Three suns, and no more, would it take the feet of a fleet Mohawk to
journey to the spot which contains the dust of Pomperaug, the last man
of his tribe. The spot where that chief drew his breath was a small
and level valley, surrounded by lofty and thickly wooded hills, with a
cool, clear, bright, little stream, rippling through its green and
flowery meadows. When he first saw the light of the great star, this
spot was not divested of its trees; my countrymen, from the distant
regions over the great waters, came with their sharp axes and lithe
arms, and swept away the loved retreats of the red inhabitants of the
land. The beautiful trees which hung over the quiet little river of
Pomperaug and his people, like a mother bending over her sleeping
infant, fell before them like a field of corn bowed to the earth by a
tempest of wind. And very soon was the tribe itself swept away by the
same resistless torrent which divested their land of its sylvan
adornments. The Great Sachem of the East, who dwelt on the lofty
Haup, having engaged in a war with my brethren, the Pomperaugs took
part with the king of the Pequods, and a large part of them shared in
his destruction. The chief fell, pierced by the arrow of the Great
King. His son, still a boy, with a remnant of his father's people,
when the war was finished by the death of the warlike and cunning
Sachem of Haup, returned to their native valley: and, submitting
themselves to their conquerors, sat down by the beloved river, and,
apparently were content to toil for the white man in the fields which
had once been their own. Yet it was with a deep remembrance of their
wrongs, and a determination, at a convenient opportunity, to take a
deep and bloody revenge. The period had now arrived when the young
chief had reached the age of manhood. He took, as was the custom of
his fathers, the name of his tribe, and was accordingly called
Pomperaug. A nobler youth was never seen, either red or white. He was
tall, and finely formed, with an eye that gleamed like the flashes of
the diamond, and a brow, upon which were stamped the greatness of his
mind, the lofty and honourable feelings which filled his soul. He was
such a one as the Indian contemplates with delight, and gazes upon
with idolatry. His foot was swift as that of the deer; his arrow was
sure as the pursuit of the eagle; his sagacity penetrating as the
light of the sun. The maidens of his own tribe looked upon him with
eyes of love; and there were not a few among the maidens of my own
colour who confessed that he was "beautiful, and noble in form, and
worthy to be loved by red and white."
Such was Pomperaug. But his nation was passing away, and but fifty of
his own tribe now dwelt in the valley in which his fathers, numberless
as the leaves upon the oaks under which they dwelt, had hunted for
many ages. The day of their dominion was past. There was a spell over
the dark warrior. The Great Spirit had sealed his doom. He had sent
strange men to his shores--and a change had come over the face of the
land. The thickly settled town--the lofty spire of the house where men
assembled to worship the Great Being--the fields, green, and glowing
with the deep verdure of spring--the slopes of the hills, made smooth
with cultivation--had taken the place of the lofty forest, from which
arose the cry of the red warrior, as he rushed on his foes, or the
plash of his oar, as he swept his light canoe on his expeditions of
war or love. The stranger had built his house upon the margin of his
favourite streams, whence a portion of his daily food was procured;
and he, whose soil it was, had fled from the profanation of his
father's bones. One by one, like leaves in the Harvest-Moon, had they
dropped from the vision of those around them. To-day, you saw a son of
the forest with an eye like the eagle's, and a foot like the
antelope's; to-morrow, he was gone, and gone without a token. The
waters that lave the thirsty sands of the seashore sink not more
silently in their ebb than the Indians have disappeared from the
vicinity of the abodes of white men. And in this same silent way
floated down the stream of oblivion the Indians of the valley of
Pomperaug. Perceiving that their doom was sealed, they patiently
submitted to a fate which they could not avert.
It was, therefore, without resistance that they received into the
heart of their little territory a company of the people of my nation.
They were in number about thirty. Their governor, who was also their
priest, was a man of great age, though possessed of all the mental and
bodily vigour of youth. His years were more than three score and ten,
and his hair as white as snow, yet his feet were sprightly as those of
a young deer. His tall and broad form was still erect; his eye had
lost none of its fire, nor his temper any of its energy; he was old in
years, but young in the vigour of his soul.
This aged priest had brought to the valley of Pomperaug the remnant of
a family of many souls. It was a maiden--the daughter of his only son
who, with his wife, had slept many years in the house of death. Her
name was Mary, and well might she be the object of all the earthly
affections which still beat in the bosom of one whom death had made
acquainted with sorrow, and who but for her had been alone.
Mary had now seen the harvest gathered in seventeen times. She was the
most beautiful of all the maidens of the land. She was tall and
slender, with a dark expressive eye, whose slow movements seemed full
of soul and sincerity. Her hair was of a glossy black, parted upon a
forehead of dazzling whiteness, and shading a cheek which vied in its
blush with the pale rose of the wilds. And snow was not whiter than
her stately neck, and rounded arm, and little hand.
