 | ORIANA. Sketches |  |
4. ORIANA.
By the red hunter's fire.—An aged Chief,
Whose home look'd sad,—for therein dwelt no child,
Had borne her in the stillness of her grief
To his lone cabin: and that gentle guide
By faith and sorrow rais'd and purified,—
To the blest Cross her Indian fosterers led,
Until their prayers were one.”—
Mrs. Hemans.
Among the customs which distinguished the natives
of our country, ere the originality of their character
became prostrated, and its energies broken,
few were more unique and interesting, than the ceremony
of adoption. This was the selection of an
individual to fill the place of some near relative removed
by death. It was more generally the resort
of families bereaved of a son, and the choice was
often from among prisoners taken in battle. It has
been known to snatch the victim from the stake, and
to encircle him with all the domestic charities. The
transferred affection of parents was often, in such
cases, most ardent and enduring. Especially if any
resemblance existed between the buried and the
adopted object, mothers were prone to cherish an
idolatry of tenderness. Instances have been recorded
in which the most ancient national animosities,
rite of adoption. It has even been extended to the
offspring of the whites, during periods of deadly warfare.
When we consider the implacable temper of
our aborigines, and that it was an article of their
creed, never to suffer an injury to pass unavenged,
this custom of naturalizing a foe in their homes, and
in their hearts, strikes us as prominent, peculiar, and
worthy to be held in remembrance.
The tribe of Mohegans were formerly owners of
an ample territory in New-England, and were uniformly
friendly to our ancestors. Their kings and
chieftains became allies of the colonies in their infancy,
and the bravery of their warriors aided in
their struggles with the surrounding tribes. Their
descendants have now become few in number, and
abject in mind. A circumscribed and inalienable
territory, in the south-eastern part of Connecticut,
furnishes subsistence to the remnant which has not
emigrated, or become incorporated with other nations.
Emphatically, their glory is departed, and of
their primeval energy and nobleness, no vestige survives.
Yet slight kindlings of national pride continued
at intervals to gleam faintly forth from beneath
incumbent ruins, as embers, apparently long
quenched, will sometimes smoulder and sparkle amid
the ashes that cover them. One of the latest evidences
of this spirit, was the watchful affection with
which they regarded their royal burying-place. No
vulgar dust was ever suffered to repose in the sepulchre
was ever more vigilantly traced, no restriction
of the Salick Law more tenaciously guarded, than
was the farthest and slightest infusion of the blood
of Mohegan monarchy. Long after the royal line
became extinct, and they were decreed, like ancient
Israel, to dwell “without an ephod and without a teraphim,”
they guarded with fierce and unslumbering
jealousy their consecrated cemetery from profanation.
Its monuments are still visible within the limits of
the city of Norwich, and sometimes strangers visit with
pitying interest, the lowly tombs of the monarchs
of the soil. The inhabitants of that beautiful city,
in whose vicinity the village of Mohegan is situated,
have ever extended their sympathies to their “poor
brethren within their gates.” Still their Christian
benevolence strives to gather under its wings, the
perishing remnant of a once powerful race. Teachers
are among them, of those sciences which render
this life comfortable, and throw the light of hope on
the next. Their little children are taken by the hand,
and led to Jesus. The white spire of a simple
church, recently erected for their benefit, points to
that world where no heritage is alienated.
The period selected for this sketch, is soon after
the close of our War of Revolution. There then
existed in the little settlement of Mohegan, some individuals
worthy of being rescued from oblivion.
Among them was the Reverend Samson Occum, the
fortunes are interwoven with the ecclesiastical
history of that day. The benevolence of the Reverend
President Wheelock of Dartmouth College,
drew him from the vagrant habits of the Indian
hunter, and touched his mind with the love of letters
and of piety. Ten years before our Declaration of
Independence, he made a voyage to England, and
was received with the most kind and gratifying attention.
Among the treasured memorials of this
visit, were correspondences with some of the wise
and philanthropic of the mother-country, which he
faithfully maintained, and the gift of a library of considerable
value, which after his decease was purchased
by a clergyman in the vicinity. His discourses
in his native tongue often produced a strong impression
on his hearers, and those in the English language
displayed an acquaintance with its idiom, and
a facility of rendering it a vehicle for strong and
original thought, highly creditable both to his talents
and their application. He possessed a decided taste for
poetry, especially that of a devotional cast; and a
volume of this nature, which he selected and published,
evinces that he fervently appreciated the pathetic
and the powerful. His deportment was grave
and consistent, as became a teacher of divine things,
and his overflowing eyes, when he strove to allure
his people to the love of a Saviour, testified his own
warm religious sensibilities, and revealed the foundation
of his happiness and hope.
The native, untaught eloquence of the tribe, had
also a representative. Robert Ashbow was collaterally
of the royal line, and held in high reverence by
his people. His commanding stature and lofty brow
marked him as one of Nature's nobility. He was
respected by our ancestors, and when their government
became permanent, was permitted to represent
his people in their national council. Among their
senators, his words were few. But in his well-weighed
opinions, in his wary policy, they were accustomed
to liken him to the wise and wily Ulysses.
They understood him not. His eloquence was like
a smothered flame, in their presence. It spoke not
even through the eye, which was ever downcast,
nor lighted the brow that bore a rooted sorrow.
It burst forth only in his native wilds, and among
his own people. There, like a torrent, it swept all
before it. It swayed their spirits, as the tempest
bends the lithe willow.
Though he keenly felt the broken and buried majesty
of his nation, he cherished no vindictiveness
towards those who had caused it. He had a deep
reverence for knowledge and its possessors, which
neutralized this bitterness. Like the tamed lion, he
yielded to a force which he did not comprehend.
Though by nature reserved and dominant, he almost
crouchingly sought the society of educated white
men, for among them alone could his thirst of knowledge
be satiated. He was an affecting instance of
savage pride, humbling itself before the might of cultivated
predominated, and for days and nights he withdrew
to pathless forests, holding communication with none.
He might occasionally be discovered, amid the crags
of some scarcely accessible rock, with his head bowed
low in frowning and solitary contemplation, like
Marius amid the ruins of Carthage. There was
about him, the way wardness of genius, preying upon
itself, and the pride of a wounded spirit, which would
have grasped the hoof that trampled on it, and hurled
the rider to the dust. Yet there was an innate
check in his own native nobleness, in his power of
appreciating superior mental excellence. Knowledge
had stood before him, in her majesty and mystery,
and the haughty orator of the forest was subdued
like an awe-struck child.
