 | CHAPTER IX. Sketch of Connecticut, forty years since |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
His eye-halls further out, than when he liv'd,
Staring full ghastly, like a strangled man.”
2nd part of Henry 6th.
The severity of the wintry season had apparently subsided.
The frosts had begun to evacuate their strong
holds, and through the intervals of dissolving snow, tufts
of soft green were visible. But, by one of those sudden
revolutions, to which the climate of New-England is subject,
the approaches of spring were checked by the returning
ravage of winter. A violent storm from the northeast
arose, attended with great quantities of sleet and
snow. The trees bent heavily beneath their load, while
huge drifts covered the fences, and lay in banks against
the walls of houses. In some instances, much toil was required,
ere the inmates could remove the rampart from
their doors and windows, and emerge into the light of
day. Heavy sleds, with each a score of oxen, traversed
the roads, to beat a path for the imprisoned inhabitants.
In Mohegan, most of the wigwams, which stood within
range of the winds, were hidden. Yet, in a few instances,
the cone of the arbour-like dwelling, thatched with
matting, was seen like a dark hillock, breaking the dazzling
and dreary surface. The habitants forcing their
way from their buried abodes, surveyed the change, which
which distinguishes the North American Indian. To
testify surprise, they consider as betraying weakness.
An instance of this was exhibited among one of the tribes
in the vicinity of Niagara, during the total eclipse of the
Sun, in the summer of 1806. As they had heard no prediction
of the event, and a similar one had not occurred for
several centuries, it was believed that they would scarcely
be able to refrain from expressions of astonishment. When
the sky suddenly became dim, and the stars appeared at
noon-day, they were observed by some travellers, viewing
the progress of the phenomenon with great attention;
but at the same time remarking, with their usual apathy,
that “they had seen such things before.”
On the present occasion, those natives of Mohegan, who
obtained egress most easily from their partially encumbered
cells, were moved by sympathy to lend assistance
to their less fortunate neighbours. Night was approaching,
ere this labour, with their insufficient implements,
had been successfully accomplished. A party of these
pioneers met their minister, who had left his abode with
the same benevolent intention.
“My children, he said, we must force our way to the
cave of old Maurice. Who knows that he perished not,
amid the storm, and cold of the past night?”
Animated by the words and example of their guide,
they commenced the difficult course. Often they struggled
through deep mounds, as the swimmer breasts the
the white turrets of a castle. Mr. Occom, though less
athletic than most of his companions, was the first to lay
his hand upon the stone door of the recluse, inquiring in a
gentle voice, “Maurice, may your friends come in to
you?”
Precautions had been necessary at entering the cavern
when the door was closed, as it usually irritated the austere
hermit. Thrice the question was repeated, and at
each interval the speaker betrayed emotion. Perchance
thus the Median king trembled, when listening at the den
of lions, he feared that the prisoner had become a victim
to their rage. No sound was heard, and the minister,
extending his hand toward the closed entrance, said “who
shall roll us the stone, from the door of the sepulchre?”
Robert Ashbow, and John Cooper instantly advanced,
and removed the heavy fragment of the rock. The shock
brought a weight of snow from the roof of the cavern.
They forced their way through the low aperture, which
admitted scarcely a ray of light. Groping amid the
gloom, they perceived something like a low statue of
stone, with a hand resting against the wall. It was rigid,
and motionless as the rock, upon which it reclined.
It was in a kneeling posture. Robert raised it in his
arms, and with the aid of his companion, bore it from its
dismal abode. The glassy and immoveable eyes, seemed
to have started from their sockets, and their stony glare
was awful. The hand, in its stiffen'd grasp, enclosed a
adamant.
“He has kept his Lent with such strictness,” said
John Cooper, “that the feeble spark of life was almost
smothered before this storm blew upon it.”
“The dark Angel, who demands the spirit,” said Robert
Ashbow, “saw it in devotion, as the altar from
whence incense rises.”
“Happy is that servant,” replied Mr. Occom “whom
his Lord when he cometh, shall find watching.”
