CHAPTER VII.

[Contents]CHAPTER VII.A CAPTIVE’S LIFE AMONG INDIANS, ILLUSTRATED BY THE LIFE OF “THE WHITE WOMAN.”To be taken captive by the Indians, was among the early colonists considered the most terrible of all calamities; and it was indeed a fearful thing to become the victim of their revenge. But those who were enduring the actual sufferings of captives, or suffering still more from terror of uncertain evils, thought little of the provocation given by our own people. The innocent often suffered for the guilty, and however persevering the efforts of the government to be just, in its infancy, in a wild unknown country, it was impossible to control unprincipled marauders. Some atrocious act was first committed by white men, which drove the Indian to retaliation, and thinking pale faces were all alike, he did not wait till the real offender fell into his hands.When the white men first came, the Indians looked upon them as superior beings. They were ready to worship Columbus and his little party, and all along on the coast, until their simple trust was outraged beyond endurance they welcomed the strangers—gave them food when they were hungry, and sheltered them when they were cold. It was not till their encroachments became alarming, that the Indian asserted his rights, and if in all cases he had been as justly and kindly dealt with as by the Quakers of Pennsylvania, there would not have been so dark a record of sin[137]and wrong, and torture. If none but men of principle had made treaties with them, and all whose duty it was to observe them, had kept their faith, revenge would not have come out so prominently in Indian character.But it was not in obedience to national policy that those who were taken in battle were put to the torture, and burned and flayed. The Six Nations had never found it necessary to build prisons and dig dungeons for their own people. If a man committed murder, they sometimes decided that he should die, and sometimes bade him flee far away where none who knew him could ever look upon his face. But crimes were so rare that they had no criminal code, and when they overcame their enemies, they either adopted them and treated them as friends, or put them immediately to death.White people have sometimes put Indians to death, and oftener put them in dungeons to waste and starve, but it was no part of their practice to adopt them and call them brethren! Had they sometimes done this, or sent them freely back to their friends unharmed, they might have conciliated where they only made more desperate.When families were bereaved, they sought to be revenged on those who had bereaved them; and when warriors returned from battle, the prisoners were given up to the friends who were afflicted. With them alone it remained to decide the fate of those who fell into their hands. If they chose, they adopted them in place of the husbands and brothers who were slain; and if they so decided, they were put to death, and in any way they decreed.If the manner in which their friends had been killed was aggravating and greatly enraged them, they were very likely to decide upon torture, and inflicted it in a manner to produce the greatest suffering. But even in such cases[138]they sometimes showed great magnanimity, and “returned good for evil.”Children were very often adopted, and by a solemn ceremony received into a particular tribe, and evermore treated as one of their own people. We have been in the habit of listening to heart-rending stories of cruelties to captives, but captives who were adopted were never cruelly treated. Those who were immediately put to death experienced great suffering for a few hours, and those who were preserved were subject to hardships which seemed to them unspeakable, but they were such as are necessarily incident to Indian life. They had no written chronicles to tell to all future generations the wrongs and tortures to which they were subjected, but one who sits with them by their firesides, may have his blood frozen with horror at recitals of civilized barbarity.And there is one species of wrong, of which no captive woman of any nation had to complain when she was thrown upon the tender mercies of Indian warriors. Not among all the dark and terrible records which their enemies have delighted to emblazon, is there a single instance of the outrage of that delicacy which a pure-minded woman cherishes at the expense of life, and sacrifices not to any species of mere animal suffering. Of what other nation can it be written, that their soldiers were not more terrible at the firesides of their enemies than on the battle field, with all the fierce engines of war at their command? To whatever motive it is to be ascribed, let this at least stand out on the pages of Indian history as an ever enduring monument to their honor. A little book, which professes to have been written for the sole purpose of recording and perpetuating Indian atrocities, and dwells upon them with infinite delight, alludes to this redeeming trait in Indian character, but attempts to ascribe it to the influence[139]of superstition, as if it were necessary to find some evil or deteriorating motive for every thing noble or pleasing in Indian character. I have no doubt that it was quite revolting to the general sentiment in an Indian community, to mingle their blood with that of a nation whom they looked up on as a race of evil spirits let loose, and I wonder that they should ever have received them, as they often did, into their families, and to their bosom friendships and confidences. But this hatred in other nations prompts to the very manifestation of which an Indian was never guilty. Their treatment of captives from among Indian nations was the same, and I know not that there has been any satisfactory solution of a characteristic which has been found among only one other civilized, Christian or barbarous nation. A wanderer among the western tribes once asked an Indian why they thus honored their women, and he said, “The Great Spirit taught them, and would punish them if they did not.” Among the Germans there existed the same respect for woman, till they became civilized. There may have been some superstitious fear, mingled with a strong governing and controlling principle, but it is not on this account the less marvellous that whole nations, consisting of millions, should have been so trained religiously or domestically, that no degree of beauty or fascination placed under their care, though hundreds of miles in the solitudes of the wilderness, should have tempted them from the strictest honor and the most delicate kindness.Mary Jewison was eighty years a resident among the Senecas, and in the early part of the time the forests had few clearings, and the comforts and the vices of white men prevailed but little among them. She was born on the ocean, with the billowy sea for her cradle and the tempest for her lullaby. Her parents emigrated from England to this country in 1742, and settled in the unfortunate vale[140]of Wyoming, where date her first remembrances, which were of the woes that fell upon her family—the wail of the sorrow-stricken and the breaking of heart-strings.The last meal they took together was a breakfast, after which the father and three eldest brothers went into the field, and Mary, with the other little children, were playing not far from the house. They were suddenly startled by a shriek, and knew it must be from their mother. On running in, they found her in the hands of two Indians, who were holding her fast. A little boy ran to call his father, and found him also bound by another of the party, and his eldest brother lying dead upon the earth. The two others fled to Virginia, where they had an uncle, as Mary afterwards learned, and those who remained were made captive and hurried into the woods.All day they were obliged to march in single file over the rough, cold soil, with no time or permission for conversation, and the lash often applied to quicken their steps. Night found them in the heart of the wilderness, surrounded by their strange captors, and all the horrors of Indian life or Indian death staring them in the face. They had no hope of mercy, whether permitted to live or condemned to die.The mother thought they would perhaps spare the children, but did not on this account take courage, for it seemed to her better that they should die, than live to become the companions of such a people, and grow up very probably to be like them. Mary was the only one old enough to understand her injunctions, and to her she was allowed to speak before they were separated for the night, and, as she feared, for ever.She said, “My daughter, you, I think, will be permitted to live; but they will deprive you of your father and mother, and perhaps of your brothers and sisters, so[141]that you will be alone. But endeavor in all things to please the Indians, and they will be more kind to you. Do not forget your own language, and never fail to repeat your catechism and the Lord’s prayer every morning and evening while you live.” This she promised to do, and having kissed her child, the mother was removed from her sight, and never more saw one of all the little party who were happy in the little cottage together only a few hours before.Mary was not permitted to ask concerning her friends, and only knew their fate by recognizing their scalps as they were prepared to dry. Her mother’s she knew by the long sandy hair, which was neatly combed and braided. Her little brother had soft flaxen curls, which still retained their sunny hue, and hung in glossy waves over the edges of the hoop on which the skin was stretched. She could not restrain the tears, but dared utter no moan that she had been thus cruelly severed from all she loved.She must at this time have been ten years of age; but it was less sad for her than if she had been older, for now she could easily assimilate her tastes to those of her new friends, and would naturally soon forget her home and the customs of her people.She was afterwards told, when she could understand the Indian language, that they should not have killed her parents if the captors had not been pursued, and that a little boy, who was the son of a neighbor, and was also taken, was given to the French, two of whom were of the party.In the marches of the Indians it was the custom for one to linger behind andpoke upthe grass with a stick, after a party had passed along, to conceal all traces of their foot-steps, so that a pursuit was seldom successful. In deviating from a direct course, in order not to get lost,[142]they noticed the moss upon the trees, which always grew thickest upon the north side, as the south side, being most exposed to the sun, became soonest dry. They also had some knowledge of the stars, and knew from the positions of certain clusters, that were to be seen at certain seasons, which was east and which west.Mary was carried far down the Ohio, and found her captors to be a party of Shawanese, and by them she was adopted in place of two brothers, who had fallen in battle, and for whom the lamentations had not yet died away.The ceremony of adoption is very solemn, requiring the deliberations of a council and the formal bestowing of a name, as a sort of baptism, from which time the captive is not allowed to speak any language but the Indian, and must in all things conform to Indian habits and tastes.It is the custom among them to give children a name which corresponds with the sports and dependence of childhood, and when they arrive at maturity, to change it for one that corresponds with the duties and employments of manhood and womanhood. The first name is given by the relatives, and afterwards publicly announced in council. The second is bestowed in the same way, and by this they are ever afterwards called, except on becoming a Sachem, and sometimes on becoming a chief or warrior, another is taken, and each denotes definitely the new position. Each clan, too, had its peculiar names, so that when a person’s name was mentioned it was immediately known to what clan he belonged.A curious feature in the Indian code of etiquette is, that it is exceedingly impolite to ask a person his name, or to speak it in his presence. In the social circle and all private conversation, the person spoken of is described, if it is necessary to allude to him, as the person who sits[143]there, or who lives in that house, or wears such a dress. If I ask a woman, whose husband is present, if that is Mr. P——, she blushes, and stammers, and replies, “It is my child’s father,” in order to avoid speaking his name in his presence, which would offend him. On asking a man his name he remained silent; not understanding the reason, the question was repeated, when he indignantly replied, “Do you think that I am an owl, to go abouthootingmy name every where?” the name of the owl in Seneca, corresponding exactly to the note he continually utters.When Mary Jewison had been formally namedDe-he-wa-mis, they called her daughter and sister, and treated her in all respects as if she had been born among them and the same blood flowed in her veins; or rather they were accustomed to be more kind to captives than to their own children, because they had not been inured to the same hardships. There was no difference in the caresses bestowed, no allusion was made to the child as if it belonged to a hated race, and it never felt the want of affection.Mary said her tasks were always light, and every thing was done to win her love and make her happy. She now and then longed for the comforts of her cottage home, and wept at the thought of her mother’s cruel death, but gradually learned to love the freedom of the forest, and to gambol freely and gayly with her Indian playmates. When she was named they threw her dress away, and clothed her in deer-skins and moccasins, and painted her face in true Indian style. She never spoke English in their presence, as they did not allow it; but, when alone, did not forget her mother’s injunction, and repeated her prayer and all the words she could remember, thus retaining enough of the language to enable her easily to[144]recall it when she should again return to civilized society, as she constantly indulged the hope of doing by an exchange of captives.But when she was fourteen years of age her mother selected for her a husband, to whom she was married according to Indian custom. His name was She-nin-jee, and though she was not acquainted with him previously, and of course had no affection for him, he proved not only an amiable and excellent man, but a congenial companion, whom she loved devotedly. He had all the noble qualities of the Indian, being handsome, and brave, and generous, and kind, and to her ever gentle and affectionate.Now she became thoroughly reconciled to Indian life, her greatest sorrow being the necessary absences of her husband on the war-path and hunting excursions. She followed the occupations of the women, and tilled the fields, dressed the skins, and gathered the fuel for the winter fires; and though this seems to us unfeminine labor, it was performed at their leisure, and occupied very little of their time.When the hunters returned they were weary and passive, and seldom were guilty of fault-finding, and so well did an Indian woman know her duty, that her husband was not obliged to make known his wants. Obedience was required in all respects, and where there was harmony and affection, cheerfully yielded; and knowing as they did that separation would be the consequence of neglect of duty, and unkindness, there was really more self-control, and care about little things, than among those who are bound for life, weal and woe, love and hatred, kindness and cruelty. They did not agree to live together through good and through evil report, but only while they loved and confided in one another; and they were therefore[145]careful not to throw lightly away this confidence and affection.The labor of the field was performed in so systematic a manner, and by so thorough and wise a division of labor, that there were none of the jealousies and envyings which exist among those who wish to hoard, and are ambitious to excel in style and equipage; and before thefire-watercame among them dissensions of any kind were almost unknown. This has been the fruitful source of all their woes.It was not till Mary became a mother that she gave up all longing for civilized society, and relinquished all hope of again returning to the abodes of white men. Now she had a tie to bind her which could not be broken. If she should find her friends they would not recognize her Indian husband, or consider her lawfully married; they would not care to be connected by ties of blood to a people whom they despised. Her child would not be happy among those who looked upon her as inferior, and she herself had no education to fit her for the companionship of white people. She looked upon her little daughter and said, “It is Sheninjee’s, it is dearer to methanall things else. I could not endure to see her treated with aversion or neglect.”But only a little while was she permitted this happiness—her daughter died, while yet an infant, and when Sheninjee was away. Again the feeling of desolation came over her young spirit, but all around her ministered in every way to her comfort, and became more than ever endeared to her heart. After a long absence Sheninjee returned, and she was again happy for many months. She had a son and named him from her father, to which no objection was made by her Indian friends, and her love for her husband became idolatry. In her eyes he seemed[146]every thing noble and good,—she mourned his departure and longed for his return, for his affection prompted him to treat her with the gentle and winning kindness which is the spirit of true love alone.But again came the separation, and she must pass another long winter alone. Hunting was the Indian’s toil, and though they delighted in it, the pang of parting from his wife and little ones, made it a sacrifice, and spread a dark cloud over a long period of his life. And now it became dark indeed to Mary, for she waited long and Sheninjee came not. She put every thing in order in his little dwelling—she dressed new skins for his couch, and smoked venison to please his taste; she made the fire bright to welcome him, hoping every evening when she lay down with her baby upon her bosom, that ere the morning sun the husband and father would gladden them by his smile, but in vain; winter passed away, and the spring, and then came the sad tidings that he was dead. She was a widow and her child was fatherless. Very long and deeply did she mourn Sheninjee, for it seemed to her there was none like him; but again the sympathies of his people created new links to bind her to them, and she said she could not have loved a mother or sister more dearlythanshe did thosewhostood in this relationship to her, and soothed her by their loving words.Not for four years was she again urged to marry, and during this time there was an exchange of prisoners, and she had an opportunity to return to her kindred. She