Chapter IV

“We lift our trusting eyes

From the hills our fathers trod;

To the sunshine of the skies.

To the sabbath of our God.”

Ten years after the events noticed in our last chapter, a pleasant village was rapidly springing upon the sunny lake-side, so long tenanted only by the lonely refugees. The broad old forest had been rudely cut away by the axe of the settler, and cottage-homes were reared thickly side by side. The emigrant’s hut had been transformed into an elegant mansion, whilst the green lawn in front, sloping down to the water, and planted with shrubbery and vines—was the play-ground of happy children. At a little distance, among the trees, a pretty church raised its slender spire toward heaven, and behind it, several mounds of fresh earth told plainly there was no retreat from death. But who was the dark-haired pastor that had first awakened the voice of prayer in that remote settlement? The imagination of the reader will furnish a ready reply.

Oliwibatuc had gone to his rest! Faithfully, had his devoted young captive labored to sow with good seed the hearts of his red brethren, and in some instances, the scalping-knife and tomahawk had been buried by the living warrior; but after the death of the old chief, he had taken up his abode with Lord Temple, having been married to Anna soon after the death of Red-Bird. Long and happily did they dwell together, wondering much that an over-ruling providence should have watched over the divided current of their lives, and united them so mysteriously in a far, foreign land. Lord Temple lived until his head was white with four-score years; but until death retained his Quaker dress and appellation.

That village is now a beautiful and flourishing town in the heart of the old empire State. The lone canoe of the Indian long since disappeared from the blue lake, but hundreds of snowy sails now whiten its waters. Few of the busy multitude that now throng these streets, could point the curious traveler to the spot on which stood the humble cottage of the first settler—many would not even remember his name; but go to the ancient records, and there you will find that as early as 1660, a wealthy Quaker, calling himself John Brown, made purchase of a large territory of the Mohawk chief, and settled upon it with his own family—that he afterward built a church of the Presbyterian order, and endowed it with a fund, for its after-support, and left at his death many rich legacies. It is also added, that much mystery shrouded the aforesaid Brown, and by some he was supposed to have been an associate of Oliver Cromwell.

An elegant edifice stands now on the site of the little church of the first settler; but the burying-yard behind it remains unchanged, and there on a broad slab may still be traced, a long obituary of John Brown, the earliest settler, and by his side sleeps the first pastor of that ancient church, of whom it is recorded, that he labored for a number of years as a faithful missionary among the Mohawks, by whom he was taken captive; and, afterward, for nearly forty years, as the minister of the first church of Christ in the wilderness. By his side, sleeps Anna, his wife—and children, and children’s children are around in long ranks, with the slumber of years upon them.

Reader! My story is brought to a close. It but feebly illustrates the chance and change of life—but if it serve to awaken a more earnest interest in those who have gone before us, its author will not have spent those few pleasant hours amid the records of the past in vain. Life is not all with us! Those who trod the paths we are now treading, knew as much of its joys and sorrows—perchance even more than ourselves, and would we search more deeply the annals of our forefathers, our toil would often be rewarded with histories as full of vicissitude and adventure, as that of the illustrious Judge Temple, or the Vaudois peasant-boy of the Alps!