 | Leaves from Margaret Smith's journal in the province of Massachusetts Bay, 1678-9 |  |
November ye 28th, 1678.
Leonard hath left Mr. Ward, and given up the
thought of fitting for the Ministry. This will be a
heavie blow to his friends in England. He tells me
that Mr. Ward spake angrilie to him after I left, but
that, when he come to part with him, the old man
wept over him, and prayed that the Lord would enable
him to see his Error, and preserve him from the consequences
thereof. I have discoursed with my Brother
touching his future course of life, and he tells me he
shall start in a day or two to visit the Rhode Island,
where he hath an acquaintance, one Mr. Easton, formerly
of Newbury. His design is to purchase a small
Plantation there, and betake himself to Farming, of the
which he hath some little knowledge, believing that he
can be as happy and doe as much good to his fellow-creatures
in that Employment as in any other.
Here Cousin Rebecca, who was by, looking up with
that sweet archness which doth so well become her,
queried with him whether he did think to live alone on
his plantation like a Hermit, or whether he had not his
to keep him company. Whereat he seemed a
little disturbed; but she bade him not think her against
his prospect, for she had known for some weeks that
he did favor the young Brewster woman, who, setting
aside her enthusiastick notions of religion, was worthy
of any man's love; and turning to me, she begged of
me to look at the Matter as she did, and not set myself
against the choice of my Brother, which, in all respects
save the one she had spoken of, she could approve with
all her Heart. Leonard goes back with us to-morrow
to Newbury, soe I shall have a chance of knowing how
matters stand with him. The thought of his marrying
a Quaker would have been exceedingly grievous to me
a few months ago; but this Margaret Brewster hath
greatlie won upon me by her beautie, gentleness, and
her goodness of Heart; and, besides, I know that she
is much esteemed by the best sort of people in her
Neighborhood.
Doct. Thompson left this morning, but his friend
Doct. Clark goes with us to Newbury. Rebecca found
in her work-basket, after he had gone, some Verses,
which amused us not a little, and which I here copie.
And gone the Summer's pomp and showe,
And Autumn in his leafless bowers
Is waiting for the Winter's snow.
`An Emblem of myself thou art:'
`Not soe,' the Earth did seem to say,
`For Spring shall warme my frozen heart.'
“I soothe my wintry sleep with Dreams
Of warmer Sun and softer Rain,
And wait to hear the sound of Streams
And songs of merrie Birds again.
“But thou, from whom the Spring hath gone,
For whom the Flowers no longer blow,
Who standest, blighted and forlorn,
Like Autumn waiting for the snow:
“No hope is thine of sunnier hours,
Thy Winter shall no more depart;
No Spring revive thy wasted flowers,
Nor Summer warm thy frozen heart.”
Dr. Clark, on hearing this read, told Rebecca she
need not take its melancholie to Heart, for he could
assure her that there was noe danger of his friend's
acting on her account the sad part of the Lover in the
old Song of Barbara Allen. As a medical man, he
could safelie warrant him to be Heart-whole; and the
companie could bear him witness, that the Poet himself
seemed verie little like the despairing one depicted in
his Verses.
The Indian Simon calling this forenoon, Rebecca
and I went into the Kitchen to see him. He looks
fierce and cruel, but he thanked Madam Saltonstall for
return a little Basket wrought of curiously stained
stuff, he told her that if there were more like her, his
Heart would not be so bitter.
I ventured to ask him why he felt thus, whereupon
he drew himself up, and sweeping about him with his
arms, said: “This all Indian land. The Great Spirit
made it for Indians. He made the great River for
them, and birch trees to make their Canoes of. All
the Fish in the ponds and all the Pigeons and Deers
and Squirrels he made for Indians. He made land for
white men too; but they left it, and took Indian's land,
because it was better. My father was a Chief; he
had plenty meat and corn in his Wigwam. But Simon
is a Dogg. When they fight Eastern Indians, I try to
live in peace, but they say, Simon, you rogue, you no
go into woods to hunt; you keep at home. Soe when
Squaw like to starve, I shoot one of their Hoggs, and
then they whip me. Look!” And he lifted the
blanket off from his shoulder, and showed the marks
of the Whip thereon.
“Well, well, Simon,” said Mr. Saltonstall, “you do
know that our people then were much frightened by
what the Indians had done in other places, and they
feared you would join them. But it is all over now,
and you have all the Woods to yourself to range in;
doe well.”
“Who makes strong drink?” asked the Indian,
with an ugly look. “Who takes the Indian's Beaver-skins
and Corn for it? Tell me that, Captain.”
Soe saying, he put his Pack on his back, and calling
a poor, lean dogg, that was poking his hungrie nose
into Madam's pots and kettles, he went off talking to
himself.
| Leaves from Margaret Smith's journal in the province of Massachusetts Bay, 1678-9 | |