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Title: Rachel Dyer
        A North American story

Author: John Neal

Release date: September 30, 2023 [eBook #71766]

Language: English

Original publication: US:

Credits: Alan, Steve Mattern and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RACHEL DYER ***





                             RACHEL DYER:

                        A NORTH AMERICAN STORY.


                             BY JOHN NEAL.


                               PORTLAND:

                    PUBLISHED BY SHIRLEY AND HYDE.

                                 1828.




DISTRICT OF MAINE.... TO WIT:

_DISTRICT CLERK’S OFFICE._

BE IT REMEMBERED, That on the eighth day of October, A.D. 1828, and
in the fifty-third year of the Independence of the United States
of America, Shirley & Hyde of said District, have deposited in
this office, the title of a book, the right whereof they claim as
proprietors, in the words following, _to wit_.

“Rachel Dyer: A North American Story. By John Neal. Portland.”

In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled
“An Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of
maps, charts and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies,
during the times therein mentioned;” and also, to an act, entitled “An
Act supplementary to an act, entitled An Art for the encouragement
of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books, to
the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein
mentioned; and for extending the benefits thereof to the arts of
designing, engraving and etching historical and other prints.”

J. MUSSEY, _Clerk of the District of Maine_.

  A true copy as of record,
  Attest,      J. MUSSEY, _Clerk D. C. Maine_.




PREFACE.


I have long entertained a suspicion, all that has been said by the
novel-writers and dramatists and poets of our age to the contrary
notwithstanding, that personal beauty and intellectual beauty, or
personal beauty and moral beauty, are not inseparably connected with,
nor apportioned to each other. In ERRATA, a work of which _as_ a work,
I am heartily ashamed now, I labored long and earnestly to prove this.
I made _my_ dwarf a creature of great moral beauty and strength.

Godwin, the powerful energetic and philosophizing Godwin, saw a
shadow of this truth; but he saw nothing more--the substance escaped
him. He taught, and he has been followed by others, among whom are
Brown, Scott and Byron, (I observe the chronological order) that a
towering intellect may inhabit a miserable body; that heroes are not
of necessity six feet high, nor of a godlike shape, and that we may
be deceived, if we venture to judge of the inward by the outward man.
But they stopped here. They did not perceive, or perceiving, would not
acknowledge the whole truth; for if we consider a moment, we find that
all their _great_ men are scoundrels. Without one exception I believe,
their heroes are hypocrites or misanthropes, banditti or worse; while
their good men are altogether subordinate and pitiable destitute of
energy and wholly without character.

Now believing as I do, in spite of such overwhelming authority, that a
man may have a club-foot, or a hump-back, or even red hair and yet be a
good man--peradventure a great man; that a dwarf with a distorted shape
may be a giant in goodness of heart and greatness of temper; and that
moral beauty _may_ exist where it appears not to have been suspected by
the chief critics of our age, and of past ages--namely, in a deformed
body (like that of Æsop,) I have written this book.

Let me add however that although such was my principal, it was not my
only object. I would call the attention of our novel-writers and our
novel-readers to what is undoubtedly native and peculiar, in the early
history of our Fathers; I would urge them to believe that though there
is much to lament in that history, there is nothing to conceal; that if
they went astray, as they most assuredly did in their judgments, they
went astray conscientiously, with what they understood to be the law
of God in their right hands. The “_Salem Tragedie_” is in proof--that
is the ground-work of my story; and I pray the reader to have patience
with the author, if he should find this tale rather more serious in
parts, and rather more argumentative in parts, than stories, novels and
romances generally are.

I do not pretend to say that the book I now offer to my countrymen, is
altogether such a book as I would write now, if I had more leisure,
nor altogether such a book as I hope to write before I die; but as I
cannot afford to throw it entirely away, and as I believe it to be much
better, because more evidently prepared for a healthy good purpose,
than any other I have written, I have concluded to publish it--hoping
it may be regarded by the wise and virtuous of our country as some sort
of atonement for the folly and extravagance of my earlier writing.

The skeleton of this tale was originally prepared for Blackwood, as
the first of a series of North-American Stories: He accepted it, paid
for it, printed it, and sent me the proofs. A misunderstanding however
occurred between us, about other matters, and I withdrew the story and
repaid him for it. It was never published therefore; but was put aside
by me, as the frame-work for a novel--which novel is now before the
reader.

JOHN NEAL.

Portland, October 1, 1828.

P.S. After some consideration, I have concluded to publish a preface,
originally intended for the NORTH AMERICAN STORIES alluded to above.
It was never published, nor has it ever been read by any body but
myself. Among those who are interested for the encouragement of our
native literature, there may be some who will not be sorry to see what
my ideas _were_ on the subject of novel-writing, as well as what they
_are_. Changes have been foretold in my views--and I owe it to our
people to acknowledge, that in a good degree, the prediction has been
accomplished I do not feel now as I did, when I wrote Seventy-Six,
Randolph, and the rest of the works published in America; nor even
as I did, when I wrote those that were published over seas. The mere
novel-reader had better skip the following pages and go directly to the
story. The introductory chapter in all human probability will be too
much for him.

J. N.




UNPUBLISHED PREFACE

TO THE NORTH-AMERICAN STORIES, ALLUDED TO IN PAGE V.


The author of this work is now under the necessity of bidding the
novel-readers of the day, on both sides of the water, farewell, and
in all probability, forever. By them it may be considered a trivial
affair--a time for pleasantry, or peradventure for a formal expression
of what are called good wishes. But by him, who does not feel like
other men--or does not understand their language, when they talk in
this way, it will ever be regarded as a very serious thing. He would
neither conceal nor deny the truth--he would not so affront the feeling
within him--and he says therefore without affectation or ceremony, that
it goes to his heart even to bid the novel-readers of the age, the few
that have read his novels, it were better to say--farewell.

These volumes are the last of a series which even from his youth up,
he had been accustomed to meditate upon as a worthy and affectionate
offering to his family and to those who have made many a long winter
day in a dreary climate, very cheerful and pleasant to him--the
daughters of a dear friend--of one who, if his eye should ever fall
upon this page, will understand immediately more than a chapter could
tell, of the deep wayward strange motives that have influenced the
author to say thus much and no more, while recurring for the last time
to the bright vision of his youth. And the little that he does say
now, is not said for the world;--for what care they about the humble
and innocent creatures, whose gentleness and sincerity about their own
fire-side, were for a long time all that kept a man, who was weary and
sick of the great world, from leaving it in despair? No, it is not said
for them; but for any one of that large family who may happen to be
alive now, and in the way of remembering “the stranger that was within
their gates”--when to the world he may be as if he never had been. Let
them not be amazed when they discover the truth; nor afraid nor ashamed
to see that the man whom they knew only as the stranger from a far
country, was also an author.

In other days, angels were entertained in the shape of travellers
and way-faring men; but ye--had ye known every stranger that knocked
at your door to be an angel, or a messenger of the Most High, could
not have treated him more like an immortal creature than ye did that
unknown man, who now bears witness to your simplicity and great
goodness of heart. With you it was enough that a fellow-creature was
unhappy--you strove to make him happy; and having done this, you sent
him away, ignorant alike of his people, his country and his name.

       *       *       *       *       *

This work is the last of the sort I believe--the very last I shall ever
write. Reader--stop!--lay down the book for a moment and answer me. Do
you feel no emotion at the sight of that word? You are surprised at
the question. Why should you feel any, you ask. Why should you?--let
us reason together for a moment. Can it be that you are able to bear
of the final consummation of a hope which had been the chief stay of
a fellow-creature for many--many years?--Can it be that you feel no
sort of emotion at hearing him say, Lo! I have finished the work--it
is the last--no sensation of inquietude? Perhaps you now begin to see
differently; perhaps you would now try to exculpate yourself. You are
willing to admit now that the affair is one of a graver aspect than you
first imagined. You are half ready to deny now that you ever considered
it otherwise. But mark me--out of your own mouth you are condemned.
Twice have I said already--three times have I said already, that this
was the last work of the sort I should ever write, and you have read
the declaration as you would, the passing motto of a title-page. You
neither cared for it, nor thought of it; and had I not alarmed you
by my abruptness, compelled you to stop and think, and awed you by
steadfastly rebuking your inhumanity, you would not have known by
to-morrow whether I had spoken of it as my last work or not. Consider
what I say--is it not the truth?--can you deny it? And yet you--_you_
are one of the multitude who dare to sit in judgment upon the doings
of your fellow men. It is on what you and such as you say, that authors
are to depend for that which is of more value to them than the breath
of life--character. How dare you!--You read without reflection, and you
hear without understanding. Yet upon the judgment of such as you--so
made up, it is that the patient and the profound, the thoughtful and
the gifted, are to rely for immortality.

To return to what I was about saying--the work now before you, reader,
is the last of a series, meditated as I have already told you, from my
youth. It was but a dream at first--a dream of my boyhood, indefinite,
vague and shadowy; but as I grew up, it grew stronger and braver and
more substantial. For years it did not deserve the name of a plan--it
was merely a breathing after I hardly knew what, a hope that I should
live to do something in a literary way worthy of my people--accompanied
however with an inappeasable yearning for the time and opportunity
to arrive. But so it was, that, notwithstanding all my anxiety and
resolution, I could not bring myself to make the attempt--even the
attempt--until it appeared no longer possible for me to do what for
years I had been very anxious to do. The engagement was of too sacred a
nature to be trifled with--perhaps the more sacred in my view for being
made only with myself, and without a witness; for engagements having
no other authority than our moral sense of duty to ourselves, would
never be performed, after they grew irksome or heavy, unless we were
scrupulous in proportion to the facility with which we might escape if
we would.

This indeterminate, haunting desire to do what I had so engaged to do,
at last however began to give way before the serious and necessary
business of life, and the continually augmenting pressure of duties
too solemn to be slighted for any--I had almost said for any earthly
consideration. Yea more, to confess the whole truth, I had begun to
regard the enterprise itself--so prone are we to self-deception, so
ready at finding excuses where we have a duty to perform--as hardly
worthy of much power, and as altogether beneath an exalted ambition.
But here I was greatly mistaken; for I have an idea now, that a great
novel--such a novel as might be made--if all the powers that could
be employed upon it were found in one man, would be the greatest
production of human genius. It is a law and a history of itself--to
every people--and throughout all time--in literature and morals--in
character and passion--yea--in what may be called the fire-side
biography of nations. It would be, if rightly managed, a picture of
the present for futurity--a picture of human nature, not only here
but every where--a portrait of man--a history of the human heart--a
book therefore, written not only in a universal, but in what may be
considered as an everlasting language--the language of immortal,
indistructable spirits. Such are the parables of Him who spoke that
language best.

Again however, the subject was revived. Sleeping and waking, by night
and by day, it was before me; and at last I began to perceive that if
the attempt were ever to be made, it must be made by one desperate,
convulsive, instantaneous effort. I determined to deliberate no
longer--or rather to stand no longer, shivering like a coward, upon
the brink of adventure, under pretence of deliberation; and therefore,
having first carefully stopped my ears and shut my eyes, I threw myself
headlong over the precipice. Behold the result! If I have not brought
up the pearls, I can say at least that I have been to the bottom--and
I might have added--of the human heart sometimes--but for the perverse
and foolish insincerity of the world, which if I had so finished the
sentence, would have set their faces forever against my book; although
that same world, had I been wise enough--no, not wise enough but
cunning enough, to hold my peace, might have been ready to acknowledge
that I had been sometimes, even where I say--to the very bottom of the
human heart.

I plunged. But when I did, it was rather to relieve my own soul from
the intolerable weight of her own reproach, than with any hope of
living to complete the design, except at a sacrifice next in degree
to that of self-immolation. Would you know what more than any other
thing--more than all other things determined me at last? I was an
American. I had heard the insolent question of a Scotch Reviewer,
repeated on every side of me by native Americans--“_Who reads an
American Book?_” I could not bear this--I could neither eat nor sleep
till my mind was made up. I reasoned with myself--I strove hard--but
the spirit within me would not be rebuked. Shall I go forth said I, in
the solitude of my own thought, and make war alone against the foe--for
alone it must be made, or there will be no hope of success. There must
be but one head, one heart in the plan--the secret must not even be
guessed at by another--it must be single and simple, one that like the
wedge in mechanics, or in the ancient military art, must have but one
point, and that point must be of adamant. Being so it may be turned
aside: A thousand more like itself, may be blunted or shivered; but if
at last, any one of the whole should make any impression whatever upon
the foe, or effect any entrance whatever into the sanctity and strength
of his tremendous phalanx, then, from that moment, the day is our own.
Our literature will begin to wake up, and our pride of country will
wake up with it. Those who follow will have nothing to do but _keep_
what the forlorn hope, who goes to irretrievable martyrdom if he fail,
has _gained_.

Moreover--who was there to stand by the native American that should
go out, haply with a sling and a stone, against a tower of strength
and the everlasting entrenchments of prejudice? Could he hope to find
so much as one of his countrymen, to go with him or even to bear his
shield? Would the Reviewers of America befriend him? No--they have not
courage enough to fight their own battles manfully.[1] No--they would
rather flatter than strike. They negociate altogether too much--where
blows are wanted, they give words. And the best of our literary
champions, would they? No; they would only bewail his temerity, if he
were the bold headlong creature he should be to accomplish the work;
and pity his folly and presumption, if he were any thing else.

[1] Or had not before this was written. Look to the North-American
Review before 1825, for proof.

After all however, why should they be reproached for this? They
have gained their little reputation hardly. “It were too much to
spend that little”--so grudgingly acquiesced in by their beloved
countrymen--“rashly.” No wonder they fight shy. It is their
duty--considering what they have at stake--their little all.
There is Washington Irving now; he has obtained the reputation of
being--what?--why at the best, of being only the American Addison, in
the view of Englishmen. And is this a title to care much for? Would
such a name, though Addison stood far higher in the opinion of the
English themselves, than he now does, or ever again will, be enough to
satisfy the ambition of a lofty minded, original thinker? Would such a
man falter and reef his plumage midway up the altitude of his blinding
and brave ascent, to be called the American Addison, or even what in
my view were ten thousand times better, the American Goldsmith.[2]
No--up to the very key stone of the broad blue firmament! he would
say, or back to the vile earth again: ay, lower than the earth first!
Understand me however. I do not say this lightly nor disparagingly. I
love and admire Washington Irving. I wish him all the reputation he
covets, and of the very kind he covets. Our paths never did, never will
cross each other. And so with Mr. Cooper; and a multitude more, of whom
we may rightfully be proud. They have gained just enough popular favor
to make them afraid of hazarding one jot or tittle of it, by stepping
aside into a new path. No one of these could avail me in my design.
They would have everything to lose, and nothing to gain by embarking
in it. While I--what had I to lose--nay what _have_ I to lose? I am
not now, I never have been, I never shall be an author by trade. The
opinion of the public is not the breath of life to me; for if the truth
must be told, I have to this hour very little respect for it--so long
as it is indeed the opinion of the public--of the mere multitude, the
careless, unthinking judgment of the mob, unregulated by the wise and
thoughtful.

[2] I speak here of Goldsmith’s prose, not of his poetry. Heaven forbid!

To succeed as I hoped, I must put everything at hazard. It would
not do for me to imitate anybody. Nor would it do for my country.
Who would care for the _American_ Addison where he could have the
English by asking for it? Who would languish, a twelvemonth after they
appeared, for Mr. Cooper’s imitations of Sir Walter Scott, or Charles
Brockden Brown’s imitations of Godwin? Those, and those only, who
after having seen the transfiguration of Raphael, (or that of Talma,)
or Dominichino’s St. Jerome, would walk away to a village painting
room, or a provincial theatre, to pick their teeth and play the critic
over an imitation of the one or a copy of the other. At the best,
all such things are but _imitations_. And what are imitations? Sheer
mimicry--more or less exalted to be sure; but still mimicry--wherever
the _copies_ of life are copied and not life itself: a sort of
high-handed, noon-day plagiarism--nothing more. People are never
amazed, nor carried away, nor uplifted by imitations. They are pleased
with the ingenuity of the artist--they are delighted with the closeness
of the imitation--but that is all. The better the work is done, the
worse they think of the workman. He who can paint a great picture,
cannot copy--David Teniers to the contrary notwithstanding; for David
never painted a great picture in his life, though he has painted small
ones, not more than three feet square, which would sell for twenty-five
thousand dollars to day.

Yes--to succeed, I must imitate nobody--I must _resemble_ nobody; for
with your critic, resemblance in the unknown to the known, is never
anything but adroit imitation. To succeed therefore, I must be unlike
all that have gone before me. That were no easy matter; nor would be
it so difficult as men are apt to believe. Nor is it necessary that I
should do _better_ than all who have gone before me. I should be more
likely to prosper, in the long run, by worse original productions--with
a poor story told in poor language, (if it were original in spirit and
character) than by a much better story told in much better language, if
after the transports of the public were over, they should be able to
trace a resemblance between it and Walter Scott, or Oliver Goldsmith,
or Mr. Addison.

So far so good. There was, beyond a doubt, a fair chance in the great
commonwealth of literature, even though I should not achieve a miracle,
nor prove myself both wiser and better than all the authors who had
gone before me. And moreover, might it not be possible--_possible_ I
say--for the mob are a jealous guardian of sepulchres and ashes, and
high-sounding names, particularly where a name will save them the
trouble of judging for themselves, or do their arguments for them in
the shape of a perpetual demonstration, whatever may be the nature of
the controversy in which they are involved--might it not be possible
then, I say, that, as the whole body of mankind have been growing
wiser and wiser, and better and better, since the day when these
great writers flourished, who are now ruling “our spirits from their
urns,” that authors may have improved with them?--that they alone
of the whole human race, by some possibility, may not have remained
altogether stationary age after age--while the least enquiring and the
most indolent of human beings--the very multitude--have been steadily
advancing both in knowledge and power? And if so, might it not be
_possible_ for some improvements to be made, some discoveries, even yet
in style and composition, by lanching forth into space. True, we might
not be certain of finding a new world, like Columbus, nor a new heaven,
like Tycho Brahe; but we should probably encounter some phenomena in
the great unvisited moral sky and ocean; we should at least find out,
after a while--which would of itself be the next greatest consolation
for our trouble and anxiety, after that of discovering a new world
or a new system,--that there remained no new world nor system to be
discovered; that they who should adventure after us, would have so much
the less to do for all that we had done; that they must follow in our
steps; that if our health and strength had been wasted in a prodigious
dream, it would have the good effect of preventing any future waste of
health and strength on the part of others in any similar enterprize.

Islands and planets may still be found, we should say, and they that
find them, are welcome to them; but continents and systems cannot be
beyond where we have been; and if there be any within it, why--they are
neither continents nor systems.

But then, after all, there was one plain question to be asked, which no
honest man would like to evade, however much a mere dreamer might wish
to do so. It was this. After all my fine theory--what are my chances of
success? And if successful, what have I to gain? I chose to answer the
last question first. Gain!--of a truth, it were no easy matter to say.
Nothing _here_, nothing _now_--certainly nothing in America, till my
bones have been canonized; for my countrymen are a thrifty, calculating
people--they give nothing for the reputation of a man, till they are
sure of selling it for more than they give. Were they visited by saints
and prophets instead of gifted men, they would never believe that they
were either saints or prophets, till they had been starved to death--or
lived by a miracle--by no visible means; or until their cast-off
clothes, bones, hair and teeth, or the furniture of the houses wherein
they were starved, or the trees under which they had been chilled to
death, carved into snuff-boxes or walking-sticks, would sell for as
much as that sympathy had cost them, or as much as it would come to,
to build a monument over--I do not say over their unsheltered remains,
for by that time there would be but little or no remains of them to be
found, unmingled with the sky and water, earth and air about them, save
perhaps in here and there a museum or college where they might always
be bought up, however, immortality and all--for something more than
compound interest added to the original cost--but to build a monument
or a shed over the unappropriated stock, with certain privileges to
the manufacturer of the walking-sticks and snuff-boxes aforesaid, so
long as any of the material remained; taking care to provide with all
due solemnity, perhaps by an act of the legislature, for securing the
monopoly to the sovereign state itself.

Thus much perhaps I might hope for from my own people. But what from
the British? They were magnanimous, or at least they would bear to be
told so; and telling them so in a simple, off-hand, ingenuous way, with
a great appearance of sincerity, and as if one had been carried away
by a sudden impulse, to speak a forbidden truth, or surprised into a
prohibited expression of feeling by some spectacle of generosity, in
spite of his constitutional reserve and timidity and caution, would be
likely to _pay well_. But I would do no such thing. I would flatter
nobody--no people--no nation. I would be to nobody--neither to my own
countrymen, nor to the British--unless I were better paid for it, than
any of my countrymen were ever yet paid either at home or abroad.

No--I choose to see for myself, by putting the proof touch like a hot
iron to their foreheads, whether the British are indeed a magnanimous
people. But then, if I do all this, what are my chances of reward,
even with the British themselves? That was a fearful question to be
sure. The British are a nation of writers. Their novel-writers are as a
cloud. True--true--but they still want something which they have not.
They want a real American writer--one with courage enough to write
in his native tongue. _That_ they have not, even at this day. _That_
they never had. Our best writers are English writers, not American
writers. They are English in every thing they do, and in every thing
they say, as authors--in the structure and moral of their stories, in
their dialogue, speech and pronunciation, yea in the very characters
they draw. Not so much as one true Yankee is to be found in any of our
native books: hardly so much as one true Yankee phrase. Not so much as
one true Indian, though you hardly take up a story on either side of
the water now, without finding a red-man stowed away in it; and what
sort of a red-man? Why one that uniformly talks the best English the
author is capable of--more than half the time perhaps out-Ossianing
Ossian.

I have the modesty to believe that in some things I am unlike all the
other writers of my country--both living and dead; although there are
not a few, I dare say who would be glad to hear of my bearing a great
resemblance to the latter. For my own part I do not pretend to write
English--that is, I do not pretend to write what the English themselves
call English--I do not, and I hope to God--I say this reverently,
although one of their Reviewers may be again puzzled to determine
“whether I am swearing or praying” when I say so--that I never shall
write what is now worshipped under the name of _classical_ English. It
is no natural language--it never was--it never will be spoken alive
on this earth: and therefore, ought never to be written. We have dead
languages enough now; but the deadest language I ever met with or heard
of, was that in use among the writers of Queen Anne’s day.

At last I came to the conclusion--that the chances were at least a
thousand to one against me. A thousand to one said I, to myself, that
I perish outright in my headlong enterprise. But then, if I do not
perish--if I triumph, what a triumph it will be! If I succeed, I shall
be rewarded well--if the British _are_ what they are believed to be--in
fair proportion to the toil and peril I have encountered. At any rate,
whether I fail or not, I shall be, and am willing to be, one of the
first hundred to carry the war into the very camp, yea among the very
household gods of the enemy. And if I die, I will die with my right arm
consuming in the blaze of their altars--like Mutius Scævola.

But enough on this head. The plan took shape, and you have the
commencement now before you, reader. I have had several objects in
view at the same time, all subordinate however to that which I first
mentioned, in the prosecution of my wayward enterprise. One was to
show to my countrymen that there are abundant and hidden sources of
fertility in their own beautiful brave earth, waiting only to be broken
up; and barren places to all outward appearance, in the northern,
as well as the southern Americas--yet teeming below with bright
sail--where the plough-share that is driven through them with a strong
arm, will come out laden with rich mineral and followed by running
water: places where--if you but lay your ear to the scented ground,
you may hear the perpetual gush of innumerable fountains pouring their
subterranean melody night and day among the minerals and rocks, the
iron and the gold: places where the way-faring man, the pilgrim or the
wanderer through what he may deem the very deserts of literature, the
barren-places of knowledge, will find the very roots of the withered
and blasted shrubbery, which like the traveller in Peru, he may have
accidentally uptorn in his weary and discouraging ascent, and the
very bowels of the earth into which he has torn his way, heavy with a
brightness that may be coined, like the soil about the favorite hiding
places of the sunny-haired Apollo.

Another, was to teach my countrymen, that these very Englishmen,
to whom as the barbarians of ancient story did by their gods when
they would conciliate them, we are accustomed to offer up our own
offspring, with our own hands, whenever we see the sky darkening over
the water--the sky inhabited of them; ay, that these very Englishmen,
to whom we are so in the habit of immolating all that is beautiful
and grand among us--the first born of our youth--our creatures of
immortality--our men of genius, while in the fever and flush of
their vanity, innocence and passion--ere they have had time to put
out their first plumage to the sky and the wind, all above and about
them--that they, these very Englishmen, would not love us the less,
nor revere us the less, if we loved and revered ourselves, and the
issue of our blood and breath, and vitality and power, a little more.
No--the men of England _are_ men. They love manhood. They may smile
at our national vanity, but their smile would be one of compassionate
benevolence and encouragement, if we were wise enough to keep our young
at home, till their first molting season were well over--and then,
offer to pair them, even though there would be a little presumption
in it, high up in the skies, and the strong wind--with their bravest
and best: not, as we do now, upon the altars of the earth--upon the
tables of our money-changers--half fledged and untrained--with their
legs tied, and wings clipped; or, peradventure, with necks turned, and
heads all skewered under their tails--a heap of carrion and garbage
that the braver birds, even among their enemies, would disdain to
stoop at. Such would be their behavior, if we dealt as we ought with
our own; there would be no pity nor disdain with them. They would
cheer us to the conflict--pour their red wine down our throats if we
were beaten; and if their birds were beaten, they would bear it with
temper--knowing that their reputation could well afford an occasional
trumph, to the young of their favorite brood. The men of England are
waiting to do us justice: but there is a certain formality to be
gone through with, before they will do it. We must claim it. And why
should we not? I do not mean that we should claim it upon our knees
as the condemned of their courts of justice are compelled to claim
that _mercy_, which the very law itself, has predetermined to grant
to him--but will not, unless that idle and unworthy formality has
been submitted to; no--I mean no such thing. We do not want mercy:
and I would have my countrymen, when they are arraigned before any
mere _English_ tribunal--not acting under the _law of nations_ in the
world of literature, to go at once, with a calm front and untroubled
eye, and plead to their jurisdiction, with a loud clear voice, and
with their right hand upon the great book of English law, and set them
at defiance. This, they have the right, and the power to do; and why
should they not, when some of the inferior courts, of mere _English_
criticism, have the audacity at every little interval, to call upon
a sovereign people, to plead before them--without counsel--and be
tried for some infringement of some paltry municipal provision of
their statute book--some provincialism of language--or some heresy
in politics--or some plagiarism of manner or style; and abide the
penalty of forgery--or of ecclesiastical censure--or the reward of
petit-larceny; re-transportation--or re-banishment to America.

It is high time now, that we should begin to do each other justice. Let
us profit by their good qualities; and let them, by ours. And in time,
we shall assuredly come to feel like brothers of the same parentage--an
elder and a younger--different in temper--but alike in family
resemblance--and alike proud of our great ancestry, the English giants
of olden time. We shall revere _our_ brother; and he will love his. But
when shall this be?--not, I am sorely afraid--till we have called home
all our children, from the four corners of the earth; from the east and
from the west; from the north and from the south--and held a congress
of the dead--of their fathers, and of our fathers--and published
to the world, and to posterity--appealing again to Jehovah for the
rectitude of our intentions--another DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE, in
the great REPUBLIC OF LETTERS. And, yet this may soon be. The time is
even now at hand. Our representatives are assembling: the dead Greek,
and the Roman; the ancient English, and the fathers of literature,
from all the buried nations of all the earth, and holding counsel
together, and choosing their delegates. And the generation is already
born, that shall yet hear the heavens ringing with acclamations to
their decree--that another state has been added to the everlasting
confederacy of literature!

And now the author repeats to the people of America, one and all,
farewell; assuring them that there is very little probability of his
ever appearing before them again as a novel-writer. His object has
been, if not wholly, at least in a great degree accomplished. He has
demonstrated that a bold and direct appeal to the manhood of any
people will never be made in vain. Others may have been already, or
may hereafter be incited to a more intrepid movement; and to a more
confident reliance upon themselves and their resources, by what he
has now accomplished--where it is most difficult to accomplish any
thing--among his own countrymen: and most devoutly does he pray, that
if they should, they may be more fortunate, and far more generously
rewarded, than he has ever been; and if they should not, he advises
them to go where he has been already--and trust to another people
for that, which his own have not the heart to give him, however well
he may deserve it. Abroad--if he do not get a chaplet of fire and
greenness--he will, at least, get a cup of cold water,--and it may be,
a tear or two of compassion, if nothing of encouragement--whatever he
may do. At home--he may wear himself out--like one ashamed of what he
is doing, in secrecy and darkness--exhaust his own heart of all its
power and vitality, by pouring himself into the hearts of others--with
a certainty that he will be called a madman, a beggar and a fool, for
his pains--unless he persevere, in spite of a broken heart, and a
broken constitution, till he shall have made his own countrymen ashamed
of themselves, and afraid of him.

It is a sad thing to say good by’e, even for an author. If you mean
what you say--it is a prayer as well as a blessing, an audible
breathing of the heart. And if you do not--it is a wicked profanation.
So far, reader, you have been the familiar companion of the author;
and you may be one of those, who have journied with him before, for
many a weary day, through much of his wandering and meditation:--that
is, you may be one of those who, having been admitted before, to touch
his heart with a naked hand--have felt in one pulsation--in one single
hour’s fellowship with it, all that he had felt and thought for many
a weary year. You have been _with_ him to a more holy place than the
fire-side; _to_ him, more like the invisible creatures--for he hath
never seen your face, and peradventure never may, though you have been
looking into his very soul--that hover about the chamber of prayer--the
solitude of the poet--or the haunted place under the shadow of great
trees, where the wearied man throws himself down, to muse upon the face
of his Creator, which he sees in the sky over him, or beneath the vast
blue water before him. Is it wonderful therefore that there should be
a little seriousness about his brow--although ye _are_ invisible to
him--when he is about to say farewell to you--farewell forever--without
having once heard the tone of your voice--nor one of the many tears,
that you may have dropped over him, when you thought yourself
altogether alone:--

Nor can he look back, without some emotion, upon the labour that he
has undergone, even within that flowery wilderness, where he hath been
journeying with you, or lying and ruminating all alone, for so long
a time; and out of which, he is now about to emerge--forever--with a
strong tread, to the broad blue sky and the solid earth; nor without
lamenting that he cannot go barefooted--and half-naked among men;--and
that the colour and perfume--the dim enchantment, and the sweet,
breathing, solemn loneliness of the wild-wood path, that he is about to
abandon, for the broad dusty highway of the world, are so unpropitious
to the substantial reputation of a man: nor, without grieving that the
blossom-leaves, and the golden flower-dust, which now cover him, from
head to foot, _must_ be speedily brushed away;--and that the scent
of the wilderness may not go with him--wherever he may go--wandering
through the habitation of princes--the courts of the living God--or,
the dwelling places of ambition--yea, even into the grave.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have but one other request to make. Let these words be engraven
hereafter on my tomb-stone: “WHO READS AN AMERICAN BOOK?”




RACHEL DYER.


The early history of New-England, or of Massachusetts Bay, rather;
now one of the six New-England States of North America, and that on
which the Plymouth settlers, or “Fathers” went ashore--the shipwrecked
men of mighty age, abounds with proof that witchcraft was a familiar
study, and that witches and wizards were believed in for a great
while, among the most enlightened part of a large and well-educated
religious population. The multitude of course had a like faith; for
such authority governs the multitude every where, and at all times.

The belief was very general about a hundred years ago in every
part of British America, was very common fifty years ago, when the
revolutionary war broke out, and prevails now, even to this day in
the wilder parts of the New-England territory, as well as in the new
States which are springing up every where in the retreating shadow
of the great western wilderness--a wood where half the men of Europe
might easily hide from each other--and every where along the shores
of the solitude, as if the new earth were full of the seed of empire,
as if dominion were like fresh flowers or magnificent herbage, the
spontaneous growth of a new soil wherever it is reached by the warm
light or the cheerful rain of a new sky.

It is not confined however, nor was it a hundred and thirty five
years ago, the particular period of our story, to the uneducated and
barbarous, or to a portion of the white people of North-America, nor
to the native Indians, a part of whose awful faith, a part of whose
inherited religion it is to believe in a bad power, in witchcraft
spells and sorcery. It may be met with wherever the Bible is much read
in the spirit of the New-England Fathers. It was rooted in the very
nature of those who were quite remarkable in the history of their
age, for learning, for wisdom, for courage and for piety; of men who
fled away from their fire-sides in Europe to the rocks of another
world--where they buried themselves alive in search of truth.

We may smile now to hear witchcraft spoken seriously of; but we forget
perhaps that a belief in it is like a belief in the after appearance
of the dead among the blue waters, the green graves, the still starry
atmosphere and the great shadowy woods of our earth; or like the
beautiful deep instinct of our nature for worship,--older than the
skies, it may be, universal as thought, and sure as the steadfast hope
of immortality.

We may turn away with a sneer now from the devout believer in witches,
wondering at the folly of them that have such faith, and quite
persuading ourselves in our great wisdom, that all who have had it
heretofore, however they may have been regarded by ages that have gone
by, were not of a truth wise and great men; but we forget perhaps
that we are told in the Book of Books, the Scriptures of Truth, about
witches with power to raise the dead, about wizards and sorcerers that
were able to strive with Jehovah’s anointed high priest before the
misbelieving majesty of Egypt, with all his court and people gathered
about his throne for proof, and of others who could look into futurity
with power, interpret the vision of sleep, read the stars, bewitch and
afflict whom they would, cast out devils and prophesy--false prophets
were they called, not because that which they said was untrue, but
because that which they said, whether true or untrue, was not from
above--because the origin of their preternatural power was bad or
untrue. And we forget moreover that laws were made about conjuration,
spells and witchcraft by a body of British lawgivers, renowned for
their sagacity, deep research, and grave thoughtful regard for truth,
but a few years ago--the other day as it were--and that a multitude
of superior men have recorded their belief in witchcraft--men of
prodigious power--such men as the great and good Sir Matthew Hale,
who gave judgment of death upon several witches and wizards, at a
period when, if we may believe a tithe of what we hear every day of
our lives, from the mouth of many a great lawyer, there was no lack of
wit or wisdom, nor of knowledge or faithful enquiry; and such men too
as the celebrated author of the Commentaries on the Laws of England,
which are, “as every body knows, or should know, and a man must be
exceedingly ignorant not to know” the pride of the British empire and
a pillar of light for the sages of hereafter; and that within the last
one hundred and fifty or two hundred years, a multitude of men and
women have been tried and executed by authority of British law, in the
heart of England, for having dealt in sorcery and witchcraft.

We may smile--we may sneer--but would such things have occurred in
the British Parliament, or in the British courts of law, without
some proof--whatever, it was--proof to the understandings of people,
who in other matters are looked up to by the chief men of this age
with absolute awe--that creatures endowed with strange, if not with
preternatural power, did inhabit our earth and were able to work
mischief according to the popular ideas of witchcraft and sorcery?

We know little or nothing of the facts upon which their belief was
founded. All that we know is but hearsay, tradition or conjecture.
They who believed were eye-witnesses and ear witnesses of what they
believed; we who disbelieve are neither. They who believed knew all
that we know of the matter and much more; we who disbelieve are not
only ignorant of the facts, but we are living afar off, in a remote
age. Nevertheless, they believed in witchcraft, and we regard all who
speak of it seriously, with contempt. How dare we! What right have we
to say that witches and witchcraft are no more, that sorcery is done
with forever, that miracles are never to be wrought again, or that
Prophecy shall never be heard again by the people of God, uplifting
her voice like a thousand echoes from the everlasting solitudes of the
sea, or like uninterrupted heavy thunder breaking over the terrible and
haughty nations of our earth?

Why should we not think as well of him who believes too much, as of
him who believes too little? Of him whose faith, whatever it may be,
is too large, as of him whose faith, whatever it may be, is too small?
Of the good with a credulous temper, as of the great with a suspicious
temper? Of the pure in heart, of the youthful, of the untried in the
ways of the world, who put much faith in whatever they are told, too
much it may be, as of them who being thoroughly tried in the ways of
the world put no faith in what they hear, and little in what they see?
Of the humble in spirit who believe, _though_ they do not perfectly
understand, as of the haughty who will not believe _because_ they do
not perfectly understand? Of the poor child who thinks a juggler eats
fire when he does not, as of the grown-up sage who thinks a juggler
does _not_ swallow a sword when he _does_? Of the believer in Crusoe,
who sits poring over the story under a hedge, as of the unbeliever in
Bruce who would not believe, so long as it was new, in the Tale of
Abyssinia? Of those in short who are led astray by self-distrust, or
innocence, or humility, as of them who are led astray by self-conceit,
or corruption, or pride?

In other days, the Lion of the desert would not believe the horse when
he came up out of the bleak north, and told a story of waters and seas
that grew solid, quiet and smooth in the dead of winter. His majesty
had never heard of such a thing before, and what his majesty had never
heard of before could not be possible. The mighty lord of the Numedian
desert could not believe--how could he?--in a cock-and-a-bull-story,
about ice and snow; for to him they were both as a multitude of such
things are to the philosophy of our age, out of the course of nature.

A solid sea and a fluid earth are alike to such as have no belief in
what is new or contrary to that course of nature with which they are
acquainted--whatever that may be. There is no such thing as proof
to the over-wise or over mighty, save where by reason of what they
already know, there is not much need of other proof.--They would not
believe, though one should rise from the dead--they are too cautious
by half; they are not satisfied with any sort of testimony; they dare
not believe their own eyes--they do not indeed; for spectres when they
appear to the eye of the philosopher now, are attributed altogether to
a diseased organ.[3] They care not for the cloud of witnesses--they
withdraw from the Bible, they scoff at history, and while they
themselves reject every kind of proof, whatever it may be, such proof
as they would be satisfied with in a case of murder, were they to hear
it as a jury--such proof as they would give judgment of death upon,
without fear, proof under oath by men of high character and severe
probity, eye-witnesses and ear-witnesses of what they swear to--they
ridicule those who undertake to weigh it with care, and pursue with
scorn or pity those who shiver through all their arteries at a story of
the preternatural.

[3] As by the printer of Berlin. See also Beasley’s Search after Truth.

As if it were a mark of deplorable fatuity for a babe to believe now as
a multitude of wise and great and gifted men have heretofore believed
in every age of the world! As if to think it possible for such to have
been right in their belief, were too absurd for excuse now--such men as
the holy Greek, the upright immovable Socrates, who persuaded himself
that he was watched over by a sort of household spirit; such men too
as the “bald” Cæsar, and the rock-hearted Brutus, both of whom spite
of their imperial nature and high place among the warlike and mighty
of their age, believed in that, and shook before that which whether
deceitful or not, substance or shadow, the very cowards of our day are
too brave to be scared with, too full of courage to put their trust
in--afraid as they are of that, which the Roman pair would have met
with a stern smile and a free step; such men too of a later age, as
the profound, wise and pure Sir Matthew Hale, who put many to death
for witchcraft--so clear was the proof, and so clear the nature of the
crime--while the nature of larceny, the nature of common theft was
forever a mystery to him, if we may believe what we hear out of his
own mouth; such men too as the celebrated Judge Blackstone, who after
a thorough sifting of the law, says--“It seems to be most eligible to
conclude that in general there has been such a thing as witchcraft,
though we cannot give credit to any particular modern instance of it;”
such men too as Doctor Samuel Johnson, L. L. D. who saw through all
the hypocricy and subterfuge of our day, when he said, speaking of a
superstitious belief, that men who deny it by their words, confess it
by their fears--nothing was ever so true! we who are most afraid, want
courage to own it; such men too as the Lord Protector of England, while
she was a commonwealth; and such as he, the Desolator--

  “........... From whose reluctant hand,
  The thunder-bolt was wrung”--

for they were both believers in what the very rabble of our earth
deride now; such men, too, as the chief among poets--Byron--for he
believed in the words of a poor old gypsey, and shook with fear, and
faltered on the way to his bridal-chamber, when he thought of the
prophecy she had uttered years and years before, in the morning of
his haughty youth; such men too as the head lawgiver of our day, the
High-Priest of Legislation, the great and good, the benevolent, the
courageous Bentham, who to this hour is half afraid in the dark, and
only able to satisfy himself about the folly of such fear, when his
night-cap is off, by resorting with suitable gravity to his old refuge,
the exhaustive mode of reasoning. If a ghost appear at all, argues he,
it must appear either clothed or not clothed. But a ghost never appears
not clothed, or naked; and if it appear clothed, we shall have not
only the ghost of a human creature--which is bad enough; but the ghost
of a particular kind of cloth of a particular fashion, the ghost of a
pocket-handkerchief, or a night-cap--which is too bad.

Thus much for authority: and here, but for one little circumstance we
should take up our narrative, and pursue it without turning to the
right or the left, until we came to the sorrowful issue; but as we may
have here and there a reader, in this unbelieving age, who has no
regard for authority, nor much respect for the wisdom of our ancestors,
what if we try to put the whole argument into a more conclusive shape?
It may require but a few pages, and a few pages may go far to allay
the wrath of modern philosophy. If we throw aside the privilege of
authorship, and speak, not as a multitude but as one of the true faith,
our argument would stand thus:

In a word, whatever the philosophy of our age may say, I cannot look
upon witchcraft and sorcery as the unbeliever does. I know enough what
the fashion is now; but I cannot believe, I do not believe that we know
much more of the matter than our great progenitors did; or that we
are much wiser than a multitude who have been for ages, and are now,
renowned for their wisdom; or that we are much more pious than our
noble fathers were, who died in their belief--died _for_ their belief,
I should say, and are a proverb to this hour on account of their
piety. Nor can I persuade myself that such facts would be met with in
grave undoubted history, if they were untrue, as are to be met with
in every page of that which concerns the period of our story; facts
which go to prove not only that a fixed belief in witchcraft prevailed
throughout Europe as well as America, and among those with whom there
was no lack of probity or good sense, or knowledge, it would appear;
but that hundreds of poor creatures were tried for witchcraft under
the authority of British law, and put to death, under the authority
of British law, (and several after confession) for the practice of
witchcraft and sorcery.

May it not be worth our while therefore, to speak seriously and
reverently of our mighty forefathers? to bear in mind that the proof
which they offer is affirmative and positive, while that which we rely
upon, is negative--a matter of theory? to keep in view, moreover,
that if a body of witnesses of equal worth were equally divided,
one half saying that on such a day and hour, at such a place, when
they were all together, such or such a thing, preternatural or not,
mysterious or not, occurred; while the other half say positively, man
for man, that so far as they heard or saw, or know or believe, no
such thing did occur, at such a time or place, or at any other time
or place, whatsoever--still, even here, though you may believe both
parties, though you may give entire credit to the words of each, you
may be justified, in a variety of cases, in acting upon the testimony
of the former in preference to that of the latter. And why? Because
the contradictory words of both may not be so contradictory as they
appear--not so contradictory as to neutralize each other on every
hypothesis; but may be reconcilable to the supposition that such or
such a fact, however positively denied by one party, and however
mysterious it may seem, really did occur: and this while they are not
reconcilable to the supposition that such or such a fact really did
_not_ occur.--It being much more easy to overlook that which is, than
to see that which is not; much more easy to _not_ see a shadow that
falls upon our pathway, than to see a shadow where indeed there is no
shadow; much more easy to _not_ hear a real voice, than to hear _no_
voice.

If the multitude of trustworthy and superior men, therefore, who
testify to the facts which are embodied in the following narrative,
and which may appear incredible to the wise of our day, or out of the
course of nature to the philosophy of our day, like ice or snow to
the Lord of the Desert; if they were positively contradicted step by
step, throughout, by another like multitude of trustworthy and superior
men--still, though the two parties were alike numerous and alike worthy
of credit, and although you might believe the story of each, and every
word of it, and give no preference to either:--Still I say, you might
be justified in supposing that after all, the facts which the former
testify to really did occur. And why? Because _though_ both speak true,
that hypothesis may still be supported; while _if_ both speak true, the
contrary hypothesis cannot be supported. Facts may occur without being
heard or seen by the whole of a party who are together at the time they
occur: but how are they to be seen or heard, if they do not occur at
all?

