MEMORIAL OF THE CHEROKEES.
ᎡᏥᎸᏉᏗᏳ ᏗᎦᏚᎿᎢ ᏗᏥᎳᏫᎩ, ᎠᎴ ᎡᏥᎸᏉᏗᏳ ᎢᏥᎦᏴᎵᎨᎢ ᏩᏥᏂ ᎾᏅᎾᏛ ᎨᏥᏁᏤᎸᎯ ᏗᏥᎳᏫᏦᏅᎯ, ᎢᏣᏛᎪᏗ, ᎯᎠ ᎪᏪᎵ ᏫᏨᏅᎥᏏ.
ᎯᎠ ᎪᏪᎵ ᏥᏨᏯᏒᎦᎸᏓᏂᎦ ᎤᏣᏘ ᎡᏥᎸᏉᏗ ᎢᏥᎬᏫᏳᎯ, ᎬᏂᎨᏒ ᏲᏨᏁᎭ ᎡᎳᏗᏢ ᏙᎦᏙᎥ ᏥᏙᎪᏪᎳ ᏣᎳᎩ ᏂᎬᎾᏛ ᎣᏤᎯ ᎨᏒᎢ, ᎠᎴ ᏦᎩᎾᏝᎢᏉ ᏂᎨᏒᎾ ᎨᏒᎢ. ᎰᏍᎩᏂ ᎥᏝ ᏱᎪᎯᎩ ᎤᏓᎴᏅᎲ, ᏰᎵ ᎤᏓᏅᏖᏗᏳ ᏃᎦᎵᏍᏓᏁᎭ, ᎾᏍᎩᏃ ᎢᏳᏍᏗ ᎢᏣᏓᏙᎵᏣᏘᏳ ᎣᏥᎦᏔᎲ, ᎿᏉ ᏗᏥᏅ ᏬᏣᎦᏔᎲᏍᏓ, ᎢᏨᏯᏓᏙᎵᏍᏓᏏ. ᎤᏲᏉᏍᎩᏂ ᎢᏳᎾᏛᎿᏕᎩ, ᎠᎴ ᏗᏂᏩᎾᎦᎳᏉ ᏗᏂᏲᎵ ᏣᎾᏓᏙᎵᏍᏗᏍᎪ ᎢᏳᏍᏗ ᏃᏣᏛᏁᎵᎦ. ᏓᏍᎩᏯᏛᏓᏍᏓᏁᎵᏧ? ᏓᏍᎩᏯᏙᎵᏥᏧ? Ꮀ ᎡᏥᎸᏉᏗᏳ, ᎡᏉᎯᏳ ᏥᎦᏙᎪ ᏴᏫ ᎢᏗᎬᏤᎵᏛ ᏂᏣᏛᏅ ᎢᏥᏩᏥᏂ. ᎠᏴᏍᎩᏂ ᎣᎦᏍᏗᎩᏳᏉ ᏣᎳᎩ ᏦᎦᏙᎢᏛ, ᎥᏝ ᎣᎩᎸᏉᏗᏳ ᏱᎩ. ᏂᎯ ᎢᏥᏏᎾᏌᏂᏳ, ᎥᏝ ᎦᏰᏥᎶᏄᎡᏗ ᏱᎩ; ᎠᏴᏍᎩᏂ ᎥᏝ ᎣᏥᏏᎾᏌᏂᏳ ᏱᎩ, ᎠᎯᏗᏳᏉ ᎣᎩᎶᏄᎡᏗᏱ. ᏂᎯ ᎢᏤᎿᎢᏳ ᎥᏝ ᎪᎱᏍᏗ ᏱᏣᏝ; ᎠᏴᏍᎩᏂ ᎤᏲᏉ ᎢᏲᎦᏛᎿᏕᎩ, ᎥᏝ ᎣᎨᎿᎢᏳ ᏱᎩ; ᏞᏍᏗᏗᎾ ᎾᏍᎩᏉ ᏱᏂᏧᎵᏍᏙᏓᏁᏍᏗ ᎢᏢ ᏫᏱᏍᎩᏯᏓᎢᏁᎴᏍᏗ ᎯᎠ ᎪᏪᎵ.
