University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

The clergyman, after his return from performing the
last pious offices for Oriana, read the following letter,
which had been presented to him at her grave.

“You have expressed a wish, my dear and reverend
benefactor, to possess a more particular acquaintance with
my history, than my weakness has yet permitted me to
impart. I will, as God may give me strength, recount
some of its circumstances, to meet your eye when mine is
closed in dust. It will then be time enough to lift the veil
of mystery, when I shall no longer be pained at the curiosity
of strangers, or affected by their opinion. You, Sir,
have without suspicion reposed confidence in the imperfect
narrative, which has been entrusted to you. You
have not, as the cold-hearted multitude might have done,
wounded with the cruelty of distrust a heart long sinking
beneath the visitation of God. You will not now believe
that a spirit, nurtured in the love of truth, could use guile,

when on the threshold of His presence, who “hateth
every false way.”

“I was born in Blackburn, in the county of Lancashire,
in England, and descended of obscure, but virtuous ancestors.
My father, whose name was Selden, was devoted
to the pursuits of agriculture. He married rather late in
life, and died while I was yet a child. With the profits
of his industry, my mother purchased a neat cottage in a
retired spot, where she devoted herself to my welfare.
Her education had been superiour to what is usually found
among those of her rank; and the few books which she
possessed, aided by the force of her example, excited in
me an early taste for reading. I can scarcely imagine a
lot more congenial with happiness than ours. Our income
was adequate to our wants; and that industry, which preserved
our health, gave us the power of administering to
the necessities of others. When my daily share of labour
was completed, my recreations were to tend my flowers,
to read, to converse with my mother while we were both
employed with our needles, or to join my voice to that of
the birds who surrounded our habitation. I was under
the pastoral charge of the Rev. Mr. Owen, of the Established
Church, a man of the most ardent piety, and indefatigable
zeal in the instruction of his flock. By him I
was baptized in infancy, and weekly catechized in my
knowledge of those doctrines, which he explained with
simplicity, and illustrated by example. I have often reflected
with gratitude that by him I was prepared for the

vows of confirmation, and by his hand led to that holy
sacrament which our Saviour has instituted for the penitent
believer. It was impossible to attend to his injunctions
without cultivating that close acquaintance with the
heart, that scrutiny into its springs of action, which induce
deep humility, and a renunciation of merit, save
through the mediation of Him, “who offered himself
without spot to God.” To the blessing of the Holy
Spirit on the instructions of this beloved guide do I impute,
that the foundation of my faith was laid even in
childhood so strong, that it does not fail me now, in my
hour of trial. Mingled also with the pursuits of piety,
was a thirst for knowlege. But to this my lot afforded only
a limited gratification. Edward Merton, the son of a
family of distinction in the vicinity, became interested to
teach me what wealth afforded him the means of acquiring.
His noble mind, enlarged by the circle of the sciences,
took pleasure in imparting to others its own riches.
Most of his evenings were passed at our cottage, in reading
to us the works of authors, which we had no other means
of obtaining. That joy seemed to animate him, with
which the benevolent mind gives food to the hungry, or
opens a fountain to the thirsty soul. To my simple mind,
he seemed as a pure spirit bowing from the skies to elevate
an inferiour race. At length it became evident that
he loved the mind which he had himself adorned; like him
who, imparting fire from heaven to an inert mass, became
its adorer. Authorized in cherishing a virtuous attachment,
it increased every day, and every night I thanked
my Creator with exuberant gratitude, for the fullness of
my joy. Yet my heart too much exulted, too exclusively
trusted to the earth, and at the moment when I thought
my sky the brightest, it was involved in a cloud of woe.
Edward's only surviving parent was a father, a proud, and
mercenary man. Two sons were his sole offspring, and
the idea that one should marry a cottager was insupportable.
With the threat of disinheritance, he commanded
him to relinquish the design; and I, educated with high
ideas of filial obedience, entreated him to submit, though
my heart felt that it must break at his desertion. Nothing,
however, was able to destroy the inviolable affection of
that exalted being. To me, a novice in the school of sorrow,
this trial appeared too much for endurance, until it
was appointed to be swallowed up in a greater affliction.
My mother, whose health had been delicate from her
youth, and who had long been subject to symptoms of disease,
which she laboured to conceal from me, now rapidly
declined. I watched in agony, day and night, the
struggles of a gentle spirit, disengaging itself from clay.
Her resignation to the divine will was scarcely shaded by
maternal anxiety; for she trusted to leave her orphan to
the protection of one, who loved the orphan's God.
Sometimes she would join our hands, as we kneeled together
by her couch, saying with a smile, “My children,
you will be happy, though I am gone. Yet forget not to
seek greater happiness; for ah! if you come not to me,
at last, there will be mourning in Heaven.” I had forborne
to communicate to her the opposition of Edward's father
to our union, lest it might embitter her parting moments.
But as her sickness approached its fatal termination, he
was himself summoned to his last account. He had been
for some time absent, superintending an estate in Ireland,
and encountering a storm in the Channel, was drowned
on his homeward passage. He gave by will all his possessions
to his eldest son, to whom he was partial, and
who resembled him in character. Edward came to us
depressed at the depth of his poverty. But my heart
with deep gratitude thanked the Eternal Sire, that I might
now return his affection without the imputation of mercenary
motives, and relieved from the dread of a father's
malediction. He departed for a few days to seek some
prospect of maintenance, and returned only in time to
support me to my mother's grave. The fatal disease,
which has set its seal upon me, triumphed over both my
parents. The bitterness of my orphanage was consoled
by the voice of love as pure, as ardent, as holy, as ever
dwelt in the breast of man. So firmly was it returned,
that I heard, without repining, that the only resource
which remained was to join the army, then about to embark
for America, under Earl Cornwallis.