I have put a much stronger case than that on which the truth of the
following story is made to depend; for no such contradiction occurs
here, no such positive testimony, no such array of multitude against
multitude of the same worth, or the same age, or the same people. On
the affirmative side are a host here--a host of respectable witnesses,
not a few of whom sealed their testimony with their blood; on the
negative, hardly one either of a good or a bad character. What appears
on the negative side is not by facts, but by theory. It is not positive
but conjectural. The negative witnesses are of our age and of our
people; the affirmative were of another age and of another people.
The former too, it should be remarked were not only not present, but
they were not born--they were not alive, when the matters which they
deny the truth of, took place--if they ever took place at all. Now, if
oaths are to be answered by conjecture, bloodshed by a sneer, absolute
martyrdom by hypothesis, much grave testimony of the great and the
pious, by a speculative argument, a brief syllogism, or a joke--of what
use are the rules by which our trust in what we hear is regulated? our
faith whatever it may be, and whether it concern this world or the
next, and whether it be of the past, the present or the future? Are we
to believe only so far as we may touch and see for ourselves? What is
the groundwork of true knowledge? where the spirit of true philosophy?
Whither should we go for proof; and of what avail is the truth which we
are hoarding up, the truth which we are extracting year after year by
laborious investigation, or fearful experiment? If we do not believe
those who go up to the altar and make oath before the Everlasting God,
not as men do now, one after another, but nation by nation, to that
which is very new to us, or wonderful, why should posterity believe
us when we testify to that which hereafter may be very new to them or
very wonderful? Is every day to be like every other day, every age
like every other age in the Diary of the Universe? Earthquake, war and
revolution--the overthrow of States and of empires, are they to be
repeated forever, lest men should not believe the stories that are told
of them?




CHAPTER II.


But enough. It is quite impossible to doubt the sincerity of the
Plymouth settlers, the Pilgrims, or Fathers of New-England, who
escaping over sea laid the foundations of a mighty empire on the
perpetual rocks of New-Plymouth, and along the desolate shores of a
new world, or their belief in witchcraft and sorcery, whatever we may
happen to believe now; for, at a period of sore and bitter perplexity
for them and theirs, while they were yet wrestling for life, about
four hundred of their hardy brave industrious population were either
in prison for the alleged practice of witchcraft, or under accusation
for matters which were looked upon as fatal evidence thereof. By
referring to the sober and faithful records of that age, it will be
found that in the course of about fifteen months, while the Fathers
of New-England were beset on every side by the exasperated savages,
or by the more exasperated French, who led the former through every
part of the British-American territory, twenty-eight persons received
sentence of death (of which number nineteen were executed) one died in
jail, to whom our narrative relates, and one was deliberately crushed
to death--according to British law, because forsooth, being a stout
full-hearted man, he would not make a plea, nor open his mouth to the
charge of sorcery, before the twelve, who up to that hour had permitted
no one who did open his mouth to escape; that a few more succeeded
in getting away before they were capitally charged; that one hundred
and fifty were set free after the outcry was over; and that full two
hundred more of the accused who were in great peril without knowing it,
were never proceeded against, after the death of the individual whose
character we have attempted a sketch of, in the following story.

Of these four hundred poor creatures, a large part of whom were people
of good repute in the prime of life, above two-score made confession
of their guilt--and this although about one half, being privately
charged, had no opportunity for confession. The laws of nature, it
would seem _were_ set aside--if not by Jehovah, at least by the judges
acting under the high and holy sanction of British law, in this day of
sorrow; for at the trial of a woman who appears to have been celebrated
for beauty and held in great fear because of her temper, both by the
settlers and the savages, three of her children stood up, and children
though they were, in the presence of their mother, avowed themselves to
be witches, and gave a particular account of their voyages through the
air and over sea, and of the cruel mischief they had perpetrated by her
advice and direction; for she was endowed, say the records of the day,
with great power and prerogative, and the Father of lies had promised
her, at one of their church-yard gatherings that she should be “Queen
of Hell.”

But before we go further into the particulars of our narrative which
relates to a period when the frightful superstition we speak of was
raging with irresistible power, a rapid review of so much of the
earlier parts of the New-England history, as immediately concerns
the breaking out, and the growth of a belief in witchcraft among the
settlers of our savage country, may be of use to the reader, who, but
for some such preparation, would never be able to credit a fiftieth
part of what is undoubtedly true in the following story.

The pilgrims or “Fathers” of New-England, as they are now called by
the writers of America, were but a ship-load of pious brave men, who
while they were in search of a spot of earth where they might worship
their God without fear, and build up a faith, if so it pleased him,
without reproach, went ashore partly of their own accord, but more
from necessity, in the terrible winter of 1620-21, upon a rock of
Massachusetts-Bay, to which they gave the name of New-Plymouth, after
that of the port of England from which they embarked.

They left England forever.... England their home and the home of their
mighty fathers--turned their backs forever upon all that was dear to
them in their beloved country, their friends, their houses, their tombs
and their churches, their laws and their literature with all that other
men cared for in that age; and this merely to avoid persecution for a
religious faith; fled away as it were to the ends of the earth, over
a sea the very name of which was doubtful, toward a shore that was
like a shadow to the navigators of Europe, in search of a place where
they might kneel down before their Father, and pray to him without
molestation.

But, alas for their faith! No sooner had these pilgrims touched the
shore of the new world, no sooner were they established in comparative
power and security, than they fell upon the Quakers, who had followed
them over the same sea, with the same hope; and scourged and banished
them, and imprisoned them, and put some to death, for not believing
as the new church taught in the new world. Such is the nature of man!
The persecuted of to-day become the persecutors of to-morrow. They
flourish, not because they are right, but because they are persecuted;
and they persecute because they have the power, not because they whom
they persecute are wrong.

The quakers died in their belief, and as the great always die--without
a word or a tear; praying for the misguided people to their last
breath, but prophecying heavy sorrow to them and to theirs--a sorrow
without a name--a wo without a shape, to their whole race forever; with
a mighty series of near and bitter affliction to the judges of the
land, who while they were uttering the words of death to an aged woman
of the Quakers, (Mary Dyer) were commanded with a loud voice to set
their houses in order, to get ready the accounts of their stewardship,
and to prepare with the priesthood of all the earth, to go before
the Judge of the quick and the dead. It was the voice of Elizabeth
Hutchinson, the dear and familiar friend of Mary Dyer. She spoke
as one having authority from above, so that all who heard her were
afraid--all! even the judges who were dealing out their judgment of
death upon a fellow creature. And lo! after a few years, the daughter
of the chief judge, before whom the prophecy had been uttered with such
awful power, was tried for witchcraft and put to death for witchcraft
on the very spot (so says the tradition of the people) where she stayed
to scoff at Mary Dyer, who was on her way to the scaffold at the time,
with her little withered hands locked upon her bosom ... her grey head
lifted up ... not bowed in her unspeakable distress ... but lifted up,
as if in prayer to something visible above, something whatever it was,
the shadow of which fell upon the path and walked by the side of the
aged martyr; something whatever it was, that moved like a spirit over
the green smooth turf ... now at her elbow, now high up and afar off
... now in the blue, bright air; something whose holy guardianship was
betrayed to the multitude by the devout slow motion of the eyes that
were about to be extinguished forever.

Not long after the death of the daughter of the chief judge, another
female was executed for witchcraft, and other stories of a similar
nature were spread over the whole country, to prove that she too had
gone out of her way to scoff at the poor quaker-woman. This occurred
in 1655, only thirty-five years after the arrival of the Fathers in
America. From this period, until 1691, there were but few trials for
witchcraft among the Plymouth settlers, though the practice of the art
was believed to be common throughout Europe as well as America, and
a persuasion was rooted in the very hearts of the people, that the
prophecy of the quakers and of Elizabeth Hutchinson would assuredly be
accomplished.

It _was_ accomplished. A shadow fell upon the earth at noon-day.
The waters grew dark as midnight. Every thing alive was quiet with
fear--the trees, the birds, the cattle, the very hearts of men who were
gathered together in the houses of the Lord, every where, throughout
all the land, for worship and for mutual succor. It was indeed a
“Dark Day”--a day never to be thought of by those who were alive at
the time, nor by their children’s children, without fear. The shadow
of the grave was abroad, with a voice like the voice of the grave.
Earthquake, fire, and a furious bright storm followed; inundation, war
and strife in the church. Stars fell in a shower, heavy cannon were
heard in the deep of the wilderness, low music from the sea--trumpets,
horses, armies, mustering for battle in the deep sea. Apparitions were
met in the high way, people whom nobody knew, men of a most unearthly
stature; evil spirits going abroad on the sabbath day. The print of
huge feet and hoof-marks were continually discovered in the snow, in
the white sand of the sea-shore--nay, in the solid rocks and along
the steep side of high mountains, where no mortal hoof could go; and
sometimes they could be traced from roof to roof on the house-tops,
though the buildings were very far apart; and the shape of Elizabeth
Hutchinson herself, was said to have appeared to a traveller, on the
very spot where she and her large family, after being driven forth out
of New-England by the power of the new church, were put to death by the
savages. He that saw the shape knew it, and was afraid for the people;
for the look of the woman was a look of wrath, and her speech a speech
of power.

Elizabeth Hutchinson was one of the most extraordinary women of the
age--haughty, ambitious and crafty; and when it was told every where
through the Plymouth colony that she had appeared to one of the church
that expelled her, they knew that she had come back, to be seen of the
judges and elders, according to her oath, and were siezed with a deep
fear. They knew that she had been able to draw away from their peculiar
mode of worship, a tithe of their whole number when she was alive, and
a setter forth, if not of strange gods, at least of strange doctrines:
and who should say that her mischievous power had not been fearfully
augmented by death?

Meanwhile the men of New Plymouth, and of Massachusetts Bay, had
multiplied so that all the neighborhood was tributary to them, and
they were able to send forth large bodies of their young men to war,
six hundred, seven hundred, and a thousand at a time, year after year,
to fight with Philip of Mount Hope, a royal barbarian, who had wit
enough to make war as the great men of Europe would make war now, and
to persuade the white people that the prophecy of the Quakers related
to him. It is true enough that he made war like a savage--and who
would not, if he were surrounded as Philip of Mount Hope was, by
a foe whose hatred was a part of his religion, a part of his very
blood and being? if his territory were ploughed up or laid waste by a
superior foe? if the very wilderness about him were fired while it was
the burial-place and sanctuary of his mighty fathers? if their form
of worship were scouted, and every grave and every secret place of
prayer laid open to the light, with all their treasures and all their
mysteries? every temple not made with hands, every church built by
the Builder of the Skies, invaded by such a foe and polluted with the
rites of a new faith, or levelled without mercy--every church and every
temple, whether of rock or wood, whether perpetual from the first, or
planted as the churches and temples of the solitude are, with leave
to perpetuate themselves forever, to renew their strength and beauty
every year and to multiply themselves on every side forever and ever,
in spite of deluge and fire, storm, strife and earthquake; every church
and every temple whether roofed as the skies are, and floored as the
mountains are, with great clouds and with huge rocks, or covered in
with tree-branches and paved with fresh turf, lighted with stars and
purified with high winds? Would not the man of Europe make war now like
a savage, and without mercy, if he were beset by a foe--for such was
the foe that Philip of Mount Hope had to contend with in the fierce
pale men of Massachusetts Bay,--a foe that no weapon of his could
reach, a foe coming up out of the sea with irresistible power, and with
a new shape? What if armies were to spring up out of the solid earth
before the man of Europe--it would not be more wonderful to him than
it was to the man of America to see armies issuing from the deep. What
if they were to approach in balloons--or in great ships of the air,
armed all over as the foe of the poor savage appeared to be, when the
ships of the water drew near, charged with thunder and with lightning,
and with four-footed creatures, and with sudden death? Would the man
of Europe make war in such a case according to what are now called the
usages of war?

The struggle with this haughty savage was regarded for a time as the
wo without a shape, to which the prophecy referred, the sorrow without
a name; for it occupied the whole force of the country, long and long
after the bow of the red-chief was broken forever, his people scattered
from the face of the earth, and his royalty reduced to a shadow--a
shadow it is true, but still the shadow of a king; for up to the last
hour of his life, when he died as no king had ever the courage to die,
he showed no sign of terror, betrayed no wish to conciliate the foe,
and smote all that were near without mercy, whenever they talked of
submission; though he had no hope left, no path for escape, and every
shot of the enemy was fatal to some one of the few that stood near
him. It was a war, which but for the accidental discovery of a league
embracing all the chief tribes of the north, before they were able to
muster their strength for the meditated blow, would have swept away
the white men, literally to the four winds of heaven, and left that
earth free which they had set up their dominion over by falsehood and
by treachery. By and by however, just when the issue of that war was
near, and the fright of the pale men over, just when the hearts of the
church had begun to heave with a new hope, and the prophecy of wrath
and sorrow was no longer to be heard in the market-place, and by the
way-side, or wherever the people were gathered together for business or
worship, with a look of awe and a subdued breath--just when it came to
be no longer thought of nor cared for by the judges and the elders,
to whom week after week and year after year, it had been a familiar
proverb of death (if bad news from the war had come over night, or news
of trouble to the church, at home or abroad, in Europe or in America)
they saw it suddenly and wholly accomplished before their faces--every
word of it and every letter.

The shadow of the destroyer went by ... the type was no more. But lo!
in the stead thereof, while every mother was happy, and every father
in peace, and every child asleep in security, because the shadow and
the type _had_ gone by--lo! the Destroyer himself appeared! The shadow
of death gave way for the visage of death--filling every heart with
terror, and every house with lamentation. The people cried out for
fear, as with one voice. They prayed as with one prayer. They had
no hope; for they saw the children of those who had offered outrage
to the poor quaker-woman gathered up, on every side, from the rest
of the people, and after a few days and a brief inquiry, afflicted
in their turn with reproach and outcry, with misery, torture and
cruel death;--and when they saw this, they thought of the speech of
Elizabeth Hutchinson before the priesthood of the land, the judges and
the people, when they drove her out from among them, because of her
new faith, and left her to perish for it in the depth of a howling
wilderness; her, and her babes, and her beautiful daughter, and her two
or three brave disciples, away from hope and afar from succor;--and as
they thought of this, they were filled anew with unspeakable dread:
for Mary Dyer and Elizabeth Hutchinson, were they not familiar, and
very dear friends? were they not sisters in life, and sisters in death?
gifted alike with a spirit of sure prophecy, though of a different
faith? and martyrs alike to the church?




CHAPTER III.


“A strange infatuation had already begun to produce misery in private
families, and disorder throughout the community,” says an old American
writer, in allusion to the period of our story, 1691-2. “The imputation
of witchcraft was accompanied with a prevalent belief of its reality;
and the lives of a considerable number of innocent people were
sacrificed to blind zeal and superstitious credulity. The mischief
began at Naumkeag, (Salem) but it soon extended into various parts of
the colony. The contagion however, was principally within the county of
Essex. The æra of English learning, had scarcely commenced. Laws then
existed in England against witches; and the authority of Sir Matthew
Hale, who was revered in New England, not only for his knowledge in the
law, but for his gravity and piety, had doubtless, great influence. The
trial of the witches in Suffolk, in England, was published in 1684; and
there was so exact a resemblance between the Old England dæmons and
the New, that, it can hardly be doubted the arts of the designing were
borrowed, and the credulity of the populace augmented from the parent
country.

       *       *       *       *       *

“The gloomy state of New England probably facilitated the delusion, for
‘superstition flourishes in times of danger and dismay.’ The distress
of the colonist, at this time, was great. The sea-coast was infested
with privateers. The inland frontiers, east and west, were continually
harassed by the French and Indians. The abortive expedition to Canada,
had exposed the country to the resentment of France, the effects of
which were perpetually dreaded. The old charter was gone, and what
evils would be introduced by the new, which was very reluctantly
received by many, time only could determine, but fear might forbode.
* * How far these causes operating in a wilderness that was scarcely
cleared up, might have contributed toward the infatuation, it is
difficult to determine. It were injurious however, to consider New
England as peculiar in this culpable credulity, with its sanguinary
effects; for more persons have been put to death for witchcraft, in a
single county in England, in a short space of time, than have suffered
for the same cause, in all New-England, since its first settlement.”

Another American writer who was an eye witness of the facts which are
embodied in the following narrative, says, “As to the method which
the Salem justices do take in their examinations, it is truly this: A
warrant being issued out to apprehend the persons that are charged and
complained of by the afflicted children, (Abigail Paris and Bridget
Pope) said persons are brought before the justices, the afflicted being
present. The justices ask the apprehended why they afflict these poor
children; to which the apprehended answer they do not afflict them.
The justices order the apprehended to look upon the said children,
which accordingly they do; and at the time of that look (I dare not
say _by_ that look as, the Salem gentlemen do) the afflicted are cast
into a fit. The apprehended are then blinded and ordered to touch the
afflicted; and at that touch, though not _by_ the touch (as above) the
afflicted do ordinarily come out of their fits. The afflicted persons
then declare and affirm that the apprehended have afflicted them;
upon which the apprehended persons though of never so good repute are
forthwith committed to prison on suspicion of witchcraft.”

At this period, the chief magistrate of the New-Plymouth colony, a
shrewd, artful, uneducated man, was not only at the head of those who
believed in witchcraft as a familiar thing, but he was a head-ruler
in the church. He was a native New-Englander of _low birth_--so
say the records of our country,--where birth is now, and ever will
be a matter of inquiry and solicitude, of shame perhaps to the few
and of pride to the few, but of inquiry with all, in spite of our
ostentatious republicanism. He was the head man over a body of men
who may be regarded as the natural growth of a rugged soil in a time
of religious warfare; with hearts and with heads like the resolute
unforgiving Swiss-protestant of their age, or the Scotch-covenanter
of an age that has hardly yet gone by. They were the Maccabees of the
seventeenth century, and he was their political chief. They were the
fathers of a new church in a new world, where no church had ever been
heard of before; and he was ready to buckle a sword upon his thigh
and go out against all the earth, at the command of that new church.
They were ministers of the gospel, who ministered with fire and sword
unto the savages whom they strove to convert; believers, who being
persecuted in Europe, hunted out of Europe, and cast away upon the
shores of America, set up a new war of persecution here--even here--in
the untrodden--almost unapproachable domain of the Great Spirit of
the Universe; pursued their brethren to death, scourged, fined,
imprisoned, banished, mutilated, and where nothing else would do, hung
up their bodies between heaven and earth for the good of their souls;
drove mother after mother, and babe after babe, into the woods for
not believing as their church taught; made war upon the lords of the
soil, the savages who had been their stay and support while they were
strangers, and sick and poor, and ready to perish, and whom it was
therefore a duty for them--after they had recovered their strength--to
make happy with the edge of the sword; such war as the savages would
make upon the wild beast--way-laying them by night, and shooting them
to death, as they lie asleep with their young, without so much as a
declaration of war; destroying whithersoever they went, whatsoever
they saw, in the shape of a dark man, as if they had authority from
above to unpeople the woods of America; firing village after village,
in the dead of the night--in the dead of winter too--and going to
prayer in the deep snow, while their hands were smoking with slaughter,
and their garments stiffening with blood--the blood, not of warriors
overthrown by warriors in battle, but of the decrepit, or sick, or
helpless; of the aged man, or the woman or the babe--set fire to in
their sleep.--Such were the men of Massachusetts-Bay, at the period of
our story, and he was their political chief.

He had acquired a large property and the title of _Sir_; a title which
would go a great way at any time among the people of New-England, who
whatever else they may be, and whatever they may pretend, are not
now, and were not during the governship of Sir William Phips, at the
period we refer to, and we dare say, never will be, without a regard
for titles and birth, and ribbons, and stars, and garters, and much
more too, than would ever be credited by those who only judge of them
by what they are pleased to say of themselves in their fourth-of-July
orations. His rank and wealth were acquired in rather a strange
way--not by a course of rude mercantile adventure, such as the native
Yankee is familiar with from his birth, through every unheard-of sea,
and along every unheard-of shore; but by fishing up ingots of gold, and
bars of silver, from the wreck of a Spanish hulk, which had been cast
away on the coast of La Plata, years and years before, and which he had
been told of by Mr. Paris, the minister of Salem,--a worthy, studious,
wayward man, who had met with some account of the affair, while
rummaging into a heap of old newspapers and ragged books that fell in
his way.

Another would have paid no attention, it is probable, to the advice of
the preacher--a man who had grown old in poring over books that nobody
else in that country had ever met with or heard of; but the hardy
New-Englander was too poor and too anxious for wealth to throw a chance
away; and having satisfied himself in some degree about the truth of
a newspaper-narrative which related to the ship, he set sail for the
mother country, received the patronage of those, who if they were not
noblemen, would be called partners in every such enterprise, with more
than the privilege of partners--for they generally contrive to take
the praise and the profit, while their plebeian associates have to put
up with the loss and the reproach; found the wreck, and after a while
succeeded in weighing a prodigious quantity of gold and silver. He was
knighted in “consequence,” we are told; but in consequence of what, it
would be no easy matter to say: and after so short an absence that he
was hardly missed, returned to his native country with a new charter,
great wealth, a great name, the title of Sir, and the authority of a
chief magistrate.

Such are a few of the many facts which every body that knew him was
acquainted with by report, and which nobody thought of disbelieving
in British-America, till the fury about witches and witchcraft took
possession of the people; after which they began to shake their heads
at the story, and getting more and more courage as they grew more
and more clear-sighted, they went on doubting first one part of the
tale, and then another, till at last they did not scruple to say
of their worthy Governor himself, and of the aged Mr. Paris, that
one of the two--they did not like to say which--had got above their
neighbors’ heads, after all, in a very strange way--a very strange way
indeed--they did not like to say how; and that the sooner the other was
done with old books, the better it would be for him. He had a Bible of
his own to study, and what more would a preacher of the Gospel have?

Governor Phips and Matthew Paris were what are called neighbors in
America. Their habitations were not more than five leagues apart. The
Governor lived at Boston, the chief town of Massachusetts-Bay, and the
preacher at Naumkeag, in a solitary log-house, completely surrounded
by a thick wood, in which were many graves; and a rock held in great
awe by the red men of the north, and avoided with special care by the
whites, who had much reason to believe that in other days, it had been
a rock of sacrifice, and that human creatures had been offered up there
by the savages of old, either to Hobbamocko, their evil deity, or to
Rawtantoweet, otherwise Ritchtau, their great Invisible Father. Matthew
Paris and Sir William Phips had each a faith of his own therefore, in
all that concerned witches and witchcraft. Both were believers--but
their belief was modified, intimate as they were, by the circumstances
and the society in which they lived. With the aged, poor and solitary
man--a widower in his old age, it was a dreadful superstition, a
faith mixed up with a mortal fear. With the younger and richer man,
whose hope was not in the grave, and whose thoughts were away from
the death-bed; who was never alone perhaps for an hour of the day;
who lived in the very whirl of society, surrounded by the cheerful
faces of them that he most loved on earth, it wore a less harrowing
shape--it was merely a faith to talk of, and to teach on the Sabbath
day, a curious faith suited to the bold inquisitive temper of the age.
Both were believers, and fixed believers; and yet of the two, perhaps,
the speculative man would have argued more powerfully--with fire and
sword--as a teacher of what he believed.

About a twelvemonth before the enterprise to La Plata, whereby the
“uneducated man of low birth” came to be a ruler and a chief in
the land of his nativity, Matthew Paris the preacher, to whom he
was indebted for a knowledge of the circumstances which led to the
discovery, had lost a young wife--a poor girl who had been brought up
in his family, and whom he married not _because_ of her youth, but
in spite of her youth; and every body knew as he stood by her grave,
and saw the fresh earth heaped upon her, that he would never hold up
his head again, his white venerable head, which met with a blessing
wherever it appeared. From that day forth, he was a broken-hearted
selfish man, weary of life, and sick with insupportable sorrow. He
began to be afraid with a strange fear, to persuade himself that his
Father above had cast him off, and that for the rest of his life he was
to be a mark of the divine displeasure. He avoided all that knew him,
and chiefly those he had been most intimate with while he was happy;
for their looks and their speech, and every change of their breath
reminded him of his poor Margaret, his meek beautiful wife. He could
not bear the very song of the birds--nor the sight of the green trees;
for she was buried in the summer-time, while the trees were in flower,
and the birds singing in the branches that overshadowed her grave; and
so he withdrew from the world and shut himself up in a dreary solitude,
where neglecting his duty as a preacher of the gospel, he gave up his
whole time to the education of his little daughter--the child of his
old age, and the live miniature of its mother--who was _like_ a child,
from the day of her birth to the day of her death. His grief would have
been despair, but for this one hope. It was the sorrow of old age--that
insupportable sorrow--the sorrow of one who is ready to cry out with
every sob, and at every breath, in the desolation of a widowed heart,
whenever he goes to the fireside or the table, or sees the sun set,
or the sky change with the lustre of a new day, or wakes in the dead
of the night from a cheerful dream of his wife--his dear, dear wife,
to the frightful truth; finding the heavy solitude of the grave about
him, his bridal chamber dark with the atmosphere of death, his marriage
bed--his home--his very heart, which had been occupied with a blessed
and pure love a moment before, uninhabited forever.

His family consisted now of this one child, who was in her tenth year,
a niece in her twelfth year, and two Indians who did the drudgery of
the house, and were treated as members of the family, eating at the
same table and of the same food as the preacher. One was a female who
bore the name of Tituba; the other a praying warrior, who had become a
by-word among the tribes of the north, and a show in the houses of the
white men.

The preacher had always a belief in witchcraft, and so had every
body else that he knew; but he had never been afraid of witches till
after the death of his wife. He had been a little too ready perhaps
to put faith in every tale that he heard about apparition or shadow,
star-shooting or prophecy, unearthly musick, or spirits going abroad
through the very streets of Salem village, and over the green fields,
and along by the sea shore, the wilderness, the rock and the hill-top,
and always at noon-day, and always without a shadow--shapes of death,
who never spoke but with a voice like that of the wind afar off, nor
moved without making the air cold about them; creatures from the deep
sea, who are known to the pious and the gifted by their slow smooth
motion over the turf, and by their quiet, grave, unchangeable eyes. But
though he had been too ready to believe in such things, from his youth
up, he had never been much afraid of them, till after he found himself
widowed forever, as he drew near, arm in arm with an angel, to the
very threshold of eternity; separated by death, in his old age, from a
good and beautiful, and young wife, just when he had no other hope--no
other joy--nothing but her and her sweet image, the babe, to care for
underneath the sky. Are we to have no charity for such a man--weak
though he appear--a man whose days were passed by the grave where his
wife lay, and whose nights were passed literally in her death-bed; a
man living away and apart from all that he knew, on the very outskirts
of the solitude, among those who had no fear _but_ of shadows and
spirits, and witchcraft and witches? We should remember that his faith
after all, was the faith, not so much of the man, as of the age he
lived in, the race he came of, and the life that he led. Hereafter,
when posterity shall be occupied with our doings, they may wonder at
our faith--perhaps at our credulity, as we now wonder at his.

But the babe grew, and a new hope flowered in his heart, for she was
the very image of her mother; and there was her little cousin too,
Bridget Pope, a child of singular beauty and very tall of her age--how
_could_ he be unhappy, when he heard their sweet voices ringing
together?




CHAPTER IV.


Bridget Pope was of a thoughtful serious turn--the little Abby the
veriest romp that ever breathed. Bridget was the elder, by about a
year and a half, but she looked five years older than Abby, and was in
every way a remarkable child. Her beauty was like her stature, and both
were above her age; and her aptitude for learning was the talk of all
that knew her. She was a favorite every where and with every body--she
had such a sweet way with her, and was so unlike the other children of
her age--so that when she appeared to merit reproof, as who will not
in the heyday of innocent youth, it was quite impossible to reprove
her, except with a mild voice, or a kind look, or a very affectionate
word or two. She would keep away from her slate and book for whole
days together, and sit for half an hour at a time without moving her
eyes off the page, or turning away her head from the little window of
their school-house, (a log-hut plastered with blue clay in stripes
and patches, and lighted with horn, oiled-paper and isinglass) which
commanded a view of Naumkeag, or Salem village, with a part of the
original woods of North America--huge trees that were found there on
the first arrival of the white man, crowded together and covered with
moss and dropping to pieces of old age; a meeting-house with a short
wooden spire, and the figure of death on the top for a weather-cock, a
multitude of cottages that appeared to be lost in the landscape, and a
broad beautiful approach from the sea.

Speak softly to Bridget Pope at such a time, or look at her with a look
of love, and her quiet eyes would fill, and her childish heart would
run over--it would be impossible to say why. But if you spoke sharply
to her, when her head was at the little window, and her thoughts were
away, nobody knew where, the poor little thing would grow pale and
serious, and look at you with such a look of sorrow--and then go away
and do what she was bid with a gravity that would go to your heart. And
it would require a whole day after such a rebuke to restore the dye of
her sweet lips, or to persuade her that you were not half so angry as
you might have appeared. At every sound of your voice, at every step
that came near, she would catch her breath, and start and look up, as
if she expected something dreadful to happen.

But as for Abigail Paris, the pretty little blue-eyed cousin of Bridget
Pope, there was no dealing with her in that way. If you shook your
finger at her, she would laugh in your face; and if you did it with
a grave air, ten to one but she made you laugh too. If you scolded
her, she would scold you in return but always in such a way that you
could not possibly be angry with her; she would mimic your step with
her little naked feet, or the toss of your head, or the very curb of
your mouth perhaps, while you were trying to terrify her. The little
wretch!--everybody was tired to death of her in half an hour, and yet
everybody was glad to see her again. Such was Abigail Paris, before
Bridget Pope came to live in the house with her, but in the course
of about half a year after that, she was so altered that her very
play-fellows twitted her with being “afeard o’ Bridgee Pope.” She began
to be tidy in her dress, to comb her bright hair, to speak low, to keep
her shoes on her feet, and her stockings from about her heels, and
before a twelvemonth was over, she left off wading in the snow, and
grew very fond of her book.

They were always together now, creeping about under the old
beach-trees, or hunting for hazle nuts, or searching for sun-baked
apples in the short thick grass, or feeding the fish in the smooth
clear sea--Bridget poring over a story that she had picked up, nobody
knows where, and Abigail, whatever the story might be, and although the
water might stand in her eyes at the time, always ready for a roll in
the wet grass, a dip in the salt wave, or a slide from the very top of
the haymow. They rambled about in the great woods together on tip-toe,
holding their breath and saying their prayers at every step; they lay
down together and slept together on the very track of the wolf, or the
she-bear; and if they heard a noise afar off, a howl or a war-whoop,
they crept in among the flowers of the solitary spot and were safe, or
hid themselves in the shadow of trees that were spread out over the
whole sky, or of shrubbery that appeared to cover the whole earth--

  Where the wild grape hangs dropping in the shade,
  O’er unfledged minstrels that beneath are laid;

Where the scarlet barberry glittered among the sharp green leaves like
threaded bunches of coral,--where at every step the more brilliant
ivory-plumbs or clustered bunch-berries rattled among the withered
herbage and rolled about their feet like a handful of beads,--where
they delighted to go even while they were afraid to speak above a
whisper, and kept fast hold of each other’s hands, every step of
the way. Such was their love, such their companionship, such their
behaviour while oppressed with fear. They were never apart for a day,
till the time of our story; they were together all day and all night,
going to sleep together and waking up together, feeding out of the
same cup, and sleeping in the same bed, year after year.

But just when the preacher was ready to believe that his Father above
had not altogether deserted him--for he was ready to cry out with joy
whenever he looked upon these dear children; they were so good and
so beautiful, and they loved each other so entirely; just when there
appeared to be no evil in his path, no shadow in his way to the grave,
a most alarming change took place in their behavior to each other. He
tried to find out the cause, but they avoided all inquiry. He talked
with them together, he talked with them apart, he tried every means in
his power to know the truth, but all to no purpose. They were afraid
of each other, and that was all that either would say. Both were full
of mischief and appeared to be possessed with a new temper. They were
noisy and spiteful toward each other, and toward every body else. They
were continually hiding away from each other in holes and corners,
and if they were pursued and plucked forth to the light, they were
always found occupied with mischief above their age. Instead of playing
together as they were wont, or sitting together in peace, they would
creep away under the tables and chairs and beds, and behave as if they
were hunted by something which nobody else could see; and they would
lie there by the hour, snapping and snarling at each other, and at
everybody that passed near. They had no longer the look of health, or
of childhood, or of innocence. They were meagre and pale, and their
eyes were fiery, and their fingers were skinny and sharp, and they
delighted in devilish tricks and in outcries yet more devilish. They
would play by themselves in the dead of the night, and shriek with a
preternatural voice, and wake everybody with strange laughter--a sort
of smothered giggle, which would appear to issue from the garret, or
from the top of the house, while they were asleep, or pretending to be
dead asleep in the great room below. They would break out all over in a
fine sweat like the dew on a rose bush, and fall down as if they were
struck to the heart with a knife, while they were on the way to meeting
or school, or when the elders of the church were talking to them and
every eye was fixed on their faces with pity or terror. They would
grow pale as death in a moment, and seem to hear voices in the wind,
and shake as with an ague while standing before a great fire, and look
about on every side with such a piteous look for children, whenever it
thundered or lightened, or whenever the sea roared, that the eyes of
all who saw them would fill with tears. They would creep away backwards
from each other on their hands and feet, or hide their faces in the
lap of the female Indian Tituba, and if the preacher spoke to them,
they would fall into a stupor, and awake with fearful cries and appear
instantly covered all over with marks and spots like those which are
left by pinching or bruising the flesh. They would be struck dumb while
repeating the Lord’s prayer, and all their features would be distorted
with a savage and hateful expression.

The heads of the church were now called together, and a day of general
fasting, humiliation and prayer was appointed, and after that, the best
medical men of the whole country were consulted, the pious and the
gifted, the interpreters of dreams, the soothsayers, and the prophets
of the Lord, every man of power, and every woman of power,--but no
relief was had, no cure, no hope of cure.

Matthew Paris now began to be afraid of his own child. She was no
longer the hope of his heart, the joy his old age, the live miniature
of his buried wife. She was an evil thing--she was what he had no
courage to think of, as he covered his old face and tore his white hair
with a grief that would not be rebuked nor appeased. A new fear fell
upon him, and his knees smote together, and the hair of his flesh rose,
and he saw a spirit, and the spirit said to him look! And he looked,
and lo! the truth appeared to him; for he saw neighbour after neighbour
flying from his path, and all the heads of the church keeping aloof and
whispering together in a low voice. Then knew he that Bridget Pope and
Abigail Paris were bewitched.

A week passed over, a whole week, and every day and every hour they
grew worse and worse, and the solitude in which he lived, more dreadful
to him; but just when there appeared to be no hope left, no chance for
escape, just when he and the few that were still courageous enough to
speak with him, were beginning to despair, and to wish for the speedy
death of the little sufferers, dear as they had been but a few weeks
before to everybody that knew them, a discovery was made which threw
the whole country into a new paroxysm of terror. The savages who had
been for a great while in the habit of going to the house of the
preacher to eat and sleep “without money and without price,” were now
seen to keep aloof and to be more than usually grave; and yet when they
were told of the children’s behaviour, they showed no sort of surprise,
but shook their heads with a smile, and went their way, very much as if
they were prepared for it.

When the preacher heard this, he called up the two Indians before him,
and spoke to Tituba and prayed to know why her people who for years had
been in the habit of lying before his hearth, and eating at his table,
and coming in and going out of his habitation at all hours of the day
and night, were no longer seen to approach his door.

“Tituppa no say--Tituppa no know,” she replied.

But _as_ she replied, the preacher saw her make a sign to Peter Wawpee,
her Sagamore, who began to show his teeth as if he knew something more
than he chose to tell; but before the preacher could rebuke him as he
deserved, or pursue the inquiry with Tituba, his daughter screamed
out and fell upon her face and lay for a long while as if she were
death-struck.

The preacher now bethought him of a new course, and after watching
Tituba and Wawpee for several nights, became satisfied from what he
saw, that she was a woman of diabolical power. A part of what he
saw, he was afraid even to speak of; but he declared on oath before
the judges, that he had seen sights, and heard noises that took away
his bodily strength, his hearing and his breath for a time; that for
nearly five weeks no one of her tribe, nor of Wawpee’s tribe had slept
upon his hearth, or eaten of his bread, or lifted the latch of his
door either by night or by day; that notwithstanding this, the very
night before, as he went by the grave-yard where his poor wife lay,
he heard the whispering of a multitude; that having no fear in such a
place, he made a search; and that after a long while he found his help
Tituba concealed in the bushes, that he said nothing but went his way,
satisfied in his own soul however that the voices he heard were the
voices of her tribe; and that after the moon rose he saw her employed
with a great black Shadow on the rock of death, where as every body
knew, sacrifices had been offered up in other days by another people to
the god of the Pagan--the deity of the savage--employed in a way that
made him shiver with fright where he stood; for between her and the
huge black shadow there lay what he knew to be the dead body of his
own dear child stretched out under the awful trees--her image rather,
for _she_ was at home and abed and asleep at the time. He would have
spoken to it if he could--for he saw what he believed to be the shape
of his wife; he would have screamed for help if he could, but he could
not get his breath, and that was the last he knew; for when he came
to himself he was lying in his own bed, and Tituba was sitting by his
side with a cup of broth in her hand which he took care to throw away
the moment her back was turned; for she was a creature of extraordinary
art, and would have persuaded him that he had never been out of his bed
for the whole day.

The judges immediately issued a warrant for Tituba and Wawpee, both of
whom were hurried off to jail, and after a few days of proper inquiry,
by torture, she was put upon trial for witchcraft. Being sorely
pressed by the word of the preacher and by the testimony of Bridget
Pope and Abigail Paris, who with two more afflicted children (for the
mischief had spread now in every quarter) charged her and Sarah Good
with appearing to them at all hours, and in all places, by day and
by night, when they were awake and when they were asleep, and with
tormenting their flesh. Tituba pleaded guilty and confessed before the
judges and the people that the poor children spoke true, that she was
indeed a witch, and that, with several of her sister witches of great
power--among whom was mother Good, a miserable woman who lived a great
way off, nobody knew where--and passed the greater part of her time by
the sea-side, nobody knew how, she had been persuaded by the black man
to pursue and worry and vex them. But the words were hardly out of her
mouth before she herself was taken with a fit, which lasted so long
that the judges believed her to be dead. She was lifted up and carried
out into the air; but though she recovered her speech and her strength
in a little time, she was altered in her looks from that day to the day
of her death.

But as to mother Good, when they brought her up for trial, she would
neither confess to the charge nor pray the court for mercy; but she
stood up and mocked the jury and the people, and reproved the judges
for hearkening to a body of accusers who were collected from all parts
of the country, were of all ages, and swore to facts, which if they
ever occurred at all, had occurred years and years before--facts which
it would have been impossible for her to contradict, even though they
had all been, as a large part of them obviously were, the growth of
mistake or of superstitious dread. Her behavior was full of courage
during the trial; and after the trial was over, and up to the last hour
and last breath of her life, it was the same.

You are a liar! said she to a man who called her a witch to her teeth,
and would have persuaded her to confess and live. You are a liar, as
God is my judge, Mike! I am no more a witch than you are a wizard, and
you know it Mike, though you be so glib at prayer; and if you take away
my life, I tell you now that you and yours, and the people here, and
the judges and the elders who are now thirsting for my blood shall rue
the work of this day, forever and ever, in sackcloth and ashes; and I
tell you further as Elizabeth Hutchinson told you, Ah ha! ... how do
you like the sound of that name, Judges? You begin to be afraid I see;
you are all quiet enough now!... But I say to you nevertheless, and
I say to you here, even here, with my last breath, as Mary Dyer said
to you with her last breath, and as poor Elizabeth Hutchinson said to
you with hers, if you take away my life, the wrath of God shall pursue
you!--you and yours!--forever and ever! Ye are wise men that I see,
and mighty in faith, and ye should be able with such faith to make the
deep boil like a pot, as they swore to you I did, to remove mountains,
yea to shake the whole earth by a word--mighty in faith or how could
you have swallowed the story of that knife-blade, or the story of the
sheet? Very wise are you, and holy and fixed in your faith, or how
could you have borne with the speech of that bold man, who appeared to
you in court, and stood face to face before you, when you believed him
to be afar off or lying at the bottom of the sea, and would not suffer
you to take away the life even of such a poor unhappy old creature as
I am, without reproving you as if he had authority from the Judge of
judges and the King of kings to stay you in your faith!

Poor soul but I do pity thee! whispered a man who stood near with a
coiled rope in one hand and a drawn sword in the other. It was the
high-sheriff.

Her eyes filled and her voice faltered for the first time, when she
heard this, and she put forth her hand with a smile, and assisted him
in preparing the rope, saying as the cart stopped under the large beam,
Poor soul indeed!--You are too soft-hearted for your office, and of the
two, you are more to be pitied than the poor old woman you are a-going
to choke.

Mighty in faith she continued, as the high-sheriff drew forth a watch
and held it up for her to see that she had but a few moments to live.
I address myself to you, ye Judges of Israel! and to you ye teachers
of truth! Believe ye that a mortal woman of my age, with a rope about
her neck, hath power to prophesy? If ye do, give ear to my speech and
remember my words. For death, ye shall have death! For blood, ye shall
have blood--blood on the earth! blood in the sky! blood in the waters!
Ye shall drink blood and breathe blood, you and yours, for the work of
this day!

Woman, woman! we pray thee to forbear! cried a voice from afar off.

I shall not forbear, Cotton Mather--it is your voice that I hear. But
for you and such as you, miserable men that ye are, we should now be
happy and at peace one with another. I shall not forbear--why should I?
What have I done that I may not speak to the few that love me before we
are parted by death?

Be prepared woman--if you _will_ die, for the clock is about to strike
said another voice.

Be prepared, sayest thou? William Phips, for I know the sound of thy
voice too, thou hard-hearted miserable man! Be prepared, sayest thou?
Behold----stretching forth her arms to the sky, and lifting herself
up and speaking so that she was heard of the people on the house-tops
afar off, Lo! I am ready! Be ye also ready, for now!--now!--even while
I speak to you, he is preparing to reward both my accusers and my
judges----.

He!--who!

Who, brother Joseph? said somebody in the crowd.

Why the Father of lies to be sure! what a question for you to ask,
after having been of the jury!

Thou scoffer!--

Paul! Paul, beware!--

Hark--what’s that! Lord have mercy upon us!

The Lord have mercy upon us! cried the people, giving way on every
side, without knowing why, and looking toward the high-sea, and holding
their breath.

Pho, pho, said the scoffer, a grey-haired man who stood leaning over
his crutch with eyes full of pity and sorrow, pho, pho, the noise that
you hear is only the noise of the tide.

Nay, nay, Elder Smith, nay, nay, said an associate of the speaker. If
it is only the noise of the tide, why have we not heard it before? and
why do we not hear it now? just now, when the witch is about to be--

True ... true ... it may not be the Evil one, after all.

The Evil one, Joe Libby! No, no! it is God himself, our Father above!
cried the witch, with a loud voice, waving her arms upward, and fixing
her eye upon a group of two or three individuals who stood aloof,
decorated with the badges of authority. Our Father above, I say! The
Governor of governors, and the Judge of judges!... The cart began to
move here.... _He_ will reward you for the work of this day! He will
refresh you with blood for it! and you too Jerry Pope, and you too
Micajah Noyes, and you too Job Smith, and you ... and you ... and
you....

Yea of a truth! cried a woman who stood apart from the people with her
hands locked and her eyes fixed upon the chief-judge. It was Rachel
Dyer, the grandchild of Mary Dyer. Yea of a truth! for the Lord will
not hold him guiltless that spilleth his brother’s blood, or taketh his
sister’s life by the law--and her speech was followed by a shriek from
every hill-top and every house-top, and from every tree and every rock
within sight of the place, and the cart moved away, and the body of the
poor old creature swung to and fro in the convulsions of death.




CHAPTER V.


It is not a little remarkable that within a few days after the death of
Sarah Good, a part of her pretended prophecy, that which was directed
by her to the man who called her a witch at the place of death, was
verified upon him, letter by letter, as it were.

He was way-laid by a party of the Mohawks, and carried off to answer
to the tribe for having reported of them that they ate the flesh of
their captives.--It would appear that he had lived among them in his
youth, and that he was perfectly acquainted with their habits and
opinions and with their mode of warfare; that he had been well treated
by their chief, who let him go free at a time when he might lawfully
have been put to death, according to the usages of the tribe, and that
he could not possibly be mistaken about their eating the flesh of their
prisoners. It would appear too, that he had been watched for, a long
while before he was carried off; that his path had been beset hour
after hour, and week after week, by three young warriors of the tribe,
who might have shot him down, over and over again if they would, on
the step of his own door, in the heart of a populous village, but they
would not; for they had sworn to trap their prey alive, and to bring it
off with the hide and the hair on; that after they had carried him to
the territory of the Mohawks, they put him on trial for the charge face
to face with a red accuser; that they found him guilty, and that, with
a bitter laugh, they ordered him to eat of the flesh of a dead man
that lay bleeding on the earth before him; that he looked up and saw
the old chief who had been his father when he belonged to the tribe,
and that hoping to appease the haughty savage, he took some of the
detestable food into his mouth, and that instantly--instantly--before
he could utter a prayer, they fell upon him with clubs and beat him to
death.

