And why, it is asked, does not Government prevent this? I have already supposed, what I believe to be the fact: that Government has never yet seen it in its true light. All governments of weighty cares are slow to discern and redress the thousand petty, yet grievous oppressions, that are done within their jurisdictions. The poor and simple cannot find ways and means for a hearing; and they are always anticipated by their oppressors—so that when their cause is admitted, there is little chance of redress. And has this matter never gone to the ear of Government? It has been attempted; and I have already intimated, how uniformly the aggrieved have been foiled. Besides, a new and general plan of removing all the Indians farther west, is in the way. It is impossible in the present order of things—and probably in any supposable order—that this injustice should be arrested. There may possibly come in enactments of indemnification;—but the question is decided—that the Indians can never inherit the North-West Territory. It is too late. It is decreed to rise and stand an independent member of the Federal Union.
CHAPTER XVI.
BURNING OF DEERFIELD IN MASSACHUSETTS, AND MASSACRE OF ITS INHABITANTS, &c.
“The history of the world,” said one, “is a history of crime and calamity.” And if we may put a commentary on this, it doubtless means, that its most notable features are of this description. The peaceful and even tenor of a particular community, or of the grand community of nations, makes brief chapters of history;—and for this reason:—that the interest of the record is in the inverse proportion to the comfort, which the facts narrated have brought to mankind. However libellous the charge, the human mind loves excitement, and delights more in the review of deeds of blood and of the disasters occasioned by the conflict of the physical elements of the universe, than of the achievements of benevolence and the security and happiness of society. The detail of the actual misery, inflicted by the strifes of nations, is always private; and imposes itself upon public observation, only by the swelling of its frightful aggregate. The most remarkable incidents of private life, and the most affecting features of private calamity, are almost entirely excluded from the notice of the general historian, by the very design and necessities of his task. These make the wide and various field, and constitute the exhaustless materials of the dramatist, the tragedian, and the writer of romance. This is, indeed, the grand monopoly of this class of writers—the province of authentic biography excepted.
In the old French war, as it is called in America, (for every country has its own annals, the common allusions of which are best understood at home) the town of Deerfield in Massachusetts, which was then a frontier settlement, became a prey to Indian pillage and massacre. It is understood, that this event happened in the early history of what were then called the British colonies of North America. The awful night, when the Indian war-whoop broke the repose of the peaceful inhabitants of that village, consigned its humble tenements to the blaze of the firebrand, and its fathers and mothers, and brothers and sisters, and helpless infancy, to indiscriminate massacre, or to painful captivity, is still fresh in the recollections of traditionary narrative, and stands recorded on the authentic pages of the early history of New England. The place itself is indeed at present one of the most secure abodes, and one of the pleasantest and sweetest towns in the Vale of the Connecticut, the long line of the grateful territory of which, has been celebrated by a native poet, whose verse offers to my recollection the following couplet:—
“No rays of sun on happier vallies shine,
Nor drinks the sea a lovelier wave than thine.”
But the burning and massacre of Deerfield will never be forgotten. An Indian assault, when victorious, and Indian vengeance, are terrible beyond imagination to conceive. In war mercy is no attribute of the Indian’s breast. One of the solemn and sacramental acts of his enlistment, is publicly to absolve himself from all clemency towards his enemies; and the more merciless the inflictions of his cruelty on man, woman, and child, the greater his glory, and the more sure his reward. The implorings of helpless age, the cries of the tender female, the beseechings of the mother, and the sudden terror of her wakened infant, are music to his ear;—and all the scene, of his burning and carnage, a provocation to his appetite for blood. The captive he leads away he doats upon, as the future and more public victim of his dire revenge; and if perchance the tender object of his future sacrifice sinks under the fatigues of the way, he lifts his hatchet, and brings the victim to the earth, and snatches and bears away the scalp, as his trophy.
