‘…Alas! to see the strength that clings
Round woman in such hours!…A mournful sight,
Though lovely! an o'erflowing of the springs,
The full springs of affection, deep and bright!
And she, because her life is ever twined
With other lives, and by no stormy wind
May thence be shaken; and because the light
Of tenderness is round her, and her eye
Doth weep such passionate tears--therefore,
She thus endures.' HEMANS.
Without any guide, Roger and his faithful friend Seaton wandered
through the wilderness. They took from the stranded boat as much of
food and other useful articles as they could carry; but the provision
did not last long, and before they reached any Indian encampment they
were seduced to extreme want and suffering. Their clothes were drenched
by the frequent heavy rain, which so completely saturated the ground
and the dead branches that lay strewed upon it, as often to preclude
all possibility of lighting a fire. Their nights were passed on the
damp ground, or beneath any sheltering rock that they could find and
once a hollow tree afforded them a refuge from the storm that raged
around them, when no other was at hand.
At length, after fourteen weeks of trial and hardship, they reached the
village of Packanokick, where dwelt Masasoyt, the aged Sagamore of the
Wampanoges. During the time that Williams had resided at Plymouth, he
had learnt the language of the natives; and on some of his visits to
the village of Mooanam, he had become acquainted with his father,
Masasoyt, the chief Sachem of the divided tribe. The regard and respect
with which his eloquence and his attractive manners had inspired the
younger Chieftain were fully shared by the Sagamore; and both prince
and people learnt to love and reverence the man who honored their
rights, respected their prejudices, and prayed to his God for their
welfare.
His appearance in the village of Masasoyt was hailed with joy, and
regarded as a privilege by all the inhabitants. The Sachem received
both him and is way-worn companion with kindness and hospitality, and
gave them a chamber in his own lodge; which, if not remarkable either
for cleanliness or comfort, yet seemed a luxurious abode to men who had
passed so many days and nights in the unsheltered depths of the forest.
On the following morning, when food and rest had somewhat restored the
exhausted strength of the travelers, Masasoyt invited Williams to a
private conference, in which he informed him that a serious quarrel had
again arisen between his tribe and that of Cundineus, the Chief of the
Narragansetts; and he entreated him to use all his powerful influence
with the latter to heal the present dissension, and prevent the dispute
from ending in open hostilities. Williams undertook this negotiation
with much satisfaction; for peace-making was not only in accordance
with his feelings, and with the duty of his profession, but he also
desired to secure the favor and protection of the Narragansett Chief,
on the borders of whose dominions he designed to fix his future home.
He, therefore, made no delay in setting out, with a few Indian
attendants, on the proposed expedition and in a few days, returned to
Packanokick with the welcome intelligence that the wrath of Cundincus
was appeased, and that he had listened favorably to the explanation of
his rival Chieftain.
The old Narragansett Chief also was so captivated by the English
stranger, and so won by his peculiar eloquence, that we are told that
'the barbarous heart of the old prince loved him like a son to his
latest breath'; and his nephew and co-ruler, the young Miantonomo, also
regarded him as a friend, and placed in him a perfect confidence.
'Let no one,' thankfully exclaimed Williams in his diary, 'mistrust
Providence--these ravens fed me in the wilderness!'
But inactive repose was neither the wish nor the lot of Roger Williams;
and he earnestly desired to reach the spot where he proposed to found
his new settlement, and prepare a home for his beloved Edith; and from
whence, also, he hoped to be able to send a letter to Salem or to
Plymouth, which might allay the anxious fears that he well knew she had
so long been enduring. Since he had received the letter that Seaton
brought him from his high-minded wife, he had not had any opportunity
of conveying to her the intelligence of his own safety; or of hearing
from her whether her strength and spirits were supported under the
protracted trial of absence and anxiety. He knew, also, that ere this
time he had reason to believe himself a father; and his heart yearned
to be assured of the welfare of his wife and child, and to see them
safely lodged beneath the shelter of his own roof. It was a source of
extreme consolation to him, under all his feelings of anxiety, to
believe that his Edith had been cheered and supported by the presence
of Dame Elliot and her excellent husband, who, he felt assured, would
not leave her until she could be removed either to Plymouth or to her
husband's new abode: and to their kind care, and the protection of his
heavenly Father, he was contented to leave her, while he used every
effort to procure for her a safe and happy home, in which he could
hope, ere long, to welcome her.
