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consistent mortals, timid at once and presumptuous, tremble with the imagination of danger, and complain as if their sufferings were real. They create miseries to themselves, and arrogantly charge them on the Almighty. Beware, my daughter, beware of rebellion against the Almighty Spirit. If you repine inconsiderately, if you complain without actual cause, you rebel. He hath commanded us to be happy, he is ever offended with our disobedience; but if we encourage groundless anxiety, we disobey. By destroying your own tranquillity, you are no less an enemy to the general system of happiness he hath ordained, than if you injured the peace of another. Be comforted. Oneyo may soon return loaded with the spoils of the Briton, and extolled by the gallant warriors of France."
"To see my husband return in safety," she replied, "is the sum of my desires. To see him loaded with the spoils of the Briton will be no addition to my joy." The Indian seemed astonished. "Have you forgotten," she continued, "that I myself am a Briton? That I was carried violently from my father's house, when the Outagami ravaged our land, and carried terror to the gates of Albany? My parents perished. I was yet a child, but I remember the bloody carnage. My brother of riper years was rescued, but I became the prey of their fury. Since that time, many years are elapsed; yet at the name of Briton, my bosom glows with peculiar transport."
"I fondly imagined," answered the Indian, "that you loved us. We named you after the manner of our tribe. But your affections are estranged, and you languish for the land of your fathers. I called you my daughter; but, Marano, you would leave me." Uttering these words, he looked tenderly upon her. "You would leave me!" he repeated, and a tear rose in his eye. Marano was affected. She clasped his hand, and pressed it to her lips. "No, I will never leave thee. My heart is thine and my beloved Oneyo's. I revere thee. Can I for. get thy compassion? Can I forget the dreadful day, when the Outagami, in an assembly of their nation, decreed me a sacrifice to their god Areskoui. You were present on an embassy from your people. Oneyo, in the bloom of early years, had accompanied his father. He was beside you. He sighed when he beheld me weeping. Alas! I was feeble, friendless, and beset with foes. Oneyo intreated you to relieve me. Your own heart was affected, you interposed in my behalf, you redeemed me and called me yours. Oneyo hastened to my deliverance; he loosened my fetters, and clasped me to his breast. Our affection grew with our years: you beheld it with kind indulgence, and ratified our wishes with your consent. I have heard of European refinements, of costly raiment, and lofty palaces; yet to me the simplicity of these rocks and forests seems far more delightful. But if Oneyo returns not, I am undone. Many moons have arisen since, with the flower of our tribe, he departed. The matrons are already wailing for their sons.Oneyo, alas! is impetuous, and the warriors of Albion are undaunted. The blood of their foes has already tinged the Ohio; Canada trembled at their approach, and may ere now have become the prize of their valour. Ah me! if thy son hath fallen, grief will subdue thee. I know the tenderness of thine affection, it will pull thee down to the
grave. Who then will be a comforter to me? Who will be my friend? Among a strange people, I have no father to protect me, no brother to counsel and give me aid."
Ononthio was about to reply, when an Indian from the village accosted them. He told them with a sorrowful aspect, that the hopes of their tribe were blasted, for that some Indians of a neighbouring nation, having returned from Canada, brought certain intelligence of the total overthrow of their friends; that they had with difficulty escaped; that Oneyo was seen fierce and intrepid in the heat of the battle; that he was surrounded by the foe, and must have fallen a victim to their fury.
Marano was overwhelmed. Ononthio heaved a sigh; but the hapless condition of his daughter, and the desire of yielding her consolation, suspended and relieved his sorrow. "If my son hath fallen," he said, he hath fallen as became a warrior. His praise shall be preserved by his kindred, and descend to posterity in the war song. His name shall terrify the European, when the chieftains of future times, rushing fierce from the forests, shall surround his habitations at midnight, and raise the yell of death in his ear. Oneyo shall not die unrevenged." "He shall not," interrupted the Indian. "The messengers of our misfortune hovered after the discomfiture of their allies, around the walls of Quebec. They surprised a party of the foe; they have brought captives to our islands: the elders of the nation are now assembled: they have doomed them a sacrifice to the memory of the dead, and defer their execution only till your arrival." "Alas!" said Marano, “the sacrifice of a captive will afford me small consolation. Will the death of a foe restore life to my husband, or heal his ghastly wounds, or reanimate his breathless bosom? Leave me to my woe. Leave me to wail on these lonely mountains. Here I will not long be a sojourner. I will away to my love. I will meet him beyond the deserts, in some blissful valley, where no bloody foe shall invade us. Leave me to my sorrow, for I will not live." She entreated in vain; the Indian was urgent, and Ononthio seconded his solicitation.
