# Sketch of Connecticut, Forty Years Since/Chapter XVI

CHAPTER XVI.
Spring, with her varying charms, was now every day dispensing some new gift to the earth. The tardiness of her first advance was compensated by the rapidity with which she changed every thing subject to her influence; as a timid child, ripening into the loveliness of womanhood, glides gracefully through those paths, which her feet at first trembled to approach. The period was arriving, when the two most delightful seasons of the year stand, as it were, on each other's boundary, blend their unfinish'd work, dip their pencils in each other's dies, and like the rival goddesses, contend before the sons of earth for the palm of beauty. Even the rude settlement of the children of the forest put on its beautiful garments. They, whom their more fortunate brethren scarcely admitted within the scale of humanity, were not shut out by pitying nature from her smiles, or her exuberance. Through the rich green velvet of her fields, the pure fountains looked up with chrystal eyes, in silent joy. Bolder streams murmured over rocky beds, occasionally falling in cascades, like a restless spirit afflicted with the turmoils, and tossings of the world. Wild flowers expanded their petals, ​trees their blossoms, birds filled their retreats with harmony, or soaring high, poured louder tones of transport, until it seemed that every thicket, and every wave of air uttered the strain, "Thou makest the outgoings of the morning, and of the evening to rejoice."
The abode of old Zachary and Martha felt the influence of this enlivening season. Already their aromatic herbs yielded a pure essence to the busy inhabitants of the hives, and their cow cropped with delight the juicy food of her little pasture. A rose-bush near their door displayed its swelling buds, and the woodbine protruded its young tendrils, to reach the window of the invalid. But within the walls, was Age which knew no spring, and Youth, fading like a blasted flower; night that could know no dawning, and a morn that must never ascend to noon. The day had closed over the inhabitants of that peaceful habitation. The old warriour, and his wife were seated in the room appropriated to their mysterious guest. Reclining in a chair, which the ingenuity of Zachary had so constructed as to answer the purposes of both seat and couch, and wrapped in a loose dress of light calico, she watched the rising of the full, round, silver moon, like one who loves its beams, yet feels that he must soon bid it a returnless farewell. The bright, brown locks of that beautiful being, twined in braids around a head of perfect symmetry, and falling in profuse curls over her brow, formed a strong contrast to the snow of her cheek, and seemed to deepen the hue of her soft, blue eye. But the snows of her cheek ​were now tinted with that ominous flush, whose brief loveliness Death lends, as a signal of his approaching triumph. Sometimes, it gave to her eye a ray of such unearthly brightness, that the tender-hearted Martha could not gaze on it without a tear. She had remarked with grief to her husband, that the form of the uncomplaining victim was becoming rapidly emaciated, and respiration feeble and laborious, and that all her culinary arts were exerted in vain to stimulate appetite. The invalid gazed long at the moon, with her forehead resting on a hand of purest whiteness, which, partially shaded by the rich curls that hung over it, seemed to display the flexile fingers of childhood. Turning her eyes from the beautiful orb, she observed those of the aged couple bent upon her with in tense earnestness. A long pause ensued. Something, that refused utterance, seemed to agitate her. But they, marking the emotion which varied a countenance usually so serene and passionless, forebore to break the silence lest they should interrupt her musings, and dreaded to hear her speak, lest it should be of separation. At length, a voice tremulous, and musical as the tones of a broken harp, was heard to say—
"Father! you may recollect hearing me mention that I was educated a child of the Church of England. I love her sacred services, though I have long been divided from them. A clergyman of that order lives within a few miles of us. I feel a desire to see him, and once ​more to partake of the holy Sacrament. Will you bear my request to him, Father?"
"The feet of Zachary shall travel any where for the comfort of his daughter," said the old warriour, rising to receive a letter which she held towards him.
"I knew it would be necessary to give some explanation of my birth and education, before I could expect the favour which my heart desires. You see now, Father, why I requested you to procure a few sheets of paper from the town. I have written in few words, for my hand is weak. Perhaps I may yet intrust to the man of God all my history, if I shall be strengthened to record it."
Pausing, she added, "But it must not meet his eye, till mine is closed."
