Indian Eloquence [pp. 543-545]

IN-DIAN EL OQ UEN CE.
therefore, must have been near the commencement of this cen tury. We give it from this manuscript. In reading it, we should
bear in mind how much it must have suffered in the process of
translation. The manner of delivering an address by an Indian
orator is peculiarly impressive. He utters a sentence, then pauses
quite long enough for one familiar with the language to translate
and write it into English. In the mean time, the orator maintains
a statuesque position, and, by his expression, seems to be penetrating
the thoughts of his hearers, while waiting to utter the next sentence.
In the manuscript, the translator writes: "The tears ran plentifully, all
the time Sconondoa was speaking, from his own eyes, and those of
every one of the council. The most hard-hearted man would have
melted into tears, could he have been present and heard the speech in
the Indian tongue, the inflections and tone of which are peculiarly ex pressive and moving."
"My warriors-my children! Hear, it is cruel. It is very cruel.
A heavy burden lies on my heart. It is very sick. This is a dark
day. The clouds are black and heavy over the Oniota-people. A
strong arm lies heavy upon us, and our hearts groan under it. Our
fires are put out: our beds are removed from under us. The graves
of our fathers are destroyed, and our children are driven away. The
Almighty is angry with us, for we have been wicked. Therefore, his
arm doth not keep us. Where are the chiefs of the rising sun?*
White chiefs now kindle their ancient fires. There no Indian sleeps
but those who are sleeping in their graves. My house will soon be
like theirs. Soon will a white chief kindle his fire here. Your Sconondoa will soon be no more; his village no more a village of
Indians.
"The news that came last night from Albany by our men has
made this a sick day in Oneida. All our children's hearts are sick.
Our eyes rain like the black cloud that roars upon the trees of the
wilderness. Long did the strong voice of Sconondoa cry,' Children,
take care, be wise, be straight.' His feet were then like the deer's,
and his arm like the bear's. Now he can only moan out a few words,
and then be silent. His voice will soon be heard no more in Oneida.
But he will long live in the minds of his children, and in white men's
minds. Sconondoa's name has gone far; it will not die. He has
spoken many words to make his children straight. Long has he said,
'Drink no strong water. It makes you mice for white men, who are
cats. Many a meal have they eaten of you. Their mouth is a snare;
their way like the fox. Their lips are sweet, but their heart is wicked.'
Yet there are good white men, and good Indians. I love all good
men; and Jesus, whom I love, sees all. His great day is coming. He
will make straight. He will say to cheating white men and drinking
Indians,' Begone ye-go-go-go!' Certainly, my children, He will
drive them away. In that day I will rejoice. But, oh, great sorrrow
is in my heart, that many of my children will mourn. The great Jesus
hath looked on all the time the whites were cheating us. And it will
remain in His mind. He will make all straight again. Long have I
believed His good words, and, as long as I live, I will pray to Him.
He is my good Saviour; my blind eyes He will open; I shall see Him.
Children, His way is a good way.
"Hearken, my children. When this news sounds in the great council-house toward the setting sun,j and the chiefs of the Six Nations
hearken, they will send to the great council by the great lake; near
the setting sun, and they will cry,'Make bows,' and they will sharpen
their tomahawks, and put the chain of friendship with the whites into
the ground, and cry,'Warriors, kill-kill!' But my messengers shall
speak true words in the great council-house toward the setting
sun, and say yet,'Bury the tomahawk; Oneidas must be children
of peace.' Children, some have said that your chiefs have signed
papers of white men, that they would let the tomahawk lay them
low. We know that one of our men was hired by white men to
tell our men this, and he will now tell you so. Papers are wicked
things. Sign none of them but such as our minister reads to us.