That nation of Indians of which Oneyo was a leader, inhabited an island in the lake Ontario. Their principal village was situated by a pleasant stream, issuing from a rock, and running through a narrow valley into the lake. The surrounding hills were adorned with forests. The adjacent meadows were arrayed with verdure, or enamelled with flowers. The village was of a circular form, and was fenced by a wooden palisade. The walls of the cottages were composed of green turf, with interwoven branches, and the roofs were covered with reeds and withered leaves. Every thing was simple. No pompous pillars, embellished with quaint devices, and the parade of masonry, lifted the lofty edifice to the skies. No magnificent temples, no threatening battlements, no stupendous domes nor palaces, flattered the vanity of priests, politicians, and soldiers. The young men of the nation, in the prime of health and vigour, were usually engaged in the chace. Their principal business was to provide sustenance for the community, or to defend them against any hostile assault. The women, and all who were too old or too young to engage in any toilsome or hazardous en、
terprise, remained at the village, and had a variety of occupations, suited to their age and condition. They improved some adjacent fields for the culture of maize and other salutary plants. They also cultivated medicinal herbs, studied their virtues, and prepared them for use. The women, besides the care of their children, and other domestic concerns, were dexterous in weaving apparel, the materials of which were supplied by the rind of odoriferous trees, and in extracting tinctures from various herbs and blossoms, to stain the faces of their warriors, and render their aspect more terrible in the field. They were particularly ingenious in weaving strings and girdles of wampum. These, according as the colours were variously combined, served them as tokens of friendship to their kindred, allies, and the captives whom they adopted into their tribe. Their children were early inured to labour, danger, and fatigue; and were soon initiated in the use of the bow, the oar, the tomahawk, and the javelin. When their young men returned from the chace, or any warlike expedition, the whole village was a scene of joy and festivity. Both old and young mingled in the dance, and recorded the exploits of their warriors in the song. But when any business of consequence was to be transacted, every thing was conducted with gravity and composure. The elders of the village who were promoted to authority, not by fraud or violence, but who were revered agreeably to the simplicity of nature, for their wisdom and experience, assembled in an open space in the centre of the village, and diliberated beneath a venerable oak. The business was proposed, and every one declared his opinion sedately and without interruption. Their decrees were ratified by a majority of voices, and every one acquiesced in their decisions. In this manner they lived innocent and happy. As they had no particular property, they were untainted with the love of wealth, that bane of social felicity, that poison of the heart. As they possessed everything in common, they knew not the pangs of avarice, nor the torment of apprehended poverty. No sort of consequence was conferred by riches, and they were innocent of guile, perfidy, and oppression. Power and authority could only be obtained by superior and acknowledged merit; they were exerted without any vain parade; there was therefore no room for ambition, no occasion of envy, nor any incitement to revenge. Temperate and inured to labour, they were brave, vigorous, and active. Their affections of love and friendship, as they were unwarped by unnatural distinctions, and unrestrained by supercilious and pedantic formalities, were ardent and unaffected. They expressed their emotions with all the freedom and simplicity of nature; their joy was rapturous, and their sorrow vehement.
They were therefore no sooner informed of the death of Oneyo and of their brethren than they abandoned themselves to loud lamentation. The matrons, with rent garments, and dishevelled tresses, ran forth into the fields, and filled the air with their wailing. They then crowded around the captives, whom, in the bitterness of their woe, they loaded with keen invectives. The elders were assembled; the boiling caldron into which the victims, after suffering every species of torment, were to be precipitated, was suspended over a raging fire; the knives, tomahawks, and other implements of cruelty, were exhibited in dreadful ar
ray, and the prisoners, loaded with heavy fetters, were conducted to the place of sacrifice.