Zachary, who, notwithstanding his age, had been moved
by warmth of heart, to join the search for the desolate
hermit, anxiously surveyed the body, pressing his hand alternately
upon the temples and the bosom. He then
wrapped it closely in the skins, which had formed its
miserable bed, and directed it to be borne with care to
the nearest habitation.
“Know ye, how deep is the dwelling of the soul?” he
exclaimed. “How long it may linger within its dark
house, when lips of clay pronounce it gone to the shades
of its fathers?”
The body was borne to the house of John Cooper, and
laid upon the bed. Zachary chafed the temples with
vinegar, immersed the limbs in cold water to expel the
frost, and rubbed them for a long time with an animal oil
to soften their rigidity of fibre. At short intervals, he
endeavoured to pass through the lips the decoction of a
“life to the dead.”
A convulsive motion of the eye-lids, and at length a
deep, tremulous sob confirmed the hopes of the aged
warriour. Warmth, friction, and the exhibition of cordials
recalled the wandering spirit to its earthly abode,
just as the morning dawned. During the night, broken
exclamations attested the return of life, and his hands
grasped at something above his head, as if the flitting visions
of a disordered intellect encompassed him.
“I know ye!” at length he uttered in a hollow voice,
rolling his eyes upward, “I know ye. That head was
cleft many a year since. Why have ye not healed the
wound? Ye bid it gape to torment me. Those locks
are bright. Why do ye shake them at me? They drop
hot blood upon my soul. Oh! here are hundreds of accursed
spirits, reeking from the eternal lake. Avaunt!
I go not your way! Satan I know, but who are ye?”
During the agonies of resuscitation, his cries were frequent,
“Go your way! I know ye!” with menacing gestures
of the hands.
At length, Mr. Occom bending over him, said tenderly
“do you know me, Maurice?”
After a short pause, a hoarse voice replied “yes, I
know thee too, a blind leader of the blind. Thinkest
thou to be within the pale of salvation? Thou! an alien
from the holy mother church. Thou! who leadest thy
silly flock among pit-falls, where is no shelter in the day
and was observed, by the motion of his lips, and occasional
elevation of the crucifix, to be in deep prayer. Afterwards,
he lay more calmly, as if in meditation, but
resolutely refused the cordials which they presented to
him.
“No! No!” he vociferated, Maurice hath vowed, that
nothing but water should pass his polluted lips, until that
glorious day, when Jesus brake the strong bars of the
tomb.”
“What you call Easter has nearly arrived,” said John
Cooper. “Unless you take something to support your
weakness, you will never again rejoice at the anniversary
of the rising of your Lord.”
The ascetic, fixing his withering eyes on the speaker,
said, “thou thinkest Maurice such a blasted tree that he
cannot compute times, and seasons. Know I not that seventeen
days of the period of humiliation yet remain?
Maurice will keep his vow. If he enter into heaven ere
it be accomplished, he will fast and mourn there until
Lent be past. He will not taste the new wine of the kingdom,
until the voices and thunderings around the throne
proclaim, Christ is risen, is risen.”
Observing the children of John Cooper, to speak in
low voices of his recovery, he addressed them in a milder
tone.
“To your young eyes Maurice seems as the dry tree,
whose roots quit the earth, that its head may rest there.
are not white like his. He was young and full of vigour,
when Braddock, and his soldiers strewed the earth, like
autumn leaves. He saw Washington lay that proud warriour
in his lowly grave—Washington, who was then preparing
like a bold, broad river, to run his course toward a
sea of glory. Maurice was then called the warriour Kehoran.
It was said of him, his eye is bright in battle, and his foot
fleet in the chase, like the deer upon the mountain-tops.
Kehoran drew his first breath in this valley, and he loved
it when his heart was young. He thought not then,
to die like the miserable Maurice. But he has grown
old before his time. Sorrow and penance have wasted
his strength. Yet in his bosom hath been a goad,
sharper than that of famine. Ask ye, what bows the
body sooner than age? what traces deeper furrows on the
forehead than care? what sheds snows upon the temples,
whiter than the frost of grief? I tell ye—it is guilt.”
