His beautiful woods are gone; the green corn
grows where the green trees grew, and the bruised and torn face of his
mother earth muddies to disgust, with her clay-freighted tears, the
limpid streams by which he sat down to rest, and from which he drank
to quench his thirst from weariness earned in his hunt for wild game,
which grew with him, and grew for him, as nature's provision. The deer
and the Indian are gone. The church-steeple points to heaven where the
wigwam stood, and the mart of commerce covers over all the space where
the camp-fires burned. The quarrels of Hopothlayohola and McIntosh are
history now, and the great tragedy of its conclusion in the death of
McIntosh is now scarcely remembered.
True to his hatred of the Georgians, Hopothlayohola, in the recent
war, away beyond the Mississippi, arrayed his warriors in hostility to
the Confederacy, and, when numbering nearly one hundred winters, led
them to battle in Arkansas, against the name of his hereditary foe,
and hereditary hate--McIntosh; and by that officer, commanding the
Confederate troops, was defeated, and his followers dispersed.
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