University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

The wandering natives, in their visits to N—, ever
found a kind reception at the mansion of Madam L—.
They were accustomed to point it out at a distance, as the
weary traveller recognizes the house of refreshment, and
repose. Here they knew that their wants would be relieved,
and their simple industry promoted. It might be
said that they were encouraged here to hold an annual
convention. A custom was established by our pious ancestors,
immediately after the settlement of New-England,
of setting apart a day in Autumn, for publick and private
gratitude to the Giver of all good. This, which might
originally have been intended as an imitation of the Israelitish
festival of in-gathering, had been gradually lowered,
by the interpretations of their descendants, from a day of
sacred gratitude, to one of good eating and drinking. Still
there were connected with it many cheerful, and interesting
associations; the return of absent children, the union
of dispersed families around the domestick altar, and the
offering of praise, by the ministers of religion, to the Father
of all. This was a season, when anciently the rich
remembered the poor, and sent portions from their own

tables to the needy. It was the practice in the household
of Madam L— to make a large quantity of pastry,
expressly for the natives of Mohegan. This secured an
almost universal attendance of the females, who holding
a neat basket of their own manufacture, would thankfully
receive in it the luxury for their expectant families. It
was pleasant to Madam L— to see their dark red brows
beam with gentle feelings, and to hear them speaking in
the softest tones, their native language to the little ones
who accompanied them. She knew each by name, and
they would gaze upon her, with the most reverent, and
trusting affection, when she addressed them. This people
are reserved on the subject of their necessities. They
view the wealth of the whites, without envy, or desire of
personal appropriation. If they have been denominated
the “nation of poverty,” they could never have been
justly styled a nation of beggars. Their little store they
freely impart to the wants of another, and cultivate hospitality
as faithfully as they cherish gratitude. By that
sympathy with which a benevolent female enters into the
hearts of her own sex, Madam L— became so well acquainted
with the respective characters of her pensioners,
as to adapt judiciously to each the presents of clothing,
or other useful articles, which at this season she prepared
for them. They possessed so humble a spirit of gratitude
for the gifts bestowed, that none was disposed to cavil if
the portion of her neighbour seemed more valuable; or to
doubt the wisdom of the giver, in doing “what she would
with her own.” Each rejoiced in her individual share of
bounty, and in that which was allotted to others; and
venerated, as a benefactress, her who regarded with interest
an outcast, and perishing race.

One morning, Mr. Occom, and Robert Ashbow were
announced, the minister, and chieftain of the tribe. After
a little conversation, the former said—

“I come, Madam, to take leave of you, and in the
name of my nation, who depart with me, to give you
thanks for your continued kindness. A large part of them
have consented to accompany me to a tract of land, given
them by their brethren of the Oneida tribe, on the condition
of their removing thither, and cultivating it.”

“Is there not already land enough in their possession,
in this vicinity,” said the Lady, “for their subsistence,
if they would attend to its culture?”

“Alas! Madam,” he replied, “my brethren are degenerate
plants. They are but shadows of their ancestors.
I wish to associate their broken spirits with others less
degraded. Peradventure the Almighty, upon this humble
foundation, may yet build a temple to his praise.”

“Do you accompany these emigrants?” inquired the
Lady of the Chief. His melancholy brow seemed to
gather darkness, as he answered haughtily—

“Ask the mother, if she forsakes the cradle of her son,
because disease hath wasted him? Does the bear scorn
to defend her cub, because the arrow of the hunter hath
wounded it? Does the bird hate her nest, while her

offspring are unfledg'd, and helpless? And should not man
be more merciful than the beasts of the field, and wiser
than the fowls of heaven?”

“You are not willing then,” she replied, “that your
tribe should separate from the home of their Fathers.”

“Lady!” said the chieftain sternly, “that man hath
stood before me, day after day, urging, like the prophet
of Israel, let this people go. Like him of Egypt with the
harden'd heart, I long answered, I will not let them go.
But a decree was made plain to my soul. The terrible
blackness of prophecy unfolded itself. I saw written, the
dispersion of all our race. I was dumb. I opened not my
mouth for many days. Then in my bitterness I said—let
them go forth! Such as are for the sword, to the sword;
and such as are for the famine, to the famine; or to the
pestilence; or to the wild beast of the forest. Each, his
own way to the grave—let him go!”

