She said the savages (who were Delawares), after taking her to a rocky cave in the mountains, departed for the Indian country. The first night was the unhappiest of her life. She was kindly treated, being carried tenderly in their arms when she was weary. She was adopted in an Indian family, and brought up as their daughter. For years she led a roving life, and loved it. She was taught the use of the bow and arrow, and became expert in all the employments of savage existence. When she was grown to womanhood both her Indian parents died, and she soon afterward married a young chief of the nation, and removed to the Ohio country. She was treated with more respect than the Indian women generally; and so happy was she in her domestic relations, that the chance of being discovered and compelled to return among the whites was the greatest evil that she feared, for she had been taught that they were the implacable enemies of the Indians, whom she loved. Her husband died, and, her people having joined the Miamies, she went with them and married one of that tribe. The last husband was also dead, and she had been a widow many years Children and grandchildren were around her, and her life was passing pleasantly away When she concluded the narrative, she lifted her right hand in a solemn manner, and said, "All this is as true as that there is a Great Spirit in the heavens!" She had entirely forgotten her native language, and was a pagan. To her Christ and the Christian's Sabbath were unknown.
On the day after the seeond interview, the brothers and sister, with the interpreter, rode out to her dwelling. It was a well-built log house, in the midst of cultivation. A large herd of cattle and sixty horses were grazing in the pastures. Every thing betokened plenty and comfort, for she was wealthy, when her wants and her means were compared. Her annuity from government, which she received as one of the Miami tribe, had been saved, and she had about one thousand dollars in specie. Her white friends passed several days very agreeably with her; and subsequently her brother Joseph, with his daughter, the wife of
* This portrait I copied from a painting of life size in the possession of her brother, Mr. Joseph Slocum, of Wilkesbarre. It was painted for him by an artist named Winter, residing at Logansport. Her underdress is scarlet, and the mantle with the large sleeve is black cloth. The Indians gave her the name of Ma-con-a-qua, a Young Bear. The names of her children and grandchildren are as follows: Eldest daughter, Kich-ke-ne-che-quah, Cut Finger; youngest daughter, O-saw-she-quah, Yellow Leaf. Grandchildren: Kin-pe-no-quah, Corn Tassel; Wap-pa-no-se-a, Blue Corn; Kim-on-sa-quah, Young Panther.
A Sabbath in Wyoming.—Visit to Mrs. Myers.—Incidents of her Life.—Escape of her Father and Brother from Indians.
the Hon. Ziba Bennet of Wyoming, made her another visit, and bade her a last farewell. She died about four years ago, and was buried with considerable pomp, for she was regarded as a queen among her tribe. *
September 18, 1848 I passed a Sabbath in Wyoming. It was a dull and cheerless day. The mountains were hooded with vapor, and all day a chilly drizzle made the trees weep. But Monday morning dawned clear and warm, and in the course of the day I revisited Forty Fort and the battle-ground, ascended the mountain to Prospect Rock, to obtain another glorious view of the valley, peeped into the black caverns of the coal mines at the foot of the hills, and at noon took shelter from the hot sun in the shaded walks of Toby's Eddy, where Zinzendorf pitched his tent. Thence I rode to the residence of Mr. Myers, a son of the venerable lady already alluded to, where I passed an interesting hour with the living chronicle of the woes of Wyoming. I found her sitting in an easy chair, peeling apples, and her welcome was as cheerful and cordial as she could have given to a cherished friend. Her memory was clear, and she related the incidents of her girlhood with a perspicuity that evinced remarkable mental vigor. Although blindness has shut out the beautiful, and deprived her of much enjoyment, yet pious resignation, added to natural vivacity, makes her society extremely agreeable. "I am like a withered stalk, whose flower hath fallen," she said; "but," she added, with a pleasant smile, "the fragrance still lingers." She was sixteen years old at the time of the invasion, and was in Forty Fort when it surrendered. Every minute circumstance there she remembered clearly, and her narrative of events was substantially the same as recorded in the last chapter. Her father's house was near the fort, and for a week after the surrender it was spared, while others were plundered and destroyed. Every morning when she arose her first thought was their house, and she would go early to see if it was safe. One morning as she looked she saw the flames burst through the roof, and in an hour it was a heap of embers. She remained two weeks in the valley after the surrender of the fort. The Indians kept her face painted and a white fillet around her head, as a protection against the tomahawks of strange savages, and she was treated very kindly by them. When Colonel Denison and others fled from the valley, she and her family accompanied them. After the savages left the valley, her family returned, and for seventy years she has enjoyed the sweets of peace and domestic happiness. Her maiden name was Bennet, and her family were conspicuous in the events at Wyoming during the Revolution.1 2 She has been many years a widow. One of her sons was high sheriff of Luzerne county, another was a magistrate, and a daughter is the wife of the Rev. Dr. Peck, the editor of the Methodist Episcopal Review, published at the "Book Concern," in New York. She is yet living (November, 1849), at the ripe age of eighty-eight years, honored and beloved by all.
I returned to Wilkesbarre at sunset. The evening was as pleasant as June, September 20. the moonlight scene from the upper piazza of the Phoenix, embracing the quiet-flowing Susquehanna, with its fringe of noble trees; the sparkling of the lights at