University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

I am better to day. Let me proceed. I have delayed
this to the last moment.

I am a wanderer, a rambler, a vagabond from my
youth. I have drunk of more rivers than Chateaubriand.
I have trodden more deserts than Bruce. I have suffered
more deaths than Parke. And yet—I am dying,
dying!—not of old age; not of disease; not among the
nations that are called barbarous.—Gracious God! no!
—but of want—of wretchedness—in the midst of abundance—among
men of the same language—and of a
broken heart.

Yes, I am going. A few moments, and my spirit will
be required of me. A few more sobs—a few more
tears; a few more convulsive, audible palpitations of
an old heart, and I am with my fathers, my brethren,
and my children!—with all my tribe, and blood, and
kindred—before the judgment seat of Almighty God.

One moment! I pray thee—Before I go, I have a
legacy for my land. That land! O! it rises, and shines,
and wavers in the dimness of the past, all green and
beautiful—O, my country!—Virginia! thou swimmest
before mine eyes like some lonely, floating islet of heaven
in the trance of a blind old man.—O, I could kneel

to thee! All the blood of my nation, all that is left of
it, is eddying round thy picture in my heart! * *
* * * * * *
* farewell! farewell! The sickly fluid of my white
ancestors is already cold at my feet—I—I leave this
testimony to thee! Blessed be the hand which receives
it! thrice blessed that which preserves it!

A part is the work of my strength, the revelry and
riot of my boyhood—a part of my youth—a part of my
decrepitude. The spirit of the red man hath been stirred
up to voice and action. And lo! the white man
hath quailed in the rebuke. * * * *
* * * something beckons me.
Farewell!—There is—it is not fancy—it is not the
smoky dreaming of an old man—sightless and dying
— O no! it is real. There is a great hand before me—
a stern countenance behind—a loud voice approaching.
Whence is that voice? Whither wouldst thou that I
should journey? I understand thee. Ye are familiar
to our race. It is the hand, and the forehead, and the
voice of our great ancestor! They are portentous. But
why that frown? Lo, I am coming—I am coming!—
— — — — — —

London.31st December, 1820.—Midnight.