was left to do as she pleased. They told her she might go; but if she preferred to remain, she should still be their daughter and sister, and they would give her land for her own, where she might always dwell. Again she thought of the prejudice she should every where meet, and that she could never patiently listen to reproaches concerning[147]her husband’s people. It would not be believed that he was noble, because he was an Indian,—she should have no near relatives, and those she had might reject her if she should seek them. So she came to the final conclusion, and never more sighed for the advantages or pleasures of civilized life. She came with the brothers of Sheninjee to the banks of the Genesee, where she resided the remaining seventy-two years of her life.Her second husband, Hiokatoo, she never learned to love. He was a chief and a warrior, brave and fearless, but though he was always kind to her, he was a man of blood. He delighted in deeds of cruelty and delighted to relate them, and now the fire-water had become common, and the good were made bad and the bad worse, so that dissensions arose in families and in neighborhoods, and the happiness which had been almost without alloy, was no longer known among these simple people.She adds her testimony to that of all travellers and historians concerning the purity of their lives, having never herself received the slightest insult from an Indian, and scarcely knowing an instance of infidelity or immorality. But when they had once tasted of the maddening draught, the thirst was insatiable, and all they had would be given for a glass of something to destroy their reason. Now they were indeed converted into fiends and furies, and sold themselves to swift destruction. Hiokatoo hesitated at no crime, and took pleasure in every thing that was dark and terrible, but this was a small trial compared to those which Mrs. Jewison was called upon to endure from the intoxication and recklessness of her sons.Her oldest, the son of Sheninjee, was murdered by John, the son of Hiokatoo, who afterwards murdered his own brother Jessee, and came to the same violent death[148]himself by the hands of others. When they came to be in the midst of temptation there was no restraining principle, and even after they grew up, her house was the scene of quarrels and confusion in consequence of their intemperance, and she knew no rest, from fear of some calamity from the indulgence of their unbridled passions.The chiefs of the Seneca nation, to which her second husband belonged, gave her a large tract of land, and when it became necessary that it should be secured to her by treaty, she attended the council and plead her own case. The commissioners, without inquiring particularly concerning the dimensions of herlots, allowed her to make the boundaries, and when the document was signed, and she was in firm possession, it was found that she was the owner of nearly four thousand acres, of which only a deed in her own handwriting could deprive her. But though she was rich, she toiled not the less diligently, and forsook not thesphere of womanin attending to the ways of her household; and also true to her Indian education, she planted, and hoed, and harvested, retaining her Indian dress and habits, till the day of her death.During the revolutionary war, her house was made the rendezvous and head-quarters of British officers and Indian chiefs, as her sympathies were entirely with her red brethren, and the cause they espoused was the one she preferred to aid. It was in her power to sympathize with many a lone captive; she always remembered her own anguish at the prospect of spending her life in the wilderness, the companion of Indians, and though she had learned to love instead of fearing them, and knew they were, as a people, deserving of respect and the highest honor, she understood the feelings of those who knew them not.Her supplications procured the release of many from[149]torture, and her generous kindness clothed the naked and fed the starving.Lot by lot, and acre by acre, the Indians sold their lands, and at length the beautiful valley of the Genesee fell into the hands of the white man, except the domain of “The White Woman,” as she was always called, which could not be given up without her consent. She refused at the time of the sale to part with her portion, but after the Indians removed to the Buffalo Reservation, and she was left alone, though lady of the manor, and surrounded by white people, she preferred to take up her abode with those whom she now called her people. Most emphatically did she adopt the language of Ruth in the days of old—“Entreat me not to leave thee, or return from following after thee, for whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried.”She was as thoroughly Pagan as the veriest Indian who had never heard of God, and exclaimed with him, that their religion was good enough for her, and she desired no change.She was ninety years old—eighty years she had been an exile from the land of her birth—she had forgotten the prayers her mother taught her, and knew nothing of the worship of her fathers, when one morning she sent a messenger to tell the missionaries she wished to see them. She had ever before refused to listen to them if they came to her dwelling, but they hastened to obey the summons, glad to feel that they should be welcome, though quite uncertain concerning the nature of the interview she proposed. She was literally withered away. Her face was scarcely larger than an infant’s, and completely checkered with fine wrinkles; her teeth were entirely gone, and[150]her mouth so sunken that her nose and chin almost met; her hair not silvery, but snowy white, except a little lock by each ear, which still retained the sandy hue of childhood; her form, which was always slight, was bent, and her limbs could no longer support her. She had revived the knowledge of her language since she had dwelt among white people, but “Oh,” said she, as the ladies entered, “I have forgotten how to pray; my mother taught me, and told me never to forget this, though I remembered nothing else.” And then she exclaimed, “Oh God, have mercy upon me!” This expression she had heard in her old age, and now uttered it in the fulness of her heart. There had come a gleam of light through all the dark clouds of superstition and Pagan blindness, and this spark was kindled at the fireside of that little cottage home, and fell upon her heart from a mother’s lips, and now revived at the remembrance of a mother’s love and her dying blessing. It was eighty years since she had seen that mother’s face, as she breathed out her soul in anguish, bending over her in the silent depths of the wilderness—eighty years since she listened to “Our Father who art in Heaven,” from Christian lips, and now the still small voice which had so long been hushed, spoke aloud, and startled her as if an angel called. She tried to stifle it, and for many days after it awoke in her bosom heeded it not, but it gave her no rest. No earthly voice had since reminded her that her heart was sinful, and needed to be washed in order to be clean. The seed which had been sown in it when she was a little child had just sprung up—the snows of eighty winters had not chilled it—the mildews of nearly a century had not blighted it, and the heavy hand of a hundred calamities had left it unharmed. She had not been in the midst of corruptions, therefore it[151]had not been destroyed. The little germ was still alive, and proving that it had not been planted in vain.The aged woman sat pillowed up in bed with her children and children’s children of three generations around her, and lifting her withered hands and sunken eyes to heaven, once more repeated, “Our Father, who art in heaven,” while a new light, like a halo, overspread her face, tears flowed in floods down her cheeks, and in the dark eye of every listener there glistened the tear of sympathy in her new-found happiness.For many years she remembered her mother’s injunction, and repeated the words of the prayer and the catechism; but as she became more thoroughly familiar with the language, and could join in the thanksgivings of her new people, she ceased to care for the faith of her fathers. Yet it was the connecting link between her and those who were called Christians, and the sole means of enabling her to revive and easily acquire the knowledge of her native tongue. Without this the missionaries could not have communicated with her, as they had not then learned the Seneca, and those around her who understood both, cared very little, and knew scarcely more than she, of the Redeemer of whom she wished to hear.When asked if she regretted that she had not consented to be exchanged, and returned to her mother’s friends, she still said, no. She loved the Indians—she loved them better than white people. They had been kind to her, and provided generously for her youth and her old age, and her children would inherit an abundance from the avails of the lands and herds and flocks which were her sole possessions. Alas! she did not know that the money she had deposited in the hands of the agent to be invested for the benefit of her family, was wickedly squandered by him, so that not a single cent ever reached[152]their hands.1She was rich, but they were miserably poor, and he who thus defrauded her was of the same blood, and hesitated not to take advantage of her because she had grown up among an unsuspicious people, who knew not how to redress their wrongs. Her adopted brethren had honored her above the women of their own nations—she had received good, and not evil, all the days of her life; she belonged to a race they had every reason to hate—a race who had trampled them as their legend said the mammoth buffaloes trampled the forests in their march, and yet they had respected her, and loved her, and honored her. And hers was not the only instance of such kindness; it is not she alone who bears testimony to their virtues, to their magnanimity, their truly Christian spirit of forgiveness, their purity, their meekness, their long-suffering, and their brotherly love, ere they were wronged and contaminated by the vices of their enemies.A few days after the new light dawned upon her spirit, in the year 1833, Mrs. Jewison was numbered with the dead. She had embraced the faith which makes no difference between those who come at the first and the eleventh hour; and those who were present at the dissolution of soul and body, doubted not Jesus had whispered to her the same consolation that fell upon the heart of the thief upon the cross, “This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise.”She was buried in the mission burial-ground, near Buffalo, where the dead are a strange concourse; for it seems once to have been the site of an ancient fort, and afterwards to have become the repository of the dust of[153]people of many nations, and is to the historian, the Christian, and the traveller, an interesting spot.Not many years ago, the family of the mission were awakened from their midnight slumbers by the piteous cry of an infant. It was November, and the plaintive moan of the little one, mingled with the wailing of the night wind when all else was still, came with startling sadness to their ears. At first, they thought some lone mother, in her desolation, had come to them for relief, and hastened to open the door to the houseless wanderer. But when they looked out into the darkness, they could see nothing; still the little voice came up, though it grew fainter, as if its strength was failing. Again they searched, and found upon the door-step a tiny band-box, in which was snugly curled a baby—a little baby! All around was dark; there was no mother, no friend; the little thing was there alone—alone, unconscious of its loneliness.A little opening had been made in the top of the box, through which they peeped, and saw a tiny hand move, and then the blue eyes opened to the light; but when they brought it to the fire it was stupefied by the effects of cold and some drug it had taken to keep it quiet, and scarcely showed signs of life for a day. Then it awoke, and on its face there rested a smile that seemed a beam from heaven. Never more was it alone. Hearts had become linked to its little heart, and all the household looked upon it as a treasure and not a burden. Its coarse blanket and faded frock, proved that it had not been cast out from the dwellings of the rich, and the few words which were written on a torn and soiled bit of paper, in a fair hand, proved that its mother was not ignorant, though poverty-stricken.“Farewell my little baby! Thy mother must desert thee, but may God take care of thee and find thee friends!”[154]Then it was blistered with tears, and placed among the folds of the blanket.Why did the mother thus desert her child? Must its innocent name be stained by some dark sin; or was it wretched poverty alone that drove her to such a sacrifice? There had evidently been sundered a heart-string, and the bosom on which it was born to rest was neither cold nor hard. Yet it was a cast-away.That night a wagon was seen slowly winding its way toward the mission-house, and from a neighboring window observed to stop in front of the path that led to the door. At the same time a child, evidently very young, was heard distinctly to cry for a few moments, and then ceased, and the wagon moved on toward the great city. This is all its new-found friends ever learned concerning it. But it became a very sunbeam in their dwelling, and was beautiful as a cherub. Its ruby lips never failed to curl with that same sunny smile, whenever the tones of a pleasant voice fell on its ear, and its gleeful playfulness awoke in every heart an echo. But it was one of those bright leaves which decay and dazzle and then depart.Those upon whose hands it was thrown, helpless and dependent, thought, how could they keep and nourish it? They too, were poor, and it would be a burden.In less than a year, the bright flower faded and died. Twined around it was every heart-string, and it had found a nestling place in every bosom, when it grew cold, and shut its eyes on them for ever. They must wrap it in a shroud, and give it back to earth.To show their love, they made its grave beneath a spreading walnut, where the green mound would be sheltered from the burning sun, and the footsteps of love might linger, and the heart-broken water it with their tears.[155]The sod was removed and the dark earth thrown up, and soon they came to the crumbling bones of a man. It was probably a warrior’s grave. But they laid the little strange baby upon his breast, and covered them, to be again disturbed perhaps in some far-off century, by another people and ruder hands.Near by is another little one, whose grandfather was taken captive nearly a century before on the banks of the Juniata; whose mother and grandmother were Indian women, and who was given when an infant to the mission family to be their own. It was a little girl, whom they named Louisa Maria, and who, though she died in early childhood, lived long enough to become a bud of promise, yes, a blossom of Christian love, and hope, and faith, a lamb of Christ’s flock. She belonged to the class of those who always die in infancy, “whose names are all on gravestones.” They are perfected without the discipline of earth’s trials, and transplanted to bloom as spring flowers in the gardens above. Life would be a dreary pathway without the little ones, and there would be discord in the heavenly choir without the soft melody of infant voices. A little while before she died, lying still upon the bed, there came a sweet smile upon her face, and she said, “I see them, ma, angels, angels all round me, come to carry me away!” and then she kissed each friend as if she were bidding themgood-bye, to return again, and immediately soared away where angel-children dwell.In the same inclosure, under the same spreading tree, was buried a little Indian boy, whose mother had been long a member of the mission church.It was a cold day in January when he came in a little sad from his play, and said, “Mother, I do not feel well; will you take care of me?”[156]His mother was busy and did not answer, and soon he said again, “Will you put your hand upon my head, mother; it aches? I think I shall be sick and die; but I shall go to heaven, where God lives, and be happy.”He had never before talked of death, and it was not known that he had ever particularly thought of it. But now he often said, “I am going to Jesus, you must giveup me, mother. I am not afraid, I am happy.” A quick consumption soon wasted his form and destroyed the bloom upon his rosy cheek, but he thought only of the bright world to which he was going.Their home was a rude Indian cabin, but the mother was a refined Christian woman. She knew not how to read, but she had learned the language of prayer. Her heart, too, was swelling with a mother’s love. She knew not how to give him up. A few moments before he died, in great distress he said, “Now mother, pray.” She knelt alone beside him, and in her own rich language poured out her heart to God. When she had finished he said, “Some one has come in—how pleasant he looks.” No one had entered, but still he gazed as if looking upon some beautiful object, then slowly drooped the lid over the brightly-kindled eye, and he was gone.In the gateway of this entrance to the city of the dead was buried a distinguished pagan chief, and all around sleeps the dust of Indian warriors and chiefs, sad relics of those who fell in bloody battles long before the red man has any tradition concerning the spot. Here, too, are many captives, borne from Christian firesides in childhood, to become the brethren of the children of the wilderness, and be laid to rest away from their kindred in a strange land, and here are old men and aged women who, at the eleventh hour, came up to labor in the vineyard of the Lord.[157]An old lady used to come tottering to meeting when it seemed impossible her feeble limbs could support her. When surprise was expressed that she should come when the weather was cold, and she had so far to walk, she said with great earnestness, “Oh! I shall always come as long as I can get here, and when my poor body is too feeble to attempt it longer,I shall bow my head this way as often as the season of prayer returns.”Her dust is now mingling with the strange group in this strange place, and yet it is still but a few years since the messengers of a better faith came among them. The fruits have been rich and abundant, among those who belonged to the generation already passed away, and among those who are still living useful and honored in the Church and the community, rejoicing the hearts of those who have diligently and faithfully labored, as stewards of Him who is Lord of the vineyard, and who sent them forth.May they live to see the wilderness become a fruitful field, and the desert a garden under their fostering care, and richly will they be rewarded when they too shall cross over Jordan.[158]1This has since been refunded by the Government.↑