They had been settled in the valley of Pomperaug but a few moons, when
an application from the aged priest to purchase a portion of the young
chief's lands brought him to the cabin of the former. It was a bright
morning in autumn, and, while he was talking with the priest at the
door, the lovely maiden, who had been gathering flowers, the late
flowers of the season, in the adjacent woods, passed by them, and
entered the hut. The eye of the young chief followed her with the gaze
of entrancement. His face shone as if he had seen a vision of more
than earthly beauty, some bright spirit of the air. But this emotion
was visible only for a moment. With the habitual self-command of those
who are trained in the wilds, he turned again to the aged priest, and
calmly pursued the subject which occasioned their meeting.
Pomperaug went away, but he carried the image of the beautiful maiden
with him. He retired to his wigwam, but it did not please him--a
vacant and dissatisfied feeling filled his bosom. He went to the top
of the high rock, at the foot of which his hut was situated, and,
seating himself upon the broad flat stone, cast his eyes over the
river, upon which the beams of the morning were just beginning to cast
their quivering light. The scene, once so pleasing, afforded him no
joy. He turned away, and sent his long gaze over the checkered leaves
of the forest, which spread like a sea over the beautiful valley. He
was still dissatisfied. With a bound he sprang from the rock into the
valley, and, alighting on his feet, snatched his bow, and took the
path which led into the forest. In a few moments he returned listless
and vacant, and, seating himself upon the rock, brooded for many hours
in silence.
The sun of the next morning had been but a few minutes abroad on the
earth, when Pomperaug repaired to the house of the aged priest to
finish the business of the preceding day. He had before signified his
intention to part with his land on the terms offered him, but he now
declined.
"Why will not the son of the chief, who fell in the Moon of Green
Corn, give to the pale-face for the things he wants the lands he does
not plough, the woods that are bare of game, the waters whose fish
glide unharmed by his spear?" demanded the priest.
"Listen, father--hear a red man speak," answered the young chief.
"Mark yonder eagle--how joyous his flight among the clouds. The sky is
his home, he loves it, and grief seizes his heart when he leaves it.
Will he barter it for the sea? No. Look into the river, and ask the
fish that sports so happy in its clear bosom, if he will sell his
birth-place, and he will, if he speak at all, answer No. Shall the red
man sell for a few strings of beads, and a piece of red cloth, the
spot that contains his father's bones? No. Yet, father, I will part
with my forests, if thou wilt give me the beautiful singing-bird that
is in thy nest."
"Savage," said the priest indignantly and haughtily, "shall the lamb
lie down in the den of the wolf? shall the fawn knock at the lair of
the panther, and enter and take up her abode? Never! Name not the
thing again--I would sooner see her die! Name it not." As he spoke he
struck his cane forcibly on the ground, and his broad figure seemed to
expand and grow taller, while his eye gleamed, and the muscles of his
brow contracted, with a lowering and stern expression. The air and
manner of the Indian were changed. His countenance while pleading his
suit had worn an air of supplication unusual with his race, but his
eye flashed fire at the reproof and the refusal of the priest to
sanction his love, and his manner assumed a proud dignity which it had
not before. As the dull colours of the snake, when he becomes enraged,
are succeeded by the glowing hues of the rainbow, so was the meek look
which Pomperaug had at first worn followed by one better befitting the
untamed and stern lord of the forest.
The priest and the chief parted, and Pomperaug refused to sell his
lands. He was now changed to all around him. With the white people he
held no further communication, and said little to his own people,
unless to cultivate in them a hatred of their neighbours. His whole
soul was filled with love for the beautiful pale-face. His old and
cherished pursuits and pastimes no longer gave him pleasure; the bow
lay unstrung in a corner of his cabin, and his canoe was no longer
seen, impelled by his strong arm, gliding over the river.
As might have been expected from the bitter disappointment of
Pomperaug in not being able to obtain the maiden, and that of the
priest at failing to obtain the coveted lands, difficulties soon grew
up between the Indians and their neighbours, and violent feelings were
shortly excited on both sides. This soon broke out into open quarrels,
and one of the white men was shot by the arrow of an Indian hunter, as
he was returning through the woods to his home. The whites determined
to seek instant revenge, and accordingly, gathering their men
together, they followed the Indians into the broken and rocky regions
which lie east of the valley of Pomperaug, whither, expecting pursuit,
they had retreated.
