o the Tditor, post paid, will receive due attention. AGENTS ¥O- 'THE CLEROKEE o PREBNIX, o f el *The following persons are authorized to feceive subscriptions and payments for the Cherokee Pheenix, : ‘ ; Hewry Ko, Esq. Treasurer of the A. B. C.F. M. Uoston, Mass. . . .. - Grorer M. Tricy, Agent of the A, B.' €.F. M. New York., 5 Rev. A. D. Eppy, Canandaigna, N. V. 'Tromas HMas~ixss, Utica, N. Y. Porrarp & Coxverss, Richmond, Va. Rev. Janms CaMparri, Beaufort, S. C. WitLiare MovLrris Reip, Charleston, A. C. . . Col. George S»urtu, Statesville, W, T. Wirriaym M: Coups, Nashville Ten, Rey. BExxer ‘Rosenzs—Powal Me, Mr. Tros. R. Govrp, (an itinerant Gen tleman.) gt ; JureEMiAH Avustin, Mobile Ala. From “Sad Talesand Glad Tales.” | EXECUTION OF MAJGR ANDRE, ¢““We now return to our uafortunate captive. The wise and the brave had sat in judgement upon him. His case had been the subject of high, and de liberate, and affectionate ceonsidera tion. The circumstances of his cap ture—his unqualified confessions—his earnest, though dignified requests, had been maturely, but sternly weighed. The nobleness of his nature, the lofty disinterestedness of his demeanor, the winning amenity of his manners, the importance of his rank, were all ap preciated as they should be by soldiers —tried soldiers—when siiting ‘under the severe sanctions of a war-council. When they issued from that council, the desolate doom of the prisoner was irrevocably fixed. He was to die.— Before another sun should go down, his ties on earth were to be severed. Meanwhile the subject of this melan choly decision was awaiting the result with all the calm and elevated feelings of a generous and undaunted soldier. He was ignorant of what might be the. issue: but his Lknowledge of the rules of war led him so far to anticipate it. that he had in some degree become reconciled to his probable doom, from the very hopelessness of escaping from it.. The agitation consequent upon the suddenness of his arrest, had sub sided; and though his saddened mind reverted again to the scenes and asso ciations we have seen him cling to from the beginning, yet there was less poignancy in his recollections, and less acuteness in the trials of his high and masculine sensibilities. The thought of death was a vain thought to him. He was prepared to meet it, in eve ry honorable shape, in which a soldier expects and hopes something to meet - it. It was the stigma upon his fame —the memory he shouldleave with @an, that preyed wpon hig sonl. It was this that paled his cheek, and dewed his brow—it was this made his heart beat till he could bear it, n his solitude. If sometimes his sad glis tening eye rested again on that pre cious gem, which before had absorb ed, as it seemed, his very life, the kindest and bravest heart would spare him there, if a tear was seen to drop apon it; and the thought, possibly, of sacred and devoted passion—of long and ‘holy love, with all its blessed hopes, and all its desclate bereave ments, would accompany-it as it fell, and hailow it forever. - There was yet one consolation that bore up the ptisoner, even ‘when he thought upon the memcry he should bequeath tothe Wworld and to posterity. He hoped and _trusted that he should meet an honorable. death, ard that his coantry would never blush at his epi taph. He had asked, he had besought, with a bursting heart, that if he must -die, he might die like 2 man of honor. He had addressed the American Chief tain, iu proud petition, for this last lit tle boon of the condemned soldier.— Ee had address2d him in all the beau tifuf eloguence of his lofty mind, ure ed by a heart almost breaking in the intepsity of its emotions. Need it be said that he roused all the sympathies of a besom kindhag with godlike pur poses, and alive to every heavenly charity that can sauctify our nature? Can it be said, that the heart he ap pealed -to would not have bid him: God speed, even, wiih a father’s bless ing, to the arms of his countiy and his home, did that heart beat alone for himself, or did the faie of the victim involve ‘only the single desiiny of that great and devoted being? But there were stern duties arrayed against the kind spirit of forbearance and forgive ness. The voice of his suffering fand was imperious with him who guarded her 1 council, and led her in battle. That voice now called for justice and demanded that the crisis should not be forgotten. It was the cry of Liberty, and the sacrifice must not be withheld; it