ᎦᎸᎳᏗᏍᎩᏂ ᎡᎯ ᎢᎩᏙᏓ, ᎠᎴ ᎡᎳᏂᎬ ᎤᎬᏫᏳᎯ, ᎤᏁᎳᎩ ᏫᏂᎦᎵᏍᏓ ᎤᏪᎵᏎ, ᎿᏉ ᎠᏆᏍᏗᎩᏳᏉ ᏄᎵᏍᏓᏅ ᏴᏫ ᏥᏬᏗᎨᎢ, ᏂᎯᏃ ᎯᏴᏫᏁᎬ ᎮᏉᎯᏳ ᎠᎴ ᎡᏣᎸᏉᏗᏳ ᏄᎵᏍᏓᏅ. ᎢᎬᏱᏱ ᏗᏥᎦᏴᎵᎨ ᎠᎺᏉᎯ ᏚᏂᏐᏨ, ᎠᏂ ᎠᎹᏰᎵ ᎤᏪᎧᎲ ᎤᏂᎾᏄᎪᏥᎵ, Ꮀ ᎠᏆᎵᏂᎩᏗᏳ ᎨᏒᎩ—ᎤᏂᏉᏍᎩᏂᏃᏅ ᎢᏯᏆᏛᎿᏕᎩ, ᏥᏃᎢᎵᏙᎯᏉ, ᎢᎾᎨᏉ ᎨᏙᎯ ᎨᏒᎩ; ᎠᏎᏃ ᎥᏝ ᎬᏆᏓᏐᏢᏗᏉ ᏱᎨᏎᎢ—ᎥᏝ ᎠᎩᏁᎫᎯᏳ ᏱᎨᏎ, ᏙᏥᏙᎵᏳᏰᏃ ᎢᎬᏱ ᏴᏫᏁᎬ ᎬᎩᏩᏛᎯᎸ, ᎦᏙᎯ ᎤᎧᏲᏛᎯ ᎤᎾᏅᏗᏱ ᎬᎩᏔᏲᏎᎸ; ᏙᎯᏱ ᏙᎦᏓᏲᎵᎸᎩ. ᎪᎱᏍᏗ ᎤᎾᏚᎸ ᎬᏆᏓᏙᎵᏍᏓᏁᎲ ᎬᎩᏔᏲᏎᎲᎩ. ᎠᏎᏃ ᎠᏂᏣᏓᏂᎯᎲ ᎠᏆᏤᎵᎪᎯ ᎢᏅᎯᏳ ᎿᏉ ᎤᏓᏁᏟᏴᏒ, ᎤᎾᎵᏂᎩᏗᏳ ᏄᎾᎵᏍᏓᏅ, ᎠᏴᏃ ᏥᏩᎾᎦᎳᎢᏳ ᎾᏆᎵᏍᏓᏅ. ᎤᏣᏘ ᎢᏳᎾᏓᎴᎩ ᏴᏫ ᎠᏂᏬᏗᎨᎢ ᎤᎾᎴᎿᏫᏍᏛ ᏀᎯᏳ ᏦᏣᏗᎭ ᎪᎯᏃ ᎯᎸᏍᎩᏉ ᎢᏳᎾᏓᏡᎩ ᏚᎪᏩᏛᏗ—ᎤᎾᏓᏂᏯᏛᏉ ᎢᏳᏍᏗ ᏄᎾᏛᏅ. ᏧᏴᏢ ᎠᏂᏴᏫᏯ ᏣᏁᎲ ᎿᏉ ᎤᎾᏗᏒᏂᏗᏉ. ᎾᏍᎩ ᎯᎠ ᏄᎵᏍᏓᏁᏅ, ᎠᏏᏉᏃ ᏂᏍᎩᏙᎵᎬᎾ ᎢᎩ—ᏍᎩᏱᎵᏒᎢᏉ ᏅᏙ ᏭᏕᎵᎬ ᎣᏏᏳ ᎢᏣᏰᎸᎭ ᏗᎾᏓᏅᏟ.