“We were married, and my little patrimony, which in
consequence of my mother's sicknsss had become somewhat
encumbered with debt, was sold. Hand in hand,
we parted from that sweet cottage, to encounter the perils

of ocean, and war in a foreign land. Methought that little
retreat never looked so beautifully as when we were leaving
it. Its roses, and woodbines breathed fragrantly, and
the smooth-shorn grass before it was like the richest velvet.
With the warmth of seventeen, I was attached to
every spot which had ministered to the joy of a childhood
whose traces were yet recent in my memory. I gazed on
the white roof of the home, hallowed by the last breath of
my mother, until the trees hid it from my view. Yet all
the attractions of my native country vanished, as shadows,
before my vow'd affection to him, for whose sake I was
willing to become a wanderer. He was my all, and the
idolatry of my soul was perfect. Therefore its altar of
earth was removed, and the image to which it offered incense
was broken.

“I will not detain you, Reverend Sir, with the dangers
of our voyage, or the hardships of a life in camps. Like
the servitude of Jacob, they seemed to me as nothing
“for the love I bare him.” But in time of battle, my
wretchedness was extreme. It was then that, imploring
protection for my husband, I first learned what was meant
by “the agony of prayer.” Of a daring, and invincible
spirit, he was ambitious to stand foremost in the ranks of
danger. His intrepidity gained the attention of his officers,
and led to his promotion. This stimulated his military
enthusiasm, and when I entreated him to be careful
of his life for my sake, he would answer firmly, but with
tenderness, “In the scenes to which my duty calls me

there can be no protector but the God of battles. Is he
not also a God of the widow?”