[Contents]CHAPTER VII.A CAPTIVE’S LIFE AMONG INDIANS, ILLUSTRATED BY THE LIFE OF “THE WHITE WOMAN.”To be taken captive by the Indians, was among the early colonists considered the most terrible of all calamities; and it was indeed a fearful thing to become the victim of their revenge. But those who were enduring the actual sufferings of captives, or suffering still more from terror of uncertain evils, thought little of the provocation given by our own people. The innocent often suffered for the guilty, and however persevering the efforts of the government to be just, in its infancy, in a wild unknown country, it was impossible to control unprincipled marauders. Some atrocious act was first committed by white men, which drove the Indian to retaliation, and thinking pale faces were all alike, he did not wait till the real offender fell into his hands.When the white men first came, the Indians looked upon them as superior beings. They were ready to worship Columbus and his little party, and all along on the coast, until their simple trust was outraged beyond endurance they welcomed the strangers—gave them food when they were hungry, and sheltered them when they were cold. It was not till their encroachments became alarming, that the Indian asserted his rights, and if in all cases he had been as justly and kindly dealt with as by the Quakers of Pennsylvania, there would not have been so dark a record of sin[137]and wrong, and torture. If none but men of principle had made treaties with them, and all whose duty it was to observe them, had kept their faith, revenge would not have come out so prominently in Indian character.But it was not in obedience to national policy that those who were taken in battle were put to the torture, and burned and flayed. The Six Nations had never found it necessary to build prisons and dig dungeons for their own people. If a man committed murder, they sometimes decided that he should die, and sometimes bade him flee far away where none who knew him could ever look upon his face. But crimes were so rare that they had no criminal code, and when they overcame their enemies, they either adopted them and treated them as friends, or put them immediately to death.White people have sometimes put Indians to death, and oftener put them in dungeons to waste and starve, but it was no part of their practice to adopt them and call them brethren! Had they sometimes done this, or sent them freely back to their friends unharmed, they might have conciliated where they only made more desperate.When families were bereaved, they sought to be revenged on those who had bereaved them; and when warriors returned from battle, the prisoners were given up to the friends who were afflicted. With them alone it remained to decide the fate of those who fell into their hands. If they chose, they adopted them in place of the husbands and brothers who were slain; and if they so decided, they were put to death, and in any way they decreed.If the manner in which their friends had been killed was aggravating and greatly enraged them, they were very likely to decide upon torture, and inflicted it in a manner to produce the greatest suffering. But even in such cases[138]they sometimes showed great magnanimity, and “returned good for evil.”Children were very often adopted, and by a solemn ceremony received into a particular tribe, and evermore treated as one of their own people. We have been in the habit of listening to heart-rending stories of cruelties to captives, but captives who were adopted were never cruelly treated. Those who were immediately put to death experienced great suffering for a few hours, and those who were preserved were subject to hardships which seemed to them unspeakable, but they were such as are necessarily incident to Indian life. They had no written chronicles to tell to all future generations the wrongs and tortures to which they were subjected, but one who sits with them by their firesides, may have his blood frozen with horror at recitals of civilized barbarity.And there is one species of wrong, of which no captive woman of any nation had to complain when she was thrown upon the tender mercies of Indian warriors. Not among all the dark and terrible records which their enemies have delighted to emblazon, is there a single instance of the outrage of that delicacy which a pure-minded woman cherishes at the expense of life, and sacrifices not to any species of mere animal suffering. Of what other nation can it be written, that their soldiers were not more terrible at the firesides of their enemies than on the battle field, with all the fierce engines of war at their command? To whatever motive it is to be ascribed, let this at least stand out on the pages of Indian history as an ever enduring monument to their honor. A little book, which professes to have been written for the sole purpose of recording and perpetuating Indian atrocities, and dwells upon them with infinite delight, alludes to this redeeming trait in Indian character, but attempts to ascribe it to the influence[139]of superstition, as if it were necessary to find some evil or deteriorating motive for every thing noble or pleasing in Indian character. I have no doubt that it was quite revolting to the general sentiment in an Indian community, to mingle their blood with that of a nation whom they looked up on as a race of evil spirits let loose, and I wonder that they should ever have received them, as they often did, into their families, and to their bosom friendships and confidences. But this hatred in other nations prompts to the very manifestation of which an Indian was never guilty. Their treatment of captives from among Indian nations was the same, and I know not that there has been any satisfactory solution of a characteristic which has been found among only one other civilized, Christian or barbarous nation. A wanderer among the western tribes once asked an Indian why they thus honored their women, and he said, “The Great Spirit taught them, and would punish them if they did not.” Among the Germans there existed the same respect for woman, till they became civilized. There may have been some superstitious fear, mingled with a strong governing and controlling principle, but it is not on this account the less marvellous that whole nations, consisting of millions, should have been so trained religiously or domestically, that no degree of beauty or fascination placed under their care, though hundreds of miles in the solitudes of the wilderness, should have tempted them from the strictest honor and the most delicate kindness.Mary Jewison was eighty years a resident among the Senecas, and in the early part of the time the forests had few clearings, and the comforts and the vices of white men prevailed but little among them. She was born on the ocean, with the billowy sea for her cradle and the tempest for her lullaby. Her parents emigrated from England to this country in 1742, and settled in the unfortunate vale[140]of Wyoming, where date her first remembrances, which were of the woes that fell upon her family—the wail of the sorrow-stricken and the breaking of heart-strings.The last meal they took together was a breakfast, after which the father and three eldest brothers went into the field, and Mary, with the other little children, were playing not far from the house. They were suddenly startled by a shriek, and knew it must be from their mother. On running in, they found her in the hands of two Indians, who were holding her fast. A little boy ran to call his father, and found him also bound by another of the party, and his eldest brother lying dead upon the earth. The two others fled to Virginia, where they had an uncle, as Mary afterwards learned, and those who remained were made captive and hurried into the woods.All day they were obliged to march in single file over the rough, cold soil, with no time or permission for conversation, and the lash often applied to quicken their steps. Night found them in the heart of the wilderness, surrounded by their strange captors, and all the horrors of Indian life or Indian death staring them in the face. They had no hope of mercy, whether permitted to live or condemned to die.The mother thought they would perhaps spare the children, but did not on this account take courage, for it seemed to her better that they should die, than live to become the companions of such a people, and grow up very probably to be like them. Mary was the only one old enough to understand her injunctions, and to her she was allowed to speak before they were separated for the night, and, as she feared, for ever.She said, “My daughter, you, I think, will be permitted to live; but they will deprive you of your father and mother, and perhaps of your brothers and sisters, so[141]that you will be alone. But endeavor in all things to please the Indians, and they will be more kind to you. Do not forget your own language, and never fail to repeat your catechism and the Lord’s prayer every morning and evening while you live.” This she promised to do, and having kissed her child, the mother was removed from her sight, and never more saw one of all the little party who were happy in the little cottage together only a few hours before.Mary was not permitted to ask concerning her friends, and only knew their fate by recognizing their scalps as they were prepared to dry. Her mother’s she knew by the long sandy hair, which was neatly combed and braided. Her little brother had soft flaxen curls, which still retained their sunny hue, and hung in glossy waves over the edges of the hoop on which the skin was stretched. She could not restrain the tears, but dared utter no moan that she had been thus cruelly severed from all she loved.She must at this time have been ten years of age; but it was less sad for her than if she had been older, for now she could easily assimilate her tastes to those of her new friends, and would naturally soon forget her home and the customs of her people.She was afterwards told, when she could understand the Indian language, that they should not have killed her parents if the captors had not been pursued, and that a little boy, who was the son of a neighbor, and was also taken, was given to the French, two of whom were of the party.In the marches of the Indians it was the custom for one to linger behind andpoke upthe grass with a stick, after a party had passed along, to conceal all traces of their foot-steps, so that a pursuit was seldom successful. In deviating from a direct course, in order not to get lost,[142]they noticed the moss upon the trees, which always grew thickest upon the north side, as the south side, being most exposed to the sun, became soonest dry. They also had some knowledge of the stars, and knew from the positions of certain clusters, that were to be seen at certain seasons, which was east and which west.Mary was carried far down the Ohio, and found her captors to be a party of Shawanese, and by them she was adopted in place of two brothers, who had fallen in battle, and for whom the lamentations had not yet died away.The ceremony of adoption is very solemn, requiring the deliberations of a council and the formal bestowing of a name, as a sort of baptism, from which time the captive is not allowed to speak any language but the Indian, and must in all things conform to Indian habits and tastes.It is the custom among them to give children a name which corresponds with the sports and dependence of childhood, and when they arrive at maturity, to change it for one that corresponds with the duties and employments of manhood and womanhood. The first name is given by the relatives, and afterwards publicly announced in council. The second is bestowed in the same way, and by this they are ever afterwards called, except on becoming a Sachem, and sometimes on becoming a chief or warrior, another is taken, and each denotes definitely the new position. Each clan, too, had its peculiar names, so that when a person’s name was mentioned it was immediately known to what clan he belonged.A curious feature in the Indian code of etiquette is, that it is exceedingly impolite to ask a person his name, or to speak it in his presence. In the social circle and all private conversation, the person spoken of is described, if it is necessary to allude to him, as the person who sits[143]there, or who lives in that house, or wears such a dress. If I ask a woman, whose husband is present, if that is Mr. P——, she blushes, and stammers, and replies, “It is my child’s father,” in order to avoid speaking his name in his presence, which would offend him. On asking a man his name he remained silent; not understanding the reason, the question was repeated, when he indignantly replied, “Do you think that I am an owl, to go abouthootingmy name every where?” the name of the owl in Seneca, corresponding exactly to the note he continually utters.When Mary Jewison had been formally namedDe-he-wa-mis, they called her daughter and sister, and treated her in all respects as if she had been born among them and the same blood flowed in her veins; or rather they were accustomed to be more kind to captives than to their own children, because they had not been inured to the same hardships. There was no difference in the caresses bestowed, no allusion was made to the child as if it belonged to a hated race, and it never felt the want of affection.Mary said her tasks were always light, and every thing was done to win her love and make her happy. She now and then longed for the comforts of her cottage home, and wept at the thought of her mother’s cruel death, but gradually learned to love the freedom of the forest, and to gambol freely and gayly with her Indian playmates. When she was named they threw her dress away, and clothed her in deer-skins and moccasins, and painted her face in true Indian style. She never spoke English in their presence, as they did not allow it; but, when alone, did not forget her mother’s injunction, and repeated her prayer and all the words she could remember, thus retaining enough of the language to enable her easily to[144]recall it when she should again return to civilized society, as she constantly indulged the hope of doing by an exchange of captives.But when she was fourteen years of age her mother selected for her a husband, to whom she was married according to Indian custom. His name was She-nin-jee, and though she was not acquainted with him previously, and of course had no affection for him, he proved not only an amiable and excellent man, but a congenial companion, whom she loved devotedly. He had all the noble qualities of the Indian, being handsome, and brave, and generous, and kind, and to her ever gentle and affectionate.Now she became thoroughly reconciled to Indian life, her greatest sorrow being the necessary absences of her husband on the war-path and hunting excursions. She followed the occupations of the women, and tilled the fields, dressed the skins, and gathered the fuel for the winter fires; and though this seems to us unfeminine labor, it was performed at their leisure, and occupied very little of their time.When the hunters returned they were weary and passive, and seldom were guilty of fault-finding, and so well did an Indian woman know her duty, that her husband was not obliged to make known his wants. Obedience was required in all respects, and where there was harmony and affection, cheerfully yielded; and knowing as they did that separation would be the consequence of neglect of duty, and unkindness, there was really more self-control, and care about little things, than among those who are bound for life, weal and woe, love and hatred, kindness and cruelty. They did not agree to live together through good and through evil report, but only while they loved and confided in one another; and they were therefore[145]careful not to throw lightly away this confidence and affection.The labor of the field was performed in so systematic a manner, and by so thorough and wise a division of labor, that there were none of the jealousies and envyings which exist among those who wish to hoard, and are ambitious to excel in style and equipage; and before thefire-watercame among them dissensions of any kind were almost unknown. This has been the fruitful source of all their woes.It was not till Mary became a mother that she gave up all longing for civilized society, and relinquished all hope of again returning to the abodes of white men. Now she had a tie to bind her which could not be broken. If she should find her friends they would not recognize her Indian husband, or consider her lawfully married; they would not care to be connected by ties of blood to a people whom they despised. Her child would not be happy among those who looked upon her as inferior, and she herself had no education to fit her for the companionship of white people. She looked upon her little daughter and said, “It is Sheninjee’s, it is dearer to methanall things else. I could not endure to see her treated with aversion or neglect.”But only a little while was she permitted this happiness—her daughter died, while yet an infant, and when Sheninjee was away. Again the feeling of desolation came over her young spirit, but all around her ministered in every way to her comfort, and became more than ever endeared to her heart. After a long absence Sheninjee returned, and she was again happy for many months. She had a son and named him from her father, to which no objection was made by her Indian friends, and her love for her husband became idolatry. In her eyes he seemed[146]every thing noble and good,—she mourned his departure and longed for his return, for his affection prompted him to treat her with the gentle and winning kindness which is the spirit of true love alone.But again came the separation, and she must pass another long winter alone. Hunting was the Indian’s toil, and though they delighted in it, the pang of parting from his wife and little ones, made it a sacrifice, and spread a dark cloud over a long period of his life. And now it became dark indeed to Mary, for she waited long and Sheninjee came not. She put every thing in order in his little dwelling—she dressed new skins for his couch, and smoked venison to please his taste; she made the fire bright to welcome him, hoping every evening when she lay down with her baby upon her bosom, that ere the morning sun the husband and father would gladden them by his smile, but in vain; winter passed away, and the spring, and then came the sad tidings that he was dead. She was a widow and her child was fatherless. Very long and deeply did she mourn Sheninjee, for it seemed to her there was none like him; but again the sympathies of his people created new links to bind her to them, and she said she could not have loved a mother or sister more dearlythanshe did thosewhostood in this relationship to her, and soothed her by their loving words.Not for four years was she again urged to marry, and during this time there was an exchange of prisoners, and she had an opportunity to return to her kindred. She was left