Arrowhamet, the warrior, or Zachary, as he was
generally called, by the name of his baptism, was
an interesting specimen of aboriginal character.
Stately, unbending, and of athletic strength, he
seemed to defy the ravages of time, though the record
of his memory proved that he had passed the
prescribed limit of threescore years and ten. He had
been a soldier in the severe campaign that preceded
the defeat of Braddock in 1755, and had borne the
hardships and perils of the eight years' war of our
revolution, with an unshrinking valor. With the
taciturnity of his nation, he seldom spoke of the
exploits in which he had been engaged. Yet when
sometimes induced by urgency, to give a narrative
and form rising still more loftily, attested his warlike
enthusiasm.
His wife, Martha, who had, with him, embraced
the Christian religion, possessed that gentleness of
deportment, and sweetness of voice, by which the
females among our aborigines were often distinguished.
His attachment to her was evinced by more
of courteousness than comported with their national
coldness of manner, and was reciprocated by a tender
and unvarying observance, which might have
adorned a more refined state of society. Their little
abode had an aspect of neatness and comfort,
beyond what was often attained by the supine habits
of their contemporaries. It was environed by a
tolerably well-cultivated garden, and sheltered by a
rude tenement; in its rear, a cow quietly ruminated.
Other indications of care and judicious arrangement
might have marked it out as the dwelling of a white
man, rather than an Indian. A mysterious personage
had been added to the family, which, within the
memory of the young, had comprised only Zachary
and Martha. Since this accession, many improvements
in their humble establishment had been visible.
Fragrant shrubs were taught to flourish, and flowering
vines trained against the window. Bee-hives,
clustering near, sent forth the cheerful hum of winged
industry. Beds of aromatic herbs were reared
for the accommodation of their busy inmates, and
they might be seen settling upon them, with intense
the earliest smile of morning. The baskets,
in whose construction Martha had been long accustomed
to employ her leisure, now displayed on their
smooth compartments the touches of a more delicate
pencil than the natives could boast, or perhaps appreciate.
The neighboring Indians had remarked, that this
guest of their friends was a female, and some of
them had testified surprise, and even disgust, that
she was of the race of the whites. It was also observed
that she seemed to be in ill-health, and seldom
quitted the dwelling; but as she spoke mildly to
all its visitants, and treated their children with kindness,
they became conciliated and friendly. Any
inquiry respecting her, received only the laconic answer,—“
She is our daughter.” It was at once
perceived that their friends wished to make no disclosures.
Their right to preserve secrecy was conceded,
and never more encroached upon.
The Indian yields such a point, with far more
grace than his Yankee neighbors. They, indeed,
admit, that a man's house is his castle, but deny his
right of excluding, by bolt or bar, their exploring,
unslumbering curiosity. The privilege of prying
into, questioning, and canvassing the concerns of
every household, and trying all men, and their motives,
without a jury of peers, is their Magna Charta.
For this, they are ready to contend as manfully
as the barons before whom king John cowered at
competent knowledge of the doings of every domicile
is requisite, and the power of making every body's
business their own. How much espionage, gossiping,
and travelling night and day, is essential to this
system of policy, let the inhabitants of almost any
of the New-England villages testify. In these respects,
the native Indian is surely a model of politeness
for them.
It has been remarked, that the guest of the aged
warrior and his wife, was in feeble health. Their
tender and unceasing cares,—their expedients to
promote her comfort and alleviate her suffering, were
truly paternal. The hoary-headed man would go
forth as a hunter, or urge his boat into deep and distant
waters, to obtain something that might tempt
her declining appetite. He would pass with the agile
step of youth, the several miles, that intervened between
their settlement and the city, to procure for
her some of those tropical fruits which are so grateful
to the parched and febrile lip. Martha exerted
constantly, but almost in vain, her utmost skill in
the culinary art; she brought statedly the draught
of new, warm milk, and added to her dessert the
purest honey. She explored the fields for the first
ripe strawberries, which she presented in little baskets
of fresh, green leaves, garnished with flowers.
She sat whole nights by the couch of the invalid, and
was near her side at every indication of pain, as the
nursing-mother watches the cradled infant. These
the softest voice of thanks; but they availed little.
The lily grew paler on its stem, and seemed likely
to wither away in its unrevealed loveliness.
Advancing spring was now every day dispensing
some new gift to the earth. Her lavishness seemed
proportioned to the brevity of her stay, and each
hour exhibited some bright memorial of her parting
bounty. The two most delightful seasons of the year
lingered for a moment on each other's boundary.
They stood forth in their unadjusted claims to superiority,
scanned each other's drapery, dipped their
pencils in each other's dyes, and like rival goddesses
contended before the sons of men, for the palm of
beauty. The rude domain of the children of the
forest, put on its beautiful garments. They, whose
pretensions to equality were denied by their more
fortunate brethren, were not excluded by nature from
her smiles, or her exuberance. Through the rich
green velvet of their meadows, pure fountains looked
up with their crystalline eyes, wild flowers unfolded
their petals, and from every copse issued
strains of warbling melody, as if a voice of praise
perpetually repeated,—“Thou makest the outgoings
of the morning and of the evening to rejoice.”
The abode of Zachary and Martha felt the enlivening
influence of the season. Their fragrant
shrubbery exhaled a purer essence, a sweet-brier
near their door expanded its swelling buds, and the
woodbine protruded its young tendrils to reach the
age that knew no spring, and youth fading like a
blighted flower; night, that could know no dawning,
and morning that must never ascend to noon.
Day had closed over the inhabitants of that peaceful
dwelling. The warrior and his companion were
seated in the room appropriated to their mysterious
guest. Languidly reclining, she watched the rising
of the full, unclouded moon, like one who loves its
beams, and in gazing, contemplates a returnless farewell.
The bright profuse tresses of that beautiful
being, twining in braids around a head of perfect
symmetry, formed a strong contrast to the snowy
whiteness of her brow, and seemed to deepen the
tint of her soft, blue eye. But the paleness of her
cheek was now tinted with that ominous hectic flush
which Death kindles, as the signal of his approaching
victory. Sometimes, it lent to the eye, a ray of
such unearthly brightness, that the Indian mother
could not look on it, without a tear. She had recently
remarked to her husband, that the form of the
uncomplaining victim was becoming daily more
emaciated, and her respiration more impeded and
laborious.