There was a pause of some emotion, and the Chief
added mournfully—

“Long ere our doom was revealed to us, it began to be
accomplished. Where are the Pequots, once numerous
as the stars, whose strong holds ruled the waves of the
sea-coast? Where are the Narragansetts, the natural
enemies of our tribe? They vanished before our nation,
as we now sink beneath yours. All are gone. All—save
a little chaff for the winds to sweep away. I would have
prevented this division of my perishing people. I would
have lifted my voice against it. The words of their Chief

should have prevailed over those of the man of God. But
I saw that Fate had determined evil against us. The
shades of our fallen kings uttered it in my ears. In the
darkness of night-visions, their voice hath entered my
soul. I heard it, as if winds murmured from some hollow
cave—“Our people are water scattered upon the ground.
None shall gather it.”

There was an interval of silence, and then the Lady
expressed, to the unhappy Chief, her good will for his
people. Not heeding the remark, he continued in the
same voice, as if pursuing an unbroken current of thought—

“Who shall break the chain that binds our race to destruction?
Once, it might have been cut by the sword.
But where now is the arm of the warriour? Strength hath
perished from among the people. The avenging spirit
hath lifted his hand against us. Who can stay it? What
matters it, where he shall overtake us, whether upon
the mountain tops, or in the wilderness, or the forest,
where no ray hath penetrated? Wherever we flee, he will
follow, and fulfill the curse. Therefore have I consented
to let my people go, whom else I would have commanded
to shed the last drop of their blood on the tombs
of their fathers. But for me, though I should be left
alone, as a blasted tree upon the desolate rock, yet will I
stay, and pour my last breath where the death-sigh of
my kings arose.”

“It would seem at first view,” said Mr. Occom. “as
if the sentence of extinction were indeed passing upon

our race, as that of dispersion was executed upon the peculiar
people. Yet we hope in the mercy of Him, who
“hateth nothing that he has made.” We pray that his
goodness may yet be manifested in the calling of us, Gentiles.
We trust, Madam, that your favoured race, who
are exalting the country to a glory which under us it could
never have known, will yet impress with civilization and
Christianity, the features of our roving and degraded character.
Then it will be but a small matter to have yielded
to you these perishable possessions, if through you,
we become heirs to the kingdom of heaven.”

“Why are those,” said the Chief, “who expect an inheritance
in the skies, so ready to quarrel about the earth,
their mother? Why are Christians so eager to wrest
from others lands, when they profess that it is gain for
them to leave all, and die? Ah! what hath been the sin
of our nation, above that of all other nations, that our
name must be blotted from among the living? For what
crime is our heritage taken away, and given to another
people? On the land which our fathers gave us, we may
not set our feet, except as strangers. Like shadows we
flee away to our sepulchres. Even these are no longer
ours. Monuments of those whom our fathers knew not,
are there, and the dust of the Indian is scattered by the
winds. Ere long, white men will cease to crush us, for
we will cease to be.”

“Chief of the Mohegans!” said the Pastor “all men,
all nations of men, have sinned. In this world retribution

is not perfect. It becomes not us to contend with Him,
who dealeth more lightly with us than our iniquities deserve.
Saith not that holy book, whose words thy strong
memory so well cherisheth, “wherefore should a living
man complain, a man for the punishment of his sins?”

“Did all our kings, and chiefs,” he inquired “offend
the God of Christians? Why does he thus draw out his
anger to the latest generations? Are we sinners above all
men, that we are made as driven stubble before our enemies?”

“My brother speaks like a native,” said the minister
addressing the Lady. “Oh! that he may yet say as a
Christian, though clouds and darkness are round about
Jehovah, justice and judgment are the foundations of his
throne.”

“God forbid!” said the Chief, “that Robert should
blame the religion of Christians. Shall the snow-wreath
lift itself against the sun-beam? But that religion is for
white men. The God, who ordained it, is angry at the
red man of the forest. He will frown upon him until he
die. Let him pray then to that Great Spirit who watched
over his fathers, whether his throne be amid the roll of
mighty waters, or where the tempest folds its wings.
The white man may seek the God who loveth him, who
hath given him a book from heaven, and continually calleth
to the torn that he will heal, to the smitten that he
will bind him up. But where shall the poor Indian turn
in his sorrow, but to that spirit of mystery, which hath led

him on through darkness, all his life long? He was hungry,
and his bow satisfied him. Thirsty, and drank of
the brook. He dies, and will He, who nourished his body,
slay his soul? Can the spirit, which He breathed into
clay, perish like the gale which sighs once, and is not?
Doth not the smoke ascend, and the cinders go downward
to the earth, when the fuel that fed the flame is consumed?”

“Connect your natural religion, with that which is revealed
from above,” said the Pastor. “Whether you
call Him who ruleth over all, the Great Spirit, or Jehovah,
strive to enter into his Heaven. To whom do the
promises of the gospel address themselves with more force,
than to a race like ours, homeless and despised?”

