LETTER XI.

Return to Sandwich-Mission among the Indians at Massapee-Visit to the Rev. Gideon Hawley, the missionary-Description of the peninsula of Cape Cod-Its soil, population, &c.

Dear Sir,

THE next morning, Thursday, October 1st we rode to Yarmouth, nine miles, to breakfast; and spent a considerable time in examining the salt works of Peter Thatcher, Esq. Hence we proceeded to Marshpee, or Massapee; fifteen, to dinner. In the evening we returned to Sandwich; twelve: in all thirty-six miles. Our road was better than on the three preceding days.

Massapee is one of the few tracts in the populous parts of NewEngland, which are still occupied by the Aborigines. A missionary has been regularly supported here, with small interruptions, from the establishment of this Indian colony by the efforts of Mr. Richard Bourne, the first missionary. This gentleman, with a disinterestedness, and piety, highly honourable to him, obtained, in the year 1660, a deed from an Indian, named Quachatisset, and others, to the Indians of Massapee, or, as they were then called the South Sea Indians, covering the tract which bears this name. The instrument was so drawn, that the land could never be sold without the consent of every Indian, belonging to the settlement. On this foundation he began a mission to this place; and was ordained as a missionary in 1670. In 1685, he died; and was succeded by an Indian preacher, named Simon Popmonet, who lived in this character about forty years; and was succeeded, in 1729, by Mr. Joseph Bourne, a descendant of Richard. This gentleman resigned the office in 1742; and was followed by a second Indian Missionary, a regular minister, and a good, sensible preacher. During his life two gentlemen were successively candidates for the office; but, being powerfully opposed, neither of them was inducted. In 1758, the Rev. Gideon Hawley was installed as the pastor of these people.

Massapee is peculiarly fitted to be an Indian residence. It lies on the Sound; is indented by two bays; and shoots into it several necks, or points, of land. It is also watered by several streams, and ponds. From these circumstances the inhabitants derive abundant opportunities of supplying themselves with fish. It is well covered with a forest; and, therefore, has long retained the game, which was the second source of their subsistence. It is, also, sequestered in a great measure from that correspondence with the whites, which has been usually fatal to Indian settlements in this country.

The face of this tract is not unpleasant. It is composed of plains, vallies, and hills, but is less unequal than Sandwich, or Barnstable. On our road we saw several English houses; all of which were good buildings, and exhibited proofs of prosperity. I have no where seen quinces in such abundance.

The Inn, at which we dined, was kept hy a respectable family, who entertained us with great civility and kindness. After dinner one of my fellow-travellers accompanied me to the house of Mr. Hawley; with whom we had an interview, more interesting than words can describe.

This gentleman was a most intimate friend of my parents. From his youth he had sustained as amiable and unexceptionable a character, as can perhaps be found among uninspired men. He was pious and benevolent, zealous and candid, firm and gentle, sedate and cheerful, with a harmony of character equally uncommon and delightful. Naturally, I believe, his disposition was ardent, his conceptions strong, and his susceptibility exquisite. The points, however, were worn down, and smoothed, by an excel- lent understanding, and a peculiar self-government. Equally removed from the phlegm of insensibility, and the vehemence of passion, his feelings were warm, and yet temperate. Me, whom he had not seen since I was a youth of eighteen, he regarded with personal affection. To this he added the peculiar attachment, which he was prepared to place on me as a representative of my parents and my grand parents on both sides; all of whom he remembered with the strongest emotions of friendship, whom he had

not seen for thirty years, and whom he expected never to see on this side of the grave. The expressions of genuine and virtuous attachment paint the heart at once, in a manner perfectly understood, and exquisitely felt; but they cannot be copied. Perhaps they were never more happily exhibited, nor by a mind which felt more, or in a manner more amiable and dignified.

Mr. Hawley had a favourite son; a young gentleman of the greatest hopes, possessed of superiour talents and learning, of elegant manners, distinguished piety, and the best reputation. He had lately come from the tutorship in Cambridge; and had been just ordained to the Ministry.

By all, who knew him, he was beloved and honoured; and most by those who knew him best. In the room over our heads he lay on his dying bed; and had been expected to expire the preceding night. For death he was, however, eminently prepared; and looked forward through the curtains, which hide the invisible world, to scenes of a higher and more refined nature, scenes suited to the elevated taste of an enlighted christian, with a serenity, and confidence, more dignified than the loftiest conceptions of proud philosophy, and the sublimest dreams of sceptered ambition.