The invalid gazed long on the moon, with a forehead
resting on a hand of the purest whiteness, and
so attenuated, that it seemed to display the flexile
fingers of childhood. Turning her eyes from that
beautiful orb, she observed those of the aged pair
fixed upon her with intense earnestness. A long
seemed to agitate her. Marking the emotion which
varied a countenance usually so serene and passionless,
they forbore to interrupt her meditations. They
even dreaded to hear her speak, lest it might be of
separation. At length, a voice, tremulous and musical
as the stricken harp, was heard to say,—
“Father, I desire to partake of the holy communion.
I have not enjoyed that privilege, since
leaving my native land, and my soul desires it.”
“He who interprets to us Indians, the will of
God,” said Zachary, “is now among our brethren,
the Oneidas. Three moons may pass, ere he again
return.”
“That may be too late, father,” replied the same
tuneful, subdued tone. “Wilt thou seek for me some
other clergyman?”
The warrior signified his assent, and rising, took
from her hand a paper which she held to him.
“Some explanation of my history is necessary,
ere I could expect this favor. I have here written
it, for thou knowest that I cannot now speak many
words. I am weak, and must soon pass away.”
Martha rose with that indefinable sensation which
prompts us to shrink from any subject that agonizes
our feelings. Throwing up the casement, through
which the balmy humid air of spring breathed, she
said,—
“See, Oriana, how thy woodbine grows! Soon,
its young blossoms will lift their heads, and look at
thee through the window.”
“Let it remind thee of me, kind mother. May its
fragrance be soothing to thee, as thy tenderness has
been, to my lone heart.”
Again there was silence. And then the hoary
warrior, raising his head from his bosom, where it
had declined, spoke, in a voice which as he proceeded,
grew more audible and calm,—
“Daughter, I understand thee. I am glad, that
thou hast spoken thy mind to us. Yet is my heart
now weak, as that of an infant,—the heart that in
battle hath never trembled, or swerved. My daughter,
Zachary could lie down in his own grave, and
not shudder. Yet his soul is soft, when he sees one
so young and fair, withering like the rose, which the
hidden worm eateth. He hath desired to look on
thy brow, during the short space that remaineth for
him on earth. Every night, he hath prayed to the
Eternal, that his ears might continue to hear the
music of thy voice. He wished to have something
to love, that should not be like himself, an old tree,
stripped of its branches, and mouldering at the root.
But he must humble his heart. Thou hast read to
him from the holy and blessed Book, that God giveth
grace unto the humble. He hath asked with tears,
in the silence of midnight, for that salvation through
Christ, of which thou hast told him. Yet, to whom
will he and Martha turn, when thou art no longer
here? Who will kindly lead their steps to the tree
of life? Ask I what we shall do, as if we had yet
a hundred years to dwell below? Soon shall we
sleep in the grave, to which thou art hastening.”
“Whither I go, ye know,” said the same sweet,
solemn voice,—“and the way ye know. Trust in
Him, whom ye have believed. Like me, ye must
slumber in the dust; His power shall raise us all,
at the last day. The Eternal, in whose sight, shades
of complexion and distinctions of rank are nothing,
He, who looketh only upon the heart, guide us where
we shall be sundered no more.”
Laying her hand upon a small bible, which was
ever near her, Martha arose to bring the lamp,
that she might as usual read to them, before retiring.
“It is in vain, mother,” she said, with a lamb-like
smile. I may not now say with thee, our evening
prayer. But let us lift up our hearts to Him who
heareth, when the weak lips can only utter sighs.”
Then, as if regretting that they should separate
for the night, without mingling in devotion, she repeated
with deep pathos, a few passages from the
beloved disciple,—
“`Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in
God, believe also in me. In my father's house are
many mansions.”'
The warrior, rising to take his leave, laid his hand
gently upon her head, and pronounced his customary
paternal benediction:—
“The Great Spirit, who dwelleth where the Sun
hideth himself, and where the tempest is born, gird
thee with strength. He who maketh the earth green,
and the heart of man glad, smile on thee, and bless
thy slumbers.”
Martha remained, to render her usual attentions
to the sufferer. She dared not trust her voice beyond
a whisper, lest it should wholly yield to her
emotions. Still, after her services were completed,
she lingered, unwilling to leave the object of her
care.
“Mother,” said a faint voice, “kind, tender mother,
go to thy rest. Oriana hath now no pain.
Sleep will descend upon her. She feels that she
shall not leave thee this night. But soon she must
begin her journey to the land of souls. She hath
hope in her death, to pass from darkness to eternal
sunshine. Weep not, blessed mother. Lift thy
heart to the God of consolation. I believe that
whither I go, thou shalt come also. I shall return
no more. Thou, and thy beloved, shall come unto
me. There will be scarcely time to mourn; for, like
the gliding of a shadow, shall the parents follow the
child of their adoption.”
A smile so celestial was on the brow of her who
spoke, that it would have cheered the heart of the
aged woman, but for the afflicting consciousness,
that she must soon behold it no more.
The ensuing day, the summoned clergyman
sought the settlement of the natives, and entered the
house of Zachary and Martha. He received their
respectful salutations with benignity, and seemed
struck with the exceeding beauty of the stranger-guest.
After a conversation, in which he was convinced
of her religious education, correct belief, and
rite which she had desired. Beckoning to her side
the old warrior and his wife, she said,—
“These are Christians. They were baptised,
many years since, by Mr. Occum, their absent minister.
I can bear witness, that they know and love
the truth. May they not join in this holy ordinance,
to the edification of their souls?”
The clergyman, regarding them steadfastly, inquired,—
“Are ye in perfect charity with all men?”
Bowing himself down, the aged man replied, solemnly,—
“We are.—The religion of Jesus Christ hath
taught even us, Indians, to forgive our enemies.”
They kneeled around the bed. The stately warrior,
whose temples had been whitened by the snows
of time, and the storms of war, humbled himself as
the weaned child. The red-browed woman, whose
tears flowed incessantly, was not able to turn her
eyes from that fading flower, which she had sheltered,
and which she loved, as if it had sprung from
her own wild soil. But the beautiful being for whose
sake these sacred services were thus performed, was
calm and untroubled as the lake, on which nothing
save the beam of heaven hath ever shone. Raised
above earthly fears and hopes, she seemed to have
a foretaste of the consummation that awaited her.
