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and it is my want of abilitie and her exceeding desert, your birth, meanes and authoritie, her birth, vertue, want and simplicitie, doth make mee thus bold humbly to beseech your maiestie to take this knowledge of her, though it bee from one so unworthy to be the reporter as my selfe, her husband's estate not being able to make her fit to attend your maiestie. The most and least I can doe is to tell you this, because none so oft hath tried it as myself, and the rather being of so great a spirit, however her stature.

“If shee should not be well 'receiued, seeing this kingdom may rightly haue a kingdom by her meanes, her present lone to vs and Christianitie might turne to such scorne and furie, as to diuert al this good to the worst of cuill; where [whereas] finding so great a queene should doe her some honor more than she can imagine, for being so kind to your seruants and subjects, would so rauish her with content, as endeare her dearest blood to effect that your maiestie and al the king's honest subjects most earnestly desire. And so I humbly kisse your gracious hands."

The final interview between the gallant and generous writer of this memorial, and the princess who was the subject of it, is an occasion too interesting to be passed over without notice. She had been told that Smith, whom she had not seen for many years, was dead, but why this information was given her does not appear. Perhaps it was to make his appearance the more gratifying. Possibly Master Rolfe, in the heat of his passion during the critical period of courtship, had deemed it advisable and justifiable to answer to this effect the anxious inquiries she would naturally make aiter Smith, especially during her confinement at Jamestown. But whatever the reason was, the shock of the first meeting had nearly overwhelmed her. She was staying at Brentford, after her visit to London, having retired thither to avoid the noise and smoke of the metropolis, which she was far from enjoying. Smith was announced, and soon after made his appearance. She saluted him-modestly, he says himself, and coolly, according to some other writers—and then turning away from him, she covered her face, and seemed to be too much discomposed for conversation.

Undoubtedly she was deeply affected with a multitude of conflicting emotions, not the least of which was a just indignation on account of the imposition which the English had practised upon her. For two or three hours she was left to her own meditations. At the end of that time, after much entreaty, she was prevailed upon to converse, and this point once gained, the politeness and kindness of her visitant, and her own sweetness of disposition, soon renewed her usual vivacity.

In the course of her remarks she called Smith her father. That appellation, as bestowed by a king's daughter, was too much for the captain's modesty, and he informed her to that effect. But she could not understand his reasoning upon the subject. “Ah!" she said, after recounting some of the ancient courtesies which had passed between them, “you did promise Powhatan that what was yours should be bis, and he the like to you. You called him father, being in his land

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a stranger, and by the same reason so must. I doé you.” Smith still expressed himself unworthy of that distinction, and she went on:“Were you not afraid to come into my father's countrie, and caused fear in him and all his people but mee, and fear you I should here call you father? I tell you then I will; and you must call me childe, and then I will bee foreuer and euer your countrywoman.” She assured Smith that she had been made to believe he was dead, and that Powhatan himself had shared in that delusion. To ascertain the fact, however, to a certainty, that crafty barbarian had directed an Indian who attended her to England to make special inquiries. This was Tomocomo, one of the emperor's chief counsellors, and the husband of his daughter Matachanna, perhaps the same who had been demanded in marriage by Sir Thomas Dale in 1614.

It is the last and saddest office of history to record the death of this incomparable woman, in about the two-and-twentieth year of her age. This event took place at Gravesend, where she was preparing to embark for Virginia with her husband and the child mentioned in Smith's memorial. They were to have gone out with Captain Argall, who sailed early in 1617, and the treasurer and council of the colony had made suitable accommodations for them on board the admiral-ship. But, in the language of Smith, it pleased God to take this young lady to his mercy. He adds, that she made not more sorrow for her unexpected death, than joy to the beholders to hear and see her make so religious and godly an end. Stith also records that she died as she had long lived, a most sincere and pious Christian. The expression of a later historian is, that her death was a happy mixture of Indian fortitude and Christian submission, affecting all those who saw her by the lively and cdifying picture of piety and virtue which marked her latter moments.*

The same philosophic writer, in his general observations upon the character of Pocahontas, has justly remarked that, considering all concurrent circumstances, it is not surpassed by any in the whole range of history; and that for those qualities more especially which do honor to our nature—a humane and feeling heart, an ardor and unshaken constancy in her attachments—she stands almost without a rival. She gave evidence, indeed, of possessing in a high degree every attribute of mind and heart which should be and has been the ornament and pride of civilised woman in all countries and times. Her unwearied kindness to the English was entirely disinterested; she knew that it must be so when she encountered danger and weariness and every kind of opposition and difficulty, to bestow it seasonably on the objects of her noble benevolence. It was delicate, too, in the mode of bestowment. No favor was expected in return for it, and yet no sense of obligation was permitted to mar the pleasure which it gave. She asked nothing of Smith in recompense for whatever she had done, but the boon of being looked upon as his child. Of her character as a princess, evidence enough has already been furnished. Her dignity, her energy, hèr independence, and the dauntless courage which never deserted her for a moment, were worthy of Powhatan's daughter.

* Burk's Virginia, Vol. I.

Indeed, it has been truly said, that, well-authenticated as is the history of Pocahontas, there is ground for apprehension that posterity will be disposed to regard her story as a romance.

« It is not even improbable,” says Burk, “that considering every thing relating to herself and Smith as a mere fiction, they may vent their spleen against the historian for impairing the interest of his plot by marrying the princess of Powhatan to a Mr. Rolfe, of whom nothing had been previously said, in defiance of all the expectations raised by the foregoing parts of the fable.”

