_NEWITCHEWAGAN._
1802.
Two years had slipped away. The ice moon had given place to the
crescent whirlwind moon. The wild duck and geese had long since
ceased their plash, plash in the water opposite "The Wigwam," as the
children delighted to call their new home in the forest. The noble
rivers, the picturesque falls, the monarchs of the forest towering
heavenwards, the fragrance of pine and cedar, the lakes and rivers
teeming with fish and fowl and fur-bearing animals, seemed to the
children of the new Chief a paradise; nor were they alone in their
views. The stern realities of pioneer life made it none the less
enchanting to the man who gloried in overcoming difficulties and in
braving hardships in one of the greatest conquests undertaken by
man--the wresting of a wilderness from savagery to civilization.
The "Wigwam" was situated in the midst of an estate of twenty-two
thousand acres, part of which had been received as a grant, but the
greater portion being purchased from the Government, for the Chief
had by no means suffered losses such as many U.E. Loyalists had
borne, having brought with him a capital of nearly fifty thousand
dollars.
The new home presented a strange contrast to the cosy, comfortable
New England farmhouse. It was built of undressed tamarac logs in
true rustic shanty fashion. The chinks between the logs and scoops
of the roof were "caulked" with moss, driven in with a thin pointed
handspike, over which a rude plaster of blue clay was daubed. The
chimney was very wide and low, and was built above a huge boulder
which formed the back of the fire-place. There was no upper story to
the rude dwelling, which was partitioned off into bedrooms at each
end, with a large living room, kitchen, dining-room all in one, in
the centre.
A wild night had set in. It seemed as though all nature had gone
mad. The wind struggled with doors and windows for an entrance to
the humble home, but only served to intensify the warmth and light
and joy within, for it made the great fire roar and crackle the
merrier.
A group of happy children were popping corn before the glowing coals.
Near them sat the Chief and Mrs. Wright conversing together in a low
voice. Laying down her knitting, the latter looked earnestly into
her husband's face.
"Philemon, Philemon," she said sadly, "How much more wisdom you are
manifesting in the breaking-in of the farm colts than in the training
of the boys. I am beginning to fear that you will be much better
served by the former than by the latter. If you would but exercise
your God-given authority over them and uphold mine we might hope for
better results. The boys are getting beyond control, and why?
Because, though I am teaching them in theory the right way, you are
not insisting upon the practice of such theories. Words will not
curb the exuberance of spirits nor check the waywardness of a young
horse. If left to himself he will go where he wills. He must be
trained with gentleness, but with firmness, and so with our children."
"My dear," he said, "your ideals are above me, and are as unlikely to
be adopted by ordinary men of the world as the ideals of John Bunyan
or Richard Baxter."
"I see, I see," she said, with a voice thrilling with emotion. "You
hold up before them hopes of future greatness or wealth as a
stimulant to goodness, studiousness, industry, that they may become
'ordinary men of the world.' My ambition has ever been to train them
for God and His service."
"And you propose to do that," he said, coldly, "by coersion, canings,
imprisonments, fines."
"Not at all," she replied. "A child trained from infancy in habits
of obedience can generally be managed without chastisement and will
obey from a sense of duty rather than from fear of chastisement."
"All very beautiful in theory," said the father, with a yawn, as he
stretched himself to his full length, "but the Indian theory in my
opinion is the best. They allow their children to do as they please
and never check them, and what is the result? A self-reliant,
independent people; a people who have not been deprived of strength
of character or will power by constant subjection to the will of
others; a people who, until spoiled by contact with unchristian
whites, have followed the dictates of conscience rather than a code
of prohibitory laws; a people who scorn mean, dishonorable
transactions."
"Of two things I am convinced," said Mrs. Wright, thoughtfully, "'a
child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame,' and his father
also, for that matter, and that if we secure the formation of right
principles at an early age we may with confidence give them their
emancipation long before they grow up."
Suddenly the door opened and an Indian entered. Though covered with
snow from head to foot, they recognized the chief, Machecawa.
Without a word he drew through the open door a toboggan, upon which
lay his squaw in an almost dying condition. At her bosom was a tiny
babe, two days old.
Newitchewagan had had a severe chill. He had given her a vapor bath
by heating boulders in the fire, dashing water on them, over which he
had held her suspended in a blanket. For a time she seemed better,
but not having sufficient covering, the keen north wind had caused a
recurrence of chills, and notwithstanding the conjuring and charms of
her friends she was evidently fast sinking, and the Chief, in his
hour of sorrow, had fled for help to Mrs. Wright (whom the Indians
regarded as possessing mysterious healing power), in the vain hope of
finding some new way of saving her.
Mingled expressions of astonishment and pity came into the face of
the mother of the household as she hastily left her seat by the side
of her husband and assisted in removing the poor squaw to a
comfortable bed.
Though not a popular type of New England beauty, there was a
something about Mrs. Wright a certain expression so subtle as to
escape definition, which gave her presence a strong personal
magnetism, while her dignity and a marked grace of manner gave her an
individuality which proclaimed her a queen among women. She was a
woman of high ideals. "I fear not," she said, in a letter to her
sister, "the wolves whose dismal howls echo and re-echo every night
through the forest; I fear not the savages who walk into our home
with as little ceremony as though it were their own; I fear not
sickness nor death in this wilderness so far from medical aid. One
thing only I fear, that I may fail in my duty to my husband, my
children and my neighbors."