Among the families, which fell victims to the massacre of Deerfield, was that of the Rev. Mr. Williams, the pious and exemplary pastor of the flock, consigned to his spiritual charge, in that frontier settlement. His youngest child, an infant daughter, was snatched from the cradle, and borne away a captive; and by accident falling in charge of an Indian woman, the child became the favourite of her new protectress—was cherished and brought up in the St. Regis Tribe, of Lower Canada; and in process of time, was married to an Indian chief. Although no knowledge of her preservation and history could be obtained for many years, she was at last discovered in a time of peace, and persuaded with her husband to visit the surviving family-connexions in Massachusetts. But being entirely Indian in all her feelings, her language, and manners, she could never be persuaded to desert the home and the tribe, to which she had become attached. She was even discontented and manifestly uneasy, under all the tender cares and anxious attentions, which were in vain exhausted upon her, to induce her to return, with her family, and take up her abode with the relics and descendants of her father’s house, and in the bosom of civilized society. Every possible motive and tempting offer were set before them; but without success. She and her husband occasionally visited their family connexions in Massachusetts, and were themselves visited in turn; and the kindest reciprocities of feeling were exchanged in this way, from one generation to another. And it may be observed, that the Indian family, to which she was allied, took the name of Williams, and have borne it to this day;—as is often the case, when connexions of this sort have been formed. As is quite natural among barbarous tribes, the natives of America, when on friendly terms, are proud of European alliances, and are not unwilling to make this change of name, in honour of the family, from which they have made the acquisitions of a maternal head among themselves.
From one of the succeeding generations of this Anglo-Indian family, (I am unable to specify, whether it was the fourth, fifth, or sixth) two brothers, Eleazer and John, the former perhaps ten years old and the latter eight, by persuasions used with their parents in Canada, were brought to Long Meadow, Massachusetts, about fifty miles south of Deerfield, on Connecticut River, to be educated among the collateral descendants of their remote ancestor, the Rev. Mr. Williams. The translation of these boys occurred about the year 1800—perhaps a little subsequent. Their father, an Indian chief of the tribe before named, came with them, and stayed long enough to induct his sons into some acquaintance and custom with their new condition, and then left them in charge of their solicitous and benevolent relations.
It was in the winter, while the earth was covered with a deep and heavy fleece of immaculate snow. The father and his boys were dressed in the Indian costume throughout, but richly ornamented, according to Indian taste, and in a style befitting the rank and dignity of the family, as among the chiefs of the tribe. Their blanket was worked into the forms of a loose great coat with sleeves, and girded about the loins by a belt of beaded wampum, with a knife pendant in a scabbard. Their feet were shod with moccasins, and their ancles and legs to the knees, buttoned up by a species of scarlet gaiters;—the hair of their heads carelessly stuck with feathers—and the whole person exhibiting a very grotesque and attractive appearance. In the country retreat of Long-meadow, where an Indian had rarely shown himself for generations, and where every novelty is a town talk, this exhibition excited a wondrous and wondering attention. The whole congregation on Sunday, instead of looking at the minister and hearing him, as was their duty, could talk of nothing, and think of little, but the Indians. Their eyes followed these strange-looking beings into the church, and into their seats, and scarcely turned away from them, till the services were closed, and the lions had been withdrawn from public gaze. Except for the conscientious scruples of their pious host, they might as well, or better, perhaps, have been kept at home. But although there was a manifest distraction of the public mind, and although the Indians could not understand a word of the services, yet there was no knowing what a blessing there might be in it. The path of duty is the path of safety; and to the praise of New England be it spoken, that in olden time, the public conscience would have been greatly disturbed at any unnecessary neglect of public worship. Every man was the guardian of his neighbour in this particular, and held a conventional and vested right to call him to account for delinquencies. Although it must be confessed, that they have, in some places, and in some degree, fallen off from this excellent custom of their forefathers. The author of these pages was for years a school-fellow with these boys, and is well acquainted with their history; and because of the conspicuous part, which the eldest of them, Eleazer, is destined to occupy in our story, it is thought suitable to insert some traces of his biography.
It may be proper to remark, that every town in New England (called town in the act of incorporation, of which a parish in Old England is the proper type, whether in the country, or otherwise) is divided into a number of small geographical districts, to perfect the economy of common education;—that the schools of these districts are supported by assessments on the real estate within their limits, according to the valuations of the civil list;—that the children of the poor have the same advantages, as those of their more wealthy neighbours, so far as the provisions of these schools are concerned; which are always sufficient for the purposes of what is called a good common education;—that is, instruction in the reading and grammar of the English language, chirography, arithmetic, geography, history, and such other things, as are deemed important for the common business of life. And this is always the first stage of education, with the children of the rich as of the poor. Those, who are able, and who choose to extend the education of their children, having passed them through this common course—the privileges of which are always near their own doors—send them abroad to select schools, and to the university, if they are destined for the learned professions, or the higher conditions of life.