This day, about three o'clock, whilst a large com-
pany of us were dining sumptuously, and drinking
wine in the parlour, among whom were James Ab-
bott, Sparkman, and Lawyer Roe, from Detroit, the
awful language of mortality was inscribed in the kit-
chen, by the decease of a poor, emaciated Paunee
slave, who had been declining some time. Our be-
loved friend, Joseph Moore, attended him, in his
last moments, travailing with him, in Christian sym-
pathy, I trust to the staying of his mind, in the so-
lemn period. Some others, to my astonishment,
treated it with as much indifference, as if only a
caterpillar had been bruised. After dinner, I retired
about thirty perches into a garden, where the loud
peals of laughter, which could easily have been heard
half a mile, were truly distressing. I mentioned the
solemn subject to one of the British officers, who
replied, "One of my brother officers, whom I loved
dear as my life, was departing lately; I went to him,
and bid him farewell; poor fellow, God help you:
and returned to drink wine." A few boards being
nailed together, about sun-set the same day, the
corpse was put in, and attended to the grave, on
the river bank, by about sixty persons, including
Indians and Negroes, where Joseph Moore preached
his funeral sermon; and there was an end of poor
Toby's pilgrimage.

A day of close inward exercise, on discover-
ing in several of our company, an eye watching for
evil, and seeking occasion to vilify and reproach us:
and thereby, to undervalue, and lay waste our tes-
timony, to the requisite purity of the gospel — and
if possible, to render us as abandoned as themselves.