He, therefore, lost no time in concluding a bargain with Masasoyt for a
piece of land in the district called Seacomb[*], not far from the east
arm of Narragansett Bay; and thither he proceeded with Seaton, and
commenced building and planting. From this place, he found means to
convey intelligence, both to Salem and Plymouth, of the safe
termination of his perilous journey, and his intention to fix his
settlement on the piece of ground that he had purchased. His messengers
returned, after a considerable interval, and brought him a letter from
his now joyful wife, which gladdened his heart with the welcome news of
her health and safety; and that also of his little daughter Edith. This
name, she told him, had been given to the infant in accordance with
what she knew to be his wish; and his friend John Elliot--who, with his
wife, had resided chiefly at Salem since his departure--had performed
the rite of baptism. She further informed him that Governor Bradford,
on hearing of her lonely position, had kindly promised to send a vessel
for her; and, as the severity of winter had already partially subsided,
she was in daily expectation of the arrival of the pinnace, which would
carry her back to the happy home of her youth; and then she hoped the
time would not be long until she could rejoin her husband, and once
more be at peace.
[Footnote: Now Reheboth]
This letter called forth the lively joy and gratitude of Roger, and
animated him to fresh zeal and activity in all his proceedings at
Seacomb. He was also encouraged greatly by the arrival, at the same
time, of five of his most devoted adherents from Salem, who had no
sooner learnt from his Indian messenger, of his arrival at the place of
his destination, than they determined to accompany the friendly savage
on his return to Seacomb, and assist their friend and teacher in all
his labors for the formation of an independent settlement.
All this visa cheering and satisfactory; but the trials of this
undaunted man were not over yet. His trusty messenger had brought him
another dispatch, which he had not yet attended to. He now opened it,
and found that it came from the Governor of Plymouth; and contained an
earnest injunction to him to abandon Seacomb, which, he informed him;
was included in their patent, and to remove to the other side of the
river that formed their boundary, where he could be free and
independent, like themselves. 'I accepted his wise counsel as a voice
from God,' wrote Williams: and he' immediately resolved to be guided by
it, and again commence his wanderings.
In a frail Indian canoe, he and his companions rowed up the arm of the
sea, now called the river Seacock. They knew not where to land, or
where again to pitch their tent in the wilderness; but they were soon
guided by the friendly voices of a party of Narragansetts on the
opposite shore. These natives had recognized their friend Williams, and
now shouted out, in broken English, the welcome words, ‘What cheer?'
The sound fell like music on the ears of the desolate exiles; and, in
remembrance of the event, the spot of ground where they first landed on
the Narragansett territory received the name of _‘What Cheer?’_ which
it still retains. A spring, called _'Williams's Spring,'_ is also
shown by the present inhabitants of this district, in proud and
grateful memory of the spot where the founder of a future free state
first set foot on shore.
The place where the wanderer landed was called by the Indians
Maushasuck; and it was made over to him by the generous Cundincus, as a
free and absolute possession, and also all the land included between
the rivers Pawtucket and Maushasuck.[*] This property he shared equally
with his present comrades, and also with some others who shortly after
joined him from Salem, and made their whole number amount to thirteen.
He did not reserve any advantage to himself, although the land actually
belonged to him alone; but divided it into thirteen equal portions, on
each of which a rude hut was immediately erected. These were soon
improved, and became a rising village, to which Williams gave the name
of Providence, in grateful remembrance of the Divine guidance and
protection which had brought him at length to 'the haven where he would
be.'
[Footnote: Now called the Providence River.]
He and his associates united themselves into a sort of 'town-
fellowship,' and independent church; and one of the first rules which
they laid down, for their future guidance and government, was that no
one should ever suffer, in that settlement, for conscience' sake.