But from the details of war I have ever shrunk, and now
my trembling hand, and fluttering heart admonish me to
be brief. Seldom has one, who possessed such native
aversion from all the varieties of strife, such an instinctive
horrour at the sight of blood-shed, been appointed to share
the fortunes of a soldier. During the investment of Yorktown,
in the autumn of 1781, he was almost constantly
divided from me, either on some post of fatigue, or exposure.
The minute scenes of that eventful period are engraved
on my memory, as with the point of a diamond.
Often have I retraced the circumstances of the last night
which I passed in that fatal spot. The atmosphere was
faintly lighted by stars, shedding that dim, doubtful beam,
which disposes the mind to melancholy contemplation.
I was alone, and the heaviness of my solitude in a strange
land oppressed my heart like a physical weight. The
works of the allied French and Americans were every day
brought more nearly to us. In the form of a crescent they
spread themselves before us, cutting off our communication
with the neighbouring country. The ships of France,
anchored at the mouth of York River, prevented our receiving
supplies from thence, or aid from Sir Henry Clinton,
who in New-York awaited our fate with anxiety. A
fixed gloom might be seen on the countenance of Cornwallis;
and Tarleton, who had hitherto poured his bold
soul into the enterprise, was suffering pain, and dejection

from a wound. The prospects of our army were dark in
the extreme, and I was continually agitated with fears for
my sole earthly stay. To dissipate the melancholy impressions
which thronged my soul, I ascended to the top
of the house to take a view of that glorious firmament,
which had so often led my thoughts from the woes of earth
to the tranquillity of heaven. But the thunder of a terrible
cannonade drew my attention to the surrounding scene.
The whole peninsula seemed to tremble beneath the engines
of war. Bombs, from the batteries of both parties,
were continually crossing each others path. Like blazing
meteors their luminous trains traversed each other, with
awful sublimity. Sometimes I heard that hissing sound,
when in their fall they excavate the earth, and rend in
atoms whatever opposes them. Once I saw the severed,
mangled limbs of several British soldiers thrown into the
air, by their explosion. I fancied that I heard a groan of
agony in the voice that I loved, and listened till sensation
almost forsook me. Suddenly, a flame sprang forth from
the bosom of the river. It was a column of ineffable
brightness. The waters seemed to feed it, and every moment
it rose higher, and extended wider, as if uncertain
whether first to enfold the earth, or the heavens. Then
two smaller furnaces burst forth near it, breathing intense
fires in spiral forms, beautiful and dreadful. I gazed, till
the waters glowed in one dazzling expanse, and I knew
not but the Almighty in anger at the crimes of man, was
kindling around him an ocean of flame; as He once poured
over him a deluge of waters. But nothing could hush
the incessant roar of these engines of death; and I thought
that man would continue to pursue his brother with hatred,
even to the conflagration of the day of doom. When the
influence of an excited imagination had subsided, I found
that this splendid and fearful pageant was the burning of the
Charon, one of our ships of war, with two smaller vessels
at anchor in the river, which had been set on fire by a
heated shell from the French battery. Chilled with the
damps of evening, I descended, and threw myself upon
my sleepless couch. My health had for some time suffered
for want of exercise in the open air, from which I was
precluded by the impossibility of enjoying the company,
and protection of my husband. On the afternoon of the
following day, he entered his apartment. It was Sunday,
October 14th, for misery stamped the date indelibly on
my soul. He told me that he was to remain with me, until
evening should call him forth to his watch upon the ramparts.
He requested me to read the service for the day
from the Prayer-book; for we had endeavoured, as far as
possible amid the privations of our existence, to hallow the