Ꭷ ᏣᏓᏂᎵᎨ ᏗᎾᏓᏅᏟ, Ꮀ ᎬᎸᏉᏗᏳ ᎿᏉ ᏫᎬᏃᎲᏏ ᎤᏐᏅ ᎾᏆᎵᏍᏓᏁᎵᏕᎬᎢ. ᏣᏤᎵᎦ ᏴᏫ ᎤᏲ ᎾᏋᎾᏕᎦ. ᏣᏥᏱ ᎡᎯ ᎾᎥ ᎢᏦᎩᎾᏓᎳ ᎠᏆᏝᏫᏍᏗᏕᎦ, ᎠᎩᏍᏗᏰᏗᎭ ᏗᎩᏲᎯᏍᏗᏱ ᎠᏆᏤᎵᎦᏯ ᎦᏓ, ᎠᎴ ᏂᏓᎩᏲᏍᎬᎾ ᏱᎩ ᏧᎧᎾᏩᏛᏍᏗ ᎤᏍᏆᏂᎪᏛ ᎠᏇᏢᏙᏗᏱ ᎧᏁᎦ, ᎠᎴ ᎿᏉ ᏕᎤᏁᎶᏗ ᎢᏳᎯ ᎾᏍᎩ ᎢᏯᏋᏁᏗᏱ. ᎾᏍᎩ ᎯᎠ ᏄᏍᏛ ᎠᏓᏅᏖᏍᎬ ᎢᎬᏱᏱ ᎠᏆᏛᎦᏅ Ꮀ ᎤᏲᎢᏳ ᎠᎩᏰᎸᏅᎩ, ᏫᏥᏃᏁᎸ ᏂᎬᎾᏛ ᏩᏥᏂ ᎤᎬᏫᏳᎯ ᎠᎩᏐᏅᏤᎲᎢ; ᎠᎴ ᎠᎩᏍᏕᎸᏗᏱ ᏫᏥᏔᏲᏎᎸᎩ. ᎠᏎᏃ Ꮀ ᎡᎯᏍᏗᏳ ᎠᏆᏓᏅᏓᏗᏍᏓᏅ ᎠᏆᏛᎦᏅ ᎤᎬᏫᏳᎯ ᎠᎵᎪᏁᎲ ᏣᏥᏱ ᎡᎯ ᎤᎬᏫᏳᎯ. ᎿᏉᏍᎩᏂ ᏔᎵ ᎢᏳᏩᎫᏗ ᎤᏐᏅ ᎠᏆᏓᏅᏓᏗᏍᏗ ᎠᏆᎵᏩᏛᏒᎭ. ᎾᏍᎩᏃ ᎢᏳᏍᏗ ᎿᏉ ᏂᎯ ᎡᏥᎸᏉᏗ ᏗᏥᎳᏫᎩ ᏍᎩᏍᏕᎸᏗᏱ ᏫᏨᏔᏲᏏ. ᎠᏗᎾ ᏓᏨᏃᏁᎵ [Ꭳ]ᎩᎨᏳᎯᏳ ᎨᏒ ᎦᏓ ᎣᎦᏤᎵᎦᏯ ᏥᏕᎣᎦᎳᏏᏗ, ᎠᎴ ᏀᏍᏉ ᏅᏗᎦᎵᏍᏙᏗᏍᎬ ᎣᎩᎨᏳᎯᏳ ᎨᏒ ᏓᏳᏃᏁᎵ.
ᎯᎠ ᎦᏓ ᏦᎩᎭ ᏦᎩᎦᏴᎵᎨᎢᏍᎩᏂ ᎯᎸᎯᏳ ᏅᏓᎬᏩᏓᎴᏅᏛ ᏗᎪᎩᏲᎯᏎᎸᎯ, ᎾᏍᎩᏃ ᎥᏝ ᎤᎾᏙᎳᏛᏉ ᏱᎨᏎᎢ, ᎤᏁᎳᏅᎯᏍᎩᏂ ᎦᎸᎳᏗ ᎡᎯ ᎢᎩᏙᏓ ᎤᏂᏁᎸᎯ ᎨᏒᎩ. ᎠᏗᎾ ᎬᏂᎨᏒᎢᏳ ᎾᏍᎩ ᎠᏙᎴᎰᎯᏍᏗ. ᏥᎣᏣᏗᎭᏰᏃ ᎢᎬᏱᏱ ᏴᏫᏁᎬ ᎡᏍᎦᏂ ᎤᎾᏄᎪᏥᎸ ᎤᎾᏤᎵ ᏂᎨᏎ ᏦᎩᎦᏴᎵᎨᎢ ᎯᎠ ᎦᏓ. ᎠᎴᏬ ᎠᏏ ᏣᏂᎦᏘᏲᏉ ᎢᏳᏍᏗ ᏗᎪᎩᏲᎯᏎᎸᎯ, ᎠᏉᏰᏃ ᎭᏫᏂᏗᏢ ᎠᏂᎵᎾ. ᎤᎵᏂᎩᏗᏳᏍᎩᏂ ᎣᎦᏤᎵ ᎨᏒᎢ, ᎠᎴ ᎣᎦᎵᏍᏕᎸᏙᏗ ᎡᏉᎯᏳ. ᎦᎪᎨ ᎦᏓ ᎤᎭ ᎤᏤᎵ ᎨᏒ ᎤᎵᏍᏕᎸᏙᏗ ᎤᏟ ᎾᎬᏂᎨᏒᎢᏱ? ᎥᏝ ᎩᎶᎢ. ᎾᏍᎩ ᎯᎠ ᎣᎦᏤᎵᎦᏯ ᎨᏒ ᎥᏝ ᎯᎸᎯᏳ ᏦᎩᏲᏒᎯ ᏱᎩ, ᎠᎴ ᎾᏍᏉ ᎥᏝ ᎯᎸᎯᏳ ᎣᎩᎾᏗᏅᏛ ᏱᎩ. ᏂᎪᎯᎸᏉᏰᏃ ᎣᎩᎨᏳᎯᏳ ᎨᏒ ᎣᏥᏁᎪᎢ. Ꮭ ᏌᏉᎤᏅ ᎢᏯᎳᏍᎬᏛ ᎢᎩᏛ ᎥᏝ ᎣᎩᎾᏗᏅᏗ ᏱᎩ, ᏙᏦᏎᎰᏉ ᎦᏓ ᎠᏂᏔᏲᎯᎯ ᏗᏥᏁᏤᎸ ᎪᎩᏩᏛᎯᎦ. ᎭᏢᎨ ᎪᎱᏍᏗ ᎣᎩᏍᎦᏅᏤ ᎣᎩᏲᎱᏎᎴᎢ? ᎠᏂᎦᏍᎩᎨ ᎣᎦᏤᎸᏅᎢ? ᏀᎿᏍᎪ ᏙᎦᏍᎦᎶᎠᏎᎢ? ᎦᏙᏃ ᎢᎬᏱᏱᏉ ᏙᎯᏱ ᏄᎵᏍᏓᏅ Ꮭ ᎾᏍᎩ ᏱᏂᎪᎩᏪᏎᎴ ᎤᏂᎬᏫᏳᎯ? ᎦᏙᏃ Ꮭ ᎯᎠ ᏱᏂᏅᏂᏪᏎᎢ? ᎯᎠ ᎿᏉ ᏙᎯᏱ ᏂᏛᎦ, ᎠᏎᏃ ᏍᎩᏯᏡᏓᏅ ᎾᏉᏍᎩᏂ ᎦᏓ ᎢᏥᏲᎱᏏ—ᎢᏨᏯᏙᎳᏍᏕᏍᏗᏉᏍᎩᏂᏃ ᎿᏉ, ᎣᎦᏚᎸᎲᏉᏃ ᎿᏉ ᎢᏣᏓᏅᏍᏗ ᎢᎨᏎᏍᏗ. ᎦᏙᏃ ᎢᎬᏱᏱ ᎧᏃᎮᏛ ᏚᎾᏠᎯᏍᏓᏅ Ꮭ ᎾᏍᎩ ᏱᏂᎤᏅᏁᎴ ᎤᏃᏪᎳᏅ? ᎩᎳᏍᎩᏂ Ꮭ ᏱᎪᎯᎩ ᎠᎾᎴᏅ ᏥᎾᏂᏪᎠ ᏣᏥᏱ ᎡᎯ ᎤᎬᏫᏳᎯ ᏂᎬᎾᏛᏃ ᏩᏥᏂ ᎤᎬᏫᏳᎯ. ᎥᏝᏍᎩᏂ ᏦᎩᏲᏒᎯ ᏱᎩ. ᎥᏝ ᎠᎴ ᎣᎩᎾᏗᏅᏛ ᏱᎩ ᎯᎠ ᎦᏓ ᎣᎦᏤᎵᎦᏯ ᏥᏙᎦᎳᏏᏗ.
