[Footnote 20: Chemoquemon, an American; from _Gitchee_ great, _moquemon_
a knife.]

_10th_. A strange-looking Indian came in from the forest wearing an
American silver medal. He looked haggard and forsaken. It will be
recollected by those who have read my _Narrative Journal_ of the
expedition of 1820, that Governor Cass became lost and entangled among
the sharp mountainous passes of the River Ontonagon, in his attempts to
reach the party who had, at an early part of the day, gone forward to
the site of the Copper Rock; and that he bestowed a medal on a young
Chippewa, who had rendered his party and himself services during its
stay on that river. This individual was among the earlier visitors who
presented himself at my office. He recognized me as one of the party on
that occasion. He was introduced to me by the name of Wabish-ke-pe-nace,
or the White Bird, and seemed to rouse up from a settled look of
melancholy when referring to those events. It appears that his conduct
as a guide on that occasion had made him unpopular with the band, who
told him he had received an honor for that which should be condemned.
That it was a crime to show the Americans their wealth, and the Great
Spirit did not approve it. His dress had something wild and forlorn, as
well as his countenance.

_17th_. A week or two ago, an Indian, called Sa-ne-baw, or the Ribbon,
who encamped on the green in front of my office, fell sick. I requested
Dr. Wheaton to visit him, but it did not appear that there was any
disease of either an acute or chronic character which could be
ascertained. The man seemed to be in a low desponding state. Some small
medicines were administered, but he evinced no symptoms of restoration.
He rather appeared to be pining away, with some secret mental canker.
The very spirit of despair was depicted in his visage. Young Wheaton, a
brother of the Doctor, and Lieutenant C. Morton, United States Army,
visited him daily in company, with much solicitude; but no effort to
rally him, physically or mentally, was successful, and he died this
morning. "He died," said the former to me, "because he _would_ die." The
Indians seem to me a people who are prone to despond, and easily sink
into frames of despair.

I received a letter to-day from the veteran geographer, Mr. W. Darby, of
Philadelphia, brought by the hands of a friend, a Mr. Toosey, through
whom he submitted to me a list of geographical and statistical queries
relating to some g