s
originally provoked. It is pleasing to be able to show that Marion felt,
in this matter, as became that rare humanity which was one of the most
remarkable and lovely traits in his character,--the more remarkable,
indeed, as shining out among endowments which, in particular, designated
him for a military life--a life which is supposed to need for its
stimulus so much that is sanguinary, if not brutal, in one's nature.
It is recorded of him, that the severities practised in this campaign
filled him, long after, with recollections of sorrow. Writing to a
friend,* he gives a brief description of the calamities of the war, in
terms equally touching and picturesque. "We arrived," he writes, "at
the Indian towns in the month of July. As the lands were rich, and the
season had been favorable, the corn was bending under the double weight
of lusty roasting ears and pods of clustering beans. The furrows seemed
to rejoice under their precious loads--the fields stood thick with
bread. We encamped the first night in the woods, near the fields, where
the whole army feasted on the young corn, which, with fat venison, made
a most delicious treat.

* In a letter quoted by Weems. [The poetic language here
suggests the possibility that this letter may be one of
Weems' inventions.--A. L., 1996.]--

"The next morning we proceeded, by order of Colonel Grant, to burn down
the Indian cabins. Some of our men seemed to enjoy this cruel
work, laughing very heartily at the curling flames as they mounted,
loud-crackling, over the tops of the huts. But to me it appeared a
shocking sight. "Poor creatures!" thought I, "we surely need not grudge
you such miserable habitations." But when we came, ACCORDING TO ORDERS,
to cut down the fields of corn, I could scarcely refrain from tears. For
who could see the stalks that stood so stately, with broad green leaves
and gaily-tasselled shocks, filled with sweet milky fluid, and flour,
the staff of life--who, I say, without grief, could see these sacred
plants sinking under our swords, with all their precious load, to wither
and rot untasted, in their mourning fields!

"I saw everywhere around the footsteps of the little Indian children,
where they had lately played under the shelter of the rustling corn.
No doubt they had often looked up with joy to the swelling shocks,
and gladdened when they thought of their abundant cakes for the coming
winter. When we are gone, thought I, they will retur