Martha rose, with that undefinable sensation which moves us to shrink from any subject by which our feelings are agonized, and throwing up the casement for a moment, through which the soft, humid air of Spring breathed, said—
"Have you seen, Oriana, how your woodbine grows? Soon it will be raising up its young blossoms to look at you, through the window."
"It will remind you of me, kind Mother," she said, "and may its fragrance be soothing to you, even as your tenderness has been to the lonely, and withering heart."
Again there was silence, and then the aged man, raising his head from his bosom where it had declined, spake in ​a voice which, as he proceeded, grew more calm, and distinct.
"Daughter! I understand thee. It is vain that we strive to conceal from each other a truth, with which we are all acquainted. I am glad that thou hast spoken thy mind to us. Yet is my soul at this moment weak as that of an infant, though in battle no eye hath seen me turn to shun the death, which I dealt to others. My daughter! Zachary could lie down in his grave, and not tremble. Yet his heart is soft, when he sees one so young, and beautiful, falling like the green leaf before the blast. Zachary is old, but his mind is selfish. He had desired to look on thy brow, during the short space that he hath yet to measure. He hath prayed the Eternal, that his ears might continue to hear thy voice; for it was sweet to them. His heart wished to have something to love, which should not be as himself, every day decaying like the tree stripped of its branches, and mouldering at the root. But he must humble his heart. Thou hast told him that God giveth grace unto the humble. Thou hast read unto him, from thine holy book, till he has bowed in penitence, and sought with tears in the silent midnight for salvation through Christ. What shall he, and Martha do, when thou art taken from them? Who will have patience with their ignorance, as thou hast done? Who will kindly teach them the true way of life? Ask I what we shall do, as if we had yet an hundred years to dwell ​on earth? We shall soon sleep in that grave, to which thou art hastening."
"Whither I go, ye know," answered the same sweet, solemn voice, "and the way ye know. Hope in Him whom ye have believed. Like me, ye must soon slumber in the dust; but His power shall raise ye up at the last day. The Eternal, in whose sight shades of complexion, and distinctions of rank are as nothing. He who looketh only upon the heart, bless you for your love to the outcast, and lead you to that abode, where all which is benevolent, and pure shall be gathered, and sundered no more."
She then laid her hand on her Prayer-book, which with a small bible was always near her on the table, and Martha rose to light the lamp, which had hitherto been neglected.
"It is in vain, Mother!" she said "with a lamb-like smile. "I am too much exhausted to say with you my evening prayer. Pray for yourselves, and for me, that we may meet where is no infirmity or pain, and where sorrow fleeteth away."
Then, as if regretting that the night should draw over them without their accustomed devotions, looking upward she repeated with deep pathos, a few verses from the fourteenth of John.
"Let not your heart be troubled. Ye believe in Gods; believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions," &c.
​The old warriour rising to take his leave for the night, held his hands over her head, and pronounced in deep tones the blessing of his nation. This he retained probably from early associations, though he was now the disciple of a better faith.
"The Great Spirit, who dwelleth where the Sun hideth himself, and where the tempest is born, guide thee with strength. He who maketh the earth fruitful, and the sky bright, and the heart of man glad, smile on thee, and give thee rest."
Martha remained to render some attentions to the sufferer. She removed her gently from her reposing seat to the bed, gave her an infusion which was useful to repel inflamination, and quiet restlesness. But she dared not trust her voice beyond a whisper, lest it should yield wholly to her emotion. After her services were completed, she lingered, as if unwilling to leave the pillow of the sufferer.
"Mother!" said the broken voice, "kind, tender mother, go to thy rest. Oriana hath now no pain. Sleep will descend upon her. She will not leave thee this night. But soon she must begin her journey to the land of souls. What then? She hath hope in her death, to pass from darkness to eternal sunshine. Weep not, mother! but lift your heart to the Father of consolation. I believe that whither I go, thou shalt come also. I shall return no more; but thou and thy beloved shall come unto me. There will be scarcely time to mourn, ere, like the gliding of a shadow, the parents shall follow their child."