Her husband's "worldliness," her sons' lack of interest in religious
matters and their tendency to adopt the language and expressions of
the low and the vicious, afforded matter for constant reproof, rebuke
and exhortation. Her efforts to develop in her children the highest
ideals of Christian manhood and womanhood were not fully appreciated
by the Chief, who was too feudal in his views of woman to understand
a life like hers. The phenomenon of a woman superior to himself in
mind and soul had never ceased to be a matter of perplexity to him.
Her ideals were beyond his comprehension. He had not arrived at the
conclusion that a wife should be allowed free scope for the exercise
of her own individuality. Her position in the home was one of utter
subjection and servitude. She was permitted to have no will but his,
no plans but his, and to have no ideas but his. At the marriage
ceremony "they two were made one," and that one was her lord and
master.
Mrs. Wright's interest was not confined to her own family circle,
for, notwithstanding the constant pressure of home duties, she had "a
heart at leisure from itself to soothe and sympathize," and to the
Indians and early settlers in their loneliness, their sorrows and
sufferings, she was a mother, and more than a mother, for she was the
only physician, the only clergyman, the only teacher that the little
colony possessed for the first few years of its struggling existence.
Her medical book and case of medicines, a gift from Dr. Green, of
Woburn, brought relief to many sufferers. Her library, consisting of
such volumes as "The Pilgrim's Progress," Baxter's "Saints' Rest,"
Young's "Night Thoughts," Hervey's "Meditations Among the Tombs," did
much to enlighten, if not to cheer, darkened souls, while from the
newest Boston school-books she trained the youth of the settlement in
the elementary principles of the arts and sciences.
Such was the woman whom Machecawa sought in his hour of extremity.
All night long the noble chieftain of his people sat by the bedside
with downcast eyes. The wind, having spent its force and fury,
moaned and sobbed round the house; the flickering light from the
hearth cast strange, weird shadows upon the wall when Newitchewagan
opened her large dark eyes, gently stroked the little black head on
her bosom, and with one affectionate look at him who had been her
companion in hardships, heaved a deep sigh and was gone.
Machecawa, without uttering a word, hastily left the Wigwam, and in a
short time returned with his face blackened and with several squaws,
who tore their hair, scattered ashes on their heads, and raised their
voices in wailing. They arranged to have the burial service take
place in the evening, and it was well for the inmates of the Wigwam
that it was not deferred for several days, for the wailing continued
without cessation until all that was left of Newitchewagan was
wrapped in birch bark and securely tied with a cord of deerskin, like
a parcel, when it was borne by four young braves and laid upon a
raised platform of boughs, between two fires which had been kindled a
little distance from the Wigwam.
The Indians then squatted cross-legged in a large circle round the
fires. Machecawa and his motherless children were seated close to
the bier, their faces blackened, their hair and clothing torn and in
disorder. The awful stillness was at length broken by old
O'Jawescawa, who left his seat and, approaching the grief-stricken
husband, said:
"O Machecawa, my brother, it is not well that you grieve. If
Newitchewagan had lived she would many times have been hungry and
cold and weary; but in the happy hunting-ground, whither she has
gone, there is neither hunger nor cold nor weariness. Therefore you
should be glad." He then drew his hunting-knife from his belt, and,
slashing it through the birch-bark wrappings, cried:
"O Kitche Manitou! These places do I cut that our sister's spirit
may come and go as she wills it, that she may visit us sometimes,
that she may see our brother Machecawa when he is very sad."
[Illustration: "Oh, Machecawa, my brother, it is not well that you
grieve."]
Again he turned to his chief. "Our sister is gone, oh, my brother,"
he continued, "but you shall see her again. But she shall be
changed, and you will not know her; but when you enter the Land of
the Hereafter then you must sing always this little song, and so she
will know you."
In a clear and true tenor old O'Jawescawa chanted a weird, minor air
with tearful falling cadences.
"And when she hears that song," he went on, "then she will answer it
with this"--and he sang through another little song.
The long-drawn, plaintive chords, the sense of awe inspired by the
darkness and the firelight, and of the grave sad prayer, caused Mrs.
Wright and her young flock to sob aloud.
"And so in that way," concluded O'Jawescawa, "you shall know each
other."
The young men bore the remains to a grave that had been dug a short
distance away in a pine grove. After the earth had been filled in,
three of the women knelt and put together a miniature wigwam of
birch-bark, complete in every detail. Then O'Jawescawa began again
to speak, addressing the occupant of the grave in a low tone of
confidence.
"O Newitchewagan, our sister," said he, "I place this bow and these
arrows in your lodge that you may be armed on the Long Journey.
"O Niwitchiwagan, our sister, I place these snow-shoes in your lodge
that you may be fleet on the Long Journey."*
* The writer is indebted to Mr. S. E. White for this account of the
squaw's burial.
In like manner he deposited in the little wigwam extra moccasins, a
model canoe and paddle, food, and a miniature robe. Then they all
returned to their camp, all but Machecawa, who crouched on the ground
by the grave, his blanket over his head, a silent, motionless figure
of desolation. For three whole nights and days the Chief mourned for
his squaw. Then he rose and went about his ordinary duties with
unmoved countenance, and the grave was left to the sun and snow and
rain and the mercy of all-forgetting Nature.