University of Virginia Library

THE LEGEND OF BETHEL ROCK.

In the picturesque State of Connecticut, there is not
a spot more beautiful than the village of Pomperaug.
It is situated not very far from the western border of
the State, and derives its name from a small tribe of
Indians, who once inhabited it. It presents a small, but
level valley, surrounded by hills, with a bright stream
rippling through its meadows. The tops of the high
grounds which skirt the valley, are covered with forests,
but the slopes are smooth with cultivation, nearly
their summits. In the time of verdure, the valley shows
a vividness of green like that of velvet, while the forests
are dark with the rich hues, supposed to be peculiar to
the climate of England.

The village of Pomperaug consists now of two
hundred houses, with three white churches, arranged
on a street which passes along the eastern margin of
the valley. At the distance of about forty rods from
this street, and running parallel to it for nearly a mile,
is a rock, or ledge of rocks, of considerable elevation
From this, a distinct survey of the place may be had,
almost at a glance. Beginning at the village, the
spectator may count every house, and measure every
garden; he may compare the three churches, which now
seem drawn close together; he may trace the winding
path of the river by the trees which bend over its
waters; he may enumerate the white farm houses which
dot the surface of the valley; he may repose his eye on
the checkered carpet which lies unrolled before him,
or it may climb to the horizon over the dark blue hills
which form the border of this enchanting picture.

The spot which we have thus described, did not long
lie concealed from the prying sagacity of the first settlers
of the colony of New Haven. Though occupied
by a tribe of savages, as before intimated, it was very
early surveyed by more than one of the emigrants. In
the general rising of the Indians in Philip's War, this
tribe took part with the Pequods, and a large portion
of them shared in their destruction. The chief himself
was killed. His son, still a boy, with a remnant of his
father's people, returned to their native valley, and
lived for a time on terms of apparent submission to
the English.

The period had now arrived when the young chief
had reached the age of manhood. He took, as was
the custom with his fathers, the name of his tribe, and
was accordingly called Pomperaug. He was tall, finely
formed, with an eye that gleamed like the flashes of a
diamond. He was such an one, as the savage would
look upon with idolatry. His foot was swift as that of
the deer; his arrow was sure as the pursuit of the
eagle; his sagacity penetrating as the light of the sun.

Such was Pomperaug. But his nation was passing
away, and but fifty of his own tribe now dwelt in the
valley in which his fathers had hunted for ages. The day
of their dominion had gone. There was a spell over the
dark warrior. The Great Spirit had sealed his doom.
So thought the remaining Indians in the valley of
Pomperaug, and they sullenly submitted to a fate which
they could not avert.

It was therefore without resistance, and, indeed, with
expressions of amity, that they received a small company
of English settlers into the valley. This company
consisted of about thirty persons, from the New Haven
colony, under the spiritual charge of the Reverend Noah
Benison. He was a man of great age, but still of uncommon

mental and bodily vigor. His years had passed
the bourne of three score and ten, and his hair was
white as snow. But his tall and broad form was yet
erect, and his cane of smooth hickory, with a golden
head, was evidently a thing `more of ornament than use.'

Mr Benison had brought with him the last remnant
of his family. She was the daughter of his only son,
who, with his wife, had slept many years in the tomb.
Her name was Mary, and well might she be the object
of all the earthly affections which still beat in the bosom
of one, whom death had made acquainted with sorrow,
and who but for her had been left alone.

Mary Benison was now seventeen years of age. She
had received her education in England, and had been
but a few months in America. She was tall and slender,
with a dark, expressive eye, whose slow movements
seemed full of soul and sincerity. Her hair was of a
glossy black, parted upon a forehead of ample and
expressive beauty. When at rest, her appearance was
not striking; but, if she spoke or moved, she fixed the
attention of every beholder by the dignity of her air,
and the tone of tender, yet serious sentiment, which
was peculiar to her.

The settlers had been in the valley but a few months,
when some matter of business relative to a purchase of
land, brought Pomperaug to the hut of Mr Benison. It
was a bright morning in autumn, and while he was
talking with Mr Benison at the door, Mary, who had
been gathering flowers in the woods, passed by them
and entered the hut. The eye of the young Indian
followed her with a gaze of entrancement. His face
gleamed as if he had seen a vision of more than earthly
beauty. But this emotion was visible only for a moment.
With the habitual self-command of a savage, he turned

again to Mr Benison, and calmly pursued the subject
which occasioned their meeting.

Pomperaug went away, but he carried the image of
Mary with him. He retired to his wigwam, but it did
not please him. He went to the top of the rock, at the
foot of which his hut was situated, and which now goes
under the name of Pomperaug's Castle, and looked
down upon the river, which was flashing in the slant
rays of the morning. He turned away, and sent his
long gaze over the checkered leaves of the forest, which,
like a sea, spread over the valley. He was still dissatisfied.
With a single leap he sprang from the rock,
and, alighting on his feet, snatched his bow and took the
path which led into the forest. In a few moments he
came back, and, seating himself on the rock, brooded
for some hours in silence.