Though Marano was deeply affected, the screams of the Indians, and the horrid preparations of torture, drew her attention to the pri soners. She regarded them with an eye of pity. Their leader, in the prime of youth, was comely, vigorous, and graceful. The sullenness of undaunted and indignant valour was pourtrayed by nature in his fearless aspect. His eye, full of ardour and invincible firmness, surveyed the preparations of death with indifference, and shot defiance on the foe. His followers, though valiant, seemed incapable of the same obstinate resolution; their features betrayed symptoms of dismay; but turning to their leader, they were struck with his unshaken boldness, they resum ed their native courage, and armed their minds with becoming fortitude. Marano sighed. The sense of her own misfortune was for a moment suspended. "Peradventure," said she in her soul," this valiant youth like Oneyo may be lamented. Some tender maiden, to whom his faith has been plighted, may now languish for his return. Some aged parent whom he supported, and whose infirmities he relieved, may be sighing anxiously for his safety. Or some orphan sister, helpless and forsaken like me, may by his death be made desolate. She then reflected on her own condition, and on the variety of her misfortunes. Carried into captivity in her early years, she was a stranger to her people, and to her kindred. Her husband no longer existed, and he who had been to her as a father, overcome by age and calamity, was now declining into the grave. Yet alive to compassion, she was moved for the unhappy victims. She admired the magnanimity of their leader, and in regarding him she felt unusual emotions, and a pang that she could not express. She longed to accost him. He was of her nation! Could she behold him perish, and not endeavour to save him! Could she behold him tortured, nor shed a tear for his sufferings! Meantime one of the elders of the nation made a signal to the multitude. Immediate silence ensued. Then with a look of stern severity he thus addressed himself to the captive. "The caldron boils, the axe is sharpened. Be prepared for torture and painful death. The spirit of the deceased is yet among us; he lingers on the mountains, or hovers amid the winds. He expects a sacrifice, and shall not chide our delay. Have you a parent or a friend? they shall never behold thee. Prepare for torture and painful death." "Inflict your tortures," he replied, 66 my soul contemns them. There are no parents to lament for Sidney. In Albany they were massacred; massacred by inhuman Indians. I had a sister-I lost her. She was carried into captivity, and became the victim of your savage fury. I have friends, but they are fearless, for they are Britons. Inflict your tortures, my soul contemns them; but remember the day of vengeance shall overtake you."
Marano was astonished." Of Albany! Reft of his parents by the sword! And of a sister!" Suffice it to say, he was her brother. Mutual was their amazement and their affection. She fell on his throbbing breast. He received her into his arms. His soul was softened. Marano for a time was speechless. At length weeping, and in broken accents, “And have I found thee! a brother to solace and support
me! who will soothe me with sympathizing tenderness! who will guide me through the weary wilderness of my sorrow! who will be to me as parent! I was desolate and forlorn, my soul languished and was afflicted, but now I will endure with patience." Then turning to the astonished multitude, "He is my brother! Born of the same parents! If I have ever merited your favour, O save him from destruction." They were deeply affected. "Be not dismayed," said Ononthio; he spoke with the consent of the elders. "Be not dismayed. The brother of Marano shall be to us as Oneyo." Then addressing himself with an air of dignity to the stranger, "Young man, I have lost a son, Marano a husband, and our nation a gallant warrior. He was slain by the people of your land, and we are desirous of gratifying his spirit before it passes the mountains, by offering a sacrifice to his memory. But you are the brother of Marano; by her intercession, we have changed our design, and adopt you into our tribe. Be a brother to our people, and to me a son. Supply the place of the dead; and as you possess his valour, and steady boldness, may you inherit his renown. So saying, he presented to him the Calumet of peace, and a girdle of wampum. Sidney listened to him with respect, but expressed amazement at a change so unexpected. "To have given him his life would not have surprised him, but the transition from resentment to ardent and immediate friendship, exceeded his comprehension." “You reason,” answered the Indian, "according to the maxims of Europeans, whose external guise is imposing, but whose souls are treacherous and implacable. They array their countenance with smiles, while perfidy is in their bosoms, and they give the hand of friendship while they meditate injury. As their resentments are ever mingled with malice, they are lasting. They are not satisfied with testifying a sense of injury or insult sufficient to secure them from future wrong, but endeavour to ruin the offender, and overwhelm him with utter infamy. Conscious of the bitterness of their own souls, they impute a corresponding temper to their adversaries. Their resentment, instead of being lessened by gratification, grows inveterate by fear, it waxes into hatred, and thus it becomes easier for them to forgive the wrong they suffer, than the injury they inflict. The implacable unforgiving temper produced by malevolence, timidity, and conscious weakness, ever predominates in effeminate and feeble natures. But the resentment of generous souls is liberal, and leaves room for reconciliation and future friendship. Men of mild and benevolent dispositions, unpolluted by covetous or ambitious desires, and therefore unembittered by their unhappy effects, by envy, rancour, and malice, are magnanimous without any effort, ever desirous of being forgiven, and ever apt to forgive. You were about to suffer death, and you accuse us in your heart of cruelty. But it is uncandid to pronounce of any man, to whom the Great Spirit hath imparted reason and reflection, that he is more depraved than the wild beasts of the desert: for even they are not cruel but in their own defence, and for their own preservation. Judge not, therefore, of our conduct till you are acquainted with our motives, and have reflected on our condition. He truly is barbarous and inhuman, who, to satisfy some lewd or selfish appetite, unworthy of rea