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 h