 | CHAPTER XVI. Sketch of Connecticut, forty years since |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
Warm, grateful hearts, to feeling never cold;
Thus the rough husk, and rind impervious, hide
The luscious Cocoa, with its milky tide.”
Spring, with her varying charms, was now every day
dispensing some new gift to the earth. The tardiness of
her first advance was compensated by the rapidity with
which she changed every thing subject to her influence;
as a timid child, ripening into the loveliness of womanhood,
glides gracefully through those paths, which her
feet at first trembled to approach. The period was arriving,
when the two most delightful seasons of the year
stand, as it were, on each other's boundary, blend their
unfinish'd work, dip their pencils in each other's dies, and
like the rival goddesses, contend before the sons of earth
for the palm of beauty. Even the rude settlement of the
children of the forest put on its beautiful garments. They,
whom their more fortunate brethren scarcely admitted
within the scale of humanity, were not shut out by pitying
nature from her smiles, or her exuberance. Through
the rich green velvet of her fields, the pure fountains looked
up with chrystal eyes, in silent joy. Bolder streams
murmured over rocky beds, occasionally falling in cascades,
like a restless spirit afflicted with the turmoils, and
tossings of the world. Wild flowers expanded their petals,
or soaring high, poured louder tones of transport, until
it seemed that every thicket, and every wave of air uttered
the strain, “Thou makest the outgoings of the morning,
and of the evening to rejoice.”
The abode of old Zachary and Martha felt the influence
of this enlivening season. Already their aromatic herbs
yielded a pure essence to the busy inhabitants of the hives,
and their cow cropped with delight the juicy food of her
little pasture. A rose-bush near their door displayed its
swelling buds, and the woodbine protruded its young tendrils,
to reach the window of the invalid. But within the
walls, was Age which knew no spring, and Youth, fading
like a blasted flower; night that could know no dawning,
and a morn that must never ascend to noon. The day had
closed over the inhabitants of that peaceful habitation.
The old warriour, and his wife were seated in the room
appropriated to their mysterious guest. Reclining in a
chair, which the ingenuity of Zachary had so constructed
as to answer the purposes of both seat and couch, and wrapped
in a loose dress of light calico, she watched the rising
of the full, round, silver moon, like one who loves its
beams, yet feels that he must soon bid it a returnless farewell.
The bright, brown locks of that beautiful being,
twined in braids around a head of perfect symmetry, and
falling in profuse curls over her brow, formed a strong
contrast to the snow of her cheek, and seemed to deepen
the hue of her soft, blue eye. But the snows of her cheek
loveliness Death lends, as a signal of his approaching triumph.
Sometimes, it gave to her eye a ray of such unearthly
brightness, that the tender-hearted Martha could
not gaze on it without a tear. She had remarked with
grief to her husband, that the form of the uncomplaining
victim was becoming rapidly emaciated, and respiration
feeble and laborious, and that all her culinary arts were
exerted in vain to stimulate appetite. The invalid gazed
long at the moon, with her forehead resting on a hand of
purest whiteness, which, partially shaded by the rich curls
that hung over it, seemed to display the flexile fingers of
childhood. Turning her eyes from the beautiful orb, she
observed those of the aged couple bent upon her with intense
earnestness. A long pause ensued. Something, that
refused utterance, seemed to agitate her. But they, marking
the emotion which varied a countenance usually so
serene and passionless, forebore to break the silence lest
they should interrupt her musings, and dreaded to hear her
speak, lest it should be of separation. At length, a voice
tremulous, and musical as the tones of a broken harp, was
heard to say—
“Father! you may recollect hearing me mention that
I was educated a child of the Church of England. I love
her sacred services, though I have long been divided
from them. A clergyman of that order lives within a
few miles of us. I feel a desire to see him, and once
my request to him, Father?”
“The feet of Zachary shall travel any where for the
comfort of his daughter,” said the old warriour, rising to
receive a letter which she held towards him.
“I knew it would be necessary to give some explanation
of my birth and education, before I could expect the
favour which my heart desires. You see now, Father,
why I requested you to procure a few sheets of paper
from the town. I have written in few words, for my hand
is weak. Perhaps I may yet intrust to the man of God
all my history, if I shall be strengthened to record it.”
Pausing, she added, “But it must not meet his eye, till
mine is closed.”
