 | CHAPTER XII. Sketch of Connecticut, forty years since |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
Sad parting friends around the waters stray,
Yet shall dark Fate their distant steps pursue;
Alike with those who go, and those who stay,
The withering curse shall stalk, companion of their way.”
On the ensuing Sunday, Mr. Occom gave his farewell
discourse to the separating tribe. It was founded on
that part of Scripture, which describes the division of land
among the people brought out of Egypt, and the departure
of the half tribe of Manasseh, to a distant inheritance
with the Reubenites, and Gadites—“Now to one-half of
this tribe, Moses had given possession in Bashan: but
unto the other half thereof, gave Joshua a possession,
among their brethren on the other side of Jordon westward.”
The object of his address was to calm the current
of perturbed feelings, to strengthen the ground of
confidence in Him who “who appointeth the bounds of
man's habitation,” and to enforce the motives of faithful
obedience to his commands. The following day, all Mohegan
were assembled upon the banks of the river. There
lay the boats, prepared to convey to their distant abode
the emigrants, whose number was about two hundred.
There were sorrowful countenances, and solemn partings,
and mutual good wishes, and blessings. Amid the throng,
the lofty figure of the young warriour Ontologon was seen,
each other, and she would have joined his enterprize,
but the sickness of an infirm mother incited duty to conquer
love.
“Would to God, that I might lead thee by the hand to
my boat,” said the dark eyed youth. “I would throw
over thee an awning of the deer-skin, and neither wind
or rain should visit thee. Our voyage should be prosperous,
because thou wert with me, and in storms the Great
Spirit would have mercy upon me for thy sake. I would
build thee a cabin in our new country, and thou shouldest
be all the world to me.”
“Ontologon,” said the maiden, “thou art young, and
thy arm is strong. Thou art sufficient to thine own subsistence,
thine own joys. My mother languishes, and is
sick—who shall feed her? If I depart with thee, who shall
comfort her? Hath she any other child, to make the corn
grow around her habitation, or to seek in the woods those
roots which ease her pains? Her groans would raise
from its sepulchre the spirit of my father. It would
curse the daughter who could forsake, for her own pleasures,
the cry of misery in that home, where her own infant
cries were soothed. It would frown on her who could bid
to make her own grave that mother whose breast had given
her nourishment. That frown would wither my soul,
even while thy love cherished it. Tempt me no more
Ontologon. The sound of thy voice is sweeter to my ear,
than the song of the bird making its first nest in the spring.
fixed.”
“I will not leave thee, Zenelasie, said the lover. My
boat shall pursue the fish into the deepest waters, and my
arrow bring the birds from the highest boughs for thee.
Thou shalt watch by the couch of thy mother; but let
me be thy husband, Zenelasie, and sustain the heart that
pours life into hers.”
“Thou hast given thy word to the chiefs and warriours,”
she answered. “Make not thyself false for a
woman. I will not see the finger pointed at thee, and
hear the brave say, Ontologon hath no soul. Thou wouldst
soon be as the chained lion, for love is a fleeting flame.
Oh! son of Lodonto. It falls like a band of snow from the
breast of the warriour. The heart has other voices, than
those which it utters in the spring, in the bloom of flowers.
Be wise, and it shall breathe music, when the frosts
of winter shall come, and the flowers are faded. Go then
where are wider waters, and hihger mountains than these.
The eye of the pale race blasts our glory. We fleet before
them, as the brook vanishes in the summer. Go
then to the country, where are none but red men, and
let thy name be among their bravest.”
The dark brow'd youth replied, “Ah! whither shall
we go, and not hear the speech of the white man? If we
hide in the thickest forest, he is there, and the loftiest
trees fall before him. If we dive beneath the darkest
waters, his ships cover them, ere we can rise again. We
he is there before us. He speaks, and our wigwams vanish,
and his cities spring up, like the mushroom, in one
night. It is written upon the earth, and in the sky, that
the Indians must perish, and the white man blot out
his name. Yet fear not that the soul of Ontologon shall
bow. No! he will go to another land where the ancient
spirit of his race hath yet a little resting-place, “like a
wayfaring man, who tarrieth for a night.” When it slumbers,
he will awake it; when it departs, he will follow it.