“I know that the shades of my fathers live,” he replied,
“but not in the white man's Heaven. On earth they
lived not as brothers, though ye say that one Father
created them. Ye say that in your Heaven, they “go
no more out. But the spirit of the red man must wander;
as on earth, so in heaven. If it might not rove, it
would faint amid the islands of bliss. Your holy book
tells of the great city in Heaven, the New-Jerusalem,
which is built of pure gold. It is described with gates of
pearl, and streets of transparent glass. Our Heaven is not
so. The poor Indian would fear to enter such a glorious
place. He is contented to lie down in the forest, whose
lofty columns prop the blue arch of the skies, and to see
the moon look forth in brightness from her midnight throne,

This is splendour enough for his untutor'd soul. He loves
not the pomp of cities. He loves better to stand on the
cliff, where the cloud rests, and gaze upon the troubled
ocean, while the voice of its storms dies beneath his feet.
He loves to feel himself to be but as a drop in its bosom,
swallowed up in the vast and awful creation. Ye say that
your Jehovah is a God of wisdom. Will he then carry to
one place souls, which like contending elements, can have
no communion? Would he kindle war in Heaven if he be
a Spirit of love?”

Mr. Occom, raised his eyes upwards, as if they uttered
“Thy light alone, is able to dissolve this darkness!” Preparing
to depart, he approached the Lady, and said,—

“I could not leave this part of the country, Madam,
without saying to you, that your bounty, and that of your
deceased partner can never be forgotten, either by the natives
who go, or by those who remain behind. In their
prayers, they will commend you to that God whom in
truth you worship. My people were hungry, and you
have given them bread. Naked, and you clothed them.
Sick, and you visited them. Lady! I seek not to praise
man, but God, who hath breathed goodness into his heart.
Yet there is written a book of remembrance, and the righteous
need not shrink from it in the day of scrutiny, for
the traces of errour, over which Repentance weeps, shall
be blotted out in the blood of Calvary. Farewell, blessed
Lady! When, before the throne of mercy, you remember
the sorrowful, let the outcast Indian share in your petitions.”

The sorrow-stricken Chief drew near, and bowed with
the deepest reverence upon the hand which was extended
to him.

“Think not that Robert condemneth all thy race. Out
of the bitterness of a heavy heart hath he spoken. Yet
he can see the dew-drop sparkling in its pureness, amid
the darkest path. He can distinguish the “herb of life,”
though the venomous vine overshadow it. He can love
those, who shall hereafter be angels, though he come not
himself into their holy place.”

Soon after the departure of these visitants, Dr. L—
entered, and said,—

“The affliction, which our Church expected, has arrived.
Her venerable pastor, Dr. L*** is dead. The “ides
of March” 1784, will long be remembered in her annals
as a time of mourning.”

“I have frequently thought,” she replied, “that, if
anniversaries of both our sorrows and our joys were
faithfully kept, the dealings of the Almighty would be
more deeply impressed on the heart, for its “instruction
in righteousness.” A tablet of individual, domestick, and
social vicissitudes, would serve as a monument to recall
the past, and as a way-mark to direct the future. The
record of our adversities is not easily forgotten; but, when
the Sun of Mercy beams upon us, we do not always, like
the Israelites, set up a stone of remembrance, and say
“hitherto hath the Lord helped us.” Our beloved minister
has departed, full of days, and full of honour. Four

score and ten years were appointed him, yet but a short
time has elapsed, since he spoke to us from the pulpit.
The tones of his voice were dear to me, and his countenance
ever restored the memory of scenes of happiness, in
which his friendship had participated, or of affliction, in
which his piety had administered consolation.”

“How majestic was his presence,” he answered,
“when he enforced the obligations of conscience, and the
terrours of the law. He spoke with a power that forced
the guilty to tremble. With what an overflowing fullness
would his mind illustrate points, which the thoughtless had
deemed of minor importance? In prayer his solemnity
was so striking, that I think none could listen to him,
without revering that devotion by which he was inspired.”

“I have been peculiarly impressed with this, my brother,
during the exciting events of our recent war. In his
humility for our occasional defeat, his gratitude for deliverances,
his thanksgiving at the result, he seemed to pour
out his whole soul, in all that variety of sacred language,
with which the prophets recite the battles of the hosts of
Israel. Yet there were some who were fatigued with the
length of his orisons, and others who objected to the narrations
which they contained. The nurse of my niece,
who was a member of the Church of England, remarked
that his prayers seemed principally intended, to “convey
information to the Lord.”