Martha rose, with that undefinable sensation which moves
us to shrink from any subject by which our feelings are
agonized, and throwing up the casement for a moment,
through which the soft, humid air of Spring breathed,
said—
“Have you seen, Oriana, how your woodbine grows?
Soon it will be raising up its young blossoms to look at
you, through the window.”
“It will remind you of me, kind Mother,” she said,
“and may its fragrance be soothing to you, even as your
tenderness has been to the lonely, and withering heart.”
Again there was silence, and then the aged man, raising
his head from his bosom where it had declined, spake in
distinct.
“Daughter! I understand thee. It is vain that we
strive to conceal from each other a truth, with which we
are all acquainted. I am glad that thou hast spoken thy
mind to us. Yet is my soul at this moment weak as that
of an infant, though in battle no eye hath seen me turn to
shun the death, which I dealt to others. My daughter!
Zachary could lie down in his grave, and not tremble.
Yet his heart is soft, when he sees one so young, and beautiful,
falling like the green leaf before the blast. Zachary
is old, but his mind is selfish. He had desired to look
on thy brow, during the short space that he hath yet to
measure. He hath prayed the Eternal, that his ears might
continue to hear thy voice; for it was sweet to them.
His heart wished to have something to love, which should
not be as himself, every day decaying like the tree stripped
of its branches, and mouldering at the root. But
he must humble his heart. Thou hast told him that God
giveth grace unto the humble. Thou hast read unto
him, from thine holy book, till he has bowed in penitence,
and sought with tears in the silent midnight for
salvation through Christ. What shall he, and Martha
do, when thou art taken from them? Who will have
patience with their ignorance, as thou hast done? Who
will kindly teach them the true way of life? Ask I what
we shall do, as if we had yet an hundred years to dwell
thou art hastening.”
“Whither I go, ye know,” answered the same sweet,
solemn voice, “and the way ye know. Hope in Him
whom ye have believed. Like me, ye must soon slumber
in the dust; but His power shall raise ye up at the
last day. The Eternal, in whose sight shades of complexion,
and distinctions of rank are as nothing, He who looketh
only upon the heart, bless you for your love to the
outcast, and lead you to that abode, where all which is benevolent,
and pure shall be gathered, and sundered no
more.”
She then laid her hand on her Prayer-book, which with
a small bible was always near her on the table, and Martha
rose to light the lamp, which had hitherto been neglected.
“It is in vain, Mother!” she said “with a lamb-like
smile. “I am too much exhausted to say with you my
evening prayer. Pray for yourselves, and for me, that we
may meet where is no infirmity or pain, and where sorrow
fleeteth away.”
Then, as if regretting that the night should draw over
them without their accustomed devotions, looking upward
she repeated with deep pathos, a few verses from the
fourteenth of John.
“Let not your heart be troubled. Ye believe in God,
believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions,”
&c.
The old warriour rising to take his leave for the night,
held his hands over her head, and pronounced in deep tones
the blessing of his nation. This he retained probably
from early associations, though he was now the disciple
of a better faith.
“The Great Spirit, who dwelleth where the Sun hideth
himself, and where the tempest is born, guide thee with
strength. He who maketh the earth fruitful, and the sky
bright, and the heart of man glad, smile on thee, and give
thee rest.”
Martha remained to render some attentions to the sufferer.
She removed her gently from her reposing seat to
the bed, gave her an infusion which was useful to repel inflammation,
and quiet restlesness. But she dared not trust
her voice beyond a whisper, lest it should yield wholly
to her emotion. After her services were completed, she
lingered, as if unwilling to leave the pillow of the sufferer.
“Mother!” said the broken voice, “kind, tender mother,
go to thy rest. Oriana hath now no pain. Sleep will
descend upon her. She will not leave thee this night.
But soon she must begin her journey to the land of souls.
What then? She hath hope in her death, to pass from darkness
to eternal sunshine. Weep not, mother! but lift
your heart to the Father of consolation. I believe that
whither I go, thou shalt come also. I shall return no
more; but thou and thy beloved shall come unto me.
There will be scarcely time to mourn, ere, like the gliding
of a shadow, the parents shall follow their child.”