day of God by private devotion. As I closed the volume,
the sun forsook the horizon, leaving a beautifully serene
sky. He proposed a walk, to which I gladly assented:
and as the means of prolonging it, without attracting particular
attention in streets filled with soldiers, desired me
to wear a suit of his military apparel. Yielding to his reasoning,
I consented thus to array myself; and we strolled
onward, admiring the scenary which, at that season in the
American climate, is so peculiarly brilliant. We indulged
in a conversation, which selected from the past the most
soothing recollections, and gilded the future with the pencil
of hope. We followed the course of the fortifications
until we had passed, almost unconsciously, the last redoubt.
The shadows of evening were beginning to conceal
the landscape, when we heard the trampling of many
feet. The white uniform of the French, and presently
that of the Americans were seen, through the trees which
skirted our path. My husband had scarcely time to draw
his sword, when a volley of shot was poured upon us. A
bullet pierced his breast, and he fell without life. I fell
with him, senseless as himself. I recovered from my
swoon to mourn that I lived, and to feel more than the bitterness
of death. Sometimes I fancied that he clasped
my hand; but it was only the trickling of his blood through
my own. I imagined that he sighed; but it was the
breathing of the hollow wind through the reeds where his
head lay. I heard the horrible uproar of war in the neighbouring
redoubts, the roar of cannon, the clashing of
swords, and the cry of men. I knew that the enemy was
in the town, but I made no attempt to escape. Whither
should I have flown? Among my own people I was a
stranger, and were it possible that I should reach England,
who would succour me there? An hour passed in the
madness of grief, while I was clasping the lifeless form,
and supplicating to be made like unto it. A small party
passed, speaking with uncouth voices. I saw that they
were American Indians, and wished to escape. I forgot, in
my inconsistency, that I had a moment before exclaimed
with the prophet, who mourned his smitten gourd, “take
now away my life, I pray thee; it is better for me to
die, than to live.” My movements betrayed me, and they
took me prisoner. They were leaving the town, and I
expected to have been conveyed to the American camp.
But they continued to journey throughout the night, and
from their conversation I learned that two redoubts had
been taken by the Americans and French, with desperate
valour. This was the daring action, in which La Fayette
led on the Americans, and De Viomenil the French, which
preceded but four days the surrender of Earl Cornwallis.
The party which had slain my husband, was the advanceguard,
under the command of Colonel Hamilton; and
those, who had taken me captive, were a small number of
natives led by a Delaware Chief. They were connected
with some embassy which had been sent, as far as I could
understand their broken explanations, to discover the state
of affairs at Yorktown; and being there at the time of this
encounter, had joined the Americans, partly as actors, and
partly as spies. Thus was I in the power of beings, whom
I had ever contemplated as the most savage of mankind.
I followed them, as we rove in a terrible dream unable
either to resist, or to awake. Stupified with grief, I was
for many days unequal to the sense of my misery. Yet the
captors, so far from testifying the cruelty I had anticipated,
were attentive to my wants. Of their food, which
was principally game shot as they travelled, and roasted
before fires kindled in the forest, they always presented
me an ample share, even when they were themselves but
scantily supplied. When I was weary, they would construct
a kind of litter, and carry me for a time upon their
shoulders. I exerted myself to endure hardship as courageously
as possible, fearing they might suspect my disguise;
but they appeared to consider my effeminacy as
the result of that civilization which they constantly decried.
“A British soldier,” said they, “is never so good
on a march, as an Indian squaw.”