to do as she pleased. They told her she might go; but if she preferred to remain, she should still be their daughter and sister, and they would give her land for her own, where she might always dwell. Again she thought of the prejudice she should every where meet, and that she could never patiently listen to reproaches concerning[147]her husband’s people. It would not be believed that he was noble, because he was an Indian,—she should have no near relatives, and those she had might reject her if she should seek them. So she came to the final conclusion, and never more sighed for the advantages or pleasures of civilized life. She came with the brothers of Sheninjee to the banks of the Genesee, where she resided the remaining seventy-two years of her life.Her second husband, Hiokatoo, she never learned to love. He was a chief and a warrior, brave and fearless, but though he was always kind to her, he was a man of blood. He delighted in deeds of cruelty and delighted to relate them, and now the fire-water had become common, and the good were made bad and the bad worse, so that dissensions arose in families and in neighborhoods, and the happiness which had been almost without alloy, was no longer known among these simple people.She adds her testimony to that of all travellers and historians concerning the purity of their lives, having never herself received the slightest insult from an Indian, and scarcely knowing an instance of infidelity or immorality. But when they had once tasted of the maddening draught, the thirst was insatiable, and all they had would be given for a glass of something to destroy their reason. Now they were indeed converted into fiends and furies, and sold themselves to swift destruction. Hiokatoo hesitated at no crime, and took pleasure in every thing that was dark and terrible, but this was a small trial compared to those which Mrs. Jewison was called upon to endure from the intoxication and recklessness of her sons.Her oldest, the son of Sheninjee, was murdered by John, the son of Hiokatoo, who afterwards murdered his own brother Jessee, and came to the same violent death[148]himself by the hands of others. When they came to be in the midst of temptation there was no restraining principle, and even after they grew up, her house was the scene of quarrels and confusion in consequence of their intemperance, and she knew no rest, from fear of some calamity from the indulgence of their unbridled passions.The chiefs of the Seneca nation, to which her second husband belonged, gave her a large tract of land, and when it became necessary that it should be secured to her by treaty, she attended the council and plead her own case. The commissioners, without inquiring particularly concerning the dimensions of herlots, allowed her to make the boundaries, and when the document was signed, and she was in firm possession, it was found that she was the owner of nearly four thousand acres, of which only a deed in her own handwriting could deprive her. But though she was rich, she toiled not the less diligently, and forsook not thesphere of womanin attending to the ways of her household; and also true to her Indian education, she planted, and hoed, and harvested, retaining her Indian dress and habits, till the day of her death.During the revolutionary war, her house was made the rendezvous and head-quarters of British officers and Indian chiefs, as her sympathies were entirely with her red brethren, and the cause they espoused was the one she preferred to aid. It was in her power to sympathize with many a lone captive; she always remembered her own anguish at the prospect of spending her life in the wilderness, the companion of Indians, and though she had learned to love instead of fearing them, and knew they were, as a people, deserving of respect and the highest honor, she understood the feelings of those who knew them not.Her supplications procured the release of many from[149]torture, and her generous kindness clothed the naked and fed the starving.Lot by lot, and acre by acre, the Indians sold their lands, and at length the beautiful valley of the Genesee fell into the hands of the white man, except the domain of “The White Woman,” as she was always called, which could not be given up without her consent. She refused at the time of the sale to part with her portion, but after the Indians removed to the Buffalo Reservation, and she was left alone, though lady of the manor, and surrounded by white people, she preferred to take up her abode with those whom she now called her people. Most emphatically did she adopt the language of Ruth in the days of old—“Entreat me not to leave thee, or return from following after thee, for whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried.”She was as thoroughly Pagan as the veriest Indian who had never heard of God, and exclaimed with him, that their religion was good enough for her, and she desired no change.She was ninety years old—eighty years she had been an exile from the land of her birth—she had forgotten the prayers her mother taught her, and knew nothing of the worship of her fathers, when one morning she sent a messenger to tell the missionaries she wished to see them. She had ever before refused to listen to them if they came to her dwelling, but they hastened to obey the summons, glad to feel that they should be welcome, though quite uncertain concerning the nature of the interview she proposed. She was literally withered away. Her face was scarcely larger than an infant’s, and completely checkered with fine wrinkles; her teeth were entirely gone, and[150]her mouth so sunken that her nose and chin almost met; her hair not silvery, but snowy white, except a little lock by each ear, which still retained the sandy hue of childhood; her form, which was always slight, was bent, and her limbs could no longer support her. She had revived the knowledge of her language since she had dwelt among white people, but “Oh,” said she, as the ladies entered, “I have forgotten how to pray; my mother taught me, and told me never to forget this, though I remembered nothing else.” And then she exclaimed, “Oh God, have mercy upon me!” This expression she had heard in her old age, and now uttered it in the fulness of her heart. There had come a gleam of light through all the dark clouds of superstition and Pagan blindness, and this spark was kindled at the fireside of that little cottage home, and fell upon her heart from a mother’s lips, and now revived at the remembrance of a mother’s love and her dying blessing. It was eighty years since she had seen that mother’s face, as she breathed out her soul in anguish, bending over her in the silent depths of the wilderness—eighty years since she listened to “Our Father who art in Heaven,” from Christian lips, and now the still small voice which had so long been hushed, spoke aloud, and startled her as if an angel called. She tried to stifle it, and for many days after it awoke in her bosom heeded it not, but it gave her no rest. No earthly voice had since reminded her that her heart was sinful, and needed to be washed in order to be clean. The seed which had been sown in it when she was a little child had just sprung up—the snows of eighty winters had not chilled it—the mildews of nearly a century had not blighted it, and the heavy hand of a hundred calamities had left it unharmed. She had not been in the midst of corruptions, therefore it[151]had not been destroyed. The little germ was still alive, and proving that it had not been planted in vain.The aged woman sat pillowed up in bed with her children and children’s children of three generations around her, and lifting her withered hands and sunken eyes to heaven, once more repeated, “Our Father, who art in heaven,” while a new light, like a halo, overspread her face, tears flowed in floods down her cheeks, and in the dark eye of every listener there glistened the tear of sympathy in her new-found happiness.For many years she remembered her mother’s injunction, and repeated the words of the prayer and the catechism; but as she became more thoroughly familiar with the language, and could join in the thanksgivings of her new people, she ceased to care for the faith of her fathers. Yet it was the connecting link between her and those who were called Christians, and the sole means of enabling her to revive and easily acquire the knowledge of her native tongue. Without this the missionaries could not have communicated with her, as they had not then learned the Seneca, and those around her who understood both, cared very little, and knew scarcely more than she, of the Redeemer of whom she wished to hear.When asked if she regretted that she had not consented to be exchanged, and returned to her mother’s friends, she still said, no. She loved the Indians—she loved them better than white people. They had been kind to her, and provided generously for her youth and her old age, and her children would inherit an abundance from the avails of the lands and herds and flocks which were her sole possessions. Alas! she did not know that the money she had deposited in the hands of the agent to be invested for the benefit of her family, was wickedly squandered by him, so that not a single cent ever reached[152]their hands.1She was rich, but they were miserably poor, and he who thus defrauded her was of the same blood, and hesitated not to take advantage of her because she had grown up among an unsuspicious people, who knew not how to redress their wrongs. Her adopted brethren had honored her above the women of their own nations—she had received good, and not evil, all the days of her life; she belonged to a race they had every reason to hate—a race who had trampled them as their legend said the mammoth buffaloes trampled the forests in their march, and yet they had respected her, and loved her, and honored her. And hers was not the only instance of such kindness; it is not she alone who bears testimony to their virtues, to their magnanimity, their truly Christian spirit of forgiveness, their purity, their meekness, their long-suffering, and their brotherly love, ere they were wronged and contaminated by the vices of their enemies.A few days after the new light dawned upon her spirit, in the year 1833, Mrs. Jewison was numbered with the dead. She had embraced the faith which makes no difference between those who come at the first and the eleventh hour; and those who were present at the dissolution of soul and body, doubted not Jesus had whispered to her the same consolation that fell upon the heart of the thief upon the cross, “This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise.”She was buried in the mission burial-ground, near Buffalo, where the dead are a strange concourse; for it seems once to have been the site of an ancient fort, and afterwards to have become the repository of the dust of[153]people of many nations, and is to the historian, the Christian, and the traveller, an interesting spot.Not many years ago, the family of the mission were awakened from their midnight slumbers by the piteous cry of an infant. It was November, and the plaintive moan of the little one, mingled with the wailing of the night wind when all else was still, came with startling sadness to their ears. At first, they thought some lone mother, in her desolation, had come to them for relief, and hastened to open the door to the houseless wanderer. But when they looked out into the darkness, they could see nothing; still the little voice came up, though it grew fainter, as if its strength was failing. Again they searched, and found upon the door-step a tiny band-box, in which was snugly curled a baby—a little baby! All around was dark; there was no mother, no friend; the little thing was there alone—alone, unconscious of its loneliness.A little opening had been made in the top of the box, through which they peeped, and saw a tiny hand move, and then the blue eyes opened to the light; but when they brought it to the fire it was stupefied by the effects of cold and some drug it had taken to keep it quiet, and scarcely showed signs of life for a day. Then it awoke, and on its face there rested a smile that seemed a beam from heaven. Never more was it alone. Hearts had become linked to its little heart, and all the household looked upon it as a treasure and not a burden. Its coarse blanket and faded frock, proved that it had not been cast out from the dwellings of the rich, and the few words which were written on a torn and soiled bit of paper, in a fair hand, proved that its mother was not ignorant, though poverty-stricken.“Farewell my little baby! Thy mother must desert thee, but may God take care of thee and find thee friends!”[154]Then it was blistered with tears, and placed among the folds of the blanket.Why did the mother thus desert her child? Must its innocent name be stained by some dark sin; or was it wretched poverty alone that drove her to such a sacrifice? There had evidently been sundered a heart-string, and the bosom on which it was born to rest was neither cold nor hard. Yet it was a cast-away.That night a wagon was seen slowly winding its way toward the mission-house, and from a neighboring window observed to stop in front of the path that led to the door. At the same time a child, evidently very young, was heard distinctly to cry for a few moments, and then ceased, and the wagon moved on toward the great city. This is all its new-found friends ever learned concerning it. But it became a very sunbeam in their dwelling, and was beautiful as a cherub. Its ruby lips never failed to curl with that same sunny smile, whenever the tones of a pleasant voice fell on its ear, and its gleeful playfulness awoke in every heart an echo. But it was one of those bright leaves which decay and dazzle and then depart.Those upon whose hands it was thrown, helpless and dependent, thought, how could they keep and nourish it? They too, were poor, and it would be a burden.In less than a year, the bright flower faded and died. Twined around it was every heart-string, and it had found a nestling place in every bosom, when it grew cold, and shut its eyes on them for ever. They must wrap it in a shroud, and give it back to earth.To show their love, they made its grave beneath a spreading walnut, where the green mound would be sheltered from the burning sun, and the footsteps of love might linger, and the heart-broken water it with their tears.[155]The sod was removed and the dark earth thrown up, and soon they came to the crumbling bones of a man. It was probably a warrior’s grave. But they laid the little strange baby upon his breast, and covered them, to be again disturbed perhaps in some far-off century, by another people and ruder hands.Near by is another little one, whose grandfather was taken captive nearly a century before on the banks of the Juniata; whose mother and grandmother were Indian women, and who was given when an infant to the mission family to be their own. It was a little girl, whom they named Louisa Maria, and who, though she died in early childhood, lived long enough to become a bud of promise, yes, a blossom of Christian love, and hope, and faith, a lamb of Christ’s flock. She belonged to the class of those who always die in infancy, “whose names are all on gravestones.” They are perfected without the discipline of earth’s trials, and transplanted to bloom as spring flowers in the gardens above. Life would be a dreary pathway without the little ones, and there would be discord in the heavenly choir without the soft melody of infant voices. A little while before she died, lying still upon the bed, there came a sweet smile upon her face, and she said, “I see them, ma, angels, angels all round me, come to carry me away!” and then she kissed each friend as if she were bidding themgood-bye, to return again, and immediately soared away where angel-children dwell.In the same inclosure, under the same spreading tree, was buried a little Indian boy, whose mother had been long a member of the mission church.It was a cold day in January when he came in a little sad from his play, and said, “Mother, I do not feel well; will you take care of me?”[156]His mother was busy and did not answer, and soon he said again, “Will you put your hand upon my head, mother; it aches? I think I shall be sick and die; but I shall go to heaven, where God lives, and be happy.”He had never before talked of death, and it was not known that he had ever particularly thought of it. But now he often said, “I am going to Jesus, you must giveup me, mother. I am not afraid, I am happy.” A quick consumption soon wasted his form and destroyed the bloom upon his rosy cheek, but he thought only of the bright world to which he was going.Their home was a rude Indian cabin, but the mother was a refined Christian woman. She knew not how to read, but she had learned the language of prayer. Her heart, too, was swelling with a mother’s love. She knew not how to give him up. A few moments before he died, in great distress he said, “Now mother, pray.” She knelt alone beside him, and in her own rich language poured out her heart to God. When she had finished he said, “Some one has come in—how pleasant he looks.” No one had entered, but still he gazed as if looking upon some beautiful object, then slowly drooped the lid over the brightly-kindled eye, and he was gone.In the gateway of this entrance to the city of the dead was buried a distinguished pagan chief, and all around sleeps the dust of Indian warriors and chiefs, sad relics of those who fell in bloody battles long before the red man has any tradition concerning the spot. Here, too, are many captives, borne from Christian firesides in childhood, to become the brethren of the children of the wilderness, and be laid to rest away from their kindred in a strange land, and here are old men and aged women who, at the eleventh hour, came up to labor in the vineyard of the Lord.[157]An old lady used to come tottering to meeting when it seemed impossible her feeble limbs could support her. When surprise was expressed that she should come when the weather was cold, and she had so far to walk, she said with great earnestness, “Oh! I shall always come as long as I can get here, and when my poor body is too feeble to attempt it longer,I shall bow my head this way as often as the season of prayer returns.”Her dust is now mingling with the strange group in this strange place, and yet it is still but a few years since the messengers of a better faith came among them. The fruits have been rich and abundant, among those who belonged to the generation already passed away, and among those who are still living useful and honored in the Church and the community, rejoicing the hearts of those who have diligently and faithfully labored, as stewards of Him who is Lord of the vineyard, and who sent them forth.May they live to see the wilderness become a fruitful field, and the desert a garden under their fostering care, and richly will they be rewarded when they too shall cross over Jordan.[158]1This has since been refunded by the Government.↑