Mr. Occom, with that majesty which he well knew
how to assume, standing near the bed of the sufferer, said,
“Maurice! I adjure thee by the living God, before
whom thou art about to appear, and by thy hope of heaven,
to confess the sin which lieth upon thy conscience,
while there is space for repentance.”
“Canst thou absolve me from my sin?” inquired a
deep voice, as if from the recesses of the tomb.
“There is none,” replied the Pastor, “who hath power
on earth, to forgive sins, save God only.”
“Thou art weak as thy faith!” exclaimed the recluse
with scorn upon every feature. “How feeble would be
the penitence, thou shouldst prescribe! As miserable as
the hope, which thou canst offer. Holy Mother of God!
Would that Father Paul were near me. Oh! that my
soul may behold him, where he standeth amid the seraphim,
when she shall have past the fires of purgatory.”
He lay for some time exhausted, as if in slumber, then
starting, said, “I know thee! Thou art Death! Maurice
hath never turned from thee in battle. He will go
with thee. Thou art sweeter than this mortal life. Ha!
whom bringest thou? His dark wings overshadow thee.
He desireth to rend my soul in pieces! Is there none to
deliver? I see a fair woman! She stretcheth her hand
to save me. Take that hatchet from her head! alas! I
planted it deep there. She mocks at me. She is gone.
I sink in a sea of blood.”
Again he became absorbed in devotion, praying to the
holy Saints, and entreating the blessed Virgin to intercede
with her Son in his behalf. A sun-beam fell through
the casement upon his bed “This,” he said, more calmly,
“is my last morning upon the earth. A hand that ye
cannot see, beckons me away. Still it waits a little.
Know ye wherefore? That I may pour out the dregs of
my guilt. So shall the soul travel lighter upon her dreary
passage. Heard ye ever the name of M`Rae? Yes!
M`Rae! M`Rae! For years I have not dared to pronounce
that name. Even now, the demons shriek it in
my ears. They write it in flame upon the walls. It scorches
my soul, though ye bid the heavens cleave above,
and the earth beneath me”
Pressing his hands upon his temples, he remained motionless
for a short interval, apparently seeking to recover
strength for some great effort, and then proceeded.
“Before the war between these colonies, and the mother
who planted them, I led a wandering life, visiting the tribes
of Indians, who were scattered throughout the Canadas.
At length, I became stationary in one of the towns near the
frontier. Here, I was found by Father Paul, a priest of
the most holy order of the Jesuits. Moved by Christian
compassion, he had for many years endeavoured to pour
the light of heavenly truth upon the benighted natives of
this country. Such benevolence had he, that the soul of
an Indian was precious in his eyes, as that of a prince
upon the throne. Grateful for his instructions, I daily attended
the mass. His eloquence was more than mortal.
He received me as his son in the most holy faith. When
the cloud of war arose, I wished to return to my kindred,
and join the standard of my tribe. He said, “God commandeth
thee to lift thy sword for the people, among
whom thou hast beheld the light from heaven.” I obeyed,
and went forth in battle for England, though often with a
heavy heart. Sometimes, at midnight, stood beside me
the form of my deceased king. Bending his dark brows,
he would upbraid me as a traitor. Cold dews hung upon
my forehead, and I lay trembling, and sleepless till
forgotten, when the voice of Father Paul repeated, “God
commandeth thee.” When Burgoyne with his troops began
to enter the provinces, I was placed with a band of
natives, under a young British officer. Proud of my
strength and valour, I sought the front of danger, and his
eye distinguished me. Once, at the dawn of day, he
sent for me to his tent. He, whose heart was a stranger
to fear, trembled as he spoke—“Maurice, thou hast a
true heart. I adjure thee to keep secret what I intrust to
thee, and to lend me thine aid.” I promised to be his
friend; and often his tongue faultered with emotion, as he
proceeded. “We are within a league of Fort Edward.
