The beautiful precept, "Do unto others as you would that they should
do unto you," is drawn from our Lord's sermon on the mount, and should
be observed by all professing Christians. But unless we are truly his
children, we can never observe this great command as we ought.
History records the fact that the Roman emperor Severus was so much
struck with the moral beauty and purity of this sentiment, that he
ordered the "Golden Rule," to be inscribed upon the public buildings
erected by him. Many facts may be stated, by which untutored heathen
and savage tribes in their conduct have put to shame many of those
calling themselves Christians, who have indeed the form of godliness,
but by their words and actions deny the power of it. One such fact we
here relate.
Many years ago, on the outskirts of one of our distant new
settlements, was a small but neat and pretty cottage, or homestead,
which belonged to an industrious young farmer. He had, when quite a
lad, left his native England, and sought a home and fortune among his
American brethren. It was a sweet and quiet place; the cottage was
built upon a gently rising ground, which sloped toward a sparkling
rivulet, that turned a large sawmill situated a little lower down the
stream. The garden was well stocked with fruit-trees and vegetables,
among which the magnificent pumpkins were already conspicuous, though
as yet they were wanting in the golden hue which adorns them in
autumn. On the hillside was an orchard, facing the south, filled with
peach and cherry-trees, the latter now richly laden with their crimson
fruit. In that direction also extended the larger portion of the farm,
now in a high state of cultivation, bearing heavy crops of grass, and
Indian corn just coming into ear. On the north and east, the cottage
was sheltered by extensive pine woods, beyond which were fine
hunting-grounds, where the settlers, when their harvests were housed,
frequently resorted in large numbers to lay in a stock of dried
venison for winter use.
At that time the understanding between the whites and the Indians, was
not good; and they were then far more numerous than they are at the
present time, and more feared. It was not often, however, that they
came into the neighborhood of the cottage which has been described,
though on one or two occasions a few Minateree Indians had been seen
on the outskirts of the pine forests, but had committed no outrages,
as that tribe was friendly with the white men.
It was a lovely evening in June. The sun had set, though the heavens
still glowed with those exquisite and radiant tints which the writer,
when a child, used to imagine were vouchsafed to mortals to show them
something while yet on earth, of the glories of the New Jerusalem. The
moon shed her silvery light all around, distinctly revealing every
feature of the beautiful scene which has been described, and showed
the tall, muscular figure of William Sullivan, who was seated upon the
door-steps, busily employed in preparing his scythes for the coming
hay season. He was a good-looking young fellow, with a sunburnt, open
countenance; but though kind-hearted in the main, he was filled with
prejudices, acquired when in England, against Americans in general,
and the North American Indians in particular. As a boy he had been
carefully instructed by his mother, and had received more education
than was common in those days; but of the sweet precepts of the gospel
he was as practically ignorant as if he had never heard them, and in
all respects was so thoroughly an Englishman, that he looked with
contempt on all who could not boast of belonging to his own favored
country. The Indians he especially despised and detested as heathenish
creatures, forgetful of the fact that he who has been blessed with
opportunities and privileges, and yet has abused them, is in as bad a
case, and more guilty in the sight of God, than these ignorant
children of the wilds.
So intent was he upon his work, that he heeded not the approach of a
tall Indian, accoutred for a hunting excursion, until the words:--
"Will you give an unfortunate hunter some supper, and a lodging for
the night?" in a tone of supplication, met his ear.
The young farmer raised his head; a look of contempt curling the
corners of his mouth, and an angry gleam darting from his eyes, as he
replied in a tone as uncourteous as his words:--
"Heathen Indian dog, you shall have nothing here; begone!"
The Indian turned away; then again facing young Sullivan, he said in a
pleading voice:--
"But I am very hungry, for it is very long since I have eaten; give
only a crust of bread and a bone to strengthen me for the remainder of
my journey."
"Get you gone, heathen hound," said the farmer; "I have nothing for
you."
A struggle seemed to rend the breast of the Indian hunter, as though
pride and want were contending for the mastery; but the latter
prevailed, and in a faint voice he said:--
"Give me but a cup of cold water, for I am very faint."
This appeal was no more successful than the others. With abuse he was
told to drink of the river which flowed some distance off. This was
all that he could obtain from one who called himself a Christian, but
who allowed prejudice and obstinacy to steel his heart--which to one
of his own nation would have opened at once--to the sufferings of his
redskinned brother.
With a proud yet mournful air the Indian turned away, and slowly
proceeded in the direction of the little river. The weak steps of the
native showed plainly that his need was urgent; indeed he must have
been reduced to the last extremity, ere the haughty Indian would have
asked again and again for that which had been once refused.