CHAPTER VII.A CAPTIVE’S LIFE AMONG INDIANS, ILLUSTRATED BY THE LIFE OF “THE WHITE WOMAN.”

To be taken captive by the Indians, was among the early colonists considered the most terrible of all calamities; and it was indeed a fearful thing to become the victim of their revenge. But those who were enduring the actual sufferings of captives, or suffering still more from terror of uncertain evils, thought little of the provocation given by our own people. The innocent often suffered for the guilty, and however persevering the efforts of the government to be just, in its infancy, in a wild unknown country, it was impossible to control unprincipled marauders. Some atrocious act was first committed by white men, which drove the Indian to retaliation, and thinking pale faces were all alike, he did not wait till the real offender fell into his hands.When the white men first came, the Indians looked upon them as superior beings. They were ready to worship Columbus and his little party, and all along on the coast, until their simple trust was outraged beyond endurance they welcomed the strangers—gave them food when they were hungry, and sheltered them when they were cold. It was not till their encroachments became alarming, that the Indian asserted his rights, and if in all cases he had been as justly and kindly dealt with as by the Quakers of Pennsylvania, there would not have been so dark a record of sin[137]and wrong, and torture. If none but men of principle had made treaties with them, and all whose duty it was to observe them, had kept their faith, revenge would not have come out so prominently in Indian character.But it was not in obedience to national policy that those who were taken in battle were put to the torture, and burned and flayed. The Six Nations had never found it necessary to build prisons and dig dungeons for their own people. If a man committed murder, they sometimes decided that he should die, and sometimes bade him flee far away where none who knew him could ever look upon his face. But crimes were so rare that they had no criminal code, and when they overcame their enemies, they either adopted them and treated them as friends, or put them immediately to death.White people have sometimes put Indians to death, and oftener put them in dungeons to waste and starve, but it was no part of their practice to adopt them and call them brethren! Had they sometimes done this, or sent them freely back to their friends unharmed, they might have conciliated where they only made more desperate.When families were bereaved, they sought to be revenged on those who had bereaved them; and when warriors returned from battle, the prisoners were given up to the friends who were afflicted. With them alone it remained to decide the fate of those who fell into their hands. If they chose, they adopted them in place of the husbands and brothers who were slain; and if they so decided, they were put to death, and in any way they decreed.If the manner in which their friends had been killed was aggravating and greatly enraged them, they were very likely to decide upon torture, and inflicted it in a manner to produce the greatest suffering. But even in such cases[138]they sometimes showed great magnanimity, and “returned good for evil.”Children were very often adopted, and by a solemn ceremony received into a particular tribe, and evermore treated as one of their own people. We have been in the habit of listening to heart-rending stories of cruelties to captives, but captives who were adopted were never cruelly treated. Those who were immediately put to death experienced great suffering for a few hours, and those who were preserved were subject to hardships which seemed to them unspeakable, but they were such as are necessarily incident to Indian life. They had no written chronicles to tell to all future generations the wrongs and tortures to which they were subjected, but one who sits with them by their firesides, may have his blood frozen with horror at recitals of civilized barbarity.And there is one species of wrong, of which no captive woman of any nation had to complain when she was thrown upon the tender mercies of Indian warriors. Not among all the dark and terrible records which their enemies have delighted to emblazon, is there a single instance of the outrage of that delicacy which a pure-minded woman cherishes at the expense of life, and sacrifices not to any species of mere animal suffering. Of what other nation can it be written, that their soldiers were not more terrible at the firesides of their enemies than on the battle field, with all the fierce engines of war at their command? To whatever motive it is to be ascribed, let this at least stand out on the pages of Indian history as an ever enduring monument to their honor. A little book, which professes to have been written for the sole purpose of recording and perpetuating Indian atrocities, and dwells upon them with infinite delight, alludes to this redeeming trait in Indian character, but attempts to ascribe it to the influence[139]of superstition, as if it were necessary to find some evil or deteriorating motive for every thing noble or pleasing in Indian character. I have no doubt that it was quite revolting to the general sentiment in an Indian community, to mingle their blood with that of a nation whom they looked up on as a race of evil spirits let loose, and I wonder that they should ever have received them, as they often did, into their families, and to their bosom friendships and confidences. But this hatred in other nations prompts to the very manifestation of which an Indian was never guilty. Their treatment of captives from among Indian nations was the same, and I know not that there has been any satisfactory solution of a characteristic which has been found among only one other civilized, Christian or barbarous nation. A wanderer among the western tribes once asked an Indian why they thus honored their women, and he said, “The Great Spirit taught them, and would punish them if they did not.” Among the Germans there existed the same respect for woman, till they became civilized. There may have been some superstitious fear, mingled with a strong governing and controlling principle, but it is not on this account the less marvellous that whole nations, consisting of millions, should have been so trained religiously or domestically, that no degree of beauty or fascination placed under their care, though hundreds of miles in the solitudes of the wilderness, should have tempted them from the strictest honor and the most delicate kindness.Mary Jewison was eighty years a resident among the Senecas, and in the early part of the time the forests had few clearings, and the comforts and the vices of white men prevailed but little among them. She was born on the ocean, with the billowy sea for her cradle and the tempest for her lullaby. Her parents emigrated from England to this country in 1742, and settled in the unfortunate vale[140]of Wyoming, where date her first remembrances, which were of the woes that fell upon her family—the wail of the sorrow-stricken and the breaking of heart-strings.The last meal they took together was a breakfast, after which the father and three eldest brothers went into the field, and Mary, with the other little children, were playing not far from the house. They were suddenly startled by a shriek, and knew it must be from their mother. On running in, they found her in the hands of two Indians, who were holding her fast. A little boy ran to call his father, and found him also bound by another of the party, and his eldest brother lying dead upon the earth. The two others fled to Virginia, where they had an uncle, as Mary afterwards learned, and those who remained were made captive and hurried into the woods.All day they were obliged to march in single file over the rough, cold soil, with no time or permission for conversation, and the lash often applied to quicken their steps. Night found them in the heart of the wilderness, surrounded by their strange captors, and all the horrors of Indian life or Indian death staring them in the face. They had no hope of mercy, whether permitted to live or condemned to die.The mother thought they would perhaps spare the children, but did not on this account take courage, for it seemed to her better that they should die, than live to become the companions of such a people, and grow up very probably to be like them. Mary was the only one old enough to understand her injunctions, and to her she was allowed to speak before they were separated for the night, and, as she feared, for ever.She said, “My daughter, you, I think, will be permitted to live; but they will deprive you of your father and mother, and perhaps of your brothers and sisters, so[141]that you will be alone. But endeavor in all things to please the Indians, and they will be more kind to you. Do not forget your own language, and never fail to repeat your catechism and the Lord’s prayer every morning and evening while you live.” This she promised to do, and having kissed her child, the mother was removed from her sight, and never more saw one of all the little party who were happy in the little cottage together only a few hours before.Mary was not permitted to ask concerning her friends, and only knew their fate by recognizing their scalps as they were prepared to dry. Her mother’s she knew by the long sandy hair, which was neatly combed and braided. Her little brother had soft flaxen curls, which still retained their sunny hue, and hung in glossy waves over the edges of the hoop on which the skin was stretched. She could not restrain the tears, but dared utter no moan that she had been thus cruelly severed from all she loved.She must at this time have been ten years of age; but it was less sad for her than if she had been older, for now she could easily assimilate her tastes to those of her new friends, and would naturally soon forget her home and the customs of her people.She was afterwards told, when she could understand the Indian language, that they should not have killed her parents if the captors had not been pursued, and that a little boy, who was the son of a neighbor, and was also taken, was given to the French, two of whom were of the party.In the marches of the Indians it was the custom for one to linger behind andpoke upthe grass with a stick, after a party had passed along, to conceal all traces of their foot-steps, so that a pursuit was seldom successful. In deviating from a direct course, in order not to get lost,[142]they noticed the moss upon the trees, which always grew thickest upon the north side, as the south side, being most exposed to the sun, became soonest dry. They also had some knowledge of the stars, and knew from the positions of certain clusters, that were to be seen at certain seasons, which was east and which west.Mary was carried far down the Ohio, and found her captors to be a party of Shawanese, and by them she was adopted in place of two brothers, who had fallen in battle, and for whom the lamentations had not yet died away.The ceremony of adoption is very solemn, requiring the deliberations of a council and the formal bestowing of a name, as a sort of baptism, from which time the captive is not allowed to speak any language but the Indian, and must in all things conform to Indian habits and tastes.It is the custom among them to give children a name which corresponds with the sports and dependence of childhood, and when they arrive at maturity, to change it for one that corresponds with the duties and employments of manhood and womanhood. The first name is given by the relatives, and afterwards publicly announced in council. The second is bestowed in the same way, and by this they are ever afterwards called, except on becoming a Sachem, and sometimes on becoming a chief or warrior, another is taken, and each denotes definitely the new position. Each clan, too, had its peculiar names, so that when a person’s name was mentioned it was immediately known to what clan he belonged.A curious feature in the Indian code of etiquette is, that it is exceedingly impolite to ask a person his name, or to speak it in his presence. In the social circle and all private conversation, the person spoken of is described, if it is necessary to allude to him, as the person who sits[143]there, or who lives in that house, or wears such a dress. If I ask a woman, whose husband is present, if that is Mr. P——, she blushes, and stammers, and replies, “It is my child’s father,” in order to avoid speaking his name in his presence, which would offend him. On asking a man his name he remained silent; not understanding the reason, the question was repeated, when he indignantly replied, “Do you think that I am an owl, to go abouthootingmy name every where?” the name of the owl in Seneca, corresponding exactly to the note he continually utters.When Mary Jewison had been formally namedDe-he-wa-mis, they called her daughter and sister, and treated her in all respects as if she had been born among them and the same blood flowed in her veins; or rather they were accustomed to be more kind to captives than to their own children, because they had not been inured to the same hardships. There was no difference in the caresses bestowed, no allusion was made to the child as if it belonged to a hated race, and it never felt the want of affection.Mary said her tasks were always light, and every thing was done to win her love and make her happy. She now and then longed for the comforts of her cottage home, and wept at the thought of her mother’s cruel death, but gradually learned to love the freedom of the forest, and to gambol freely and gayly with her Indian playmates. When she was named they threw her dress away, and clothed her in deer-skins and moccasins, and painted her face in true Indian style. She never spoke English in their presence, as they did not allow it; but, when alone, did not forget her mother’s injunction, and repeated her prayer and all the words she could remember, thus retaining enough of the language to enable her easily to[144]recall it when she should again return to civilized society, as she constantly indulged the hope of doing by an exchange of captives.But when she was fourteen years of age her mother selected for her a husband, to whom she was married according to Indian custom. His name was She-nin-jee, and though she was not acquainted with him previously, and of course had no affection for him, he proved not only an amiable and excellent man, but a congenial companion, whom she loved devotedly. He had all the noble qualities of the Indian, being handsome, and brave, and generous, and kind, and to her ever gentle and affectionate.Now she became thoroughly reconciled to Indian life, her greatest sorrow being the necessary absences of her husband on the war-path and hunting excursions. She followed the occupations of the women, and tilled the fields, dressed the skins, and gathered the fuel for the winter fires; and though this seems to us unfeminine labor, it was performed at their leisure, and occupied very little of their time.When the hunters returned they were weary and passive, and seldom were guilty of fault-finding, and so well did an Indian woman know her duty, that her husband was not obliged to make known his wants. Obedience was required in all respects, and where there was harmony and affection, cheerfully yielded; and knowing as they did that separation would be the consequence of neglect of duty, and unkindness, there was really more self-control, and care about little things, than among those who are bound for life, weal and woe, love and hatred, kindness and cruelty. They did not agree to live together through good and through evil report, but only while they loved and confided in one another; and they were therefore[145]careful not to throw lightly away this confidence and affection.The labor of the field was performed in so systematic a manner, and by so thorough and wise a division of labor, that there were none of the jealousies and envyings which exist among those who wish to hoard, and are ambitious to excel in style and equipage; and before thefire-watercame among them dissensions of any kind were almost unknown. This has been the fruitful source of all their woes.It was not till Mary became a mother that she gave up all longing for civilized society, and relinquished all hope of again returning to the abodes of white men. Now she had a tie to bind her which could not be broken. If she should find her friends they would not recognize her Indian husband, or consider her lawfully married; they would not care to be connected by ties of blood to a people whom they despised. Her child would not be happy among those who looked upon her as inferior, and she herself had no education to fit her for the companionship of white people. She looked upon her little daughter and said, “It is Sheninjee’s, it is dearer to methanall things else. I could not endure to see her treated with aversion or neglect.”But only a little while was she permitted this happiness—her daughter died, while yet an infant, and when Sheninjee was away. Again the feeling of desolation came over her young spirit, but all around her ministered in every way to her comfort, and became more than ever endeared to her heart. After a long absence Sheninjee returned, and she was again happy for many months. She had a son and named him from her father, to which no objection was made by her Indian friends, and her love for her husband became idolatry. In her eyes he seemed[146]every thing noble and good,—she mourned his departure and longed for his return, for his affection prompted him to treat her with the gentle and winning kindness which is the spirit of true love alone.But again came the separation, and she must pass another long winter alone. Hunting was the Indian’s toil, and though they delighted in it, the pang of parting from his wife and little ones, made it a sacrifice, and spread a dark cloud over a long period of his life. And now it became dark indeed to Mary, for she waited long and Sheninjee came not. She put every thing in order in his little dwelling—she dressed new skins for his couch, and smoked venison to please his taste; she made the fire bright to welcome him, hoping every evening when she lay down with her baby upon her bosom, that ere the morning sun the husband and father would gladden them by his smile, but in vain; winter passed away, and the spring, and then came the sad tidings that he was dead. She was a widow and her child was fatherless. Very long and deeply did she mourn Sheninjee, for it seemed to her there was none like him; but again the sympathies of his people created new links to bind her to them, and she said she could not have loved a mother or sister more dearlythanshe did thosewhostood in this relationship to her, and soothed her by their loving words.Not for four years was she again urged to marry, and during this time there was an exchange of prisoners, and she had an opportunity to return to her