ᎠᏗᎾ ᎥᏝ ᏦᎩᏲᎯᏎᎸᎯᏉ ᎨᏒ ᎤᏩᏒ ᏲᏣᎵᏍᎦᏍᏙᏗᎭ—ᎤᎵᏂᎩᏗᏳᏍᎩᏂᏃᏅ ᎾᏍᎩᏉ ᎾᏍᏉ ᏅᏩᏒ ᏱᎩ; ᎠᏎᏃ ᏦᎦᏤᎵ ᎤᏂᎬᏫᏳᎯ ᎠᏂᏩᏥᏂᏃ ᎤᏂᎬᏫᏳᎯ ᎤᏩᎫᏘᎶᏛ ᎧᏃᎮᏛ ᏚᎾᏠᎯᏍᏛ, ᎤᏟ ᎤᎵᏂᎩᏗᏳ ᏄᏅᏁᎸ ᎣᎦᏤᎵᎦᏯ ᎨᏒᎢ. ᎾᏍᎩ ᎯᎠ ᎣᏦᎵᎬ ᎧᏃᎮᏛ ᏚᎾᏠᎯᏍᏛ ᎤᏂᎬᏫᏳᎯ, ᏧᎾᏓᎴᎾᎢᏍᎩᏂ ᏴᏫ ᏥᏓᎾᏓᏁᏤᎰ ᎢᏳᏍᏗ—ᏔᎵᏍᎩᏂ ᎢᏳᎾᏓᎴᎩ ᏴᏫ ᏓᎾᏓᏁᏤᎮᎢ, ᎠᏂᏩᏥᏂ ᎤᏂᎬᏫᏳᎯ ᏣᎳᎩᏃ ᎤᏂᎬᏫᏳᎯ ᏧᎾᏢᏉᏗᏳ ᎢᏧᎳ ᏓᎾᏠᏍᎨᎢ ᎠᏂᏁᎨ ᎢᏳᎵᏍᏓᏂᏓᏍᏗᏱ, ᎠᎴ ᎢᏧᎾᏓᏛᏁᏗᏱ. ᎧᏃᎮᏛ ᏚᎾᏠᎯᏍᏓᏅ, ᎤᎾᎵᎢᏕᏉᏍᎩᏂ ᎥᏝᏃ ᏱᎨᏥᎩᎡᎴᏉ ᏣᎳᎩ ᎤᎾᏤᎵᎦᏯ ᎨᏒᎢ. ᎥᏝᏃ ᏙᎩᎾᏢᎥᏍᎦᏉ ᏯᏁᎵᏍᎨ ᏦᎦᏤᎵ ᎤᏂᎬᏫᏳᎯ. ᏂᎦᎥᏰᏃ ᏧᏂᏲᏒᎯ ᎨᏒ ᎬᏂᏳᏉ ᎢᎪᏪᎳ—ᏂᎪᏪᎸᎾᏃ ᎨᏒ ᎥᏝ ᏧᏂᏲᏒᎯ ᏱᎩ—ᏅᏩᏍᏗᏉ ᎤᎾᏤᎵᎦᏯ ᎨᏒᎢ—ᎥᏝᏍᎩᏂ ᎤᏂᏨᎯ ᏱᎩ. ᎤᏩᎫᏗᎶᏛᏍᎩᏂ ᎠᏂᏩᏥᏂ ᎤᏂᎬᏫᏳᎯ ᏗᎪᎩᏲᎯᏎᎸ ᎣᎦᏤᎵ ᎦᏓ ᎠᎴ ᎪᎩᏍᏕᎸᎡᏗᏱ ᎣᎦᏤᎵᎦᏯ ᎨᏒ, ᎠᎴ ᏦᎩᎧᎾᏩᏛᏍᏗ ᎣᎩᏍᏆᏂᎪᏛ ᎾᏍᏉ ᎤᏩᎫᏗᎶᏛ ᎤᏂᏁᏨᎯ. ᎥᏝᏍᎩᏂ ᎬᏩᏓᎵᏓᏍᏙᏗ ᏱᎩ, ᎾᎬᏂᎨᏒᎢᏴ ᎧᏁᎦ ᎧᏃᎮᏛ, ᎠᎴ ᎠᏂᏩᏥᏂ ᎤᏂᎬᏫᏳᎯ ᎤᏂᏬᏂᏒ, ᏩᏒᏓᏅ ᏅᏓᎬᏩᏓᎴᏅᏛ, ᎠᎴ ᎾᏍᏉ ᎤᏂᎬᏫᏳᎯᏱ ᏓᎨᏥᏁᏤᎸ ᎤᏂᏬᏂᏒ ᎥᏝ ᏗᎦᎵᏙᎢᏍᏗ ᏱᎩ. ᏂᎦᏗᏳ ᎠᎾᏖᏆᎶᎲᏍᎦ, ᎣᎦᏤᎵᎦᏯ, ᎠᎴ ᏦᎩᎾᏝᎢ ᏂᎨᏒᎾ ᎨᏒ ᎬᏂᎨᏒ ᎾᏅᏁᎭ. ᎾᏍᎩᏉᏍᎩᏂ ᎾᏍᏉ ᏄᏍᏗ ᎠᏃᎵᎦ ᎠᏂᏩᏥᏂ ᎤᏂᎬᏫᏳᎯ ᎣᏤᎵᏍᎬ ᎣᏣᏓᏅᏖᏍᎬᎩ, ᏝᏃ ᎩᎶ ᎤᏣᏗᏂ ᏄᏍᏗ ᎪᎵᎦ ᏲᏤᎵᏍᎨ ᏲᏣᏓᏅᏖᏍᎨᎢ. ᎠᎴ ᎾᏍᏉ ᎣᏏᏳ ᎣᏥᎦᏔᎭ, ᏄᏂᎵᏓᏍᏗᏍᎬᎾ ᏥᎩ ᎣᎦᏤᎵᎦᏯ ᎨᏒ ᎠᏂᏩᏥᏂ ᎤᏂᎬᏫᏳᎯ ᎠᎴ ᏣᏥᏱ ᎠᏁᎯ ᎤᏂᎬᏫᏳᎯ, ᎾᎪᏃᎨᎵ ᎠᏎᏉ ᏱᎦᎪᎩᏍᏗᏰᏗ ᎧᏃᎮᏛ ᏗᏠᎯᏍᏓᏅ, ᎠᎴ ᎦᏓ ᎦᎾᏗᏅᏒ, ᎢᏳᏃ ᎦᏲᎩᏁᎢᏍᏗᏉ ᏂᎨᏒᎾ ᏱᎩ, ᎠᎴ ᏣᏥᏱᏉ ᎣᏤᏗ ᏱᎩ. ᎠᎴ ᎾᏍᏉ ᎠᏂᏩᏥᏂ ᏧᏂᎧᎾᏩᏛᏍᏗ ᎤᏂᎲ ᎤᎵᏂᎩᏗᏳᏉ ᏂᎬᏁᎭ ᎣᎦᏤᎵᎦᏯ ᎨᏒᎢ. ᎢᏳᏍᎩᏂ ᎾᏍᎩ ᏱᏄᏍᏛᎾ ᏱᎩ, ᎤᏣᏗᏂᏉ ᏯᏃᎵᎨ ᎤᏂᎬᏫᏳᎯ ᎧᏃᎮᏛ ᏓᏠᎯᏍᏛ ᎠᎴ ᏂᎦᎥ ᏙᎦᏓᏁᏤᎸ ᎤᏂᎬᏫᏳᎯ, ᎣᎩᎵᏓᏍᏗᏍᎨᏍᎩᏂ ᎨᎵ. ᎤᏣᏘᏂᎧᏂ ᎠᏂᏱᎵᏎ ᎠᏂᏁᎬ, ᎠᎴ ᎤᎵᏁᏨ ᎠᏃᎵᎬᎢ—ᎠᎴᎧᏂ ᎠᏴ ᎣᏥᏁᎬ ᎠᎴ ᏃᏣᏛᏁᎲ ᎤᏣᏔᏅᎯ ᎣᎩᎵᏓᏍᏗᏍᎨᎢ.