It was summer when the little village began to be built; and, before
the land could be cleared and prepared for cultivation, the season was
too far advanced to allow any hope of a corn-harvest. The new settlers
had, therefore, to endure the same poverty and privation that had been
the lot of the earlier planters in New England. They had no means of
obtaining any of the comforts of civilized life, except from Boston or
Plymouth: and as they possessed no vessel besides an Indian canoe, this
was a service of toil and much hazard. Still they did not repine, for
liberty was here their precious portion; and hope for the future
sustained them through the trials of the present time.
But where was Edith? Where was that true-hearted woman while her
husband was thus struggling with difficulties and privations? She was
where both inclination and duty had led her--by his side; and smiling
at trials that she was permitted to share with him, and to lighten by
her presence.
We must here revert to the time before Edith had been blessed by
receiving intelligence of her husband from Seacomb, and had so
cheerfully replied to the note which he wrote to her on a scrap of
paper torn from his pocket book. In order not to interrupt the history
of Roger's difficulties and their successful issue, we have not yet
narrated the trials that his exemplary wife had endured--and endured
with a resolution and fortitude equal to his own.
When the joyful news of Roger's safety reached Edith at Salem, she was
slowly recovering from a long and dangerous illness, which anxiety and
sorrow had brought on her a few weeks after the birth of her child.
Through all her sufferings of mind end body, Dame Elliot had been her
nurse and her comforter; and she and her husband had sacrificed their
own domestic comfort, and their own humble but cherished home, to
lessen the sorrows of their afflicted friend.
All the consolation that human sympathy and affection could afford to
Edith, was given by these true Christian friends; and all the spiritual
strength that the prayers end exhortations of such a minister as Elliot
could impart to a sorrowing spirit, were received, and gratefully
appreciated, by the object of his solicitude and care. But when weeks
and months had elapsed, and still no tidings came of the beloved
wanderer, what hope could be given to the desolate heart of Edith Her
friends had themselves given up all hope of Roger's having survived the
toils end privations of the journey; and how could they bid his wife
cheer up, and look for brighter days, which they believed would never
come? A letter which Edith received from her parents, by the captain of
a fishing-boat from Plymouth, too clearly proved that Williams had
never reached that settlement; and from that day the health and spirits
of his wife visibly declined. She did not give way to violent grief;
but a settled melancholy dwelt on her pale and lovely countenance, and
all the thoughtful abstraction of her early year, which happiness had
chased from her features, returned again. No object but her infant
seemed to rouse her; and then it was only to tears: but tears were
better than that look of deep and speechless sorrow that generally met
the anxious gaze of her friends, and made them, at times, apprehensive
for her reason. At length her physical powers gave way, and a violent
attack of fever brought Edith to the brink of the grave.
During this period both Elliot and his wife devoted themselves, day and
night, to the poor sufferer, whose mind wandered continually, and whose
deeply-touching lamentations for the beloved one, whom she mourned as
dead, brought tears to the eyes of her faithful friends. They had no
hope of her recovery, nor could they heartily desire it; for they
believed her earthly happiness was wrecked for ever, and they could ask
no better fate for her than a speedy reunion with her Roger in a home
beyond the grave.
Her child they looked on as their own, and cherished her with almost a
parent's love and care; while they resolved to bring her up in those
high and holy principles that had been so nobly contended for by her
unfortunate father, and so beautifully exemplified in the amiable
character of her mother.
The fever ran high, and bore down all the strength--both moral and
physical--of its victim. At length, after days and nights of
restlessness and delirium, a deep and heavy sleep came on; and Edith
lay still and motionless for hours, while her untiring friends sat
watching her in silence, and offering up fervent prayers for the soul
that seemed to be departing. During this anxious period, a gentle knock
was made at the door; and Elliot, on opening it, was presented by
Edith's single attendant with the small packet that Roger's Indian
messenger had brought for her mistress.
In trembling agitation, the pastor showed the direction--which he knew
to be in his friend's handwriting--to his wife: and now, indeed, they
lifted up their hearts to the God who heareth prayer, that He would be
pleased to recall the precious life that seemed to be fast ebbing away;
and to permit His tried and faithful servants again to be united, and
enjoy the happiness that yet might be their portion on earth.