The heart of the man of God was touched. His
voice faltered as he pronounced the closing benediction,
the accordance of his soul with the sympathies of the
scene.
A brief pause ensued. Each was fearful of interrupting
the meditations of the other. Like the guests
at some celestial banquet, earth, and the things of
earth, seemed emptiness to the sublimated spirit.
She dreads too suddenly to efface the brightness
which has gathered around her, and which like the
witness on the brow of Moses, descending from the
mount, proves communion with the Eternal.
To the inquiry of the departing clergyman, in
what way he might impart temporal comfort, or
whether the visits of a physician were not desirable,
Oriana replied,—
“I have no want, but what these kind and watchful
beings tenderly supply. Their knowledge of
medicine is considerable, and they prepare with skill,
soothing and assuasive remedies, drawn from that
earth, to whose bosom I am hastening. With the
nature of my disease, I am acquainted. I saw all
its variations in my mother, for whom every exertion
of professional skill was fruitless. I feel upon
my heart, a cold hand. Whither it is leading me, I
know. To you, Sir, I shall look for those spiritual
consolations, which are all that my brief earthly pilgrimage
covets. When my ear is closed to the sound
of other voices, speak to me of my Redeemer, and
the eye that is dim in death, shall once more brighten,
to bless you.”
Zachary and Martha poured forth, with the eloquence
of the heart, their thanks to the servant of
peace and consolation. Even the skirts of his garments
were dear to them, since he had thus imparted
comfort to the object of their affections.
Exhausted in body, but confirmed in faith, Oriana
awaited her dissolution. Such was the wasting of
her frame, that she seemed like a light essence,
trembling, and ready to be exhaled. Every morning,
she requested the casement to be raised, that the
fresh air might visit her. It came, loaded with the
perfume of those flowers, which she was to nurture
no more. But what was at first sought as a pleasure,
became necessary to aid the struggles of laborious
respiration. The couch became her constant
refuge. The debility of that fearful disease, which,
delighting to feed on the most exquisite food, selects
for its victims the fair and excellent, increased to an
almost insupportable degree. A tranquil loveliness
sat upon her features, occasionally brightening into
joy, like one who felt that “redemption draweth
nigh.”
One night, sleep had not visited her eyes. Whenever
her senses inclined to its transient sway, the
spirit revolted against it as oppression, anticipating
the approaching delights of that region, where it
should slumber no more through fullness of bliss.
Calling to her bed-side, at the dawn of morning,
the aged warrior, for her mother had not quitted her
room for several nights, she said,—
“Knowest thou, father, that I am now to leave
thee?”
Fixing his keen glance on her for a moment, and
kneeling at her side, he answered,—
“Daughter, I know it. Thy blue eye hath already
the light of that sky, whither thou art ascending.
Thy brow is bright with the smile of the angels
who wait for thee.”
Martha covered her face with her hands and hid
it on the couch, fearful lest she might see the agony
of one so beloved. Yet she fixed on those pale features,
one more long, tender, sorrowing gaze, as the
expiring voice uttered—
“I go, where is no shade of complexion, no tear
of mourning. I go to my parents, who died in faith,
—to my husband, whose hope was in his Redeemer.
I shall see thy daughter, and she will be my sister,
where all is love. Father!—Mother!—that God
whom you have learned to worship, whose spirit
dwells in your hearts, will guide you thither, also.”
She paused, and gasped painfully for breath, as
if to add more. Then, extending to each a hand
cold as marble, she faintly whispered,—
“I was a stranger, and ye took me in:—sick, and
ye ministered unto me. And now, blessing you, I
go unto Him, who hath said, the `merciful shall
obtain mercy.' He will remember your love to her
who had none to pity.”
They felt that the chilling clasp of her fingers
relaxed. They saw that her lips moved inaudibly.
eye, that she spoke to Him who was receiving her
to himself. A smile, not to be described, gleamed
like a ray of sunshine over her countenance. Bending
over her pillow, they heard the words,—“joy
unspeakable, and full of glory.” Something more
was breathed inarticulately. But she closed not the
sentence:—it was finished in Heaven!
Deep silence settled over the apartment of the
dead, save the sobs of the bereaved Martha, and at
long intervals a sigh, as if rending the breast of the
aged warrior. At length, he spoke with a tremulous
and broken tone,—
“She was as the sun to our path. Hath she faded
behind the dark mountains? No,—she hath arisen
to brighter skies. Beams of her light will sometimes
visit and cheer us. Thou hast wept for two daughters,
Martha. One, thou didst nurse upon thy breast.
But was she dearer than this? Was not the child
of our adoption, near to thy heart, as she to whom
thou gavest life? Henceforth, we can be made childless
no more. Let us dry up the fountain of our
tears, lest they displease the God to whom she hath
ascended.”
The day seemed of interminable length to the
afflicted pair. Long accustomed to measure time by
the varieties of solicitude, the loss of that sole object
of their care, gave the tardy hours an almost insupportable
weight. Towards evening, the clergyman
who, since the administration of the communion to
Zachary hastened to meet him. The agitation
which had so long marked his countenance,
with anxiety for the sufferer, had passed away, and
he resumed his native calmness and dignity of demeanor.
His deportment seemed an illustration of
the words of the king of Israel, when his child was
smitten,—
“He is dead. Wherefore should I mourn? Can
I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he
shall not return to me.”
Bowing down to the man of God, he said,—
“She, whom thou seekest, is not here. She is
risen. She went her way, ere the sun looked upon
the morning. Come, see the place where she lay.”
Departing from that distance of respect, bordering
upon awe, which he had hitherto testified to the guide
of Oriana, he took him by the hand, and led him to
her apartment, as if he felt that in the house of
death, all distinctions were levelled, all ranks made
equal. There lay the lifeless form, in unchanged
beauty. Profuse curls shaded with their rich and
glossy hue, the pure oval forehead, which bore no
furrow of care, nor trace of pain. It seemed as if
the exquisite symmetry of those chiselled features,
had never been perfectly revealed but by the hand
of death. The long, silken eye-lashes lay in profound
repose, and it was thrilling even to awe, to
gaze upon that surpassing loveliness, rendered more
sacred by having so peacefully past the last dread
ordeal.
