It is related in the History of Dunstable, that on the return of Farwell the Indians were engaged by a fresh party which they compelled to retreat, and pursued as far as the Nashua, where they fought across the stream at its mouth.  After the departure of the Indians, the figure of an Indian’s head was found carved by them on a large tree by the shore, which circumstance has given its name to this part of the village of Nashville,—­the “Indian Head.”  “It was observed by some judicious,” says Gookin, referring to Philip’s war, “that at the beginning of the war the English soldiers made a nothing of the Indians, and many spake words to this effect:  that one Englishman was sufficient to chase ten Indians; many reckoned it was no other but Veni, vidi, vici.” But we may conclude that the judicious would by this time have made a different observation.

Farwell appears to have been the only one who had studied his profession, and understood the business of hunting Indians.  He lived to fight another day, for the next year he was Lovewell’s lieutenant at Pequawket, but that time, as we have related, he left his bones in the wilderness.  His name still reminds us of twilight days and forest scouts on Indian trails, with an uneasy scalp;—­an indispensable hero to New England.  As the more recent poet of Lovewell’s fight has sung, halting a little but bravely still:—­

     “Then did the crimson streams that flowed
       Seem like the waters of the brook,
     That brightly shine, that loudly dash,
       Far down the cliffs of Agiochook.”

These battles sound incredible to us.  I think that posterity will doubt if such things ever were; if our bold ancestors who settled this land were not struggling rather with the forest shadows, and not with a copper-colored race of men.  They were vapors, fever and ague of the unsettled woods.  Now, only a few arrow-heads are turned up by the plough.  In the Pelasgic, the Etruscan, or the British story, there is nothing so shadowy and unreal.

It is a wild and antiquated looking graveyard, overgrown with bushes, on the high-road, about a quarter of a mile from and overlooking the Merrimack, with a deserted mill-stream bounding it on one side, where lie the earthly remains of the ancient inhabitants of Dunstable.  We passed it three or four miles below here.  You may read there the names of Lovewell, Farwell, and many others whose families were distinguished in Indian warfare.  We noticed there two large masses of granite more than a foot thick and rudely squared, lying flat on the ground over the remains of the first pastor and his wife.

It is remarkable that the dead lie everywhere under stones,—­

     “Strata jacent passim suo quseque sub” lapide—­