In the month of January 1850 we came by Lake Ponchartrain, in a very good steamer, to the Gulf, and so to Mobile.

Before we embarked on the lake we had to go by railroad a distance of about six miles; and as we were waiting in a curious circular sort of car, we saw an interesting procession of Indians – an Indian encampment on the move. The men seemed a magnificent-looking set, splendidly rigged out in very brilliant and picturesque habiliments. At a little distance, at first sight, I thought their costume looked very much like that of Highlanders in their grande tenue. They stalked along with extreme dignity, and their haughty walk reminded me of the theatrical, yet bold strutting march of the Albanians, the finest steppers I ever saw.

They were as upright as their own arrows, or the tropical palms; but not so their unlucky squaws, who followed after, bowed under the weight of papooshes, lodge-poles, pots, pans, kettles, all sorts of luggage and lumber, live and otherwise. They looked bent all manner of ways, and old–no wonder–something like a party of nomadic nutcrackers or itinerant notes of interrogation. Poor creatures! how wearily they seemed plodding along after the ungallant gentlemen of the party, who had burthened themselves with nothing but their guns.