was the summons of Justice, and his death must accord with the crime of which the prisoner stood convicted. During the days of bis confinement, not a murmur escaped the captive, in the presence of his guard. A dig nified composure distinguished his de portment—and the serenity of his mind was depicted in the tranquillity of h#s countenance. The last hours of his solitude were employed in those holy offices which friendship claims of us when the sands of life are running low. There were a few words to be said— a few prayers to be uttered, for those who were now dreaming of him on his path to glory. There were a few sad. sacred words to be breathed to a foud mother—to sisters that loved him —to some, perhaps, for whose sakes alone life was yet desirable. and to whose bosom he would now, as a last duty to himself, commit the reputation that was dearer to him than the air of Heaven. A It was in the midst of this latest and holiest oocupation. that the prisoner was interrupted by the entrance of the guard officer. He came to an nounce the hour of execution. The young soldier looked up hastily from his paper. His eyes were fixed a mo-. ment upon his visiter—then slowly fell again—and he passed his hand a cross his brow, without betraying the least emotion—“ls it indeed so soon?” said he—‘‘then I must hasten!” He finished the letter in perfect calmness, and having made all the little arrange ments that he had anticipated, previ ous to the important event, he declar ed to the officer his readiness to at tend him at the moment of his sum mons. He was then left once more alone. “ Firm in the belief that he was now to die like a soldier, he felt the weight of his misfortune passing from his spi rit. As he was relieved of this iron load, an unnatural elastitity seemed to be imparted to his bosom. His heart beat almost to suflocation, and NEW ECHOTA, WEDNESDAY OCTOBER 1, 1828, the tumultuous motion of that fountain of his system, eertainly manifested an extraordinary degree of excitement. tis last wish had been granted—his last hope was about to be realized— he was to find an honorable grave! Even that was enough to be thankful for! A few years, at best, and the same destiny would be his. ¢The pang,” thought he, ‘‘is but the com mon one that man i§ heir to— One touch of nature makes the whole world kin— And if my young existence must: be thus hastily seal2d, thus severed for ever, let fate do her worst, and finish her work with speed”—ashd he paced the apartment with an unfaitering step, ~and a lofty and unbending air. - The sitence thet had been observed by the commander in ‘chiegf towards the respectful but ardent sflicitations of the prisoner, had led hin to augur favorably of his success.[ His re quests had not, indeed, passed unheed ed—they had sunk deepthey had touched the finest and tendgest chords that ever vibrate in the beoin of vii ‘ue and bravery—they hgd appealed to the master feeling of a great heart, and they wrought upon it with a living power! The solicitation was listened to with 4 deepening interest—but that noble delicacy that actuates and ani mates none but elevated niinds, for bade the answer. To grant the prayer was impossible—such was the iron law of those who came up to battie— to deny it was a sorrowful duty; and it was equally a trial to the soul of a generous enemy to throw back a soli tary denial, or to wound the spisit of a dewoted prisoner, by recdpiiulating tha story of his dishonor in justification of his sentence. It was ordained, there fore, that he slxoul}}‘ remain in ignor ance of his doom.!/ For that very un certainty, the unfortunate victim was now drawing his !ast and only consola tion. The guard officer had now re turned to accompany him forth, and we shall leave them together while we join the scene of preparation in which the spy was so soon to become conspicuous. Aty It was deep in the afternoon, when shadows threw themselves long over the earth, and the sun was about to sink into a thick, dull mass of clouds, ‘when movements preparatory to the execution began to manifest them selves within the post. There was hurrying to and fro along the Jines— and sad faces went by continually, and downcast looks were seen there—and every countenance wore the livery of deep and sorrowful feeling. It was evident that something mournful was abeut to transpire. The soldiers pac ed along the esplanade with low words and rapid steps—and now and then a tear might be seen to glisten—it was but for 2 moment—in the eye of the veteran. A large detachment of troops was paraded, and many of the general officers were already on horseback.