Happily his supplicating appeal was heard by the farmer's wife. Rare
indeed is it that the heart of woman is steeled to the cry of
suffering humanity; even in the savage wilds of central Africa, the
enterprising and unfortunate Mungo Park was over and over again
rescued from almost certain death by the kind and generous care of
those females whose husbands and brothers thirsted for his blood.
The farmer's wife, Mary Sullivan, heard the whole as she sat hushing
her infant to rest; and from the open casement she watched the poor
Indian until she saw his form sink, apparently exhausted, to the
ground, at no great distance from her dwelling. Perceiving that her
husband had finished his work, and was slowly bending his steps toward
the stables with downcast eyes--for it must be confessed he did not
feel very comfortable--she left the house, and was soon at the poor
Indian's side, with a pitcher of milk in her hand, and a napkin, in
which was a plentiful meal of bread and roasted kid, with a little
parched corn as well.
"Will my red brother drink some milk?" said Mary, bending over the
fallen Indian; and as he arose to comply with her invitation, she
untied the napkin and bade him eat and be refreshed.
When he had finished, the Indian knelt at her feet, his eyes beamed
with gratitude, then in his soft tone, he said: "Carcoochee protect
the white dove from the pounces of the eagle; for her sake the
unfledged young shall be safe in its nest, and her red brother will
not seek to be revenged."
Drawing a bunch of heron's feathers from his bosom, he selected the
longest, and giving it to Mary Sullivan, said: "When the white dove's
mate flies over the Indian's hunting-grounds, bid him wear this on his
head."
He then turned away; and gliding into the woods, was soon lost to
view.
The summer passed away; harvest had come and gone; the wheat and
maize, or Indian corn, was safely stored in the yard; the golden
pumpkins were gathered into their winter quarters, and the forests
glowed with the rich and varied tints of autumn. Preparations now
began to be made for a hunting excursion, and William Sullivan was
included in the number who were going to try their fortune on the
hunting-grounds beyond the river and the pine forests. He was bold,
active, and expert in the use of his rifle and woodman's hatchet, and
hitherto had always hailed the approach of this season with peculiar
enjoyment, and no fears respecting the not unusual attacks of the
Indians, who frequently waylaid such parties in other and not very
distant places, had troubled him.
But now, as the time of their departure drew near, strange misgivings
relative to his safety filled his mind, and his imagination was
haunted by the form of the Indian whom in the preceding summer he had
so harshly treated. On the eve of the day on which they were to start,
he made known his anxiety to his gentle wife, confessing at the same
time that his conscience had never ceased to reproach him for his
unkind behavior. He added, that since then all that he had learned in
his youth from his mother upon our duty to our neighbors had been
continually in his mind; thus increasing the burden of self-reproach,
by reminding him that his conduct was displeasing in the sight of God,
as well as cruel toward a suffering brother. Mary Sullivan heard her
husband in silence. When he had done, she laid her hand in his,
looking up into his face with a smile, which was yet not quite free
from anxiety, and then she told him what she had done when the Indian
fell down exhausted upon the ground, confessing at the same time that
she had kept this to herself, fearing his displeasure, after hearing
him refuse any aid. Going to a closet, she took out the beautiful
heron's feather, repeating at the same time the parting words of the
Indian, and arguing from them that her husband might go without fear.
"Nay," said Sullivan, "these Indians never forgive an injury."
"Neither do they ever forget a kindness," added Mary. "I will sew this
feather in your hunting-cap, and then trust you, my own dear husband,
to God's keeping; but though I know he could take care of you without
it, yet I remember my dear father used to say that we were never to
neglect the use of all lawful means for our safety. His maxim was,
'Trust like a child, but work like a man'; for we must help ourselves
if we hope to succeed, and not expect miracles to be wrought on our
behalf, while we quietly fold our arms and do nothing." "Dear
William," she added, after a pause, "now that my father is dead and
gone, I think much more of what he used to say than when he was with
me; and I fear that we are altogether wrong in the way we are going
on, and I feel that if we were treated as we deserve, God would forget
us, and leave us to ourselves, because we have so forgotten him."
