"The Indian then modestly stepped down from the tombstone, and the legitimate clergyman took his place. After making a slight apology for his stay, he read his text by the light from a horn lantern, which the clerk held up to his nose, and then proceeded to mumble over a written discourse upon the subject he had chosen, and which held him about half an hour.--'In my country,' observed the Indian, 'they would make a more _animated_ speech at the interment of a _favourite racoon_!' "'This divinity-monger is the angel of our church,' answered the man in the white linen coat; 'and it is dangerous to criticise upon his productions, especially as he considers every one to be in the wrong, who does not precisely fall in with his own opinions in matters appertaining to religion.' "'Weak men are always arrogant, positive, and self-conceited,' replied the Indian. "'Let us hasten home,' whispered the man in the white linen, coat, 'for the night begins to wear apace." * * * * * Before the following lines are read, represent to yourself, that some of the tribes of Indians bury their dead in a sitting posture.-- LINES OCCASIONED BY A VISIT TO AN OLD INDIAN BURYING-GROUND. In spite of all the learn'd have said, I still my old opinion keep, The _posture_ that _we_ give the dead, Points out the soul's eternal sleep. Not so the ancients of these lands:-- The Indian, when from life releas'd, Again is seated with his friends, And shares again the joyous feast. His imag'd birds, and painted bowl, And ven'son for a journey drest, Bespeak the _nature_ of the soul-- _Activity_, that wants no rest. His bow for action ready bent, And arrows with a head of bone, Can only mean that life is spent, And not the finer essence gone. Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way, No fraud upon the dead commit; Yet, mark the swelling turf, and say, 'They do not _lie_, but here they _sit_' Here still a lofty rock remains, On which the curious eye may trace (Now wasted half by weiring rains) The fancies of a ruder race. Here still an aged elm aspires, Beneath whose far projecting shade (And which the shepherd still admires) The children of the forest play'd. There oft a restless indian queen, (Pale Marian, with her braided hair) And many a barb'rous form, is seen, To chide the man that lingers there. By midnight moons, o'er moist'ning dews, In vestments for the chace array'd, The hunter still the deer pursues-- The hunter and the deer--a shade. And long shall tim'rous fancy see The painted chief, and pointed spear, And, _Reason's self_ shall bow the knee To shadows and delusions here. * * * * * _Philadelphia, September 22d, 1795._ DEAR SIR,