The Indians here, as every where else, are governed by their own laws, and never have recourse to the whites to settle their disputes. That silent unbending spirit, which has always characterized the Indian, has alone kept in check the rapacious disposition of the whites. Several attempts have been made to induce the Indians to sell their lands, and go beyond the Mississippi, but hitherto without effect. The Indian replies to the fine speeches and wily language of the whites, "We hold this small bit of land, in the vast country of our fathers, by _your_ written talk, and it is noted on _our_ wampums--the bones of our fathers lie here, and we cannot forsake them. You tell us our great father (the president) is powerful, and that his arm is long and strong--we believe it is so; but we are in hopes that he will not strike his red children for their lands, and that he will leave us this little piece to live upon--the hatchet is long buried, let it not be disturbed." Jackson has lately published a manifesto to all the Indian tribes within the limits of the United States, commanding them to sell their reserves; and with few exceptions, has been answered in this manner. A circumstance occurred a few days previous to my arrival, in the Seneca reserve, which may serve to illustrate the determined character of the Indian. There were three brothers (chiefs) dwelling in this reservation. "Seneca John," the eldest brother, was the principal chief of the tribe, and a man much esteemed by the white people. He died by poison. The chiefs in council, having satisfactorily ascertained that his second brother "Red-hand," and a squaw, had poisoned him, decreed that Red-hand should be put to death. "Black-snake," the other brother, told the chiefs that if Red-hand must die, he himself would kill him, in order to prevent feuds arising in the tribe. Accordingly in the evening he repaired to the hut of Red-hand, and after having sat in silence for some time, said, "My best chiefs say, you have killed my father's son,--they say my brother must die." Red-hand merely replied, "They say so;" and continued to smoke. After about fifteen minutes further silence, Black-snake said, pointing to the setting sun, "When he appears above those trees"--moving his arm round to the opposite direction--"I come to kill you." Red-hand nodded his head in the short significant style of the Indian, and said "Good." The next morning Black-snake came, followed by two chiefs, and having entered the hut, first put out the squaw, he then returned and stood before his brother, his eyes bent on the ground. Red-hand said calmly, "Has my brother come that I may die?"--"It is so," was the reply. "Then," exclaimed Red-hand, grasping his brother's left hand with his own right, and dashing the shawl from his head, "Strike sure!" In an instant the tomahawk was from the girdle of Black-snake, and buried in the skull of the unfortunate man. He received several blows before he fell, uttering