Black Chief was one of their brave men in time of war, and also endowed with all the noble, generous qualities which win love and honor in time of peace. He had an only daughter, who was greatly endeared to her people, because, like her father, she had a soul ever prompting her to generous deeds. She was also very beautiful, and possessed a mind of superior order, and was in every way gifted, worthy to be the Chieftain’s daughter. When her father died they honored her above all other women, and gave to her the title and authority of Princess.
They had a superstition, that during her life, the Iroquois would again be restored to their ancient power, and take a place among the nations of the earth. So, many were the prayers which ascended to the Great Spirit for the long life of their young queen. They gathered flowers and strewed in her path when she went forth, and brought to her the finest venison and the rarest fruits for her table. She was not made haughty and imperious by her honors, [[103]]but continued gentle and affectionate, though it was but a little while that she remained to receive these tokens of unaffected homage. The Great Spirit did not see fit to answer their prayers. In an evil hour the pestilence swept the land, and whole villages were desolated in a night. In the midst of their calamities, they thought less of themselves than of the daughter of their beloved Chief. Whilst the hand of the destroyer left her unharmed, they were not made utterly wretched. But when their lamentations were dying away, and health again brought cheerfulness to their dwellings, she was stricken, and the light which had been so beautiful in their eyes went out in utter darkness. Now the wail of the mourners around the couch of the dead was sincere and heart-rending. They did not build for her the “Cabin of Death,” but constructed a scaffold among the trees of a neighboring grove, and adorning her with all that their skill or taste could devise, placed her upon it in a sitting posture, and from far and near all the people gathered together to join in the solemn rites, which were to testify their love for the living and their grief for the dead. Her lifeless form was embowered with roses and running vines, and garlands of flowers were wreathed at her feet. All that the Indian considered most valuable—golden ears of his beloved maize, and the most costly furs, were scattered in profusion around her.
Every night fires were lighted and watchmen stationed to guard her body from danger, and every morning they again assembled to renew the utterance of their grief.
The mourning continued many days, and when it was no longer possible to preserve her in their sight, she was buried, while at her grave was chanted a solemn dirge by the mingled voices of a great multitude, which filled the air with such plaintive wailings as can come only from broken hearts. [[104]]
I cannot help pausing here to ask, if such a people deserve no better doom than annihilation? if those who call themselves Christians “have done what they could,” to tune these harps of the wilderness to accord with those of the cherubim and seraphim in the choirs above?
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