Noiselessly Elliot glided from the room--for he feared to awaken the
sleeper--and sought the friendly Indian, from whom he learnt the good
news of Roger's safety, and all the particulars that the red man could
relate concerning him. He then returned to Edith's chamber, and, in a
low whisper, communicated all that he had heard to his wife, and
consulted with her as to the best method of communicating the startling
tidings to Edith, should she ever awake from her present death-like
slumber.
They were still engaged in earnest, but scarcely audible, conversation,
when Dame Elliot, who did not cease from watching her patient, observed
her open her large eyes, and fix them with a look of intelligent
inquiry on herself and her husband. She made a sign to him; and he
likewise was struck with the evident change in Edith's countenance, and
filled with hope that her reason had perfectly returned. This hope was
quickly confirmed by the invalid saying in a very low voice, but in a
collected manner--
'I have slept very long, and my dreams have been very painful. I
dreamt that I was alone in the world, and that an angel came to take my
soul where he had gone to dwell. And then--just as I bade farewell to
earth--a little form came between me and the angel, and held me back.
Where is that little being? Dame Elliot, let me look on her, that my
trembling spirit may be stayed. No, Roger; no--I must not ask to follow
you yet.'
Edith seemed too weak for tears, or for any strong emotion; but she
closed her eyes, and slowly clasped her almost transparent hands upon
her breast, and looked so still and colorless, that she might have been
taken for a marble monument, but for the dark waving hair that fell
upon her pillow, and shaded her snowy neck. Dame Elliot took up the
infant from its little wicker cradle, and held it towards Edith, saying
gently--
‘Look up, my Edith, and bless the little being that God has given to
call you back to life and happiness.'
_'Happiness!'_ murmured Edith. 'That word has no meaning for me! Duty
is my only tie to life.'
But she did look up; and as her eyes were long end fondly fixed on the
unconscious features of the child, her own sweet look of gentleness
rose into them again, and she raised her feeble arms, as if to take the
infant.
'And he will never see her,' she whispered. 'He will never look on his
child in this world.'
Elliot thought that hope might now be given without danger; and he took
her wasted hand in his, and said--
'Edith, you have had much sorrow, and it has nearly brought you down to
the grave. But can you bear to feel the agitation of hope? Can you
listen calmly while I tell you that some tidings of your husband have
reached us, and that he was certainly alive after the time when you
believed him dead?'
He paused, and looked anxiously to see the effect of this sentence; and
he was almost awed by the expression of Edith's countenance. It was not
agitation--it was not joy--it was not trembling uncertainty. But it was
a look of concentrated mental power and endurance, and of speechless
inquiry, that seemed to say, 'Now utter my sentence of life or death,
and do it quickly!'
Dame Elliot could not bear it. Bursting into tears of deep emotion, she
beat down and imprinted a kiss on Edith's cold brow, while she
exclaimed, in broken accents--
'Yes! it is true, dearest Edith. You may live--and live, we hope, for
happiness as great as has ever been your portion.'
'O, my God!' cried Edith-'this is too much!--too much of joy for one so
weak and faithless. But tell me, my friends--tell me all. I can bear it
now.'
Gently and gradually Elliot prepared her for the blissful certainty of
her husband's safety; and when he found that illness had not greatly
weakened her natural strength of mind, and that she could bear the joy
that awaited her, he gave her Roger's own letter, and felt assured that
the tears she, at length, shed at the sight of his hand-writing, would
relieve and calm her over-burdened heart.
In this he judged truly; for, though Edith was greatly exhausted after
this strong excitement, yet she passed a tranquil night, and was so
much recovered on the following morning as to be able to converse
composedly with her kind friends. The fever had passed away; and the
sense of restored happiness, joined to youth and a naturally good
constitution, had a rapid effect in renovating her strength and
spirits, and recalling a faint bloom to her cheek.
Before the Indian set out on his return to Seacomb, she insisted on
seeing him, and herself delivering to him a letter to Roger, in which
she had carefully avoided all mention of her illness. She made
numerous inquiries of him relative to her husband's health and present
situation; and charged him to convey her packet safely, and tell his
employer that he had seen her and his child well and happy. She could
say this with truth; for so rapidly had she recovered, that the
inexperienced eye of the Indian could detect no remaining indisposition
in the slight and graceful form of the interesting pale-face, or any
trace of disease in the bright eye that smiled so kindly upon him.