​A celestial smile was upon her brow, which would have cheered the grief of the aged woman, but for the reflection she must so soon behold it no more. So strongly did her affectionate heart cling to this cherished object, that sorrow shuddered at the thought that the beautiful tabernacle must be dissolved, even while Faith shadowed forth the joy of the liberated spirit.
The first rays of the sun found Zachary on the way to the clergyman whom Oriana had designated. He paused not on his weary journey. Travellers who passed him, had they thought it fitting to bestow so much attention on an Indian, might have perceived that tears occasionally rolled over the furrows of his cheek, or hung upon his eye lashes, which like a fringe of silver, resembled in colour the few hairs which were scattered upon his temples.
"Zachary's heart is proud," he would say, in communing with himself. "The good prophet, when the desire of his eyes was removed with a stroke, wept not, neither made lamentation. It was so, for she read it to me. She, who will soon open her blessed bible no more. And Martha, she will grieve more than Zachary, for her heart is weaker. Be strong, old warriour, that thou mayest comfort the woman. Thou, whose heart did never shrink in battle, what aileth thee, that it is now dissolved? Thou art old, Zachary, and thy hairs are like snow; wherefore shouldst thou mourn any more, for what the world taketh away?" Gathering strength from these meditations, his step became firm, and his head erect, as he ​reached the southern part of the town, where the clergyman resided. Presenting the letter, the reverend man perused it, and said with affectionate feeling—
"My brother, I will come to-morrow to your house."
The afternoon of the succeeding day, the clergyman was seen fastening his horse to the fence that enclosed the garden of Zachary. He approached with the slow step, and benevolent countenance, which were indicative of his character. Firmness in the truth, and mildness in the expression of it distinguished his conversation among men. Filial trust in his God taught him to consider all as brethren, and no hand raised the bruised reed more tenderly than his. When a child, the amusements of that giddy period had no charms for him, in comparison with those studies which nourish intellect. Thirteen summers had not past over him ere he made his election in favour of that Church to which he faithfully devoted the remainder of his life. So uninfluenced was this determination, that his parents and friends, who belonged to a different sect, were ignorant of the arguments by which his belief was fortified until he adduced them as a reason of "the hope that was in him." After spending his youth in collegiate studies, he found that the sect to which he had devoted himself was so far from enjoying popularity, that not a single person existed in this country, to administer to him the vows of ordination. He crossed the Atlantic, and received holy orders from the Bishop of London, in 1768. From that period he had been con​nected with the parish in which he now resided; and his attachment to the flock, and to the faith which he had taught it, was among the warmest affections of his heart. During the reign of those strong passions which our revolutionary struggle excited, the single circumstance of his adherence to the Church of England created him enemies among the more violent partizans, both political and puritanical. His amiable virtues, and pious life were as dust in the balance which the hand of enmity poised. For three years the doors of his church were closed; but, from house to house, he broke the bread of life to his little flock, exhorting them to submit to "principalities and powers." In this day of darkness, he was pressed to receive a lucrative clerical establishment in England; but he chose to adhere to the little community which he had planted, through "evil report and good report." Now the rage of contest had subsided, and he again led his beloved followers to the sanctuary to pay their stated services to the God of peace and consolation. When, on the first Sunday after their exile, they convened in their consecrated temple, such was the saintly expression of his countenance, and such the effect of his remarkably melodious voice, as he uttered "From the rising of the sun, even unto the going down of the same, my name shall be great among the Gentiles, and in every place incense shall be offered unto my name, and a pure offering," and such were the recollections, tender, melancholy, and soothing, which arose at the appearance of their venerated pastor ​again in his much loved pulpit, that a burst of tears mingled with their devotions, and sobs ascended with their praises.
Such was the man who, like a shepherd seeking his sheep in remote places, now entered the abode of Zachary and Martha. He received their respectful salutations with that smile for which he was distinguished—a smile which seemed the irradiation of a spirit, whose light was not kindled beneath the stars. He appeared struck with the exceeding beauty of the stranger; and, comparing it with the rude apartment, and the dark faces of her aged attendants, he could scarcely forbear exclaiming, "verily we have this treasure in earthern vessels, but the excellency of the power is of God, and not of man." After a conversation of considerable length with the invalid, during which he became fully satisfied of her religious education, correct belief, and happy spiritual state, he prepared to administer to her that most holy rite which her soul desired. Exhausted by the efforts of discourse, and by the warmth of her gratitude for the approaching privilege, she laid herself on her couch, as a pale lilly surcharged with dew reclines its head upon the stalk. Zachary and Martha rose to depart.