But as I began to arouse from the stupor, which the
overwhelming rapidity of my affections had occasioned,
a horrible idea took possession of my mind. I imagined
they were protecting my life with such care, in order to
sacrifice it in that savage manner, of which I had frequently
heard descriptions. This terrour obtained predominance
over grief. When I lay down to sleep in the forest,
wrapped closely in my blanket, and surrounded by the
dark-brow'd warriours, no slumber visited me; for before
my diseased imagination swam continually images of the
prisoner at the stake, the flame, the death-song, and all
the features of savage vengeance, and exultation. Plans
of escape occupied every night, and every day revealed
their impracticability. During this season of excitement,
I felt no fatigue. My strength was more than equal to
the labour imposed: so much is the mind capable of modifying

its terrestrial companion. I hoped that, as our route
led through a more populous country, we should occasionally
lodge in towns; where I fancied greater facility of
escape might be offered. But they avoided suffering me
to pass through the more populous settlements, and uniformly
preferred the shelter of forests, to the abodes of
white men, whom I found they still considered as intruders,
and doubtful friends. On our arrival at a large town
in Pennsylvania, they made me, as usual, travel through
the outskirts with a guard of four men. Those, who entered,
perceived demonstrations of extravagant joy, and
were informed that the surrender of Cornwallis had taken
place on the 18th of October, and that peace was confidently
expected. They made no stay in this place, except
to purchase a large quantity of whiskey; and pressing
on with great rapidity, prepared to pass the night
within the borders of an extensive, and lofty forest.
Here they made a fire, and proceeded to strip the bark
from some young saplings. Their words were in their
own language, but their gestures were mysterious; and
their eyes were often directed towards me, with an expression
of fierceness. The black shade of the forest, whose
top seemed to reach the skies, the glare of the wide, red
flame, falling upon the giant forms of those warriours,
with their uncouth habits, wild locks, and savage countenances,
formed a picture, which I cannot even now retrace
without shuddering. Loud words arose, as if a contest
was about to begin. The party contained a few Mohegans;
but the principal number were Delawares, or Lenni-Lenape,
as they styled themselves. I believed that
my hour was come, and that the strife was between the
two nations, respecting different modes of torture. An
old warriour of the former tribe sat solitary, taking no
part in the conflict, but observing its progress with great
attention. He avoided the spirituous liquors, with which
all were becoming inflamed, and seemed to reserve himself
for action in some important juncture. I thought
that I had previously seen him regarding me with eyes of
pity, and said mentally, is it possible that Heaven will
raise up in my extremity, a friend in this aged man? I
remembered that he was called Arrowhamet, and was
treated with respect for his courage and wisdom. When
the strife grew violent, he arose, and approached the Delaware
Chief. They conversed long together, during which
both parties preserved silence. Then they parted, and
the Lenni-Lenape murmured aloud. Their Chief calmed
them, with the simple expressions, “Arrowhamet is old.
He has fought bravely. His temples are white as the
snows of the Alleghany. Young men must submit to the
warriour, who wears the crown of time.” They then
commenced their war-dance, and in the violence of that
amusement, and the fumes of intoxication, merged their
anger at disappointment. It was long past midnight, ere
they all lay down to sleep. Arrowhamet approached me,
and throwing over me his blanket, said, “The night is
chill. All now will be quiet. Compose your mind, that
your body may be able to bear fatigue.” He stretched
himself at some distance, between me, and the slumbering
group. It was impossible for me to find repose, and I
saw that my aged guardian also slept not. His eyes were
raised upward, as if he contemplated the Maker of that
majestic blue arch, where a few stars faintly twinkled. I
said silently, can it be that an Indian thinks of God? Ah!
I knew not then, of what deep devotion their souls were
susceptible. Judge, into what fearful surprize I was startled
from my reverie, when a low voice uttered, “Oriana!
Is thy mind wakeful? Fear not to sleep. Thou art redeemed
from torture. No flame shall touch you. Believe
what the old warriour has spoken, and rest in
peace.”

“Why do you call me Oriana?” I inquired, trembling
with astonishment.

“Didst thou then think the eye of Arrowhamet was
so dim that it could not read thy brow? that his heart
was so cold as to forget the hand that gave him bread?”

“Am I known then to your comrades?” I asked.

“No thought but mine has comprehended thee. Arrowhamet
shall be as the bars of the grave to thy secret.
To all but me, thou appearest as if thy disguise were
truth.”

“How have you acquired knowledge, above all your
companions, and what have you spoken about my giving
you food?”

“I knew that face,” he answered tenderly, “when the
torches first glared upon it, and the cry of war was around.
It was deadly pale, but I knew it was the face of her who
had given me bread. Thou sayest, when have I fed
thee? So will the righteous ask at the last day. Thou
writest the traces of thy charity in the sand, but the famished
prisoner graves them in the rock forever. I was
with the men of Colonel Buford, on the waters of the
Santee River, where out of four hundred, only fifty-three
escaped the sword of Tarleton. I saw an hundred hands
of brave men raised to implore mercy. They were
stricken off by the sabres of the horsemen, who soon
trampled upon their bodies. But why tell I thee tales of
blood? whose heart is tender as that of an infant. I have
said that a few were saved. With them I went into captivity.
Some pined away, and died in their sorrows.
Seventeen moons have since beamed upon their graves.