It was about an hour before sunset, when the Yengeese, consisting of
twenty men well armed after the fashion of the whites, and led by the
aged priest, who, old as he was, still retained the spirit of a
youthful warrior, were marching through a deep ravine, about two miles
east of their village. The rocks on either side were lofty, and so
narrow was the dell, that the shadows of night had already gathered
over it. The pursuers had sought their enemies the whole day in vain,
and, having lost all traces of them, they were now returning to their
homes. Untaught by dear bought experience, they marched along heedless
of the dangers which surrounded them--disregardful of the advantages
offered to their cunning foes by the rocks and thickly wooded
eminences around them. Suddenly the shrill war-whoop burst from the
rocks at their feet, and many armed Indians sprang up before them. An
arrow pierced the breast of the aged priest, and he fell dead in front
of his band. Two Indians met their death at the hands of their foes,
the remainder sought the forest. Several of the Yengeese were wounded,
but none mortally, save the priest.
With mournful silence they bore back the body of their father to the
dwelling his aged feet had left but a few hours before. He was buried
in a lonely and sequestered nook of the valley, and the orphan maiden
turned away with a desolate and breaking heart, to be for the first
time alone in the humble cabin in the wilderness.
* * * * *
A season had passed away, and another harvest had come. The tribe of
Pomperaug had disappeared, and the rock on which the priest met his
death had been consecrated by many prayers of those who loved him. His
blood was still visible upon the spot, and thither his people often
repaired to kneel, and offer up petitions for the repose of his
spirit. They believed that their hearts were softened, and their
spirits visited with the richest gifts of heavenly grace, when they
came to the spot where he had met his death.
It was a mild and beautiful evening in summer, when the maiden for the
last time went to spend an hour at this holy spot. Long had she knelt,
and most fervently had she prayed to her kind creator. The sun went
down, and, as the veil of evening fell, the full moon climbed over the
ridge of rocks which rose on the east side of the valley, pouring its
white light into the lone and quiet recesses and solitudes around her,
and the good and beauteous maiden was still kneeling, still communing
with that Being whom every nation and tongue, civilized and savage,
red and white, delight to honour and worship--at least with their
lips, though their hearts may be far from him.
At length, a slight noise, like the crushing of a leaf, woke her from
her trance, and, springing quickly on her feet, and filled with sudden
and unusual fears, she set out on her return to the village. Alarmed
at her distance from home at such an hour, and by the sounds from time
to time repeated, she proceeded along with great rapidity. She was
obliged to climb up the rocks with great care, as the darkness
rendered it a critical and dangerous task. At length she reached the
top. Standing upon the verge of the cliff, she then turned a moment
to look back upon the valley. The moon was shining full upon the vale,
and she gazed with a mixture of awe and delight upon the sea of green
leaves, which slept in death-like repose beneath her. She then turned
to pursue her path homeward, but what was her amazement to see before
her, in the full moonlight, the tall form of Pomperaug! She shrieked,
and swift as his own arrow, sprang over the dizzy cliff. The young
chief listened--there was a moment of silence--then a heavy sound like
the falling of a body upon the hard earth--and the dell was still as
the tomb.
The fate of the beautiful maiden was known only to Pomperaug. He
buried her with a lover's care, amid the rocks of the glen. Then,
bidding adieu to his native valley, with a bursting heart, he joined
his people, who had retired to the banks of the distant Housatonac.
* * * * *
Many years passed away, and the swift and stealthy hunter had been
succeeded by the patient and industrious white cultivator. Few traces
of the Indian were remaining. The weak and irresolute--they who could
see unmoved the dwelling-places of their fathers usurped by strangers,
had found unhonoured graves in their own woods--the brave and
resolute had gone yet farther into the forest. The rotten bow and
quiver, and the rusted arrow, were frequently turned up by the plough,
and little fields of scarce the breadth of an arrow's flight disclosed
where the red man had once tasted his narrow enjoyments of home and
shelter, and these were all that marked where he had been. The bitter
persecutors of the rightful possessors of these wide-spread lands were
in possession of every fertile spot, while the Indian roved in strange
lands, a wanderer, and an outcast.
It was in the pleasant month when the birds build their nests on the
boughs of trees, that a white man, seated on the margin of the river
which swept along by the grave of the deceased maiden, saw a train of
men slowly approaching, bearing a human corpse. He crept into a
sequestered spot, and watched their progress. Approaching the little
hillock where the dust of the maiden reposed, they deposited their
load on the earth, and commenced digging a fresh grave by its side.
When it was finished, they placed the corpse in it, together with the
implements commonly buried with an Indian warrior, his bow, quiver of
arrows, spear, pipe, &c. The white man, fearing discovery, retreated,
and left them to finish their solemn labours unobserved. In the
morning, the funeral train had departed, but the fresh earth and the
low heap of stones revealed the secret. They remain there to this day,
and the two little mounds are shown by the villagers, as the graves of
the beautiful Mary and the faithful Pomperaug.