Young Rolfe, her only offspring, was left at Plymouth, England, under the care of Sir Lewis Steukley, who undertook to direct his education, his tender years making it inexpedient to remove him to Virginia. As that gentleman was soon after completely beggared and disgraced by the part which he took in the proceedings against Sir Walter Raleigh, the tuition of Rolfe passed into the hands of his uncle, Henry Rolfe, of London. He became in after years a man of eminence and fortune in Virginia, and inherited a considerable tract of land which had belonged to Powhatan. At his death he left an only daughter, who was married to Col. Robert Bolling. By him she had an only son, who was father to Col. John Bolling, (well known to many now living), and several daughters, married to Col. Richard Randolph, Col. John Fleming, Dr. William Gay, Mr. Thomas Eld. ridge, and Mr. James Murray. This genealogy is taken from Stith, and he shows with sufficient minuteness that this remnant of the imperial family of Virginia, which long survived in a single person, had branched out into a very numerous progeny, even as early as 1747. The Hon. John Randolph of Roanoke is, if we mistake not, a lineal descendant of the princess in the sixth degree.

Note.—Mr. Seba Smith has lately published a metrical romance, entitled Powbatan, wbich abounds in excellent and beautiful poetry. We will extract a part of the fourth canto, descriptive of the incident of Pocahontas saving Captain Smith from a violent death, by throwing herself. beside him and putting her arm around his head, beseeching ber father by her looks to spare him; it is a faithful and eloquent description:

Though many honored brave Sir John
For bis spirit bold and high,
The solemn council now decide
That brave Sir John must die.
For this alone, they deemed, would serve
To appease great Okee's wrath;
And safety to the monarch's realm
Required the strange chief's death.
So great a foe and terrible
Their tribes had never known:
Hence 'twas decreed, that in his fall
Great Powhatan alone
Was worthy to inflict the blow
This mighty chief to slay;

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And all demanded that the deed
Be done without delay.
The monarch sitteth on his throne,
In his dignity arrayed;
Mysterious power is in his eye,
That maketh man afraid;
The women of his court stand up
With awe behind the throne,
But his daughters in their beauty sit
On either hand alone;
While all around the spacious hall
Long rows of warriors stand,
With nodding war-plume on each head,
And each with weapon in his hand;
And scalps and trophies line the walls,
That fifty wars supplied,
And richest robes and shining belts

Appear on every side.
4 And all is placed in fit array

To take the captive's eye,
When he should come within the hall
To be condemned and die,-
For 'twas not meet to take the life
Of so great and strauge a man,
Till he had seen the greatness too
Of great King Powbatan.
Now through the festal crowds abroad
Heralds aloud make known
That soon the great Sir John must die,
Before the monarch's throne.
Hushed is the song and ceased the dance,
And darkening throngs draw near,
In awful silence round the hall,
And bend a listening ear
To catch the floating sounds that come,
Perchance the fatal blow,
Perchance the death-song of Sir John,
Or bis dying shriek of wo.
A private door to that great hall
Is opened slow and wide,
And a guard of forty men march in
With looks of lofty pride;
For in their midst that captive walks
With tightly pinion'd arm,
Whose very name had power to shake
The boldest with alarm.
The captive's step is firm and free,
His bearing grave and high,
And calm and quiet dignity
Is beaming from bis eye.
One universal shout arose
When first Sir John appeared.
And all the gathering throng without
In answer loudly cheer'd.
And then the monarch way'd his hand,
And all was still again;
And round the ball the prisoner marchd,
Led by the warrior train;
And thrice they went the circuit round,
That all might see the face

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That bore such pale and spirit marks
Of a strange and mighty race.
In the centre of the hall is placed
A square and massive stone,
And beds of twigs and forest leaves
Are thickly round it strown;
And there a heavy war-club'stands,
With knots all covered o'er;
It bears the marks of many wars,
Hard, smooth, and staind with gore.
It was the monarch's favorite club,
For times of peril kept,
'Twas near him when upon the throne,
And near bim when he slept.
No other hands had ever dared
That ponderous club to wield,
And never could a foe escape
When that club swept the field.
Now slowly to this fatal spot
They lead Sir John with care,
And bind his feet about with withes,
And lay him prostrate there;
And look and listen eagerly
For him to groan or weep;
But he lays his head down tranquilly,
As a child that goes to sleep.
The monarch, with a stately step,
Descendeth from the throne,
And all give back before the light
From his fiery eye that shone.
He raiseth that huge war-club high,
The warriors hold their breath,
And look to see that mighty arm
Hurl down the blow of death,
A sudden shriek bursts through the air,
A wild and piercing cry,
And swift as light a form is seen
Across the ball to fly.
The startled monarch stays his hand,
For now, beneath his blow,
He sees his lovely Metoka
By the captive kneeling low.
Her gentle arm is round his head,
Her tearful eyes upturn'd,
And there the pure and hallow'd light
Of angel mercy burn'd.
Compassion lit its gentle fires
In the breast of Powbatan;
The warrior to the father yields,
The inonarch to the man.
Slowly his war-club sinks to earth,
And slowly from bis eye.
Recedes the fierce, vindictive fire
That burn'd before so high.
His nerves relax, he looks around
Upon his warrior men,
Perchance their unsubdued revenge
His soul might fire again,
But no; the soft contagion spreads,
And all have felt its power,
And hearts are touch'd and passions hush’d,
For mercy ruled the hour.

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