“Remember thou an old Indian, who leaned against a
tree, near thy tent? He leaned upon it, because he was
weak, and his blood wasted by famine? He asked not
for food, yet thou gavest it to him. Thou rememberest
him not? Well! Thou wilt never forget the youth, who
was near, in the door of thy tent. His voice was like the
flute of his own country, when he said, Oriana. But how
did I see him next? His beautiful forehead was cold, and
his noble breast red with its own blood. I saw thee also.
Thou wert as one dead. But how could I be mistaken in
the hand that had given me bread? I determined to take

thee from my people, that I might feed thee when thou
didst hunger, and be thy staff when thou wert weary. To
this end have I laboured. The purpose is accomplished,
and thou art safe.”

“Was I then right in supposing myself destined to the
torture?”

“The chief had said that this night his people should
avenge on thee, their young men who had been slain in
battle. So fixed were the Lenni-Lenape upon thy death,
that I obtained power to rescue thee with difficulty. Indians
will generally submit their will to the hoary head.
But they continually replied, `Our mighty men have fallen
before the warriours of his country. Two sons of our Sachem
were cut in pieces by their swords. The blood of
the brave cries for vengeance. If we give it not ere the
rising of the dawn, let their souls frown on us forever.”'

“But how were you able to accomplish your compassionate
design?” He hesitated for a moment, ere he replied—“The
natives of this country, have a custom of
which thou art ignorant. He, who is deprived of a near
relative by death, is permitted to fill the void in his heart
from among the captives, whom the fortune of war gives
into the hands of his nation. This is called the rite of
adoption. It has snatched the prisoner from the stake,
when the fire was scorching his vitals. Without the force
of this claim I could not have saved thee from the raging
passions of my countrymen; for the footstep of death
was nearer to thee than mine.” Pausing, he added, in a

tone of great tenderness, “I had once a daughter. An
only one, as the apple of my eye. But she faded. She
went down to the grave, ere she bloomed in womanhood.”

“There was silence; and afterwards I expressed with
warmth, my gratitude to my deliverer. The solemn hour
of midnight had long passed; yet the forest seemed to
assume a still darker hue, and the decaying fires, scarcely
cast a feeble ray upon the scattered forms of the slumbering
warriours.

“Daughter!” said the aged man, “rest in peace. I
watch over thee. I have prayed the Great Spirit that I
may lead thee in safety to my home, and put thy hand into
the hand of my wife. Knowest thou why she will love
thee? Why the tears will cover her face, when she looketh
upon thine? Because thou wilt remind her heart of the
blossom whose growth she nursed, whose blasting she bemoaned.
Be not angry at what I say. She had a dark
brow, and her garb was like the children of red men.
Yet, as she went down into the dust, there was upon her
lips a smile, and in her eye a tender melancholy, like
thine.” He ceased, oppressed with emotion. Pressing
his hands upon his forehead, he laid it on the earth. Presently
raising his head, I saw that his eyes was dazzling,
but tearless.

“Wilt thou accept my adoption?” he inquired. “Wilt
thou bow thyself, for a time, to be called the daughter of
old Arrowhamet? I have said that it need be but for a
time. My home is near the shores of the great waters.

They shall bear thee to thy people, when thy heart sickens
at the rude ways of Indians.” I assured him of my
acceptance, in such terms as an outcast ought to address
to his sole earthly benefactor. Apparently gratified, he
raised his lofty form erect, and laying one hand upon my
head, while he lifted the other towards heaven, ratified
with great solemnity his rite of adoption.

“Thou! whose way is upon the winds—through the
deep waters—within the dark cloud—Spirit of Truth!
before whom the shades of our fathers walk in fields of
everlasting light, hear—confirm—bless.”