He departed with the friends of Williams, and earnestly did his wife
wish that it had been possible for her to accompany them, and join her
husband at once. But this could not be; and she could only endeavor to
regain her strength, so as to be able to proceed to Plymouth, as soon
as the promised vessel arrived. In due time it came: and bidding her
kind and devoted friends an affectionate farewell, Edith and her child
embarked, with all the little property that remained to her, and soon
found herself once more beneath the peaceful roof of her parents.
Until she arrived at Plymouth, she was not aware of the fresh trial
that had befallen her husband, in being compelled to abandon his
settlement at Seacomb, and remove into the Narragansett district. This
change was distressing to her, as it net only placed the lines of her
future habitation at a greater distance from her parents and friends at
New Plymouth, but also removed it further from all civilized life, and
into a district inhabited by a tribe whom she had learnt to dread from
her childhood, as the rivals and foes of the friendly Wampanoges.
Still these considerations did not, in any measure, abate her eagerness
to fellow Roger, and take her part in all his toils and anxieties. The
winter had passed away, and, though far from genial, the weather was
more tolerable for travelling; and Edith resolved to set out.
All the arguments and entreaties of Helen and Rodolph to induce her to
delay her journey for some months, were ineffectual. Her husband lived;
and he was suffering hardship--and could she remain separated from him,
now that her own strength had been restored? The only concession she
could be persuaded to make, was to wait until some friend from Plymouth
was found to accompany her. Gladly would her father have done so; but
he was suffering so severely from the ague that so often attacked the
settlement in the spring months, as to be perfectly incompetent to
attempt the toilsome journey. No vessel could now be procured, and it
was on foot that Edith proposed to traverse the wide extent of
wilderness that stretched between Plymouth and Roger's place of refuge.
Two faithful and active Indians were appointed by Mooanam to be her
guides, and to carry the infant which she would not consent to leave
behind her; and, in order that this might be accomplished with greater
facility, Apannow provided her with one of the Indian cradles--or,
rather, pouches--in which the red squaws so commonly carry their young
children on their backs. This was thickly lined with soft and elastic
bog-moss, and well adapted to the purpose for which it was designed.
All was prepared, and the impatient Edith only waited for a companion
from among her own countrymen, who were all so much occupied at that
busy season as to feel little disposed to undertake so long a journey.
But she found one at length who was sufficiently interested in her
happiness, and that of her husband, to leave his home and his
occupations, and offer to be her protector. This was the excellent
Edward Winslow, who had been her father's constant friend ever since
their first emigration, and who bad also learnt to know and value Roger
Williams, during his residence at Plymouth.
With such a companion, Edith felt she had nothing to fear; and her
anxious parents committed her to his care with greater confidence than
they would have done to that of any other protector. His natural
sagacity, his courage, and his knowledge of the Indians and their
language, rendered him peculiarly suitable for the enterprise; and his
warm friendship for Rodolph and all his family, and the lively powers
of his pious and intelligent mind, ensured to Edith both a kind and an
agreeable fellow-traveler.
Nevertheless, it was not without many prayers and tears that Helen saw
her daughter once more leave her childhood's home, and commence her
journey. But Edith's spirits were joyous, and her hopes were high; and
her child lay smiling contentedly in its strange nest, which was slung
on the shoulders of one of the Indian guides. The other carried a
small stock of provisions, and other necessaries, and thus the little
party set forth.
We will rot follow them, day by day, in their fatiguing journey; but
merely state that its length and difficulty exceeded even the
expectations of Edith and her companion; but never damped the
persevering courage of the former, or drew from her a complaint, or a
wish to return. She only felt that every step, however rough and
toilsome, carried her nearer to the object that was dearest to her on
earth; and this conviction supported her when otherwise her strength
must have failed.
Sometimes an Indian wigwam afforded her rest and shelter; but,
frequently, a bed of dry leaves, and a roof of boughs, were the best
lodging that Winslow and the Indians could provide for her and her
little infant. Happily the weather was calm and mild, and the season
sufficiently advanced to enable the Indians to find a quantity of
nutritious roots, which, with the meal, or nokake, that they carried
with them--or procured from the natives by the way--formed the chief
subsistence of the party. Occasionally, their fare was improved by a
wild turkey, or wood duck; or, perhaps, a squirrel or hare, that Winslow
brought down with his gun; but often the day's journey was performed
with no other refreshment than a few spoonsful of dry meal, and a
draught of cold water, until something more nourishing could be procured
at their place of repose for the right.