The tears were in Mary's eyes as she spoke; she was the only daughter
of a pious English sailor, and in early girlhood had given promise of
becoming all that a religious parent could desire. But her piety was
then more of the head than of the heart; it could not withstand the
trial of the love professed for her by Sullivan, who was anything but
a serious character, and like "the morning cloud and the early dew,"
her profession of religion vanished away, and as his wife she lost her
relish for that in which she once had taken such delight. She was very
happy in appearance, yet there was a sting in all her pleasures, and
that was the craving of a spirit disquieted and restless from the
secret though ever-present conviction that she had sinned in departing
from the living God. By degrees these impressions deepened; the Spirit
of grace was at work within, and day after day was bringing to her
memory the truths she had heard in childhood and was leading her back
from her wanderings by a way which she knew not. A long conversation
followed; and that night saw the young couple kneeling for the first
time in prayer at domestic worship.
The morning that witnessed the departure of the hunters was one of
surpassing beauty. No cloud was to be seen upon the brow of William
Sullivan. The bright beams of the early sun seemed to have dissipated
the fears which had haunted him on the previous evening, and it
required an earnest entreaty on the part of his wife to prevent his
removing the feather from his cap. She held his hand while she
whispered in his ear, and a slight quiver agitated his lips as he
said, "Well, Mary dear, if you really think this feather will protect
me from the redskins, for your sake I will let it remain." William
then put on his cap, shouldered his rifle, and the hunters were soon
on their way seeking for game.
The day wore away as is usual with people on such excursions. Many
animals were killed, and at night the hunters took shelter in the cave
of a bear, which one of the party was fortunate enough to shoot, as he
came at sunset toward the bank of the river. His flesh furnished them
with some excellent steaks for supper, and his skin spread upon a bed
of leaves pillowed their heads through a long November night.
With the first dawn of morning, the hunters left their rude shelter
and resumed the chase. William, in consequence of following a fawn too
ardently, separated from his companions, and in trying to rejoin them
became bewildered. Hour after hour he sought in vain for some mark by
which he might thread the intricacy of the forest, the trees of which
were so thick that it was but seldom that he could catch a glimpse of
the sun; and not being much accustomed to the woodman's life, he could
not find his way as one of them would have done, by noticing which
side of the trees was most covered with moss or lichen. Several times
he started in alarm, for he fancied that he could see the glancing
eyeballs of some lurking Indian, and he often raised his gun to his
shoulder, prepared to sell his life as dearly as he could.
Toward sunset the trees lessened and grew thinner, and by and by he
found himself upon the outskirts of an immense prairie, covered with
long grass, and here and there with patches of low trees and brushwood.
A river ran through this extensive tract, and toward it Sullivan
directed his lagging footsteps. He was both faint and weary, not having
eaten anything since the morning. On the bank of the river there were
many bushes, therefore Sullivan approached with caution, having placed
his rifle at half-cock, to be in readiness against any danger that might
present itself. He was yet some yards from its brink, when a rustling in
the underwood made him pause, and the next instant out rushed an
enormous buffalo. These animals usually roam through the prairies in
immense herds, sometimes amounting to many thousands in number; but
occasionally they are met with singly, having been separated from the
main body either by some accident, or by the Indians, who show the most
wonderful dexterity in hunting these formidable creatures. The buffalo
paused for a moment, and then lowering his enormous head, rushed forward
toward the intruder. Sullivan took aim; but the beast was too near to
enable him to do so with that calmness and certainty which would have
insured success, and though slightly wounded, it still came on with
increased fury. Sullivan was a very powerful man, and though weakened by
his long fast and fatiguing march, despair gave him courage and nerved
his arm with strength, and with great presence of mind he seized the
animal as it struck him on the side with its horn, drawing out his knife
with his left hand, in the faint hope of being able to strike it into
his adversary's throat. But the struggle was too unequal to be
successful, and the buffalo had shaken him off, and thrown him to the
ground, previous to trampling him to death, when he heard the sharp
crack of a rifle behind him, and in another instant the animal sprang
into the air, then fell heavily close by, and indeed partly upon, the
prostrate Sullivan. A dark form in the Indian garb glided by a moment
after, and plunged his hunting-knife deep into the neck of the buffalo,
though the shot was too true not to have taken effect, having penetrated
to the brain; but the great arteries of the neck are cut, and the animal
thus bled, to render the flesh more suitable for keeping a greater
length of time.
The Indian then turned to Sullivan, who had now drawn himself from
under the buffalo, and who, with mingled feelings of hope and fear,
caused by his ignorance whether the tribe to which the Indian belonged
was friendly or not, begged of him to direct him to the nearest white
settlement.
"If the weary hunter will rest till morning, the eagle will show him
the way to the nest of his white dove," was the reply of the Indian,
in that figurative style so general among his people; and then taking
him by the hand he led him through the rapidly increasing darkness,
until they reached a small encampment lying near the river, and under
the cover of some trees which grew upon its banks. Here the Indian
gave Sullivan a plentiful supply of hominy, or bruised Indian corn
boiled to a paste, and some venison; then spreading some skins of
animals slain in the chase, for his bed, he signed to him to occupy
it, and left him to his repose.