A celestial smile was upon her brow, which would have
cheered the grief of the aged woman, but for the reflection
she must so soon behold it no more. So strongly did
her affectionate heart cling to this cherished object, that
sorrow shuddered at the thought that the beautiful tabernacle
must be dissolved, even while Faith shadowed forth
the joy of the liberated spirit.
The first rays of the sun found Zachary on the way to
the clergyman whom Oriana had designated. He paused
not on his weary journey. Travellers who passed him,
had they thought it fitting to bestow so much attention on
an Indian, might have perceived that tears occasionally
rolled over the furrows of his cheek, or hung upon his eye-lashes,
which like a fringe of silver, resembled in colour
the few hairs which were scattered upon his temples.
“Zachary's heart is proud,” he would say, in communing
with himself. “The good prophet, when the desire
of his eyes was removed with a stroke, wept not,
neither made lamentation. It was so, for she read it to
me. She, who will soon open her blessed bible no more.
And Martha, she will grieve more than Zachary, for her
heart is weaker. Be strong, old warriour, that thou mayest
comfort the woman. Thou, whose heart did never
shrink in battle, what aileth thee, that it is now dissolved?
Thou art old, Zachary, and thy hairs are like snow;
wherefore shouldst thou mourn any more, for what the
world taketh away?” Gathering strength from these meditations,
his step became firm, and his head erect, as he
resided. Presenting the letter, the reverend man
perused it, and said with affectionate feeling—
“My brother, I will come to-morrow to your house.”
The afternoon of the succeeding day, the clergyman
was seen fastening his horse to the fence that enclosed the
garden of Zachary. He approached with the slow step,
and benevolent countenance, which were indicative of his
character. Firmness in the truth, and mildness in the expression
of it distinguished his conversation among men.
Filial trust in his God taught him to consider all as brethren,
and no hand raised the bruised reed more tenderly
than his. When a child, the amusements of that
giddy period had no charms for him, in comparison with
those studies which nourish intellect. Thirteen summers
had not past over him ere he made his election in
favour of that Church to which he faithfully devoted the
remainder of his life. So uninfluenced was this determination,
that his parents and friends, who belonged to a
different sect, were ignorant of the arguments by which
his belief was fortified until he adduced them as a reason
of “the hope that was in him.” After spending his
youth in collegiate studies, he found that the sect to which
he had devoted himself was so far from enjoying popularity,
that not a single person existed in this country, to
administer to him the vows of ordination. He crossed the
Atlantic, and received holy orders from the Bishop of
London, in 1768. From that period he had been connected
attachment to the flock, and to the faith which he had
taught it, was among the warmest affections of his heart.
During the reign of those strong passions which our revolutionary
struggle excited, the single circumstance of his
adherence to the Church of England created him enemies
among the more violent partizans, both political and
puritanical. His amiable virtues, and pious life were as
dust in the balance which the hand of enmity poised. For
three years the doors of his church were closed; but, from
house to house, he broke the bread of life to his little
flock, exhorting them to submit to “principalities and
powers.” In this day of darkness, he was pressed to receive
a lucrative clerical establishment in England; but
he chose to adhere to the little community which he had
planted, through “evil report and good report.” Now
the rage of contest had subsided, and he again led his beloved
followers to the sanctuary to pay their stated services
to the God of peace and consolation. When, on the
first Sunday after their exile, they convened in their consecrated
temple, such was the saintly expression of his
countenance, and such the effect of his remarkably melodious
voice, as he uttered “From the rising of the sun,
even unto the going down of the same, my name shall be
great among the Gentiles, and in every place incense shall
be offered unto my name, and a pure offering,” and such
were the recollections, tender, melancholy, and soothing,
which arose at the appearance of their venerated pastor
with their devotions, and sobs ascended with their
praises.
Such was the man who, like a shepherd seeking his
sheep in remote places, now entered the abode of Zachary
and Martha. He received their respectful salutations
with that smile for which he was distinguished—a
smile which seemed the irradiation of a spirit, whose
light was not kindled beneath the stars. He appeared
struck with the exceeding beauty of the stranger; and,
comparing it with the rude apartment, and the dark faces
of her aged attendants, he could scarcely forbear exclaiming,
“verily we have this treasure in earthern vessels,
but the excellency of the power is of God, and not
of man.” After a conversation of considerable length
with the invalid, during which he became fully satisfied of
her religious education, correct belief, and happy spiritual
state, he prepared to administer to her that most holy
rite which her soul desired. Exhausted by the efforts of
discourse, and by the warmth of her gratitude for the approaching
privilege, she laid herself on her couch, as a
pale lilly surcharged with dew reclines its head upon the
stalk. Zachary and Martha rose to depart.