The next morning Pomperaug repaired to the house
of Mr Benison to finish the business of the preceding
day. He had before signified an inclination to accede
to the terms proposed by Mr Benison, but he now started
unexpected difficulties. On being asked the reason,
he answered as follows:—

`Listen, father—hear a red man speak. Look into
the air and you see the eagle. The sky is his home,
and doth the eagle love his home? Will he barter it
for the sea? Look into the river, and ask the fish that
is there, if he will sell it? Go to the dark skinned
hunter and demand of him if he will part with his forests?
Yet, father, I will part with my forests, if you
will give me the singing bird that is in thy nest.'

`Savage,' said the pilgrim, with a mingled look of
disgust and indignation, `will the lamb lie down in the
den of the wolf? Never! Dream not of it—I would sooner
see her die! Name it not.' As he spoke he struck
his cane forcibly on the ground, and his broad figure

seemed to expand and grow taller, while his eye gleamed,
and the muscles of his brow contracted with a lowering
and angry expression. The change of the old man's
appearance was sudden and striking. The air and
manner of the Indian, too, was changed. There was
now a kindled fire in his eye, a proud dignity in his
manner, which a moment before was not there; but
they had stolen unseen upon him, with that imperceptible
progress, by which the dull colors of the snake,
when he becomes enraged, are succeeded by the glowing
hues of the rainbow.

The two now parted, and Pomperaug would not
again enter into any negotiations for a sale of his lands.
He kept himself, indeed, aloof from the English, and cultivated
rather a hostile spirit in his people toward them.

As might have been expected, difficulties soon grew
up between the two parties, and violent feelings were
shortly excited on both sides. This soon broke out
into open quarrels, and one of the white men was shot
by a savage, lurking in the woods. This determined
the settlers to seek instant revenge, and accordingly
they followed the Indians into the broken and rocky
districts which lie east of the valley, whither, expecting
pursuit, they had retreated.

It was about an hour before sunset, when the English,
consisting of twenty well armed men, led by their reverend
pastor, were marching through a deep ravine, about
two miles east of the town. The rocks on either side
were lofty, and so narrow was the dell, that the shadows
of night had already gathered over it. The pursuers
had sought their enemy the whole day in vain,
and having lost all trace of them, they were now returning
to their homes. Suddenly a wild yell burst from
the rocks at their feet, and twenty savages sprang up
before them. An arrow pierced the breast of the pilgrim

leader, and he fell. Two Indians were shot, and
the remainder fled. Several of the English were wounded,
but none mortally, save the aged pastor.

With mournful silence they bore back the body of
their father. He was buried in a sequestered nook of
of the forest, and with a desolate and breaking heart,
the orphan Mary turned away from his grave, to be for
the first time alone in their humble house in the wilderness.

A year passed. The savages had disappeared, and
the rock, on which the pilgrim met his death, had
been consecrated by many prayers. His blood was
still visible on the spot, and his people often came with
reverence to kneel there, and offer up their petitions.
The place they called Bethel Rock, and piously they
deemed that their hearts were visited here with the
richest gifts of heavenly grace.

It was a sweet evening in summer, when Mary
Benison, for the last time, went to spend an hour at this
holy spot. Long had she knelt, and most fervently had
she prayed. Oh! who can tell the bliss of that communion,
to which a pure heart is admitted in the hours
of solitude and silence. The sun went down, and as
the veil of evening fell, the full moon climbed over the
eastern ledge, pouring its silver light into the valley,
and Mary was still kneeling, still communing with Him
who seeth in secret.

At length a slight noise, like the crushing of a leaf,
woke her from her trance, and with quickness and agitation
she set out on her return. Alarmed at her distance
from home at such an hour, she proceeded with
great rapidity. She was obliged to climb up the face
of the rocks with care, as the darkness rendered it a
critical and dangerous task. At length she reached

the top. Standing upon the verge of the cliff, she then
turned a moment to look back upon the valley. The
moon was shining full upon the vale, and she gazed
with a mixture of awe and delight upon the sea of silvery
leaves, which slept in deathlike repose beneath
her. She then turned to pursue her path homeward,
but what was her amazement to see before her, in the
full moonlight, the tall form of Pomperaug! She
shrieked, and swift as his own arrow, she sprang over
the dizzy cliff. The Indian listened—there was a moment
of silence—then a heavy sound—and the dell was
still as the tomb.

The fate of Mary was known only to Pomperaug.
He buried her with a lover's care amid the rocks of the
glen. Then bidding adieu to his native valley, he joined
his people, who had retired to the banks of the Housatonac.

More than half a century subsequent to this event,
a rumor ran through the village of Pomperaug, that
some Indians were seen at night, bearing a heavy burthen
along the margin of the river, which swept the
base of Pomperaug's castle. In the morning a spot was
found near, on a gentle hill, where the fresh earth showed
that the ground had been recently broken. A low heap
of stones on the place, revealed the secret. They remain
there to this day, and the little mound is shown
by the villagers as Pomperaug's grave.