This is a path leading to the Great Spirit—a mirror of Deity. And to prove that, it is not necessary to explain how I came by this idea—whether I derived it from my forefathers, or whether the Great Spirit has engraved it on my mind, or whether I, myself have formed it from a chain of principles. Of myself, I am fully persuaded that I have an idea of a being supremely great, and one, whose perfections and powers I am unable to understand. And I know that there must be somewhere without me an object answering to the idea within. For, as I think and as I know that I am not the author of the faculty that thinks within me, I am obliged to conclude that a foreign cause has produced it. If this foreign cause is a being that derives its existence from another foreign cause, then I am necessarily obliged to proceed from one step to another, and in this way go on until I find a self existing being. That self existing being is the Indian’s Great Spirit—the white man’s God. This idea is not a phantom of my creation, it is the portrait of the original. It exists in me and independent of me. Thus, in myself I find proof of a first great cause. I am now going to unite myself to that cause. To-morrow I lay this body down. The body will return to its original _dust_, and my spirit to its original—_to the Great Spirit that gave it_. I have no desire to stay any longer. My tribe has become extinct. My race is passing away. The Indians of the American forest will live in history only—raise me up a little higher, Drake—there, that will do. I see the silver streaks in the east, and soon the sun will cast its cheerful rays over this beautiful landscape, to be seen, but not by me. Then Cahoonshee will have winged his way to the last hunting ground. The whole party was standing by the dying man. His mind was clear, strong and vigorous, but his voice was weak. The sun rose over the eastern hills and cast its rays in the old man’s face. A perceptible smile lit up his countenance, and he faintly said: It is finished. Thus died the last of the Cahoonshees. A rude coffin is made, and Cahoonshee is carried to the house prepared for all living. What a commentary on human nature. A few years before, the Delaware Valley swarmed with the red men of the forest. Now the last of his race is carried to his grave by the white man. Cuddeback and Gumaer on the left and Swartwout and Van Etten on the right, carry him to the grave, followed by the rest of the party, and bury him on a pine hill, west of his cabin. There was no ringing of bells, no mock eulogy, no hypocritical mourning. But in silence they laid him away, each one feeling that the body of one of the wisest and best of men reposed there. (See Appendix.) The parties then returned to the cabin and distributed the personal effects of Cahoonshee, and then proceeded to Quick’s cabin on the Shinglekill.