“It is finished,” said the divine, but no tear started
to his placid eye. He believed, that if there is
joy in heaven among the angels, over one sinner
that repenteth, there should be, at least, resignation
on earth, when a saint is admitted to their glorious
company. He kneeled in prayer with the mourners,
and spoke kind words of comfort to them, as to his
brethren, and made arrangements with them, that
the remains of their beloved one might rest in consecrated
earth.
Three days elapsed, and the scene changed to the
burial-ground in Norwich, where a few forms, seen
indistinctly through drooping shades, were watching
the arrival of some funeral train.
Perhaps, amid that musing group, were some recent
mourners, who felt their wounds bleed afresh, at
the sight of an open grave. Some parent might be
there, lingering in agony over the newly-covered bed
of his child; some daughter, kneeling to kiss the
green turf on the breast of her mother; some lover,
passionately weeping over the ruins of the fondest
hope. How many varieties of grief had that narrow
spot witnessed, since it cast its heavy mantle
over the head of its first tenant! How many hearts
had there laid the cherished roses of their bower,
and passed the remainder of their withering pilgrimage
beneath the cloud! And with those mournful
recollections, did no pang of compunction mingle?
Can affection always say, when it lays its idol in the
tomb, that there is on Memory's tablet no trace that
debt of gratitude uncancelled?—no
kind word left unspoken?—no heaven-prompted
intention unfulfilled? Amid that pensive train, was
there no unhappy heart, where the thorn of conscience
must rankle, after the wound of God's visitation
had healed?
Others too might have wandered there, from whose
bosoms the corrosion of sorrow had been easily effaced,
whose determination to “go down to the grave,
to the lost one, mourning,” had yielded to the eager
pursuit of other pleasures,—whose once desolated
shrine resounded with the worship of some new
image, proving that there is nothing unchangeable
in man, save his tendency to change.
Yet of whatever nature were the reflections of the
train that thus circled the “cold turf-altar of the
dead,” they were interrupted by the approach of a
funeral procession. Next to the bier, walked those
whom the rite of adoption had made parents, the
settled grief of whose countenances seemed as if
deploring the loss of a first-born. Partaking in
their sorrow, and desirous of paying the last offices
of respect to the departed, almost the whole tribe
had gathered, walking two and two, with solemn and
dejected countenances. There was something unspeakably
affecting in the mourning of that heart-broken
race for the fallen stranger. Strangers
themselves, in the land that was once their own, their
humbled spirits seemed in unison with the sad scene,
touched with peculiar sympathy, at this burial,
in foreign earth, of the lone,—the young and the
beautiful,—
“By strangers honor'd, and by strangers mourn'd.”
At the close of the obsequies, the clergyman drew
near to the aged warrior. His few silver locks waved in
the light summer breeze, and his eyes, intently fixed
upon the new-covered grave, were red and tearless.
Roused by affectionate words, he replied, but abstractedly,
and as speaking to himself,—“She told
us of the resurrection, and of Him who is the truth
and the life.” Martha, taking with reverence the
hand that was offered her, placed a small packet in
it, and said—“She left this for you; and she blessed
you, when the cold dew stood on her forehead,
like rain-drops.”
After his return to his habitation, the clergyman
perused with deep interest, the parting bequest of
Oriana.
“You have expressed a wish, my dear and reverend
benefactor, for a more minute detail of my history,
than my weakness has permitted me orally to
impart. I will, therefore, recount with my pen some
of its particulars, to meet your eye when my own
shall be closed in dust. It will then be time to lift
the veil of mystery, when I can no longer be pained
by the curiosity of strangers, nor affected by their
opinion.
“You, Sir, have without suspicion reposed confidence
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 subterfuge
or guile, when on the threshold of His presence,
who `hateth every false way.'
“I am a native of England, and of respectable,
though not wealthy parentage. Among my first,
and most agonizing remembrances, is the death of
my father. Our residence was in a neat and retired
cottage, where my mother solaced her early widowhood,
by an entire devotion to my welfare. Her
education had been superior to what is usually found
among those of our rank, and she led me almost in
infancy to prize intellectual pleasures. I can scarcely
imagine a lot, more congenial with happiness than
our own. Our income was adequate to every want,
and that industry which preserved health, gave us
also the power of administering to the necessities
of others. When my daily tasks were accomplished,
my recreations were to tend my flowers, to read,
converse, or walk with my mother, in the romantic
country that surrounded us, or to join my voice to
the birds that warbled near our habitation. To mental
cultivation, my affectionate parent added the
most assiduous religious instruction, and to the blessing
of the Holy Spirit on her guidance, do I impute
it, that the foundation of my faith was so strongly
laid, as not to fail me now, in my hour of trial.
“Forgive me, for lingering a little longer, around
this bower of my happiness. It was the Eden of
my existence. It was also the birth-place of my
love. Here the strongest ardor of a young and susceptible
heart awoke, and was reciprocated. The
ruling sentiment of my nature, and one of its earliest
developments, was a desire for knowledge.
To this, our restricted resources interposed a barrier.
It was the only alloy of my felicity. How
could I therefore but highly appreciate the acquaintance
of a man of refined education,—of splendid
talents, well balanced by correspondent attainments
and sublimated piety? He brought me books to
which I had no other means of access, and by his
eloquent explanations made the dim ages of remote
history, vivid and alluring. He took pleasure in
guiding my mind through the paths of science and
literature, with which his own was familiar,—in introducing
it to unbounded regions of thought, and in
tracing its delighted astonishment, when new truths
burst upon it in beauty, and in power. To me, he
seemed as a benevolent and glorious spirit, striving
to elevate an inferior being to his own high intellectual
sphere. So strong and pervading was this enthusiasm,
that I did not imagine that the youth and
grace of my instructor had any agency in creating
it. Love stole upon my simplicity in the guise of
wisdom, and I was his disciple while I believed myself
only the worshipper of Minerva. It was also
evident, that he who had opened to my enraptured
had himself adorned; like him, of ancient fable, who,
imparting fire from heaven to an inert mass, became
its adorer.
“Authorized by maternal sanction, in cherishing
this new affection, every day heightened its ardor,
and every night I thanked my father in heaven, with
exuberant gratitude, for the fullness of my joy. In
the enthusiasm of my attachment, I regretted that
the rank and fortune of my lover were so superior
to my own, and wished for the power of proving by
some severe sacrifice the disinterested spirit of my
affection.
