Of the White Woman Who Became an Indian Squaw
The early history of the northwest frontier of Ma.s.sachusetts is fraught with blood-curdling tales of savage invasions against the home-builders and empire-makers of that once troubled boundary between the French of Canada and the English of the New England States, but there is not a more pitiful story than that which has been recorded touching the Williams family of Deerfield, who were captured by the Indians during one of their inroads in the year 1704. John Williams was a minister who had come to Deerfield when it was still suffering from the ruinous effects of King Philip"s war. His parishioners built him a house, he married, and had eight children. The story of the Indians" invasion, the destruction of the village, and the capture of over one hundred prisoners is admirably told by Francis Parkman in one of those excellent works of his dealing with the old regime of Canada and New England.
"A war party of about fifty Canadians and two hundred Indians left Quebec about mid-winter, and arrived at Deerfield on the 28th of February, 1704. Savage and hungry, they lay shivering under the pines till about two hours before dawn the following morning; then, leaving their packs and their snowshoes behind, they moved cautiously towards their prey. The hideous din startled the minister, Williams, from his sleep. Half naked, he sprang out of bed, and saw, dimly, a crowd of savages bursting through the shattered door. With more valor than discretion he s.n.a.t.c.hed a pistol that hung at the head of the bed, c.o.c.ked it and snapped it at the breast of the foremost Indian. It missed fire.
Amid the screams of his terrified children, three of the party seized him and bound him fast, for they came well provided with cords, as prisoners had a great market value. Nevertheless, in the first fury of their attack, they dragged to the door and murdered two of the children.
They kept Williams shivering in his shirt for an hour, while a frightful uproar of yells, shrieks, and gunshots sounded from within. At length they permitted him, his wife, and five remaining children to dress themselves. After the entire village had been destroyed and the inhabitants either murdered or made captive, Williams and his wife and family were led from their burning house across the Connecticut River to the foot of the mountain, and the following day the march north began with the hundred or more prisoners."
The hardships of the prisoners, and the crimes of the victors during that long and arduous march north through snow and ice, forms a chapter of pathos in the early history of those eastern states.
"At the mouth of the White River the party divided, and the Williams family were separated and carried off in various directions. Eunice, the youngest daughter, about eight years old, was handed over by the Indians to the mission at St. Louis on their arrival there, and although many efforts were made on the part of the Governor, who had purchased and befriended Williams, to ransom her, the Jesuits flatly refused to give her up. On one occasion he went himself with the minister to St.
Louis. This time the Jesuits, whose authority within their mission seemed almost to override that of the Governor himself, yielded so far as to allow the father to see his daughter, on condition that he spoke to no other English prisoner. He spoke to her for an hour, exhorting her never to forget her catechism, which she had learned by rote. The Governor and his wife afterwards did all in their power to procure her ransom, but of no avail.
""She is there still," writes Williams two years later, "and has forgotten to speak English." What grieved him still more, Eunice had forgotten her catechism." But now we come to this strange transformation, unprecedented, we think, which made an Indian squaw out of a white woman. "Eunice, reared among Indian children, learned their language and forgot her own; she lived in a wigwam of the Caughnawagas, forgot her catechism, was baptized in the Roman Catholic faith, and in due time married an Indian of the tribe, who henceforth called himself Williams. Thus her hybrid children bore her family name.
"Many years after, in 1740, she came, with her husband, to visit her relatives at Deerfield, dressed as a squaw and wrapped in an Indian blanket. Nothing would induce her to stay, though she was persuaded on one occasion to put on a civilized dress and go to church, after which she impatiently discarded her gown and resumed her blanket."
Could a sadder instance of degeneration be written in the annals of the human family? "She was kindly treated by her relatives, and no effort was made to detain her. She came again the following year, bringing two of her children, and twice afterwards she repeated the visit. She and her husband were offered land if they would remain, but she positively refused, saying it would endanger her soul. She lived to a great age, a squaw to the last. One of her grandsons became a missionary to the Indians of Green Bay, Wisconsin."
This is one of the most drastic instances of a woman"s devotion to husband, and mother love for children driving her back to the forest of her ancestors, and making her sacrifice all that her race had gained for her during thousands of years. Thus the most natural and primitive instincts of the human race will prevail against all our arts, science and accomplishments.
THROUGH THE MICROSCOPE
Through the Microscope
Life is full of impossibilities.
After all it is not money we want so much as something to do.
Every man should have an accomplishment of some kind.
Some music is like a jumble of misplaced notes.
If you have reached forty and have done nothing, get busy.
We sometimes lose dollars by being too careful with our cents.
We should try to arrange ourselves so that we will appear as plausible as possible to posterity.
We must have something to worry about or we will become stagnant.
Music should be rendered slowly and softly so that each note may have time to tell its story before the next one comes on the stage.
When we are young our time is all present. When we are old there is no present, but our time becomes the aggregate days and years.
We sometimes get into trouble trying to keep out of it.
It is not what we would _like_ to do, but what we _can_ do.
Let us take our medicine philosophically.
A dollar looks larger going out than it does coming in.
What is that we see falling like grain before the reaper? It is the days, and the weeks, and the months, and the years.
Every dog wonders why the other dog was born.
We are so const.i.tuted in temperament that one may love what the other hates.
A face is like a song, it has to be learned to be thoroughly appreciated. You have to acquire a taste for it, and when it is once memorized it is never forgotten.
Most of our best words are derived from dead, heathen languages.
If you have married the wrong man, or the wrong woman, cheer up and be a philosopher over it. Philosophy is a good subst.i.tute for love if properly applied.
If you do not go about sniffing the air you will not find so many obnoxious odors.
If you have a mental wound of any kind, do not mind; time, the great healer, will cure it.
We despise the ancient heathen, yet in some cases we have risen from his ashes.
A woman dresses for appearance, not for comfort.
An ounce of domestic harmony is worth a ton of gold.
We should adjust ourselves as much as possible to circ.u.mstances.
It is better to be a dummy than to be a gossip.
Every man thinks _his_ dog is an angel.
It is not always the one who can afford it who keeps the hired servant.
Since we can grow a new finger nail, why cannot we grow a new finger?
The mouse is destructive only from man"s point of view.
When a man reaches forty he usually settles down to make the best of things.