"These are Christians," Oriana remarked, "in heart and in life. They have been baptized many years since, by Mr. Occom, their departed minister. I can bear witness that they know, and love the truth. May they not partake with us, to the edification of their souls?"
​The clergyman, regarding them steadfastly, but kindly, inquired—
"Are ye in perfect charity with all men?"
Bowing himself down, the old warriour replied solemnly "We are. Your religion has taught even us Indians, to forgive our enemies."
"Approach then," said the minister of Heaven, "approach, ye who do truly, and earnestly repent you of your sins, and are in love and charity with your neighbours, and intend to lead a new life, following the commandments of God."
They kneeled by the bed of the sufferer. Often did the tears roll in tides over the face of old Martha, and the strong frame of the warriour tremble with emotion, as that voice so deep-ton'd, so sweet, so solemn poured, in its varying modulation, the sublime language of the most holy office of religion, through the breathless silence of their abode. But she, who, reduced to the weakness of infancy, might have been supposed to be the most agitated, was as calm and unmoved as the lake, on which shines nothing but the beam of heaven. Raised above every cause of earthly excitement, she seemed to have a foretaste of the happy consummation that awaited her. And, when the clergyman, with uplifted eyes, pronounced the "Gloria in excelsis," a voice of such thrilling, exquisite melody warbled from the couch, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men." ​that in the devotion of that moment one might have fancied that the harp of angels, was once more pouring the advent melody over the vallies of Bethlehem. The heart of the good man was touched, and a tear starting to his mild eye, attested the accordance of his soul with the sympathies of the scene. His voice faltered as he uttered the benediction, to which the aged warriour, bowing his face to the earth, pronounced distinctly, Amen.
A pause of several minutes ensued after this holy ordinance. Each seemed fearful of interrupting the meditation of another; and all felt as if a human voice would be almost profanation amidst the heavenly calmness which had descended upon them. Every Christian, who has participated with sincere, and elevated devotion in this sacred banquet, must have been sensible how empty, and even painful are the first approaches of worldly conversation to the sublimated spirit. Like Moses, admitted to the mysterious mountain, she dreads too suddenly to mingle with the multitude at its base; happy if, like him, she may illumine the brow with celestial brightness, as a witness of her communion with the Eternal.
The clergyman at length broke the silence by inquiring, with his native benevolence, if there were not some article of comfort which might alleviate her sufferings, and which she would permit him to procure; or if she would not wish to consult a physician on the nature of her disease.
"I desire nothing," she added, "but what the care of these kind beings provide for me. Their knowledge of ​medicine is considerable, and they prepare with skill assuasive and soothing remedies, drawn from the bosom of that earth to which I am returning. With the nature of my disease I am acquainted. I saw all its variations in my mother, for whom the utmost exertions of professional skill availed nothing. I feel upon my heart a cold hand, and where it will lead me, I know. You, reverend Father, can give me all that my brief earthly pilgrimage requires. You can speak to me of the hope of Heaven, when my ear is closed to the sound of other voices; and, when my eye grows dim in death, it will brighten to behold, and bless you."
Pressing her hand, the servant of peace and consolation took his leave, promising frequently to visit her, and entreating her to rely upon his friendship. Zachary and Martha followed him. Even the skirts of his garment were dear to them, since he had imparted comfort to their beloved one. Shaking hands with each, as he mounted his horse, he said, "I see that she will not long tarry with you. She is ready to commune with angels, and hasten to join them. What a privilege have you enjoyed in her instructions! Pray that ye may tread in her steps." They stood gazing at him, till his form faded in distance, and the warriour, whose retentive memory was stored with many passages of scripture, gathered from the daily readings of Oriana, repeated as he returned to her—"How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of the messenger, that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace, that saith unto Zion, thy God reigneth."