ᎯᎠ ᏣᏥᏱ ᎡᎯ ᎤᎾᏙᎳᏛᏉ ᎦᏓ ᏧᏂᎭ ᎥᏝᏃ ᏰᎵ ᏧᏂᎧᎾᏩᏛᏍᏗ ᎬᏩᏃᏢᏗ ᏱᎩ ᏥᎪᎪᏎᎭ ᎤᏣᏗ ᎣᎩᏐᏅᏤᎭ ᎠᎴ ᎾᏍᏉ ᎠᏎ ᎣᎬᏬᎠᎯᏍᏗᏱ ᏦᎪᏎᎭ, ᎣᎩᏐᏅᏤᎭ—ᎣᎩᎨᏳᎯᏳᏍᎩᏂ ᎦᏓ ᎣᎦᏤᎵᎦᏯ ᏦᎩᎭ—ᎠᎴ ᏃᏣᏓᏅᏍᎬᎾ ᏱᎩ, ᏣᏥᏱ ᎡᎯ ᏧᎧᎾᏩᏛᏍᏗ ᎤᎲ ᎣᎫᏢᏙᏗᏱ ᏣᏂᏁᎦ, ᎾᏍᏉ ᎣᎩᏐᏅᏤᎭ—ᎠᎴ ᎦᏓ ᎣᎦᏤᎵ ᎤᎾᏟᎶᏍᏗᏱ, ᎠᎴ ᎪᎩᏲᏍᏙᏓᏁᏗᏱ ᏄᏓᎴᏒ ᎣᎦᏤᎵᎦᏯ ᎨᏒ, ᎠᎴ ᎠᏰᎵ ᎣᎪᏢᏒ, ᎠᎴ ᏂᎦᎥ ᎡᏍᎦ ᎢᎬᏩᎵᏍᏙᏗ ᎨᏒ ᎧᏃᎮᏛ ᏓᏠᎯᏍᏛ, ᎾᏍᏉ ᎤᏣᏘ ᎣᎩᏐᏅᏤᎭ. ᎤᏲᎢᏳᏍᎩᏂ ᎣᎩᏰᎸᏗ ᎾᏍᎩ ᏱᏂᎦᎵᏍᏗᎭ, ᎠᎴ ᎤᏁᎳᎩ ᏫᏂᎦᎵᏍᏓ ᏯᏁᎵᎭ ᎤᏂᎬᏫᏳᎯ—ᎡᎯᏍ[ᏗᏉ]ᏍᎩᏂ(illegible text) ᎣᎦᏓᏅᏓᏗᏍᏗ—Ꮀ ᎦᏲᎩᏐᏢᏓ ᎣᎨᎵᏍ[?](illegible text) ᎣᎦᏓᏅᏓᏗᏍᏗ—ᎠᎴ ᎾᏍᏉ ᎾᏍᎩ ᏱᏂᎦᎵᏍᏗᎭ ᎣᎩᏲᏍᏙᏓᏁᏗᏍᎩᏂ ᏧᏓᎴᏅᏛ ᎣᏣᏕᎶᏆᏍᎬ, ᎠᎴ ᎪᏪᎵ ᏙᏥᎦᏙᎥᏍᎬ, ᎠᎴ ᎤᏁᎳᏅᎯ ᎤᏁᏨ ᎣᏣᏓᏂᎸᎬᎢ—ᏭᏍᏗᏍᏗᏉᏍᎩᏂ ᎣᏒ ᎣᏣᎵᏱᎵᏒ, ᎾᏍᎩ ᏱᏄᎵᏍᏓᏅ—ᎤᏲᏉᏃ ᎣᎦᎵᏩᏛᎡᏗ ᏱᎩ. ᏂᎯᏍᎩᏂ ᎡᏥᎸᏉᏗ ᏗᏥᎳᏫᎩ ᎢᏥᏁᎢᏍᏓ ᎾᏍᎩ ᏫᏂᎦᎵᏍᏓ ᎢᏣᏛᏗ—ᎠᎴ ᏝᏍᏗ, ᎢᏣᏛᏗ. ᎢᏳᏃ ᎾᏍᎩ ᏫᏂᎦᎵᏍᏓ ᎢᏣᏛᏅ, ᎿᏉᏍᎩᏂ ᎠᏎ ᎣᎩᏃᏴᎢᏍᏗ—ᎢᏳᏃ ᏝᏍᏗ ᎢᏣᏛᏅ, ᎿᏉ ᎡᎳᏗ ᎤᏅᏨ ᎠᏲᎵ ᏨᏛᎴᏗᏍᎪ ᎢᏗᎬᏤᎵᏛ ᏓᏍᎩᏌᎳᏓᏂ. ᎢᏳᏃ ᎤᏲᏉ ᎢᏲᎦᎵᏍᏓᏁᏗ ᏩᎵᏱᎶᎸ, ᎡᎯᏍᏗᏉᏍᎩᏂᏃ ᎦᏲᎦᏓᏅᏖᏍᏗ. Ᏺ, ᏃᎬᎦᏉ ᎣᎩᏙᏓ, Ꮀ ᎣᏥᎸᏉᏗᏳ ᎨᏒᎩ, ᎠᎴ ᎾᏍᎩ ᎣᏣᎵᏍᎦᏍᏙᏛ ᏂᎦᎥ ᎣᏣᏕᎶᏆᏍᎬ ᎠᎴ ᎣᎩᏍᏕᎸᏗᏱ, ᏄᏲᏢᏉᏃ ᏃᎬᎦ, ᎣᏤᎵᏍᎨᏍᏗ ᎣᏣᏓᏅᏖᏍᎨᏍᏗ ᏂᎪᎯᎸᎢ.—ᎥᏝᏗᎾ ᏂᏥᏍᎦᎢᎭ—ᎤᎾᏓᏅᏗ ᎠᎴ ᎠᏂᏏᎾᏌᏂ ᏴᏫ ᎨᏥᏁᏤᎸᎯ ᎿᏉ ᎣᎦᏤᎵ ᎨᏒ ᏗᏧᎪᏙᏗᏱ ᏕᏨᏲᎯᏏ.
To the Honorable the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America, in Congress assembled:
The undersigned memorialists humbly make known to your honorable bodies, that they are free citizens of the Cherokee nation. Circumstances of late occurrence have troubled our hearts, and induced us at this time to appeal to you, knowing that you are generous and just. As weak and poor children are accustomed to look to their guardians and patrons for protection, so we would come and make our grievances known. Will you listen to us? Will you have pity upon us? You are great