kindred. She was left to do as she pleased. They told her she might go; but if she preferred to remain, she should still be their daughter and sister, and they would give her land for her own, where she might always dwell. Again she thought of the prejudice she should every where meet, and that she could never patiently listen to reproaches concerning[147]her husband’s people. It would not be believed that he was noble, because he was an Indian,—she should have no near relatives, and those she had might reject her if she should seek them. So she came to the final conclusion, and never more sighed for the advantages or pleasures of civilized life. She came with the brothers of Sheninjee to the banks of the Genesee, where she resided the remaining seventy-two years of her life.Her second husband, Hiokatoo, she never learned to love. He was a chief and a warrior, brave and fearless, but though he was always kind to her, he was a man of blood. He delighted in deeds of cruelty and delighted to relate them, and now the fire-water had become common, and the good were made bad and the bad worse, so that dissensions arose in families and in neighborhoods, and the happiness which had been almost without alloy, was no longer known among these simple people.She adds her testimony to that of all travellers and historians concerning the purity of their lives, having never herself received the slightest insult from an Indian, and scarcely knowing an instance of infidelity or immorality. But when they had once tasted of the maddening draught, the thirst was insatiable, and all they had would be given for a glass of something to destroy their reason. Now they were indeed converted into fiends and furies, and sold themselves to swift destruction. Hiokatoo hesitated at no crime, and took pleasure in every thing that was dark and terrible, but this was a small trial compared to those which Mrs. Jewison was called upon to endure from the intoxication and recklessness of her sons.Her oldest, the son of Sheninjee, was murdered by John, the son of Hiokatoo, who afterwards murdered his own brother Jessee, and came to the same violent death[148]himself by the hands of others. When they came to be in the midst of temptation there was no restraining principle, and even after they grew up, her house was the scene of quarrels and confusion in consequence of their intemperance, and she knew no rest, from fear of some calamity from the indulgence of their unbridled passions.The chiefs of the Seneca nation, to which her second husband belonged, gave her a large tract of land, and when it became necessary that it should be secured to her by treaty, she attended the council and plead her own case. The commissioners, without inquiring particularly concerning the dimensions of herlots, allowed her to make the boundaries, and when the document was signed, and she was in firm possession, it was found that she was the owner of nearly four thousand acres, of which only a deed in her own handwriting could deprive her. But though she was rich, she toiled not the less diligently, and forsook not thesphere of womanin attending to the ways of her household; and also true to her Indian education, she planted, and hoed, and harvested, retaining her Indian dress and habits, till the day of her death.During the revolutionary war, her house was made the rendezvous and head-quarters of British officers and Indian chiefs, as her sympathies were entirely with her red brethren, and the cause they espoused was the one she preferred to aid. It was in her power to sympathize with many a lone captive; she always remembered her own anguish at the prospect of spending her life in the wilderness, the companion of Indians, and though she had learned to love instead of fearing them, and knew they were, as a people, deserving of respect and the highest honor, she understood the feelings of those who knew them not.Her supplications procured the release of many from[149]torture, and her generous kindness clothed the naked and fed the starving.Lot by lot, and acre by acre, the Indians sold their lands, and at length the beautiful valley of the Genesee fell into the hands of the white man, except the domain of “The White Woman,” as she was always called, which could not be given up without her consent. She refused at the time of the sale to part with her portion, but after the Indians removed to the Buffalo Reservation, and she was left alone, though lady of the manor, and surrounded by white people, she preferred to take up her abode with those whom she now called her people. Most emphatically did she adopt the language of Ruth in the days of old—“Entreat me not to leave thee, or return from following after thee, for whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried.”She was as thoroughly Pagan as the veriest Indian who had never heard of God, and exclaimed with him, that their religion was good enough for her, and she desired no change.She was ninety years old—eighty years she had been an exile from the land of her birth—she had forgotten the prayers her mother taught her, and knew nothing of the worship of her fathers, when one morning she sent a messenger to tell the missionaries she wished to see them. She had ever before refused to listen to them if they came to her dwelling, but they hastened to obey the summons, glad to feel that they should be welcome, though quite uncertain concerning the nature of the interview she proposed. She was literally withered away. Her face was scarcely larger than an infant’s, and completely checkered with fine wrinkles; her teeth were entirely gone, and[150]her mouth so sunken that her nose and chin almost met; her hair not silvery, but snowy white, except a little lock by each ear, which still retained the sandy hue of childhood; her form, which was always slight, was bent, and her limbs could no longer support her. She had revived the knowledge of her language since she had dwelt among white people, but “Oh,” said she, as the ladies entered, “I have forgotten how to pray; my mother taught me, and told me never to forget this, though I remembered nothing else.” And then she exclaimed, “Oh God, have mercy upon me!” This expression she had heard in her old age, and now uttered it in the fulness of her heart. There had come a gleam of light through all the dark clouds of superstition and Pagan blindness, and this spark was kindled at the fireside of that little cottage home, and fell upon her heart from a mother’s lips, and now revived at the remembrance of a mother’s love and her dying blessing. It was eighty years since she had seen that mother’s face, as she breathed out her soul in anguish, bending over her in the silent depths of the wilderness—eighty years since she listened to “Our Father who art in Heaven,” from Christian lips, and now the still small voice which had so long been hushed, spoke aloud, and startled her as if an angel called. She tried to stifle it, and for many days after it awoke in her bosom heeded it not, but it gave her no rest. No earthly voice had since reminded her that her heart was sinful, and needed to be washed in order to be clean. The seed which had been sown in it when she was a little child had just sprung up—the snows of eighty winters had not chilled it—the mildews of nearly a century had not blighted it, and the heavy hand of a hundred calamities had left it unharmed. She had not been in the midst of corruptions, therefore it[151]had not been destroyed. The little germ was still alive, and proving that it had not been planted in vain.The aged woman sat pillowed up in bed with her children and children’s children of three generations around her, and lifting her withered hands and sunken eyes to heaven, once more repeated, “Our Father, who art in heaven,” while a new light, like a halo, overspread her face, tears flowed in floods down her cheeks, and in the dark eye of every listener there glistened the tear of sympathy in her new-found happiness.For many years she remembered her mother’s injunction, and repeated the words of the prayer and the catechism; but as she became more thoroughly familiar with the language, and could join in the thanksgivings of her new people, she ceased to care for the faith of her fathers. Yet it was the connecting link between her and those who were called Christians, and the sole means of enabling her to revive and easily acquire the knowledge of her native tongue. Without this the missionaries could not have communicated with her, as they had not then learned the Seneca, and those around her who understood both, cared very little, and knew scarcely more than she, of the Redeemer of whom she wished to hear.When asked if she regretted that she had not consented to be exchanged, and returned to her mother’s friends, she still said, no. She loved the Indians—she loved them better than white people. They had been kind to her, and provided generously for her youth and her old age, and her children would inherit an abundance from the avails of the lands and herds and flocks which were her sole possessions. Alas! she did not know that the money she had deposited in the hands of the agent to be invested for the benefit of her family, was wickedly squandered by him, so that not a single cent ever reached[152]their hands.1She was rich, but they were miserably poor, and he who thus defrauded her was of the same blood, and hesitated not to take advantage of her because she had grown up among an unsuspicious people, who knew not how to redress their wrongs. Her adopted brethren had honored her above the women of their own nations—she had received good, and not evil, all the days of her life; she belonged to a race they had every reason to hate—a race who had trampled them as their legend said the mammoth buffaloes trampled the forests in their march, and yet they had respected her, and loved her, and honored her. And hers was not the only instance of such kindness; it is not she alone who bears testimony to their virtues, to their magnanimity, their truly Christian spirit of forgiveness, their purity, their meekness, their long-suffering, and their brotherly love, ere they were wronged and contaminated by the vices of their enemies.A few days after the new light dawned upon her spirit, in the year 1833, Mrs. Jewison was numbered with the dead. She had embraced the faith which makes no difference between those who come at the first and the eleventh hour; and those who were present at the dissolution of soul and body, doubted not Jesus had whispered to her the same consolation that fell upon the heart of the thief upon the cross, “This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise.”She was buried in the mission burial-ground, near Buffalo, where the dead are a strange concourse; for it seems once to have been the site of an ancient fort, and afterwards to have become the repository of the dust of[153]people of many nations, and is to the historian, the Christian, and the traveller, an interesting spot.Not many years ago, the family of the mission were awakened from their midnight slumbers by the piteous cry of an infant. It was November, and the plaintive moan of the little one, mingled with the wailing of the night wind when all else was still, came with startling sadness to their ears. At first, they thought some lone mother, in her desolation, had come to them for relief, and hastened to open the door to the houseless wanderer. But when they looked out into the darkness, they could see nothing; still the little voice came up, though it grew fainter, as if its strength was failing. Again they searched, and found upon the door-step a tiny band-box, in which was snugly curled a baby—a little baby! All around was dark; there was no mother, no friend; the little thing was there alone—alone, unconscious of its loneliness.A little opening had been made in the top of the box, through which they peeped, and saw a tiny hand move, and then the blue eyes opened to the light; but when they brought it to the fire it was stupefied by the effects of cold and some drug it had taken to keep it quiet, and scarcely showed signs of life for a day. Then it awoke, and on its face there rested a smile that seemed a beam from heaven. Never more was it alone. Hearts had become linked to its little heart, and all the household looked upon it as a treasure and not a burden. Its coarse blanket and faded frock, proved that it had not been cast out from the dwellings of the rich, and the few words which were written on a torn and soiled bit of paper, in a fair hand, proved that its mother was not ignorant, though poverty-stricken.“Farewell my little baby! Thy mother must desert thee, but may God take care of thee and find thee friends!”[154]Then it was blistered with tears, and placed among the folds of the blanket.Why did the mother thus desert her child? Must its innocent name be stained by some dark sin; or was it wretched poverty alone that drove her to such a sacrifice? There had evidently been sundered a heart-string, and the bosom on which it was born to rest was neither cold nor hard. Yet it was a cast-away.That night a wagon was seen slowly winding its way toward the mission-house, and from a neighboring window observed to stop in front of the path that led to the door. At the same time a child, evidently very young, was heard distinctly to cry for a few moments, and then ceased, and the wagon moved on toward the great city. This is all its new-found friends ever learned concerning it. But it became a very sunbeam in their dwelling, and was beautiful as a cherub. Its ruby lips never failed to curl with that same sunny smile, whenever the tones of a pleasant voice fell on its ear, and its gleeful playfulness awoke in every heart an echo. But it was one of those bright leaves which decay and dazzle and then depart.Those upon whose hands it was thrown, helpless and dependent, thought, how could they keep and nourish it? They too, were poor, and it would be a burden.In less than a year, the bright flower faded and died. Twined around it was every heart-string, and it had found a nestling place in every bosom, when it grew cold, and shut its eyes on them for ever. They must wrap it in a shroud, and give it back to earth.To show their love, they made its grave beneath a spreading walnut, where the green mound would be sheltered from the burning sun, and the footsteps of love might linger, and the heart-broken water it with their tears.[155]The sod was removed and the dark earth thrown up, and soon they came to the crumbling bones of a man. It was probably a warrior’s grave. But they laid the little strange baby upon his breast, and covered them, to be again disturbed perhaps in some far-off century, by another people and ruder hands.Near by is another little one, whose grandfather was taken captive nearly a century before on the banks of the Juniata; whose mother and grandmother were Indian women, and who was given when an infant to the mission family to be their own. It was a little girl, whom they named Louisa Maria, and who, though she died in early childhood, lived long enough to become a bud of promise, yes, a blossom of Christian love, and hope, and faith, a lamb of Christ’s flock. She belonged to the class of those who always die in infancy, “whose names are all on gravestones.” They are perfected without the discipline of earth’s trials, and transplanted to bloom as spring flowers in the gardens above. Life would be a dreary pathway without the little ones, and there would be discord in the heavenly choir without the soft melody of infant voices. A little while before she died, lying still upon the bed, there came a sweet smile upon her face, and she said, “I see them, ma, angels, angels all round me, come to carry me away!” and then she kissed each friend as if she were bidding themgood-bye, to return again, and immediately soared away where angel-children dwell.In the same inclosure, under the same spreading tree, was buried a little Indian boy, whose mother had been long a member of the mission church.It was a cold day in January when he came in a little sad from his play, and said, “Mother, I do not feel well; will you take care of me?”[156]His mother was busy and did not answer, and soon he said again, “Will you put your hand upon my head, mother; it aches? I think I shall be sick and die; but I shall go to heaven, where God lives, and be happy.”He had never before talked of death, and it was not known that he had ever particularly thought of it. But now he often said, “I am going to Jesus, you must giveup me, mother. I am not afraid, I am happy.” A quick consumption soon wasted his form and destroyed the bloom upon his rosy cheek, but he thought only of the bright world to which he was going.Their home was a rude Indian cabin, but the mother was a refined Christian woman. She knew not how to read, but she had learned the language of prayer. Her heart, too, was swelling with a mother’s love. She knew not how to give him up. A few moments before he died, in great distress he said, “Now mother, pray.” She knelt alone beside him, and in her own rich language poured out her heart to God. When she had finished he said, “Some one has come in—how pleasant he looks.” No one had entered, but still he gazed as if looking upon some beautiful object, then slowly drooped the lid over the brightly-kindled eye, and he was gone.In the gateway of this entrance to the city of the dead was buried a distinguished pagan chief, and all around sleeps the dust of Indian warriors and chiefs, sad relics of those who fell in bloody battles long before the red man has any tradition concerning the spot. Here, too, are many captives, borne from Christian firesides in childhood, to become the brethren of the children of the wilderness, and be laid to rest away from their kindred in a strange land, and here are old men and aged women who, at the eleventh hour, came up to labor in the vineyard of the Lord.[157]An old lady used to come tottering to meeting when it seemed impossible her feeble limbs could support her. When surprise was expressed that she should come when the weather was cold, and she had so far to walk, she said with great earnestness, “Oh! I shall always come as long as I can get here, and when my poor body is too feeble to attempt it longer,I shall bow my head this way as often as the season of prayer returns.”Her dust is now mingling with the strange group in this strange place, and yet it is still but a few years since the messengers of a better faith came among them. The fruits have been rich and abundant, among those who belonged to the generation already passed away, and among those who are still living useful and honored in the Church and the community, rejoicing the hearts of those who have diligently and faithfully labored, as stewards of Him who is Lord of the vineyard, and who sent them forth.May they live to see the wilderness become a fruitful field, and the desert a garden under their fostering care, and richly will they be rewarded when they too shall cross over Jordan.[158]