The light of dawn had not yet appeared in the east when the Indian
awoke Sullivan; and after a slight repast, they both started for the
settlement of the whites. The Indian kept in advance of his companion,
and threaded his way through the still darkened forest with a
precision and a rapidity which showed him to be well acquainted with
its paths and secret recesses. As he took the most direct way, without
fear of losing his course, being guided by signs unknown to any save
some of the oldest and most experienced hunters, they traversed the
forest far more quickly than Sullivan had done, and before the golden
sun had sunk behind the summits of the far-off mountains, Sullivan
once more stood within view of his beloved home. There it lay in calm
repose, and at a sight so dear he could not restrain a cry of joy;
then turning toward the Indian, he poured forth his heartfelt thanks
for the service he had rendered him.
The warrior, who, till then, had not allowed his face to be seen by
Sullivan, except in the imperfect light of his wigwam, now fronted
him, allowing the sun's rays to fall upon his person, and revealed to
the astonished young man the features of the very same Indian whom,
five months before, he had so cruelly repulsed. An expression of
dignified yet mild rebuke was exhibited in his face as he gazed upon
the abashed Sullivan; but his voice was gentle and low as he said:
"Five moons ago, when I was faint and weary, you called me 'Indian
dog,' and drove me from your door. I might last night have been
revenged; but the white dove fed me, and for her sake I spared her
mate. Carcoochee bids you to go home, and when hereafter you see a red
man in need of kindness, do to him as you have been done by.
Farewell."
He waved his hand, and turned to depart, but Sullivan sprang before
him, and so earnestly entreated him to go with him, as a proof that he
had indeed forgiven his brutal treatment, that he at last consented,
and the humbled farmer led him to his cottage. There his gentle wife's
surprise at seeing him so soon was only equaled by her thankfulness at
his wonderful escape from the dangers which had surrounded him, and by
her gratitude to the noble savage who had thus repaid her act of
kindness, forgetful of the provocation he had received from her
husband. Carcoochee was treated not only as an honored guest, but as a
brother; and such in time he became to them both.
Many were the visits he paid to the cottage of the once prejudiced and
churlish Sullivan, now no longer so, for the practical lesson of
kindness he had learned from the untutored Indian was not lost upon
him. It was made the means of bringing him to a knowledge of his own
sinfulness in the sight of God, and his deficiencies in duty toward
his fellow men. He was led by the Holy Spirit to feel his need of
Christ's atoning blood; and ere many months passed, Mary Sullivan and
her husband both gave satisfactory evidence that they had indeed
"passed from death unto life."
Carcoochee's kindness was repaid to him indeed a hundred fold. A long
time elapsed before any vital change of heart was visible in him; but
at length it pleased the Lord to bless the unwearied teaching of his
white friends to his spiritual good, and to give an answer to the
prayer of faith. The Indian was the first native convert baptized by
the American missionary, who came about two years after to a station
some few miles distant from Sullivan's cottage. After a lengthened
course of instruction and trial the warrior, who once had wielded the
tomahawk in mortal strife against both whites and redskins, went
forth, armed with a far different weapon, "even the sword of the
Spirit, which is the word of God," to make known to his heathen
countrymen "the glad tidings of great joy," that "Christ Jesus came
into the world to save sinners." He told them that "whosoever
believeth on him should not perish, but have everlasting life,"
whether they be Jews or Gentiles, bond or free, white or red, for "we
are all one in Christ." Many years he thus labored, until, worn out
with toil and age, he returned to his white friend's home, where in a
few months he fell asleep in Jesus, giving to his friends the certain
hope of a joyful meeting hereafter at the resurrection of the just.
Many years have passed since then. There is no trace now of the
cottage of the Sullivans, who both rest in the same forest churchyard,
where lie the bones of Carcoochee; but their descendants still dwell
in the same township. Often does the gray-haired grandsire tell this
little history to his rosy grandchildren, while seated under the
stately magnolia which shades the graves of the quiet sleepers of whom
he speaks. And the lesson which he teaches to his youthful hearers, is
one which all would do well to bear in mind, and act upon; namely,
"Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to
them."
Speak not harshly--learn to feel
Another's woes, another's weal;
Of malice, hate, and guile, instead,
By friendship's holy bonds be led;
For sorrow is man's heritage
From early youth to hoary age.