Her prophecy therefore did appear to the people to be accomplished; for
had she not said to this very man, that for the work of that day, “He
should breathe blood and eat blood?”

Before a week had passed over, the story of death, and the speech
of the prophetess took a new shape, and a variety of circumstances
which occurred at the trial, and which were disregarded at the time,
were now thought of by the very judges of the land with a secret awe;
circumstances that are now to be detailed, for they were the true cause
of what will not be forgotten for ages in that part of the world ...
the catastrophe of our story.

At the trial of Sarah Good, while her face was turned away from her
accuser, one of the afflicted gave a loud scream, and gasping for
breath, fell upon the floor at the feet of the judges, and lay there as
if she had been struck down by the weight of no mortal arm; and being
lifted up, she swore that she had been stabbed with a knife by the
shape of Sarah Good, while Sarah Good herself was pretending to be at
prayer on the other side of the house; and for proof, she put her hand
into her bosom and drew forth the blade of a penknife which was bloody,
and which upon her oath, she declared to have been left sticking in her
flesh a moment before, by the shape of Sarah Good.

The Judges were thunderstruck. The people were mute with terror, and
the wretched woman herself covered her face with her hands; for she
knew that if she looked upon the sufferers, they would shriek out, and
foam at the mouth, and go into fits, and lie as if they were dead for a
while; and that she would be commanded by the judges to go up to them
and lay her hands upon their bodies without speaking or looking at
them, and that on her doing so, they would be sure to revive, and start
up, and speak of what they had seen or suffered while they were in what
they called their agony.

The jury were already on their way out for consultation--they could
not agree, it appeared; but when they saw this, they stopped at the
door, and came back one by one to the jury box, and stood looking at
each other, and at the judges, and at the poor old woman, as if they
no longer thought it necessary to withdraw even for form sake, afraid
as they all were of doing that, in a case of life and death, for which
they might one day or other be sorry. A shadow was upon every visage of
the twelve--the shadow of death; a look in the eyes of everybody there,
a gravity and a paleness, which when the poor prisoner saw, she started
up with a low cry--a cry of reproach--a cry of despair--and stood with
her hands locked, and her mouth quivering, and her lips apart before
God--lips white with fear, though not with the fear of death; and
looked about her on every side, as if she had no longer a hope left--no
hope from the jury, no hope from the multitude; nay as if while she had
no longer a hope, she had no longer a desire to live.

There was a dead preternatural quiet in the house--not a breath could
be heard now, not a breath nor a murmur; and lo! the aged foreman of
the jury stood forth and laid his hands upon the Book of the Law,
and lifted up his eyes and prepared to utter the verdict of death;
but before he could speak so as to be heard, for his heart was
over-charged with sorrow, a tumult arose afar off like the noise
of the wind in the great woods of America; or a heavy swell on the
sea-shore, when a surge after surge rolls booming in from the secret
reservoir of waters, like the tide of a new deluge. Voices drew near
with a portentous hoof-clatter from every side--east, west, north and
south, so that the people were mute with awe; and as the dread clamor
approached and grew louder and louder every moment, they crowded
together and held their breath, they and the judges and the preachers
and the magistrates, every man persuaded in his own soul that a rescue
was nigh. At last a smothered war-whoop was heard, and then a sweet
cheerful noise like the laugh of a young child high up in the air--and
then a few words in the accent of authority, and a bustle outside of
the door, which gave way as if it were spurned with a powerful foot;
and a stranger appeared in the shadow of the huge trees that over-hung
the door-way like a summer cloud--a low, square-built swarthy man with
a heavy tread, and a bright fierce look, tearing his way through the
crowd like a giant of old, and leading a beautiful boy by the hand.

What, ho! cried he to the chief judge, walking up to him, and standing
before him, and speaking to him with a loud clear voice. What ho!
captain Robert Sewall! why do ye this thing? What ho, there! addressing
himself to the foreman of the jury--why speed ye so to the work of
death? and you, master Bailey! and you governor Phips! and you doctor
Mather, what business have ye here? And you ye judges, who are about to
become the judges of life and death, how dare ye! Who gave you power to
measure and weigh such mystery? Are ye gifted men--all of you--every
man of you--specially gifted from above? Are you Thomas Fisk--with
your white hair blowing about your agitated mouth and your dim eyes,
are _you_ able to see your way clear, that you have the courage to
pronounce a verdict of death on your aged sister who stands there!
And you Josh Carter, senior! and you major Zach Trip! and you Job
Saltonstall! Who are ye and what are ye, men of war, that ye are able
to see spirits, or that ye should become what ye are--the judges of our
afflicted people! And who are we, and what were our fathers, I beseech
you, that we should be base enough to abide upon earth but by your
leave!

The judges looked at each other in consternation.

Who is it! ... who is it! cried the people as they rushed forward and
gathered about him and tried to get a sight of his face. Who _can_ it
be!

Burroughs--Bur--Bur--Burroughs, I _do_ believe! whispered a man who
stood at his elbow, but he spoke as if he did not feel very sure of
what he said.

Not George Burroughs, hey?

I’d take my oath of it neighbour Joe, my Bible-oath of it, leaning
forward as far as he could reach with safety, and shading his eyes with
his large bony hand--

Well, I _do_ say! whispered another.

I see the scar!--as I live, I do! cried another, peering over the heads
of the multitude, as they rocked to the heavy pressure of the intruder.

But how altered he is! ... and how old he looks!...--and shorter than
ever! muttered several more.

Silence there! cried the chief judge--a militia-captain, it is to be
observed, and of course not altogether so lawyer-like as a judge of our
day would be.

Silence there! echoed the High Sheriff.

Never see nobody so altered afore, continued one of the crowd, with
his eye fixed on the judge--I _will_ say that much, afore I stop, Mr.
Sheriff Berry, an’ (dropping his voice) if you don’t like it, you may
lump it ... who cares for you?

Well--an’ who cares for you, if you come to that.

Officer of the court, how now! cried the chief judge in a very loud
sharp voice.

Here I be mister judge--I ain’t deef.

Take that man away.

I say ... you! cried the High-Sheriff, getting up and fetching the man
a rap over the head with his white-oak staff ... do you hear that?

Hear what?

What Mr. judge Sewall says.

I don’t care for Mr. judge Sewall, nor you nyther.

Away with him Sir! out with him! are we to suffer this outrage on the
dignity of the court ... in the House of the Lord--away with him, Sir.

Here’s the devil to pay and no pitch hot--whispered a sailor-looking
fellow, in a red baize shirt.

An’ there’s thirteen-pence for you to pay, Mr. Outlandishman, said a
little neighbour, whose duty it was to watch for offenders in a small
way, and fine them for swearing, drinking, or kissing their wives on
the sabbath day.

What for?

Why, for that air oath o’yourn.

What oath?

Why, you said here’s the devil to pay!

Ha--ha--ha--and there’s thirteen-pence for _you_ to pay.

You be darned!

An’ there’s thirteen-pence more for you, my lad--ha--ha--ha--

The officer now drew near the individual he was ordered to remove; but
he did so as if a little afraid of his man--who stood up face to face
with the judge, and planted his foot as if he knew of no power on earth
able to move him, declaring he would’nt budge a peg, now they’d come to
that; for the house they were in had been paid for out of the people’s
money, and he’d as much right there as they had; but havin’ said what
he had to say on the subject, and bein’ pooty considr’ble easy on that
score now, if they’d mind their business he’d mind his; and if _they’d_
behave, he would.

Very well, said the chief judge, who knew the man to be a soldier of
tried bravery. Very well! you may stay where you are; I thought we
should bring you to your senses, neighbour Joe.

Here the stranger broke away from the crowd and leaped upon the
platform, and setting his teeth and smiting the floor with a heavy
iron-shod staff, he asked the judges why they did not enforce the
order? why with courage to take away life, they had no courage to
defend their authority. How dare ye forgive this man! said he; how dare
you bandy words with such a fellow! What if you _have_ been to the war
with him? Have ye not become the judges of the land? With hardihood
enough to undertake the awful representation of majesty, have ye not
enough to secure that majesty from outrage?

We know our own duty sir.

No such thing sir! you do not--if you do, it shall be the worse for
you. You are afraid of that man--

Afraid sir!--Who are you!

Yes--you are afraid of that man. If you are not, why allow him to
disturb the gravity of such an hour as this? Know your own power--Bid
the High-sheriff take him into custody.

A laugh here from the sturdy yeoman, who having paid his quota for
building the house, and fought his share of the fight with the
Indians, felt as free as the best of them.

Speak but the word, Sirs, and I will do what I see your officer hath
not valor enough to do. Speak but the word, Sirs! and I that know your
power, will obey it, (uplifting the staff as he spoke, while the fire
flashed from his eyes, and the crowd gave way on every side as if it
were the tomahawk or the bow of a savage)--speak but the word I say!
and I will strike him to the earth!

George Burroughs--I pray thee! said a female, who sat in a dark part of
the house with her head so muffled up that nobody could see her face--I
pray thee, George! do not strike thy brother in wrath.

Speak but the word I say, and lo! I will stretch him at your feet, if
he refuse to obey me, whatever may be the peril to me or mine.

I should like to see you do it, said the man. I care as little for you,
my boy,--throwing off his outer-garb as he spoke, and preparing for a
trial of strength on the spot--as little for you, George Burroughs, if
that is your name, as I do for your master.

Will you not speak! You see how afraid of him they all are, judges; you
know how long he has braved your authority--being a soldier forsooth.
Speak, if ye are wise; for if ye do not--

George! George!... No, no, George! said somebody at his elbow, with a
timid voice, that appeared to belong to a child.

The uplifted staff dropped from his hand.




CHAPTER VI.


Here the venerable Increase Mather stood up, and after a short speech
to the people and a few words to the court, he begged to know if the
individual he saw before him was indeed the George Burroughs who had
formerly been a servant of God.

Formerly, sir! I am so now, I hope.

The other sat down, with a look of inquietude.

You appear to be much perplexed about me. You appear even to doubt the
truth of what I say. Surely ... surely ... there are some here that
know me. I know you, Doctor Mather, and you, Sir William Phips, and you
... and you ... and you; addressing himself to many that stood near--it
is but the other day that we were associated together; and some of us
in the church, and others in the ministry; it is but the other day
that--

Here the Judges began to whisper together.

--That you knew me as well as I knew you. Can I be so changed in
a few short years? They have been years of sorrow to be sure, of
uninterrupted sorrow, of trial and suffering, warfare and wo; but I did
not suppose they had so changed me, as to make it over-hard for my very
brothers in the church to know me--

It _is_ Burroughs, I do believe, said another of the judges.--But who
is that boy with you, and by what authority are you abroad again, or
alive, I might say, if you are the George Burroughs that we knew?

By what authority, Judges of Israel! By authority of the Strong Man
who broke loose when the spirit of the Lord was upon him! By authority
of one that hath plucked me up out of the sea, by the hair of my head,
breathed into my nostrils the breath of new life, and endowed me with
great power--

The people drew back.

You have betrayed me; I will be a hostage for you no longer.

Betrayed you!

Yes! and ye would have betrayed me to death, if I had not been prepared
for your treachery--

The man is mad, brother Sewall.

You have broken the treaty I stood pledged for; you have not been at
peace for a day. You do not keep your faith. We do keep ours. You are
churchmen ... we are savages; we I say, for you made me ashamed years
and years ago of my relationship to the white man; years and years ago!
and you are now in a fair way to make me the mortal and perpetual foe
of the white man. The brave Iroquois are now ready for battle with you.
War they find to be better than peace with such as you--

Who is that boy?

Ask him. Behold his beauty. Set him face to face, if you dare, with the
girl that spoke to the knife just now.

And wherefore? said one of the jury.

Wherefore, Jacob Elliot--wherefore! Stay you in that box, and watch the
boy, and hear what he has to say, and you shall be satisfied of the
wherefore.

Be quick Sir. We have no time to lose--

No time to lose--How dare ye! Is there indeed such power with you; such
mighty power ... and you not afraid in the exercise of it! No time to
lose! Hereafter, when you are upon your death-bed, when every moment
of your life is numbered as every moment of _her_ life is now ... the
poor creature that stands there, what will you say if the words of that
very speech ring in your ears? Believe me--there is no such hurry. It
will be time enough to-morrow, judges, a week hence or a whole year to
shed the blood of a miserable woman for witchcraft. For witchcraft!
alas for the credulity of man! alas for the very nature of man!

Master Burroughs! murmured a compassionate-looking old man, reaching
over to lay his hand on his arm, as if to stop him, and shaking his
head as he spoke.

Oh but I do pity you; sages though you are--continued Burroughs,
without regarding the interposition.--For witchcraft! I wonder how you
are able to keep your countenances! Do you not perceive that mother
Good, as they call her, cannot be a witch?

How so? asked the judge.

Would she abide your search, your trial, your judgment, if she had
power to escape?

Assuredly not brother, answered a man, who rose up as he spoke as if
ready to dispute before the people, if permitted by the judges ...
assuredly not, brother, if she had power to escape. We agree with you
there. But we know that a period must arrive when the power that is
paid for with the soul, the power of witchcraft and sorcery shall be
withdrawn. We read of this and we believe it; and I might say that we
see the proof now before us--

Brother, I marvel at you--

--If the woman be unexpectedly deserted by the Father of lies, and if
we pursue our advantage now, we may be able both to succeed with her
and overthrow him, and thereby (lowering his voice and stooping toward
Burroughs) and thereby deter a multitude more from entering into the
league of death.

Speak low ... lower--much lower, deacon Darby, or we shall be no match
for the Father of lies: If he should happen to overhear you, the game
is up, said another.

For shame, Elder Smith--

For shame! cried Burroughs. Why rebuke his levity, when if we are to
put faith in what you say, ye are preparing to over-reach the Evil One
himself? You must play a sure game, (for it _is_ a game) if you hope
to convict him of treachery in a case, where according to what you
believe, his character is at stake.

Brother Burroughs!

Brother Willard!

Forbear, I beseech you.

I shall not forbear. If the woman is a witch, how do you hope to
surprise her? ... to entrap her? ... to convict her? And if she is not
a witch, how can she hope to go free? None but a witch could escape
your toils.

Ah Sir.... Sir! O, Mr. Burroughs! cried the poor woman. There you
have spoken the truth sir; there you have said just what I wanted to
say. I knew it.... I felt it.... I knew that if I was guilty it would
be better for me, than to be what you know me to be, and what your
dead wife knew me to be, and both of your dead wives, for I knew them
both--a broken-hearted poor old woman. God forever bless you Sir!
whatever may become of me--however this may end, God forever bless you,
Sir!

Be of good faith Sarah. He whom you serve will be nigh to you and
deliver you.

Oh Sir--Sir--Do not talk so. They misunderstand you--they are
whispering together--it will be the death of me; and hereafter, it may
perhaps be a trouble to you. Speak out, I beseech you! Say to them whom
it is that you mean, whom it is that I serve, and who it is that will
be nigh to me and deliver me.

Who it is, poor heart! why whom should it be but our Father above! our
Lord and our God, Sarah? Have thou courage, and be of good cheer, and
put all thy trust in him, for he hath power to deliver thee.

I have--I do--I am no longer afraid of death sir. If they put me to
death now--I do not wish to live--I am tired and sick of life, and I
have been so ever since dear boy and his poor father--I told them how
it would be if they went away when the moon was at the full--they were
shipwrecked on the shore just underneath the window of my chamber--if
they put me to death now, I shall die satisfied, for I shall not go to
my grave now, as I thought I should before you came, without a word or
a look of pity, nor any thing to make me comfortable.

Judges--may the boy speak?

Speak? speak? to be sure he may, muttered old Mr. Wait Winthrop,
addressing himself to a preacher who sat near with a large Bible
outspread upon his knees. What say you? what say you Brother Willard,
what says the Book?--no harm there, I hope; what can he have to say
though, (wiping his eyes) what _can_ such a lad have to say? What say
you major Gidney; what say you--(half sobbing) dreadful affair this,
dreadful affair; what can he possibly have to say?

Not much, I am afraid, replied Burroughs, not very much; but enough
I hope and believe, to shake your trust in the chief accuser. Robert
Eveleth--here--this way--shall the boy be sworn, Sir?

Sworn--sworn?--to be sure--why not? very odd
though--very--_very_--swear the boy--very odd, I confess--never saw a
likelier boy of his age--how old is he?

Thirteen Sir--

Very--very--of his height, I should say--what can he know of the matter
though? what can such a boy know of--of--however--we shall see--is the
boy sworn?--there, there--

The boy stepped forth as the kind-hearted old man--too kind-hearted
for a judge--concluded his perplexing soliloquy, one part of which was
given out with a very decided air, while another was uttered with a
look of pitiable indecision--stepped forth and lifted up his right hand
according to the law of that people, with his large grey eyes lighted
up and his fine yellow hair blowing about his head like a glory, and
swore by the Everlasting God, the Searcher of Hearts, to speak the
truth.

Every eye was riveted upon him, for he stood high upon a sort of stage,
in full view of everybody, and face to face to all who had sworn to the
spectre-knife, and his beauty was terrible.

Stand back, stand back ... what does that child do there? said another
of the judges, pointing to a poor little creature with a pale anxious
face and very black hair, who had crept close up to the side of Robert
Eveleth, and sat there with her eyes lifted to his, and her sweet lips
apart, as if she were holding her breath.

Why, what are you afeard of now, Bridgee Pope? said another voice. Get
away from the boy’s feet, will you ... why don’t you move? ... do you
hear me?

No ... I do not, she replied.

You do not! what did you answer me for, if you didn’t hear me?

Why ... why ... don’t you see the poor little thing’s bewitched?
whispered a bystander.

Very true ... very true ... let her be, therefore, let her stay where
she is.

Poor babe! she don’t hear a word you say.

O, but she dooze, though, said the boy, stooping down and smoothing
her thick hair with both hands; I know her of old, I know her better
than you do; she hears every word you say ... don’t you be afeard,
Bridgee Pope; _I’m_ not a goin’ to be afeard of the Old Boy himself....

Why Robert Eveleth! was the reply.

Well, Robert Eveleth, what have you to say? asked the chief-judge.

The boy stood up in reply, and threw back his head with a brave air,
and set his foot, and fixed his eye on the judge, and related what he
knew of the knife. He had broken it a few days before, he said, while
he and the witness were playing together; he threw away a part of
the blade, which he saw her pick up, and when he asked her what she
wanted of it, she wouldn’t say ... but he knew her well, and being jest
outside o’ the door when he heard her screech, and saw her pull a piece
of the broken blade out of her flesh and hold it up to the jury, and
say how the shape of old mother Good, who was over tother side o’ the
house at the time, had stabbed her with it, he guessed how the judge
would like to see the tother part o’ the knife, and hear what he had to
say for himself, but he couldn’t get near enough to speak to nobody,
and so he thought he’d run off to the school-house, where he had left
the handle o’ the knife, an’ try to get a mouthful o’ fresh air; and so
... and so ... arter he’d got the handle, sure enough, who should he
see but that are man there (pointing to Burroughs) stavin’ away on a
great black horse with a club--that very club he had now.--“Whereupon,”
added the boy, “here’s tother part o’ the knife, judge--I say ...
you ... Mr. judge ... here’s tother part o’ the knife ... an’ so he
stopped me an’ axed me where the plague I was runnin to; an’ so I up
an’ tells him all I know about the knife, an’ so, an’ so, an’ so, that
air feller, what dooze he do, but he jounces me up on that air plaguy
crupper and fetches me back here full split, you see, and rides over
everything, and makes everybody get out o’ the way, an’ _will_ make
me tell the story whether or no ... and as for the knife now, if you
put them are two pieces together, you’ll see how they match.... O, you
needn’t be makin’ mouths at me, Anne Putnam! nor you nyther, Marey
Lewis! you are no great shakes, nyther on you, and I ain’t afeard o’
nyther on you, though the grown people be; you wont make _me_ out a
witch in a hurry, I guess.

Boy ... boy ... how came you by that knife?

How came I by that knife? Ax Bridgy Pope; she knows the knife well
enough, too--I guess--don’t you, Bridgy?

I guess I do, Robert Eveleth, whispered the child, the tears running
down her cheeks, and every breath a sob.

You’ve seen it afore, may be?

That I have, Robert Eveleth; but I never expected to see ... to see ...
to see it again ... alive ... nor you neither.

And why not, pray? said one of the judges.

Why not, Mr. Major! why, ye see ’tis a bit of a keep-sake she gin me,
jest afore we started off on that are vyage arter the goold.

The voyage when they were all cast away, sir ... after they’d fished up
the gold, sir....

Ah, but the goold was safe then, Bridgy--

But I knew how ’twould be Sir, said the poor girl turning to the judge
with a convulsive sob, and pushing away the hair from her face and
trying to get up, I never expected to see Robert Eveleth again Sir--I
said so too--nor the knife either--I said so before they went away----.

So she did Mr. Judge, that’s a fact; she told me so down by the
beach there, just by that big tree that grows over the top o’ the
new school-house there--You know the one I mean--that one what hangs
over the edge o’ the hill just as if ’twas a-goin’ to fall into the
water--she heard poor mother Good say as much when her Billy would go
to sea whether or no, at the full o’ the moon----.

Ah!

That she did, long afore we got the ship off.

Possible!

Ay, to be sure an’ why not?--She had a bit of a dream ye see--such a
dream too! such a beautiful dream you never heard--about the lumps of
goold, and the joes, and the jewels, and the women o’ the sea, and
about a--I say, Mr. Judge, what, if you ax her to tell it over now--I
dare say she would; wouldn’t you Bridgy? You know it all now, don’t you
Bridgy?

No, no Robert--no, no; it’s all gone out o’ my head now.

No matter for the dream, boy, said a judge who was comparing the
parts of the blade together--no matter for the dream--these are
undoubtedly--look here brother, look--look--most undoubtedly parts of
the same blade.

Of a truth?

Of a truth, say you?

Yea verily, of a truth; pass the knife there--pass the knife. Be of
good cheer woman of sorrow----.

Brother! brother!----.

Well brother, what’s to pay now?

Perhaps it may be well brother--_perhaps_ I say, to have the judgment
of the whole court before we bid the prisoner be of good cheer.

How wonderful are thy ways, O Lord! whispered Elder Smith, as they
took the parts of the blade for him to look at.

Very true brother--very true--but who knows how the affair may turn out
after all?

Pooh--pooh!--if you talk in that way the affair is all up; for whatever
should happen, you would believe it a trick of the father of lies--I
dare say now--.

The knife speaks for itself, said a judge.

Very true brother--very true. But he who had power to strive with Aaron
the High Priest, and power to raise the dead before Saul, and power to
work prodigies of old, may not lack power to do this--and more, much
more than this--for the help of them that serve him in our day, and for
the overthrow of the righteous----.

Pooh, pooh Nathan, pooh, pooh--there’s no escape for any body now; your
devil-at-a-pinch were enough to hang the best of us.

Thirteen pence for you, said the little man at the desk.

Here a consultation was held by the judges and the elders which
continued for half the day--the incredible issue may be told in
few words. The boy, Robert Eveleth, was treated with favor; the
witness being a large girl was rebuked for the lie instead of being
whipped; the preacher Burroughs from that day forth was regarded with
unspeakable terror, and the poor old woman--she was put to death in due
course of law.




CHAPTER VII.


Meanwhile other charges grew up, and there was a dread everywhere
throughout the whole country, a deep fear in the hearts and a heavy
mysterious fear in the blood of men. The judges were in array against
the people, and the people against each other; and the number of the
afflicted increased every day and every hour, and they were sent for
from all parts of the Colony. Fasting and prayer preceded their steps,
and whithersoever they went, witches and wizards were sure to be
discovered. A native theologian, a very pious and very learned writer
of that day, was employed by the authorities of New England to draw up
a detailed account of what he himself was an eye witness of; and he
says of the unhappy creatures who appeared to be bewitched, all of whom
he knew, and most of whom he saw every day of his life, that when the
fit was on, they were distorted and convulsed in every limb, that they
were pinched black and blue by invisible fingers, that pins were stuck
into their flesh by invisible hands, that they were scalded in their
sleep as with boiling water and blistered as with fire, that one of the
afflicted was beset by a spectre with a spindle that nobody else could
see, till in her agony she snatched it away from the shape, when it
became instantly visible to everybody in the room with a quick flash,
that another was haunted by a shape clothed in a white sheet which
none but the afflicted herself was able to see till she tore a piece
of it away, whereupon it grew visible to others about her, (it was of
this particular story that Sarah Good spoke just before she was turned
off) that they were pursued night and day by withered hands--little
outstretched groping hands with no bodies nor arms to them, that cups
of blue fire and white smoke of a grateful smell, were offered them to
drink while they were in bed, of which, if they tasted ever so little,
as they would sometimes in their fright and hurry, their bodies would
swell up and their flesh would grow livid, much as if they had been bit
by a rattle snake, that burning rags were forced into their mouths or
under their armpits, leaving sores that no medicine would cure, that
some were branded as with a hot iron, so that very deep marks were left
upon their foreheads for life, that the spectres generally personated
such as were known to the afflicted, and that whenever they did so, if
the shape or spectre was hurt by the afflicted, the person represented
by the shape was sure to be hurt in the same way, that, for example,
one of the afflicted having charged a woman of Beverly, Dorcas Hoare,
with tormenting her, and immediately afterwards, pointing to a far
part of the room, cried out, there!--there! there she goes now! a man
who stood near, drew his rapier and struck at the wall, whereupon the
accuser told the court he had given the shape a scratch over the right
eye; and that Dorcas Hoare being apprehended a few days thereafter, it
was found that she had a mark over the right eye, which after a while
she confessed had been given her by the rapier; that if the accused
threw a look at the witnesses, the latter, though their eyes were
turned another way, would know it, and fall into a trance, out of which
they would recover only at the touch of the accused, that oftentimes
the flesh of the afflicted was bitten with a peculiar set of teeth
corresponding precisely with the teeth of the accused, whether few or
many, large or small, broken or regular, and that after a while, the
afflicted were often able to see the shapes that tormented them, and
among the rest a swarthy devil of a diminutive stature, with fierce
bright eyes, who carried a book in which he kept urging them to write,
whereby they would have submitted themselves to the power and authority
of another Black Shape, with which, if they were to be believed on
their oaths, two or three of their number had slept.

In reply to these reputed facts however, which appear in the grave
elaborate chronicles of the church, and are fortified by other facts
which were testified to about the same time, in the mother country,
we have the word of George Burroughs, a minister of God, who met the
accusers at the time, and stood up to them face to face, and denied the
truth of their charges, and braved the whole power of them that others
were so afraid of.

Man! man! away with her to the place of death! cried he to the chief
judge, on hearing a beautiful woman with a babe at her breast, a wife
and a mother acknowledge that she had lain with Beelzebub. Away with
her! why do you let her live! why permit her to profane the House of
the Lord, where the righteous are now gathered together, as ye believe?
why do ye spare the few that confess--would ye bribe them to live?
Would ye teach them to swear away the lives and characters of all whom
they are afraid of? and thus to preserve their own? Look there!--that
is her child--her only child--the babe that you see there in the lap
of that aged woman--she has no other hope in this world, nothing to
love, nothing to care for but that babe, the man-child of her beauty.
Ye are fathers!--look at her streaming eyes, at her locked hands, at
her pale quivering mouth, at her dishevelled hair--can you wonder now
at anything she says to save her boy--for if she dies, he dies? A wife
and a mother! a broken-hearted wife and a young mother accused of what,
if she did not speak as you have now made her speak, would separate her
and her baby forever and ever!

Would you have us put her to death? asked one of the judges. You appear
to argue in a strange way. What is your motive?--What your hope?--What
would you have us do? suffer them to escape who will not confess, and
put all to death who do?

Even so.

Why--if you were in league with the Evil One yourself brother George, I
do not well see how you could hit upon a method more advantageous for
him.

Hear me--I would rather die myself, unfitted as I am for death, die by
the rope, while striving to stay the mischief-makers in their headlong
career, than be the cause of death to such a woman as that, pleading
before you though she be, with perjury; because of a truth she is
pleading, not so much _against_ life as _for_ life, not so much against
the poor old creature whom she accuses of leading her astray, as for
the babe that you see there; for that boy and for its mother who is
quite sure that if she die, the boy will die--I say that which is true,
fathers! and yet I swear to you by the--

Thirteen-pence to you, brother B. for that!

--By the God of Abraham, that if her life--

Thirteen-pence more--faith!

The same to you--said the outlandishman. Sharp work, hey?

Fool--fool--if it depended upon me I say, her life and that of her
boy, I would order them both to the scaffold! Ye are amazed at what
you hear; ye look at each other in dismay; ye wonder how it is that a
mortal man hath courage to speak as I speak. And yet--hear me! Fathers
of New-England, hear me! beautiful as the boy is, and beautiful as
the mother is, I would put the mark of death upon her forehead, even
though his death were certain to follow, because if I did so, I should
be sure that a stop would be put forever to such horrible stories.

I thought so, said major Gidney--I thought so, by my troth, leaning
over the seat and speaking in a whisper to judge Saltanstall, who shook
his head with a mysterious air, and said--nothing.

Ye would save by her death, O, ye know not how much of human life!

Brother Burroughs!

Brother Willard!--what is there to shock you in what I say? These poor
people who are driven by you to perjury, made to confess by your absurd
law, will they stop with confession? Their lives are at stake--will
they not be driven to accuse? Will they not endeavor to make all
sure?--to fortify their stories by charging the innocent, or those of
whom they are afraid? Will they stop where you would have them stop?
Will they not rather come to believe that which they hear, and that of
which they are afraid?--to believe each other, even while they know
that what they themselves do swear is untrue?--May they not strive to
anticipate each other, to show their zeal or the sincerity of their
faith?--And may they not, by and by--I pray you to consider this--may
they not hereafter charge the living and the mighty as they have
hitherto charged the dead, and the poor, and the weak?

Well--

Well!

Yes--well!--what more have you to say?

What more! why, if need be, much more! You drive people to confession,
I say--you drive them to it, step by step, as with a scourge of iron.
Their lives are at stake, I _will_ say--yet more--I mean to say
much more now; now that you will provoke me to it. I say now that
you--you--ye judges of the land!--_you_ are the cause of all that we
suffer! The accused are obliged to accuse. They have no other hope.
They lie--and you know it, or should know it--and you know, as well
as I do, that they have no other hope, no other chance of escape. All
that have hitherto confessed are alive now. All that have denied your
charges, all that have withstood your mighty temptation--they are all
in the grave--all--all--

Brother--we have read in the Scriptures of Truth, or at least I have,
that of old, a woman had power to raise the dead. If she was upon her
trial now, would you not receive her confession? I wait your reply.

Receive it, governor Phips! no--no--not without proof that she had such
power.

Proof--how?

How! Ye should command her to raise the dead for proof--to raise the
dead in your presence. You are consulting together; I see that you
pity me. Nevertheless, I say again, that if these people are what
they say they are, they should be made to prove it by such awful and
irresistible proof--ah!--what are ye afraid of, judges?

We are not afraid.

Ye are afraid--ye are--and of that wretched old woman there!

What if we call for the proof now--will you endure it?

Endure it! Yes--whatever it may be. Speak to her. Bid her do her
worst--I have no fear--you are quaking with fear. I defy the Power of
Darkness; you would appear to tremble before it. And here I set my
foot--and here I call for the proof! Are they indeed witches?--what can
be easier than to overthrow such an adversary as I am? Why do ye look
at me as if I were mad--you are prepared to see me drop down perhaps,
or to cry out, or to give up the ghost? Why do ye shake your heads at
me? What have I to fear? And why is it I beseech you, that _you_ are
not moved by the evil-eye of that poor woman? Why is it, I pray you,
fathers and judges, that they alone who bear witness against her are
troubled by her look?

Brother Sewall, said one of the judges who had been brought up to the
law; Master Burroughs, I take it, is not of counsel for the prisoner at
the bar?

Assuredly not, brother.

Nor is he himself under the charge?

The remark is proper, said Burroughs. I am aware of all you would say.
I have no right perhaps to open my mouth--

No right, perhaps?--no _right_ brother B., said Winthrop--no right, we
believe?--but--if the prosecutors will suffer it?--why, why--we have no
objection, I suppose--I am sure--have we brother G.?

None at all. What say you Mr. Attorney-general?

Say Sir! What do I say Sir! why Sir, I say Sir, that such a thing was
never heard of before! and I say Sir, that it is against all rule Sir!
If the accused require counsel, the court have power to assign her
suitable counsel--such counsel to be of the law, Sir!--and being of
the law Sir, he would have no right Sir, you understand Sir,--no right
Sir--to address the jury, Sir--as you did the other day Sir--in Rex
versus Good, Sir,--none at all Sir!

Indeed--what may such counsel do then?

Do Sir! do!--why Sir, he may cross-examine the witnesses.

Really!

To be sure he may Sir! and what is more, he may argue points of law to
the court if need be.

Indeed!

Yes--but only points of law.

The court have power to grant such leave, hey?

Yes, that we have, said a judge. You may speak us a speech now, if you
will; but I would have you confine yourself to the charge.--

Here the prosecutor stood up, and saying he had made out his case,
prayed the direction of the court--

No, no, excuse me, said Burroughs; no, no, you have taught me how to
proceed Sir, and I shall undertake for the wretched woman, whatever may
be thought or said by the man of the law.

Proceed Mr. Burroughs--you are at liberty to proceed.

Well Martha, said Burroughs--I am to be your counsel now. What have you
to say for yourself?

The lawyers interchanged a sneer with each other.

Me--nothin’ at all, Sir.

Have you nobody here to speak for you?

For me!--Lord bless you, no! Nobody cares for poor Martha.

No witnesses?

Witnesses!--no indeed, but if you want witnesses, there’s a power of
witnesses.

Where?--

There--there by the box there--

Poor Martha! You do not understand me; the witnesses you see there
belong to the other side.

Well, what if they do?

Have you no witnesses of your own, pray?

Of my own! Lord you--there now--don’t be cross with me. How should poor
Martha know--they never told me;--what are they good for?

But is there nobody here acquainted with you?

And if there was, what would that prove? said a man of the law.

My stars, no! them that know’d me know’d enough to keep away, when they
lugged me off to jail.

And so there’s nobody here to say a kind word for you, if your life
depended on it?

No Sir--nobody at all--nobody cares for Martha. Gracious God--what
unspeakable simplicity!

O, I forgot Sir, I forgot! cried Martha, leaning over the bar and
clapping her hands with a cry of childish joy. I did see neighbor Joe
Trip, t’other day, and I told him he ought to stick by me--

Well where is he--what did he say?

Why he said he’d rather not, if ’twas all the same to me.

He’d rather not--where does he live?

And I spoke to three more, said a bystander, but they wouldn’t come so
fur, some was afeared, and some wouldn’t take the trouble.

Ah! is that you, Jeremiah?--how d’ye do, how d’ye do?--all well I hope
at your house?--an’ so they wouldn’t come, would they?--I wish they
would though, for I’m tired o’ stayin’ here; I’d do as much for them--

Hear you that judges! They would not come to testify in a matter of
life and death. What are their names?--where do they live?--they shall
be made to come.

You’ll excuse me, said the prosecutor. You are the day after the fair;
it’s too late now.

Too late! I appeal to the judges--too late!--would you persuade me Sir,
that it is ever too late for mercy, while there is yet room for mercy?
I speak to the judges--I pray them to make use of their power, and to
have these people who keep away at such a time brought hither by force.

The court have no such power, said the Attorney-General.

How Sir! have they not power to compel a witness to attend?

To be sure they have--on the part of the crown.

On the part of the crown!

Yes.

And not on the part of a prisoner?

No.

No! can this be the law?

Even so, said a judge.

Well, well--poor Martha!

What’s the matter now?--what ails you, Mr. Burroughs?

Martha--

Sir!

There’s no hope Martha.

Hope?

No Martha, no; there’s no hope for you. They _will_ have you die.

Die!--me!--

Yes, poor Martha--you.

Me!--what for?--what have I done?

O that your accusers were not rock, Martha!

Rock!

O that your judges could feel! or any that anybody who knows you would
appear and speak to your piety and your simplicity!

Law Sir--how you talk!

Why as for that now, said Jeremiah Smith, who stood by her, wiping his
eyes and breathing very hard; here am I, Sir, an’ ready to say a good
word for the poor soul, if I die for it; fact is, you see, Mr. Judge
Sewall I’ve know’d poor Martha Cory--hai’nt I Martha?--

So you have Jerry Smith.

--Ever since our Jeptha warn’t more’n so high,--

Stop Sir, if you please, you are not sworn yet, said one of the judges.

Very true--swear him, added another.

You’ll excuse me, said the Attorney-general. I say, you--what’s your
name?

Jerry Smith.

And you appear on the side of the prisoner at the bar, I take it?

Well, what if I do?

Why in that case, you see, you are not to be sworn, that’s all.

Not sworn! cried Burroughs. And why not Sir?

Why we never allow the witnesses that appear against the crown, to take
the oath.

Against the crown Sir! what on earth has the crown to do here?--what
have we to do with such absurdity?

Have a care, brother Burroughs!

Do you know Sir--do you know that, if this man be not allowed to say
what he has to say on oath, less credit will be given to what he says?

Can’t help that Sir.--Such is the law.

Judges--judges--do ye hear that?--_can_ this be the law? Will you give
the sanction of oaths to whatever may be said here against life?--and
refuse their sanction to whatever may be said for life? Can such be the
law?

The judges consulted together and agreed that such was the law, the law
of the mother-country and therefore the law of colonies.

Of a truth, said Burroughs, in reply; of a truth, I can perceive now
why it is, if a man appear to testify in _favor_ of human life that he
is regarded as a witness against the crown.--God help such crowns, I
say!

Brother!--dear brother!

God help such crowns, I say! What an idea of kingship it gives! What a
fearful commentary on the guardianship of monarchs! How much it says in
a word or two of their fatherly care! He who is _for_ the subject, even
though a life be at stake, is therefore _against_ the king!

Beware of that Sir.--You are on the very threshold of treason.

Be it so.--If there is no other way, I will step over that threshold--.

If you do Sir, it will be into your grave.--

Sir!--

Dear brother, I beseech you!

Enough--enough--I have nothing more to do--nothing more to say,
Sir--not another word, Sir--forgive me Sir--I--I--I--the tears of the
aged I cannot bear; the sorrow of such as are about to go before God, I
am not able, I never was able to bear. I beseech you, however, to look
with pity upon the poor soul there--poor Martha!--let her gray hairs
plead with you, as your gray hairs plead with me--I--I--proceed, Mr.
Attorney-General.

I have nothing more to say?

Nothing more to say!

With submission to the court--nothing.

Do you throw up the case then? said a judge.

Throw up the case! no indeed--no!--But if Mr. Counsellor Burroughs
here, who has contrived in my humble opinion, to make the procedure of
this court appear--that is to say--with all due submission--appear to
be not much better than a laughing-stock to the--to the--to my brethren
of the bar--if Mr. Burroughs, I say, if he has nothing more to say--I
beg leave to say--that is to say--that I have nothing more to say--.

Say--say--say--whispered one of his brethren of the bar--what say you
to that Mr. Burroughs?




CHAPTER VIII.


What _should_ I say? replied Burroughs. What would you have me say?
standing up and growing very pale. What would you have me say, you
that are of counsel for the prisoner, you! the judges of the court?
You that appear to rejoice when you see the last hope of the prisoner
about to be made of no value to her, by the trick and subterfuge of the
law. Why do you not speak to her?--Why do you not advise me? You know
that I depend upon the reply--You know that I have no other hope, and
that she has no other hope, and yet you leave us both to be destroyed
by the stratagem of an adversary. How shall I proceed? Speak to me, I
entreat you! Speak to me judges! Do not leave me to grope out a path
blind-folded over a precipice--a path which it would require great
skill to tread--O, I beseech you! do not leave me thus under the awful,
the tremendous accountability, which, in my ignorance of the law, I
have been desperate enough to undertake!--Here by my side are two men
of the law--yet have you assigned her, in a matter of life and death,
no counsel. They are afraid I see--afraid not only to rise up and speak
for the wretched woman, but they are afraid even to whisper to me. And
you, ye judges! are you also on the side of the prosecutor and the
witnesses--are you all for the king?--all!--all!--not so much as one
to say a word for the poor creature, who being pursued _for_ the king,
is treated as if she were pursued _by_ the king--pursued by him for
sacrifice! What! no answer--not a word! What am I to believe? ... that
you take pride in the exercise of your terrible power? that you look
upon it as a privilege? ... that you regard me now with displeasure ...
that if you could have your own way, you would permit no interference
with your frightful prerogative?... O that I knew in what way to
approach the hearts of men! O that I knew how to proceed in this
affair! Will nobody advise me!

Sir--Sir!--allow me, said a man of the law who sat near, allow me
Sir; I can bear it no longer--it is a reproach to the very name of
law--but--but (lowering his voice) if you will suffer me to suggest
a step or two for your consideration--you have the courage and the
power--I have not--my brethren here have not--you have--and you may
perhaps be able to--hush, hush--to bring her off.

Speak out, Sir--speak out, I beseech you. What am I to do?

Lower if you please--lower--low----er--er--er--we must not be
overheard--Brother Trap’s got a quick ear. Now my notion is--allow
me--(whispering) the jury are on the watch; they have heard you with
great anxiety--and great pleasure--if you can manage to keep the hold
you have got for half an hour--hush--hush--no matter how--the poor soul
may escape yet--

I’ll address the jury--

By no manner of means! That will not be suffered--you cannot address
the jury--

Good God! what shall I do!

Thirteen-pence more--carry five--paid to watchman.

I’ll put you in the way (with a waggish leer.) Though you are
not allowed to address the jury, you are allowed to address
the court--hey?--(chucking him with his elbow)--the court you
see--hey--sh!--sh!--you understand it--hey?

No--how cool you are!

Cool--you’d be cool too, if you understood the law.

Never--never--in a case of life and death.

Life and death? poh--everything is a case of life and death,
Sir--to a man o’ the law--everything--all cases are alike,
Sir--hey--provided--a--a--

Provided what, Sir?

Where the quid is the same.

The quid?

The quid pro quo--

How can you, Sir?--your levity is a--I begin to be afraid of your
principles--what am I to do?

Do--just keep the court in play; keep the judges at work, while I run
over to the shop for an authority or two I have there which may be of
use.--You have the jury with you now--lay it on thick--you understand
the play as well as I do now--

Stop--stop--am I to say to the judges what I would say to the jury, if
I had leave?

Pre--cisely! but--but--a word in your ear--so as to be heard by the
jury.--Tut--tut--

The head-prosecutor jumped up at these words, and with a great show
of zeal prayed the judges to put a stop to the consultation, a part
of which was of a character--of a character--that is to say, of a
character--

Burroughs would have interrupted him, but he was hindered by his crafty
law-adviser, who told him to let the worthy gentleman cut his own
throat in his own way, now he was in the humor for it.

Burroughs obeyed, and after his adversary had run himself out of
breath, arose in reply, and with a gravity and a moderation that
weighed prodigiously with the court, called upon the chief-judge to
put a stop to such gladiatorial controversy--

What would you have us do? said the judge.

I would have you do nothing more than your duty--

Here the coadjutor of Burroughs, after making a sign to him to face the
jury, slid away on tip-toe.

--I would have you rebuke this temper. Ye are the judges of a great
people. I would have you act, and I would have you teach others to
act, as if you and they were playing together, in every such case--not
for your own lives--that were too much to ask of mortal man; but for
another’s life. I would have you and your officers behave here as if
the game that you play were what you all know it to be, a game of life
and death--a trial, not of attorney with attorney, nor of judge with
judge, in the warfare of skill, or wit, or trick, or stratagem, for fee
or character--but a trial whereby the life here, and the life hereafter
it may be, of a fellow-creature is in issue. Yea--more--I would have
you teach the king’s Attorney-General, the prosecutor himself, that
representative though he be of majesty, it would be more dignified and
more worthy of majesty, if he could contrive to keep his temper, when
he is defeated or thwarted in his attack on human life. We may deserve
death all of us, but we deserve not mockery; and whether we deserve
death or not, I hope we deserve, under our gracious Lord and Master, to
be put to death according to law--

That’ll do!--that’ll do!--whispered the lawyer, who had returned with
his huge folios--that’ll do my boy! looking up over his spectacles and
turning a leaf--that’ll do! give it to ’em as hot as they can sup it--I
shall be ready for you in a crack--push on, push on--what a capital
figure you’d make at the bar--don’t stop--don’t stop.

Why, what on earth can I say!