It is to be attacked. The inhabitants have fled,—all, save
one whom I hold dearer than life. I loved her, long ere
this war made intercourse with the Provincials, rebellion.
My residence was near hers, when the mother-country,
and her children were at peace. She waits me there,
though all her household have departed. Such faith hath
she in my truth. But when the ravage commences, how
can I save her? She must be brought hither, and the
priest must unite us, ere we depart hence. Were I to go
for her, I should be condemned as a traitor to my king.
Thou mayest go with safety. I have chosen thee for this
embassy, so dear to my soul, because thy heart is true.
Take with thee ten associates, whom I will amply reward.
Lead for her my own horse. Give her this letter, and she
will put herself under thy care. She hath the heart of a
I will meet thee at the door of my tent with a holy man,
who, in making us both one, shall remove from my soul
every earthly fear. Have I said that her name is M`Rae?
And now wilt thou be faithful to my trust?”—I replied,
“The Holy Mother of God be my witness, that no hand
but mine shall present her unto thee.”
“My heart was proud at this confidence of my chief. Instantly
I prepared to execute his orders. Ten trusty natives
accompanied me. We soon arrived at the house of
the fair-one, which was forsaken by all but her, and one
servant maid. I held up the letter, as she first perceived
us, that the hand-writing of her lover might remove the
dread of our countenances. Her maiden shrieked, and
fled, when she saw us painted, and attired for war. But
that beautiful maiden, pressing to her lips the letter, and
taking from it a lock of his hair which it contained, waited
only to throw on her veil, and came forth to meet us. I
lifted her upon the noble steed, which curved his neck,
and moved more gently, as if he knew that he bore the
treasure of his master. Her long hair, black as the raven's
wing, was folded in braids around her head; and her full
eye, of the same colour, was perpetually looking out for
the tent of her lover. Her lips smiled fearlessly when she
spoke, and on her cheek trembled something, like the
glow of the morning sky when it expects the Sun. I beheld
her, and exulted in the joy of my commander. Half
our journey was already achieved. I led on slowly, lest
Suddenly, issuing from the woods, a party of Canadian
Indians intercepted our path. They had learnt, from
the imprudence of one of my followers, the ample reward
which had been promised for slight service, and determined
themselves to obtain it. Cutlasses clashed, and blood
flowed upon the earth. Foemen fell, with their hatchets
each in the other's head. All my party, but two, were
slain. More had fallen of the enemy, yet they still out-numbered
us. Their chief took the bridle of the maiden,
to lead her away. My blood boiled that he should win
the prize, which I had vowed to deliver myself. She had
fainted, and her face, like marble, lay upon the neck of
the animal who bore her. The rage of hell inspired me.
I cleft that beautiful head with my hatchet. The light
grey of the horse was stained with blood, and he fled,
affrighted, dragging the body. My opponent pursued him,
and tore off the scalp of the victim, with its shining tresses.
I fought with him a long, and furious contest. My
blood flowed, but I snatched the trophy from his dying
hand, and turned not away until I had cut him in pieces.
I seemed to accomplish the remainder of my journey in
an instant. The flames of passion consumed thought, and
bore me forward as on eagle's wings.
“The sun arose as I returned to the camp. The morning
was bright, as the hopes of the bridegroom. I met
him, coming from his tent with the priest who was to
sanction his vows. Ere he could speak, I held the scalp
earth, as if in death. I was hurried to prison by enraged
soldiers, who wished to tear me to pieces on the spot.
So blinded had I been in the heat of battle, that I had expected
my chief would commend me for courage, and
firmness in his cause, even amid his disappointment. I
believed that I had done my duty in being faithful to my
vow, that no hand but mine should bring the maiden,
whether living or dead. Thus an apostle thought he was
doing God service, by persecuting and destroying the
saints. But, in my miserable dungeon, I had leisure for
reflection. There, I learned that General Burgoyne had
condemned to death all the survivers of both parties, and
that our execution was delayed only till two of the fugitives
were found, who had concealed themselves in the
forests. Two dreary nights passed over me in my loathsome
cell. On the third, Father Paul stood beside me.
