The death of Marion — his character.

"Next to Washington, O glorious shade!
In page historic shall thy name have place.
Deep on thy country's memory are portrayed
Those gallant deeds which time shall ne'er erase.

Ah! full of honors, and of years farewell!
Thus o'er thy tomb shall Carolina sigh;
Each tongue thy valor and thy worth shall tell,
Which taught the young to fight, the old to die."

The next morning, I set out for my plantation on Winyaw bay. Marion, as usual, accompanied me to my horse, and, at parting, begged I would come and see him again soon, for that he felt he had not long to stay. As the reader may suppose, I paid but little heed to this expression, which I looked on as no more than the common cant of the aged. But I soon had cause to remember it with sorrow. For I had been but a few weeks at home, before, opening a Charleston paper, I found in a mourning column, "THE DEATH OF GENERAL MARION". Never shall I forget the heart-sickness of that moment; never forget what I felt when first I learned that Marion was no more. Though the grave was between us, yet his beloved image seemed to appear before me fresher than ever. All our former friendships, all our former wars returned. But alas! he who was to me the soul of all the rest; the foremost in every battle; the dearest at every feast; he shall return no more! "Oh Marion, my friend!" my bursting heart seemed to say, "and art thou gone? Shall I no more hear that voice which was always so sweet; no more see that smile which awakened up such joy in my soul! Must that beloved form be lost forever among the clods in the valley. And those godlike virtues, shall they pass away like the empty visions of the night!"

From this deep gloom which strong atheistic sorrow had poured over my nerves, I was suddenly roused, as by an angel's touch, to the bright hopes of religion. The virtues of my departed friend all flashed at once upon my kindling thoughts: his countenance so stern with honor; his tongue so sacred to truth; that heart always so ready to meet death in defence of the injured; that eye ever beaming benevolence to man, and that whole life so reverential of God. The remembrance, I say, of all these things, came in streams of joy to my heart.

"O happy Marion!" I exclaimed, "thou art safe, my friend; thou art safe. No tears of mine shall doubt thy blissful state. Surely if there be a God, and that there is, all nature cries aloud through all her works, he must delight in virtue, and what he delights in must be happy."

Then it was, that I felt what a benefactor Marion had been to me. How dear his company while living; how sweet his memory when dead. Like the sun travelling in brightness, his smiles had ever been my joy, his example my light. And though now set in the grave, yet has he not left me in darkness. His virtues, like stars, are lighted up after him. They point my hopes to the path of glory; and proclaim, that, though fallen, he is not extinguished.

From the physicians and many others who attended him in his last illness, I learned that he had died as he had lived, a truly GREAT MAN. His chamber was not, as is usual with dying persons, a scene of gloom and silent distress, but rather like the cheerful parlor of one who was setting out on an agreeable journey. "Some," said he, "have spoken of death as a leap in the dark; but for my part, I look on it as a welcome resting place, where virtuous old age may throw down his pains and aches, wipe off his old scores, and begin anew on an innocent and happy state that shall last for ever. What weakness to wish to live to such ghastly dotage, as to frighten the children, and make even the dogs to bark at us as we totter along the streets. Most certainly then, there is a time when, to a good man, death is a great mercy even to his body; and as to his soul, why should he tremble about that? Who can doubt that God created us to be happy; and thereto made us to love one another? which is plainly written in our hearts; whose every thought and work of love is happiness, and as plainly written as the gospel; whose every line breathes love, and every precept enjoins good works. Now, the man who has spent life in bravely denying himself every inclination that would make others miserable, and in courageously doing all in his power to make them happy, what has such a man to fear from death, or rather, what glorious things has he not to hope from it?"

Hearing one of his friends say that the methodists and baptists were progressing rapidly in some parts of the state, he replied, "Well, thank God for that; that is good news." The same gentleman then asked him which he thought was the best religion. "I know but one religion," he answered, "and that is hearty love of God and man. This is the only true religion; and I would to God our country was full of it. For it is the only spice to embalm and to immortalize our republic. Any politician can sketch out a fine theory of government, but what is to bind the people to the practice? Archimedes used to mourn that though his mechanic powers were irresistible, yet he could never raise the world; because he had no place in the heavens, whereon to fix his pullies. Even so, our republic will never be raised above the shameful factions and miserable end of all other governments, until our citizens come to have their hearts like Archimedes' pullies, fixed on heaven. The world sometimes makes such bids to ambition, that nothing but heaven can outbid her. The heart is sometimes so embittered, that nothing but divine love can sweeten it; so enraged, that devotion only can becalm it; and so broke down, that it takes all the force of heavenly hope to raise it. In short, religion is the only sovereign and controlling power over man. Bound by that, the rulers will never usurp, nor the people rebel. The former will govern like fathers, and the latter obey like children. And thus moving on, firm and united as a host of brothers, they will continue invincible as long as they continue virtuous."

When he was near his end, seeing his lady weeping by his bedside, he gave her a look of great tenderness, and said, "My dear, weep not for me, I am not afraid to die; for, thank God, I can lay my hand on my heart and say, that since I came to man's estate, I have never intentionally done wrong to any."

These were nearly his last words, for shortly after uttering them, he closed his eyes in the sleep of death.

Thus peaceful and happy was the end of general Francis Marion, of whom, as a partisan officer, general Greene has often been heard to say, that "the page of history never furnished his equal." And if any higher praise of Marion were necessary, it is to be found in the very remarkable resemblance between him and the great Washington. They both came forward, volunteers in the service of their country; they both learned the military art in the hard and hazardous schools of Indian warfare; they were both such true soldiers in vigilance, that no enemy could ever surprise them; and so equal in undaunted valor, that nothing could ever dishearten them: while as to the still nobler virtues of patience, disinterestedness, self-government, severity to themselves and generosity to their enemies, it is difficult to determine whether Marion or Washington most deserve our admiration. And even in the lesser incidents of their lives, the resemblance between these two great men is closer than common. They were both born in the same year; both lost their fathers in early life; both married excellent and wealthy ladies; both left widows; and both died childless.

The name of Marion continues dear to the people of the south; and to this day, whenever his amiable widow rides through the country, she meets the most pleasing evidences, that her husband, though dead, is not forgotten. The wealthy, everywhere, treat her with the respect due to a mother; while the poor, gathering around her carriage, often press to shake hands with her, then looking at each other with a sigh they exclaim — "THAT'S THE WIDOW OF OUR GLORIOUS OLD MARION."