Talk--talk--talk--no matter what you say--don’t give them time to
breathe--pop a speech into ’em!

A speech!

Ay, or a sermon, or a whar-whoop, or a prayer--any thing--anything--if
you do but keep the ball up--no matter-what, if the jury can hear
you--they are all agog now--they are pricking up their ears at
you--now’s your time!

Very well----Judges!

Proceed.

Judges. I am a traveller from my youth up. I have journied over Europe;
I have journied over America--I am acquainted with every people of
both hemispheres, and yet, whithersoever I go, I am a stranger. I have
studied much--thought much--and am already a show among those who
watched over my youth. I am still young, though I appear old, much
younger than you would suppose me to be, did you not know me--

Here he turned to the lawyer--I never shall be able to get through
this; I don’t know what I am saying.--

Nor I--So much the better--don’t give up--

----A youth--a lad in comparison with you, ye judges, you that I now
undertake to reprove----a spectacle and a show among men. They follow
me every where, (I hope you’ll soon be ready) they pursue me day after
day--and week after week--and month after month--

--And year after year--by jings, that’ll do!--

--And year after year; they and their wives, and their little ones--

And their flocks and their herds, and their man-servants and their
maid-servants, whispered the lawyer.

Do be quiet, will you.--They pursue me however, not because of their
veneration or their love, but only that they may study the perpetual
changes of my countenance and hear the language of one to whom all
changes and all languages are alike, and all beneath regard. They
follow me too, not because they are able to interpret the look of my
eyes, or to understand the meaning of my voice, but chiefly because
they hear that I have been abroad in the furthermost countries of all
the earth, because they are told by grave men, who catch their breath
when they speak of me, though it be in the House of the Lord, as you
have seen this very day, that I have been familiar with mysterious
trial and savage adventure, up from the hour of my birth, when I was
dropped in the wilderness like the young of the wild-beast, by my own
mother--

I say--Brother B.--I say though--whispered the lawyer, in much
perplexity--I say though--what are you at now? _You_ are not on
trial--are you?

Yes--yes--let me alone, I beseech you....

Fire away ... fire away ... you’ve got possession of the jury, and
that’s half the battle ... fire away.

Peace ... peace, I pray you ... Judges! whenever I go abroad ...
wherever I go ... the first place into which I set my foot, is the
tribunal of death. Go where I may, I go first in search of the courts
... the courts of _justice_, I should say, to distinguish them from all
other courts--

Good!--

--And I go thither because I have an idea that nations are to be
compared with nations, not in every thing--not altogether, but only in
a few things; and because after much thought, I have persuaded myself
that matters of religion, politics and morals, are inadequate for
the chief purposes of such comparison--the comparison of people with
people, though not for the comparison of individual with individual
perhaps; and that a variety of matters which regard the administration
of law, in cases affecting either life or liberty, are in their
very nature adequate, and may be conclusive. We may compare court
with court and law with law; but how shall we compare opinion with
opinion, where there is no unchangeable record of either? goodness
with goodness--where goodness itself may be but a thing of opinion or
hearsay, incapable of proof, and therefore incapable of comparison?

Very fair--very fair--but what on earth has it to do with our case?

Wait and you shall see; I begin to see my way clear now--wherefore
judges, I hold that the liberty of a people and therefore the greatness
of a people may be safely estimated by the degree of seriousness with
which a criminal is arraigned, or tried, or judged, or punished--.

--Very true--and very well spun out, brother B.... but a non sequitur
nevertheless. That wherefore, with which you began the period was a bit
of a----

Pray--_pray_--don’t interrupt me; you will be overheard--you will put
me out.--In a word, ye Judges of Israel! I have had a notion that
arbitrary power would betray itself in every case, and every-where on
earth, by its mode of dealing with liberty and life--being, I persuade
myself, more and more summary and careless, in proportion as it is
more and more absolute of a truth, not as it is more and more absolute
by character. You had for a time, while the northern savages were at
your door, a downright military government.--You know therefore that
my words are true. Your government was called free--to have called it
arbitrary, would have offended you; yet for a season you dealt with
human life as the Turk would. You know, for you have seen the proof,
that in proportion to the growth of power in those who bear sway among
you, the forms and ceremonies which fortify and hedge in, as it were,
the life and liberty of the subject, are either disregarded or trampled
on.--

Oh ho!--I see what you are driving at now!

--For my own part, I love to see the foreheads of them who are
appointed to sit in the high-places and give judgment forever upon the
property or character, life or liberty of their fellow man.--

Property or character--life or liberty--of a fellow man! Very
fair--very fair indeed.

--Expressive at least of decent sorrow, if not of profound awe. I
would have them look as if they were afraid--as if they trembled under
the weight of their tremendous authority; as if they were deeply
and clearly and reverentially sensible of what they have undertaken
to do--which is, to deal with the creatures of God, as God himself
professes to deal with them--according to their transgressions--to do
a part of his duty with his own Image--to shelter the oppressed and
to stay the oppressor, not only now and for a time, but hereafter and
forever--

Don’t stop to breathe now; I shall be at your back in a jiffy--

I would that every man who has to do with the administration of law,
wherever that law is to touch the life or liberty of another; and
whoever he may be, from the highest judge in the highest court of all
the earth, down to the humblest ministerial officer--I would that he
should feel, or at least appear to feel, that for a time he is the
delegate of Jehovah--I do not stop to say how, nor to ask why. That
is for others to say.--I would have the judges remarkable for their
gravity, not for their austerity; for their seriousness and for their
severe simplicity, not for a theatrical carriage. I would have the bar,
as you call it, above the trick and subterfuge of the law--incapable of
doing what I see them do every day of my life; and I would have the
bench as you call it, incapable of suffering what I see them not only
suffer, but take pleasure in, every day of my life----are you ready?

Persevere--persevere--you may say what you please now, said the lawyer,
shuffling his papers about with both hands, chuckling in his sleeve,
and whispering without appearing to whisper.--Have your own way now ...
they like to hear the lawyers and the judges, and the law cut up; it’s
a new thing to hear in such a place ... fire away, fire away ... you
see how they enjoy it ... you’ve got us on the hip now ... fire away.

If a criminal be arraigned on a charge that may affect his life or
character, limb or property, or if a witness be to be sworn, or the
oath administered, ... I care not how ... I care not why ... if you
will have oaths ... ye should order silence to be proclaimed by the
sound of trumpet.

--Pho! pho!

I would have a great bell, one so large that it might be heard far
and wide over the whole town--I would have this tolled on the day of
condemnation, if that condemnation were to death. And if it must be--if
you will have it so--if you will that a man be put to death by the rope
or the axe, on the scaffold or over an open grave--as the poor soldier
dies--I would have him perish at night--in the dead of midnight--and
all the town should wake up at the tolling of that heavy bell, or
at the roar of cannon, with a knowledge that a fellow-creature had
that instant passed away from the earth forever--just gone--that very
instant--before the Everlasting Judge of the quick and the dead--that
while they were holding their breath and before they could breathe
again--he would receive the sentence from which there would be no
appeal throughout all the countless ages of eternity.

Very fair--very fair--I see the foreman of the jury shudder--keep him
to it--

I love theory, but I love practice better--

Zounds! what a plunge!

--Bear with me, I beseech you. I had come to a conclusion years and
years ago, before I went away into the far parts of the earth, Judges
and Elders, that where human life is thought much of, there liberty
is; and that just in proportion to the value of human life are the
number and variety, the greatness and the strength of the safe-guards
forms and ceremonies, which go to make it secure, if not altogether
inaccessible.

Very fair--stick to the foreman--keep your eye on his face--don’t take
it off, and you’ll be sure of the jury.

I can hardly see his face now--

So much the better--we’ll have candles for them yet; and if we do, my
boy, the game is our own ... fire away; my authorities are almost ready
now--fire away.

--I journeyed the world over, but I found little to prove that human
life was of much value anywhere--anywhere I should say, except among
the barbarians and the savages. My heart was troubled with fear. I
knew not whither to go, nor where to look. Should I pursue my way
further into the cities of Europe, or go back into the wilderness of
America?--At last I heard of a nation--bear with me judges--where all
men were supposed by the law to be innocent, until they were _proved_
to be guilty, where the very judges were said to be of counsel for
the accused, where the verdict of at least twelve, and in some cases
of twenty-four men--their unanimous verdict too, was required for the
condemnation of such accused; where if a man were charged with a crime,
he was not even permitted to accuse himself or to acknowledge the
truth, till he had been put upon his guard by the judges--who would
even allow him, nay press him to withdraw an avowal, though it were
made by him with serious deliberation; where the laws were so tender of
human life to say all in a word, and so remarkable for humanity as to
be a perpetual theme for declamation. I heard all this.... I had much
reason to believe it ... for everybody that I knew believed it.... I
grew instantly weary of home....

Lights there! lights....

--I could not sleep for the desire I had to see that country.

You’d better stop awhile, Mr. Burroughs, whispered the lawyer.

--And I lost no time in going to it.

Pull up where you are ... but keep your face toward the jury.




CHAPTER IX.


Well, continued Burroughs, I departed for the shores of that other
world, where human life was guarded with such care and jealousy. I
inquired for the courts of justice and for the halls of legislation
... I hurried thither; ... I elbowed my way up to the sources of their
law, and I had the mortification to discover that in almost every case,
their courts were contrived, not as I had hoped from the character
of the people, so as to give the public an opportunity of seeing
the operation of power at work in the high-places of our earth, for
the detection of guilt and for the security of virtue, but so as to
hinder that operation, whether evil or good, from being viewed by the
public. Everywhere the courts of justice were paltry ... everywhere
inconvenient. Seeing this I grew afraid for the people. I found but
one large enough to accommodate its own officers, and but one which
it was possible for a stranger to enter, even by the aid of money,
without much delay, difficulty and hazard. Ye do not believe me--ye
cannot believe that such things are, such courts or such men, or that
ever a price hath been fixed in a proud free country, for which a
few and but a few of a mighty and wise people may see, now and then,
wherefore it is that some one of their number is to be swept away from
the earth forever. What I say is true. To the Halls of Legislation I
proceeded--to the place where that law is made of which I have had
occasion to speak this day. I went without my dinner; I paid my
last half-crown to see the makers of the law--and I came away, after
seeing--not the makers of the law, but the door-keepers of their
cage--it is true that while I was there, I was happy enough to see a
man, who was looking at another man, which other man declared that the
wig of the Speaker was distinctly visible--

Are you mad?

Be quiet Sir--

You have broken the spell--the jury are beginning to laugh--

Leave the jury to me--what I have to say Sir, may provoke a smile, but
if I do not much mistake, a smile for the advantage of poor Martha. We
have been too serious ... we may do better by showing that we have no
fear--if the lawgivers of that country _are_ what I say they are--if
the judges are what I say they are, and what I shall prove them to
be--and if the people of that country are what I am afraid they are,
under such law--why should we bow to its authority?

Pho--pho--pho.... You are all at sea now.

Well Judges ... I enquired when there would be a trial to prove the
truth of what I had been told, and whither I should go in search of
a Temple of Justice, where I might see for myself how human life was
regarded by the brave and the free. I found such a temple, and for the
price of another dinner, was carried up into a gallery and put behind
a huge pile of masonry, which as it stood for a pillar and happened to
be neither perforated nor transparent, gave me but a dreary prospect
for my money.... Do not smile--do not, I beseech you--I never was more
serious in my life.... At last I heard a man called up, heard I say,
for I could not see him, called up and charged with I know not what
fearful crime--I caught my breath--are you ready Sir?...

Almost ... almost--fire away--writing as fast as he could make the pen
fly over the paper ... fire away for a few minutes more....

I caught my breath ... I trembled with anxiety.... Now said I to
myself, (To the lawyer; I am afraid I shall drop.)

No no, don’t drop yet ... fire away!

Now, said I to myself, I shall see one of the most awful and affecting
sights in the world. Now shall I see the great humanity of the law ...
the law of this proud nation illustrated ... the very judges becoming
of counsel for the prisoner ... and the whole affair carried through
with unspeakable solemnity. I addressed myself to a man who stood near
me with a badge of authority in his hand ... the very key wherewith he
admitted people at so much a head, to see the performance. Pray, Sir,
said I, what is that poor fellow charged with? He didn’t know, not he,
some case of murder though, he thought, (offering me a pinch of snuff
as he spoke) or of highway-robbery, or something of the sort ... he
would enquire with great pleasure and let me know. The case opened. A
speech was made by a prosecutor for the crown, a ready and a powerful
speaker. The charge a capital one. The accused ... a poor emaciated
miserable creature, was on trial for having had in possession, property
which had been stolen out of a dwelling-house in the dead of night.
Well, prisoner at the bar, what have you to say for yourself? said the
judge with a stern look, after the case had been gone through with by
the prosecutor. Now is your time ... speak, said the judge. I have
nothing to say for myself, said the poor prisoner; nothing more than
what I have said four or five times already. Have you no witnesses? No
my lord----

Soh soh, Mr. Burroughs! We understand your parable now, cried one of
the judges with a look of dismay. We all know what country that is
where a judge is a lord ... have a care Sir; have a care.... Be wary
... you may rue this if you are not.

I shall endure the risk whatever it be ... shall I proceed?

We have no power to stop you....

No my lord, was the reply of the prisoner. I could not oblige them to
appear; and they would not appear. How came you by the property? said
his lordship. It was left with me by a man who stopped at my house; he
wanted a little money to carry him to see a sick wife ... and as I did
not know him, he left this property in pledge. Who was that man? I do
not know my lord, I never saw him before ... but one of my neighbors in
the same trade with me knew him, and if you had him here, he would say
so.

Judges, you have now heard my story. You know what I was prepared to
see; you know what I expected. Here was a man who, for aught we know,
told the truth. But he had no witnesses--he had no power to make them
testify--he had no refuge--no hope--the law was a snare to him--the law
of our mother-country.

How so pray?

Property being found in his possession--property which had been stolen,
he was to suffer, because--mark what I say, I beseech you--_because he
could not prove his innocence_!

Tut--tut--tut--rigmarole! said the prosecutor.

Rigmarole Sir--what I say is the simple truth. Hear me through. The
moment that poor fellow was found with the property in his possession,
he was concluded by the law and by the judges of the law to be guilty;
and they called upon him to _prove_ that he was _not guilty_--

Nature of things, my good brother--

Well--and if it is the nature of things, why deny the existence of the
fact? Why do you, as all men of the law have done for ages and still
do--why say over and over again every day of your lives, that it is the
characteristic of the law, that law of which you are the expounders, to
regard every man as innocent, until he be _proved_ to be guilty? Why
not say the truth? Why quibble with rhetoric? Why not say that where
a man is charged with a crime, you are, in the very nature of things,
under the necessity of taking that for proof which is not proof? Look
you Sir--how came you by the coat you wear? Suppose I were to challenge
that cloth and put you to the proof, how could you prove that you
purchased it fairly of a fair trader?

I would appeal to the trader--

Appeal to the trader! If he had not come honestly by it Sir, would he
ever acknowledge that you had it of him? or that he had ever seen your
face before?

Well then--I would prove it by somebody else.

By somebody else, would you! Are you so very cautious--do you never
go abroad without having a witness at your heels? do you never pick
up anything in the street Sir, without first assuring yourself that
you are observed by somebody of good character, who will appear of
his own accord in your behalf, should you be arraigned for having
stolen property in your possession? What would you have to say for
yourself?--your oath would not be received--and if it was, there would
only be oath against oath--your oath against that of the trader of whom
you purchased, or the individual of whom you received the property--and
his oath against yours.--How would you behave with no witnesses to help
you out?--or with witnesses who would not appear and could not be made
to appear on your side, though your life were at stake?--nay, for that
very reason, for if your property only were at stake, they might be
made to appear--

Very well!

--Or with witnesses, who having appeared on your side, are not allowed
to make oath to what they say--lest they may be believed--to the
prejudice of our good king?

Really, cried one of the judges, really, gentlemen, you appear to be
going very wide of the mark. What have we to do with your snip-snap and
gossip? Are we to have nothing but speech after speech--about nobody
knows what--now smacking of outrage--now of treason? Are we to stay
here all night Sirs of the bar, while you are whispering together?

With submission to the court, said the Attorney-general--we have a case
put here, which would seem to require a word of reply. We are asked
what we should do if we were without witnesses--and the court will
perceive that the sympathy of the jury is relied on--is relied on, I
say!--on the authority of a case--of a case which!--of a case which I
never heard of before! The court will please to observe--to observe I
say!--that the prisoner at the bar--at the bar--has no witnesses--in
which case, I would ask, where is the hardship--where we cannot prove
our innocence--our innocence I say!--of a particular charge--we have
only to prove our character.

Here the Attorney-general sat down with a smile and a bow, and a
magnificent shake of the head.

Only to prove our character, hey?

To be sure--

But how--if we have no witnesses--

Very fair--very fair, brother B.

What if you were a stranger?--what if you had no character?--or a bad
one?

It would go hard with me, I dare say--and--and (raising his voice and
appealing to the bar with a triumphant look) and it _should_ go hard
with me.

Why then Sir--it would go hard with every stranger in a strange
country, for he has no character; and it would go hard with every man
who might be unable to produce proof, though he had a good character;
and with every man who might be regarded as a profligate or a
suspicious character--as a cheat, or a jew, or a misbeliever.

And what have such men to complain of?

Judges--Fathers--I appeal to you. I have not much more to say, and what
I have to say shall be said with a view to the case before you. I have
always understood that if a man be charged with a crime here, he is to
be tried for that particular crime with which he is charged, and for no
other till that be disposed of. I have always understood moreover, not
only in your courts of law and by your books of law, but by the courts
and by the books of which you are but a copy, that character is not to
be put in issue as a crime before you; and that nobody is to be put to
death or punished merely because he may happen to have no character at
all--nor because he may have a bad one--

You have understood no more than is true, said a judge.

If so ... allow me to ask why you and other judges are in the habit
of punishing people of a bad character ... nay of putting such people
to death ... for doing that which, if it were done by people of good
character, you would overlook or forgive?

How Sir.... Do you pretend that we ever do such things?

I do.... Will you say that you do not?...

Yes ... and waive the authority of a judge, and the irregularity of
your procedure that you may reply.

Then ... if what I hear is true ... if it is law I mean ... the judges
before me will not regard character?

Why as to _regarding_ character ... that’s another affair Mr.
Burroughs....

I implore you ... take one side or the other! Say whether you do or
do not regard character.... I care not for the degree, nor do I care
which side you take. For if you say that you do, then I say that you
act in the teeth of all your professions; for you declare in every
shape, every man of you, every day of your lives, that nobody shall
be punished by law but for that which he has been charged with in due
course of law ... technically charged with and apprised of ... and you
never charge a man with having a bad character....

Well, then ... suppose we say that we do _not_ regard character?

When character is not in issue, brother, added the chief-judge; for it
may be put in issue by the traverser--in which case we are bound to
weigh the proof on both sides along with the jury.

If you say that, in your character of judge ... and if you are all
agreed in saying that.... Lo, I am prepared for you.

We are agreed--we perceive the truth now.

Lo, my answer!--You have heard the whole of our case. You have heard
all the witnesses for the crown; you have gathered all the proof. Now
... bear with me, judges ... bear with me ... what I say is a matter
of life and death ... we have no witnesses ... we have not put the
character of Martha in issue ... all that you know of her, you know
from your witnesses, and they have not said a syllable touching her
character. Now ... fathers! and judges!... I ask you if that proof,
take it altogether, would be enough in your estimation, to prove ... I
beg you to hear me ... would it be enough to convict any one of your
number, if he had no witness to speak for him?... Ye are astounded! Ye
know not how to reply, nor how to escape; for ye know in your own souls
that such proof ... such proof and no more, would not be enough to
convict any one of you in the opinion of the other six.

Well Sir----what then?

Why then Sir ... then ye Judges--if that poor old woman before you--if
she be not on trial for character--on trial for that which has not been
charged to her ... by what you have now said, she is free. Stand up, on
your feet Martha! stand up and rejoice! By what ye have now said, ye
judges, that poor old woman hath leave to go free!

The judges were mute with surprise, and the lawyer started upon his
feet and clapped Burroughs on the back, and stood rubbing his hands
at the Attorney-general and making mouths at the jury--Capital! ...
Capital! ... never saw the like, faith--never, never ... never thought
of such a view myself ... but I say though (in a whisper) you did begin
to put her character in issue--tut--tut--yes you did, you rogue you ...
say nothin’--tut--tut--

Say nothing Sir!--excuse me. If I have said that which is not true, I
shall unsay it--

Pooh, pooh ... your argument’s all the same, and besides, you did not
go far enough to make Jerry Smith your witness ... pooh, pooh--what a
fool you are--

But the judges recovered their self-possession, and laid their heads
together and asked Burroughs if he had anything more to say.

More to say--yes--much more--enough to keep you employed for the rest
of your lives, ye hard-hearted inaccessible men! What--are ye so bent
upon mischief! Will ye not suffer that aged woman to escape the snare!
Ye carry me back all at once to the spot of which I spoke. Ye drive
me to the parable again. I saw the judges behave to their prisoner
as I now see you behave to yours; and I would have cried out there
as I do here, with a loud voice.... Are ye indeed the counsel for
the prisoner!--Why do ye not behave as other counsel do? But when I
looked up and beheld their faces, and about me, and beheld the faces
of the multitude, my courage was gone--I had no hope--my heart died
away within me. They were as mute as you are--and their look was your
look--a look of death. But where, said I, is the advocate for the
prisoner? why does he not appear? He has none, was the reply. What,
no advocate, no help--there is a provision of your law which enables
the very pauper to sue.... I have heard so, and surely he is not so
very poor, the man I see at the bar; why do not the counsel that I see
there unoccupied--why do they not offer to help him? They are not paid
Sir. Do they require pay before they will put forth a hand to save a
fellow-creature from death? Of course. But why do not the court assign
counsel to him?--The reply there was the reply that you have heard here
this day. The accused have no counsel in a matter of life and death ...
it is only by courtesy that counsel are permitted even to address the
court on a point of law, when they are employed by a prisoner.

But why do I urge all this? Are not we, and were not they, living in a
land of mercy, a land remarkable for the humanity of her laws? Do not
mistake me, fathers! I would not that the guilty should escape.... I
have no such desire. But I would have the innocent safe, and I would
have the guilty, yea the guiltiest in every case and everywhere,
punished according to law. To know that a man has committed murder is
not enough to justify you in taking his life--to see him do the deed
with your own eyes, would not be enough to justify you in putting
him to death--wherefore it is that however certain the guilt of the
accused, and however great his crime, he should have counsel....

Absurd!--

Yea--counsel, judge--counsel!

You would allow the guilty every possible chance of escape.

Even so, judge! every possible chance of escape. For the guilty have
some rights to guard--rights the more precious for being so few, and
for being in perpetual risk of outrage; the more to be guarded Sir,
_because_ they are the rights and the privileges of the wicked, who
have nothing to hope from the public sympathy, no hope of pity, no
hope of charity. Even so, Judge! for the innocent are liable to appear
otherwise. Even so--for till the trial be over, how do we know who is
guilty and who not? How do we know--how is it possible for us to know,
till the accused have undergone their trial, whether they are, or
are not unjustly charged? For the innocent as well as for the guilty
therefore, would I have counsel for the accused--yea, counsel, whatever
were the charge, and however probable it might appear--nay the more, in
proportion both to the probability and to the magnitude of the charge.

A fine theory that Sir. You have been abroad to much purpose, it would
appear.

Even so judge--even so. Such _is_ my theory, and I _have_ been abroad,
I believe, to much purpose; for if men are to die by the law, I would
have them appear to die by the law. By the law, judge--not by popular
caprice, popular indignation or arbitrary power. I would leave no
ground for sorrow, none for self-reproach, none for misgiving, either
to the public or to that portion of the public who have participated
more immediately in the awful business of death. I would have no such
case on record as that of Mary Dyer.... I would have no Elizabeth
Hutchinson offered up--no such trials, no such graves, no such names
for the people to be afraid of and sorry for, ages and ages after
the death of a miserable infatuated woman--a prophetess or a witch,
forsooth--

George Burroughs!

--A prophetess or a witch I say!--after she has been put to death no
man is able to say wherefore.

George Burroughs!

Who speaks?

George Burroughs, beware! cried a female who stood in a dark part of
the house, with her head muffled up--a deep shadow was about her and a
stillness like death.

I know that voice--be of good cheer--I have nearly done, though not
being used to unprepared public-speaking, I have said little that
I meant to say, and much that I did not mean to say; hardly a word
however even of that which I have said or meant to say, as I would say
it, or as I could say it, if I had a little more experience--or as I
could say it now on paper. And if I feel this--I--who have grown up to
a habit if not of speaking, at least of reading before a multitude;
I, who have been used from my youth up to arrange my thoughts for the
public eye, to argue and to persuade; what must another, taken by
surprise, wholly without such practice and power, what must he--or
she--or that poor woman at the bar feel, were you to put her into my
place, and urge her to defend herself to a jury? Pity her ... I implore
you ... consider what I say and have mercy upon her!--

Before you sit down, brother B.... what if you give us a word or two
of the parallel you begun?--I see the drift of it now--a word or two,
you understand me--take a mouthful o’ water--and if you could manage
to slip in a remark or two about the nature of the proof required in
witchcraft, I’ll be after you in a crack, and we’ll tire ’em out, if we
can’t do anything better.

I will--be prepared though--for I shall say _but_ a word or two--I am
weary; sick and weary of this--my throat is parched, and my very soul
in a maze of perplexity.

So much the better--they can’t follow you on t’other side.

Well, fathers! I pursued the inquiry. I found that even there, no
prisoner could have a compulsory process to bring a witness _for_
him into court, although such process could be had, backed by the
whole power of the country, to bring a witness _against_ him. And I
discovered also, that if a witness for the accused were so obliging
as to appear, they would not suffer him to speak on oath. I turned to
the officer--I take it, Sir, said I, that in such a case, you have
no punishment for untruth, and of course, that the witnesses for
the wretched man at the bar are not so likely to be believed as the
witnesses against him ... the latter being on oath?... Precisely. But
is he a lawyer? said I.... Who! the prisoner at the bar.... Yes.... A
lawyer--no. Is he accustomed to public speaking? He ... no, indeed!...
Nor to close argument, perhaps? nor to a habit of arranging his ideas
on paper?... I dare say not, was the reply. It would be no easy matter
for a man to preserve his selfpossession ... so at least I should
suppose, however much he might be accustomed to public speaking ... if
he were on trial himself, and obliged to defend himself?

There’s an authority for you in the books, brother B.--The man who
appeareth for himself, (in a loud voice) for himself, saith my lord ...
Coke, hath a fool for his client....

Saith Lord Coke, hey?

Pooh, pooh, (in a whisper) pooh, pooh; never mind who says it; give it
for his, and let them show the contrary, if they are able.

But if it be a case of life and death--where great coolness and great
precision were needed at every step, he would be yet more embarrassed?
No doubt. And is not the prosecutor a very able man? Very, Sir--very.
Chosen for that office, out of a multitude of superior men altogether
on account of his ability? Very true, Sir--very true--on account of
his ability and experience at the bar. And yet, Sir, said I--if I
understand you, that poor fellow there, who is now in such grevious
trepidation, so weak that he can hardly stand--his color coming and
going with every breath, his throat and mouth and lips dry with
excessive anxiety, his head inclined as if with a continual ringing in
his ears--if I understand you, said I, he is now called up to defend
himself, to make speech for speech before a jury, against one of your
most able and eloquent speakers; a man whose reputation is at stake on
the issue--a man who--if he be thwarted in his way, by a witness, or a
fact, or a speech, or a point of law, will appear to regard the escape
of the prisoner, whatever he may be charged with, and whether he be
innocent or guilty, as nothing better than a reproach to the law, and
high treason to the state--a man, to say all in a word, who dares to
behave in a court of justice--in a matter of life and death too--as if
the escape of a prisoner were disloyalty to the king--our father! and a
disgrace to the king’s Attorney-general--

Will you have done, Sir?

No ... no ... no!... _You have no power to stop me._ The jury could not
agree. Two of their number were unwilling to find the accused guilty.
They were sent back--it was in the dead of winter, and they were
allowed neither food, nor fire--and so, after a while they were starved
and frozen into unanimity--

Grant me patience! what would you have, Sir?--you appear to be
satisfied with nothing--I believe in my soul, George Burroughs, that
you are no better than a Reformer--

A shudder ran through the whole court.

Here was a pretty illustration of what I had been told by you, and by
such as you, and of what I believed before I went abroad, about the
humanity of the law--the humanity of British law! of that very law that
ye are now seeking to administer here, in this remote corner of the
earth. Ye are amazed--ye do not believe me--and yet every word I have
spoken is true; and that which is law there, ye would make law here.
The judges, we are told, are of counsel for the prisoner--God preserve
me from such counsel, I say!...

Five and one are six--six-and-sixpence, muttered a voice.

They never interfered while I was there, in favor of the prisoner; but
they did interfere two or three times, and with great acuteness too,
for it was a trial of wit among three, to his disadvantage, even as
ye have this day. The accused are held to be innocent there, even as
they are here, till they are proved to be guilty--so say the lawyers
there, and so say the judges, and so say all the writers on the law,
and so they believe, I dare say. And yet ... there as here, the man who
happens to be suspected of a crime is held to be ... not innocent of
the charge, but guilty, and is called upon to _prove his innocence_;
which if he fail to do, judgment follows, and after two or three days,
it may be, death. He had no counsel permitted to him where his life
was at stake, though he might have had the best in the whole empire in
a civil case affecting property to the value of a few pounds. He had
no power to bring witnesses ... the law would not allow him witnesses
therefore ... and if they appeared in spite of the law, that law put a
disqualification upon whatever they said in favor of the prisoner. And
after all this.... O the humanity of the law! ... the jury, a part of
whom believed him to be innocent were starved into finding him guilty.
What was I to think of all this? what of British law--that very law by
authority whereof, ye are now trying that woman for her life--what of
the--

Here Burroughs dropped into a chair completely out of breath.

Have you done Sir? said the chief judge.

He signified by a motion of the head that he must give up.

Very well Sir--You cannot say that we have not heard you patiently; nor
that we have hurried the case of the prisoners at the bar, whatever
else you may think proper to say. You have had such liberty as we
never granted before, as we shall never grant again; you have had
full swing Sir--full swing, and would have been stopped a good hour
ago but for the deplorable situation of the accused. To tell you the
plain truth however--I did hope--I did hope I say, that we should hear
something--_something_ to the purpose, before you gave the matter up--

Something to the purpose, judge!--Have a care--you know me--

Silence!

Judge--judge--I have said more than you six will ever be able to
answer, though you keep your heads together to all eternity--How can
you answer what I say?

How--in five words....

In five words!

I ask no more to satisfy all that hear me--my brethren of the bench,
the bar, and the people--but five words, I tell you.

And what are they, I do beseech you?...

_The--wisdom--of--our--ancestors._




CHAPTER X.


Here the lawyer started up, and after prevailing upon Burroughs to
forbear and be still, argued (with his face to the jury) five or six
points of law, as he called them, every one of which had been argued
over and over again at every trial of a serious charge that he had
ever been occupied with in the whole course of a long life at the bar
... four being about the propriety of capital punishments in general,
and two about the propriety of capital punishments in the particular
case of the prisoner at the bar--whom he protested before God (for
which he had to pay thirteen-pence more) he believed to be innocent of
the charge--and what was that charge?--nothing more nor less than the
charge of sorcery and witchcraft!--a crime, the very possibility of
which, he proceeded to deny, in the very language he had used about a
twelvemonth before, while arguing about the impossibility of marriage
in a particular case.

Brother--brother--we do not sit here to try the possibility of such a
thing as witchcraft--please to consider where you are, and what we are.

Speech after speech followed; and it was near midnight, when the chief
judge, after consulting with his brethren, proceeded to address the
jury.

Ye have heard much that in our opinion does not need a reply, said he,
after taking a general view of the case, with much that a brief reply
may be sufficient for, and a very little, which, as it may serve to
perplex you, if we pass it over without notice, we shall say a few
words upon, though it has little or nothing to do with the case before
you.

The law you have nothing to do with ... right or wrong, wise or
foolish, you have nothing to do with the law. So too ... whatever may
be the practice abroad or in this country, and whatever may be the
hardship of that practice, you have nothing to do with it. One is
the business of the legislature ... of the law-makers; the other the
business of the courts, and the judges ... the law-expounders. You
are to try a particular case by a particular law; to that, your whole
attention is to be directed. If the law be a bad law, that is neither
your business nor our business. We and you are to do our duty, and
leave theirs to the sovereign legislature.

I propose now to recapitulate the evidence, which I have taken notes
of--should I be wrong, you will correct me. After I have gone through
with the evidence, I shall offer a few brief remarks in reply to the
arguments which have been crowded into the case--I will not say for
show--and which, idle as they are, would seem to have had weight with
you.

The afflicted, you observe, do generally testify that the shape of the
prisoner doth oftentimes pinch them, choke them, and otherwise afflict
them, urging them always to write in a book she bears about with her.
And you observe too, that the accusers were struck down with a fit
before you, and could not rise up till she was ordered to touch them,
and that several of their number have had fits whenever she looked upon
them.

But we are to be more particular, and I shall now read my notes, and I
pray you to follow me.

1. Deliverance Hobbs, who confessed herself a witch, testified that
the prisoner tempted her to sign the book again, and to deny what she
had confessed; and that the shape of the prisoner whipped her with
iron rods to force her to do so, and that the prisoner was at a general
meeting of witches at a field near Salem village, and there partook of
the sacrament with them.

2. John Cook testified that about five or six years ago, he was
assaulted with the shape of the prisoner in his chamber, and so
terrified that an apple he had in his hand flew strangely from him into
his mother’s lap, six or eight feet distance.

3. Samuel Gray testified that about fourteen years ago, he waked one
night and saw his room full of light and a woman between the cradle
and bed-side; he got up but found the doors fast, and the apparition
vanished--however the child was so frighted, that it pined away and
in some time died. He confessed that he had never seen the prisoner
before, but was now satisfied that it was her apparition.

4. John Bly and his wife testified that he bought a sow of the
prisoner’s husband, but being to pay the money to another, she was so
angry that she quarrelled with Bly, and soon after the sow was taken
with strange fits, jumping, leaping and knocking her head against the
fence which made the witnesses conclude the prisoner had bewitched it.

5. Richard Coman testified that eight years ago, he was terrified with
the spectre of the prisoner and others, who so oppressed him in his
bed that he could not stir hand nor foot, but calling up somebody to
come to his assistance, as soon as the people of the house spoke, the
spectre vanished and all was quiet.

6. Samuel Shattock testified that in 1680 (twelve years before the
trial) the prisoner often came to his house on frivolous errands, soon
after which his child was taken with strange fits, and at last lost his
understanding; the fits were manifestly epileptic, but the witness
verily believed it was bewitched by the prisoner.

7. John Londor testified that upon some little controversy with the
prisoner about her fowls, going well to bed, he awoke in the night and
saw the likeness of this woman greviously oppressing him. Another time
he was troubled with a black pig, but going to kick it, it vanished.
Another time as he was sitting in his room, a black hobgobling jumped
in the room, which spoke to him these words--I understand you are
troubled in mind: Be ruled by me and you shall want nothing in this
world. But when he endeavored to strike it, there was nothing. After
this he ran out of his house and saw the prisoner in her orchard, but
had no power to speak to her, but concluded his trouble was all owing
to her.

8. William Stacy testified that the spectre of the prisoner had
played him several pranks of the same nature as the former; for
example--having received some money of the prisoner for work, he had
not gone above three rods from her when it was gone from him; some time
after, discoursing with the prisoner about grinding her grist, he had
not gone above six rods from her with a small load in his cart, before
the off-wheel sunk into a hole in plain ground, so that the deponent
was forced to get help for the recovery of it, but stepping back to
look for the hole, there was none to be found. Another time, as he was
going home on a dark night, he was lifted up from the ground and thrown
against the stone wall, and after that, he was hoisted up, and thrown
down a bank at the end of his house.

9. John and William Bly testified that being employed by the prisoner
to take down her cellar-wall, they found several poppets made of rags
and hog’s bristles, with headless pins in them, the points being
outwards.

In addition to all this, continued the chief-judge, you have the
testimony of Mr. Park, the magistrate, who says that when her Paris’s
daughter and two other children accused the prisoner at the bar of
afflicting them, by biting, pricking, strangling, &c. saying that they
saw her likeness in their fits, coming toward them and bringing them a
book to sign, he asked her why she afflicted those poor children--to
which she replied that she did not; and that when he asked her who did
then? she answered she did not know--

Burroughs groaned aloud.

--You will observe her answer, gentlemen of the jury ... she did not
know, but thought they were poor distracted creatures, whereupon the
afflicted said that the Black man was whispering in her ear and that a
yellow-bird which used to suck between her fingers was now there; and
orders being given to see if there was any sign, a girl said, it is now
too late for she has removed a pin and put it on her head; and upon
search there was found a pin sticking upright there. He testifies too
that when Mrs. Cory had any motion of her body the afflicted would cry
out, when she bit her lip they would cry out of being bitten, and if
she grasped one hand with the other they would cry out of being pinched.

You will observe too that a jury of women who were empanelled to search
her body, testify one and all that they found a preternatural teat upon
her body; but upon a second search three or four hours after, there was
none to be found.

Thus much for the evidence, gentlemen of the jury; I proceed now to
remark on what has been urged for the--officer--officer ... look to
your prisoner!

O, I am so tired and so sleepy! said Martha a getting up, and trying to
pass the sheriff, who stood by her with a drawn sword. Let me go, will
you!--get out o’ the way and let me go--what’s the use o’ keeping me
here; I’ve told you all ’t I know o’ the job. _Do_ let poor Martha go!

Gracious God!--Father of Love! cried Burroughs, what an appeal to the
executioners of the law! Did you not hear it, ye judges? Do you not see
her now, tottering away ... the poor bewildered creature.

Have done Sir.

Dear brother--if we are wise we shall be not be strict with him
here--let us give the world nothing to complain of, our duty require
it, policy requires it--ah!

Prisoner at the bar--go back to your seat: Officer--officer--

She don’t hear a word you say, Mr. Judge.

Martha Cory--Martha!

Well, here I be, Mister Capun Sewall; what d’ye want o’ me?

Go back to your seat, Martha.

Back there?--I shall not--

Officer!

The officer took her by the arm to lead her back.

Gently there--gently--gently.

There now! cried Martha, in a peevish, querulous tone--There now;
dropping into the seat with her arms a-kimbo, and poking out her chin
at the officer. There now; I hope that’ll satisfy you--

Gentlemen of the jury, pursued the judge; You have now the evidence
before you. You have gone through the whole proof with me, step by
step--it is for you to say what is the value of that proof--

Proof, cried Burroughs--proof! taking away his hands from his pale
face--and speaking through his shut teeth. Call you that proof which
proves nothing? that which relates to things that occurred, if they
ever occurred at all, years and years ago? that which is only a sort
of guess-work? that which relates to transactions which the poor soul
does not appear to have had either voice or part in?

Bravely said, George Burroughs--bravely put, cried a female, who stood
in the dark part of the house.

Such trivial matters too--so trivial that we should mock at them, but
for the life we lead here, surrounded by savages, and by death in every
shape, and by woods and waters that were never yet explored by man;
beset on every side by a foe that never sleeps; afar and away from
succor and liable to be surprised every hour of the day and every hour
of the night, and butchered among our babes and our household-gods;
Proof, say you?--can that be proof, I appeal to you judges--that which,
however false it may be, or however mistaken by the witnesses, cannot,
in the very nature of things, be explained away nor contradicted; that
which calls upon a poor creature worn out with age and misery--an
idiot--for of a truth she is little better--I pray you judges--I pray
you--on me let your displeasure fall; not on her--I will abide your
wrath--I see it in your eyes--but I pray you--I beseech you--can that
be proof, _that_ which calls upon a prisoner in such a case to go
through the whole history of her life--hour by hour--step by step. Nay,
speak to me!--By your oaths, answer me! By your oath here, and by your
hope hereafter, may you call upon her, in a matter of life and death,
to do this? And not only to do this, but to account for the epilepsy of
a babe? for the dreams, the diseases, the very night-mares of them that
now accuse her?----

If you do not stop Sir, we shall have to commit you.

Commit me if you dare! You have made me counsel for the prisoner, and
whatever may be the courtesy of the bar, whatever you may expect--and
whatever may become of me--or of you--I shall not throw a chance away.
He proceeded to review the whole of the evidence with a vigor and
propriety which after a while rose up in judgment against him, as if it
were supernatural; he then argued upon the nature of the crime--saying
it was a charge easily made but hard to disprove, and that it would
require one to be a witch to prove that she was not guilty of
witchcraft--

Beware of that man, said the chief judge, with a mysterious look.
Beware, I tell you; for whoever he may be, and whatever he may be, he
will be sure to lead you astray, if you are not upon your guard.

Lo, the counsel for the prisoner! Lo the humanity of the law!
cried Burroughs. Who could do more?--I appeal to you, ye men of
Massachusetts-Bay--could the prosecutor himself--could anybody on
earth--in aid of the prisoner at the bar?--Put upon your guard in that
way, against the power and art of another--if you are not men of a
marvellous courage indeed--of heroic probity--it would be impossible
for him to convince you, however true were his argument, however
conclusive his facts.

Very true, whispered the foreman of the jury, loud enough to be
overheard by a judge, who rebuked him with great asperity.

Whatever I might say, therefore--however true it might be, and however
wise, after that speech, you would not venture to heed me--you could
not--such a thing were too much to hope for--unless you were indeed,
every man of you, far, far superior to the race of men that are about
and above you----

Talk of art, said the chief judge, in dismay. Talk of address after
that! who ever heard of such art--who ever heard of such address before?

What a compliment for your understandings!--But I do not give up in
despair--I shall say the little that I now have to say, and leave you
to decide between us--if I prevail, you may have courage enough perhaps
to acquit the prisoner, though you _are_ sneered at by the judges.

He proceeded with fresh vigor, and concluded the work of the day with a
speech that appears to have been regarded by the court and the people
as above the ability of man. He spoke to the multitude, to the judges,
to the bar, to the jury--man by man--saying to each with a voice and
a power that are spoken of still by the posterity of them that were
there.... You have heard the whole evidence--You--you alone, Sir, that
I speak to now, are to decide upon the life or death of the prisoner.
You alone, Sir! and mark me if ... though ... you are but one of the
twelve who are to decide ... if you decide for death ... observe what
I say ... if you so decide Sir, as one of the twelve ... when, if you
knew that her life depended upon you alone, you would have decided
otherwise, mark me ... her blood shall be upon your head ... her death
at your door! ... at yours--and yours--and yours--though each of you be
but one of the twelve.

Hear me. I address myself to you, John Peabody. Are you prepared to
say--would you say--_guilty_, if her life depended upon you, and upon
you alone?--if you were her only judge?--Think of your death-bed--of
the Judge whom you are to meet hereafter, you that have so much need of
mercy hereafter--ask yourselves what harm would follow her acquittal,
even though she were guilty. Then ask yourself what would be your
feelings if you should ever come to know that you have put her to death
wrongfully.... So say I to you, Andrew Elliot.... Her life depends
upon you--upon you alone! You are in fact her only judge--for you--or
you--or you--or either of you may save her, and if you do not, her
blood will be required hereafter at your hands--at the hands of each of
you----I have done.




CHAPTER XI.


The chief judge would not reply--could not perhaps, till after he and
his brothers had prayed together; and when he did speak, he spoke with
a subdued voice, like one troubled with fear.

Gentlemen of the jury, said he; I have but a few words to urge in reply.

1. You have been told that one should be a witch to prove that she is
not guilty of witchcraft. I admire the ingenuity of the speaker; but
my answer is, that by the same rule, a man should be a wizard to prove
that he is not a manslayer--he being _proved_ a manslayer. And yet,
_being_ proved a manslayer, we put him to death. So here--being proved
a witch, if you are satisfied by the proof, we put the prisoner to
death, even though it would require the exertion of diabolical power to
overthrow the proof.

2. You are told by one speaker that we are prone to believe in the
marvellous; and that, therefore, when a marvellous thing is related, we
ought to be on our guard against that proneness to belief, and require
more proof. Now it appears to me that if we are prone to a belief in
the marvellous, instead of requiring more proof to witchcraft, we
should require less. For why require much, if less will do?