To be taken captive by the Indians, was among the early colonists considered the most terrible of all calamities; and it was indeed a fearful thing to become the victim of their revenge. But those who were enduring the actual sufferings of captives, or suffering still more from terror of uncertain evils, thought little of the provocation given by our own people. The innocent often suffered for the guilty, and however persevering the efforts of the government to be just, in its infancy, in a wild unknown country, it was impossible to control unprincipled marauders. Some atrocious act was first committed by white men, which drove the Indian to retaliation, and thinking pale faces were all alike, he did not wait till the real offender fell into his hands.

When the white men first came, the Indians looked upon them as superior beings. They were ready to worship Columbus and his little party, and all along on the coast, until their simple trust was outraged beyond endurance they welcomed the strangers—gave them food when they were hungry, and sheltered them when they were cold. It was not till their encroachments became alarming, that the Indian asserted his rights, and if in all cases he had been as justly and kindly dealt with as by the Quakers of Pennsylvania, there would not have been so dark a record of sin[137]and wrong, and torture. If none but men of principle had made treaties with them, and all whose duty it was to observe them, had kept their faith, revenge would not have come out so prominently in Indian character.

But it was not in obedience to national policy that those who were taken in battle were put to the torture, and burned and flayed. The Six Nations had never found it necessary to build prisons and dig dungeons for their own people. If a man committed murder, they sometimes decided that he should die, and sometimes bade him flee far away where none who knew him could ever look upon his face. But crimes were so rare that they had no criminal code, and when they overcame their enemies, they either adopted them and treated them as friends, or put them immediately to death.

White people have sometimes put Indians to death, and oftener put them in dungeons to waste and starve, but it was no part of their practice to adopt them and call them brethren! Had they sometimes done this, or sent them freely back to their friends unharmed, they might have conciliated where they only made more desperate.

When families were bereaved, they sought to be revenged on those who had bereaved them; and when warriors returned from battle, the prisoners were given up to the friends who were afflicted. With them alone it remained to decide the fate of those who fell into their hands. If they chose, they adopted them in place of the husbands and brothers who were slain; and if they so decided, they were put to death, and in any way they decreed.

If the manner in which their friends had been killed was aggravating and greatly enraged them, they were very likely to decide upon torture, and inflicted it in a manner to produce the greatest suffering. But even in such cases[138]they sometimes showed great magnanimity, and “returned good for evil.”

Children were very often adopted, and by a solemn ceremony received into a particular tribe, and evermore treated as one of their own people. We have been in the habit of listening to heart-rending stories of cruelties to captives, but captives who were adopted were never cruelly treated. Those who were immediately put to death experienced great suffering for a few hours, and those who were preserved were subject to hardships which seemed to them unspeakable, but they were such as are necessarily incident to Indian life. They had no written chronicles to tell to all future generations the wrongs and tortures to which they were subjected, but one who sits with them by their firesides, may have his blood frozen with horror at recitals of civilized barbarity.

And there is one species of wrong, of which no captive woman of any nation had to complain when she was thrown upon the tender mercies of Indian warriors. Not among all the dark and terrible records which their enemies have delighted to emblazon, is there a single instance of the outrage of that delicacy which a pure-minded woman cherishes at the expense of life, and sacrifices not to any species of mere animal suffering. Of what other nation can it be written, that their soldiers were not more terrible at the firesides of their enemies than on the battle field, with all the fierce engines of war at their command? To whatever motive it is to be ascribed, let this at least stand out on the pages of Indian history as an ever enduring monument to their honor. A little book, which professes to have been written for the sole purpose of recording and perpetuating Indian atrocities, and dwells upon them with infinite delight, alludes to this redeeming trait in Indian character, but attempts to ascribe it to the influence[139]of superstition, as if it were necessary to find some evil or deteriorating motive for every thing noble or pleasing in Indian character. I have no doubt that it was quite revolting to the general sentiment in an Indian community, to mingle their blood with that of a nation whom they looked up on as a race of evil spirits let loose, and I wonder that they should ever have received them, as they often did, into their families, and to their bosom friendships and confidences. But this hatred in other nations prompts to the very manifestation of which an Indian was never guilty. Their treatment of captives from among Indian nations was the same, and I know not that there has been any satisfactory solution of a characteristic which has been found among only one other civilized, Christian or barbarous nation. A wanderer among the western tribes once asked an Indian why they thus honored their women, and he said, “The Great Spirit taught them, and would punish them if they did not.” Among the Germans there existed the same respect for woman, till they became civilized. There may have been some superstitious fear, mingled with a strong governing and controlling principle, but it is not on this account the less marvellous that whole nations, consisting of millions, should have been so trained religiously or domestically, that no degree of beauty or fascination placed under their care, though hundreds of miles in the solitudes of the wilderness, should have tempted them from the strictest honor and the most delicate kindness.

Mary Jewison was eighty years a resident among the Senecas, and in the early part of the time the forests had few clearings, and the comforts and the vices of white men prevailed but little among them. She was born on the ocean, with the billowy sea for her cradle and the tempest for her lullaby. Her parents emigrated from England to this country in 1742, and settled in the unfortunate vale[140]of Wyoming, where date her first remembrances, which were of the woes that fell upon her family—the wail of the sorrow-stricken and the breaking of heart-strings.

The last meal they took together was a breakfast, after which the father and three eldest brothers went into the field, and Mary, with the other little children, were playing not far from the house. They were suddenly startled by a shriek, and knew it must be from their mother. On running in, they found her in the hands of two Indians, who were holding her fast. A little boy ran to call his father, and found him also bound by another of the party, and his eldest brother lying dead upon the earth. The two others fled to Virginia, where they had an uncle, as Mary afterwards learned, and those who remained were made captive and hurried into the woods.

All day they were obliged to march in single file over the rough, cold soil, with no time or permission for conversation, and the lash often applied to quicken their steps. Night found them in the heart of the wilderness, surrounded by their strange captors, and all the horrors of Indian life or Indian death staring them in the face. They had no hope of mercy, whether permitted to live or condemned to die.

The mother thought they would perhaps spare the children, but did not on this account take courage, for it seemed to her better that they should die, than live to become the companions of such a people, and grow up very probably to be like them. Mary was the only one old enough to understand her injunctions, and to her she was allowed to speak before they were separated for the night, and, as she feared, for ever.

She said, “My daughter, you, I think, will be permitted to live; but they will deprive you of your father and mother, and perhaps of your brothers and sisters, so[141]that you will be alone. But endeavor in all things to please the Indians, and they will be more kind to you. Do not forget your own language, and never fail to repeat your catechism and the Lord’s prayer every morning and evening while you live.” This she promised to do, and having kissed her child, the mother was removed from her sight, and never more saw one of all the little party who were happy in the little cottage together only a few hours before.

Mary was not permitted to ask concerning her friends, and only knew their fate by recognizing their scalps as they were prepared to dry. Her mother’s she knew by the long sandy hair, which was neatly combed and braided. Her little brother had soft flaxen curls, which still retained their sunny hue, and hung in glossy waves over the edges of the hoop on which the skin was stretched. She could not restrain the tears, but dared utter no moan that she had been thus cruelly severed from all she loved.

She must at this time have been ten years of age; but it was less sad for her than if she had been older, for now she could easily assimilate her tastes to those of her new friends, and would naturally soon forget her home and the customs of her people.

She was afterwards told, when she could understand the Indian language, that they should not have killed her parents if the captors had not been pursued, and that a little boy, who was the son of a neighbor, and was also taken, was given to the French, two of whom were of the party.

In the marches of the Indians it was the custom for one to linger behind andpoke upthe grass with a stick, after a party had passed along, to conceal all traces of their foot-steps, so that a pursuit was seldom successful. In deviating from a direct course, in order not to get lost,[142]they noticed the moss upon the trees, which always grew thickest upon the north side, as the south side, being most exposed to the sun, became soonest dry. They also had some knowledge of the stars, and knew from the positions of certain clusters, that were to be seen at certain seasons, which was east and which west.

Mary was carried far down the Ohio, and found her captors to be a party of Shawanese, and by them she was adopted in place of two brothers, who had fallen in battle, and for whom the lamentations had not yet died away.

The ceremony of adoption is very solemn, requiring the deliberations of a council and the formal bestowing of a name, as a sort of baptism, from which time the captive is not allowed to speak any language but the Indian, and must in all things conform to Indian habits and tastes.

It is the custom among them to give children a name which corresponds with the sports and dependence of childhood, and when they arrive at maturity, to change it for one that corresponds with the duties and employments of manhood and womanhood. The first name is given by the relatives, and afterwards publicly announced in council. The second is bestowed in the same way, and by this they are ever afterwards called, except on becoming a Sachem, and sometimes on becoming a chief or warrior, another is taken, and each denotes definitely the new position. Each clan, too, had its peculiar names, so that when a person’s name was mentioned it was immediately known to what clan he belonged.

A curious feature in the Indian code of etiquette is, that it is exceedingly impolite to ask a person his name, or to speak it in his presence. In the social circle and all private conversation, the person spoken of is described, if it is necessary to allude to him, as the person who sits[143]there, or who lives in that house, or wears such a dress. If I ask a woman, whose husband is present, if that is Mr. P——, she blushes, and stammers, and replies, “It is my child’s father,” in order to avoid speaking his name in his presence, which would offend him. On asking a man his name he remained silent; not understanding the reason, the question was repeated, when he indignantly replied, “Do you think that I am an owl, to go abouthootingmy name every where?” the name of the owl in Seneca, corresponding exactly to the note he continually utters.

When Mary Jewison had been formally namedDe-he-wa-mis, they called her daughter and sister, and treated her in all respects as if she had been born among them and the same blood flowed in her veins; or rather they were accustomed to be more kind to captives than to their own children, because they had not been inured to the same hardships. There was no difference in the caresses bestowed, no allusion was made to the child as if it belonged to a hated race, and it never felt the want of affection.

Mary said her tasks were always light, and every thing was done to win her love and make her happy. She now and then longed for the comforts of her cottage home, and wept at the thought of her mother’s cruel death, but gradually learned to love the freedom of the forest, and to gambol freely and gayly with her Indian playmates. When she was named they threw her dress away, and clothed her in deer-skins and moccasins, and painted her face in true Indian style. She never spoke English in their presence, as they did not allow it; but, when alone, did not forget her mother’s injunction, and repeated her prayer and all the words she could remember, thus retaining enough of the language to enable her easily to[144]recall it when she should again return to civilized society, as she constantly indulged the hope of doing by an exchange of captives.

But when she was fourteen years of age her mother selected for her a husband, to whom she was married according to Indian custom. His name was She-nin-jee, and though she was not acquainted with him previously, and of course had no affection for him, he proved not only an amiable and excellent man, but a congenial companion, whom she loved devotedly. He had all the noble qualities of the Indian, being handsome, and brave, and generous, and kind, and to her ever gentle and affectionate.

Now she became thoroughly reconciled to Indian life, her greatest sorrow being the necessary absences of her husband on the war-path and hunting excursions. She followed the occupations of the women, and tilled the fields, dressed the skins, and gathered the fuel for the winter fires; and though this seems to us unfeminine labor, it was performed at their leisure, and occupied very little of their time.

When the hunters returned they were weary and passive, and seldom were guilty of fault-finding, and so well did an Indian woman know her duty, that her husband was not obliged to make known his wants. Obedience was required in all respects, and where there was harmony and affection, cheerfully yielded; and knowing as they did that separation would be the consequence of neglect of duty, and unkindness, there was really more self-control, and care about little things, than among those who are bound for life, weal and woe, love and hatred, kindness and cruelty. They did not agree to live together through good and through evil report, but only while they loved and confided in one another; and they were therefore[145]careful not to throw lightly away this confidence and affection.

The labor of the field was performed in so systematic a manner, and by so thorough and wise a division of labor, that there were none of the jealousies and envyings which exist among those who wish to hoard, and are ambitious to excel in style and equipage; and before thefire-watercame among them dissensions of any kind were almost unknown. This has been the fruitful source of all their woes.

It was not till Mary became a mother that she gave up all longing for civilized society, and relinquished all hope of again returning to the abodes of white men. Now she had a tie to bind her which could not be broken. If she should find her friends they would not recognize her Indian husband, or consider her lawfully married; they would not care to be connected by ties of blood to a people whom they despised. Her child would not be happy among those who looked upon her as inferior, and she herself had no education to fit her for the companionship of white people. She looked upon her little daughter and said, “It is Sheninjee’s, it is dearer to methanall things else. I could not endure to see her treated with aversion or neglect.”

But only a little while was she permitted this happiness—her daughter died, while yet an infant, and when Sheninjee was away. Again the feeling of desolation came over her young spirit, but all around her ministered in every way to her comfort, and became more than ever endeared to her heart. After a long absence Sheninjee returned, and she was again happy for many months. She had a son and named him from her father, to which no objection was made by her Indian friends, and her love for her husband became idolatry. In her eyes he seemed[146]every thing noble and good,—she mourned his departure and longed for his return, for his affection prompted him to treat her with the gentle and winning kindness which is the spirit of true love alone.

But again came the separation, and she must pass another long winter alone. Hunting was the Indian’s toil, and though they delighted in it, the pang of parting from his wife and little ones, made it a sacrifice, and spread a dark cloud over a long period of his life. And now it became dark indeed to Mary, for she waited long and Sheninjee came not. She put every thing in order in his little dwelling—she dressed new skins for his couch, and smoked venison to please his taste; she made the fire bright to welcome him, hoping every evening when she lay down with her baby upon her bosom, that ere the morning sun the husband and father would gladden them by his smile, but in vain; winter passed away, and the spring, and then came the sad tidings that he was dead. She was a widow and her child was fatherless. Very long and deeply did she mourn Sheninjee, for it seemed to her there was none like him; but again the sympathies of his people created new links to bind her to them, and she said she could not have loved a mother or sister more dearlythanshe did thosewhostood in this relationship to her, and soothed her by their loving words.

Not for four years was she again urged to marry, and during this time there was an exchange of prisoners, and she had an opportunity to return to her kindred. She was left to do as she pleased. They told her she might go; but if she preferred to remain, she should still be their daughter and sister, and they would give her land for her own, where she might always dwell. Again she thought of the prejudice she should every where meet, and that she could never patiently listen to reproaches concerning[147]her husband’s people. It would not be believed that he was noble, because he was an Indian,—she should have no near relatives, and those she had might reject her if she should seek them. So she came to the final conclusion, and never more sighed for the advantages or pleasures of civilized life. She came with the brothers of Sheninjee to the banks of the Genesee, where she resided the remaining seventy-two years of her life.