— Great multitudes of people flocked in to witness the melancholy spec tacle—but a wide silence pervaded the immense collection. ~ With slow and struggling ‘steps the confused and intermingled crowd of citizens and soldiers bent their way towards the appointed place, just be neath the brow of a green hill that sloped towards the river. ‘There, clustered around the dim spot devoted to destruction, or sauntering over the adjacent ground, they waited the ap proach of the unhappy victim. When the prisoner was led out, each arm locked in that of a subal tern, his step was uncommonly firm, and his expression unusually calm, and even exhilarated. The eloquent blood glowed to his temples, and a bright smile of satisfaction beamed from his countenance on all whom he recogniz ed. The thought of death was deal ing powerfully but kindly with him; for he saw thatan honorable end was to be his—that his dyinz prayer was a bout to be granted. He thought—and the reflection sent yet new vigor into his throbbing arteries-he thought that he saw some pledge of a kind and he- | roic memory in the sympathy that was breaking all around him, in the gaze of admiration that was fixed upon him, in the tearful eye, the agitated coun tenance, the respectful salutation, the sad farewell, and the low suppressed murmur as he passed on, as though something went by which it was sacri lege to disturb in its course through the thronging multitude. He saw the high tribute that was paid to his for titude, in the silent look with which he was regarded; and -he felt that his premature fate was not unwept even by his foes. Buoyed up by these lively demonstrations of feeling, he fancicd himself a martyr in the cause he hdd undertaken to advance, and pressed forsyard with mounting emotions, as though in baste to seal his pilgrimage here, and commence the stainless career of his future fame. “The report,” thought he, “that lays me low, will send forth an echo that shali never die.” , The detachment, with their prison er, had now reached the summit of the'hill, and come suddenly in view of the ground which had been set apart for this distressing occasion. It was occupied by a gallows! - With the rapidity of light every eye was turn ed upon the victim. His was fixed in frenzy on the dismal object that ruse portentiously out of the multitude.— He spake not a word—some power ful, rending emotion had taken posses “sion of his hursting bosom. His hand flew to his heart—one look of an guish passed like a shadow over his faco, and he fell lifeless into the arms of iis guards. There was no voice beard in that immense crowd—but a confused trampling as of -a vast con course of people when they are rush ing together. The clouds had now cleared off from the horizon, and the sun was a bout going down, when the last rites were performed over the departed soldier. There was no pomp, or noise, or show. A small escort of troops marched quickly over the grav el, and stood before the door of the stone building from which the remains were to be carried. A single drum beat out a hollow note at distinct in tervals, and the fife sung sharp and mournfully. The coffin was at length borne out; and with slow step, invert ed bayonets, and downcast eyes, the procession moved on. Many who car ed not to join, stood behind in silent contemplation; and many, out of idle curiosity, lingered round, scarcely knowing why they were there. Be hind some low, desolate buildings, which would scarcely shelter it from the storms of winter, the solitary grave was dug. Round this the sol diers crowded in silence. On either side they leaned upon their muskets, and hardly a breath was heard, as the book of prayer was. opened, and the fervent supplication went up to Heav en. The scene was singularly im pressive. Immediately round the | grave, in the rear of the soldiers, some stood wrapped in gloomy attention; others, still behind, were seen eager ly gazing over the shoulders of those who had closed up before them.