The terrible deed had reached him, and he travelled
over the space that divided us, to visit a wretch in bonds.
I prostrated myself upon the earth before him, and made
my confession. “Knowest thou,” he said, “that the next
sun will rise upon thy corpse, hanging disgracefully between
the earth and heaven? It must not be, that a son
of the holy Church, should thus be a spectacle for the
scorn of heretics. She commands thy rescue. I have
achieved it. With me is a Canadian native, an obstinate
scoffer at the high mysteries of our faith. He is to enter
thy cell, and assume thy garb. Thou art to pass outward
stratagem. The goaler is bribed to my interest, and ere
morning thou mayest be far from the steps of thy pursuers.”
“Life is sweet,” I answered,—ashamed of my own
weakness.” But holy Father, what service have I rendered
this man, that he should willingly give his life for
mine?” “He knows nothing of my purpose,” said Father
Paul. “He is my servant, I have required him to remain
in this cell, all night, that thou mayest go forth with
me to perform a vow. He thinks that, ere morning, I
shall liberate him. Long have I laboured for his conversion
in vain. The Holy Inquisition would condemn him
to the rack, for blasphemies against the mass. Mercifully
I substitute a milder death. Thy execution is appointed
at the hour, when the murder was committed.
At this early season, it is possible that the deception may
pass unnoticed. I have given him a stupifying drug, so
that he will be unable to make protestations of innocence,
perhaps will be unconscious of the scene. At any rate
thou must escape as far as possible, under cover of the
night. I shall commence, with equal speed, a tour of instruction
among the uncivilized natives. Turn thy steps
towards thy kindred, and native country. And now,” he
added, with a deep solemnity, “kneel, and receive the
doom of penance, with which thine absolution is purchased.
Throughout this war, lift thy hand upon neither side.
Seek out some lonely cell, and live like the imprisoned
monk. Every year, come to me as a pilgrim, with thy
thy sins.” I departed, but my heart accused me, for
leaving behind the unsuspicious Canadian. Yet I knew
that Father Paul would command nothing but what was
right, and he was to me in the place of God. Every autumn,
when the harvest moon lifted her horn, I have gone
to him with my bleeding feet, beseeching him to absolve
me, and have returned to my cave when the white man
traces his first furrow on the earth. My last pilgrimage
was performed with difficulty. Thorns mangled my feet,
and the stormy blasts scattered my few white hairs. I
arrived, but he whom I sought was not there. Three
days and nights I lay upon his grave, until I saw high visions,
and heard voices which I may not utter. Methought
I stood in the midst of a pale assembly, and was about
to speak. Chilling eyes gazed on me, and I saw that I
was surrounded by the dead. Yet they clamoured with
hollow voices “he is one of us,” and a fearful tone from
beneath said,—“Come!” Then I knew I was to die. I
returned to my cavern, and increased my penance. Withered
roots, and water were my sustenance, and every hour
in the day, and night, I told my beads. Ah! little do ye
know the torments of a sinful soul, propitiating its Maker.
I have prayed, until my cavern was thick set with faces,
and with fiery eyes; so that midnight was light about me.
Sometimes they have deafened me with peals of hellish
laughter, but when they have tried to rivet their burning
conquered.”
Maurice relapsed into deep silence, but resolutely refused
whatever they held to his lips. Mr. Occom lifted
his voice in earnest prayer for the sinful, and apparently
departing soul. His auditors pressed near to him, as the
flock in fear or danger surround their shepherd. During
the orison, the features of Maurice were convulsed, and
vehement, but unintelligible exclamations burst from his
quivering lips. Soon after its close, he started up in the
bed, throwing his hands into violent action, as if contending
with enemies in the air. His eyes flamed with rage,
even when they were frozen in their sockets by the ice of
death. Large drops started over his distorted forehead,
but the horrible convulsion was short. Sinking down, he
set his teeth firmly, as if in mortal combat, and clenching
the crucifix in his rigid hand—expired.
| CHAPTER IX. Sketch of Connecticut, forty years since | |