"By this time, however, the sun was set, and the whole company stood
waiting in anxious expectation of the clergyman's return, till darkness
had taken possession of the earth; but there was yet no appearance of
either the divine or his Bible.
"As it is more than probable he cannot find his book,' said the man in the
white linen coat, 'I am positive he will not return at all; and, as it is
now almost dark, I am of opinion the sooner the funeral ceremonies are
finished the better. The body of the unfortunate Marcia ought not to be
deposited in these silent retreats of death without some living token of
our respect. She was amiable while living, and notwithstanding the
misfortune of a disordered brain, and an innocent, unsuspecting confidence
in another's honour, is, in my way of thinking, no less amiable when
dead. - Our friend, the Indian will, I know, be complaisant enough on this
occasion to give us a few sentences, and then the venerable sexton may
proceed to close the scene, and we shall be at liberty to return to our
respective homes.'
"This man is not in holy orders,' cried the sexton.
"He does not wear a black coat or gown,' said the singing clerk.
"He has not a gray wig on his head, observed one of the church wardens.
"It is no matter,' replied the man in the white linen coat, 'he has a
plain understanding, has written a treatise on the virtues of tobacco, and
knows what is common sense, as well as the best of you.'
"Casting my eyes at this instant toward the east, I perceived a glimmering
among the trees, which proved to be the moon rising, two days after the
full. The evening was calm and serene, and every thing was hushed, except
the surge of the ocean, which we could distinctly hear breaking on the
rocks of the adjacent coasts; when, finding the parish clergyman did not
return, the Indian shook the dew from his blanket, stepped boldly upon a
tombstone of black marble, and, for reasons best known to himself,
preferring the Indian style on this occasion, he thus began: -
"Instead of these dismal countenances, why have we not a feast of seven
days? Instead of the voice of sorrow, why are not the instruments of music
touched by the hand of skill? Fair daughter of the morning! thou didst not
perish by slow decay. At the rising of the sun we saw thee; the ruddy
bloom of youth was then upon thy countenance; In the evening thou wert
nothing; and the pallid complexion of death had taken place of the bloom
of beauty. - And now thou art gone to sit down in the gardens that are
found at the setting of the sun, behind the western mountains, where the
daughters of the white men have a separate place allotted to them by the
spirit of the hills.