3. But by another, it has been said that we are _not_ prone to belief
in the marvellous; that on the contrary, so prone are we to disbelieve
in what may appear marvellous, that proof, which we would be satisfied
with in the ordinary affairs of life, we should pay no regard to,
if it were adduced in favor of what we consider preternatural; and
that therefore in the case you are now to try, you should require
more proof than you would in support of a charge not marvellous. To
which we reply--that where you have the same number of witnesses, of
the same character, in support of a marvellous charge, you _actually
have more proof_, than you would have in the like testimony of the
same witnesses, to a charge not marvellous. And why?--Because by the
supposition of the speaker, as they are prone to a _disbelief_ in the
marvellous, _they_ would have required much proof, and would not have
been persuaded to believe what they testify to, but upon irresistable
proof--more proof than would have satisfied them in the ordinary
affairs of life.

4. It has been said moreover--that the greater the crime charged,
the more incredible it is; that great crimes are perpetrated less
frequently than small ones; and that, therefore, more proof should be
required of parricide than of theft. Our reply to which is, that if
a witness declare to a parricide on oath, _you have more proof_ than
you would have to a theft sworn to by the very same witness; that,
if the greater the crime, the less credible it is, you are bound to
attach more value to his testimony where he testifies to parricide than
where he testifies to theft. And why?--Because, the greater the crime
charged, the greater the crime of the witness if he charge falsely;
and therefore the less likely is it, by the supposition, that he does
charge falsely.

But here I would have you observe that proof is proof, and that
after all, the proof which at law or otherwise would be enough to
establish one charge, would be enough to establish any other. In every
case you are to be satisfied--you are to believe: and in the case
now before you, perhaps it may be well for you to look upon the two
improbabilities which I have now spoken of, as neutralizing each other.
If witchcraft is incredible--it is incredible also that one should
falsely charge another with witchcraft.

5. It has been said too that the witnesses contradict each other. Be
it so. I confess that I see no such contradiction--but if I did, I
might be called upon to say that perjured witnesses are remarkable
for the plausibility and straight-forwardness of their stories; and
that such plausibility and straight-forwardness are now regarded, like
unanimity, as a sign of bad-faith by judges of experience. You are to
be told moreover, that where slight contradictions appear in what may
be said by several witnesses to the same fact, such contradictions
are a sign of good-faith--showing that no preconcerted story has been
told. I might refer, and I may venture to do so perhaps, in a matter
of such awful moment, to the gospels in proof. It is a mighty argument
for their truth my friends, that no two of them perfectly agree--no two
of the whole as they could have agreed, if, as there have been people
wicked enough to say (though not to believe) they had been prepared for
deception by a body of conspirators----

Brother--brother--put off thy shoes ... the ground is holy--said
Governor Phips.

I have.... I have--

The people groaned aloud.

----If you were called upon, each of you, five years from to-day, to
give a particular account of what you now see and hear, and if each of
you depended upon himself, your stories would be unlike; but if you
consulted together, your stories would be sure to approximate. So much
for this head.

6. I have gone so far as to say that proof is proof, whatever may be
the case; but I do not say that you are to require at any time, in any
case, more proof than the nature of the case will admit of. In other
words, you are not to insist upon the same sort and degree of proof in
every case. You are to be satisfied with such proof as you can get--if
you suppose that none better is left behind. So says the law--

Nonsense--for if that rule is good, you might prove any-thing--_by_ any
thing, said Burroughs.

Be quiet Sir ... few people see spectres; and witches will do their
mischief, not in the light of day, and before a multitude, but afar and
apart from all but their associates. You are to be satisfied with less
proof therefore in such a case, than it would be proper and reasonable
for you to require in a case of property--

And if so--why not in murder? ... murders being perpetrated afar and
apart from the world--

Peace I bid you.... Having--

How dare you!

--Having disposed of what has been urged respecting the proof,
gentlemen of the jury, I should now leave the case with you, but for
a remark which fell from a neighbour a few minutes ago. Doctor Mather
will now touch upon what I would gladly pass over--the growth and
origin of the evil wherewith we are afflicted.

Here a man of majestic presence of about fifty years of age arose, and
laying aside his hat, and smoothing away a large quantity of thick
glossy hair, which parting on his forehead, fell in a rich heavy
mass upon his broad shoulders, prayed the jury and his brethren of
the church to bear with him for a few moments; he should try to be
very brief. Brother George--he did not question his motive he said,
but brother George Burroughs would have you believe that witches and
wizards are no longer permitted upon our earth; and that sorcery,
witchcraft, and spells are done with.

Whereto I reply.... First--that there has been hitherto throughout all
ages and among every people, and is now a general, if not a universal,
belief in witchcraft and so forth. Now if such universality of belief
respecting the appearance of departed souls after death, has been, as
it certainly has, a great argument for the immortality of the soul
with such as never heard of the Scriptures of Truth, I would ask why a
like universality of belief respecting witchcraft and sorcery should
be thought of no value, as an argument? Every where the multitude
believe in witchcraft or in that which is of a piece with it. Spirits
and fairies, goblins and wizards, prophets and witches, astrologers
and soothsayers are found mixed up with the traditionary love and the
religious faith of every people on earth, savage and civilized--(so far
as we know, I should say);--with that of people who inhabit the isles
of the sea, afar and apart from each other and from all the rest of the
world. I speak advisedly. They believe in spirits, and they believe in
a future state--in sorcery and immortality. The wild Irish have what
they call their banshees, and the Scotch their second-sight, and the
French their loup-garoux, or men turned into wolves--and so also have
the Irish; and a part of our jocular superstition is the posterity of
that which existed among the terrible Goths. Maria--a word that we hear
from the lips of the idle and profane, before they have got reconciled
to the wholesome severity of our law, was in old Runic a goblin that
seized upon the sleeper and took away all power of motion. Old Nicka
too--he that we are in the habit of alluding to, in a grave way, as
Old Nick, was a spright who used to strangle such as fell into the
water. Bo--was a fierce Gothic captain, the warlike son of Odin, whose
name was made use of in battle to scare a surprised enemy. Every where
indeed, and with every people, earth sea and air have been crowded with
specters, and the overpeopled sky with mighty shadows--I do not know
a----

Here the great black horse which Burroughs had left underneath a tree,
trotted up to the very door, and stood still, with the reigns afloat
upon his neck, and thrust his head in over the heads of the people, who
gave way on every side, as he struck his iron hoofs on the step, and
for a second or two there was a dead quiet over the whole house. The
speaker stopped and appeared astonished, for the eyes of the animal
in the strong light of the torches, were like two balls of fire, and
his loose mane was blowing forward in the draught of the door, so as
actually to sound aloud.

Why do you stop--what are you afraid of, Doctor Mather? Not afraid of
old Pompey are you?

Hadn’t you better tie him up? asked a judge.

No--I have something else to do, but I desire that somebody at the door
will. But nobody would go near the creature.

--History abounds with proof, I say, respecting witchcraft and sorcery,
witches and wizards, magic, spells and wicked power. If we put all
trust in the records of history for one purpose, why not for another?
If a witness is worthy of belief in one thing--why is he not another?
If we find no treachery nor falsehood in a writer; if we meet with
nothing but confirmation of what he says, when we refer to other
writers of the same people and age, why disbelieve him when he speaks
of that which, being new to our experience, we cannot be able to judge
of? Able and pious men should be trusted, whatever they may say, so
long as they are not contradicted by other able and pious men--

We are to believe not only in witches then, but in fairies and
loups-garoux--

Be quiet Sir--

Softly judge.... And we are to believe that he who in the course of a
tale about the ordinary affairs of ordinary life--

Have done Sir.

--Testifies to a miracle, should be credited as much for what he says
of the miracle as for the rest of the--

Be quiet Sir.

--As for the rest of the tale.... You cannot escape me brother--

Will you be quiet Sir?

No.

--The Bible is crowded with proof, continued the Doctor. Sooth-sayers
and sorcerers, interpreters of dreams, false-prophets, and a witch
with power to make the grave and the sea give up their dead; men whose
little rods became live serpents while they strove with Aaron the
High-priest, multitudes who were clothed with a mischievous power ...
all these are spoken of in the Bible.

It has been said here that credulity is a sign of ignorance. It may
be so, my dear friends--but you must know as well as I do, that
incredulity is everywhere found among the ignorant. Able men believe
much, _because_ they are able men. The weak disbelieve much because
they are weak. Who are they that laugh when they hear that our earth is
a globe, and that once in every twenty-four hours, it turns completely
round underneath our feet--

Much whispering here, and a look of surprise on every side of the
speaker, encouraged him to a more emphatic delivery.

Who are they that refuse to believe much that the learned and the
wise, fortified in their wisdom by the beauty of holiness, and
the gravity of age, are steadfastly assured of? The truth is that
extraordinary minds have a courage that ordinary minds have not--for
they dare to believe what may expose them to ridicule. The longer we
live and the more we know, the more assured we are that impossible
things are possible--

To be sure Doctor, said a judge.

--That nothing is impossible therefore.... Now, my friends of the
jury--it appears to me that if witchcraft _had_ been a common thing
with every people, and in all ages, we could not possibly have had
more evidence of it, than we have now. We have the records of History,
sacred as well as profane. We have a great body of laws, made year
after year, among the most enlightened people that ever inhabited
the earth, about conjurations, spells and witchcraft, and this, in
all parts of the globe and especially in the land of our Fathers;
judgment of death, day after day, and year after year, under that
law; confessions without number by people charged with sorcery and
witchcraft, not only in various parts of England, but by our very
fire-sides and at our very doors. Added to all this, we have the
universal faith of which I spoke, and altogether, a body of proof,
which if it be false--would be more wonderful than witchcraft is----

True ... true ... fearfully and wonderfully true, brother.

--But if such things _are_ elsewhere why may they not be here? If they
have been heretofore, why may they not be now, and forever? We do not
know, worms that we are, how the Lord God of Heaven and earth operates
in His pavillion of thick darkness--we do not know whether he will or
will not work in a given way. We only know that he may do whatever he
will ... that for Him there is no such law as the law of nature. And
if so, why may not witches be employed as the wicked are, as great
warriors are, for scourging the nations of our earth, and for the glory
of our Father above.--Let us pray.

Prayer followed, and after the prayer, the multitude sung a psalm
together, and the jury withdrew.

They were not gone long, and when they came back there was but just
light enough to see their faces. Not a breath could be heard ... not a
whisper--and the foreman stood up and was about to speak in the name of
the twelve, when Burroughs, who could bear it no longer, leaped upon
his feet, and turned to the jury with tenfold power, and gasping for
breath, called upon each man by name, as he hoped for mercy hereafter,
to speak for himself.

Brother Burroughs!

Brother Moody--

Be quiet Master Burroughs.

I will not be quiet, Master Judge--

Officer!

I will not be quiet I say! And hereafter you will remember my words,
and if they prevail with you, men of Massachusetts-Bay, ye will be
ready to cry out for joy that I was not brow-beaten by your looks; nor
scared by your threats--

Have done Sir.--Do your duty Master High-Sheriff.

--Begone Sir. Touch me if you dare.--You see this staff.--You know
something of me and of my ways.--Touch me if you dare. What I have
to say shall be said, though I die for it. By our Sovereign Lord and
Master and Mary his Queen, I charge you to hear me! You are shedding
the blood of the innocent! You are driving away the good and the brave
by scores from the land! You are saying to people of no courage, as to
that poor woman there--as I live she is fast asleep--asleep! ... while
that grey-headed man who stoops over her is about to pronounce the
judgment of death upon her--

Wake the prisoner ... what, ho, there! cried the chief judge.

The officer went up to poor Martha and shook her; but she did not
appear to know where she was, and fell asleep again with her little
withered hands crossed in her lap.

You are saying to her and such as her.... Confess and you are safe.
Deny, and you perish--

To the point Mr. Burroughs.... We are tired of this; we have put up
with enough to-day--

I will. I demand of you judges that you call upon every man there in
that box to say, each man for himself, whether it be his opinion that
Martha Cory should suffer death. I _will_ have it so.... I _will_ have
it on record--I will not permit a man of the twelve in such a case to
hide himself under the cloak of the majority--

It cannot be master Burroughs--it cannot be--such a thing was never
heard of ... gentlemen of the jury, look upon the prisoner.

Hear me but a word more! I see death in the very eyes of the jury--I
see that we have no hope. Hear me nevertheless ... hear me for a minute
or two, and I will go away from you forever--

Let us hear him, said another judge.

I proved to you the other day that an accuser had perjured herself in
this court, before your faces, ye mighty and grave men. What was my
reward? You gave judgment of death on the accused--You let the accuser
go free--I see that accuser now. What will be said of your justice at
home, if you permit her to escape? Will the judges of England forget
you? or the majesty of England forgive you?--

The horse at the door began to grow impatient--snorting and striking
with his feet.

--Ye know that the knife was a forgery; and the sheet which has made so
much talk here, why even that was a----

He stopped short, and looking at a female who sat near him, appeared to
lose himself entirely, and forget what he was going to say.

Well Sir----

Excuse me ... I ... I ... excuse me ... although I have no doubt of the
fact, although as I hope to see the face of my Redeemer, I do believe
the story of the sheet and the story of the spindle, to be of a piece
with the story of the knife; a trick and a forgery, yet--yet--

Here he made a sign to the female, as if to encourage her.

--Yet I dare not say _now_, I dare not say _here_, on what my belief is
founded. But hear me ... they talk of teeth and of whole sets of teeth
being discoverable by the prints which appear in their flesh. How does
it happen I pray you that all these marks turn out to be on parts of
the body which might be bitten by the afflicted themselves? And how
does it happen, I pray you, that instead of corresponding teeth, or
sets of teeth being found in the accused, ye have repeatedly found her
as now, without a tooth in her head? Nay ... how does it happen that
Abigail Paris and Bridget Pope, who are indeed sufferers by a strange
malady, babes that are innocent as the dove, I am sure ... God forbid
that I should lay the mischief at their door--

Seven and seven pence--muttered the man, who kept an account of the
oaths.

----How does it happen I say, that of all the accusers they and they
alone have escaped the mark of the teeth? How! ... because they alone
speak the truth; because they are the deceived ... we know not how,
judges, but in a fearful way. They are deceived ... poor children, but
they do not seek to deceive others. Nor do they lie in wait for a----

He was interrupted by a loud furious neigh, so loud and so furious from
the great black stallion at the door, that Martha awoke and started up
with a scream that thrilled the very blood of the judges, and made the
people hurry away from the bar.

Burroughs now saw that he had no hope, and that in a moment the poor
soul before him would bear the sentence of death. He caught up his
iron-shod staff, and breaking through the crowd which recoiled from his
path as if he were something whose touch would be fatal to life, sprang
upon the back of the horse, and gallopped away toward the sea-shore.

No language on earth, no power on earth can describe the scene that
followed his departure, the confusion, the outcry, the terror of the
people who saw the fire fly from his rocky path, and heard leap after
leap of the charger bounding toward the precipice; nor the fright
of the judges; nor the pitiable distress and perplexity of the poor
childish woman, when she was made fully to understand, after the
tumult was over and the dread clamor and fire-flashing had passed
away, and everything was quiet as the grave--nothing to be heard but a
heavy trample afar off and the dull roar of the sea--that she must be
prepared for death.

She could not believe it ... she would not believe it--she did not ...
such was her perfect simplicity, till the chief judge came to her and
assured her with tears in his eyes, over and over again, that it must
be so.

Ah me! said poor Martha, looking out toward the quarter of the sky
where the horseman had so hastily disappeared, and where she had seen
the last of the fire-light struck from his path; Ah me, bending her
head to listen, and holding up her finger as if she could hear him on
his way back. Ah me!--ah me ... and that was all she said in reply to
her judges, and all she said when they drove her up to the place of her
death, decked out in all her tattered finery, as if it were not so much
for the grave, as for a bridal that she was prepared.

Ah me! said poor Martha when they put the rope about her neck....
Ah me!--and she died while she was playing with her little withered
fingers, and blowing the loose grey hair from about her mouth as it
strayed away from her tawdry cap ... saying over the words of a child
in the voice of a child, Ah me--ah me--with her last breath--

God forgive her judges!




CHAPTER XII.


The work of that day was the death of George Burroughs. The unhappy
allusion that he made to the knife, just before he stopped so suddenly
and fixed his eyes upon a young female who sat near him with her back
to the light, and her face muffled up so that nobody knew her till
after she had gone away, was now in every body’s mouth. She was the
sister of Rachel Dyer, and her name was Mary Elizabeth; after Mary Dyer
and Elizabeth Hutchinson. It was now concluded that what he knew of the
perjury of the witnesses, of the sheet and of the knife, he had been
told by Mary Elizabeth or by Rachel Dyer, who had been watching him
all the livelong day, from a part of the house, where the shadow of a
mighty tree fell so as to darken all the faces about her.

It was Rachel Dyer who spoke out with a voice of authority and reproved
him for a part of his wild speech. And it was Rachel Dyer who came
up to his very side, when he was in array against the judges and the
elders and the people, and stood there and spoke to him without fear;
while Mary Elizabeth sat by her side with her hands locked in her lap,
and her blue eyes fixed in despair upon the earth.

Nor were the people mistaken; for what he knew of the forgery, he did
know from Rachel Dyer, and from Mary Elizabeth Dyer, the two quaker
women whose holy regard for truth, young as they were, made their
simple asseveration of more value than the oath of most people. To them
was he indebted for the knowledge, though he was not suffered to speak
of it--for the times were not ripe enough, that even as the knife-blade
was, the spindle and the sheet were, a wicked forgery; and the sign
that he made to Elizabeth Dyer, when he stopped in the middle of his
speech, and the look of sorrow and love which accompanied his endeavor
to appease her frightful agitation, as she sat there gasping for breath
and clinging to Rachel’s garb, were enough to betray the truth to
everybody that saw them.

It was fatal to him, that look of sorrow and love, and ere long it
was fatal to another, to one who loved him with a love so pure and so
high as to be without reproach, even while it was without hope; and
it would have been fatal to another in spite of her loveliness, but
for the wonderful courage of her ... the heroine of our story, whose
behavior throughout a course of sore and bitter trial which continued
day after day, and month after month, and year after year, deserves to
be perpetuated in marble. No hero ever endured so much--no man ever yet
suffered as that woman suffered, nor as a multitude of women do, that
we pass by every hour, without so much as a look of pity or a word of
kindness to cheer them onward in their path of sorrow and suffering. If
God ever made a heroine, Rachel Dyer was a heroine--a heroine without
youth or beauty, with no shape to please, with no color to charm the
eye, with no voice to delight the ear.

But enough--let us go to our story. Before the sun rose again after
the trial of poor Martha, the conspirators of death were on the track
of new prey, and fear and mischief were abroad with a new shape. And
before the sun rose again, the snare was laid for a preacher of the
gospel, and before a month was over, they dragged him away to the
scaffold of death, scoffing at his piety and ridiculing his lofty
composure, and offered him up a sacrifice to the terrible infatuation
of the multitude. But before we take up the story of his death, a word
or two of his life. It was full of wayward and strange adventure.

He appears to have been remarkable from his earliest youth for great
moral courage, great bodily power, enthusiastic views, and a something
which broke forth afterwards in what the writers of the day allude
to, as an extraordinary gift of speech. He was evidently a man of
superior genius, though of a distempered genius, fitful, haughty and
rash. “He appeared on earth,” says an old writer of America, “about a
hundred years too soon. What he was put to death for in 1692, he may
be renowned for (if it please the Lord) in 1792, should this globe (of
which there is now small hope, on account of the wars and rumors of
wars, and star-shooting that we see) hold together so long.”

He was not a large man, but his activity and strength were said to be
unequalled. He went about every where among the nations of the earth;
he grew up in the midst of peril and savage warfare; and at one period
of his life, his daily adventures were so strange, so altogether beyond
what other men are likely to meet with, even while they are abroad in
search of adventure, that if they were told in the simple language of
truth, and precisely as they occurred, they would appear unworthy of
belief. The early part of his life, he spent among a people who made
war night and day for their lives, and each man for himself--the men
of Massachusetts-Bay, who did so, for about a hundred and fifty years
after they went ashore on the rocks of New-Plymouth--putting swords
upon the thighs of their preachers, and Bibles into the hands of their
soldiers, whithersoever they went, by day or by night, for sleep, for
battle or for prayer.

On account of his birth, he was brought up to the church, with a view
to the conversion of a tribe to which his father belonged: Constituted
as he was, he should have been a warrior. He made poetry; and he was
a strong and beautiful writer: He should have made war--he might have
been a leader of armies--a legislator--a statesman--a deliverer. Had he
appeared in the great struggle for North-American liberty, fourscore
years later, he probably would have been all this.

He never knew his father; and he was dropped by his mother, as he said,
in the heart of the wilderness, like the young of the wild-beast; but
he escaped the bear and the wolf, and the snake, and was bred a savage,
among savages, who while he was yet a child, put him upon the track of
his unnatural mother, and bid him pursue her. He did pursue her with
the instinct of a blood-pup, and found her, and fell upon her neck and
forgave her and kissed her, and wept with her, and stood by her in the
day of her trouble. On her death-bed she told him her story. She had
been carried away captive by the Indians while she was yet a child.
She grew up to their customs and married a warrior who was descended
from a white man. Of that marriage the boy about her neck was born.
She had no other child, but she was very happy until she saw the Rev.
Mr. Elliot of Plymouth, a man who seeing others of the church occupied
in warfare and cruel strife, turned his back upon the white men that
he loved, and struck into the woods of the north, and went about every
where preaching the gospel to the savages and translating precious
books for them, such as “Primers, catechisms, the practice of piety,
Baxter’s Call to the Unconverted, several of Mr. Shepard’s composures,
and at length the Bible itself, which was printed the first time in
their language in 1664, and a second time, not long after, with the
corrections of Mr. Cotton, minister of Plymouth.” After meeting with
Mr. Elliot, who soon added her to his Indian church, and filled her
heart with fear about original sin, faith, free grace and a future
life, she grew melancholy; and being assured that her brave wild
husband, a chief who hated the white man with a hatred passing that of
the red men, would never permit her to preach or pray if he knew it,
she forsook him and fled for refuge to New-Plymouth--her boy, whom she
could not bear to leave with his pagan father, strapped to her back,
and her soul supported by the prayers of the true church. For a time
she doated on the boy, for a time she was all that a mother could be;
but before a twelvemonth was over, perceiving that she was regarded by
the whites, and by the women especially (her sisterhood of the church)
as unworthy to associate with them because of the babe, and because of
the father, whose lineage they said was that of Anti-Christ and the
scarlet-woman, she took to prayer anew, and bethought herself anew
of the wrath of God--her Father--and resolving to purify herself as
with fire, because of what she had been to the savages--a wife and a
mother, she strapped the boy on her back once more, and set off a-foot
and alone to seek the hut of his wild father;--and having found it she
kissed her boy, and laid him at his father’s door in the dead of night,
and came away with a joyous heart and a free step, as if now--_now_,
that the little heathen was in a fair way of being devoured by the wolf
or the wild hog, under the very tree which overhung the very spot of
green earth where she had begun to love his father, as he lay asleep in
the shadow, after a day of severe toil--she had nothing more to do to
be saved.

The father died in battle before the boy had strength enough to draw
a child’s arrow to the head. The boy went in pursuit of his mother at
the age of twelve, and by her he was taught the lessons of a new faith.
She persuaded him to leave the tribe of his father, to forsake the wild
men who were not of the true church, and to come out from the shadow of
the wilderness. The whites aware of the value of such a youth and of
the use he might be in their bold scheme for the overthrow of Indian
power throughout all North America--the spread of the Gospel of truth
and peace and charity, as they called it--added their solicitation to
hers. But no--no--the brave boy withstood them all, he would neither
be bribed nor flattered, nor trapped, nor scared; nor was he, till he
saw his poor mother just ready to die. But then he gave up--he threw
aside the bow and the arrow, he tore off the rich beaver dress that he
wore, buried the tomahawk, offered up the bright weapons of death along
with the bright wages of death, on the altar of a new faith--prayed his
mother to look up and live and be happy, and betook himself with such
fervor and security to the Bible, that he came to be regarded, while
yet a youth, as a new hope for the church that had sprung up from the
blood of the martyrs.

He married while he was yet a boy. At the age of twenty, he was a
widower. At the age of twenty-four he was a widower again, with a new
love at his heart which he dared not avow--for how could he hope that
another would be found to overlook his impure lineage; now that two had
died, he believed in his own soul, a sacrifice to the bitter though
mute persecution they had to endure for marrying with one who was not
altogether a white man? a love which accelerated his death, for till
the name of Elizabeth Dyer came to be associated with his, after the
trial of Martha Cory, the wretched women, who had acquired such power
by their pretended sufferings, were able to forgive his reproof, his
enquiry, and his ridicule of what they swore to, whenever they opened
their lips to charge anybody with witchcraft. From the day of the trial
it was not so. They forgave him for nothing, after they saw how much
he loved Mary Elizabeth Dyer. And yet, he was no longer what he had
been--he was neither handsome nor youthful now; and they who reproached
others for loving him when he was both, why should they pursue him as
they did, when the day of his marvellous beauty and strength was over?
when his hair was already touched with snow, and his high forehead and
haughty lip with care? Merely because he appeared to love another.

He had been a preacher at Salem till after the death of his first wife,
where he had a few praying Indians and a few score of white people
under his charge. They were fond of him, and very proud of him (for
he was the talk of the whole country) till, after her death, being
seized with a desire to go away--to escape for a time, he cared not how
nor whither, from the place where he had been so very happy and for
so short a period, he left his flock; and went eastward, and married
anew--and was a widower again--burying a second wife; the second he had
so loved, and so parted from, without a wish to outlive her--and then
he crossed the sea, and traversed the whole of Europe, and after much
trial and a series of strange vicissitude, came back--though not to the
church he had left, but to the guardianship of another a great way off.

He could bear to live--and that was all; he could not bear to stay,
year after year, by the grave where the women that he so loved were
both asleep in their youth and beauty--and he forbidden to go near
them. But he prospered no more--so say the flock he deserted, when
he went away forever from the church he had built up, and took refuge
again among the people of Casco Bay, at Falmouth--a sweet place, if one
may judge by what it is now, with its great green hill and smooth blue
water, and a scattered group of huge pine trees on the north side. It
was a time of war when he arrived at Falmouth, and the Indians were
out, backed by a large body of the French and commanded by a French
officer, the Sieur Hertel, a man of tried valor and great experience
in the warfare of the woods. At the village of Casco Bay, there was a
little fort, or block house, into which about a hundred men with their
wives and little ones were gathered together, waiting the attack of
their formidable and crafty foe, when the preacher appeared.

There was no time to throw away--they were but a handful to the foe,
afar from succor and beyond the reach of sympathy. He saw this, and he
told them there was no hope, save that which pious men feel, however
they may be situated, and that nothing on earth could save them but
their own courage and a prayerful assiduity. They were amazed at
his look, for he shewed no sign of fear when he said this, and they
gathered about him and hailed him as their hope and refuge; the servant
of the Lord, their Joshua, and the captain of their salvation, while he
proceeded to speak as if he had been familiar with war from his boyhood.

For weeks before the affair came to issue, he and they slept upon their
arms. They never had their clothes off by night nor by day, nor did
they move beyond the reach of their loaded guns. If they prayed now,
it was not as it had been before his arrival in a large meeting-house
and all together, with their arms piled or stacked at the door, and the
bullet-pouch and powder-horn, wherever it might please the Lord,--but
they prayed together, a few at a time, with sentries on the watch
now, with every gun loaded and every knife sharpened, with every
bullet-pouch and every powder-horn slung where it should be; and they
prayed now as they had never prayed before--as if they knew that when
they rose up, it would be to grapple man to man with the savages.

At last on a very still night in the month of May, one of the two
most beautiful months of the year in that country of rude weather, a
horseman who was out on the watch, perceived a solitary canoe floating
by in the deep shadow of the rocks, which overhung the sea beneath his
feet. Before he had time to speak, or to recollect himself, he heard a
slight whizzing in the air, and something which he took for a bird flew
past him--it was immediately followed by another, at which his horse
reared--and the next moment a large arrow struck in a tree just over
his head. Perceiving the truth now, the horseman set off at full speed
for the fort, firing into the canoe as he darted away, and wondering at
his narrow escape after the flight of two such birds, and the twang of
a bowstring at his very ear.




CHAPTER XIII.


He _had_ a narrow escape--for the shore was lined with canoes that had
come in one by one with the tide, stealing along in the shadow that
lay upon the edge of the water, and the woods were alive with wild men
preparing to lay an ambuscade. They were not quite ready for the attack
however, and so they lay still on both sides of the narrow path he
took, and suffered him to ride away in safety when he was within the
reach, not only of their balls and arrows but of their knives. They
knew with whom they had to deal, and the issue proved their sagacity,
for when the poor fellow arrived at the fort and related what he had
seen, there was nobody to believe the story but Burroughs, and he
would not put much faith in it, although he had reason to think well
of the man; for how were the savages to get across the Bay in such a
clear still night--with a sea like the sky, and a sky like the air that
men breathe in their boyhood or when they are happy--without being
discovered by the boats? And how were they to approach from the woods,
without coming over a wide smooth level of water, seldom deep enough to
float a large canoe, nor ever shoal enough to be forded without much
risk on account of the mud?

No attack followed for three nights and for three days, and already
the garrison were beginning to be weary of the watch, and to murmur at
the restraint he had imposed. It grieved him to the soul to see their
fright passing off and their vigilance with it. I beseech you said he,
on the afternoon of the fourth day, toward night-fall, as he saw them
lying about under the trees, and a full fourth of their number asleep
in the rich warm grass, with hardly a knife or a gun where it should
be, a pike or a powder-horn--I do beseech you to hear me. You are in
jeopardy, in great jeopardy--I know it; I am sure of it--

So you said a week ago, answered one of the men, stretching himself
out, with a rude laugh, and resting his chin on both hands, with his
elbows fixed in the turf.

Ah, you may laugh, Mark Smith, but I am satisfied of what I say--the
woods are much too still for the time o’ the year--

Fiddlestick, parson Burroughs! what a queer fish you be, to be sure,
added another. You are skeered when there’s nothin’ at all to be
skeered at--

So he is Billy Pray, and yet he aint afeard o’ the old One himself,
when other folks air.

Skeered one day at a noise, and another day at no noise at all--haw,
haw, haw!

Do you see how the birds fly?

What birds?

The birds that come up from the shore--they fly as if they were
frightened--

Well, what if they do?

An’ so I say, Mark Smith--what if they do? rolling over in the grass
and preparing for another nap--Who cares how they fly? if they’re
frightened, haw, haw, haw, that’s their look out, I spose--haw, haw,
haw.

I beseech you to be serious, men--we have heard no shot fired for
several days in that quarter, and yet you see the birds fly as if they
were hunted. Now, it is my opinion that they are struck with arrows,
and arrows you know are made use of by people who are afraid to make a
noise when they kill their food--

Ha, ha, ha;--haw, haw, haw! gi’ me you yit, parson--haw, haw,
haw!--what if they’re under the shore--can’t they kill fish without
makin’ a noise? haw, haw, haw!

Fish--fish--but no, I will not be angry with you Taber; I dare not,
much as you deserve it, for every thing we have in the world is now at
stake--everything. I entreat you therefore, my friends--I implore you,
instead of laying by your arms, to double your guard this very night;
instead of sleeping, to watch more than ever--I feel afraid of this
deep tranquility--

Nonsense--double the watch now, when every thing is quiet in the woods,
and down by the beach, and not a breath o’ noise to be heard anywhere?

Yea--yea--for that very reason. Look you, David Fisher--I know well
what the Indians are, better than you do now, and better than you ever
will, I hope. I have now done _my_ duty. Do you yours--I have nothing
more to say; but I shall be prepared as I would have you prepare, for
the night which is now at hand. Our foes are not on the water, Smith,
nor nigh the water now, or they might fish for their food without
alarming us. But whether you believe me or no, I say again that they
are not far from us, and that we shall find it so, to our sorrow, if
you do not keep a better look out for the----there--there--do you
see how that partridge flies!--I tell you again and again, there’s
something alive in that very wood now.

I dare say there is--haw, haw, haw!

And so I say, Mark Smith, hee, hee, hee--

It may be one o’ the dogs--ha, ha, ha!--And they all sprang up together
with a jovial outcry, and began to caper about in the grass, and call
to a group that were at work a little way off, to go with them and
help scour the wood, where the new Joshua thought there was something
alive.

You forget Mark Smith--dogs do not go into the woods--stay, stay, I
beseech you--don’t be so foolhardy--try to make one of the dogs go to
the top of that hill before you--nay, nay, Carver; nay, nay, and you
too, Clark--are you mad Sir?--you a lieutenant of war, and the first of
our men to play the fool.

Here you men, said Clark. Here you men, I say!--Whose afeard among the
whole boodle of you?

No answer.

Nobody’s afeard--so I thought. Hourra then--hourra for the king!

Hourra!--hourra!--hourra for the king!

Pooty well, that--pooty fair too--now le’me see you hourra for the
queen.

Hourra then--hourra!--hourra for the queen!

That’s you, faith!

Hourra--hourra--hou----

No, no that’s enough; a belly full o’ hurrah is as good’s a
feast now--hold up your heads.--How many is there of you, all
told?--Soh--soh--steady there, steady--turn out your heels--

Turn out your toes you mean--haw, haw, hee!

No I don’t--hee, hee, haw--give that up long ago.--Now then! hold still
there, hol’ still I say, while I count you off--one--two--three--darn
your hide Matthew Joy, aint there no hold still to you? Stan’ still,
I say;--four, five--Out o’ that snarl, there--one, two, three,
four!--very well, very well indeed, never see the wrigglars do’t half
so well--clean as a whistle--soh, soh--five an’ five is ten, and five
is fifteen--there now; you’ve put me out--hold your gab, Sargeant
Berry;--how am I goin’ to count off the men if you keep a jabberin’
so? --twenty-five--eight--nine--thirty, and two is thirty-four--now
look me right in the eye every one o’ you. Heads up--heels out--heels
out I say--that’s you Jake Berry, you never stoop none, I see--heels
out there, every man of you, what are you afeard on?--You there with
the striped jacket on, what’s your under jaw out there for? you want
to tumble over it, hey?--heads up there, heads up--have your ears
buttoned back, head soaped and a bladder drawn over it hey?--Soh,
soh!--attention--very well--very well indeed--pooty fair--now I’m goin’
to give the word for you--

Wall ... an’ what’s the word you’re goin’ to give ... hey?

You be quiet our Jake, and you’ll see....

How shall we know what to do, when you give the word, if you don’t tell
us aforehand--I should like to know that....

Shet your clam, Obadiah P. Joy--aint you ashamed o’ yourself; nice
feller you for a sojer--aint he boys?

Well, fire away then.

Now you see, I’m goin’ to say now or never, three times ... behave
there! behave I say! ... and when I’ve said now or never the third
time, off I go, you see! right bang, slap dash into that are wood
there, a top or that air hill, and them that’s good enough to carry
guts to a bear, they’ll go with me. Soh ... all ready now!

Ay, ay ... ay, ay, Sir ... ruther guess we be....

Now ... or ... never! said Clark, leaning forward with a preparatory
step, setting the breach of his heavy musket in the turf, and driving
home the ramrod, to prove the weight of the charge. Now-or-never!
cocking it, and shaking the powder into the pan, with his eye on the
troop, all of whom stood with their left leg forward, ready for the
race ... now-or-never! and off he started before the words were fairly
out of his mouth on the heels of two or three who had started before.

Keep together, keep together! shouted Burroughs. Whatever else you do,
keep together!

But no, no ... they would have their own way.

If the indians are there, added he.... If they are! ... as he saw the
whole thirty stretching away all out of breath for a wood which crowned
the top of the hill--If they are! it is all up with us ... and I am
sorely afraid of that narrow green lane there, with a brush-fence on
the upper side of it.... Ha!----God forgive them for their folly....
Did you see that?

See what.... I saw nothing....

Look ... look ... there’s a glitter and a confused motion there ...
can’t you see it? ... just where the sun strikes on the verge of the
hill among the high grass, where a----my God ... I thought so!

I can’t see nothin’ ... the sun hurts my eyes; but as for you, you can
look right into the sun.... Hullow ... where now?

To arms! to arms! cried the preacher, in a voice that might have been
heard a mile ... away with you to your post.

Away with you all, cried Burroughs.

What for?

To arms! to arms, I say, continued the preacher.

What for?

To legs more like ... what for?

Away to the fort I beseech you (lowering his voice) away with you,
every man of you--you and your wives and your little ones--you haven’t
a breath to lose now ... away with you.

Nation seize the feller; what for?

Rattlesnakes an’ toddy ... what for!

What for--God of our fathers! O, ye men of little faith!

Hourra for you! you’re cracked I vow; pooty representative o’ Joshua.

Hear me ... hear me.... Have I not more experience than you? Do I not
know what I say? ... can you not believe me? what do you risk by doing
as I desire; ... O, if you but knew as well as I do, what is nigh to us!

Wall what is nigh to us?

Death.

Death!

Ay ... death ... death ... death....

Boo!

My friends ... my dear friends ... do, _do_ be ruled by me ... there
... there--did you see that?

See what? ... you _air_ cracked, I’ll be darned if you aint.

My God! my God! cried the preacher, looking about in despair, and
speaking as if he saw the savages already at the work of death,
hatchets and arrows on every side of his path, and every clump of
willow-trees near breaking out with fire and smoke. Will you not be
persuaded ... will you not give up? ... see ... see... Clark is getting
the foolish men together, and if we betake ourselves to the refuge,
there may be some hope of a--

What are they stoppin’ for now, I wonder--.

Wait half a minute more young man, said the preacher, and you will be
satisfied--now--now!

As he spoke, the men halted and came together a few yards from the top
of the hill.

Out o’ breath I guess?

Out of courage I fear--.

Hourra!--hourra!--shouted the men afar off, and the shout came through
the still air, and passed off to the high sea, like a shout of triumph.

Hourra!--hourra!--answered all that were nigh Burroughs, and all that
were in the fort.

Hourra!--hourra!--hourra!--echoed the people, and the shores and the
rocks rung with their delirious outcry, as the brave thirty dashed
forward.

There they go--there they go--yelled a man from the top of a tree just
over the head of the preacher. There they go--they are up to the fence
now.

Are they indeed--are you sure--God be praised if they are.

Sure!--that I be--there they go--there they go--ha, ha, ha!--they’re
tumblin’ over each other--ha, ha, ha--there they go--I knowed there
wasn’t any thing there--ha, ha--halloo!--hey--what--

Well Job, what’s to pay now?--they’re t’other side o’ the fence now,
arn’t they?

T’other side o’ the fence!--no, indeed, not within a--Lord God!--Mr.
Burroughs!--Mr. Burroughs!

Well--what’s the matter now?

Lord have mercy upon us! Lord have mercy upon us!

You’ll break your neck Job Hardy, if you’re not careful.

O Lord, O lord! what will become of my poor wife?

Ah, ha--now do you believe me?

Out broke the tremendous war-whoop of the Pequods, with peal after
peal of musketry, and before the preacher could make himself heard
in the uproar, two or three white men appeared afar off, running for
their lives, and pursued by a score of savages. By and by, another
appeared--another and another--and after a while five more--and these
were all that had survived the first discharge of the enemy.

You perceive now why the men tumbled about as they did, when they got
near the fence; they were struck with a flight of level arrows that we
couldn’t see--ah! you appear to have a--

O Mr. Burroughs, Mr. Burroughs--what shall we do?

He made no answer--

O Sir--Sir--take pity upon us!

He stood as if the fear that he felt a moment before was gone away
forever, and with it all concern, all hope, all care, all pity for the
wretched people about him.

O God of Jacob--what _shall_ we do!

Promise to obey me--

We will--we will--we do.

So you did, when I first came here--now you have begun to scoff at your
Joshua, as you call me.

O Sir--Sir--do not mock us, we entreat you!--Here they come Sir, here
they come! O speak to us--do speak to us--what are we to do--

Choose me to lead you--

We will--we will--we do!

And with power--mark me--do you see this gun--with leave to put a ball
through the head of the first man that refuses to obey me?

Yes--yes--any thing--any thing--

Very well--that’s enough. And I swear to you before God I’ll do
it. Now--hear what I have to say--Silence!--not a word. Here
Bradish--here--take you twelve men out of these, and away with you
to the edge of the creek there, so as to cover the retreat of your
friends. Away with you.

Hourra--hourra!

Silence--off with you as if you were going, every man to his own
funeral--don’t hurry--don’t lose your breath; you’ll have occasion for
it, I promise you, before the work of this day is over--away with you,
now; and every man to a tree; when you hear the bell, make your way to
the fort, and if it please God, we’ll whip the enemy yet.

Off sprang the twelve without another word.

Here Fitch, here--I know you--you are a married man--a father and a
good father--take these eight who are all fathers; and you Hobby,
you take these--they are all unmarried, and away with you to the
willow-hedge yonder; you to the right, Fitch; and you to the left,
Hobby--and let us see who are the braver men, the married or the
unmarried.--Stop--stop--don’t hurry; if you are to make a fair job of
it, you must go coolly to work--

Off they started--

Stand by each other!--stick to your trees!--and load and fire as fast
as you can--that’ll do--off with you--

You’ll see to the women-folks, I hope--

Off with you, Sir.

Off we go--but I say!--(looking back over his shoulder and bawling as
he ran)--what are we to do when we hear the bell?

Dodge your way in--tree by tree--man by man--

Hourra for you--hourra for Josh--hourra for Joshua!--

Before five minutes were over, the savages were in check, the people
reassured, the remnant of poor Clark’s party safe, and the whole force
of the settlement so judiciously distributed, that they were able to
maintain the fight, until their powder and ball were exhausted, with
more than treble their number; and after it grew dark, to retire into
the fort with all their women, their children, their aged and their
sick. It was no such place of security however as they thought; for the
Indians after they had fired the village and burnt every house in it,
finding the powder exhausted, laid siege to the fort by undermining
the walls and shooting lighted arrows into the wood-work. From that
moment there was nothing to hope for; and the preacher who knew that
if the place were carried by assault, every living creature within the
four walls would be put to death, and that there would be no escape
for the women or the babes, the aged or the sick, if they did not
immediately surrender, drew the principal man of the fort aside (major
Davis) and assuring him of what he foresaw would be the issue, advised
a capitulation.

A capitulation Sir, after the work of this day? said the Major. What
will become of you? you have killed a chief and two or three warriors,
and how can you hope to be forgiven, if they once get you in their
power.

Leave that to me--I know their language--I will try to pass for one of
the tribe--

But how--how--impossible, Sir.

Let me have my own way, I beseech you--leave me to take care of
myself....

No, Sir ... we know our duty better.

Then, Sir, as I hope to see my God, I will go forth alone to meet the
savages, and offer myself up for the chief that I have slain. Perhaps
they may receive me into their tribe ... give me a blanket, will you
... and perhaps not ... for the Pequod warrior is a terrible foe.

Here he shook his black hair loose, and parted it on his forehead and
twisted it into a club, and bound it up hastily after the fashion of
the tribe.

--And the faith which a Huron owes to the dead is never violated.... I
pray you therefore--

--Stooping down and searching for a bit of brick, and grinding it to
dust with his heel--

I pray you therefore to let me go forth--

--Bedaubing his whole visage with it, before he lifted his head--

You cannot save me, nor help me--

Shouldering up his blanket and grasping a short rifle.

What say you!--

Leaping to the turf parapet as he spoke, and preparing to throw himself
over.

God of our Fathers--cried the Major, Is it possible! who are you?

A Mohawk! a Mohawk! shouted all that saw him on the parapet; even those
who beheld the transfiguration were aghast with awe; they could hardly
believe their own eyes.

What say you!--one word is enough ... will you give up?

For the love of God, Mr. Burroughs! cried the Major, putting forth his
hand to catch at the blanket as it was blown out by a strong breeze....
I do pray you----

He was too late; for Burroughs bounded over with a shout which appeared
to be understood by the savages, who received him with a tremendous
war-whoop. A shriek followed ... a cry from the people within the fort
of--treachery!--treachery!--and after a moment or two every-thing was
quiet as the grave outside.

The garrison were still with fear--still as death.... Were they
deserted or betrayed? Whither should they fly?--What should they do?
Their deliverer ... where was he? Their Joshua ... what had become of
him?

The attack was renewed after a few minutes with tenfold fury, and
the brave Major was driven to capitulate, which he did to the Sieur
Hertel, under a promise that the survivors of the garrison should be
safely conducted to Saco, the next English fort and that they and their
children, their aged and their sick should be treated with humanity.

Alas for the faith of the red men! alas for the faith of their white
leaders! Before they saw the light of another day, the treaty was
trampled under foot by the savages, and hardly a creature found within
the four walls of the fort was left alive. The work of butchery--but
no--no--I dare not undertake to describe the horrible scene.