The pleasure, with which the father of this good man received me; the sympathy, with which he recalled the friends of his youth; the sorrow, awakened by the situation of his expiring son; and the setting of his fond, luminous hopes in the night of the grave; the lustre, which played, and trembled over this melancholy scene from the mind of that son, brilliant with lucid hopes of immortal glory; exhibited in their union, and their alternations, a picture, wholly singular, beautiful, solemn, and sublime. I beheld it with a mixture of wonder and delight. To describe it, is beyond my power. Into all these subjects he entered familiarly, and at once; and appeared equally ready to go with his son, or stay behind with his remaining friends; to protract his toil a little longer, or to be summoned to his account, and the reward of his labours; as it should please his Employer. He felt deeply; but with a serene submission. He knew, that

he was chastened; but found high, and sufficient consolation for his sufferings in the character of Him, from whom the stroke To me he shewed, in such a manner as to put suspicion out of countenance, the affection of a father; and when we parted he gave me a father's blessing.

came.

If I may be permitted to judge, the emotions which he discoved, and even those which he excited, were such, as an infidel, or any other worldling, if he could enjoy, or understand them, would deeply envy. They were such, as he would of necessity confess to be as much brighter, nobler, and better, than any thing which he had ever imagined before, as the golden visions of enraptured poetry are superiour to the dull, cold realities of this untoward life.

The young gentleman, who accompanied me on this visit, was educated in the gay world, and, as himself declared, sufficiently addicted to its enjoyments; but he was entirely overcome by the scenes of this interview. After we had left the house, he burst into a flood of tears, which he had with great difficulty suppressed until that time; and was unable to utter a word, until we had almost reached the inn. In broken accents he then declared, that he had never been so deeply affected in his life; that although he had not before been accustomed to think lightly of Christianity, he had now acquired new ideas of its excellence; and that, should he ever lose them afterwards, he should esteem himself guilty, as well as unhappy. Yet the whole conversation had been rather cheerful; and every thing which it involved, of a melancholy nature, had been gilded, and burnished, by serenity and hope.*

*As this excellent man died a few years after the time here mentioned, I will add those particulars concerning him, which I have been able to collect.

In a letter to the author, dated April 29, 1801, Mr. Hawley observes: "When you honoured me with a visit on the 2d of October ult. my son, my son James, the son of my old age, the hope of my declining years, was in the last stage of life; and he only survived until the 8th at evening, when he expired. May my other children live as he lived, and when they come to die, may they die as he died. A number of his church and congregation, came forty miles, to be present at his funeral, which was attended by all the vicinity of ministers. The Rev. Mr. L. of Falmouth kept Sabbath with us on the day after his funeral, and delivered a very

When we arrived at the inn, we found two of our companions had set out for Sandwich soon after dinner. It was near sun-set when we followed them. The evening was calm and beautiful; the country, through which we passed, was a forest, still and solitary; and the moon, whose unclouded beams darted, at momentary intervals, through the pines, bordering our road, prolonged the serene solemnity, awakened in our minds during the afternoon, and formed a happy conclusion of the affecting scenes, which I have described. After a delightful ride of twelve miles, we arrived at Mr. B.'s, and were received with every proof of politeness and affection.

suitable discourse on the occasion.--James died at a time of life when men are generally lamented, in case their characters are good."

In a letter of September 2, 1802, he says:

"I have rather declined since I had the honour and satisfaction to see you at my house, in October 1800, a few days before my late James' death.-I am yet upon duty-may I be faithful unto the death-the time is short; and the time of my departure is at hand. My coevals are dead.

"For a man of seventy-five I have very few complaints. In the early part of life, my labours and sufferings were many and hard, and I did but just survive my services (among the Indians and in the army) in the year 1756. I came down to this place in 1757, expecting soon to end my days; but was so far recovered, as to be on my Western mission in 1761-and as far as Chenango.

"I have lately written to your kinsman, the only surviving son of your late uncle, the President of Union College, deceased, concerning his father in his puerile years, when with me in the Indian country; and how we came off in the dead of winter. I was six days in passing from Onecho Yunghe to Cherry Valley, with my two boys; and the four last days with only ourselves, my Indians (not through disaffection, but fatigue) having given out by the way. An Indian will hardly endure three days fatigue in succession."

of October 1807, in "On his death bed, approaching dissolu

This eminent and faithful servant of the Lord died on the 3d the 81st year of his age, and 56th of his Missionary labours. he appeared perfectly rational and tranquil. Speaking of his tion, and his prospects of futurity, he observed, I have hope of acceptance, but it is founded wholly on free and sovereign grace, and not at all on my own works. It is true my labours have been many, but they have been so very imperfect, attended with so great a want of charity, humility, &c. that I have no hope in them as the ground of my acceptance."-Pub.

* See Panoplist, 1807.