— Eyery cap was off, and every eye fix ed. Still beyond, the sick were seen peeping out of the half opened door; and women and boys stood, with arms crossed upon their bosoms, before the miserable huts from which they had just issued. There, there was no moving—no noise—no roving of the looks—all were bent upon the speak er, who stood upon the brink of the cold grave, with his eye raised in adju ration to Heaven, and calling on the Father of Spirits with an eloquence so full, so powerful, so commanding, that his very soul seemed to mcunt up with his words. He ended. Then came the hurrying of the ceremony. At the quick command of the officer, the coffin was lowered—the guns were brought down—the steel rung—and in a moment it glittered again in the last sun beam. At a word, the death vol- NO. 3.'.‘ ley was fired off in the air—another followed, and ‘ther another—and the last was discharged into the grave. It was all over—the smoke curled slowly among the wet gravel, and set tled down upon the coffin—'twas the war smoke enbalming the soldier! The drum beat merrily and the files wheeled into the lines, just as the sun went down in his glory. : From the N. Y. Advertiser. ® . TFRANCE. The English Foreign Quarterly Review for November, 1827, contain the following | curious statements in relation to the late revolutionary war, France expended more blood than. Britain in the late wars, bot much less treasure; aud she has come out of the contest burdened with only one third part of the debt which presses upon her rival. According to M. Du pin, the twelve campaigns, from 1803 to 1815, cost France one million of men, and 240 million sterling of mo ney, or 20 millions per annum. The loss:sustained by the invasions of 1514 and 1815, with the penalty imposed upon her at he peace, he estimates at 120 millions more. Applying the same scale to the twelve years from 1792 to 1803, we have 240 miilions additional; and for the whele revolu~ tionary wars, an expenditure of 600 millions of English money, and a mill ion and a half, or two millions of men. The estimate of course, applies to the extra expenditure caused by the war beyond what would have been re quired in time of peace; but eventhus restricted, it is very low so far as re gards money. Though Britain was ravely a principal in fi)é‘co‘r{(est, the extra charges which she incurred in it ‘are estimated at 1100 millions ster ling, or nearly twice the sum ex penaded by France.” Of blood, on the ~other hand, we were less prodigal; - for our loss in certainly did not ex ' ceed one fmh of that of our enemy. Flte true account of the ) pecuniary losses of the two countries, however, is.this. France laid out, ’ comparatively speaking; little money; but she sustained a grievous injury in the destruction of her foreign trade, ~and the check given to industry and the spirit of improvement, by the want ~of raw materials, and the exhausting ~drafts of conscription on her active ~population. The rapid advances she has made since the peace, show how heavy was the load that previously shackled her powers, and arrested her progress. In Britain, on the con trary, the march of imiprovement, seemed rather to be quickened than retarded by the war; and hence, the peace, which has produced such a harvest of benefits to ¥rance made an immense sacrifice of human flesh, and had the developement of her powers prevented. Britain suff ered little immediate injury, but has accumulated a load of debt, which will press on her sources for some gen erations. g | It must not be understood that the state of French industry was absolutely stationary during the war. The me liorations produced by the revolution’ carried forward in spite of prodigious impediments; but its progress was trifling compared with the amazing strides it has made since the peace. In 1812 the quantity of wool work ed up in the manufactories was 77, 000,000 pounds, [ English weight,] and in 1826 it was 110,000,000 pounds, of which 17,600,000 were foreign. In 1812 there were 22,800,000 pounds of cotton spun; in 1825 there were 61.600,000 pounds; and the latter pe riod the yarn was made of much finer qualities, and was converted into va~ rious elegant fabrics, the manufacture of which was scarcly known in 1812. In 1814 there were I_O0,0(')O tons of cast iron made in France, and in 1825 there were 160,000 tons, at the former period 1,000,000 tons of coal were extracted from the French. mines, and at the latter period 1,500,- 000. 'The gunpowder consumed “§i ᏣᏕᎶᎳᎩ ᏧᎴᎯᏌᏅᎯ ᎯᎠ ᏂᎦᎥᏧᏚᏩᎶᏗ. ᏬᎾᎪᏓᏆᏍᏗ. ᎢᎪᎯᏛ Ꮜ. ᏧᏂᎴᏴᎪ.Ꮓ ᏑᏎᏍᏗ. ᏴᏫᏁᎬ ᏘᏂᏬᏂᏗᏘᏯᏊᏪ ᏥᏦᏈᏤᏁ ᏴᏰᏢ ᎤᎾᎫᎦᎢ ᏥᏎᏍᏗ, ᎢᏳᏃ ᎤᏈᎬᏔᏅᎶᎵ ᎤᎠᎾᎫᏱᏍᎨᏍᏘ. ᎢᏳᏃ ᎤᏰᏓᏢ ᏤᏩᏅᏁ ᎢᎠᏔ ᎠᎾᎫᏱᎲᎬᏊᏗ, ᏦᎢ ᎠᎮᎸ ᎤᎾᎫᏴᏗ ᏑᏩᏡᏗ. ᎠᏕᏘᏱᏊᎬᏘ ᎢᏴ ᎩᎳ ᎠᎾᎫᏱᏍᎨᏍᏗ; ᏅᎩᏁᎢ ᎠᏭᏢ ᎤᎾᎫᏴᏘ ᏂᏎᏍᏗ, ᏣᎳᎩᏃ ᎧᏩᏒ .:ᏂᏧ:Ꮰ;)Ꭹ. ᏔᎵᏢᏛ ᎠᎦᎸ ᏬᎧᎾᎫᏴᏗ ᏥᏑᏎᏯ.Ꮓ ᎤᏕ.ᏆᏪ; ᏤᎶᎩᏃ ᎢᎬᏪᏅᎴ ᎠᏰ” ᎫᏱᏍᎨᏍᏗ. ᏦᏓᎢᏁᏃ ᎠᏰᎵ ᎩᎳ ᎣᏂ ᎤᏕᏘᏴᎯ” ᏌᏗᏒ ᎠᎾᎫᏱᏍᏕ“ᏍᎾᏁ.