And Burroughs.... What of Burroughs?--Did he escape or die?... Neither.
He was carried away captive to the great lakes, and after much
vicissitude, trial and suffering which lasted for upwards of a year,
came to be an adopted Iroquois, and a voluntary hostage for the faith
of the white men of Massachusetts-Bay. From this period we lose sight
of him for a long while. It would appear however that he grew fond of
a savage life, that his early affection for it sprang up anew, as he
approached the deep of the solitude, where all that he saw and all that
he heard, above or about him, or underneath his feet, reminded him of
his youth, of his parentage and his bravery; that he began after a time
to cherish a hope--a magnificent hope, for a future coalition of the
red men of America; that he grew to be a favorite with Big Bear, the
great northern chief, who went so far as to offer him a daughter in
marriage; that he had already begun to reflect seriously on the offer,
when the whites for whom he stood in pledge, were guilty of something
which he regarded as a breach of trust--whereupon he bethought himself
anew of a timid girl--a mere child when he left her, and beautiful as
the day, who when the shadow of death was upon all that he cared for,
when he was a broken-hearted miserable man without a hope on earth,
pursued him with her look of pity and sorrow, till, turn which way he
would, her eyes were forever before him, by night and by day. It was
not with a look of love that she pursued him--it was rather a look of
strange fear. And so, having thought of Mary Elizabeth Dyer, till he
was ready to weep at the recollection of the days that were gone, the
days he had passed in prayer, and the love he had met with among the
white girls of the Bay, he arose, and walked up to the Great northern
chief, who but for the treachery of the whites would have been his
father, and stood in the circle of death, and offered himself up a
sacrifice for the white countrymen of the child that he knew--the
lovely and the pure. But no--the Big Bear would not have the blood of a
brother.

You know the Big Bear, said he to the young men of the Iroquois that
were gathered about him. Who is there alive to harm a cub of the Big
Bear? I am your chief--who is there alive to harm the child of your
chief? Behold my daughter!--who is there alive to strike her sagamore?
Warriors--look at him--He is no longer a pale man--he is one of our
tribe. He is no longer the scourge of the Iroquois. The beloved of our
daughter--who is there alive to touch him in wrath?

Here all the warriors of the tribe and all the chief men of the tribe
stood up; and but one of the whole drew his arrow to the head--the
signal of warfare.

White man--brother, said the Big Bear. Behold these arrows! they are
many and sharp, the arrows of him that would slay thee, but few--but
few brother--and lo!--they are no more. Saying this, he struck down the
arrow of death, and lifted the hatchet and shook it over the head of
the stubborn warrior, who retreated backward step by step, till he was
beyond the reach of the Big Bear.

Brother--would ye that we should have the boy stripped and scourged?
said the Big Bear, with all the grave majesty for which he was
remarkable. White man--behold these arrows--they are dripping
with blood--they are sharp enough to cleave the beach tree. White
man--whither would you go? Feel the edge of this knife. That blood is
the blood of our brave, who would not obey the law--this knife is the
weapon of death. Fear not--for the arrows and the knife are not for
the pale man--fear not--beloved of her in whom we have put our hope.
The arrows and the knife are not for him--but for the dogs that pursue
him. Speak!

I will, said Burroughs, going up to the resolute young savage, who
stood afar off, and setting his foot upon the bare earth before him
with all his might--I will. Big Bear--father--I must go away. I found
you in peace--Let me leave you in peace. Your people and my people are
now at war. I cannot strike a brother in battle. The white men are my
brothers.

Big Bear made no reply.

Farewell.... I must go away. I cannot be on either side when Big Bear
and Long-knife are at war.

Good.

I cannot have Pawteeda now. I have done.

Speak.

Wherefore?

Speak. Why not have Pawteeda now?

Pawteeda should be wife to some warrior, who, when he goes forth to
war, will strike every foe of his tribe, without asking, as I should,
who is he--and what is he? As a white man, I will not war with white
men. As the adopted of the red men ... with the blood of a red man
boiling in my heart, as the captive and nursling of the brave Iroquois,
I will not be the foe of a red man.

Good--

Let Pawteeda be wife to Silver-heels. He hath deserved Pawteeda, and
but for me, they would have been happy.

Good.

Here the youthful savage, whose arrow had been struck aside by the Big
Bear, lifted his head in surprise, but he did not speak.

I beseech you father! let my beloved be his wife.

Good.

The youthful savage dropped his bow, threw off his quiver, and plucking
the ornamented hatchet from his war-belt, after a tremendous though
brief struggle, offered the weapon of death to Burroughs, thereby
acknowledging that in some way or other he had injured the pale man.
Big Bear breathed fiercely and felt for his knife, but Burroughs went
up to the bold youth and gave him his hand after the fashion of the
whites, and called him brother.

It shall be so, said the Big Bear. And from that day the youth was
indeed a brother to Burroughs, who being satisfied that Pawteeda, if
she married one of her own people, would be happier than with a white
man, left her and the savages and the Big Bear and the woods forever,
and got back among the white people again, at a period of universal
dismay, just in time to see a poor melancholy creature, whom his
dear wife had loved years and years before, on trial for witchcraft.
He could hardly believe his own ears. Nor could he persuade himself
that the preachers and elders, and grave authorities of the land were
serious, till he saw the wretched old woman put to death before their
faces.




CHAPTER XIV.


From that hour he was another man. His heart was alive with a new hope.
The dark desolate chambers thereof were lighted up with a new joy.
And what if there was no love, nor beauty, nor music sounding in them
all the day through, such as there had been a few brief years before,
in the spring-tide of his youthful courage; they were no longer what
they had been at another period, neither very dark, nor altogether
uninhabited, nor perplexed with apparitions that were enough to drive
him distracted--the apparition of a child--the apparition of a dead
hope--for with him, after the death of a second wife, hope itself was
no more. He was now a messenger of the Most High, with every faculty
and every power of his mind at work to baffle and expose the treachery
of those, who pretending to be afflicted by witchcraft, were wasting
the heritage of the white man as with fire and sword. He strove to
entrap them; he set spies about their path. He prayed in the public
highway, and preached in the market place, for they would not suffer
him to appear in the House of the Lord. He besought his Maker, the
Searcher of Hearts, day after day, when the people were about him, to
stay the destroyer, to make plain the way of the judges, to speak in
the dead of the night with a voice of thunder to the doers of iniquity;
to comfort and support the souls of the accused however guilty they
might appear, and (if consistant with his Almighty pleasure) to repeat
as with the noise of a multitude of trumpets in the sky, the terrible
words, THOU SHALT NOT BEAR FALSE WITNESS.

But the death of Martha Cory discouraged him. His heart was heavy with
a dreadful fear when he saw her die, and before anybody knew that
he was among the multitude, he started up in the midst of them, and
broke forth into loud prayer--a prayer which had well nigh exposed
him to the law for blasphemy; and having made himself heard in spite
of the rebuke of the preachers and magistrates, who stood in his way
at the foot of the gallows, he uttered a prophecy and shook off the
dust from his feet in testimony against the rulers of the land, the
churches and the people, and departed for the habitation of Mr. Paris,
where the frightful malady first broke out resolved in his own soul
whatever should come of it--life or death--to Bridget Pope, or to
Abigail Paris--or to the preacher himself, his old associate in grief,
straightway to look into every part of the fearful mystery, to search
into it as with fire, and to bring every accuser with whom there should
be found guile, whether high or low, or young or old, a flower of hope,
or a blossom of pride, before the ministers of the law,--every accuser
in whom he should be able to see a sign of bad faith or a look of
trepidation at his inquiry--though it were the aged servant of the Lord
himself; and every visited and afflicted one, whether male or female,
in whose language or behaviour he might see anything to justify his
fear.

It was pitch dark when he arrived at the log-hut of Matthew Paris,
and his heart died within him, as he walked up to the door and set
his foot upon the broad step, which rocked beneath his agitated and
powerful tread; for the windows were all shut and secured with new and
heavy wooden bars--and what appeared very surprising at such an early
hour, there was neither light nor life, neither sound nor motion, so
far as he could percieve in the whole house. He knocked however, and
as he did so, the shadow of something--or the shape of something just
visible in the deep darkness through which he was beginning to see his
way, moved athwart his path and over the step, as if it had pursued him
up to the very door. He was a brave man--but he caught his breath and
stepped back, and felt happy when a light flashed over the wet smooth
turf, and a voice like that of Mr. Paris bid him walk in, for he was
expected and waited for, and had nothing to fear.

Nothing to fear, brother Paris.... He stopped short and stood awhile in
the door-way as if debating with himself whether to go forward or back.

Why--how pale and tired you are--said Mr. Paris, lifting up the candle
and holding it so that he could see the face of Burroughs, while his
own was in deep shadow. You appear to have a--the Lord have pity on us
and help us, dear brother! what can be the matter with you?--why do you
hold back in that way?--why do you stand as if you haven’t the power to
move? why do you look at me as if you no longer know me?--

True--true, said Burroughs--very true--talking to himself in a low
voice and without appearing to observe that another was near. No, no
... it is too late now ... there’s no going back now, if I would ...
but of a truth, it is very wonderful, very ... very ... that I should
not have recollected my rash vow ... a vow like that of Jeptha ... very
... very ... till I had passed over that rocky threshold which five
years ago this very night, I took an oath never to pass again. What if
the day that I spoke of be near?... What if I should be taken at my
word! Our Father who art in....

Sir--Mr. Burroughs--my dear friend--

Well.

What is the matter with you?

With me? ... nothing.... Oh ... ah ... I pray you, brother, do not
regard my speech; I am weary of this work, and the sooner we give it up
now, the better. I have done very little good, I fear ... two deaths
to my charge, where I had hoped a ... ah, forgive me, brother; pray
forgive me.... But how is this?... What’s the matter with _you_?

With me!

Yes--with you. What have I done, that you should block up the door-way
of your own house, when you see me approach? And what have I done that
you should try to hide your face from me, while you are searching mine
with fire, and looking at me with half-averted eyes?

With half-averted eyes--

Matthew, Matthew--we are losing time--we should know each other better.
You are much less cordial to me than you were a few days ago, and you
know it. Speak out like a man ... like a preacher of truth--what have I
done?

What have you done, brother George--how do I know?

Matthew Paris ... are we never to meet again as we have met? never
while we two breathe the breath of life?

I hope ... I do hope.... I am not less glad to see you than I should
be; I do not mean to give you up, whatever others may do, but--but
these are ticklish times brother, and just now (in a whisper) situated
as we are, we cannot be too cautious. To tell you the truth ... I was
not altogether prepared to see you, after the--

Not prepared to see me! Why you told me before you lifted the latch
that I was expected, and waited for--

So I did brother ... so I did, I confess--

And yet, I told nobody of my intention; how did you know I was to be
with you?--

One of the children said so above a week ago, in her sleep.

In--deed.

Ah, you may smile now, brother George; but you looked serious enough a
moment ago, when I opened the door, and if what they say is true--

How did I look, pray?

Why--to tell you the truth, you looked as if you saw something.

Well ... what if I did see something?

The Lord help us brother--what did you see?

I do not say--I am not sure ... but I thought I saw something.

The Lord have mercy on you, brother--what was it?

A shadow--a short black shadow that sped swiftly by me, but whether of
man or beast, I do not know. All that I do know, is--

Lower ... lower ... speak lower, I beseech you, brother B.

No brother P. I shall not speak lower.

Do ... do--

I shall not. For I would have the shadow hear me, and the body to know,
whether it be man or devil, that if either cross my path again, I will
pursue the shadow till I discover the body, or the body till I have
made a shadow of that--

Walk in brother ... walk in, I beseech you.

I’ll not be startled again for nothing. Ah--what are you afraid of?

Afraid--I--

Brother Paris--

There now!

Look you brother Paris. You have something to say to me, and you have
not the courage to say it. You are sorry to see me here ... you would
have me go away.... I do not know wherefore ... I do not ask; but I
know by the tone of your voice, by your look, and by everything I hear
and see, that so it is. In a word therefore ... let us understand each
other. I shall not go away ... here I am Sir, and here I shall abide
Sir, until the mystery which brought me hither is cleared up.

Indeed, indeed Mr. Burroughs, you are mistaken.

I do not believe you.

Sir!

I do not believe you, I say; and I shall put you to the proof.

George Burroughs--I will not be spoken to, thus.

Poh--poh--

I will not, Sir. Who am I, Sir--and who are you, that I should suffer
this of you?--I, a preacher of the gospel--you, an outcast and a
fugitive--

Burroughs drew up with a smile. He knew the temper of the aged man, he
foresaw that he should soon have the whole truth out of him, and he was
prepared for whatever might be the issue.

--Yea, an outcast and a fugitive, pursued by the law it may be, while
I speak; I, a man old enough to be your father--By what authority am
I waylaid here, underneath my own roof--a roof that would have been a
refuge for you, if you were not a--

A what Sir?

I have done--

So I perceive Matthew. I am satisfied now--I see the cause now of
what I charged you with. I do not blame you--grievous though it be
to the hope I had when I thought of you--my--my--brother. I feel for
you--I pity you--I am sorry now for what I said--I pray you to forgive
me--farewell--

Hey--what--

Farewell. You saw me, as you thought, pursued by the law--flying to
the shadow of your roof as to a refuge, and so, you stood at the door
and rebuked me, Matthew.

You wrong me--I love you--I respect you--there is no treachery here,
and what I have said, I said rashly, and I know not why. Forgive me
brother George ... forgive the old man, whose fear hath made him
overlook what is due to them, whoever they are, that fly to his
habitation for shelter.

I do forgive you ... my brother. Let me also be forgiven.

Be it so ... there ... there ... be it so.

But before I take another step, assure me that if I enter the door,
neither you nor yours will be put in jeopardy.

In jeopardy!

Am I pursued by the law? ... am I, of a truth?

Not pursued by the law, George: I did not say you were; I do not know
that you will be ... but indeed, indeed, my poor unhappy friend, here
is my roof, and here am I, ready to share the peril with you, whatever
it may be, and whatever the judges and elders and the people may say.

You are.

Yes.

I am satisfied. You have done your duty.... I shall now do mine. You
are a true brother; let me prove that I know how to value such truth. I
am not pursued by the law, so far as I know or have reason to believe,
and if I was ... I should not come hither you may be assured for safety
... nay, nay, I do not mean a reproach.... I have absolute faith in
your word now; I do believe that you would suffer with me and for me
... but you shall not. If I _were_ hunted for my life, why should I
fly to you?... You could be of no use to me ... you could neither
conceal me nor save me ... and I might bring trouble upon you and
yours forever. What would become of you, were I to be tracked by the
blood-hounds up to your very door?

I pray you, said the aged man, I do pray you ... looking about on
every side, shadowing the light with his meagre hand, the whole
inward structure whereof was thereby revealed, and speaking in a low
subdued whisper--as if he knew that they were overheard by invisible
creatures.... I pray you brother ... dear brother ... let us have done
with such talk--

Why so ... what are you afraid of?

Softly ... softly ... if they should overhear us--

They ... who ... what on earth are you shaking at?

No matter ... hush ... hush ... you may have no such fear brother B.
... you are a bold man brother B. ... a very bold man ... but as for me
... hark!...

What’s the matter with you? ... What ails you?

Hush! ... hush ... do you not hear people whispering outside the door?

No.

A noise like that of somebody breathing hard?--

Yes--

You do ... the Lord help us.

I do man, I do--but it is yourself--you it is, that are breathing
hard--what folly Matthew--what impiety at your age!

At my age ... ah my dear brother, if you had seen what I have seen, or
heard what I have heard, or suffered as I have, young as you are, and
stout and powerful as you are, you would not speak as you do now, nor
look as you do now....

Seen ... heard ... suffered. Have I not seen ... have I not
suffered!... How little you know of me....

Here Matthew Paris, after securing the door with a multitude of bars
and bolts of oak, led the way with a cautious and fearful step toward
a little room, through the gaping crevices of which, a dim unsteady
light, like the light of a neglected fire could be seen.

Death Sir ... death in every possible shape, I might say ... but who
cares for death? ... peril which, whatever you may suppose Matthew,
at your age--old as you are ... why--what am I to understand by your
behaviour! ... you don’t hear a word I am saying to you.

There, there--not so loud I entreat you ... not so loud--there’s no
knowing what may be near us.

Near us--are you mad?--what can be near us?

There again--there, there!

Stop--I go no further.

My dear friend--

Not another step--if _you_ are crazy, I am not--I will be satisfied
before I go any further. Were I to judge by what I now see and
hear--did I not believe what you said a few moments ago; and were I not
persuaded of your integrity, Matthew, I should believe my foes were on
the look out for me, and that you had been employed to entrap me, as
the strong man of old was entrapped for the Philistines, with a show of
great love--

Brother!

--Nay, nay, it is not so; I know that very well. But were I to judge
by your behavior now, I say, and by that alone, I should prepare my
fingers for the fight, and this weapon for war.

And I--if I were to judge by your looks and behaviour at the door, I
should believe that you were flying for your life, and that betaking
yourself to my roof, without regard for me or mine, you were willing to
betray us to the law.

Man--man--how could you believe such a thing of me?

You were pale as death, George--

Speak louder--

Pale as death, and you did not answer me, nor even appear to see me,
till after I had spoken to you two or three times.

Of a truth?--

You appeared unwilling to trust yourself beneath my roof, when you saw
me--

Did I--

--So that I was driven to recall the transaction which drove us apart
from each other--

Did I, Matthew?--I am sorry for it--

Yes--and your behavior altogether was very strange--is very
strange now; it is in fact, allow me to say so, just what I should
look for in a man who knew that his life was in jeopardy. Take a
chair--you are evidently much disturbed, you appear to have met with
some----surely--surely--my brother, something _has_ happened to you.

--Did I--

You do not hear me--

True enough, Matthew--I am very tired--please to give me a drop of
water and allow me to rest myself here a few minutes--I must be gone
quickly--I have no time to lose now, I perceive.

You take a bed with me to night, of course.

No.

You must--indeed you must, my good brother--I have much to ask--much to
advise with you about. We are in a dreadful way now, and if we--

Impossible Matthew--I cannot--I dare not. I have more to do than you
have to say. Are the children a-bed yet?

Ah brother, brother--you have not forgotten the dear child, I see.

Which dear child?

Which dear child!--why--oh--ah--I thought you meant little Abby--the
very image of my departed wife.

Is Bridget Pope with you now?

--She often speaks of you, the dear little babe ... she wears the
keep-sake you gave her, and won’t let any body sit in your place, and
if we desire to punish her, we have only to say that uncle George won’t
love her....

The dear child! I saw her with Bridget on the day of the trial, but I
had no time to speak to either. I hope they are both well--Bridget has
grown prodigiously, I hear--

And so has Abby--

Indeed!

Indeed--why--is it so very wonderful that Abby should grow?

To be sure--certainly not--she was very fair when I saw her last--when
I left this part of the world, I mean.

Very--

So upright, and so graceful and free in her carriage....

Free in her carriage?

For a child, I mean--so modest, and so remarkable in every way--so
attentive, so quiet--

Ah my dear friend--how happy you make me. You never said half so much
about her, all the time you lived here; and I, who know your sincerity
and worth and soberness--to tell you the truth George--I have been a
little sore....

....So attentive, so quiet and so assiduous....

Very true ... very true ... and to hear _you_ say so, is enough to make
her father’s heart leap for joy.

What--in the grave?...

In the grave?...

And after all, I do not perceive that her eyes are too large....

Too large?

Nor that her complexion is too pale....

Nor I....

Nor that her very black hair is either too....

Black hair ... black ... pray brother B. do you know what you are
saying just now? black hair ... why the child’s hair is no more black
than--large eyes too--why it is Bridget Pope that has the large eyes--

Bridget Pope--to be sure it is--and who else should it be?




CHAPTER XV.


So then--It was Bridget Pope you were speaking of all the time, hey,
continued the father.

To be sure it was--what’s the matter now?

Why----a----a----the fact is, brother--

You are displeased, I see.

Not at all--not in the least--no business of mine, brother George--none
at all, if you like Bridget Pope as much as ever--child though she
is--no business of mine brother Burroughs--I am sure of that.

So am I--

You may laugh brother B., you may laugh.

So I shall brother P.--so I shall. O, the sick and sore jealousy of a
father! Why--do you not know Matthew Paris--have I not given you the
proof--that your Abigail is to me even as if she were my own child--the
child of my own dear Sarah? And is not my feeling toward poor Bridget
Pope that of one who foresees that her life is to be a life, perhaps of
uninterrupted trial and sorrow, because of her extraordinary character.
I do acknowledge to you that my heart grows heavy when I think of what
she will have to endure, with her sensibility--poor child--she is not
of the race about her--

There now George--there it is again! That poor child has never been out
of your head, I do believe, since you saw her jump into the sea after
little Robert Eveleth; and if she were but six or eight years older, I
am persuaded from what I now see, and from what I have seen before----

Matthew Paris!

Forgive me George--forgive me--I have gone too far.

You _have_ gone too far.

Will you not forgive me?

I do--I do--I feel what you have said though; I feel it sharply--it was
like an arrow, or a knife--

Allow me to say--

No, no--excuse me--I know what you would say.

Her great resemblance to your wife, which everybody speaks of, and her
beauty--

No, no, Matthew, no, no.... I cannot bear such talk.

Ah George!

Both my wives were very dear to me; but she of whom you speak, she whom
you saw upon the bed of death in all her beauty--she who died before
you, in all her beauty, her glorious beauty! but the other day as it
were....

The other day, George?

--Died with her hand in yours but the other day, while I was afar
off--she whom neither piety nor truth could save, nor faith nor
prayer--she of whom _you_ are already able to speak with a steady
voice, and with a look of terrible composure--to me it is terrible
Matthew she is too dear to me still, and her death too near, whatever
you may suppose; you, her adopted father!--you, the witness of her
marriage vow--you, the witness of her death--for me to endure it--O my
God, my God--that such a woman should be no more in so short a time!

Dear George----

--No more on the earth ... no more in the hearts of them that knew her.

Have I not lost a wife too? ... a wife as beautiful as the day, George,
and as good as beautiful?

--No more in the very heart of him, her adopted father, who sat by her
and supported her when she drew her last breath----

Dear George ... would you break the old man’s heart? why should I not
speak of them that are dead, as freely as of--

The children ... the children, Matthew--how are they?

The children?

I have work to do before I sleep. It grows late ... how are they?

No longer what they were, when you saw them about my table five years
ago....

I dare say not--five years are an age to them.

But they are better now than they were at the time of the trial; we
begin to have some hope now--

Have you, indeed?

Yes, for they have begun to ... she has begun, I should say ... Bridget
Pope....

I understand you--the father will out....

--She has begun to look cheerful and to go about the house in that
quiet smooth way--

I know, I know ... it was enough to bring the water into my eyes to
look at her--

Robert Eveleth is to be with us to-night, and if we can persuade him to
stay here a week or two, I have great hope in the issue....

What hope--how?--

That both will be cured of their melancholy ways--Bridget Pope and my
poor Abby--

Their melancholy ways--why, what have they to do with Robert Eveleth?

Why--don’t you see they are always together when he is here--

Who--Abigail and he?

No--Bridget Pope--

Well, what if they are--what does that prove?

Prove!

Yes--prove--prove--you know the meaning of the word, I hope?

Don’t be angry, George.

Angry--who’s angry?--poh, poh, Matthew, poh, poh, poh; talk about love
in a girl of that age for a boy of that age--

Love--who said anything about love?

Poh, poh, poh--affection, or love--or--whatever you please, Matthew--it
isn’t the word I quarrel with--it is the idea--I wonder that you should
put such things into their head--

I!

A man of your age, Matthew Paris--

Ah, brother, brother.

Sir.

There you go again!--But I see how it is, and I shall say no more about
Bridgy Pope or the boy, Robert Eveleth, till you are a----

For shame--

Why so, George? All I wanted to say was, that when Robert is here, the
children are happy together and cheerful. They go romping about in the
woods together, up all the mows in the neighbourhood, or along by the
sea-shore, (between schools) and spend half their play-time in the
blackberry-swamp--you look very serious....

I feel so ... good by’e.

Good by’e--I thought you had come to see the children?

To see the children?--so I did--as I live, Matthew! Lead me to them--

Follow me in here--they are just going to bed, I see.

So I did--I came for no other purpose--

Really?

Really--

A tip-toe, brother, if you please--the sight of you may do them good--

I hope so, said Burroughs--beginning to feel what he had never till
that hour had the slightest idea of--jealousy--downright jealousy, and
of a nature too absurd for belief, except with such as have been afraid
in a like way, of losing the chief regard of no matter what--anything
for which they cared ever so little, or ever so much--a bird or a
kitten, a dog or a horse, a child or a woman.

I hope so, he repeated, as he followed the preacher on tip-toe and
peeped into the little room to survey their faces before he entered,
that he might enjoy their surprise. But he started back at the first
view, and caught by the arm of his aged brother--for there sat the
poor children with their little naked feet buried half leg deep in the
wood-ashes, their uncombed hair flying loose in the draught of the
chimney, each with her wild eyes fixed upon the hearth, and each as far
from the other as she could well get in the huge fire-place; and so
pale were they, and so meagre, and their innocent faces were so full of
care and so unlike what they should have been at their age--the age of
untroubled hope and pure joy--that he was quite overcome.

They heard his approach, either his step or his breathing, and started
away from their settles with a cry that pierced his heart.

I pray you! said he.--But Abigail ran off and hid herself in a far
corner of the room, where a bed was turned up in a niche, and waited
there, gasping for breath, as if she expected to be eaten alive; and
Bridget Pope, although she stood still and surveyed him with a steady
look, made no reply to what he said, but grew very pale, and caught by
a chair when he spoke to her.

Why how now, said Mr. Paris, how now, children? what’s the matter with
you, now?

Father--father! cried Abigail, peeping out with eyes full of terror,
and speaking with a voice which made her father look toward the door
as if he expected Burroughs to assume another shape, or somebody else
to appear from the darkness behind. O father--father--O _my_!--there,
there!--there he goes!

Where--where--what is it, my poor child?

Why--Burroughs--Burroughs--there, there! there now, there he goes
again!--that’s he--there, there--don’t you see him now, father?

See whom, dear?--see what?

Why, Burroughs, to be sure--Burroughs, the bad
man--there--there--there--

God help us!

I never saw him afore in that shape, father, never in all my days,
but I know him though, I know him well enough by the scar on his
forehead--there, there--there he goes!--can’t you see him now, father?

See him--to be sure I do.

Gracious God--Almighty Father--what can be the matter with the poor
child? I begin to perceive the truth now, said Burroughs, I do not
wonder now at your faith, nor at your dreadful terror.

There--there--didn’t you hear that, father?--it spoke then--I heard it
speak as plain as day--didn’t you hear it, father?

Why--Abigail Paris--don’t you know me dear? don’t you know your uncle
George?

There again--that’s jest the way he speaks--help, father, help!

What _is_ the matter with you, child?

Nothin’ father; nothin’ at all now--it stops now--it was a comin’ this
way when you spoke--my stars! anybody might know it, father.

Know what, Abby?

Make me believe that aint George Burroughs, if you can, father.

Why, to be sure it is, cried Burroughs, going a step nearer to the
place where the little creature lay, cuddled up in a heap, with a
quantity of split-wood and pitch-knots gathered about her. Why do you
tremble so, dear?--what’s the matter with you?--what are you afraid of?

Father--father--shrieked the poor child, stop it, father!

Why!--don’t you know me Abigail?--nor you neither Bridget Pope--don’t
_you_ know me dear?

O Sir--Sir--is it you?--is it you yourself, Mr. Burroughs? cried the
latter, huddling up into the shadow, and catching her breath, and
standing on tip-toe, as if to get as far out of his reach as possible.
O Sir--is it you?...

To be sure it is--look at me--speak to me--touch me--

O Sir, Sir----no, no, Mr. Burroughs--no, no.

Why what on earth can possess you Bridget Pope?--what on earth is the
matter with you?--what are you afraid of?

O Lord Sir--I hope it _is_ you!

Who else can it be?--don’t you see me?--don’t you hear me speak?--O I’m
ashamed of you, such a great girl, to be afraid of a----

Who else?--how should I know Sir? and if I knew, I should be afraid to
say; but I don’t know Sir, I don’t indeed Sir--and how should I, pray,
when I never saw you before to night--

Never saw me before to night!

No Sir, never--never--

Are you out of your head Bridget Pope?--never saw me before?

No Sir--never, never--I wish I may die if I ever did, though others
have--your shape I mean Sir--but I would never allow they told the
truth about you when they--O, Abigail, Abigail!

Did you speak to _me_, Bridgy Pope?

O my, O my!--it _is_ your uncle George!--it is indeed--I see the ring
he used to wear--that’s the very ring!

You don’t say so Bridgy!--mother’s pretty ring?

Speak to it now Abby--you aint afeard now--speak to it, will you?

No, no, Bridgy, no, no--you speak to it yourself--what are you cryin’
about father?

I did speak to it Abby--it’s your turn now--

But you’re the nearest--

But you’re the furthest off--

Ah--but you’re the oldest!--

But you are the youngest....

Father--father--its lookin’ at me now!

Well, what are you afeard on Abby--I don’t believe he’s one o’ the
crew--is he, uncle Matthew?

The preacher was afraid to open his mouth--his heart was too full. It
was the first time they had called each other Abby and Bridgy, for
months.

And so--and so--they may say what they like; and I--I--as for me Abby,
I’m not afeard now, one bit--

How you talk Bridgy.

No--and I’ll never be afeard again--so there!

Why--Bridgy!

And so you’d better come out o’ your cubby-house, and go up to it and
speak to it; I’m not afeard now, you see.

Nor I.

Yes you be, or you wouldn’t stay there.

What if you speak to it agin Bridgy?

So I will. How d’ye do Sir, how d’ye do?

My!--if ‘taint a laughin’ at you!

I hope you’re satisfied now--

Aint you railly afeard one bit though, cousin Bridgy?

No indeed, not I. See if I be now--look at me and see what I’m a goin’
to do. There Sir!--there Mr. Burroughs, or whatever you be, there’s my
hand Sir--there----

Laying it on the table before him and turning away her head just as if
she were going to have some hateful operation performed....

--You may touch it if you like--

God bless you dear.

I’m not afeard of you now--am I Sir?

No, no--my brave girl.

And you are not ashamed of me now I hope--are you Sir?

No--no--but I am proud of you--

He touched her hand as he spoke, but released it immediately, for he
saw that he had a very cautious game to play.

By jingo Abby!

By jingo--what for?

Why the hand is warm after all; it is Mr. Burroughs himself--it is, it
is!--I know him now as well as I know you----hourra!

O my!

As sure as you are alive Abby.

Why, Bridget Pope, said her uncle. What on earth are you made of?

Me--uncle Matthew?

Why ... it appears that you did not know him just now, when you spoke
to him.

No Sir--I wasn’t very sure--not so sure as I am now.

There’s courage for you--true courage, Matthew Paris; a spirit worthy
of all admiration.

Very true--very true--but she is two years older than Abby.

Not so much, Matthew, not so much--well dear?

May I go now--please....

You are not afraid of me now, dear?

No Sir--if you please--not much--

And you never will be so again, I hope?

So do I Sir--so do I.... I hope so too ... for its an awful thing to be
afeard of anybody.

Poor child.

To be afeard in the dark Sir--in the dead o’ the night Sir--when you’re
all livin’ alone Sir--O, it _is_ dreadful.

So it is, our Bridgy.

But I never mean to be afeard again Sir.

There’s a good girl.

Never, never (catching her breath)--if I can help it.

Nor I nyther, Bridgy--

Never ... (lowering her voice and peeping under the bed) never without
I see the wicked Shape as they do--right afore me in the path, when I
go after the cows, or when I go to look for the pretty shells on the
sea-shore--

What wicked Shape?

Your own Sir--please.

Ah.

And so Sir--and so--and so uncle Matthew--and so you’d better come out
o’ your hole, Abby dear.

After a deal of persuasion, _Abby dear_ began to creep out of her
hiding-place, and by little and little to work her way along, now by
the split-wood, now by the wall, and now with her back toward the place
where the Shape sat holding his breath and afraid to move, lest he
should scare away the new-born courage of the little thing.

After a while she got near enough to speak; and holding by her father’s
coat all the time, she sidled up to Burroughs, who would not appear to
see what she was about, and lifting up her innocent face, articulated
just loud enough to reach him--There now.

Well dear--

Off she started, the moment he spoke.

But finding she was not pursued, she stopped a yard or two from his
chair, and peeping over the flap of her father’s coat--and seeing that
the shape was looking another way--she came a little nearer--stopped--a
little nearer still--inch by inch--stopped once more, and looking up at
him, as if she knew not whether to run off or stay, said--You be Mr.
Burroughs--_I_ know?

He was afraid to speak yet, and afraid to move.

Uncle George--ee.

God bless the babe!

There now--I told you so--you be uncle George, baint you?

Yes dear--but who are you--you little wayward imp, with such a smutty
face and such ragged hair ... poh, poh ... poh ... what are you afraid
of?

O father, father! he’s got me! he’s got me!

Well--there, there--if you don’t like to stay with me, go to your
father....

Why ... what a funny Shape it is father--if it _is_ a shape.

I don’t believe your hair has been combed for a twelvemonth.

O but it has though....

It is no fault of ours, my friend, said her father, delighted to see
her at the knee of Burroughs. We do all we can, but the more we scrub,
the more we may; the more we wash, the dirtier and blacker she grows,
and the more we comb, the rougher looks her beautiful hair ... it was
beautiful indeed a year ago--

It was like spun gold when I left you.

--But she is no longer the same Abigail Paris that you knew--

Why ... father!...

Be careful Sir; metaphors and poetry are not for babes and sucklings....

You be a good man after all ... baint you Sir? continued she, getting
more confidence at every breath, now that she found the Shape willing
to let her go whenever she chose to go. You be a good man after all Sir
... baint you Sir?

I hope so dear.

You never torments the people, do you? Leaning with her whole weight
upon his knee, letting go her father’s coat, and shaking her abundant
hair loose.

I! ... no indeed I hope not.... I should be very sorry to torment the
people.

Would you though?

Yes dear....

Uncle Georgee! said the child in a whisper that sounded like a whisper
of joy ... dear uncle George ... and he drew her into his lap, and she
put her mouth close to his ear and repeated the words again, so that
they went into his heart--O, I do love you, uncle Georgee!

Having passed a whole hour in examining the two little sufferers (whom
he left asleep in each other’s arms) he went away utterly confounded
by their behaviour, and with little hope of reaching the truth; for if
Abigail Paris and Bridget Pope were what they seemed to be ... what
they undoubtedly were indeed,--innocent as the dove--how could he say
after all, that they were _not_ bewitched? Still however there was
one hope. That which he saw might proceed from disease or from fear,
the natural growth in that age and among that people, of a solitary
situation. But if so, what was he to think of others, who had a like
faith, and yet lived in a populous neighborhood and were cheerful and
happy? Anxious to arrive at the truth, he set off immediately to see
Rachel and Elizabeth Dyer, knowing that under their quiet roof, he
should be at peace, though he failed to procure what he needed ...
further information about her who had abused the people and the judges
with a tremendous forgery.




CHAPTER XVI.


He was not altogether disappointed. Rachel Dyer knew much of the woman
who had fabricated the story of the spindle and sheet, and was only
waiting for proof to impeach her for it, face to face, before the
people and the judges. Her name was Hubbard; she was in the prime of
life, with a good share of beauty; bold, crafty and sly, and very much
feared by those who believed her story; and Rachel Dyer, though a woman
of tried worth and remarkable courage, was unwilling to appear against
her, till she could do so with a certainty of success, for it would be
a fearful stake to play for, and she knew it--nothing less than life to
life--her life against that of Judith Hubbard.

But though she knew this, having been very familiar with the aspect
of peril from her youth, and being aware that she was looked up to
with awe by the multitude--not so much with fear, as with a sort of
religious awe--great love mingled with a secret, mysterious veneration,
as the chief hope of her grandmother, Mary Dyer, the prophetess and the
martyr--she determined to play for that stake.

She knew well what a wager of death was, and she knew well the worth of
her own life. But she knew what was expected of her, and of what she
was capable, in a period of general and sore perplexity and sorrow; for
twice already in her short life she had approved her high relationship
to the martyr, and the sincerity of her faith as one of that people,
who, when they were smitten of one cheek, turned the other, and who,
when they were reviled, reviled not again,--by going forth into the
great woods of North-America, while they were beset with exasperated
savages and with untamed creatures of blood, forever on the track
of their prey, to intercede for those who had been carried off into
captivity by the red heathen ... pursuing her fearful path by night and
by day ... in winter and in summer ... and always alone ... to prove
her faith; and prevailing in each case where there seemed to be no sort
of hope, and thereby preserving to the colony eight of her precious
youth; and among others, one who had despitefully used her a little
time before, and whose grandfather was reputed to have been the real
cause of her beloved grandmother’s death.

When Burroughs arrived at the door, and laid his hand upon the rude
latch, he started, for the door flew open of itself; there was no lock
on it, no fastening, neither bolt nor bar. He found the two sisters
with a large book open before them, and Rachel reading to Elizabeth in
a low voice, with her arm about her neck. How now? said he.

They gave him a hearty cheerful shake of the hand; but he observed, or
thought he observed a slight change of colour in the face of Rachel, as
he turned his eye to the book and saw a paragraph with her name in it.

You were reading, said he, as he drew up a chair to the table. Go on,
if you please.

Thank thee, George; we had nearly finished....

What are you reading, pray?

We were just reading the beautiful story of ... why, Rachel Dyer ... if
thee ain’t a goin’ to shet up the book afore we are half done with the
chapter! said Elizabeth, jumping up with a look of surprise ... well, I
do think!

Rachel turned away her head with a somewhat hasty motion, pushed the
book toward Elizabeth, and sat back as far as she could possibly get
into her grandmother’s huge arm-chair; but she made no reply, and
Elizabeth saw that something was the matter.

Thee’s not well, I’m afeard, sister ... dear sister, said she, going up
to her and throwing her arms about her neck, and kissing her as a child
would kiss a mother.

Rachel burst into tears.

Why! exclaimed Elizabeth ... why! ... what is the matter with thee,
Rachel ... thee turns away thy head ... thee will not look at me ...
what have I done, I beseech thee, dear sister ... what have I done to
grieve thee? Speak to her, George ... do speak to her ... I never saw
her in this way before.

Poor soul, said he, going up to her and speaking with visible emotion;
but as he drew near and would have put his hand upon hers, like a
brother, she pulled it away; and then as if suddenly recollecting
herself, she rose up, and after a short struggle, turned to him with a
smile that affected him even more than her tears, and spoke to him very
kindly, and put her hand into his, and prepared to finish the chapter.
It was the story of the patriarch, who, after cheating his father in
his old age, and betraying his brother Esau, went away into the land of
the people of the East, where in due course of time he was overreached
and betrayed by his mother’s brother; and the voice of the reader was
firm and clear, and her look steady, till she came to these words--

“And Laban had two daughters: the name of the elder was Lear, and the
name of the younger was Rachel.

“Lear was tender-eyed, but Rachel....

Her voice quavered now, and she proceeded with visible effort and hurry.

----“But Rachel was _beautiful and well favored. And Jacob loved
Rachel._

A moment more--and she recovered her voice entirely, and finished the
chapter without a sign of emotion, as if she knew in her own soul that
Burroughs and Elizabeth were watching her as they had never watched her
before.

Strange morality--said he, as they laid the Book aside. This patriarch,
and others who happen to have been greatly favored in that age by
the God of the patriarchs were guilty of more than we, with our
shortsighted notions of propriety, should be very willing either to
overlook or forgive--

George Burroughs--

My dear friend--what I say is very true, and to pass over David, the
man after God’s own heart, I would ask you whether he who cheated his
father and his brother, by the help of his mother, while he was yet a
youth, and as he grew up laid before the stronger cattle the rods which
he had peeled--as we have it in the Book--and suffered the cattle that
were weak--as we read there--to conceive in their own way, so that “the
feebler were Laban’s cattle and the stronger Jacob’s ... whether he, I
say....

I see no advantage in this ... we have a faith of our own, said Rachel,
interrupting him with a mild seriousness which he dared not contend
with. I pray thee to spare us,--and thyself George....

Are we not to bear witness to the truth, Rachel?

It may be the truth George, but ... glancing at Elizabeth who sat as if
she expected the roof to fall in, or the earth to give way under their
feet and swallow them up for their dreadful impiety ... some truths we
know are for the strong, and some for the weak.

Ah ... what was that! cried Elizabeth catching at her sister’s arm.

Poor child ... there George there ... thee sees the effect of thy truth
... why, Lizzy!

O I did hear something ... I did, I did! continued Elizabeth, clinging
to her sister and fixing her eyes upon the roof. O I’m sure there’s
something up there.

Well, and what if there is, pray? What’s thee afraid of?... Is the arm
of our Father shortened or his power shrunk, that we are not safe?

Nay nay Rachel ... no wonder she’s afraid. You are lying asleep as it
were, in the very path-way of the prowling savage and the beast of
blood, with no lock on your outer-door, not so much as a wooden bolt,
with no sort of security for you, by day or by night; and all this in a
time of war, and you living on the outskirts of the wood ... why it’s
no better than tempting Providence, Rachel Dyer....

Just what I say ... said Elizabeth....

And I am sorry to hear thee say so....

Nay nay Rachel ... why so grave? I confess to you that I should not
like to live as you do....

I dare say, George....

It would be impossible for me to sleep....

No no ... not impossible.

And I should expect a savage or a bear to drop in, every hour of the
day....

Thee wouldn’t always be disappointed George.

And every hour of the night, Rachel, without ceremony.

We disregard ceremony, George.

Why, what are you made of Rachel Dyer....

Of earth, George.

Not of common earth....

George Burroughs!

But of a truth now, are you not afraid of a call some one of these
dark nights from a stray savage, a Pequod, or a Mohawk--or an Iroquois?

She smiled.

Are you not? We are at open war now with half the tribes of the North.

No ... and why should I be? I know them all and they know that
Elizabeth and I are what they call poo-ka-kee....

Poor quakers, hey?...

Yes, and thee may be very sure that we have not much to be in fear of
when I tell thee ... prepare thyself George ... that hardly a day goes
over without my seeing some one or two of thy tribe, or of the Iroquois.

What! cried the preacher, leaping out of the chair and looking up at
the roof ... there may be somebody there now.

Not up there George....

Where then?

It would be no easy matter for me to say: for whoever it is, he will
not appear till thee is gone ... why, what’s thee afraid of? ... and
then he will open the door as thee did, and walk in. Thee may put up
thy knife George, and lay down thy staff ... they’ll never cross thy
path, nor harm a hair of thy head....

How can I be sure of that?

By believing what I say to thee.

I know the savages better than you do, my dear friend.

I have my doubts, George. They never harmed a visiter of mine yet,
neither going or coming; and I have had not a few of their mortal foes
under my roof while they were lying within bow-shot of the door. Be
assured of what I say ... thee has nothing to fear....

Would we let thee come, George, if it wasn’t very safe? asked Elizabeth.

Forgive me, said he, forgive me; and his eyes flashed fire, and
Elizabeth hid her face, and Rachel turned away her head.

Why, how now? said he, looking at both in astonishment, you appear to
have a----

He stopped short ... he had an idea that he knew the character of both
sisters well; he had been acquainted with Mary Elizabeth from her
childhood up, and with her grave sister from her youth up, and he had
always perceived that there was a something in the nature of both, but
especially in that of Rachel Dyer, unlike the nature of anybody else
that he ever knew; but he had never been so puzzled by either as he was
now----

I hope I have not offended you? said he, at last.

Do _thee_ feel safe George?

Yes ... but you are not safe ... ah, you may smile and shake your head,
but you are not safe. How do you think the authorities of the land will
endure to be told that you are on such familiar terms with the foe?
Have a care ... you will get yourself into trouble, if you don’t.

Make thyself easy George. We are quite safe; we belong to neither side
in the war, and both sides know it. By abiding here, I am able to do
much good....

As how, pray?

By showing that I am not afraid to trust to the good-faith of savages;
by showing them that they are safe in trusting to _my_ good-faith, and
above all, that weapons of war, whatever thee may say, George, are not
necessary to them who put their trust in the Lord....

What if we were to entrap some of your visiters without your knowledge?

It would be no easy matter. They guard every path I do believe, that
leads to my door....

Every path....

Yes ... and let me tell thee now, that if it should ever happen to thee
to go astray in these woods, thee will have nothing to fear so long as
thee pursues a path which leads to my door ... if thee should miss thy
way, inquire aloud, and thee will be safe....

How so?

Thee will be overheard....

You astonish me.

And guarded, if it be necessary....

Guarded!...