“But clouds were impending over the brightened
scene. My mother's health declined. It was in vain
that she strove to conceal from me the symptoms
of that insidious and fatal disease which is now leading
her daughter to the tomb. I watched in agony
the struggles of a pure spirit, disengaging itself
from clay. Even now, I think I hear her sweet,
broken voice, saying to me,—`I leave you, not to
the bitterness of orphanage, but to the protection of
one who loves, and is beloved by, the orphan's God.'
The stream of life flowed on so placidly, when about
to join the ocean of Eternity, that we dreaded by
any turbid mixture of earth to disturb its purity, or
interrupt its repose. We therefore forbore to mention
to her the opposition to our union, which had
arisen on the part of his father, whose pride repelled
the thought of such alliance with a cottager. Finding,
that he had heretofore received, he resorted
to threats, and to unkindness. His sudden death,
which took place just before that of my mother, confirmed
the truth of his menaces, by disinheritance.
To me, this patrimonial exclusion scarcely bore a
feature of adversity; since it permitted the proof
that mercenary motives had no agency in my love.
Even the intelligence at which I should once have
shuddered, that his only resource was to join the
army under Lord Cornwallis, then in America, was
received with scarcely a pang; for I felt that my oft-repeated
wish, to evince the strength of my affection
by the sacrifices it was capable of enduring, might
now be fulfilled.
“The holy service of the altar, my sainted mother's
obsequies, and the farewell to our cottage, followed
each other in such rapid succession, that, lost
in a bewildering dream, I seemed incapable of fully
realizing either. Yet methought, our peaceful retreat
had never worn so many charms, as at the
moment of quitting it for ever. Its roses and wood-bines
displayed all their freshness, breathed all their
fragrance. The surrounding lawn was like the
richest velvet, and the birds whom I had loved as
companions, poured from the verdant branches, music
too joyous for a parting strain. The records of
childhood's deep happiness were still vivid wherever
I turned, for my seventeenth birth-day had scarcely
past. Every path, where a departed mother's step
vine that her hand had trained, spoke
to me in the voice of deep, tender, lingering affection.
Once, I should have exclaimed, with a burst
of bitter weeping,—`And must I leave thee, Paradise?'
But I went without a tear. He, who was
all the world to me, was by my side. His arm supported
me, and methought all paths were alike, and
every thorn pointless, to one thus sustained. Methought,
I could be a homeless wanderer over earth's
face, and murmur not.
“I will not detain you, reverend sir, with the details
of our voyage, or the privations of a life spent
in camps. Like the servitude of the patriarch, whose
seven years were measured by love, they seemed to
me as nothing. Yet during the conflicts which occurred
in fields of blood, my wretchedness was inexpressible.
It was then that, imploring protection
for my husband, I first understood what is meant
by the `agony of prayer.' He was ambitious to stand
foremost in the ranks of danger, and his valor gained
him promotion. When called by his duty to posts
of peril, and I besought him to be careful of life,
for my sake, he would reply with that firm piety
which ever characterized him; `Is not my protector
the God of battles? is he not, also, the God of the
widow?'
“But from the scenery of war, I have ever shrunk.
And now my trembling hand and fluttering heart
admonish me to be brief. Seldom has one who possessed
strife, such an instinctive horror at the effusion of
blood, been appointed to share the fortunes of war.
During the investment of Yorktown, in the autumn
of 1781, my husband was almost constantly divided
from me, by the duties of his station. Even the
minutest scenes of that eventful period, are graven
on my memory, as with the point of a diamond.
“The affairs of the English army, every day assumed
a more gloomy and ominous aspect. The
ships of France, anchored at the mouth of York
river, prevented our receiving supplies through that
channel, or aid from Sir Henry Clinton, who, in
New-York, anxiously awaited our destiny. Despair
sat on the countenance of Cornwallis; and Tarleton,
who had hitherto poured his intrepid soul into the
enterprise, was suffering dejection from a painful
wound. The fortifications of the allied French and
Americans were every day brought nearer to us.
They spread themselves in the form of a crescent,
cutting off our communication with the adjacent
country. The last night of my residence in that
fatal spot, I was peculiarly distressed with fears for
my sole earthly stay. I ascended to the roof of the
house, to take an unbroken view of that glorious
firmament, which had so often led my soul from the
woes of earth, to contemplations of heaven. But the
thunder of a terrible cannonade riveted my attention
to terrestrial scenes. The whole peninsula seemed
to tremble, beneath the enginery of war. Bombs,
crossing each other's path. Like meteors, their
luminous trains traversed the skies, with awful sublimity.—Sometimes,
I heard a sound, as of the
hissing of a thousand serpents, when in their fall
they excavated the earth, and rent in atoms whatever
opposed them. Once, I saw severed and mangled limbs from the British armaments thrown high
into the air, by their explosion. I fancied a groan
of agony in the voice that I loved, and listened till
sensation forsook me.
Suddenly a column of flame arose from the bosom
of the river. It was of ineffable brightness.
Methought, even the waters fed it, and it spread
wider, and ascended higher and higher, as if doubtful
whether first to enfold the earth, or the heavens.
Two smaller furnaces burst forth near it, breathing,
like their terrible parent, intense fires, beautiful and
dreadful. I gazed, till the waters glowed in one dazzling
expanse, and I knew not but the Almighty, in
wrath at the wickedness of man, was about to kindle
around him an ocean of flame, as he once whelmed
him with a deluge of waters.
“But nothing could hush the incessant roar of
those engines of death. I wondered if man would
continue to pursue his brother, with unrelenting hatred,
even to the conflagration of the day of doom?
When the influence of an excited imagination had
subsided, I discovered that this splendid and awful
pageant was the burning of the Charon, one of our
in the river, which had taken fire from the
French battery.
“Chilled by the dampness of the night air, I descended
from my post of observation, and threw myself
on my sleepless couch. My health had long suffered
for want of exercise in the open air, from which
I was precluded by the impossibility of having the
company and protection of my husband. At the
close of the ensuing day, he was dismissed for a
time from military duty, and entered his apartment.
It was on Sunday,—October 14th,—misery has
stamped the date indelibly on my soul. He proposed
a walk, to which I gladly assented, and mentioned
as the safest means of prolonging it to any considerable
length, in streets thronged with soldiers, a wish
that I should array myself in a suit of his military
apparel. Yielding to his reasoning, I assumed this
disguise, and we pressed onward, admiring the autumn
scenery, which in the American climate is so
peculiarly brilliant. We indulged in discourse, which
selected from the past the most soothing recollections,
and gilded the future with the illusions of hope.