and renowned—the nation which you represent is like a mighty man who stands in his strength. But we are small—our name is not renowned. You are wealthy, and have need of nothing; but we are poor in life, and have not the arm and power of the rich.
By the will of our Father in heaven, the Governor of the whole world, the red man of America has become small, and the white man great and renowned. When the ancestors of the people of these United States first came to the shores of America, they found the red man strong—though he was ignorant and savage, yet he received them kindly, and gave them dry land to rest their weary feet. They met in peace, and shook hands in token of friendship. Whatever the white man wanted and asked of the Indian, the latter willingly gave. At the time the Indian was the lord, and the white man the suppliant. But now the scene has changed. The strength of the red man has become weakness. As his neighbors increased in numbers, his power became less and less, and now, of the many powerful tribes who once covered these United States, only a few are to be seen—a few whom a sweeping pestilence has left. The Northern tribes, who were once so numerous and powerful, are now nearly extinct. Thus it has happened to the red man of America. Shall we, who are remnants, share the same fate?
Brothers—we address you according to usage adopted by our forefathers, and the great and good men who have successfully directed the Councils of the nation you represent—we now make known to you our grievances. We are troubled by some of your own people. Our neighbor, the State of Georgia, is pressing hard upon us, and urging us to relinquish our possessions for her benefit. We are told, if we do not leave the country, which we dearly love, and betake ourselves to the western wilds, the laws of the state will be extended over us, and the time, 1st of June, 1830, is appointed for us the execution of the edict. When we first heard of this we were grieved, and appealed to our father the President, and we begged that protection might be extended over us. But we were doubly grieved when we understood, from a letter of the Secretary of War to our Delegation, dated March of the present year, that our father the President had refused us protection, and that he had decided in favor of the extension of the laws of the State over us. This decision induces us to appeal to the immediate representatives of the American people. We love, we dearly love our country, and it is due to your honorable bodies as well as to us, to make known why we think the country is ours, and why we wish to remain in peace where we are.