“These are Christians,” Oriana remarked, “in heart
and in life. They have been baptized many years since,
by Mr. Occom, their departed minister. I can bear witness
that they know, and love the truth. May they not
partake with us, to the edification of their souls?”
The clergyman, regarding them steadfastly, but kindly,
inquired—
“Are ye in perfect charity with all men?”
Bowing himself down, the old warriour replied solemnly—
“We are. Your religion has taught even us Indians, to
forgive our enemies.”
“Approach then,” said the minister of Heaven, “approach,
ye who do truly, and earnestly repent you of your
sins, and are in love and charity with your neighbours, and
intend to lead a new life, following the commandments of
God.”
They kneeled by the bed of the sufferer. Often did
the tears roll in tides over the face of old Martha, and the
strong frame of the warriour tremble with emotion, as
that voice so deep-ton'd, so sweet, so solemn poured, in
its varying modulation, the sublime language of the most
holy office of religion, through the breathless silence of
their abode. But she, who, reduced to the weakness of
infancy, might have been supposed to be the most agitated,
was as calm and unmoved as the lake, on which shines
nothing but the beam of heaven. Raised above every
cause of earthly excitement, she seemed to have a foretaste
of the happy consummation that awaited her. And,
when the clergyman, with uplifted eyes, pronounced the
“Gloria in excelsis,” a voice of such thrilling, exquisite
melody warbled from the couch, “Glory to God in the
highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men,”
that the harp of angels, was once more pouring the advent
melody over the vallies of Bethlehem. The heart
of the good man was touched, and a tear starting to his
mild eye, attested the accordance of his soul with the
sympathies of the scene. His voice faltered as he uttered
the benediction, to which the aged warriour, bowing
his face to the earth, pronounced distinctly, Amen.
A pause of several minutes ensued after this holy ordinance.
Each seemed fearful of interrupting the meditation
of another; and all felt as if a human voice would be
almost profanation amidst the heavenly calmness which
had descended upon them. Every Christian, who has
participated with sincere, and elevated devotion in this
sacred banquet, must have been sensible how empty, and
even painful are the first approaches of worldly conversation
to the sublimated spirit. Like Moses, admitted to
the mysterious mountain, she dreads too suddenly to mingle
with the multitude at its base; happy if, like him, she
may illumine the brow with celestial brightness, as a witness
of her communion with the Eternal.
The clergyman at length broke the silence by inquiring,
with his native benevolence, if there were not some article
of comfort which might alleviate her sufferings, and which
she would permit him to procure; or if she would not
wish to consult a physician on the nature of her disease.
“I desire nothing,” she added, “but what the care of
these kind beings provide for me. Their knowledge of
and soothing remedies, drawn from the bosom of
that earth to which I am returning. With the nature of
my disease I am acquainted. I saw all its variations in
my mother, for whom the utmost exertions of professional
skill availed nothing. I feel upon my heart a cold
hand, and where it will lead me, I know. You, reverend
Father, can give me all that my brief earthly pilgrimage
requires. You can speak to me of the hope of Heaven,
when my ear is closed to the sound of other voices; and,
when my eye grows dim in death, it will brighten to behold,
and bless you.”
Pressing her hand, the servant of peace and consolation
took his leave, promising frequently to visit her, and entreating
her to rely upon his friendship. Zachary and
Martha followed him. Even the skirts of his garment
were dear to them, since he had imparted comfort to their
beloved one. Shaking hands with each, as he mounted
his horse, he said, “I see that she will not long tarry with
you. She is ready to commune with angels, and hasten to
join them. What a privilege have you enjoyed in her instructions!
Pray that ye may tread in her steps.” They
stood gazing at him, till his form faded in distance, and
the warriour, whose retentive memory was stored with many
passages of scripture, gathered from the daily readings
of Oriana, repeated as he returned to her—“How beautiful
upon the mountains are the feet of the messenger,
that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace, that
saith unto Zion, thy God reigneth.”
| CHAPTER XVI. Sketch of Connecticut, forty years since | |