If it die, he will die also, and there shall his grave be.
Ontologon will be first among the hunters, and captain
among the brave. He will gain a name for thy sake, and
when thy mother sleeps where is no waking, he will return
and claim thee.”
“Go then warriour!” said the maiden, throwing off the
melancholy that had marked her tone. Go, bold son of
Lodonto, whose arm was mighty in battle. Yet speak
not of the death of her who bore me. I will guard her
as the apple of my eye. Who knoweth but she may yet
rise up from her sorrows, as the drooping willow rises after
the storm? Who knows but she may yet lay her head on
my grave, and mourn. A little while, and I shall no longer
see thy noble form, towering above the loftiest. I will
watch thee, as thy oars bear thee from our shore. When
thy boat is as a speck, I shall know it, from those which
surround it. When it loses itself in darkness, I will lay
my face in the dust, and weep. But what are the tears
of the fame of our fathers, ere the glory departed from
them. When the Sun sinks to his rest, or rising reddens
the hill-tops, and I speak to Him whom the eye seeth not,
thy name, Ontologon, will be first,—last in my prayer. I
would not that thou shouldst know all the weakness of my
heart. Be thou strong in the day of evil, and the Great
Spirit give thee a name among thy race.”
Scarcely had she finished speaking, when the Pastor of
the tribe, having ended his private farewells, and benedictions,
advanced to the centre of the circle. His head
was uncovered, and traces of emotion were visible on his
brow. Waving his hand the throng separated, those who
were to depart, from those who were to remain. There
was a brief and heavy silence, during which he past his
hand over his eyes. Then, gathering firmness as he proceeded,
he spoke with the tenderness of a father, who
sees the children, whom he has reared, departing from
the paternal abode; yet with the solemnity of a spiritual
teacher, who desires above all things, the edification of his
flock.
“Think ye not, as ye thus divide, neighbour from neighbour,
and friend from friend, and parent from child—think
ye not of that eternal separation at the last day, where on
one side shall be anthems of joy, on the other wailing and
gnashing of teeth? And what hand shall then remove you
one from another, as “a shepherd divideth the sheep
from the goats?” What hand, but that which was pierced
you within the Ark of the Covenant? See that ye refuse
not Him who speaketh from Heaven; for there remaineth
no other sacrifice for sin. Hoary heads arise here and
there among you. Fathers! God only knoweth whether
I shall see your faces again on earth. I charge ye by the
fear of Jehovah, by the love of Christ, by the consolations
of the Holy Spirit, that ye look upon my face with joy,
when this earth, and these heavens shall vanish like a
scroll. Here also stand those, whom age has not bowed
down—the youth in his strength—and the babe of a few
summers. Remember that Death hath set his seal upon
you also. He forgetteth none born of woman. Many
herbs are cut down or wither in their greenness. Few are
brought to the harvest, fully ripe. See that none of you
disobey Him, whose anger ye cannot bear. If you hear
my voice no more upon earth, remember, whenever you
stand upon this river's brink, that I warned you with tears
to make your Judge your friend. See that not one of you,
“drink the wine of the wrath of God, which is poured
out without mixture,” where is no hope.”
Kneeling upon the young turf, he commended them in
fervent supplication, to the keeping of an Almighty Protector;
and rising, gave his paternal benediction to all.