Her second husband, Hiokatoo, she never learned to love. He was a chief and a warrior, brave and fearless, but though he was always kind to her, he was a man of blood. He delighted in deeds of cruelty and delighted to relate them, and now the fire-water had become common, and the good were made bad and the bad worse, so that dissensions arose in families and in neighborhoods, and the happiness which had been almost without alloy, was no longer known among these simple people.

She adds her testimony to that of all travellers and historians concerning the purity of their lives, having never herself received the slightest insult from an Indian, and scarcely knowing an instance of infidelity or immorality. But when they had once tasted of the maddening draught, the thirst was insatiable, and all they had would be given for a glass of something to destroy their reason. Now they were indeed converted into fiends and furies, and sold themselves to swift destruction. Hiokatoo hesitated at no crime, and took pleasure in every thing that was dark and terrible, but this was a small trial compared to those which Mrs. Jewison was called upon to endure from the intoxication and recklessness of her sons.

Her oldest, the son of Sheninjee, was murdered by John, the son of Hiokatoo, who afterwards murdered his own brother Jessee, and came to the same violent death[148]himself by the hands of others. When they came to be in the midst of temptation there was no restraining principle, and even after they grew up, her house was the scene of quarrels and confusion in consequence of their intemperance, and she knew no rest, from fear of some calamity from the indulgence of their unbridled passions.

The chiefs of the Seneca nation, to which her second husband belonged, gave her a large tract of land, and when it became necessary that it should be secured to her by treaty, she attended the council and plead her own case. The commissioners, without inquiring particularly concerning the dimensions of herlots, allowed her to make the boundaries, and when the document was signed, and she was in firm possession, it was found that she was the owner of nearly four thousand acres, of which only a deed in her own handwriting could deprive her. But though she was rich, she toiled not the less diligently, and forsook not thesphere of womanin attending to the ways of her household; and also true to her Indian education, she planted, and hoed, and harvested, retaining her Indian dress and habits, till the day of her death.

During the revolutionary war, her house was made the rendezvous and head-quarters of British officers and Indian chiefs, as her sympathies were entirely with her red brethren, and the cause they espoused was the one she preferred to aid. It was in her power to sympathize with many a lone captive; she always remembered her own anguish at the prospect of spending her life in the wilderness, the companion of Indians, and though she had learned to love instead of fearing them, and knew they were, as a people, deserving of respect and the highest honor, she understood the feelings of those who knew them not.

Her supplications procured the release of many from[149]torture, and her generous kindness clothed the naked and fed the starving.

Lot by lot, and acre by acre, the Indians sold their lands, and at length the beautiful valley of the Genesee fell into the hands of the white man, except the domain of “The White Woman,” as she was always called, which could not be given up without her consent. She refused at the time of the sale to part with her portion, but after the Indians removed to the Buffalo Reservation, and she was left alone, though lady of the manor, and surrounded by white people, she preferred to take up her abode with those whom she now called her people. Most emphatically did she adopt the language of Ruth in the days of old—“Entreat me not to leave thee, or return from following after thee, for whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried.”

She was as thoroughly Pagan as the veriest Indian who had never heard of God, and exclaimed with him, that their religion was good enough for her, and she desired no change.

She was ninety years old—eighty years she had been an exile from the land of her birth—she had forgotten the prayers her mother taught her, and knew nothing of the worship of her fathers, when one morning she sent a messenger to tell the missionaries she wished to see them. She had ever before refused to listen to them if they came to her dwelling, but they hastened to obey the summons, glad to feel that they should be welcome, though quite uncertain concerning the nature of the interview she proposed. She was literally withered away. Her face was scarcely larger than an infant’s, and completely checkered with fine wrinkles; her teeth were entirely gone, and[150]her mouth so sunken that her nose and chin almost met; her hair not silvery, but snowy white, except a little lock by each ear, which still retained the sandy hue of childhood; her form, which was always slight, was bent, and her limbs could no longer support her. She had revived the knowledge of her language since she had dwelt among white people, but “Oh,” said she, as the ladies entered, “I have forgotten how to pray; my mother taught me, and told me never to forget this, though I remembered nothing else.” And then she exclaimed, “Oh God, have mercy upon me!” This expression she had heard in her old age, and now uttered it in the fulness of her heart. There had come a gleam of light through all the dark clouds of superstition and Pagan blindness, and this spark was kindled at the fireside of that little cottage home, and fell upon her heart from a mother’s lips, and now revived at the remembrance of a mother’s love and her dying blessing. It was eighty years since she had seen that mother’s face, as she breathed out her soul in anguish, bending over her in the silent depths of the wilderness—eighty years since she listened to “Our Father who art in Heaven,” from Christian lips, and now the still small voice which had so long been hushed, spoke aloud, and startled her as if an angel called. She tried to stifle it, and for many days after it awoke in her bosom heeded it not, but it gave her no rest. No earthly voice had since reminded her that her heart was sinful, and needed to be washed in order to be clean. The seed which had been sown in it when she was a little child had just sprung up—the snows of eighty winters had not chilled it—the mildews of nearly a century had not blighted it, and the heavy hand of a hundred calamities had left it unharmed. She had not been in the midst of corruptions, therefore it[151]had not been destroyed. The little germ was still alive, and proving that it had not been planted in vain.

The aged woman sat pillowed up in bed with her children and children’s children of three generations around her, and lifting her withered hands and sunken eyes to heaven, once more repeated, “Our Father, who art in heaven,” while a new light, like a halo, overspread her face, tears flowed in floods down her cheeks, and in the dark eye of every listener there glistened the tear of sympathy in her new-found happiness.

For many years she remembered her mother’s injunction, and repeated the words of the prayer and the catechism; but as she became more thoroughly familiar with the language, and could join in the thanksgivings of her new people, she ceased to care for the faith of her fathers. Yet it was the connecting link between her and those who were called Christians, and the sole means of enabling her to revive and easily acquire the knowledge of her native tongue. Without this the missionaries could not have communicated with her, as they had not then learned the Seneca, and those around her who understood both, cared very little, and knew scarcely more than she, of the Redeemer of whom she wished to hear.

When asked if she regretted that she had not consented to be exchanged, and returned to her mother’s friends, she still said, no. She loved the Indians—she loved them better than white people. They had been kind to her, and provided generously for her youth and her old age, and her children would inherit an abundance from the avails of the lands and herds and flocks which were her sole possessions. Alas! she did not know that the money she had deposited in the hands of the agent to be invested for the benefit of her family, was wickedly squandered by him, so that not a single cent ever reached[152]their hands.1She was rich, but they were miserably poor, and he who thus defrauded her was of the same blood, and hesitated not to take advantage of her because she had grown up among an unsuspicious people, who knew not how to redress their wrongs. Her adopted brethren had honored her above the women of their own nations—she had received good, and not evil, all the days of her life; she belonged to a race they had every reason to hate—a race who had trampled them as their legend said the mammoth buffaloes trampled the forests in their march, and yet they had respected her, and loved her, and honored her. And hers was not the only instance of such kindness; it is not she alone who bears testimony to their virtues, to their magnanimity, their truly Christian spirit of forgiveness, their purity, their meekness, their long-suffering, and their brotherly love, ere they were wronged and contaminated by the vices of their enemies.

A few days after the new light dawned upon her spirit, in the year 1833, Mrs. Jewison was numbered with the dead. She had embraced the faith which makes no difference between those who come at the first and the eleventh hour; and those who were present at the dissolution of soul and body, doubted not Jesus had whispered to her the same consolation that fell upon the heart of the thief upon the cross, “This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise.”

She was buried in the mission burial-ground, near Buffalo, where the dead are a strange concourse; for it seems once to have been the site of an ancient fort, and afterwards to have become the repository of the dust of[153]people of many nations, and is to the historian, the Christian, and the traveller, an interesting spot.

Not many years ago, the family of the mission were awakened from their midnight slumbers by the piteous cry of an infant. It was November, and the plaintive moan of the little one, mingled with the wailing of the night wind when all else was still, came with startling sadness to their ears. At first, they thought some lone mother, in her desolation, had come to them for relief, and hastened to open the door to the houseless wanderer. But when they looked out into the darkness, they could see nothing; still the little voice came up, though it grew fainter, as if its strength was failing. Again they searched, and found upon the door-step a tiny band-box, in which was snugly curled a baby—a little baby! All around was dark; there was no mother, no friend; the little thing was there alone—alone, unconscious of its loneliness.

A little opening had been made in the top of the box, through which they peeped, and saw a tiny hand move, and then the blue eyes opened to the light; but when they brought it to the fire it was stupefied by the effects of cold and some drug it had taken to keep it quiet, and scarcely showed signs of life for a day. Then it awoke, and on its face there rested a smile that seemed a beam from heaven. Never more was it alone. Hearts had become linked to its little heart, and all the household looked upon it as a treasure and not a burden. Its coarse blanket and faded frock, proved that it had not been cast out from the dwellings of the rich, and the few words which were written on a torn and soiled bit of paper, in a fair hand, proved that its mother was not ignorant, though poverty-stricken.

“Farewell my little baby! Thy mother must desert thee, but may God take care of thee and find thee friends!”[154]Then it was blistered with tears, and placed among the folds of the blanket.

Why did the mother thus desert her child? Must its innocent name be stained by some dark sin; or was it wretched poverty alone that drove her to such a sacrifice? There had evidently been sundered a heart-string, and the bosom on which it was born to rest was neither cold nor hard. Yet it was a cast-away.

That night a wagon was seen slowly winding its way toward the mission-house, and from a neighboring window observed to stop in front of the path that led to the door. At the same time a child, evidently very young, was heard distinctly to cry for a few moments, and then ceased, and the wagon moved on toward the great city. This is all its new-found friends ever learned concerning it. But it became a very sunbeam in their dwelling, and was beautiful as a cherub. Its ruby lips never failed to curl with that same sunny smile, whenever the tones of a pleasant voice fell on its ear, and its gleeful playfulness awoke in every heart an echo. But it was one of those bright leaves which decay and dazzle and then depart.

Those upon whose hands it was thrown, helpless and dependent, thought, how could they keep and nourish it? They too, were poor, and it would be a burden.

In less than a year, the bright flower faded and died. Twined around it was every heart-string, and it had found a nestling place in every bosom, when it grew cold, and shut its eyes on them for ever. They must wrap it in a shroud, and give it back to earth.

To show their love, they made its grave beneath a spreading walnut, where the green mound would be sheltered from the burning sun, and the footsteps of love might linger, and the heart-broken water it with their tears.[155]

The sod was removed and the dark earth thrown up, and soon they came to the crumbling bones of a man. It was probably a warrior’s grave. But they laid the little strange baby upon his breast, and covered them, to be again disturbed perhaps in some far-off century, by another people and ruder hands.

Near by is another little one, whose grandfather was taken captive nearly a century before on the banks of the Juniata; whose mother and grandmother were Indian women, and who was given when an infant to the mission family to be their own. It was a little girl, whom they named Louisa Maria, and who, though she died in early childhood, lived long enough to become a bud of promise, yes, a blossom of Christian love, and hope, and faith, a lamb of Christ’s flock. She belonged to the class of those who always die in infancy, “whose names are all on gravestones.” They are perfected without the discipline of earth’s trials, and transplanted to bloom as spring flowers in the gardens above. Life would be a dreary pathway without the little ones, and there would be discord in the heavenly choir without the soft melody of infant voices. A little while before she died, lying still upon the bed, there came a sweet smile upon her face, and she said, “I see them, ma, angels, angels all round me, come to carry me away!” and then she kissed each friend as if she were bidding themgood-bye, to return again, and immediately soared away where angel-children dwell.

In the same inclosure, under the same spreading tree, was buried a little Indian boy, whose mother had been long a member of the mission church.

It was a cold day in January when he came in a little sad from his play, and said, “Mother, I do not feel well; will you take care of me?”[156]

His mother was busy and did not answer, and soon he said again, “Will you put your hand upon my head, mother; it aches? I think I shall be sick and die; but I shall go to heaven, where God lives, and be happy.”

He had never before talked of death, and it was not known that he had ever particularly thought of it. But now he often said, “I am going to Jesus, you must giveup me, mother. I am not afraid, I am happy.” A quick consumption soon wasted his form and destroyed the bloom upon his rosy cheek, but he thought only of the bright world to which he was going.

Their home was a rude Indian cabin, but the mother was a refined Christian woman. She knew not how to read, but she had learned the language of prayer. Her heart, too, was swelling with a mother’s love. She knew not how to give him up. A few moments before he died, in great distress he said, “Now mother, pray.” She knelt alone beside him, and in her own rich language poured out her heart to God. When she had finished he said, “Some one has come in—how pleasant he looks.” No one had entered, but still he gazed as if looking upon some beautiful object, then slowly drooped the lid over the brightly-kindled eye, and he was gone.

In the gateway of this entrance to the city of the dead was buried a distinguished pagan chief, and all around sleeps the dust of Indian warriors and chiefs, sad relics of those who fell in bloody battles long before the red man has any tradition concerning the spot. Here, too, are many captives, borne from Christian firesides in childhood, to become the brethren of the children of the wilderness, and be laid to rest away from their kindred in a strange land, and here are old men and aged women who, at the eleventh hour, came up to labor in the vineyard of the Lord.[157]

An old lady used to come tottering to meeting when it seemed impossible her feeble limbs could support her. When surprise was expressed that she should come when the weather was cold, and she had so far to walk, she said with great earnestness, “Oh! I shall always come as long as I can get here, and when my poor body is too feeble to attempt it longer,I shall bow my head this way as often as the season of prayer returns.”

Her dust is now mingling with the strange group in this strange place, and yet it is still but a few years since the messengers of a better faith came among them. The fruits have been rich and abundant, among those who belonged to the generation already passed away, and among those who are still living useful and honored in the Church and the community, rejoicing the hearts of those who have diligently and faithfully labored, as stewards of Him who is Lord of the vineyard, and who sent them forth.

May they live to see the wilderness become a fruitful field, and the desert a garden under their fostering care, and richly will they be rewarded when they too shall cross over Jordan.

[158]

1This has since been refunded by the Government.↑

1This has since been refunded by the Government.↑

1This has since been refunded by the Government.↑

1This has since been refunded by the Government.↑

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