“Were Gabriel on earth,” he replied, “there would

undoubtedly be some to object to the strain of his devotion.
I have heard our departed minister censured for
credulity, because in one or two instances, he gave thanks
for victory, which afterwards proved a defeat. But, amid
the variety of rumours which, during our long war, often
deceived professed politicians, how could he be expected
always to discern between correct and false information;
he, whose integrity of soul would render him one of the
last to suspect others. I have recently heard, also, some
uneasiness expressed at the length of his sermons. It
seems that some of our audience have tutored their minds
to perform so skilfully the office of an hour-glass, that they
can ascertain the moment, when the speaker passes the
limit of sixty minutes. All beyond is to them weariness
and vanity. They are not indifferent to any other species
of gain; but “goodly pearls without price” are scorned
if they are presented in large numbers, or in a capacious
casket. Yet these cavillers are principally among the
younger part of our auditors, who have not yet attained
the piety of their fathers. They feel the winter's cold,
or the summer's heat, more sensibly than the peril of their
souls. If the stoves and the furs of Russia could be introduced
into our places of worship, changing an inclement
season into the softness of Spring, I fear that even then
they would scarcely listen, without murmuring, to a discourse
of an hour and a half in length. Ah! I fear that
days are coming, when sound doctrine must be stinted,
both in weight and measure; and when it will be thought
necessary, so to refine and gild truth, as to destroy its
specific nature. So that there may yet be a time, when
the spirit of the gospel will be held secondary to the
vehicle in which it is presented, and men will hear sermons,
not for the purpose of laying conscience open to
their power, but to employ the mind in criticism upon
their construction. Our aged Pastor might have had the
satisfaction of reflecting, that he never curtailed the copiousness
of his theme, or allayed its pungency, for the accommodation
of “ears polite.”

“To me,” she replied “his performances were ever
consistent with each other, and with the holy dignity of
one appointed to lead “the sacramental host of God's
elect.” And it has given me great pleasure, in my visits
to him during his decline, to perceive, that his strenuousness
about particular doctrines had become absorbed in
the sublimity of the great plan of salvation. While we
are ascending the hill of life, little obstructions or aids seem
of great importance; but when we reach the summit, if
the Sun of Glory beam there, the whole journey appears
but as one path of light. His happy spirit wondered
where were the obstacles that had impeded its course.
They vanished, when it sat so peacefully on the threshold
of the gate of Heaven.”

“This I have also observed, my sister, in recent conversation
with him. Undoubtedly, many of those opinions,
which we now defend with asperity, will appear
divested of importance, when the light of another world

shines upon them. Our clergyman seemed to gather gentleness
and charity, while he went downward to the grave,
as the sun sheds a more serene lustre, when “he trembles
at the gates of the west.” I witnessed an affecting
occurrence of this nature, in the chamber of his sickness.
The Divine of a neighbouring township differed from him,
in the interpretation of a particular doctrine, and a dispute
on this point had been conducted with considerable
acrimony. Like the strife between Paul and Barnabas, it
caused a suspension of their accustomed intercourse. For
many years, their friendly exchange of pulpits had ceased.
A meeting between them was effected, by Mr. S—,
the young colleague, and successor of our departed guide.
They pressed each other's hands, and tears fell down like
rain. “Brother!” said the dying clergyman, raising himself
on his couch, “underneath thee be the everlasting
arms. One thing is needful. I trust that we both have
faith in our Redeemer, and shall dwell together eternally,
where one spirit of love pervadeth all.” Those who know
with what tenacity learned men of ardent temperament
adhere to their favourite theories, will fully estimate the
extent of this sacrifice.”

“It does more honour to his piety,” she answered,
“than all the books of controversy, which he could have
written. To contend, is the dictate of our nature; to
desist from strife, the victory of a divine motive. This
reconciliation must have been highly satisfactory to the
benevolent feelings of our young minister. His filial

deportment toward this patriarch in the Church, and the
solemnity with which he administers the appointed ordinances,
reflect honour upon the religion which he professes.
In prayer, he condenses, as it were, the spirit of devotion,
and gives it force even among the inattentive. I have
seldom heard any thing more pathetic than his performances
in the house which Death has entered, where there
is such an expressive adaptation of manner, countenance,
and supplication, to the sorrows of the mourner, and the
desires of the penitent heart.”

“These excellencies,” said Dr. L—, “he possesses
in an eminent degree; and his union, with one of our most
ancient and respectable families, affords reason to hope
that he will continue with us. In length of days, and in
exemplary piety, may he equal his revered predecessor,
that “mighty man so eloquent in the Scriptures.” To
us, who are going down into the dust, many would deem it
of little importance, who shall stand as a watchman upon
the walls of Zion. Yet it ought never to be a matter of
indifference, who shall be the spiritual guide of our children.
Those, who desire religion to be honoured when
they are no more, should not only teach their descendants
to obey its precepts, but to revere its ministers.