Up to my very door ... thee can hardly put faith in what I say. Do
thee know George, that to be a poo-ka-kee, is to bear a charmed life,
as thee would say, not only here, but in the great wilderness? Do thee
know too, that among the tribes of the north, it is a common thing to
charge a captive with cruelty to the quakers.

I do ... and I have heard every cry of a pale man at the stake answered
by ... Ah ha! what for you farver ’im choke-a poo-ka-kee-ooman?

Poor soul....

They alluded I suppose to your grandmother. How you like em dat? said a
Mohawk chief, putting his belt round the neck of another, and pulling
it just hard enough to choke him a little. Ah ha! ... what for you do
so?... You choke-a poo-ka-kee-ooman, hey? ... you kill um ’gin? ah
ha....

No, no George ... no, no.... I can’t bear to hear thee ... it reminds
me of the poor youth I saved. They frightened him almost to death
before they would give him up, only because they had a tradition in
their tribe that his grandfather was in some way, the cause of my
grandmother’s death; and I am quite sure that he would not have been
given up to anybody but me ... well....

Hark ... hark! said Elizabeth, interrupting her sister.

Well, what now?

I heard a voice....

A voice ... where ... when ... what was it like?

Like the voice of a woman, a great way off--

A female panther I dare say ... it’s high time to look to the door.

There ... there ... oh, it’s close to the door now!

A low sweet voice could be distinctly heard now, but whether on the
roof or up the chimney, or at the window or the door, it was quite
impossible to say.




CHAPTER XVII.


The preacher drew forth a knife, and went up to the door.

Sir ... sir ... you are wanted Sir ... right away Sir, said a low voice
at his elbow....

Who are you? ... where are you? cried he ... but the blood curdled
about his heart, and he recoiled from the sound as he spoke.

Here I be ... here ... here.

Elizabeth dropped on her knees and hid her face in the lap of her
sister; and Rachel, who was not of a temper to be easily frightened,
gathered her up and folded her arms about her, as if struck to the
heart with a mortal fear. But Burroughs, after fetching a breath or
two, went back to the door and stood waiting for the voice to be heard
again.

What are you?--speak--_where_ are you?

Here I be, said the invisible creature.

And who are you--what are you? cried Burroughs running up to the door,
and then to the window, and then to the fire-place, and then back to
the window, and preparing to push the slide away--

Here I be sir--here--here--

Well--if ever!--cried Rachel. Why don’t thee go to the door
George--starting up and leaving poor Elizabeth on her knees. Why! thee
may be sure there’s something the matter--going to the door a-tip-toe.

No no Rachel--no no; it may be a stratagem--

A stratagem for what pray?--what have we to fear?

The door flew open as she spoke, and a boy entered all out of breath,
his neck open, his hat gone, his jacket off, and his hair flying loose--

Why, Robert Eveleth--

O Sir--sir! said he, as soon as he could speak--O sir I’ve come to tell
you--didn’t you never see a Belzebub?--

A what?--

If you never did, now’s your time; just look out o’the door there, and
you’ll see a plenty on ’em.

Why, Robert--Robert--what ails the boy?

No matter now, aunt Rachel--you’re wanted Sir--they’re all on the
look-out for you now--you’re a goin’ to be tried to-morrow for your
life--I come here half an hour ago to tell you so--but I saw one o’ the
Shapes here right by the winder....

A what?--

--A Shape--an’ so d’ye see, I cleared out ... and so, and so--the
sooner you’re off, the better; they’re a goin’ to swear _your_ life
away, now--

His life, murmured Elizabeth.

My life--mine--how do you know this, boy?

How do I know it Sir?--well enough ... they’ve been over and waked
Bridgy Pope, and want her to say so too--and she and Abby--they sent me
off here to tell you to get away as fast as ever you can, all three of
you, if you don’t want to swing for it, afore you know where you be----

Robert Eveleth!--

O, it’s all very true Sir, an’ you may look as black as a
thunder-cloud, if you please, but if you don’t get away, and you--and
you--every chip of you, afore day-light, you’ll never eat another
huckleberry-puddin’ in this world, and you may swear to that, all
hands of you, as we say aboard ship....

Robert Eveleth, from what I saw of you the other day----

Can’t help that Sir ... you’ve no time to lose now, either of you;
you do as I say now, an’ I’ll hear you preach whenever you like,
arter you’re all safe--no, no, you needn’t trouble yourself to take
a chair--if you stop to set down, it’s fifty to five an’ a chaw o’
tobacco, ’t you never git up agin ... why! ... there’s Mary Wa’cote and
that air Judith Hubbard you see ... (lowering his voice) an’ I don’t
know how many more o’ the Shapes out there in the wood waitin’ for
you....

Poh.

Lord, what a power o’ faces I did see! when the moon came out, as I was
crackin’ away over the path by the edge o’ the wood.... I’ve brought
you father’s grey stallion, he that carried off old Ci Carter when the
Mohawks were out ... are you all ready?

All ready?

Yes, all--all--you’re in for’t too, Lizzy Dyer, and so are you, aunt
Rachel--an’ so--and so--shall I bring up the horse?

No--

No--yes, but I will though, by faith!

Robert!

Why Robert, thee makes my blood run cold--

Never you mind for that, Lizzy Dyer.

Robert Eveleth, I am afraid thy going to sea a trip or two, hath made
thee a naughty boy, as I told thy mother it would.

No no, aunt Rachel, no no, don’t say so; we never swear a mouthful when
we’re out to sea, we never ketch no fish if we do--but here am I; all
out o’ breath now, and you wont stir a peg, for all I can say or do
and be--gulp to you!

Here Burroughs interrupted the boy, and after informing the sisters of
what had occurred while he was with Mr. Paris and the poor children,
he made the boy go over the whole story anew, and having done so, he
became satisfied in his own soul, that if the conspirators were at work
to destroy the poor girl before him, there would be no escape after she
was once in their power.

Be of good cheer, Elizabeth, said he, and as he spoke, he stooped down
to set his lips to her forehead.

George--George--we have no time to lose--what are we to do? said
Rachel, putting forth her hand eagerly so as to stay him before he had
reached the brow of Elizabeth; and then as quickly withdrawing it, and
faltering out a word or two of self-reproach.

If you think as I do, dear Rachel, the sooner she is away the better.

I do think as thee does--I do, George ... (in this matter.) Go for the
black mare, as fast as thee can move, Robert Eveleth.

Where shall I find her ... it’s plaguy dark now, where there’s no light.

On thy left hand as the door slips away; thee’ll find a cloth and a
side-saddle over the crib, with a--stop, stop--will the grey horse bear
a pillion?

Yes--forty.

If he will not, however, the mare will ... so be quick, Robert, be
quick....

Away bounded the boy.

She has carried both of us before to-day, and safely too, when each
had a heavier load upon her back than we both have now. Get thee ready
sister--for my own part--I--well George, I have been looking for sorrow
and am pretty well prepared for it, thee sees. I knew four months ago
that I had wagered my life against Judith Hubbard’s life--I am sorry
for Judith--I should be sorry to bring her to such great shame, to say
nothing of death, and were it not for others, and especially for that
poor child, (pointing to Elizabeth) I would rather lay down my own
life--much rather, if thee’ll believe me George, than do her the great
mischief that I now fear must be done to her, if our Elizabeth is to
escape the snare.

I _do_ believe you--are you ready?--

Quite ready; but why do thee stand there, as if thee was not going
too?--or as if thee had not made up thy mind?

Ah--I thought I saw a face--

I dare say thee did; but thee’s not afraid of a face, I hope?

I hear the sound of horses’ feet--

How now?--it is not for such as thee to be slow of resolve.

He drew a long breath--

George--thee is going with us?

No, Rachel--I’d better stay here.

Here! shrieked Elizabeth.

Here!--what do thee mean, George? asked her sister.

I mean what I say--just what I say--it is for me to abide here.

For thee to abide here? If it is the duty of one, it is the duty of
another, said Elizabeth in a low, but very decided voice.

No, Elizabeth Dyer, no--I am able to bear that which ought never to be
expected of you.

Do thee mean death, George?--we are not very much afraid of death, said
Rachel--are we Elizabeth?

No--not very much--

You know not what you say. I am a preacher of the gospel--what may be
very proper for me to do, may be very improper for a young beautiful----

George Burroughs--

Forgive me Rachel--

I do ... prepare thyself, my dear Elizabeth, gird up thy loins; for the
day of travail and bitter sorrow is nigh to thee.

Here am I sister! And ready to obey thee at the risk of my life. What
am I to do?

I advise thee to fly, for if they seek thy death, it is for my sake--I
shall go too.

Dear sister--

Well?--

Stoop thy head, I pray thee, continued Elizabeth--I--I--(in a
whisper)--I hope he’ll go with thee.

With me?--

With us, I mean--

Why not say so?

How could I?

Mary Elizabeth Dyer!

Nay nay--we should be safer with him--

Our safety is not in George Burroughs, maiden.

But we should find our way in the dark better.

Rachel made no reply, but she stood looking at her sister, with her
lips apart and her head up, as if she were going to speak, till her
eyes ran over, and then she fell upon her neck and wept aloud for a
single moment, and then arose and, with a violent effort, broke away
from Elizabeth, and hurried into their little bedroom, where she staid
so long that Elizabeth followed her--and the preacher soon heard their
voices and their sobs die away, and saw the linked shadows of both in
prayer, projected along the white roof.

A moment more and they came out together, Rachel with a steady look
and a firm step, and her sister with a show of courage that awed him.

Thee will go with us now, I hope, said Rachel.

He shook his head.

I pray thee George--do not thou abide here--by going with us thee
may have it in thy power to help a----in short, we have need of thee
George, and thee had better go, even if thee should resolve to come
back and outface whatever may be said of thee--

What if I see an angel in my path?

Do that which to thee seemeth good--I have no more to say--the greater
will be thy courage, the stronger the presumption of thy innocence,
however, should thee come back, after they see thee in safety--what do
thee say Elizabeth?--

I didn’t speak, Rachel--but--but--O I _do_ wish he would go.

I shall come back if I live, said Burroughs.

Nay nay George--thee may not see thy way clear to do so--

Hourra there, hourra! cried Robert Eveleth, popping his head in at the
door. Here we be all three of us--what are you at now?--why aint you
ready?--what are you waitin’ for?

George--it has just occurred to me that if I stay here, I may do
Elizabeth more good than if I go with you--having it in my power to
escape, it may be of weight in her favor--

Fiddle-de-dee for your proof cried Robert Eveleth--that, for all
your proof! snapping his fingers--that for all the good you can do
Elizabeth--I say, Mr. Burroughs--a word with you--

Burroughs followed him to a far part of the room.

If you know when you are well off, said the boy--make her go--you may
both stay, you and Elizabeth too, without half the risk; but as for
aunt Rachel, why as sure as you’re a breathin’ the breath o’ life now,
if you don’t get her away, they’ll have her up with a short turn; and
if you know’d all, you’d say so--I said ’twas _you_ when I fuss come,
for I didn’t like to frighten her--but the fact is you are only one
out o’ the three, and I’d rather have your chance now, than either o’
their’n--

Why? Robert--

Hush--hush--you stoop down your head here, an’ I’ll satisfy you o’ the
truth o’ what I say.... Barbara Snow, and Judy Hubbard have been to
make oath, and they wanted Bridgy Pope to make oath too--they’d do as
much for her they said--how ’t you come to their bed-side about a week
ago, along with a witch that maybe you’ve heerd of--a freckled witch
with red hair and a big hump on her back--

No no--cried the preacher, clapping his hand over the boy’s mouth and
hastily interchanging a look with Elizabeth, whose eyes filled with a
gush of sorrow, when she thought of her brave good sister, and of what
she would feel at the remark of the boy ... a remark, the bitter truth
of which was made fifty times more bitter by his age, and by the very
anxiety he showed to keep it away from her quick sensitive ear.

But Rachel was not like Elizabeth; for though she heard the remark, she
did not even change color, but went up to the boy, and put both arms
about his neck with a smile, and gave him a hearty kiss ... and bid him
be a good boy, and a prop for his widowed mother.

A moment more and they were all on their way. It was very dark for a
time, and the great wilderness through which their path lay, appeared
to overshadow the whole earth, and here and there to shoot up a
multitude of branches--up--up--into the very sky--where the stars and
the moon appeared to be adrift, and wallowing on their way through a
sea of shadow.

Me go too? said a voice, apparently a few feet off, as they were
feeling for a path in the thickest part of the wood.

The preacher drew up as if an arrow had missed him. Who are you? said
he--

No no, George ... let me speak--

Do you know the voice?

No--but I’m sure ’tis one that I have heard before.

Me go too--high!

No.

Where you go?--high!

Rachel pointed with her hand.

Are you afraid to tell? asked the preacher, looking about in vain for
somebody to appear.

I have told him--I pointed with my hand--

But how could he see thy hand such a dark night? said Elizabeth.

As _you_ would see it in the light of day, said the preacher.

High--high--me better go too--poo-ka-kee.

No, no--I’d rather not, whoever thee is--we are quite safe--

No--no, said the voice, and here the conversation dropped, and they
pursued their way for above an hour, at a brisk trot, and were already
in sight of a path which led to the Providence Plantations, their city
of refuge--

High--high--me hear um people, cried the same voice. You no safe much.

And so do I, cried Burroughs. I hear the tread of people afar off--no,
no, ’tis a troop of horse--who are you--come out and speak to us--what
are we to do?--the moon is out now.

High, poo-ka-kee, high!

Yes--come here if thee will, and say what we are to do.

Before the words were well out of her mouth, a young savage appeared in
the path, a few feet from the head of her horse, and after explaining
to her that she was pursued by a troop, and that he and six more of
the tribe were waiting to know whether she wanted their help, he threw
aside his blanket and showed her, that although he was in the garb of a
swift-runner, he did not lack for weapons of war.

No, no, not for the world poor youth! cried the woman of peace, when
her eye caught the glitter of the knife, the tomahawk and the short
gun--I pray thee to leave us ... do leave us--do, do!--speak to him
George ... he does not appear to understand what I say--entreat him to
leave us.

High--high! said the young warrior, and off he bounded for the
sea-shore, leaving them to pursue their opposite path in quietness.
Rachel and Elizabeth were upon a creature that knew, or appeared to
know every step of the way; but the young high-spirited horse the
preacher rode, had become quite unmanageable, now that the moon was up,
the sky clear, and the shadows darting hither and thither about her
path. At last they had come to the high road--their peril was over--and
they were just beginning to speak above their breath, when Burroughs
heard a shot fired afar off--

Hush--hush--don’t move; don’t speak for your lives, cried he,
as the animal reared and started away from the path ... soh,
soh--I shall subdue him in a moment--hark--that is the tread of a
horse--another--and another, by my life--woa!--woa!--

My heart misgives me, George--that youth--

Ah--another shot--we are pursued by a troop, and that boy is picking
them off--

O Father of mercies! I hope not.

Stay you here--I’ll be back in a moment--woa--woa!--

George----George--

Don’t be alarmed--stay where you are--keep in the shadow, and if I
do not come back immediately, or if you see me pursued, or if--woa,
woa--or if you see the mare prick up her ears, don’t wait for me, but
make the best of your way over that hill yonder--woa!--keep out o’ the
high road and you are safe.

Saying this, he rode off without waiting for a reply, intending to
follow in the rear of the troop, and to lead them astray at the risk
of his life, should they appear to be in pursuit of the fugitives.
He had not gone far, when his horse, hearing the tread of other
horses--a heavy tramp, like that of a troop of cavalry on the charge,
sounding through the still midnight air, gave a loud long neigh. It was
immediately answered by four or five horses afar off, and by that on
which the poor girls were mounted.

The preacher saw that there was but one hope now, and he set off at
full speed therefore, intending to cross the head of the troop and
provoke them to a chase; the manœuvre succeeded until they saw that he
was alone, after which they divided their number, and while one party
pursued him, another took its way to the very spot where the poor girls
were abiding the issue. He and they both were captured--they were all
three taken, alive--though man after man of the troop fell from his
horse, by shot after shot from a foe that no one of the troop could
see, as they galloped after the fugitives. They were all three carried
back to Salem, Burroughs prepared for the worst, Rachel afraid only for
Elizabeth, and Elizabeth more dead than alive.

But why seek to delay the catastrophe? Why pause upon that, the
result of which every body can foresee? They put him upon trial on
the memorable fifth day of August (1692) in the midst of the great
thunder-storm. Having no proper court of justice in the Plymouth-colony
at this period, they made use of a Meeting-House for the procedure,
which lasted all one day and a part of the following night--a night
never to be forgotten by the posterity of them that were alive at the
time. He was pale and sick and weary, but his bearing was that of a
good man--that of a brave man too, and yet he shook as with an ague,
when he saw arrayed against him, no less than eight confessing witches,
five or six distempered creatures who believed him to be the cause of
their malady, Judith Hubbard, a woman whose character had been at his
mercy for a long while (He knew that of her, which if he had revealed
it before she accused him, would have been fatal to her) John Ruck his
own brother-in-law, two or three of his early and very dear friends of
the church, in whom he thought he could put all trust, and a score of
neighbors on whom he would have called at any other time to speak in
his favor. What was he to believe now?--what _could_ he believe? These
witnesses were not like Judith Hubbard; they had not wronged him, as
she had--they were neither hostile to him, nor afraid of him in the
way she was afraid of him. They were about to take away his life under
a deep sense of duty to their Father above. His heart swelled with
agony, and shook--and stopped, when he saw this--and a shadow fell,
or appeared to fall on the very earth about him. It was the shadow of
another world.




CHAPTER XVIII.


A brief and faithful account of the issue ... a few words more, and the
tale of sorrow is done. “The confessing witches testified,” to give
the language of a writer who was an eye-witness of the “trial that the
prisoner had been at witch-meetings with them, and had seduced and
compelled them to the snares of witchcraft; that he promised them fine
clothes for obeying him; that he brought poppets to them and thorns
to stick into the poppets for afflicting other people, and that he
exhorted them to bewitch all Salem-Village, but to do it gradually.”

Among the bewitched, all of whom swore that Burroughs had pursued
them for a long while under one shape or another, were three who
swore that of him which they swore of no other individual against
whom they appeared. Their story was that he had the power of becoming
invisible, that he had appeared to them under a variety of shapes in a
single day, that he would appear and disappear while they were talking
together--actually vanish away while their eyes were upon him, so that
sometimes they could hear his voice in the air, in the earth, or in the
sea, long and long after he himself had gone out of their sight. They
were evidently afraid of him, for they turned pale when he stood up,
and covered their faces when he looked at them, and stopped their ears
when he spoke to them. And when the judges and the elders of the land
saw this, they were satisfied of his evil power, and grew mute with
terror.

One of the three chief accusers, a girl, testified that in her _agony_,
a little black man appeared to her, saying that his name was George
Burroughs, and bid her set her name to a book which he had with him,
bragging at the time that he was a conjuror high above the ordinary
rank of witches. Another swore that in _her_ agony, he persuaded her to
go to a sacrament, where they saw him blowing a trumpet and summoning
other witches therewith from the four corners of the earth. And a third
swore, on recovering from a sort of trance before the people, that he
had just carried her away into the top of a high mountain, where he
showed her mighty and glorious kingdoms which he offered to give her,
if she would write in the book. But she refused.

Nor did they stop here. They charged him with practices too terrible
for language to describe. And what were the rulers to say? Here was
much to strengthen a part of the charge. His abrupt appearance at the
trial of Sarah Good, his behaviour, his look of premature age--that
look whereof the people never spoke but with a whisper, as if they
were afraid of being overheard--that extraordinary voice--that swarthy
complexion--that bold haughty carriage--that wonderful power of
words--what were they to believe? Where had he gathered so much wisdom?
Where had he been to acquire that--whatever it was, with which he was
able to overawe and outbrave and subdue everything and everybody? All
hearts were in fear--all tongues mute before him. Death--even death he
was not afraid of. He mocked at death--he threw himself as it were, in
the very chariot-way of the king of Terrors; and what cared he for the
law?

His behavior to the boy, his critical reproduction of the knife-blade,
whereby their faith in a tried accuser was actually shaken, his bright
fierce look when the people gave way at his approach ... his undaunted
smile when the great black horse appeared looking in over the heads
of the people, who crowded together and hurried away with a more than
mortal fear ... and his remarkable words when the judge demanded to
know by what authority he was abroad ... all these were facts and
circumstances within the knowledge of the court. By the authority of
the STRONG MAN, said he; who was that _Strong Man_? By authority of
_one_ who hath endowed me with great power; who was that ONE?

Yet more. It was proved by a great number of respectable and worthy
witnesses, who appeared to pity the prisoner, that he, though a small
man, had lifted a gun of seven feet barrel with one hand behind the
lock and held it forth, at arm’s length; nay, that with only his
fore-finger in the barrel he did so, and that in the same party
appeared a savage whom nobody knew, that did the same.

This being proved, the court consulted together, and for so much gave
judgment before they proceeded any further in the trial, that “George
Burroughs had been aided and assisted then and there by the Black Man,
who was near in a bodily shape.”

And it being proved that he “made nothing” of other facts, requiring
a bodily strength such as they had never seen nor heard of, it was
adjudged further by the same court, after a serious consultation, that
“George Burroughs had a devil.”

And after this, it being proved that one day when he lived at Casco,
he and his wife and his brother-in-law, John Ruck, went after
strawberries together to a place about three miles off, on the way to
Sacarappa--“Burroughs on foot and they on horseback, Burroughs left
them and stepped aside into the bushes; whereupon they halted and
hallowed for him, but he not making them any reply, they went homeward
with a quick pace, not expecting to see him for a considerable time;
but when they had got near, whom should they see but Burroughs himself
with a basket of strawberries newly gathered, waiting for his wife,
whom he chid for what she had been saying to her brother on the road;
which when they marvelled at, he told them he knew their very thoughts;
and Ruck saying that was more than the devil himself could know, he
answered with heat, saying Brother and wife, my God makes known your
thoughts to me: all this being proved to the court, they consulted
together as before and gave judgment that “Burroughs had stepped aside
only that by the assistance of the Black Man he might put on his
invisibility and in that fascinating mist, gratify his own jealous
humor to hear what they said of him.”

Well prisoner at the bar, said the chief judge, after the witnesses
for the crown had finished their testimony--what have you to say for
yourself?

Nothing.

Have you no witnesses?

Not one.

And why not?

Of what use could they be?

You needn’t be so stiff though; a lowlier carriage in your awful
situation might be more becoming. You are at liberty to cross-examine
the witness, if you are so disposed--

I am not so disposed.

And you may address the jury now, it being your own case.

I have nothing to say ... it being my own case.

Ah! sighed the judge, looking about him with a portentous gravity--You
see the end of your tether now ... you see now that He whom you serve
is not to be trusted. It is but the other day you were clad with power
as with a garment. You were able to make a speech whereby, but for the
mercy of God----

I was not on trial for _my_ life when I made that speech. I have
something else to think of now.... Let me die in peace.

Ah, sighed the chief judge, and all his brethren shook their heads with
a look of pity and sorrow.

But as if this were not enough--as if they were afraid he might escape
after all (for it had begun to grow very dark over-head) though the
meshes of death were about him on every side like a net of iron; as if
the very judges were screwed up to the expectation of a terrible issue,
and prepared to deal with a creature of tremendous power, whom it would
be lawful to destroy any how, no matter how, they introduced another
troop of witnesses, who swore that they had frequently heard the two
wives of the prisoner say that their house which stood in a very
cheerful path of the town was haunted by evil spirits; and after they
had finished their testimony Judith Hubbard swore that the two wives of
the prisoner had appeared to her, since their death, and charged him
with murder....

Repeat the story that you told brother Winthrop and me, said Judge
Sewall.

Whereupon she stood forth and repeated the story she had sworn to
before the committal of Burroughs--repeated it in the very presence of
God, and of his angels--repeated it while it thundered and lightened in
her face, and the big sweat rolled off the forehead of a man, for whose
love, but a few years before, she would have laid down her life--

That man was George Burroughs. He appeared as if his heart were broken
by her speech, though about his mouth was a patient proud smile--for
near him were Mary Elizabeth Dyer and Rachel Dyer, with their eyes
fixed upon him and waiting to be called up in their turn to abide the
trial of death; but so waiting before their judges and their accusers
that, women though they were, he felt supported by their presence,
trebly fortified by their brave bearing--Elizabeth pale--very pale,
and watching his look as if she had no hope on earth but in him, no
fear but for him--Rachel standing up as it were with a new stature--up,
with her forehead flashing to the sky and her coarse red hair shining
and shivering about her huge head with a frightful fixed gleam,--her
cap off, her cloak thrown aside and her distorted shape, for the first
time, in full view of the awe-struck multitude. Every eye was upon
her--every thought--her youthful and exceedingly fair sister, the pride
of the neighborhood was overlooked now, and so was the prisoner at the
bar, and so were the judges and the jury, and the witnesses and the
paraphernalia of death. It was Rachel Dyer--the red-haired witch--the
freckled witch--the hump-backed witch they saw now--but they saw not
her ugliness, they saw not that she was either unshapely or unfair.
They saw only that she was brave. They saw that although she was a
woman upon the very threshold of eternity, she was not afraid of the
aspect of death.

And the story that Judith Hubbard repeated under such circumstances and
at such a time was--that the two wives of the prisoner at the bar, who
were buried years and years before, with a show of unutterable sorrow,
had appeared to her, face to face, and charged him with having been the
true cause of their death; partly promising if he denied the charge,
to reappear in full court. Nor should I wonder if they did, whispered
the chief judge throwing a hurried look toward the graves which lay
in full view of the judgment seat, as if he almost expected to see the
earth open.

The multitude who saw the look of the judge, and who were so eager but
a few minutes before to get nigh the prisoner, though it were only to
hear him breathe, now recoiled from the bar, and left a free path-way
from the graveyard up to the witness-box, and a visible quick shudder
ran throughout the assembly as they saw the judges consult together,
and prepare to address the immoveable man, who stood up--whatever were
the true cause, whether he felt assured of that protection which the
good pray for night and day, or of that which the evil and the mighty
among the evil have prepared for, when they enter into a league of
death--up--as if he knew well that they had no power to harm either him
or his.

What say you to that? said major Saltonstall. You have heard the story
of Judith Hubbard. What say you to a charge like that, Sir?

Ay, ay--no evasion will serve you now, added the Lieutenant Governor.

Evasion!

You are afraid, I see--

Afraid of what? Man--man--it is you and your fellows that are afraid.
Ye are men of a terrible faith--I am not.

You have only to say yes or no, said Judge Sewall.

What mockery! Ye that have buried them that were precious to you--very
precious--

You are not obliged to answer that question, whispered the lawyer,
who had been at his elbow during the trial of Martha Cory--nor any
other--unless you like--

Ah--and are _you_ of them that believe the story? Are _you_ afraid of
their keeping their promise?--you that have a--

What say you to the charge? I ask again!

How dare you!--ye that are husbands--you that are a widower like me,
how dare you put such a question as that to a bereaved man, before the
Everlasting God?

What say you to the charge? We ask you for the third time.

Father of love! cried Burroughs, and he tottered away and snatched at
the bare wall, and shook as if he were in the agony of death, and all
that saw him were aghast with fear. Men--men--what would ye have me
say?--what would ye have me do?

Whatever the Lord prompteth, said a low voice near him.

Hark--hark--who was that? said a judge. I thought I heard somebody
speak.

It was I--I, Rachel Dyer! answered the courageous woman. It was I. Ye
are all in array there against a fellow-creature’s life. Ye have beset
him on every side by the snares of the law.... Ye are pressing him to
death--

Silence!--

No judge, no! I marvel that ye dare to rebuke me in such a cause, when
ye know that ere long I shall be heard by the Son of Man, coming in
clouds with great glory to judge the quick and the dead--

Peace ... peace, woman of mischief--look to yourself.

Beware Peter! and thou too Elias! Ye know not how nigh we may all be to
the great Bar--looking up to the sky, which was now so preternaturally
dark with the heavy clouds of an approaching thunder-storm, that
torches were ordered. Lo! the pavillion of the Judge of Judges!
How know ye that these things are not the sign of his hot and sore
displeasure?

Mark that, brother; mark that, said a judge. They must know that help
is nigh, or they could never brave it thus.

Whatever they may know brother, and whatever their help may be, our
duty is plain.

Very true brother ... ah ... how now!

He was interrupted by the entrance of a haggard old man of a majestic
stature, who made his way up to the witness-box, and stood there, as if
waiting for the judge to speak.

Ah, Matthew Paris ... thou art come, hey? said Rachel. Where is Bridget
Pope?

At the point of death.

And thy daughter, Abigail Paris?

Dead.

George ... George ... we have indeed little to hope now.... Where is
Robert Eveleth?

Here ... here I be, cried the boy, starting up at the sound of her
voice, and hurrying forward with a feeble step.

Go up there to that box, Robert Eveleth, and say to the judges, my poor
sick boy, what thee said to me of Judith Hubbard and of Mary Walcott,
and of their wicked conspiracy to prevail with Bridget Pope and Abby
Paris, to make oath....

How now ... how now ... stop there! cried the chief-judge. What is the
meaning of this?

Tell what thee heard them say, Robert--

Heard who say? asked the judge ... who ... who?

Bridget Pope and Abigail Paris.

Bridget Pope and Abigail Paris--why what have we to do with Bridget
Pope and Abigail Paris?

I pray thee judge ... the maiden Bridget Pope is no more; the child of
that aged man there is at the point of death. If the boy Robert Eveleth
speak true, they told him before the charge was made----

They--who?

Bridget Pope and Abigail Paris told him--

No matter what they told him ... that is but hearsay--

Well, and if it be hear say?--

We cannot receive it; we take no notice of what may occur in this way--

How!--If we can prove that the witnesses have conspired together to
make this charge; is it contrary to law for you to receive our proof?
asked Burroughs.

Pho, pho--you mistake the matter--

No judge no ... will thee hear the father himself?--said Rachel.

Not in the way that you desire ... there would be no end to this, if we
did--

What are we to do then judge? We have it in our power to prove that
Judith Hubbard and Mary Walcott proposed to the two children, Bridget
Pope and Abigail Paris, to swear away the life--

Pho, pho, pho--pho, pho, pho--a very stale trick that. One of the
witnesses dead, the other you are told at the point of death--

It is no trick judge; but if ... if ... supposing it to be true, that
Judith Hubbard and her colleague did this, how should we prove it?

How should you prove it? Why, by producing the persons to whom, or
before whom, the proposal you speak of was made.

But if they are at the point of death, judge?

In that case there would be no help for you--

Such is the humanity of the law.

No help for us! Not if we could prove that they who are dead, or at the
point of death, acknowledged what we say to a dear father?--can this be
the law?

Stop--stop--thou noble-hearted, brave woman! cried Burroughs. They do
not speak true. They are afraid of thee Rachel Dyer. Matthew Paris--

Here am I, Lord!--

Why, Matthew--look at me.... Do you not--know me?

No--no--who are you?




CHAPTER XIX.


Enough--enough--cried Burroughs, on finding Matthew Paris so disturbed
in his intellect--enough--there is no hope now, Rachel. The father
himself would be no witness now, though he had been told by our
witnesses upon their death-bed, while they expected to die, just what,
if it could be shown here, would be a matter of life and death to us.
But still, before I give up, I should like to know the meaning of that
rule of evidence you spoke of the other day, which would appear to make
it necessary for me to produce only the best evidence which the nature
of the case admits of. We have done that here ... a rule which being
interpreted by the men of the law is said to be this ... that we are
to give such evidence only, as that none better may appear to be left
behind--we have done that now--

We are weary of this--what have you to say to the charge made against
you by the apparition of your wife? Before you reply however, it is our
duty to apprise you, that whatever you may happen to say in your own
favor will go for nothing--

Nevertheless I am ready to reply.

--We do not seek to entrap you--

So I perceive. Repeat the charge.

You are charged with having--what ho, there!--lights--lights--more
lights--

Lights--more lights! cried the people, what, ho there! How dark it
grows--

And how chill the air is--

Ay ... and quiet as the grave.

--You are charged I say, with having caused the death of your two wives
... who have partly promised, if you deny the charge, to confront you
here.

The people began to press backward from each other, and to gasp for
breath.

You have only to say yes or no, and abide the proof.

Indeed--is that all?

Yes--all--

Then ... behold me. As he spoke, he threw up his arms, and walked forth
into a broad clear space before the bench, where every body could hear
and see him, and was about to address the jury, when he was interrupted
by a crash of thunder that shook the whole house, and appeared to shake
the whole earth. A dreadful outcry ensued, with flash after flash of
lightning and peal after peal of thunder, and the people dropped upon
their knees half blinded with light and half crazy with terror; and
covered their faces and shrieked with consternation.

Why, what are ye afraid of judges? And you, ye people--cried the
prisoner, that ye cover your faces, and fall down with fear ... so that
if I would, I might escape.

Look to the prisoner there ... look to the prisoner.

--Ye do all this, ye that have power to judge me, while I ... I the
accused man ... I neither skulk nor cower. I stand up ... I alone of
all this great multitude who are gathered together to see me perish for
my sins ... the Jonah of this their day of trouble and heavy sorrow.

Not alone, said Rachel Dyer, moving up to the bar.

If not altogether alone, alone but for thee, thou most heroic woman....
O, that they knew thy worth!... And yet these people who are quaking
with terror on every side of us, bowed down with mortal fear at the
voice of the Lord in the Sky, it is they that presume to deal with us,
who are not afraid of our Father, nor scared by the flashing of his
countenance, for life and for death--

Yea George--

Be it so--

Prisoner at the bar--you are trifling with the court.... You have not
answered the charge.

Have I not!--well then--I prepare to answer it now. I swear that I
loved them that I have buried there--there!--loved them with a love
passing all that I ever heard of, or read of. I swear too that I
nourished and comforted and ministered to the dear creatures, who, ye
are told, have come out of the earth to destroy me--even me--_me_,
their husband, their lover, and the father of their children! I swear
too--but why continue the terrible outrage? Let my accusers appear!
Let them walk up, if they will, out of their graves!--their graves are
before me. I am not afraid--I shall not be afraid--so long as they
wear the blessed shape, or the blessed features of them that have
disappeared from their bridal chamber, with a----

He was interrupted by great noises and shrieks that were enough to
raise the dead--noises from every part of the grave-yard--shrieks
from people afar off in the wood, shrieks from the multitude on the
outside of the house--and shrieks from the sea-shore; and immediately
certain of the accusers fell down as if they saw something approach;
and several that were on the outside of the meeting-house came rushing
in with a fearful outcry, saying that a shed which had been built up
over a part of the burial-ground was crowded with strange faces, and
with awful shapes, and that among them were the two dead wives of the
prisoner.

There they go--there they go! screamed other voices outside the door;
and immediately the cry was repeated by the accusers who were within
the house--all shrieking together. “Here they come!--here they
come!--here they come!”--And Judith Hubbard looking up and uncovering
her face, about which her cloak had been gathered in the first hurry of
her distraction, declared that the last wife of Burroughs, on whom her
eyes were fixed at the time, was then actually standing before him and
looking him in the face, “O, with such a look--so calm, so piteous and
so terrible!”

After the uproar had abated in some degree, the judges who were huddled
together, as far as they could possibly get from the crowd below,
ordered up three more of the witnesses, and were about to speak to
them, when Burroughs happening to turn that way also, they cried out
as if they were stabbed with a knife, and fell upon the floor at their
whole length and were speechless.

Whereupon the chief judge, turning toward him, asked him what hindered
these poor people from giving their testimony.

I do not know said Burroughs, who began to give way himself now, with a
convulsion of the heart, before the tremendous array of testimony and
weight of delusion; to fear that of a truth preternatural shapes were
about him, and that the witnesses were over-persuaded by irresistible
power, though he knew himself to be no party in the exercise of such
power. I do not know, said he: I am utterly confounded by their
behaviour. It may be the devil.

Ah--and why is the devil so loath to have testimony borne against _you_?

“Which query,” says a writer who was there at the time, and saw the
look of triumph which appeared in the faces of the whole bench, “did
cast Burroughs into very great confusion.”

And well it might, for he was weighed to the earth, and he knew that
whatever he said, and whatever he did; and whether he spoke with
promptitude or with hesitation; whether he showed or did not show a
sign of dismay, everything would be, and _was_ regarded by the judges,
and the jury, and the people, as further corroboration of his turpitude.

Here the trial ended. Here the minds of the jury were made up; and
although he grew collected at last, and arose and spoke in a way that
made everybody about him weep and very bitterly too, for what they
called the overthrow of a mind of great wisdom and beauty and power;
and although he gave up to the judges a written argument of amazing
ingenuity and vigor which is yet preserved in the records of that
people, wherein he mocked at their faith in witchcraft, and foretold
the grief and the shame, the trouble and the reproach that were to
follow to them that were so busy in the work of death; yet--yet--so
impressed were the twelve, by the scene that had occurred before their
faces, that they found him guilty; and as if the judges were afraid
of a rescue from the powers of the air, they gave judgment of death
upon him before they left the bench, and contrary to their established
practice, ordered him to be executed on the morrow.

On the morrow? said he, with a firm steady eye and a clear tone, though
his lip quivered as he spoke. Will ye afford me no time to prepare?

We would not that the body and soul both perish; and we therefore urge
you to be diligent in the work brother, very diligent for the little
time that is now left to make your calling and election sure. Be ready
for the afternoon of the morrow.

Hitherto the prisoner at the bar had shown little or no emotion;
hitherto he had argued and looked as if he did not believe the jury nor
the judges capable of doing what they had now done, nor the multitude
that knew him, capable of enduring it. Hitherto he had been as it were
a spectator of the terrible farce, with no concern for the issue; but
now ... now ... all eyes were rivetted upon him with fear, all thoughts
with alarm; for though he stood up as before, and made no sort of reply
to the judges, and bore the wracking of the heavy irons with which they
were preparing to load him, as if he neither felt nor saw them; yet
was there a something in his look which made the officers of the court
unsheathe their swords, and lift up their axes, and the people who were
occupied about him, keep as far out of his reach as they possibly could.

Yet he neither moved nor spoke, till he saw the women crowding up to a
part of the house where he had seen Elizabeth Dyer, and stoop as if she
that had been kneeling there a few moments before, lay very low, and
lift her up as if she had no life in her, and carry her away, guarded
by men with pikes, and with swords and with huge firelocks. Then he
_was_ moved--and his chains were felt for the first time, and he would
have called out for a breath of air--prayed for a drop of water to save
a life more precious by far than his--but before he could open his
mouth so as to make himself heard, he saw Rachel Dyer pressing up to
the bar of death, and heard the judges call out to the high-sheriff and
his man to guard the door, and look to the prisoner.

He will get away if you turn your head, Mr. sheriff, said one of the
judges.

That he will, added a witness, that he will! if you don’t look sharp,
as sure as my name is Peter P.

Watch and pray--watch and pray--added another.

Burroughs looked up to the bench with surprise, then at the people,
who were watching every motion of his body as if they expected him to
tear away the ponderous fetters and walk forth as free as the wind of
the desert, and then at the blacksmith who stood near with his hammer
uplifted in the air; and then his chest heaved and his chains shook,
and the people hurried away from his path, and tumbled over each other
in their eagerness to escape, and the chief-judge cried out again to
the officer to look to the door and be prepared for a rescue.

Let _me_ be tried now! I entreat thee, said Rachel Dyer, throwing up
her locked-hands before Judge Winthrop, and speaking as if she was
about to plead not for death but for life. Let me be tried now, I
beseech thee.

Now.--

Yea--now!--before the maiden is brought back to life. O let her be at
peace, ye men of power, till I have a--have a--

She gathered herself up now with a strong effort, and spoke with
deliberate firmness....

----Till I have gone through the work which is appointed for me by the
twelve that I see there--

Be it so.--I say, Mr. high-sheriff!

Well, Mr. judge Winthrop?

This way, this way; you’ll be so good as to remove a--a--a--(Looking at
Burroughs who stood leaning against the wall)--you are to be a--a--(in
a whisper of authority)--you are to be careful of what you do--a very
hard case, very--very--

Yes judge--

Well, well--well, well--why don’t ye do as I bid you?

What am I to do?

What are you to do ... remove the prisoner--poor soul.

Which prisoner?

Why that are ... poh poh, poh--(pointing to Burroughs.)

Where to?

Where to Sir?--Take him away; away with him--pretty chap you are to
be sure, not to know where to take a man to, after its all over with
him--poh, poh, poh.

I say, Mr. Judge, none o’ that now--

Take the man away Sir. Do as you are bid.

Who--me--cried Burroughs, waking up from his fit of apathy and looking
about on every side.

Away with him.

Judges--judges--hear me. Let me remain, I pray you, cried he, setting
his back to the wall and lifting his loaded arms high up in the
air--suffer me to stay here till the jury have said whether or no this
heroic woman is worthy of death--I do beseech you!

Take him away, I tell you--what are ye afraid of?

Judges--men--I would that ye would have mercy, not on me, but on the
people about me. I would that ye would suffer me to tarry here--in
fetters--till the jury have given their verdict on Rachel Dyer. Suffer
me to do so, I beseech you, and I will go away then, I swear to you,
whithersoever it may please you, like a lamb to the slaughter. I swear
this to you before God!--but, so help me God, I will not be carried
away alive before. I will not stir, nor be stirred while I have power
to lift my arms, or to do what you now see me do----

As he spoke, he lifted up his arms in the air--up--up, as high as he
could reach, standing on tip-toe the while; and brought them down with
such force, loaded as they were, that he doubled the iron guard which
kept him in the box, and shattered the heavy door from the top to the
bottom.

--Behold--shorn though I be of my youth, betrayed though I have been,
while I forgot where I was, I do not lack power. Now bid your people
tear me away if you have courage! For lo, my feet are upon the
foundations of your strength ... and by Jehovah--the God of the strong
man of other days!--I’ll not be dragged off till I know the fate of the
giantess before you.

We shall see--cut him down officer--cut him down!

Very well. Come thou near enough to cut me down, officer, and I’ll
undertake for thee.

Judges--how little ye know of that man’s power--why not suffer him to
stay? cried Rachel Dyer. Why will ye provoke it? On your heads be the
issue, if ye drive your ministers to the toil! on yours their blood, if
they approach him!

The sheriff hung back--and the judges, after consulting together,
told Burroughs he might stay, and ordered the trial of the women to
proceed.




CHAPTER XX.


Already were they about to give judgment of death upon Rachel Dyer,
when two or three of her accusers, who began to fear that she might
escape, had another fit.

Why are these poor women troubled? asked a judge.

I do not know, was her unstudied reply.

But according to your belief?

I do not desire to say what my belief is. It can do no good, and it may
do harm; for who shall assure me that I do not err?

Don’t you think they are bewitched?

No.

Give us your thoughts on their behavior.

No, Ichabod, no; my thoughts can be of no worth to thee or such as
thee. If I had more proof, proof that ye would receive in law, I might
be willing to speak at large both of them and of their master----

Their master! cried a little man, with a sharp inquisitive eye, who had
not opened his mouth before. Who is their master?

If they deal in witchcraft or in the black art, Joseph Piper, thee may
know as well as I do.

Woman....are you not afraid of death?

No.........not much, though I should like to be spared for a few days
longer.

Not afraid of death!--

No--not much, I say. And why _should_ I be afraid of death? why should
I desire to live?--what is there to attach a thing of my shape to
life, a wretched, miserable, weary....

Ah, ha--now we shall have it--she is going to confess now--she is
beginning to weep, said a judge. But he was overheard by the woman
herself, who turning to the jury with a look that awed them in spite of
their prejudice, told them to proceed.

They’ll proceed fast enough, by and by, said another judge. What have
you done to disturb the faculties of that woman there?

What woman?

Judith Hubbard.

Much. For I know her, and she knows that I know her; and we have both
known for a great while that we cannot both live. This world is not
large enough. What have I done to disturb her faculties? Much. For that
woman hath wronged me; and she cannot forgive me. She hath pursued
me and mine to death; all that are very near and dear to me, my poor
sister and my--and the beloved friend of my sister--to death; and how
would it be possible for Judith Hubbard to forgive us?

But your apparition pursues her.

If so, I cannot help it.

But why is it your apparition?

How do I know? He that appeared in the shape of Samuel, why should he
not appear in the shape of another?

But enough--Rachel Dyer was ordered for execution also. And a part of
the charge proved against her was, that she had been spirited away by
the powers of the air, who communicated with her and guarded her at
the cost of much human life, on the night when she fled into the deep
of the wilderness in company with George Burroughs and Mary Elizabeth
Dyer; each of whom had a like body-guard of invisible creatures, who
shot with arrows of certain death on the night of their escape.