Laying his hand upon the head of John Cooper, whom he
desired should be a shepherd to his flock, until his next visitation,
he said, “receive him! he hath corrupted no man, he
hath defrauded no man.”—“The blessing of the Almighty
dews refresh the new branch of thy planting, and his sunbeams
remember the broken tree thou leavest behind
thee. Saith not his holy word “that there is hope of a
tree, if it be cut down that it will sprout again, and that
the tender branch thereof will not cease?” Thus may it
be with our people—with our Church. Though the root
thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof die in
the ground, yet through the scent of water may it bud,
and bring forth boughs as a plant.” Amen! said their
Pastor, and bowing himself to the people, turned his steps
downward to the water. This was understood as the signal
for departure, and every emigrant entered his boat. It
had been concerted that a parting hymn should be sung,
expressive of their sympathies and devout hopes. It rose
in deep and solemn melody from the waters, while the
measured stroke of the oar gave it energy, as it softened
in distance. From the shore the response swelled fitfully,
and in its cadence were heard the voices of those
that wept. It was like the music on the coast of Labrador,
where, amid the cold blasts, the poor Esquimaux
raises his anthem, at the departure of their yearly mission
ship, which brings relief to his poverty, and sheds
light on his darkness. It was like the music of the Jews,
at the foundation of their second temple, where the sound
of cymbal and trumpet, could not be distinguished from
“the noise of the weeping” of those who remembered
the glory of their first holy and beautiful house. At length
sob upon the shore. Each might be seen, slowly taking
his way to his respective abode, yet often lingering to try
if, amid the diminishing throng, the brother could distinguish
the boat of his brother, or the father that of his
son. Last of all Zenelasie was seen, wrapping her head
in her mantle, and flying like a young roe to the habitation
of her mother.
But long after her departure, the form of Robert, the
mournful Chief, was discovered slowly pacing the bank
of the river. He had spoken a few words, with animated
gesture to the remainder of his tribe, ere they dispersed,
and had then sought to conceal himself from them.
His pride would not permit his heart to unburthen itself
in their presence, or to reveal to his inferiours how deeply
it was pierced. He wandered silently onward, his head
declined upon his breast, until he reached the solitary
recess, which still bears the name of “the chair of Uncas.”
It is a rude seat, formed by Nature in the rock, and so encompassed
with masses of the same material, and embosomed
in the thicket, as to be almost impervious to the eye,
except from the water. When, in the seventeenth centutury,
the fort of that monarch was invested by the Narragansetts,
and his people perishing with famine, he took
measures to inform the English of their perilous situation,
and was found seated in this rude recess, anxiously watching
the river, when those supplies arrived which rescued
him from destruction. These were conveyed in a large
man of the name of Leffingwell, to whom Uncas,
as a testimony of gratitude, gave a large tract of land,
comprising the whole of the present town of N—.
There that king sat, on the throne furnished by Nature, with
no guard, but the shapeless columns of stone, whose mossy
helmets waved over him, and no canopy but the midnight
cloud, listening with throbbing heart, for the dash of that
oar, on which hung his only hope. At a distance were his
famishing people, and his besieging foes holding the war-dance,
which preceded their morning battle, and their expected
victory. On the same seat, after the lapse of more
than a hundred years, reclined this lonely Chief of a diminished
and dispersed tribe. Behind him was no fort,
no warriours. Upon the still waters, where his eye rested,
was no hope. The setting Sun threw his lustre over
them for a moment, as if they were an expanse of liquid
silver, and illumined the bold, broad forehead of the
Chieftain, half-hidden by his dark clustering locks, over
which a slight tinge of snow had been scattered, not by
time, but by sorrow. He watched the last rays, and as
they faded into twilight exclaimed in agony, “Thou
shalt rise again in glory;—but for us there is no returning,
—no dawn.” He concealed his brow with his hands, and
his bursts of grief were long, and passionate. None were
there to report, “I saw my Chief mourning.” Day, at
her return, found him in the same spot—in the same attitude,
as when she sank to repose. Starting, as her beams
left communing with the shades of his fathers, and sought
the remnant of his people.
| CHAPTER XII. Sketch of Connecticut, forty years since | |