We followed the course of the fortifications, until
unconsciously we had passed our last redoubt. Suddenly,
we heard the trampling of many feet. The
uniform of the French and Americans was the next
moment visible through the trees that skirted our
path. My husband had scarcely time to draw his
sword, ere a volley of shot was poured upon us. A
side. I fell with him, senseless as himself. I recovered
from my swoon, only to mourn that I survived,
and to feel more than the bitterness of death.
“Sometimes I imagined that he returned the pressure
of my hand; but it was only the trickling of
his blood through my own. Again, I fancied that
he sighed; but it was the breath of the hollow wind
through the reeds where his head lay. I heard the
horrible uproar of the war, in the neighboring redoubts,—the
roar of cannon,—the clash of arms,—
the cry of the combatants. I knew that the enemy
were near. But I attempted not to fly. What had
I to lose?—What more remained to me?—That one
dead body, was my all the world.—I fell upon it.—
I supplicated to be made like unto it.
“A band of men rushed by, speaking in uncouth
tones. I knew that they were savages. Then I
wished to escape, to hide myself. Yet, but a moment
before, like him who despaired for his smitten gourd,
I had exclaimed,—`Take now away my life, I pray
thee; for it is better for me to die than to live.' Suddenly
they discovered, and made me their captive.
I expected to have been borne to the American camp.
But they continued to travel throughout the night.
From their conversation I learned that two redoubts
had been stormed by the French and Americans,
with desperate valor. This was the daring action,
in which La Fayette led on the Americans, and De
Viomenil the French, and which preceded but four
whom my husband had fallen, was the advance-guard,
under Colonel Hamilton, and I was the prisoner of
a small number of Indians, headed by a Delaware
chief. It seemed that they were connected with
some embassy sent to discover the state of affairs at
Yorktown, and were not personally engaged in this
rencounter. Thus was I at the mercy of beings, at
whom I had ever shuddered as the most savage of
mankind. I followed them as we roam in some terrible
dream, when motion is without volition, and
consciousness is misery. Stupified with grief, my
mind was for many days inadequate to the full sense
of its wretchedness. My captors, so far from testifying
the brutality that I had feared, were attentive
to my wants, and, in some degree, studious of my
comfort. I exerted myself to endure hardship as
unshrinkingly as possible, dreading lest they should
suspect my disguise; but they referred my comparative
weakness to the effects of a civilization which
they decried, and occasionally satirized the effeminacy
of British officers.
“When I began to arouse from the stupor which
the whelming torrent of my afflictions had caused,
a dreadful apprehension took possession of my mind.
I imagined that they were guarding my life with such
care, in order to make me the victim of their savage
torture. This terror obtained predominance over
my grief. When I lay down to sleep in the forests,
wrapped closely in my blanket, and surrounded by
wearied to exhaustion with the travel of the day, no
slumber visited me. Plans of escape occupied every
night; yet every day revealed their impracticability.
During this season of excitement, I was scarcely
sensible of fatigue. My strength more than equalled
the labor imposed; so much is the mind able to rule
its terrestrial companion.
“I observed that my captors, in their journey,
avoided the more populous settlements, and seemed
to regard the whites either as intruders, or doubtful
friends. On their arrival at a large town in Pennsylvania,
they directed me to pass through the suburbs
with a guard of four men, evidently fearing
that some facility of escape might be afforded, if I
attracted the notice of strangers. Those who entered
the town, rejoined us with demonstrations of extravagant
joy, bringing news that the surrender of
Cornwallis had taken place on the 18th of October,
and that peace was confidently expected. Pressing
on with unusual rapidity, they prepared to pass the
night within the borders of an extensive forest. Here
they kindled a fire, and conversed long in their own
language. Their gestures became violent, and their
eyes were often bent on me, with an expression of
savage fierceness.
“At length, louder words, as of conflict, arose
between the Mohegans and Delawares, of which the
company was composed. I believed that the strife
was respecting the question of torture, and that my
sat solitary, and taking no part in the contest, but
observing its progress with extreme attention. He
avoided the spirituous liquors, with which the others
were becoming inflamed, as if reserving himself for
action in some critical juncture. I thought that he
had heretofore regarded me with pitying eyes, and I
said mentally, Is it possible that heaven will raise me
up a friend, among savages? I remembered that he
was called Arrowhamet, and was respected for
courage and wisdom. When the conflict grew violent,
he arose and approached the Delaware chieftain.
During their conversation, which was grave
and earnest, both parties preserved silence. When
they separated, the Delawares murmured hoarsely.
But their chief silenced them with the simple argument,—
“`Arrowhamet is old.—He hath fought bravely.
His temples are white as the snows of the Alleghany.—Young
men must submit to the warrior who
weareth the crown of time.'
“They commenced their war-dance, and in its
maddening excitement, and the fumes of intoxication,
merged the chagrin of their disappointment. It was
past midnight, ere they lay down to sleep. When
all around was silent, Arrowhamet spoke in a low
tone. He urged me to compose my mind, and be
at rest, assuring me that the danger was past. It
was impossible for me to find repose. I saw also
that my aged guardian slept not. His eyes were
majestic arch, where a few stars faintly beamed.
Can it be, said I silently, that an Indian thinks of
God? Ah! I knew not then, of what deep devotion
their souls were susceptible.
“Judge, with what fearful consternation, I was
startled from my reverie, by hearing Arrowhamet
pronounce the name of Oriana! Breathless with
emotion, I was unable to reply, and he proceeded,—
“`Wherefore fearest thou to sleep?—Thou art
redeemed from death.—No evil shall touch thee.—
Believe what the old warrior hath spoken, and rest
in peace.'
“`Why do you call me Oriana?' I inquired, trembling
with astonishment.
“`Didst thou think that the eye of Arrowhamet
was too dim to read thy brow?—his heart so old, as
to forget the hand that had given him bread?'
“`Am I then known to your companions, also?'
I asked.
“`No thought save mine hath comprehended thee.
To all other eyes, thy disguise is truth. My breast
shall be as the bars of the grave to my secret.'
“`How have you obtained this knowledge? and
what words did you speak about my having given
you food?'