The land on which we stand we have received as an inheritance from our fathers, who possessed it from time immemorial, as a gift from our common father in heaven. We have already said, that when the white man came to the shores of America, our ancestors were found in peaceable possession of this very land. They bequeathed it to us as their children, and we have sacredly kept it as containing the remains of our beloved men. This right of inheritance we have never ceded, nor ever forfeited. Permit us to ask, what better right can a people have to a country, than the right of inheritance and immemorial peaceable possession? We know it is said of late by the State of Georgia, and by the Executive of the United States, that we have forfeited this right—but we think this is said gratuitously. At what time have we made the forfeit? What great crime have we committed, whereby we must forever be divested of our country and rights? Was it when we were hostile to the United States, and took part with the King of Great Britain, during the struggle for independence? If so, why was not this forfeiture declared in the first treaty of peace between the United States and our beloved men? Why was not such an article as the following inserted in the treaty: "The United States give peace to the Cherokees, but, for the part they took in the late war, declare them to be but tenants at will, to be removed, when the convenience of the states within whose chartered limits they live shall require it."—That was the proper time to assume such a position. But it was not thought of, nor would our forefathers have agreed to any treaty, whose tendency was to deprive them of their rights and their country. All that they have conceded and relinquished are inserted in the treaties, open to the investigation of all people. We would repeat, then, the right of inheritance and peaceable possession, which we claim, we have never ceded nor forfeited.
In addition to that first of all rights, the right of inheritance and peaceable possession, we have the faith and pledge of the United States, repeated over and over again, in treaties made at various times. By these treaties our rights as a separate people are distinctly acknowledged, and guarantees given that they shall be secured and protected. So we have always understood the treaties. The conduct of the Government towards us, from its organization until very lately, the talks given to our beloved men by the Presidents of the United States, and the speeches of the Agents and Commissioners, all concur to show that we are not mistaken in our interpretation. Some of our beloved men who signed the treaties are still living, and their testimony tends to the same conclusion. We have always supposed that this understanding of the treaties was in accordance with the views of the Government; nor have we ever imagined that any body would interpret them otherwise. In what light shall we view the conduct of the United States and Georgia, in their intercourse with us, in urging us to enter into treaties, and cede lands? If we were but tenants at will, why was it necessary that our consent must first be obtained before these Governments could take lawful possession of our lands? The answer is obvious. These governments perfectly understood our rights—our right to the country, and our right to self government. Our understanding of the treaties is further supported by the intercourse law of the United States, which prohibits all encroachments upon our territory. The undersigned memorialists humbly represent, that if their interpretation of the treaties has been different from that of the Government, then they have ever been deceived as to how the Government regarded them, and what she has asked and promised. Moreover, they have uniformly misunderstood their own acts.
In view of the strong ground upon which their rights are founded, your memorialists solemnly protest against being considered as tenants at will, or as mere occupants of the soil, without possessing the sovereignty,—We have already stated to your honorable bodies, that our forefathers were found in possession of this soil in full sovereignty, by the first European settlers; and as we have never ceded nor forfeited the occupancy of the soil and the sovereignty over it, we do solemnly protest against being forced to leave it, either by direct or indirect measures. To the land of which we are now in possession, we are attached—it is our fathers' gift—it contains their ashes—it is the land of our nativity, and the land of our intellectual birth. We cannot consent to abandon it, for another far inferior, and which holds out to us, no inducements. we do moreover protest against the arbitrary measures of our neighbor, the state of Georgia, in her attempt to extend her laws over us, in surveying our lands without our consent, and in direct opposition to the treaties and the intercourse law of the United States, and interfereing with our municipal regulations in such a manner as to derange the regular operation of our own laws. To deliver and protect them from all these and every encroachment upon their rights, the undersigned memorialists do most earnestly pray your honorable bodies. Their existence and future happiness are at stake—divest them of their liberty and country, and you sink them in degredation, and put a check, if not a final stop, to their present progress in the arts of civilized life, and in the knowledge of the christian religion. Your memorialists humbly conceive, that such an act would be in the highest degree oppressive. From the people of these United States, who, perhaps, of all men under heaven, are the most religious and free, it cannot be expected. Your memorialists, therefore, cannot anticipate such a result. You represent a virtuous, intelligent and christian nation. To you they willingly submit their cause for your righteous decision.
Cherokee Nation, December, 1829.