Roger Williams was standing one evening on the bank of the river, or
rather, arm of the sea, called Seacock, near the spot where he had
first landed, and to which he had given the name of 'What Cheer?' He
was examining the landing-place, and contriving some means of turning
it into a sort of harbor for canoes that belonged to the settlers in
his new village, when his attention was attracted to the other side of
the river, by hearing his own name loudly called by native voices. He
looked to the spot, and saw two Indians plunge into the water, and swim
rapidly towards him: and, as they did so, he also observed two other
figures emerge from a grove of trees that reached nearly to the eastern
brink of the inlet.
The distance was considerable, but Roger's keen eye could discern that
one of them was a female form; and, as they approached nearer to the
water's edge, and the rays of the evening sun fell brightly upon them,
he also saw that the arms of that graceful and familiar form carried an
infant.
‘Surely it is an illusion!' he exclaimed. I have so long pictured to
my mind that blessed sight, that at length my fancy seems realized. It
cannot be!'
But again his name was called--not now with an Indian accent, but in
the manly English tones of Edward Winslow 'Bring down a canoe, Roger!'
he shouted across the Water. 'Edith and your child cannot swim this,
arm of the sea.'
It was then true! Edith--his beloved wife--was there and only that
narrow inlet divided them! The Indians had sprung to the shore, and
were waiting his directions, to go in search of a canoe; but for a few
moments he did not regard them, so riveted were his eyes, and all his
senses, on the opposite shore. But now he remembered that only by means
of a boat could he attain that shore; and making a signal of wild joy
and welcome to Edith, he hurried up the creek with the Indians, and
rapidly unloosed the moorings of his canoe, which lay securely behind a
projecting rock. He leaped into it, leaving the natives on the shore,
and paddled the canoe swiftly down the creek, to the spot where Edith
stood waiting to receive him, trembling with agitation and joy.
When the first burst of emotion, at this, long-desired meeting with his
wife and hitherto unknown child, had subsided, Roger warmly welcomed
the friend who had so kindly protected them during their long journey,
and brought them to the wild spot that was now his only home. He then
led them to the canoe, and, with Winslow's assistance, soon rowed them
to the other side, and conducted them to his, infant settlement.
The huts were indeed erected, and covered in with shingle roofs; but
their appearance promised little of outward comfort to Edith. Yet an
inward joy and satisfaction were now permitted to her, which, at one
time, she had never hoped to enjoy again on earth; and all externals
were as nothing when compared with this. Nevertheless, she exerted
herself with all a woman's taste and skill to arrange the simple
furniture of the hut, and even to add a something of decoration; and
both her husband and Winslow wondered at the improvement which she soon
effected in the appearance of the dwelling, and the ingenuity with
which she converted the rudest materials into articles of use or
ornament.
Her joyous spirits, and active moments, gave a life and animation to
the hitherto dreary scene; and Roger felt that he had, indeed, in her a
helpmate, who would cheer the loneliest situation, and shed a grace and
charm ever poverty itself.
Winslow appreciated all her excellent and amiable qualities very highly
also; and yet he lamented the lot of both his friends, who had to
endure, in this comparative solitude, all the struggles, and all the
hardships, that the Pilgrim Fathers had once encountered, and had now
conquered.
But the visit of this, 'great and pious soul,' as Roger described
Edward Winslow, very greatly cheered the heart of the exiles. He
remained for many weeks in the new settlement; and only left it when
the advance of the season warned him that the short Indian summer was
drawing to an end. A vessel which arrived at that time from Plymouth,
and which brought the wives and families of several of the settlers,
afforded him the means of returning by sea, and avoiding the tedious
land journey. He departed, with the thanks and blessings of his
friends, to convey to Edith's, parents the happy intelligence that she
was both well and happy, and that it was evident her cheerful spirit
had power to sustain her through every difficulty by which she might be
surrounded.