“`I knew that face,' he answered tenderly, `when
the torches first gleamed upon it, amid the shouts
of war. It was deadly pale. But how could I forget
the face of her, that had given me bread? Thou
ask of their Lord, at the last day. Thou writest the
traces of thy bounty in the sand. But the famished
prisoner graveth them in the rock for ever. I was
with the men of Colonel Buford, on the waters of
the Santee river, when out of four hundred, scarcely
a fourth part escaped the sword of Tarleton. I saw
an hundred hands of brave men raised to implore
mercy. The next moment they were stricken off
by the sabres of the horsemen who trampled on their
bodies. But why tell I thee tales of blood, whose
heart is as tender as that of the weaned 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 looked
upon their graves. Rememberest thou an old Indian,
who once leaned against a tree, near thy tent? He
leaned there, because he was weak, and his flesh
wasted by famine. He asked not for bread. Yet
thou gavest it to him. And so, thou rememberest
him not?—Well!—Thou canst never forget
the youth who stood beside thee, in the door of thy
tent. His voice was like the flutes 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 his own blood. I saw thee,
also. Thou wert as one dead. But I could not 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
My desire is accomplished, and thou art safe from
harm.'
“`Was I then right, in supposing myself destined
to the torture?'
“`The chief had promised that this night, his people
should avenge on thee, their young men, who
had been slain in battle. The Delawares were bent
upon thy death. Their eyes were fierce, and their
brows wrathful, that I rescued thee. It was with
difficulty, that thou wert delivered. The Indian is
taught to submit to the hoary head. But they continually
replied,—`Our mightiest have fallen before
the warriors of his country. Two sons of our Sachem
were cut in pieces by their swords. The blood
of the brave cries for vengeance. If it is not appeased
by the death of this man, ere the rising of
the dawn, will not their souls frown on us for
ever?”'
“`But how were you able to overrule their purpose?'—Hesitating
for a moment, he replied,—
“`The natives of this country have a custom, of
which thou art ignorant. He who is deprived of a
near relative, in battle, or by disease, is permitted to
fill the void, from among the prisoners of war, or
the victims of torture. This is the rite of adoption.
It is held sacred among us all. It has given freedom
to the captive, when the flame was scorching his
vitals. Without the force of this claim, I could not
have saved thee. Long was the footstep of Death
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 mine eye. But she faded. She went down
to the grave, while she was blossoming into womanhood.'
“There was long silence. Afterwards, I expressed
my gratitude to my deliverer.
“`Daughter, 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 thee? Because thou wilt remind her
of the plant 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 gentleness even like thine.'
“He ceased, oppressed with emotion. He pressed
his hands to his forehead, and laid it upon the earth.
When he raised his head, I saw that his strained
eyes were bright and tearless.
“`Acceptest thou my adoption?' he asked. `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 shore of
the great waters. They shall bear thee to thy people,
when thy heart is sickened at the rude ways of
the sons of the forest.'
“I assured him of my acceptance, in such terms
as an outcast might be supposed to address to his
sole earthly benefactor. Apparently gratified, he
raised his lofty form erect, and stretching his right
hand toward heaven, ratified with great solemnity
the covenant 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,
with the deep reverence of prayer, and then stretching
himself on the ground, in the attitude of repose,
said,—
“`It is enough.—Go to thy rest, poor, tender, and
broken flower. I will pray thy God to protect thee.
Thy God is my God. Warriors call me Arrowhamet,
but in my home of peace, my name is Zachary.
It was given me, when I bowed to the baptism of
Christians. Thou wilt no longer fear me, now that
thou knowest our God is the same.'
“Lost in wondering gratitude, I made my orison
with many tears, and sank into a more refreshing
slumber than had 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.
“During the remainder of our journey, nothing
worthy of narration occurred. The supernatural
strength that had sustained me, gradually vanished,
and I was borne many days in a litter on the shoulders
from the Mohegans, to return to their own territory.
In passing through a populous town, I sold a valuable
watch and necklace, the gifts of my sainted husband,
in the early and cloudless days of our love.
Their avails, like the cruse of oil, of her whom the
prophet saved, have not yet failed. They will probably
suffice for my interment.
“My reception from good Martha, was most soothing
to my lone heart. From that moment to this,
her maternal kindness has never slumbered. With
that tender care, so dear to the wounded, solitary
spirit, she has promoted my comfort, and mitigated
the pains of my disease.
“At my first admission to this humble abode, I
cherished the hope of returning to England. But 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 Oriana?—Not one.' Throughout
the whole range of my native country, would there
have been a cottage to afford me shelter, or friends
to minister to me night and day, 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 beholding it has been
long extinguished. The disease, to which my early
youth evinced a predisposition, and which was probably
inherited from both my parents, soon revealed
I have been conscious of its latent ravages. My retreat,
which to most beholders might have seemed
as undesirable as obscure, so accorded with my subdued
feelings, that like the disciple 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
the world has done immense injustice. Once, I had
stigmatized them as the slaves of barbarity. Yet
were they appointed to exhibit to my view, in combination
with strong intellect, capabilities of invincible
attachment and deathless gratitude, which, however
the civilized world may 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 estimation
in which we hold the shades of complexion and
gradations of rank—how less than nothing, the tinsel
of wealth, and the pageantry of pomp, when
`God taketh away the soul.'
“The pride, and earthly idolatry of my heart,
have been subdued by affliction; and affliction, having
had her perfect work, has terminated in peace.
Often, during this process, have I been reminded of
that beautiful passage of Dumoulin,—`Jesus, in
going to Jerusalem, was wont to go through Bethany,
which signifies, the house of grief:' so must we
expect to pass through tribulation, and through a vale
of tears, before we can enter upon the peace of the
heavenly Jerusalem.
“Still, I quit not this existence like the ascetic, for
whom it has had no charms. Its opening was gilded
with what the world acknowledges to be happiness;
and its close with that joy to which she is a
stranger. For your instructions, your prayers, my
revered friend, receive the blessings of one, who
will henceforth have neither name nor memorial
among men. Your last kind office will be to lay her
wasted frame where saints slumber; may she meet
you at their resurrection in light. Her parting request
is, that you would remember with the benevolence
of your vocation, those who were to her, parents
without the bonds of affinity, philanthropists
without hope of applause,—and, though bearing the
lineaments of a proscribed and perishing race, will,
I trust, be admitted to a bright, inalienable inheritance.”
Hartford, December 14, 1833.
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