And Mary Elizabeth Dyer was now brought up for trial; but being half
dead with fear, and very ill, so that she was reported by a jury
empannelled for the purpose, to be mute by the visitation of God, they
adjourned the court for the morrow, and gave her permission to abide
with her sister till the day after the morrow.

And so Mary Elizabeth Dyer and Rachel Dyer met again--met in the depth
of a dungeon like the grave; and Elizabeth being near the brave Rachel
once more, grew ashamed of her past weakness.

I pray thee dear sister, said Mary Elizabeth, after they had been
together for a long while without speaking a word, Rachel with her
arm about Elizabeth’s neck, and Elizabeth leaning her face upon the
shoulder of Rachel, I pray thee to forgive me.

Forgive thee ... for what pray?

Do, _do_ forgive me, Rachel.

Why, what on earth is the matter with thee, child? Here we sit for a
whole hour in the deep darkness of the night-season, without so much
as a sob or a tear, looking death in the face with a steady smile, and
comforting our hearts, weary and sick as they are, with a pleasant
hope--the hope of seeing our beloved brother Jacob, our dear good
mother, and our pious grandmother; and now, all of a sudden thee breaks
out in this way, as if thee would not be comforted, and as if thee had
never thought of death before--

O, I’m not afraid of death sister, now--I’m prepared for death now--I’m
very willingly to die now--it isn’t that I mean.

Why _now_?--why do thee say so much of _now_? Is it only _now_ that
thee is prepared for death?

No, no, dear sister, but some how or other I do not even desire to live
now, and yet----

And yet what?--why does thee turn away thy head? why does thee behave
so to me ... why break out into such bitter--bitter lamentation?--what
_is_ the matter I say?--what ails thee?--

Oh dear!

Why--Elizabeth!--what am _I_ to believe?--what has thee been doin’? Why
do thee cling to me so?--why do thee hide thy face?--

O Rachel, Rachel--do not go away,--do not abandon me--do not cast me
off!

Child--why--

No, no!--

Look me in the face, I beseech thee.

No no--I dare not--I cannot.

Dare not--cannot--

No no.--

Dare not look thy sister in the face?

Oh no--

Lift up thy head this minute, Mary Elizabeth Dyer!--let go of my
neck--let go of my neck, I say--leave clinging to me so, and let me see
thy face.

No no dear Rachel, no no, I dare not--I am afraid of thee now, for now
thee calls me Mary Elizabeth--

Afraid of me--of me--O Elizabeth, what has thee done?

Oh dear!

And what have _I_ done to deserve this?

Thee--thee!--O nothing dear sister, nothing at all; it is I--I that
have been so very foolish and wicked after--

Wicked, say thee?

O very--very--very wicked--

But how--in what way--thee’ll frighten me to death.

Shall I--O I am very sorry--but--but--thee knows I cannot help it--

Cannot help it, Mary Elizabeth Dyer--cannot help what? Speak ... speak
... whatever it is, I forgive thee ... we have no time to lose now; we
may never meet again. Speak out, I beseech thee. Speak out, for the day
is near, the day of sorrow----

I will, I will--cried Elizabeth, sobbing as if her heart would break,
and falling upon her knees and burying her head in the lap of her
sister--I will--I will, but--pushing aside a heap of hair from her
face, and smothering the low sweet whisper of a pure heart, as if she
knew that every throb had a voice--I will, I will, I say, but I am so
afraid of thee--putting both arms about her sister’s neck and pulling
her face down that she might whisper what she had to say--I will--I
will--I’m a goin’ to tell thee now--as soon as ever I can get my
breath--nay, nay, don’t look at me so--I cannot bear it----

Look at thee--my poor bewildered sister--how can thee tell whether I
am looking at thee or not, while thy head is there?--Get up--get up, I
say--I do not like that posture; it betokens too much fear--the fear
not of death, but of shame--too much humility, too much lowliness, a
lowliness the cause whereof I tremble to ask thee. Get up, Elizabeth,
get up, if thee do not mean to raise a grief and a trouble in my heart
which I wouldn’t have there now for the whole world; get up, I beseech
thee, Mary Elizabeth Dyer.

Elizabeth got up, and after standing for a moment or two, without
being able to utter a word, though her lips moved, fell once more upon
her sister’s neck; and laying her mouth close to her ear, while her
innocent face glowed with shame and her whole body shook with fear,
whispered--I pray thee Rachel, dear Rachel ... do ... _do_ let me see
him for a minute or two before they put him to death.

Rachel Dyer made no reply. She could not speak--she had no voice
for speech, but gathering up the sweet girl into her bosom with a
convulsive sob, she wept for a long while upon _her_ neck.

They were interrupted by the jailor, who came to say that George
Burroughs, the wizard, having desired much to see Rachel Dyer and Mary
Elizabeth Dyer, the confederate witches, before his and their death, he
had been permitted by the honorable and merciful judges to do so--on
condition that he should be doubly-ironed at the wrist; wherefore he,
the jailor had now come to fetch her the said Rachel to him the said
George.

I am to go too, said Elizabeth, pressing up to the side of her sister,
and clinging to her with a look of dismay.

No, no--said he, no, no, you are to stay here.

Nay, nay, sister--dear sister--do let me go with thee!

It is not for me to speak, dear, _dear_ Elizabeth, or thee should go
now instead of me. However----

Come, come--I pity you both, but there’s no help for you now--never
cry for spilt milk--you’re not so bad as they say, I’m sure--so make
yourself easy and stay where you be, if you know when you’re well off.

Do let me go!

Nonsense--you’re but a child however, and so I forgive you, and the
more’s the pity; must obey orders if we break owners--poh, poh,--poh,
poh, poh.

A separation like that of death followed. No hope had the two sisters
of meeting again alive. They were afraid each for the other--and
Elizabeth sat unable to speak, with her large clear eyes turned up
to the eyes of Rachel as if to implore, with a last look, a devout
consideration of a dying prayer.

If it may be, said Rachel turning her head at the door if it may be
dear maiden, it shall be. Have courage--

I have, I have!

Be prepared though; be prepared Elizabeth, my _beautiful_ sister. We
shall not see each other again ... that is.... O I pray thee, I do pray
thee, my dear sister to be comforted.

Elizabeth got up, and staggered away to the door and fell upon her
sister’s neck and prayed her not to leave her.

I must leave thee ... I must, I must ... would thee have me forsake
George Burroughs at the point of death?

O no--no--no!

We never shall meet again I do fear--I do hope, I might say, for of
what avail is it in the extremity of our sorrow; but others may--he and
thee may Elizabeth--and who knows but after the first shock of this
thy approaching bereavement is over, thee may come to regard this very
trial with joy, though we are torn by it, as by the agony of death
now--let us pray.

The sisters now prayed together for a little time, each with her
arm about the other’s neck, interchanged a farewell kiss and
parted---parted forever.

And Rachel was then led to the dungeons below, where she saw him that
her sister loved, and that a score of other women had loved as it were
in spite of their very natures--for they were bred up in fear of the
dark Savage. He sat with his hands locked in his lap, and chained and
rivetted with iron, his brow gathered, his teeth set, and his keen eyes
fixed upon the door.

There is yet one hope my dear friend, whispered he after they had been
together a good while without speaking a word or daring to look at each
other--one hope--laying his pinioned arm lightly upon her shoulder,
and pressing up to her side with all the affectionate seriousness of a
brother--one hope, dear Rachel--

She shut her eyes and large drops ran down her cheeks.

--One hope--and but one--

Have a care George Burroughs. I would not have thee betray thyself
anew--there is no hope.

It is not for myself I speak. There is no hope for me. I know that--I
feel that--I am sure of it; nor, to tell you the truth, am I sorry--

Not sorry George--

No--for even as you are, so am I--weary of this world--sick and weary
of life.

Her head sunk upon his shoulder, and her breathing was that of one who
struggles with deep emotion.

No--no--it is not for myself that I speak. It is for you--

For _me_--

For you and for Elizabeth--

For _me_ and for Elizabeth?--well--

And if I could bring you to do what I am persuaded you both may do
without reproach, there would be hope still for--for Elizabeth--and for
you--

For Elizabeth--and for me?--O George, George! what hope is there now
for me? What have I to do on earth, now that we are a----she stopped
with a shudder--I too am tired of life. She withdrew the hand which
till now he had been holding to his heart with a strong terrible
pressure.

Hear me, thou high-hearted, glorious woman. I have little or no hope
for thee--I confess that. I know thee too well to suppose that I could
prevail with thee; but ... but ... whatever may become of us, why not
save Elizabeth, if we may--

If we may George--but how?

Why ... draw nearer to me I pray thee; we have not much time to be
together now, and I would have thee look upon me, as one having a right
to comfort thee and to be comforted by thee--

A right ... how George?

As thy brother--

As my brother.... O, certainly----

Nay, nay ... do not forbear to lean thy head upon thy brother ... do
not, I beseech thee. What have we to do here ... what have we to do
now with that reserve which keeps the living apart ... our ashes, are
they to be hindered of communion hereafter by the unworthy law of--ah
... sobbing ... Rachel Dyer! ... can it be that I hear you--_you_! the
unperturbable, the steadfast and the brave ... can it be that I hear
you sobbing at my side, as if your very heart would break....

No no....

There is to be a great change here, after we are out of the way....

Where--how?

Among the people. The accusers are going too far; they are beginning to
overstep the mark--they are flying too high.

Speak plainly, if thee would have me understand thy speech--why do thee
cleave to me so?--why so eager--why do thee speak in parables? My heart
misgives me when I hear a man like thee, at an hour like this, weighing
every word that is about to escape from his mouth.

I deserve the rebuke. What I would say is, that the prisons of our land
are over-crowded with people of high repute. Already they have begun
to whisper the charge against our chief men. This very day they have
hinted at two or three individuals, who, a week before they overthrew
me, would have been thought altogether beyond the reach of their
audacity.

Who are they?

They speak of Matthew Paris.

The poor bewildered man ... how dare they?

And of the Governor, and of two or three more in authority; and of all
that participated in the voyage whereby he and they were made wealthy
and wise and powerful----

I thought so ... I feared as much. Poor man ... his riches are now
indeed a snare to him, his liberal heart, a mark for the arrows of
death....

Now hear me ... the accusers being about to go up to the high places
and to the seats of power, a change, there must and there will be, and
so----

And so ... why do thee stop?

Why do I stop ... did I stop?

Yea ... and thy visage too ... why does it alter?

My visage!

Yea ... thy look, thy tone of voice, the very color of thy lips.

Of a truth, Rachel?

Of a truth, George.

Why then it must be ... it is, I am sure ... on account of the ... that
is to say ... I’m afraid I do not make myself understood--

Speak out.

Well then ... may I not persuade you, my dear, _dear_ sister ... to ...
to ... in a word, Rachel....

To what pray ... persuade me to what?... Speak to me as I speak to
thee; what would thee persuade me to, George?

To ... to ... to confess ... there!

To confess what, pray?

That’s all....

George....

Nay, nay ... the fact is my dear friend, as I said before: I ... I ...
if there be a change here, it will be a speedy one.

Well--

And if--and if--a few weeks more, a few days more, it may be, and our
accusers, they who are now dealing death to us, may be brought up in
their turn to hear the words of death--in short Rachel, if you could
be persuaded just to--not to acknowledge--but just to suffer them
to believe you to be a ... to be a ... I forget what I was going to
say----




CHAPTER XXI.


A long silence followed--a silence like that of death--at last Rachel
Dyer spoke:

George Burroughs--I understand thee now, said she, I understand it
all. Thee would have me confess that I deserve death--only that I may
live. Thee would have me acknowledge (for nothing else would do) that
I am a liar and a witch, and that I deserve to die--and all this for
what?--only that I may escape death for a few days. O George!

No, no--you mistake the matter. I would not have you confess that
you deserve death--I would only have you speak to them--God of the
faithful!--I cannot--I cannot urge this woman to betray her faith.

I understand thee, George. But if I were to do so, what should I gain
by it?

Gain by it, Rachel Dyer?

Why do thee drop my hand? why recoil at my touch now?

Gain by it! siezing both her hands with all his might, and speaking as
if he began to fear--not to hope--no, but to fear that she might be
over-persuaded--

Yea--what have I to gain by it?

Life. You escape death--a cruel ignominious death--a death, which it is
not for a woman to look at, but with horror.

Well George--

By death, you lose the opportunity of doing much good, of bringing
the wicked to justice, of aiding them that are now ready to die with
terror, of shielding the oppressed--

Well--

Well--and what more would you have? Is not this enough?

No, George.

Hear me out Rachel. Do not reprove me, do not turn away, till you have
heard me through. My duty is before me, a duty which must and shall be
done, though it break my heart. I am commanded to argue with you, and
to persuade you to live.

Commanded?--

What if you were to confess that you deserve death? What if you were
to own yourself a witch? I take your own view of the case.--I put the
query to you in a shape the least favorable to my purpose. What if you
were to do this; you would be guilty at the most but of a--of a--

Of untruth George.

And you would save your own life by such untruth, and the lives, it may
be, of a multitude more, and the life you know, of one that is very
dear to you.

Well----

No no--do not leave me in this way! Do not go till I--I beseech you to
hear me through--

I will--it grieves me, but I will.

Which is the greater sin--to die when you have it in your power to
escape death, if you will, by a word? or to speak a word of untruth to
save your life--

George Burroughs--I pray thee--suffer me to bid thee farewell.

No no, not yet. Hear me through--hear all I have to say. By this word
of untruth, you save your own life, and perhaps many other lives. You
punish the guilty. You have leisure to repent in this world of that
very untruth--if such untruth be sinful. You have an opportunity of
showing to the world and to them that you love, that you were innocent
of that wherewith you were charged. You may root up the error that
prevails now, and overthrow the destroyer, and hereafter obtain praise
for that very untruth, whereby you hinder the shedding of more innocent
blood; praise from every quarter of the earth, praise from every body;
from the people, the preachers, the jury, the elders--yea from the very
judges for having stayed them in their headlong career of guilt--

O George--

But if you die, and your death be sinful--and would it not be so, if
you were to die, where you might escape death?--you would have no
time to repent here, no opportunity, no leisure--you die in the very
perpetration of your guilt--

If it is guilt, I do--

And however innocent you may be of the crimes that are charged to you,
you have no opportunity of showing on this earth to them that love
you, that you are so. Yet more--the guilt of your death, if it be not
charged hereafter to you, will be charged, you may be sure, to the
wretched women that pursue you; and all who might be saved by you, will
have reason to lay their death at your door--

Well--

About life or death, you may not much care; but after death to be
regarded with scorn, or hatred or terror, by all that go by your grave,
my sister--how could you bear the idea of that? What say you--you
shudder--and yet if you die now, you must leave behind you a character
which cannot be cleared up, or which is not likely to be cleared up
on earth, however innocent you may be (as I have said before)--the
character of one, who being charged with witchcraft was convicted of
witchcraft and executed for a witchcraft. In a word--if you live, you
may live to wipe away the aspersion. If you die, it may adhere to you
and to yours--forever and ever. If you live, you may do much good on
earth, much to yourself and much to others, much even to the few that
are now thirsting for your life--you may make lighter the load of crime
which otherwise will weigh them down--you may do this and all this, if
you speak: But if you do not speak, you are guilty of your own death,
and of the deaths it may be of a multitude, here and hereafter.

Now hear _me_. I do not know whether all this is done to try my
truth or my courage, but this I know--I will not leave thee in doubt
concerning either. Look at me

There----

Thee would have me confess?

I would.

Thee would have Elizabeth confess?

I would.

Do thee mean to confess.

I--I!--

Ah George--

I cannot Rachel--I dare not--I am a preacher of the word of truth. But
you may--what is there to hinder you?

Thee will not?

No.

Nor will I.

Just what I expected--give me your hand--what I have said to you, I
have been constrained to say, for it is a part of my faith Rachel, that
as we believe, so are we to be judged: and that therefore, had you
believed it to be right for you to confess and live, it would have been
right, before the Lord.--But whether you do or do not, Elizabeth may.

True--if she can be persuaded to think as thee would have her think,
she may. I shall not seek to dissuade her--but as for me, I have put my
life into the hands of our Father. I shall obey him, and trust to the
inward prompting of that which upholds me and cheers me now--even now,
George, when, but for His Holy Spirit, I should feel as I never felt
before, since I came into the world--altogether alone.

Will you advise with her, and seek to persuade her?

No.

Cruel woman!

Cruel--no no George, no no. Would that be doing as I would be done by?
Is it for me to urge a beloved sister to do what I would not do--even
to save my life?

I feel the rebuke--

George, I must leave thee--I hear footsteps. Farewell--

So soon--so very soon! Say to her, I beseech you--say to her as you
have said to me, that she _may_ confess if she will; that we have been
together, and that we have both agreed in the opinion that she had
better confess and throw herself on the mercy of her judges, till the
fury of the storm hath passed over.--It will soon have passed over, I
am sure now--

No George, no; but I will say this. I will say to her--

Go on--go on, I beseech you--

--I will say to her--Elizabeth, my dear Sister; go down upon thy knees
and pray to the Lord to be nigh to thee, and give thee strength, and to
lead thee in the path which is best for his glory; and after that, if
thee should feel free to preserve thy life by such means--being on the
guard against the love of life, and the fear of death--the Tempter of
souls, and the weapons of the flesh--it will be thy duty so to preserve
it.

Burroughs groaned aloud--but he could prevail no further. Enough, said
he, at last: write as much on this paper, and let me carry it with me.

Carry it with thee--what do thee mean?

I hardly know what I mean; I would see her and urge her to live, but
when I consider what must follow, though I have permission to see her,
my heart fails me.

Thee is to meet her with me, I suppose?

No, I believe not--

How--alone?--

No no--not alone, said the jailor, whom they supposed to be outside of
the door, till he spoke.

More of the tender mercies of the law! They would entrap thee George--

And you too Rachel, if it lay in their power--

Give me that book--it is the Bible that I gave thee, is it not?

It is--

It belonged to my mother. I will write what I have to say in the blank
leaf.

She did so; and giving it into the hands of the Jailor she said to
him--I would have her abide on earth--my dear, _dear_ sister!--I would
pray to her to live and be happy, _if she can_; for she--O she will
have much to make life dear to her, even though she be left alone by
the way-side for a little time--what disturbs thee George?----

I am afraid of this man. He will betray us--

No--no--we have nothing to fear--

Nothing to fear, when he must have been at our elbow and overheard
everything we have whispered to each other.

Look at him George, and thee will be satisfied.

Burroughs looked up, and saw by the vacant gravity of his hard visage,
that the man had not understood a syllable to their prejudice.

But Elizabeth--I would have her continue on earth, I say--I would--if
so it may please our Father above; but I am in great fear, and I would
have thee tell her so, after she has read what I have written there in
that book. _She_ will have sympathy, whatever may occur to us--true
sympathy, unmixed with fear; but as for me, I have no such hope--and
why should I wrestle with my duty--I--who have no desire to see the
light of another day?

None Rachel?

None--but for the sake of Mary Elizabeth Dyer--and so--and so George,
we are to part now--and there--therefore--the sooner we part, the
better. Her voice died away in a low deeply-drawn heavy breathing.

Even so dear--even so, my beloved sister--

George--

Nay, nay--why leave me at all?--why not abide here? Why may we not die
together?

George, I say--

Well--what-say?

Suffer me to kiss thee--my brother--before we part....

He made no reply, but he gasped for breath and shook all over, and
stretched out his arms with a giddy convulsive motion toward her.

--Before we part forever George--dear George, putting her hand
affectionately upon his shoulder and looking him steadily in the face.
We are now very near to the threshold of death, and I do believe--I
do--though I would not have said as much an hour ago, for the wealth
of all this world ... nay, not even to save my life ... no ... nor my
sister’s life ... nor thy life ... that I shall die the happier and the
better for having kissed thee ... my brother.

Still he spoke not ... he had no tongue for speech. The dreadful truth
broke upon him all at once now, a truth which penetrated his heart
like an arrow ... and he strove to throw his arms about her; to draw
her up to his bosom--but the chains that he wore prevented him, and
so he leaned his head upon her shoulder ... and kissed her cheek, and
then lifted himself up, and held her with one arm to his heart, and
kissed her forehead and her eyes and her mouth, in a holy transport of
affection.

Dear George ... I am happy now ... very, very happy now, said the poor
girl, shutting her eyes and letting two or three large tears fall upon
his locked hands, which were held by her as if ... as if ... while her
mouth was pressed to them with a dreadful earnestness, her power to
let them drop was no more. And then she appeared to recollect herself,
and her strength appeared to come back to her, and she rose up and
set her lips to his forehead with a smile, that was remembered by the
rough jailor to his dying day, so piteous and so death-like was it, and
said to Burroughs, in her mild quiet way--her mouth trembling and her
large tears dropping at every word--very, very happy now, and all ready
for death. I would say more ... much more if I might, for I have not
said the half I had to say. Thee will see her ... I shall not see her
again....

How--

Not if thee should prevail with her to stay, George. It would be of no
use--it would only grieve her, and it might unsettle us both--

What can I say to you?

Nothing--Thee will see her; and thee will take her to thy heart as thee
did me, and she will be happy--very happy--even as I am now.

Father--Father! O, why was I not prepared for this! Do thou stay
me--do thou support me--it is more than I can bear! cried Burroughs,
turning away from the admirable creature who stood before him trying
to bear up without his aid, though she shook from head to foot with
uncontrollable emotion.

Thee’s very near and very dear to Mary Elizabeth Dyer; and she--she
will be happy--she cannot be otherwise, alive or dead--for all that
know her, pity her and love her----

And so do all that know you--

No, no, George, love and pity are not for such as I--such pity I mean,
or such love as we need here--_need_ I say, whatever we may pretend,
whatever the multitude may suppose, and however ill we may be fitted
for inspiring it--I--I--

Her voice faltered, she grew very pale, and caught by the frame of the
door--

--There may be love, George, there may be pity, there may be some hope
on earth for a beautiful witch ... with golden hair ... with large blue
eyes ... and a sweet mouth ... but for a ... for a ... for a freckled
witch ... with red hair and a hump on her back--what hope is there,
what hope on this side of the grave?

She tried to smile when she said this ... but she could not, and the
preacher saw and the jailor saw that her heart was broken.

Before the former could reply, and before the latter could stay her,
she was gone.

The rest of the story is soon told. The preacher saw Elizabeth and
tried to prevail with her, but he could not. She had all the courage
of her sister, and would not live by untruth. And yet she escaped, for
she was very ill, and before she recovered, the fearful infatuation
was over, the people had waked up, the judges and the preachers of the
Lord; and the chief-judge, Sewall had publicly read a recantation for
the part he had played in the terrible drama. But she saw her brave
sister no more; she saw Burroughs no more--he was put to death on the
afternoon of the morrow, behaving with high and steady courage to the
last--praying for all and forgiving all, and predicting in a voice like
that of one crying in the wilderness, a speedy overthrow to the belief
in witchcraft--a prophecy that came to be fulfilled before the season
had gone by, and his last words were--“Father forgive them, for they
know not what they do!”

Being dead, a messenger of the court was ordered away to apprise Rachel
Dyer that on the morrow at the same hour, and at the same place, her
life would be required of her.

She was reading the Bible when he appeared, and when he delivered the
message, the book fell out of her lap and she sat as if stupified for
a minute or more; but she did not speak, and so he withdrew, saying to
her as he went away, that he should be with her early in the morning.

So on the morrow, when the people had gathered together before
the jail, and prepared for the coming forth of Rachel Dyer, the
High-Sheriff was called upon to wake her, that she might be ready for
death; she being asleep the man said. So the High-Sheriff went up and
spoke to her as she lay upon the bed; with a smile about her mouth and
her arm over a large book ... but she made no reply. The bed was drawn
forth to the light--the book removed (it was the Bible) and she was
lifted up and carried out into the cool morning air. She was dead.




HISTORICAL FACTS.


That the reader may not be led to suppose the book he has just gone
through with, a sheer fabrication, the author has thought it adviseable
to give a few of the many facts upon which the tale is founded, in the
very language of history.

The true name of Mr. Paris was Samuel, instead of Matthew, and he
spelt it with two r’s; that of his child was Elizabeth and that of her
cousin, Abigail Williams. With these corrections to prepare the reader
for what is to follow, we may now go to the historical records alluded
to.

And first--_Of the manner in which the accused were treated on their
examination, and of the methods employed to make them confess._

John Proctor, who was executed for witchcraft, gives the following
account of the procedure had with his family, in a letter to Mr. Cotton
Mather, Mr. Moody, Mr. Willard, and others.

 “_Reverend Gentlemen_,--The innocency of our case, with the enmity of
 our accusers and our judges and jury, whom nothing but our innocent
 blood will serve, having condemned us already before our trials, being
 so much incensed and enraged against us by the devil, makes us bold to
 beg and implore your favourable assistance of this our humble petition
 to his excellency, that if it be possible our innocent blood may be
 spared, which undoubtedly otherwise will be shed, if the Lord doth
 not mercifully step in; the magistrates, ministers, juries, and all
 the people in general, being so much enraged and incensed against us
 by the delusion of the devil, which we can term no other, by reason
 we know in our own consciences we are all innocent persons. Here are
 five persons who have lately confessed themselves to be witches, and
 do accuse some of us of being along with them at a sacrament, since
 we were committed into close prison, which we know to be lies. Two
 of the five are (Carrier’s sons) young men, who would not confess
 any thing till they tied them neck and heels, till the blood was
 ready to come out of their noses; and it is credibly believed and
 reported this was the occasion of making them confess what they never
 did, by reason they said one had been a witch a month, and another
 five weeks, and that their mother had made them so, who has been
 confined here this nine weeks. _My son William Proctor, when he was
 examined, because he would not confess that he was guilty, when he was
 innocent, they tied him neck and heels till the blood gushed out at
 his nose, and would have kept him so twenty-four hours, if one, more
 merciful than the rest, had not taken pity on him, and caused him to
 be unbound._ These actions are very like the popish cruelties. They
 have already undone us in our estates, and that will not serve their
 turns without our innocent blood. If it cannot be granted that we have
 our trials at Boston, we humbly beg that you would endeavor to have
 these magistrates changed, and others in their rooms; begging also
 and beseeching you would be pleased to be here, if not all, some of
 you, at our trials, hoping thereby you may be the means of saving the
 shedding of innocent blood. Desiring your prayers to the Lord in our
 behalf, we rest your poor afflicted servants,

 JOHN PROCTOR, &c.

Jonathan Cary, whose wife was under the charge, but escaped, has left
a very affecting narrative of her trial, and of the behavior of the
judges.

 “Being brought before the justices, her chief accusers were two girls.
 My wife declared to the justices, that she never had any knowledge of
 them before that day. She was forced to stand with her arms stretched
 out. I requested that I might hold one of her hands, but it was denied
 me; then she desired me to wipe the tears from her eyes, and the
 sweat from her face, which I did; then she desired that she might lean
 herself on me, saying she should faint.

 Justice Hathorn replied, she had strength enough to torment those
 persons, and she should have strength enough to stand. I speaking
 something against their cruel proceedings, they commanded me to be
 silent, or else I should be turned out of the room. The Indian before
 mentioned was also brought in, to be one of her accusers: being come
 in, he now (when before the justices) fell down and tumbled about like
 a hog, but said nothing. The justices asked the girls who afflicted
 the Indian; they answered she, (meaning my wife) and that she now lay
 upon him; the justices ordered her to touch him, in order to his cure,
 but her head must be turned another way, lest, instead of curing, she
 should make him worse, by her looking on him, her hand being guided to
 take hold of his; but the Indian took hold of her hand, and pulled her
 down on the floor, in a barbarous manner; then his hand was taken off,
 and her hand put on his, and the cure was quickly wrought. I, being
 extremely troubled at their inhuman dealings, uttered a hasty speech,
 _That God would take vengeance on them, and desired that God would
 deliver us out of the hands of unmerciful men._ Then her mittimus
 was writ. I did with difficulty and chagrin obtain the liberty of
 a room, but no beds in it; if there had been, could have taken but
 little rest that night. She was committed to Boston prison; but I
 obtained a habeas corpus to remove her to Cambridge prison, which is
 in our county of Middlesex. Having been there one night, next morning
 the jailer put irons on her legs (having received such a command;)
 the weight of them was about eight pounds; these irons and her other
 afflictions soon brought her into convulsion fits, so that I thought
 she would have died that night. I sent to entreat that the irons might
 be taken off; but all entreaties were in vain, if it would have saved
 her life, so that in this condition she must continue. The trials
 at Salem coming on, I went thither, to see how things were managed;
 and finding that the spectre evidence was there received, together
 with idle, if not malicious stories, against people’s lives, I did
 easily perceive which way the rest would go; for the same evidence
 that served for one, would serve for all the rest. I acquainted her
 with her danger; and that if she were carried to Salem to be tried,
 I feared she would never return. I did my utmost that she might have
 her trial in our own county, I with several others petitioning the
 judge for it, and were put in hopes for it; but I soon saw so much,
 that I understood thereby it was not intended, which put me upon
 consulting the means of her escape; which through the goodness of God
 was effected, and she got to Rhode-Island, but soon found herself not
 safe when there, by reason of the pursuit after her; from thence she
 went to New-York, along with some others that had escaped their cruel
 hands.

Of the trial of “good-wife Proctor,” the following interpretation was
had.

 “About this time, besides the experiment of the afflicted falling at
 the sight, &c. they put the accused upon saying the Lord’s prayer,
 which one among them performed, except in that petition, _deliver
 us from evil_, she expressed it thus, _deliver us from_ all _evil_:
 this was looked upon as if she prayed against what she was now justly
 under, and being put upon it again, and repeating those words,
 _hallowed be thy name_, she expressed it, _hollowed be thy name_: this
 was counted a depraving the words, as signifying to make void, and so
 a curse rather than a prayer: upon the whole it was concluded that she
 also could not say it, &c. Proceeding in this work of examination and
 commitment, many were sent to prison.

 “In August, 1697, the superior court sat at Hartford, in the colony
 of Connecticut, where one mistress Benom was tried for witchcraft.
 She had been accused by some children that pretended to the spectral
 sight: they searched her several times for teats; they tried the
 experiment of casting her into the water, and after this she was
 excommunicated by the minister of Wallinsford. Upon her trial
 nothing material appeared against her, save spectre evidence. She
 was acquitted, as also her daughter, a girl of twelve or thirteen
 years old, who had been likewise accused; but upon renewed complaints
 against them, they both flew into New-York government.

Second--_Of the Confessions_.--The following is a letter written by six
of the confessing witches, by which it may be understood in some degree
how they came to accuse themselves.

 “We, whose names are under written, inhabitants of Andover, when as
 that horrible and tremendous judgment beginning at Salem Village, in
 the year 1692, (by some called witchcraft) first breaking forth at
 Mr. Parris’s house, several young persons being seemingly afflicted,
 did accuse several persons for afflicting them, and many there
 believing it so to be; we being informed that if a person were sick,
 the afflicted person could tell what or who was the cause of that
 sickness: Joseph Ballard of Andover (his wife being sick at the same
 time) he either from himself, or by the advice of others, fetched
 two of the persons, called the afflicted persons, from Salem Village
 to Andover: which was the beginning of that dreadful calamity that
 befel us in Andover. And the authority in Andover, believing the said
 accusations to be true, sent for the said persons to come together
 to the meeting-house in Andover (the afflicted persons being there.)
 After Mr. Barnard had been at prayer, we were blindfolded, and our
 hands were laid upon the afflicted persons, they being in their fits,
 and falling into their fits at our coming into their presence [as they
 said] and some led us and laid our hands upon them, and then they
 said they were well, and that we were guilty of afflicting of them
 whereupon we were all seized as prisoners, by a warrant from a justice
 of the peace, and forthwith carried to Salem. And by reason of that
 sudden surprisal, we knowing ourselves altogether innocent of that
 crime, we were all exceedingly astonished and amazed, and affrighted
 even out of our reason; and our nearest and dearest relations,
 seeing us in that dreadful condition, and knowing our great danger,
 apprehending that there was no other way to save our lives, as the
 case was then circumstanced, but by our confessing ourselves to be
 such and such persons, as the afflicted represented us to be, they out
 of tender love and pity persuaded us to confess what we did confess.
 And indeed that confession, that it is said we made, was no other
 than what was suggested to us by some gentlemen; they telling us, that
 we were witches, and they knew it, and we knew it, and they knew that
 we knew it, which made us think that it was so; and our understanding,
 our reason and our faculties almost gone, we were not capable of
 judging our condition; as also the hard measures they used with us
 rendered us uncapable of making our defence; but said anything which
 they desired: and most of what we said was but in effect a consenting
 to what they said. Sometime after, when we were better composed, they
 telling of us what we had confessed, we did profess that we were
 innocent, and ignorant of such things. And we hearing that Samuel
 Wardwell had renounced his confession, and quickly after was condemned
 and executed, some of us were told that we were going after Wardwell.

  MARY OSGOOD,
  MARY TILER,
  DELIV. DANE,
  ABIGAIL BARKER,
  SARAH WILSON,
  HANNAH TILER.”

 “It may here be further added, concerning those that did confess, that
 besides that powerful argument, of life (and freedom from hardships,
 not only promised, but also performed to all that owned their guilt)
 there are numerous instances, too many to be here inserted, of the
 tedious examinations before private persons, many hours together;
 they all that time urging them to confess (and taking turns to
 persuade them) till the accused were wearied out by being forced to
 stand so long or for want of sleep, &c. and so brought to give an
 assent to what they said; they then asking them, Were you at such a
 witch meeting? or, Have you signed the devil’s book? &c. Upon their
 replying, Yes, the whole was drawn into form, as their confession.

 “But that which did mightily further such confessions was, their
 nearest relations urging them to it. These, seeing no other way of
 escape for them, thought it the best advice that could be given; hence
 it was that the husbands of some, by counsel often urging, and utmost
 earnestness, and children upon their knees intreating, have at length
 prevailed with them to say they were guilty.

Third--_Of the character of Burroughs_;--about which there has been
from that day to this, a great difference of opinion. His readiness to
forgive.

 “Margaret Jacobs being one that had confessed her own guilt, and
 testified against her grandfather Jacobs, Mr. Burroughs and John
 Willard, she the day before execution came to Mr. Burroughs,
 acknowledging that she had belied them, and begged Mr. Burroughs’s
 forgiveness; who not only forgave her, but also prayed with and for
 her.

Apparitions at the trial.--

 “Accordingly several of the bewitched had given in their testimony,
 that they had been troubled with the apparitions of two women, who
 said they were G. B.’s two wives; and that he had been the death of
 them; and that the magistrates must be told of it, before whom, if
 B. upon his trial denied it, they did not know but that they should
 appear again in the court. Now G. B. had been infamous, for the
 barbarous usage of his two successive wives, all the country over.
 Moreover, it was testified the spectre of G. B. threatening the
 sufferers, told them he had killed [besides others] Mrs. Lawson and
 her daughter Ann. And it was noted, that these were the virtuous wife
 and daughter of one, at whom this G. B. might have a prejudice, for
 being serviceable at Salem Village, from whence himself had in ill
 terms removed some years before; and that when they died, which was
 long since, there were some odd circumstances about them, which made
 some of the attendants there suspect something of witchcraft, though
 none imagined from what quarter it should come.

 “Well, G. B. being now upon his trial, one of the bewitched persons
 was cast into horror at the ghosts of B.’s two deceased wives, then
 appearing before him, and crying for vengeance against him. Hereupon
 several of the bewitched persons were successively called in, who all,
 not knowing what the former had seen and said, concurred in their
 horror of the apparition, which they affirmed that he had before. But
 he, though much appalled, utterly denied that he discerned any thing
 of it, nor was it any part of his conviction.

His bodily strength.--

 “A famous divine recites this among the convictions of a witch; the
 testimony of the party bewitched, whether pining or dying; together
 with the joint oaths of sufficient persons, that have seen certain
 prodigious pranks, or feats, wrought by the party accused. Now God
 had been pleased so to leave G. B. that he had ensnared himself, by
 several instances, which he had formerly given, of a preternatural
 strength; and which were now produced against him. He was a very puny
 man yet he had often done things beyond the strength of a giant. A gun
 of about seven feet barrel, and so heavy that strong men could not
 steadily hold it out, with both hands; there were several testimonies
 given in by persons of credit and honour, that he made nothing of
 taking up such a gun behind the lock with but one hand, and holding
 it out, like a pistol, at arm’s end. G. B. in his vindication was
 so foolish as to say, that an Indian was there, and held it out, at
 the same time; whereas, none of the spectators ever saw any such
 Indian; but they supposed the black man (as the witches call the
 devil, and they generally say he resembles an Indian) might give him
 that assistance. There was evidence likewise brought in, that he made
 nothing of taking up whole barrels filled with molasses, or cider, in
 very disadvantageous postures, and carrying them off, through the most
 difficult places, out of a canoe to the shore.

 “Yea, there were two testimonies, that G. B. with only putting the
 fore-finger of his right hand into the muzzle of a heavy gun, a
 fowling piece of about six or seven feet barrel, lifted up the gun,
 and held it out at arm’s end; a gun which the deponents, though strong
 men, could not with both hands lift up, and hold out at the butt-end,
 as is usual. Indeed one of these witnesses was over-persuaded by
 some persons to be out of the way upon G. B.’s trial; but he came
 afterwards, with sorrow for his withdrawing, and gave in his testimony.

His death.--

 “Mr. Burroughs was carried in a cart with the others, through the
 streets of Salem to execution. When he was upon the ladder, he made
 a speech for the clearing of his innocency, with such solemn and
 serious expressions, as were to the admiration of all present: his
 prayer [which he concluded by repeating the Lord’s prayer] was so
 well worded, and uttered with such composedness, and such [at least
 seeming] fervency of spirit, as was very affecting, and drew tears
 from many, so that it seemed to some that the spectators would hinder
 the execution. The accusers said the Black Man stood and dictated to
 him. As soon as he was turned off, Mr. Cotton Mather, being mounted
 upon a horse, addressed himself to the people, partly to declare that
 he [Burroughs] was no ordained minister, and partly to possess the
 people of his guilt, saying that the devil has often been transformed
 into an angel of light; and this somewhat appeased the people, and the
 executions went on.

Fourth--_A trial at length_. Indictment of Elizabeth How.

 ESSEX ss.

 _Anno Regni Regis & Reginæ Willielmi & Mariæ, nunc Angliæ, &c,
 quarto_----

 The jurors for our sovereign lord and lady the king and queen present,
 that Elizabeth How, wife of James How, of Ipswich, in the county of
 Essex, the thirty-first day of May, in the fourth year of the reign
 of our sovereign lord and lady William and Mary, by the grace of God,
 of England, Scotland, France and Ireland, king and queen, defenders
 of the faith, &c. and divers other days and times, as well before as
 after, certain destestable arts, called witchcrafts and sorceries,
 wickedly and feloniously hath used, practised and exercised, at and
 within the township of Salem, in, upon and against one Mary Wolcott,
 of Salem Village, in the county aforesaid, single woman; by which said
 wicked arts the said Mary Wolcott, the said thirty-first day of May,
 in the fourth year above-said, and divers other days and times, as
 well before as after, was and is tortured, afflicted, pined, consumed,
 wasted and tormented; and also for sundry other acts of witchcrafts,
 by said Elizabeth How committed and done before and since that time,
 against the peace of our sovereign lord and lady, the king and queen,
 and against the form of the statute in that case made and provided.

 _Witnesses_--Mary Wolcott, Ann Putman, Abigail Williams, Samuel
 Pearly, and his wife Ruth, Joseph Andrews, and wife Sarah, John
 Sherrin, Joseph Safford, Francis Lane, Lydia Foster, Isaac Cummins, jr·

Fifth--_Recantation of the chief judge and the jurors._--A general fast
was appointed by the following proclamation, after the accusers had
become so bold as to accuse even the wife of Gov. Phips.--

 _By the honourable the lieutenant governor, council and assembly of
 his majesty’s province of the Massachusetts-Bay, in general court
 assembled._

 Whereas the anger of God is not yet turned away, but his hand is
 still stretched out against his people in manifold judgments,
 particularly in drawing out to such a length the troubles of Europe,
 by a perplexing war; and more especially respecting ourselves in this
 province, in that God is pleased still to go on in diminishing our
 substance, cutting short our harvest, blasting our most promising
 undertakings more ways than one, unsettling us, and by his more
 immediate hand snatching away many out of our embraces by sudden and
 violent deaths, even at this time when the sword is devouring so many
 both at home and abroad, and that after many days of public and solemn
 addressing him: and although, considering the many sins prevailing
 in the midst of us, we cannot but wonder at the patience and mercy
 moderating these rebukes, yet we cannot but also fear that there is
 something still wanting to accompany our supplications; and doubtless
 there are some particular sins, which God is angry with _our Israel_
 for, that have not been duly seen and repented by us, about which God
 expects to be sought, if ever he turn again our captivity:

 Wherefore it is commanded and appointed, that Thursday, the fourteenth
 of January next, be observed as a day of prayer, with fasting,
 throughout this province; strictly forbidding all servile labour
 thereon; that so all God’s people may offer up fervent supplications
 unto him, for the preservation and prosperity of his majesty’s royal
 person and government, and success to attend his affairs both at home
 and abroad; that all iniquity may be put away, which hath stirred
 God’s holy jealousy against this land; that he would shew us what
 we know not, and help us wherein we have done amiss to do so no
 more; and especially that whatever mistakes on either hand have been
 fallen into, either by the body of this people, or any orders of
 men, referring to the late tragedy, raised among us by Satan and his
 instruments, through the awful judgment of God, he would humble us
 therefor, and pardon all the errors of his servants and people, that
 desire to love his name; that he would remove the rod of the wicked
 from off the lot of the righteous; that he would bring in the American
 heathen, and cause them to hear and obey his voice.

 Given at Boston, December 12, 1696, in the eighth year of his
 Majesty’s reign.

 ISAAC ADDINGTON, _Secretary_.

 “Upon the day of the fast, in the full assembly at the south
 meeting-house in Boston, one of the honorable judges, [the chief
 justice Sewall] who had sat in judicature in Salem, delivered in a
 paper, and while it was in reading stood up; but the copy being not
 to be obtained at present, it can only be reported by memory to this
 effect, viz. It was to desire the prayers of God’s people for him and
 his; and that God having visited his family, &c, he was apprehensive
 that he might have fallen into some errors in the matters at Salem,
 and pray that the guilt of such miscarriages may not be imputed either
 to the country in general, or to him or his family in particular.

 “Some, that had been of several juries, have given forth a paper,
 signed with their own hands, in these words:

 “We, whose names are under written, being in the year 1692 called to
 serve as jurors in court at Salem on trial of many, who were by some
 suspected guilty of doing acts of witchcraft upon the bodies of sundry
 persons:

 “We confess that we ourselves were not capable to understand, nor able
 to withstand, the mysterious delusions of the powers of darkness,
 and prince of the air; but were, for want of knowledge in ourselves,
 and better information from others, prevailed with to take up with
 such evidence against the accused, as, on further consideration and
 better information, we justly fear was insufficient for the touching
 the lives of any, (_Deut._ xvii. 8) whereby we fear we have been
 instrumental with others, though ignorantly and unwittingly, to bring
 upon ourselves and this people of the Lord the guilt of innocent
 blood; which sin the Lord saith, in scripture, he would not pardon,
 (_2 Kings_, xxiv. 4) that is, we suppose, in regard of his temporal
 judgments. We do therefore hereby signify to all in general (and to
 the surviving sufferers in special) our deep sense of, and sorrow
 for, our errors, in acting on such evidence to the condemning of any
 person; and do hereby declare, that we justly fear that we were sadly
 deluded and mistaken; for which we are much disquieted and distressed
 in our minds; and do therefore humbly beg forgiveness, first of
 God for Christ’s sake, for this our error; and pray that God would
 not impute the guilt of it to ourselves, nor others; and we also
 pray that we may be considered candidly and aright, by the living
 sufferers, as being then under the power of a strong and general
 delusion, utterly unacquainted with, and not experienced in matters of
 that nature.

 “We do heartily ask forgiveness of you all, whom we have justly
 offended; and do declare, according to our present minds, we would
 none of us do such things again on such grounds for the whole world;
 praying you to accept of this in way of satisfaction for our offence,
 and that you would bless the inheritance of the Lord, that he may be
 entreated for the land.

  Foreman, Thomas Fisk,
           William Fisk,
           John Bacheler,
           Thomas Fisk, jr,
           John Dane,
           Joseph Evelith,
           Th. Pearly, sen,
           John Peabody,
           Thomas Perkins,
           Samuel Sayer,
           Andrew Eliot,
           H. Herrick, sen.”




  Transcriber's Notes:

  Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.

  Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.

  Perceived typographical errors have been changed.




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