THE WIGWAM SCENE described in the following pages, occurred at
Hantsport, Nova Scotia, in March, 1855. In the Sixth Annual Report of
the Mic-Mac Mission, in a letter written immediately after the event, I
find it thus described:
“An event of some interest has just occurred here. One of our sick
Indians, named John Paul, has just died, and was buried to-day. I have
taken from my first acquaintance with him, a great liking to him. I have
spent many an hour with him in his wigwam. He always listened
attentively to the Scriptures, and engaged readily in religious
conversation, and I have not been without hope that the grace of God had
taken possession of his heart. Efforts were made to deter him from
allowing my visits; but they were unavailing. I never aimed so much to
attack his Romish errors directly, as to dwell upon the free salvation
of the Gospel—without money and without price. About last New Year’s
Day, while I was in Halifax, I was informed that the Romish priest had
sent orders to him to leave Hantsport, and had threatened him with all
the curses of the Church if he remained. His statement to me when I
returned, was: “I won’t leave this place till I choose. It is not in the
power of any man to keep me out of Heaven. That is a matter between God
and my own soul.” He said in Indian: “_Neen alsoomse._” “I am my own
master.” He remained. He continued to listen to the Bible with
attention, and to receive my visits with kindness and respect till he
died. I now recollect that when I came to read to him, he would send the
small children away, so that we might not be disturbed. The last time I
saw him was a precious season to my own soul. It seemed easy to speak of
the Great Redeemer, and of the way of Salvation. I may say that special
prayer was made for him in the Meeting House, where a number of
christian friends were assembled on the day before he died, holding a
special prayer meeting on our own account. More than one fervent prayer
was offered up for the dying Indian. After the meeting I returned to my
own house, where I met an Indian from John Paul’s wigwam, who informed
me that the poor fellow was near his end. “But oh,” said he, “he is
wonderfully happy! He says he is going right to heaven, and that he has
already had a glimpse of that bright happy world. He has been exhorting
us all, and telling us how easy it is to be saved. He dreamed last night
that he was in heaven. Heaven seemed to him to be an immense great
palace, as large as this world, all formed of gold. He saw there the
glorious Redeemer, surrounded by an immense Host of Saints and Angels,
all drest in white. As he entered he thought they gathered round him and
shouted: JOHN PAUL has come! =John Paul= has come!” The poor
fellow did not die until the following morning, and just before he died
he looked up towards heaven, and declared that he saw the angels, and
the Glory of God. He was astonished that the others could not see what
he saw. He wanted them to hold up his children, that they might see the
wonders that he himself saw. He then sank back on his pillow and quietly
expired.
It will be thus seen that the following Poem is not a work of _fiction_.
It aims to relate—with some license of imagination, of course, else it
would not be poetry—a plain historical fact. The description of Paul’s
skill and knowledge as a hunter, and in managing their frail little
water-crafts in a sea, is literally true of many of the Indians, and was
true of him. His peace of mind in committing his family into the hands
of God, after he found himself disabled, having burst a blood vessel by
carrying a large load, from which he never recovered—he related to me:
and this is expressed in the prayer put into his mouth at the close,
“which we did not fully _hear_ or _share_.”
It may be added that after the Poem was written, I read it to the Indian
who gave me the account of John Paul’s death, and as he spoke the
English language well, he had no difficulty in understanding it. And he
assured me that it described the scene correctly.
I may add that the _measure_—or rather the utter disregard of all
regular measure—was suggested by an old poem I saw somewhere,
describing a very different scene, and the “wildness” of it appealed to
me to be just suited to a scene of the _Wilderness_ and the _wigwam_.
It will not surely be deemed a very great stretch of “poetic license” to
represent oneself as an eye- and ear-witness of a scene, with the
surroundings of which he was so familiar, and which had been so vividly
described by those who really _were_ present.
Nor need we speculate about the cause of dreams or their significance.
No one will deny that they may be a very exact index of the state of
mind at the time, of the one who dreams. And the earnest prayer of the
writer, is, that the reader of these verses, and himself, may be, at the
time of our departure, so full of joy and peace in believing, that
whether waking or dreaming, we may “rejoice with that joy which is
unspeakable and full of glory, receiving the end of our faith, even the
salvation of our souls.”
SILAS T. RAND.
Hantsport, N. S.
[Illustration]
The Dying Indian’s Dream.
“Jesus, the vision of thy face,
Hath overpowering charms;
Scarce shall I feel Death’s cold embrace,
If Christ be in my arms.
Then when you hear my heartstrings break,
How sweet my minutes roll;
A mortal paleness on my cheek,
And glory in my soul.”—_Watts._