He is straight. We now see his tears running like ours.-Father,
you are our minister. Dry up your tears. We know if your arm
could, it would help us. We know wicked men speak ill of you for
our sakes. You Uffer with us. But you are Jesus' servant, and He
will love you no less for your -loving Indians.-Children, our messen
* The Mohawks, whose home was easterly from the Oneidas, and who,
after the Revolutionary War, removed to Canata.
t At Onondaga. $ At the Seneca nation.
gers will run and carry our sorrows to the great council-fire toward
the setting sun. Run, my children, and tell our words. Give health
to all the chiefs assembled around the great fire; and may Jesus, the
great Saviour, bring you back safe!"
Sconondoa is said to have been surpassed in eloquence by another
Oneida chief, known by the sobriquet of Plattkopf, given him by the
German settlers on the Mohawk. He, however, never possessed the
moral influence over his nation which Sconondoa did. An account is
given of an address made by him at a council of the Oneidas, convened
in the latter part of the last century, to determine whether to sell a
portion of their lands to the State. The council was held beneath a
very large pine-tree, known as the council-tree, which then, and for
many years after, stood on the south side of the western turnpike road, a short distance west of the village of Oneida. The men and
women of the nation were assembled around it. The project had been
canvassed by the warriors and women for two days; and, according to
the custom of the Six Nations, the final decision as to the sale of lands
had to be made by the squaws, who, being the cultivators, were, by a
most equitable rule of Indian law, which antedated the modern move ment for women's rights and female suffrage, regarded as the pro prietors of the soil. The question now to be decided was, should the
national domain, already very considerably circumscribed, be still
further diminished. One after another had spoken, when Plattkopf
arose. He commenced by painting the glory of their nation before the
white man came. He said it was then full of strength, and vigor, and
beauty. He looked upward, and pointed to the tree under which he
stood, which, although still of great size and beauty, was visibly marked
with age and symptoms of decay. "We were like this council-tree,"
he said. "It was then full of life, and vigor, and beauty. It was the
Oneidas' tree. It drew its nourishment from the ground; it was not
cramped and confined; it could draw its sap from all the land, for the
Oneidas owned it all: they had parted with none of it; and, as it
could draw its sap from all the land, it grew and put forth more
branches and more leaves, and sent out new roots, and spread them
farther in the ground. It became strong and very beautiful. So did
the Oneidas. As the tree grew, so did the Oneidas. The white man
came. We sold him a portion of our land. A root of the tree, which
drew its sap from that land, withered; when it withered, a branch
died, and the tree lost some of its beauty. Again the whiteman came.
We sold him another piece of our land; another root withered, and
another branch died, and the tree became less beautiful and less
vigorous. The white man came a third time. We sold him another
piece of land; another and another root withered, and another and
another branch fell down, and we now see our tree; though beautiful,
it has lost its branches; it no longer sends forth new roots, and puts
forth new branches; it is cramped; it has not the land to draw sap
from which it had; and we, where are we? The white man has come
again; he wants more of our land. Shall we sell him another piece?
shall we let the tree under which our fathers sat lose another and another root, and cause another and another branch to fall?" He dwelt
upon the figure, and continued his parallel between its decay and that
of his nation, should it part with more of the land which was to nourish and strengthen its life and beauty, until the warriors, as well as
the women, were prepared with unanimity to reject the proposition
to sell their lands.
Few of the race which have left us such specimens of eloquence still
survive. The confederacy of the Six Nations no longer exists. The
Mohawks and Cayugas have a home in Ontario; a few of the Oneidas
and Onondagas remain on lands once owned by their fathers, and the
residue with us have found homes in Wisconsin. The Senecas and Tuscaroras retain a small portion of their former domain. Some of them
have adopted the civilization and the religion of the white man, but
with many the vices of civilization have had more influence than its
virtues. And it is probable that, within not many years, the only
remnants of the race will be found mingled with and lost in the blood
of the white man. The themes which awaked their eloquence have
passed away. They are now hardly children of the forest. The
poetic elements with which their lives were surrounded have ceased
to exist. Their language, singularly soft and beautiful in its tones and
articulation, is daily becoming extinct, and soon it may be that all
that shall be left of Indian eloquence will be its history.
WILLIAM TRACY.
1871.]
545
4