“He added a few words in his native language, and
stretching himself upon the ground in an attitude of repose,
said, “It is enough. Sleep now, my daughter. I
will pray thy God to protect thee. Thy God, is my God.
I am called among warriours, Arrowhamet; but the name
of Zachary was given me, when I bowed to the baptism
of Christians. Thou wilt no longer fear me, when thou
art convinced that our God is the same.”

“Lost in wonder, in gratitude, in praise, to the Almighty
Preserver, I made my orison with many tears, and
sank into such a refreshing sleep, as had not visited me
since my captivity. I awoke not, till the Sun, like a
globe of gold, was burnishing the crowns of the kings of
the forest.

“Nothing worthy of narration occurred, on the remainder
of our journey. The supernatural strength, which
had hitherto sustained me, gradually vanished; and during

a great part of the distance, I was borne on the shoulders
of the natives. In a short time, the Mohegans
separated from the Lenni-Lenape, to return to their habitations,
having completed the period of their engagement.
In passing through a considerable town, I sold a
valuable watch and necklace, gifts of my Edward in his
happiest days. The sum which they produced, is not
yet expended. It will probably suffice for the purposes
of my interment.

“My reception from old Martha was soothing to my
weary heart. From that moment to this, her maternal
kindness has never slumbered. With the most watchful
care, she has suited my aliment to my situation; and by
her knowledge of the virtues of plants, has mitigated my
pain. Kindness, from whatever hand, is dear to the isolated
and suffering heart. At my first admission into
this humble abode, I cherished a hope of returning to
England. Yet to what should I have returned? Only to
the graves of my parents. With the disconsolate and eloquent
Logan, I might say, “there runs not a drop of my
blood in the veins of any living creature. Who is there
to mourn for me? Not one.”

“Throughout the whole range of my native country, was
there a cottage to afford me shelter, or friends to minister
to me, day and night, like these aged beings? But
with whatever attractions the land, where I first drew
breath, would sometimes gleam upon my exiled eye, all
hope of again sharing them has been long since extinguished.

The disease, to which my early youth evinced a
predisposition, and which I probably inherit from both
parents, soon revealed itself. Its progress was at first
slow; but every month, I became conscious of its latent
ravages. My retreat, which to most beholders would
have seemed as comfortless as it is obscure, so accorded
with my subdued feelings, that, like the disciple who desired
a tabernacle upon the mountain of mystery, I have
often exclaimed “Master! it is good to be here.” Here,
I have learned to estimate a race, to which I had ever
done injustice. Those, whom I had previously stigmatized
as the slaves of barbarity, ignorance, and obduracy,
were appointed to exhibit to my view continually traces
of philanthropy, intellect, and devotion, inviolable attachment,
and deathless gratitude for trivial kindness; which,
however the civilized world may affect to scorn in the
cabin of the red man, she does not often find in the palaces
of kings. Here I have felt, how vain is that importance
which we attach to shades of complexion, and
gradations of rank; how less than nothing the pageantry
of pomp, and the tinsel of wealth appear, when “God
taketh away the soul.” The Almighty has here appointed
me to realize the nature of those phantoms which had
often held me in bondage, that renouncing all other dominion,
my affections might own supreme allegiance to him.
It was necessary that the pride of my heart should be
subdued by affliction: and affliction having had her perfect
work, has terminated in peace. Yet I quit not this
existence, like the ascetic for whom it has no allurements.
Its opening was gilded by what the world calls happiness,
and its close with a joy to which that world is a stranger.
For your instructions, your prayers, my Father, receive
the blessings of one who will soon have neither name, nor
memorial among men. Your last benevolent office, will
be to lay her wasted frame where saints slumber. May
she meet you at their resurrection in light. Her last request
is that you would sometimes grant a visit, and a
prayer to those, who were parents to her without the bonds
of affinity; philanthropists, without hope of the world's
applause; Christians, though proscribed as the heritors of
a savage nature; and who will also, she trusts, be heirs
of heaven, through faith in Him who hath promised that
the merciful shall obtain mercy.”